#I’m not picking anything on the next category | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

darklordofthesimp · 2 years

Text

Anything V (König x Reader)

The 5th instalment in the Anything-Verse

Main Masterlist

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4

Like the characters?

Sunshine Masterlist || Saint Masterlist

Series Summary: A lack of information from the chain of command results in König mistaking you for an enemy sniper.

A/N: Ya’ll are in for a treat with this series. I just figured out the plot like 10 minutes ago hahaha

Category: Angst || Hurt/Comfort || Unrequited Pining || Tension

Warning: Graphic Language

You glared at the woman before you, fury simmering beneath your skin. You felt like you were on fire, you felt like you could commit heinous crimes- you knew that you could kill them.

“I understand that you may feel like this isn’t needed,” the stupid fuck soothed. “But therapy is a proven solution. I can help get you back up and running.”

Therapy.

Your fingers dug into the armrests.

“They told me this was training.” You were chewing on the words, jaw tight and eyes narrowed. Deep down you’d known that this was coming, you’d declined ‘help’ after the initial incident but now there was no hiding the darkness that plagued your mind. Everyone had seen it.

Everyone.

“This is training,” the doctor smiled. “Training of the mind.”

You visibly cringed. They’d made sure to give you the most disarming person they could find. Kind eyes, an easy smile and a relaxed posture. They looked vulnerable. If the doctor was the most fragile in the room, then it would encourage you to step out and spill your trauma with tears and snot bubbles. Not you.

You sneered, leaning forward to rest your arms on your knees. “Being chosen to be my therapist is a shit go, Doc.”

“Actually,” the corner of their lips curled upward. “This’ll piss you off more but I’m doing a friend a favour.”

You blinked, surprise snatching the next crude words from your tongue. The doctor leaned back into their chair, clicking the pen a couple of times as if emphasising a point. As you stared at them, they stared back, and you suddenly realised that maybe they weren’t as vulnerable as they seemed.

“Laswell?” You queried.

The therapist snorted softly. “Price.”

Your spine straightened, a deep sense of anger twisting violently within your chest.

Price.

“Ooh,” the doctor tutted softly, leaning forward in their seat. “Didn’t like that one, did you?”

You sneered at them, your eyes narrowed and your walls higher than ever. What did they know about what you liked and disliked? What did they know of your relationship with Price?

“I don’t want to talk about him,” you snapped, crossing your arms over your chest.

“If you had it your way, you wouldn’t talk at all,” the doctor frowned.

“Then take the fucking hint.”

Their gaze trailed over your body, taking in the way you leaned away from the conversation. You were an open book and no matter how aggressive the mask you wore was- you were readable. With a huff, the therapist tossed their notebook over their shoulder lazily. It clattered onto the bench behind them, scattering the miscellaneous items in its path.

“Alright, Birdy. Let’s go off the record then,” they gave you a smile that didn’t quite reach their eyes. “You’re shitty with Price.”

“I said I didn’t want to talk about him-”

“You feel like he’s betrayed you.”

You blinked, fingers trembling even though they were curled into fists. The overarching thought that had been plaguing you for weeks was picked apart by some random fucking doctor. The words were out, you weren’t the one that had said them but they were in the air anyway. It felt good to hear them aloud rather than the screaming thought over and over in the recesses of your mind.

“Yes.” The confirmation was bitter on your tongue. You waited for the doctor to shut you down, you waited for them to monologue about how your feelings were childish and unprofessional. They were providing you this service as a favour to the Captain, you could only assume that they were friends.

Instead, the therapist simply nodded. “I would too, Birdy.”

You loosed a breath that you hadn’t realised you were holding.

“What was your name again, Doc?” You rasped, eyes narrowing. They shifted in their seat, taken off guard by the sudden change in subject but willing to share nonetheless.

The doctor shot you a smile- genuine this time.

“They call me Saint.”

____

While you didn’t appreciate being ambushed with it, therapy hadn’t been as bad as you’d imagined. Your fingers clenched and unclenched in an attempt to release some tension as you walked.

Every day, you were required to present to the doctors office for a psych appointment.

Every day, Saint had picked your thoughts apart bit by bit.

Although you hadn’t intended to talk, you realized quickly that Saint didn’t just look disarming- they were disarming. There was no judgement as you spoke, not when you told them about your murderous nightmares and not when you told them that you’d wanted to beat down the new sniper.

They only nodded, explaining that it- surprisingly- was natural to feel like that after what you’d experienced.

You felt validated.

Less like a liability and more like a recovering victim.

Your thoughts stuttered to a halt as you laid eyes on the kitchen, the light spilling from the open doorway and out into the hall. You raised a brow at the sight, knowing that only one person would really be awake at this time of night.

Ghost.

The flutter in your chest caught you off guard, the thought of seeing Simon had you excited. It’d been a while since you’d both last spoken, a hand on the shoulder as he muttered a “see you soon,” and a “be safe.” All that, right before he boarded a plane with Sunshine in tow.

“Yeah,” the newest sniper had winked at you with a curved smile. “See you real soon, gorgeous.”

You hated them, you were sure of it. They were nauseatingly glib, each word rolling off their silver tongue with all the ease but no truth. You couldn’t believe anything they said, you’d be stupid if you did.

As you approached the kitchen slowly, you heard hushed voices. They were arguing- aggressive and quickly spoken.

“Is this how it’s going to be?” Sunshine snapped, their words breathless. “For the rest of our time here, this is how you want it to be?”

From what you’d seen, the new sniper had a reputation for being self-posessed and controlled. They wanted to watch you unravel beneath their sentences, but in order for them to do that they’d have to be unphased by whatever’s thrown at them.

Right now, there was no sign of that person.

“What “I want it to be” is you doing your fucking job and me doing mine." The hostility in Simon's tone had you taken aback. You’d never heard him so aggressive towards a teammate and for a split moment, you felt bad for Sunshine.

“It was!” The sniper shouted, their exhaustion and frustration painstakingly clear.

“You were reckless.”

“I was saving you!”

“I don’t need you to save me!” Ghost finally snapped. The sound of something clattering followed by Sunshine’s sharp breath had you tense. “I don’t need anything from you.”

There was a soft touch against your shoulder and your heart stuttered in your chest. Fear electrified your body as you spun around. A hand pressed down firmly against your lips, suffocating the scream rising from your throat.

König’s eyes were narrowed, his head ducked so that he could meet your gaze head on. The look he gave you was accusatory and shame quickly flooded your cheeks. Your fingers came to rest shakily against his wrist, pushing weakly against his hold.

His brows pulled into a frown.

“Are you asking me to just let you fucking die?” Sunshine rasped, their seething voice reminding you of where you were. König’s eyes drifted from yours to over your shoulder aimlessly as he listened to their conversation.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Ghost drawled. You could hear him struggling for control, the way he drew each breath like it was painful.

“What the fuck is wrong with you people?” The sniper exclaimed. “If it was Birdy instead of me today you wouldn’t have an issue with it-”

“But you’re not Birdy,” Ghost snapped, “are you?”

Silence flooded the space between you all.

You felt ashamed of yourself. You were somewhere you shouldn’t have been, you were listening to a conversation that you were never intended to hear. This was something personal, the hatred and electricity between Sunshine and Ghost forbidden for your understanding.

König must have come to the same conclusion. The man shot you a hard stare, his hands falling from your lips to grip your shoulders. He guided you backward quietly, trying to provide an escape that wouldn’t alert them to your presence.

“No, Sir,” Sunshine’s voice was faint now as you pulled away from the two. “I’m not Birdy.”

You knew then that something had changed. It was in their voice, it was in the air, it was in the venom of their words- it was a suffocating emotion that you knew too well.

They were hurt.

But, hurt breeds bitterness and there was nothing but hatred in Sunshine’s final words.

I’m not Birdy.

König sucked in a breath and you knew that he’d heard it as well. When he finally managed to pull you both through the doors of your dormitory unscathed, he let you go. There was no gentleness in his expression this time when he appraised you.

“What were you thinking?” He growled, running rough fingers through his hair. “That was wrong.”

“I know,” you whispered, shaken.

“You shouldn’t have been there,” König continued with a large step away from your quivering body. He was riled up and his anger stimulated your own. Who was he to lecture you?

“You shouldn’t have been there either,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest.

König shot you a stern look. “I wouldn’t have stayed if I didn’t find you eavesdropping, naseweis.”

You rolled your eyes, turning on your heel. While you weren’t falling apart at the sight of him anymore, it didn’t mean that you wanted to be around him. You still wanted nothing to do with König, no interaction, no contact- nothing.

“I don’t need you, of all people, lecturing me on being in the wrong place at the wrong time,” you threw over your shoulder as you walked. There was a huff from the man behind you, then the fall of his footsteps following in suit.

“Doesn’t the incident make me an expert on that?” König questioned from beside you, keeping pace as though it were a leisurely stroll. You glared up at him, forcing the growing rage clawing at your chest to stay caged.

“You think it’s funny?” You hissed. “Am I a fucking joke to you?”

“Of course not!” König’s voice hardened. You both rounded the corner towards your room, it felt like the quicker you moved the easier it was for him to keep up. Another infuriating feature that the Austrian possessed, you’d add it to the already mile-long list.

“Then why can’t you just leave me alone?” You spun on your heel, facing the beast head on. “It’s like you’re everywhere, König. I can’t escape you, I enter a room and you’re there. I turn a corner, you’re there. I go to sleep and there you fucking are.”

König raised a brow, leaning his shoulder against the frame beside him. “I’m not stalking you, Birdy. If that’s what you’re trying to imply.”

“Is that why you’re standing in my bedroom doorway?”

The man’s spine straightened as he took up his own weight, emerald gaze pinning you to your place. It was as though he were surprised, as though he was just now realising that he had been following you. Your chest was heaving as you glared up at him. You wanted him to deny it, to tell you that you were imagining it all- you wanted to be angry.

“You’re a worrying person,” König finally said. The words almost sounded like an admission, although of what you were unsure. You jaw tightened as you retreated another step back into the safety of your room.

“No,” you corrected, “you’re a worrying person.”

König sighed, letting the silence fall in between you for a beat. There was conflict across his expression before finally his eyes narrowed. He stepped into the room.

Your heart leapt into your throat.

“Do you think I want to hurt you?”

There it was.

It was the question that plagued you as you lay in bed every night, staring at your bedroom door. Or lack thereof, you should say. There was nothing on the hinges, not since König had kicked it down.

He’d thought you were in danger. You lay before him, unconscious and dreaming. He could have done anything, he could have finished the job.

But he didn’t.

König’s head tilted as he observed you, watching you struggle for an answer. His fingers lightly brushed against your forearm and you froze, eyes wide as you stared up at him. He was so tall, dominating every space he entered. He was a giant amongst men, a god.

“Do you think I want to hurt you, Birdy?” König said again. He didn’t lean down, didn’t drop down to your height this time. He wanted your answer, he wanted you to look at him and take him as he was- he wanted the truth.

“No,” you whispered.

The truth.

Your body trembled as though the room had dropped to subzero temperatures but your skin was on fire. Heat bloomed across your chest, racing the length of your spine, neck and cheeks.

König’s eyes softened and he swayed backward lazily, as though he were drunk fighting for his balance. Neither of you said anything for a long moment. He didn’t ask why you were still afraid, he knew that was an unfair question. He never expected you to be comfortable with his presence.

But the shift between you both was tangible.

“Am I right?” The words tumbled from your lips before you could stop them, desperate and vulnerable. An offering, an olive branch an extension of trust.

Something washed over the man before you, something you’d never seen before. His gaze was ferocious, jade fire burning beneath those lashes as it scorched your skin. Determination tightened his jaw and his thumb brushed across the skin of your arm like a promise.

An unspoken response.

Yes.

Your breath left your chest as you took another step away, suffocating in his presence. König inhaled heavily, his hands falling back to rest at his sides.

“I still-” You began, twisting your fingers anxiously.

“I know.”

You still hadn’t forgiven him.

There was a long way to go, but now the path had changed. Rather than there being a straight road, shrouded in hatred, there was a fork. A split in the path that required a decision, one that you weren’t quite ready to make yet.

König cleared his throat, softening his stance with conscious effort. It was as if he remembered that he was meant to be disarming. Watching the huge man try to shrink himself for your comfort was surreal, nothing like what you’d imagined when you’d first laid eyes on him after your recovery.

Ghost had never made himself smaller for you when you came out of hospital. He was slower, gentler, as though dealing with a frightened animal- but he never pretended to be something that he was not.

“Do you think they heard us?” You changed the topic as your mind fell back to Ghost and Sunshine. “How would we explain that?”

König blinked, clearly glad for the break in intensity. He shifted backward, moving to make his escape as your interaction came to a close. For once, he was the one running from you.

“Wrong place, wrong time,” he muttered, an ironic smile playing at his lips. “They won’t have a hard time believing that given our history.”

The man offered you a nod, fingers tapping against the door with finality- his own farewell. You were glad that he hadn’t said ‘goodnight’, that he hadn’t bothered with niceties. You were not friends. Not allies.

You weren’t sure what you were.

When he disappeared around the door, his footsteps retreating down the hall, you finally let yourself relax. Jitters skittered across your body, the remnants of electricity from your confrontation buzzing beneath your skin.

Wrong place, wrong time.

The words struck a chord of discomfort within you.

They followed you through your night routine, plaguing you in the shower, lingering as you made a cup of tea, whispering sickness as you laid in bed. They made you nauseous, they made you dizzy, they were disconcerting.

Wrong place, wrong time.

The whole accident had been such a tragic coincidence, a monumental mistake. Almost impossible in an environment where communication is key, everything working in perfect tandem to ensure your demise.

Throughout the length of your military career, you’d always been taught to never take anything as chance. If a bush rustled beside you, there was a possibility that it was an animal- but also that it could be an enemy. If there was a light beneath a door, it could have been left on or there was someone waiting for you on the other side. You were taught not to trust coincidence.

The failure of comms, the false intel of a sniper on a roof, the unexpected of KorTac, the largest soldier of their team being sent to find you- all of it was a perfectly timed but tragic coincidence.

You tossed in your bed, trying to drown the thoughts from your crumbling mind. It seems you didn’t need a nightmare tonight to bring on terror. Your resolve began to slip, the sudden sense of dread gripping you by the throat.

Wrong place, wrong time.

You wanted to rake the thoughts from your brain with your bare fingers. You wanted to rip out the connection you’d made and go to sleep in bliss ignorance.

Wrong place, wrong time.

The way König had brought it up, the way he’d said it, maybe he was feeling it too. Maybe you weren’t as insane as you felt. Maybe your thoughts weren’t as unreliable as they seemed. You clenched your jaw, nails digging into the skin of your palm hoping that the pain would pull you back from the edge you teetered on.

Wrong place, wrong time.

Wrong for both you and König … but, as you lay staring at your missing door, you couldn’t shake the thought that maybe it was all just right for somebody else.

#könig cod #konig x reader #könig x reader #könig #könig mw2 #könig modern warfare #konig call of duty #könig call of duty #call of duty #call of duty mw2 #call of duty x reader #cod mw2 x reader #cod x reader

4K notes · View notes

inevesgf · 8 months

Text

LOVER BOY ⠀,⠀ george clarke.

synopsis ✩ what it’s like dating george clarke!

warnings: mentions of sexual behavior.

authors note: i have had so much muse and inspiration to write for george recently. love our silly guy so bad! i also have tried to write more sexual content for my thirsty folks out there so i hope it lives up to expectations. arthur next ;)

• love language is either gift giving or psychical touch!

• is the type of boyfriend that will randomly pick up things from the shop for you without you even asking.

• “want anything?” “no, i’m alright.” and then he comes back with your favorite snacks and a stupid little trinket.

• a big lover of hugs from behind + adds little kisses on your neck and shoulders when he does.

• will not let you be the big spoon ever, im sorry mates.

• he always has to be the big spoon. i have a feeling he definitely likes feeling like the more masculine person in the relationship.

• but LOVES to lay his head in your lap and let you play with his hair.

• kisses your thighs sometimes when he does because he knows it gives you butterflies.

• leaves hickeys there where only he can see them.

• doesn’t mind pda, but doesn’t overdo it. when youre out he will hold your hand and put his arm around your waist, but isn’t one to kiss you in public unless it’s an appropriate moment.

• his go to nicknames for you are probably “darling” and “love”, he’s pretty simple.

• likes to be dominant in bed, but also doesn’t mind when you ride him and pull on his hair slightly.

• always sends you the stupid black cat and white cat memes, but they are so accurate.

• loves when you tag around with his friends. bonus points if you do content creation, he likes when you all film together.

• he jokes about loving arthur(tv) more than he loves you, so you joke about also loving arthur more than you love him! have to keep that shit even

• but at the end of all the jokes he knows he loves you more than anything and you appreciate him the same.

• probably a jealous boyfriend though, wont lie.

• not in like a “don’t ever look at her!” way, but in a “im gonna give you hickeys all over your neck to show you’re mine” kind of way 🤭.

• secretly a massive sweetheart though.

• if you ever come home wasted from a night out with friends, he will clean you up and help you get changed.

• “you take such good care of me😌” and he just starts laughing about how absolutely GONE you are.

• and in the morning when you’re suffering from a horrible hangover he will bring you water and little snacks while you rest!

• might not be the best cook, but will attempt to cook your favorite foods on little date nights.

• even if it goes terribly wrong, you still appreciate it nonetheless.

• falls under golden retriever category alongside chris and ginge of course!

• super super giddy when you get home from wherever and he just gets to spend the rest of the night with you.

• dare i say baby i’m yours - arctic monkeys cover is the song you listen to and think of him.

• the type of boyfriend to wake you up at 4am to go watch the sunrise from a hilltop or the beach.

• love’s spontaneous little adventures like that!

• definitely books little trips on short notice just to surprise you.

• always always up for an adventure. you two have definitely faced your fears together with activities like rock climbing, bungee jumping, etc.

• prefers to go out for dates rather than stay in, but loves to have a lazy night with you where you two watch films and have snacks.

• would be hesitant to raise a dog or cat with you due to the responsibility, so he’d settle for a lil fish.

#george clarke #george clarkey #george clarkey x reader #george clarke x reader #chaos crew #chrismd #sidemen #callux #ksi #miniminter #sidemen fanfic #calfreezy #chrismd x reader #fanfic #arthurtv #arthurtv x reader #arthur frederick

442 notes · View notes

jungshookz · 10 months

Text

smitten: y/n (reluctantly) agrees to go to jimin's big halloween bash and she forgot how much she actually hated parties

➺ pairing; jeon jungkook x reader

➺ genre; smitten!miniseries!! bff!kook and smitten!y/n!! university!au!! honk honk humour!! the boohoo angsty wattpady fic of your dreams!! the pining and yearning is off the charts!! jimin’s still an asshole but what’s new!!

➺ wordcount; 9.2k

➺ summary; putting on a smile while watching ji-eun cuddle up to jungkook is already hard enough, but when y/n is (reluctantly) invited to jimin’s massive halloween party, she can’t help but even more out of place.

➺ what to expect; “you know, you’re my best friend and i wanna make sure that everything is… good between us.”

➺ currently playing on cee.fm; favourite crime [olivia rodrigo]

➺ smitten: part one [the almost confession]; part two [the incriminating note]; part three [the date]

»»————- 👻 ————-««

you’re pretty sure you’re in hell.

you’re not sure what you did in your past life to have deserved this, but past-life y/n must’ve killed a baby or set an entire village on fire or something to that degree because you’re pretty sure that in this current timeline, you’re in hell

you stay quiet as you munch on your (slightly soggy, unfortunately) sandwich, scrolling through your phone (but not really paying attention to your instagram feed because apparently you’re a glutton for punishment and you keep wanting to look up and just stare at jungkook and ji-eun in all their coupley glory) while your foot taps anxiously against the ground

you know that if you say you can sit somewhere else to give the two of them some privacy that jungkook will insist that you stay, but you feel like the longer you sit here the faster the people around you will see that you’re just a big ol’ monster truck sized third wheel

you could lie and say that you have to go to the library to get some work done, but jungkook’s really good at knowing when you’re lying to him (apparently you have VERY obvious tells which you were very unaware of) so that’s not going to be a feasible plan either

it’s just that being here is incredibly uncomfortable but it seems like the only option you have is to stay and sit through it — which, again, reiterates your point of you being pretty sure you’re being punished for something you did in your past life

“my handsome boy…” ji-eun giggles lightly, reaching over to adjust the collar of jungkook’s jacket before leaning over to kiss him on the cheek, “i like this jacket a lot.”

“yeah?” he gives his girlfriend a boyish grin, looking down at his jacket before looking back up at her, “lucky for you, you can borrow it anytime you’d like-“ you glance up at them, the little voice in your brain stopping you from interrupting them to say that that is a nice jacket because you chose it for jungkook — and you feel like that comment could potentially lump you into the pick-me-girl-best-friend category which you’d very much like to avoid

“borrow? no, i’m stealing it-“

“no way! i got this thrifted for, like, fifteen bucks, i’m not letting you steal it-“

“alright, then you better sleep with one eye open the next time i stay over at yours because this is a nice jacket-“

you can’t help but look over at the empty seat next to you on the bench as you let out a quiet sigh… you have never felt so horribly single in your entire life.

and it doesn’t help that it’s cuffing szn this cuffing szn that all over your social media — your tiktok feed has not been very friendly to you as of late, the app flooded with countless videos of cute couples bundling up for the colder seasons

if anything you need to be cuffed to the wall before you go crazy and rip your eyelashes out from frustration

unsurprisingly, jungkook and ji-eun are a couple now, but really, are you surprised? jungkook is great, ji-eun is great, they went on a great first date (thanks to you, let’s be honest) and all the dates after that went well too because it lead to jungkook asking ji-eun if she wanted to be exclusive with him

you knew that things were going well when jungkook started hanging out with you less and less

and then when they officially got together, you didn’t think it could possibly get any worse but your already puny twice a week hangouts turned into two hours a week before he’d zip off to spend time with ji-eun

in fact, within the last two weeks, he’s only hung out with you once… which is fine, because you understand the honeymoon stage and you understand how giddy people can be when they get into a brand new relationship and just want to spend all their time with this new person

you know for sure that if you were the one who’d gotten into a new relationship, you’d definitely want to spend as much time with your person because why wouldn’t you want to do that? you really can’t blame the guy

you have other friends you can hang out with, but it’s just not as fun because even when you’re having a good time with them, your mind keeps wandering back to what jungkook is doing with ji-eun

and of course, when jungkook mentioned to you over a quick lunch one afternoon that he was planning on asking ji-eun to make things official, it’s not like you could tell him that it was a horrible idea and that he shouldn’t be dating ji-eun without ruffling feathers and raising brows of suspicion

the only person it would be a horrible idea for would be you, and you’re not enough of a dickhead to ruin a potentially good thing because of your own desires

and obviously, she said yes because why wouldn’t she say yes?

…

you know, there really isn’t a way for you to talk about this situation without sounding like the most bitter person on the planet, so perhaps you should move on now

“okay, i’m putting you two on drinks duty for the party!” jimin seems to appear out of thin air and you turn your head to look at him standing at the front of the table with an armful of flyers and the usual bossy, snarky persona that literally drains you every time you have an interaction with him, “unless you’re too busy making out to handle that.”

“no, we can handle it-“ ji-eun rolls her eyes playfully, pulling away from jungkook before reaching over and plucking the list from jimin’s slim fingers, “jesus, jimin. twelve bottles of vodka??”

“i’ll give you my credit card, just put all the charges on it-“ jimin shrugs, sliding in next to you before nudging you over a little, “this is going to be my greatest party yet. i’m charging $10 an admission and i’m renting out this huge house- i don’t think you can even comprehend how massive this party is going to be. it’s gonna be so much better than last year’s one.”

“i remember hearing about your party last year!” you chime in, offering jimin a polite smile even though he’s not looking at you, “it sounded like it was super fun.”

“so, you guys are on drinks, so that’s covered-“ jimin makes a tick on his clipboard before nodding to himself, “decor is covered, catering is covered, rent for the night is covered…”

you poke your tongue against the inside of your cheek, slumping in your seat a little and resisting the urge to roll your eyes

you still have no clue what jimin’s problem is with you, but at this point you’ve gotten used to the way he acts like you literally do not exist at all

you mentioned it to jungkook one time, wondering if maybe you were just looking too far into it and that there was nothing to take personally to which he responded with an enthusiastic nod and a “no, i also get the vibe that he doesn’t like you and i have no idea why… just let him be an ass if he wants to be one, don’t stoop to his level. life is too short to waste energy on weird people.”

so if jimin wants to continue being an ass to you, you’re just gonna let it roll off you like water off a duck’s back

“funny enough, y/n and i were gonna go to your party last year, but the kids in y/n’s building were trick or treating so we decided to stay home and watch horror movies and hand out candy instead-“ jungkook clears his throat, eyes flickering over to you for a brief second, “we also, like, decorated the doorway like it was a haunted apartment to freak the kids out. and y/n had this great idea to have a cauldron filled with warm spaghetti and she told the kids it was brain stew-“

“oh my god, i forgot about that-“ you snort, “i feel like we should’ve done, like, warm pudding instead or something, but the spaghetti kinda had the same effect and my kitchen smelled like an italian restaurant for two weeks after that-“

“let’s talk costumes!” jimin interrupts you, smacking his palm down on the table before pointing his pen at ji-eun and jungkook, “please don’t show up in anything tacky.”

“we were thinking barbie and ken!” ji-eun grins, “not tacky, totally trendy — i know we probably won’t be the only barbie and kens in the room, but it’s just so trendy and i loved her pink sequinned cowboy outfit- or if that’s not available, i think the 80s skater costumes were a vibe-“

“i can’t whait to talk about horshes and capitahlism wiv a bunch of ovher kensj.” jungkook laughs lightly with a mouthful of sandwich, dabbing his mouth with his napkin before crumpling it up into a ball and tossing it at you

you scowl playfully when it bounces off your forehead and lands on the ground

“you could go as allen, y/n. that’d be pretty funny.” jungkook swallows his bite, and you want to tell him that he doesn’t have to include you in every part of the conversation because you can practically see the pity for you radiating off of him in waves

you know for a fact he feels bad that he’s not been able to hang out with you as much lately because every time you do hang out he always brings you a drink or a snack with sympathetic little puppy dog eyes

and every time you have lunch with him and ji-eun he’s always making an effort to include you in the conversation — especially when jimin is around because again, it’s pretty clear the guy doesn’t like you

you and jungkook spent an entire afternoon trying to figure out why he didn’t like you so much, but you couldn’t come up with any conclusive results, so now whenever jimin is around, jungkook makes even more effort to include you in the conversation

“allen was my favourite character, so that’s not even a bad idea.” you chirp, pulling out one of the flyers from jimin’s neat pile before looking at it for the details

“oh, right. yeah, you can come too, i guess.” jimin clears his throat quietly, taking the flyer back from you with a chuckle, “…you don’t seem like you’d have anything crazy going on on a friday night.”

“i can come too? i thought that everyone was invited to this thing?” you raise an eyebrow, pointing to the little note on the flyer, “all it says is general admission.”

“…right.” jimin smiles sweetly at you, “and i suppose i’ll waive the fee for you since you’re… friends with jungkook.”

“how sweet of you.” you respond curtly, offering a smile just as sweet before letting it drop as soon as he looks away

you are absolutely dreading having to go to this party.

»»————- 👻 ————-««

“are you sure you don’t want us to come and pick you up? ji-eun has space in her car, you’d just have to sit in the back with all the drinks n stuff-“

“i’m good, jungkook, really-“ you mutter, pausing for a second to smudge out your lipstick before leaning back in your chair and turning side to side to look at your finished look

not that this is jungkook’s fault, but the fact that the two of you really haven’t been hanging out as often gave you a lot of time to think about what you wanted to dress up as for jimin’s halloween costume, and after a solo spooky movie binge the other weekend, you decided that you wanted to dress up as emily from the corpse bride

sure, it’s been done so many times — but you love the movie and you love emily and you had so much time to get everything you needed for this costume so why not dress up as her??

you reach up to adjust your blue wig, tugging at it slightly to make sure it’s nice and secure

“i’m just gonna uber there! plus, my place is kind of out of the way if you guys are already headed to jimin’s.” you clear your throat, “thank you for the offer though. make sure to let ji-eun know i really appreciate the gesture.”

“okay, i will…” jungkook murmurs, and you can tell by the tone in his voice that he wants to say something but he’s holding himself back, “i guess i’ll see you at the party, then? we’ll probably be there in about forty minutes.”

“yes, i’ll see you guys at the party.” you nod, wiping the leftover blue lipstick on your fingers on a tissue before reaching over to get ready to press the hangup button

“y/n?” jungkook’s voice crackling out from your phone speaker makes you pause, and you pull your hand back

“yea?”

“we’re- we’re good, right?” the question is somewhat of a surprise to you due to its weirdly serious, non-jungkook nature, your eyes flickering down to look at the contact photo you have set for your friend

he grins like a maniac at the camera, eyes wide and lit up with excitement at the cheesy corn dog he’s holding in front of him

the corner of your mouth twitches in a fond smile at the memory of that day — jungkook was convinced he’d be able to eat three corn dogs in one sitting and the day ended with him basically destroying your toilet and then refusing to let you use it until the smell cleared out

“what do you mean?” you clear your throat quietly, lips parting to say something else before you press them together and decide against it

“i mean- i know we haven’t been hanging out a lot lately so i just-“ jungkook coughs, “you know, you’re my best friend and i wanna make sure that everything is… good between us.”

“i-“ you pause again, gaze averting to the side as you think about his comment

if you’re being completely honest, you don’t think everything is good between the two of you — the first reason why being the fact that you are still completely and utterly head over heels in love with him, and the second reason being that he’s in a relationship with someone else and you’re really not sure how much more of this you can take before you go insane

but this isn’t exactly something you can hash out over a crackly phone call, and you’re really not in the mood to potentially destroy two relationships at once

you really don’t know what you’re going to do about this emotional mess, but what you do know is that you’re going to have to take it day by day until you’re eventually ready to face it head on — and tonight, your only job is to smile, enjoy being young, and have lots of fun at what you’re sure is going to be an amazing party despite it being hosted by someone who hates your guts for no reason

“we’re- we’re good, kook.” you manage to push out, despite the words practically fighting their way out of your mouth, “you’re my best friend, too.”

“okay. so i’ll see you soon?”

“yea.” you look at yourself in the vanity mirror, wondering if the sadness in your eyes will make your costume that much more believable, “i’ll see you soon.”

»»————- 👻 ————-««

the six pack of lime seltzer water (you got the fancy kinds in glass bottles) clinks in their cardboard carrier as you walk on the sidewalk, blue heels clicking against the pavement as you follow the path leading up towards the house that-

“holy shit.” your jaw drops at the sheer size of this literal mansion — what looks to be an endless number of burgundy bricks separated by neat, thin layers of cement that are stacked on top of each other, two large, white columns that cast identical shadows on the curved sidewalk leading up to the large, black front door, and not to mention, the insane halloween decorations: huge spider webs stretched over the door and windows, fairy lights wrapped around the columns, a stack of pumpkins sitting by the front steps kardashian-style

you don’t like jimin but you have to hand it to him, he sure can throw a party

“s’cuse us, sorry!” a trio of girls dressed up as sluttier versions of the powerpuff girls brush past you, bubbles turning around to shoot you a grin, “love your costume, by the way!”

“oh, thank you!” your face immediately breaks into a wide grin, “you guys look great, too-“

the random compliment lifts your mood up slightly — you know you’re more than capable of making friends anywhere you go, so if jungkook is too busy mingling with the other couples, you know you’ll be fine

and hopefully jimin will be too busy playing host to give you any attitude tonight

you lift your dress up as you make your way up the steps, the corners of your mouth lifting in an excited smile when you see taehyung standing by the door greeting people and collecting their $10 by… having them tuck the bills into the waistband of his boxers

“magic mike?” you laugh, taehyung’s right eye dropping in a wink before thrusts his hips towards you

“you know it, baby-“ he coos, reaching over to pinch the fabric of your dress to pull you towards him, your cheeks flushing when you stumble into his chest, “be nice to me and i’ll give you a lil lap dance in one of the private rooms-“

“taehyung, i swear to god, do not let any of those bills fall into your boxers because i’m not touching anything that touched your penis-“ jimin pops up behind taehyung dressed in a veryaccurate joker costume, his usual blonde hair dyed completely green for the look

“hi, welcome to the party, $10 an admiss-“ the sweet smile immediately drops from his face when he realises it’s you, jimin leaning back slightly, “wow, corpse bride!” jimin nods, looking you up and down, “seems fitting.” he mutters under his breath, watching as taehyung tapes the neon orange bracelet around your wrist

“nice to see you too, jimin.” you raise an eyebrow, lifting the six pack up with your other hand, “i didn’t want to come empty-handed, so i brought some drinks!”

“you brought six drinks for a house party? six sparkly waters, too… interesting.” jimin scoffs lightly, plucking the carrier from you before offering you a saccharine sweet smile, “how thoughtful of you. drinks are in the kitchen - first two shots are free, and then it’s $15 a shot after that. cocktails are $5 each, mocktails are $3- you seem like a shirley temple girl anyway- and all of it can be paid through venmo. the bartender will answer any other questions you have. bathrooms are upstairs, and the results to the costume competition will be announced at the end of the night. there are fifteen winners, and the votes are made by everyone here, so you might have a shot at winning something here.” jimin steps aside, gesturing towards the party, “have fun!”

“thank you, jimin.” you smile politely, stepping into the house and immediately rolling your eyes as soon as you turn away from him

so you weren’t able to completely avoid his dickheadedness, but hopefully that’ll be your only interaction with him tonight considering he’s probably going to be busy playing businessman all night

$15 a shot is kind of insane, though

you keep your phone pressed flush to your chest as you manoeuvre your way through the packed floor, the neon lights flashing and disco ball glimmering from above making it damn near impossible to navigate this place without bumping into backs and stepping on toes

the DJ pumps his arm up into the air as he continues spinning his fingers against the discs, the crowd going wild as the song builds up to the chorus

you can already tell that most of the people here are drunk (you can smell it, too) and you know, if you can’t beat ‘em, why not join them?

you can find jungkook later, and alcohol is definitely going to make this night a little easier to handle

“hi!” you smack your hands down on the marble countertop when you finally make your way to the bar, the vampire bartender turning to glance at you over his shoulder before tossing a cloth over his shoulder, “i want- something. shots, a drink, anything-“ your voice is already straining from the way you’re basically screaming over the music but this seems to be the proper way to communicate at a party like this

“wait, y/n?” your eyes light up when you realise that it’s none other than namjoon in charge of the drinks (and you wonder if your friendship with him will mean he gives you more drinks without charging you for it) and you let out a gasp as you lean over the counter to grasp onto his wrist

“namjoon!” you grin, “oh my god, thank god, finally someone i know at this damn party. why didn’t you tell me you were going to be here??”

“why didn’t you tell me you were gonna be here?! i haven’t seen you at the library at all, otherwise i definitely would’ve talked to you about it- what can i get for you?”

“top-shelf tequila, baby. i saw the list of brands that jimin bought - i want the most expensive one.” you raise an eyebrow, namjoon laughing to himself before nodding

“alright, i gotcha- you need any chasers with that?”

“you got cranberry juice?”

“for you, i’ve got anything-“ namjoon smirks, holding a finger up to excuse himself

it’s five seconds later that you’re presented with not one, not two, but three shots of tequila, namjoon winking at you as he slides the cranberry juice chasers over to you as well

“you better take these before jimin realises i’ve given you a freebie- i’m about to take a break here, someone else is gonna come in a sec to replace me- you wanna dance?”

“um, of course i do!” you can’t help but squeal excitedly, “take one with me!” you push a shot glass towards him, namjoon shrugging before picking up the shot and downing it in less than two seconds

you take your second shot, eyes squinting as the burn of alcohol trickles down your throat

you immediately shudder, reaching for the cranberry juice and tossing it down the hatch

“oh, jesus-“ you hiss, shuddering against before sticking your tongue out in disgust, “god, that cranberry juice does not help whatsoever-!” you don’t get much of a chance to say anything else before namjoon has his slender fingers wrapped around your wrist, giggles bubbling out of your mouth as he drags you towards the crowded dance floor to join the rest of the drunken crowd

»»————- 👻 ————-««

okay, so maybe this party didn’t turn out to be as bad as you thought it was going to be!

“that- oh my god-!” you throw your head back in laughter when namjoon pulls out the worst dance moves you’ve ever seen, your eyes pinching shut as you clutch at your stomach

you’re not sure how much time has passed (to be fair, it’s gonna be hard to tell how much time has passed when you’re at a massive house party with flashing lights and nothing but the sound of speakers booming to guide you) but you know you’ve been having a lot more fun with namjoon than you’ve had with jungkook these last few weeks) ((in fact you’re having so much fun that you almost forgot you were supposed to be heartbroken that the love of your life is with someone else, but also, that could probably be the alcohol taking over))

you know at some point you’re going to have to go over and say hi to jungkook eventually because you don’t want him to think that you’re purposely ignoring him or something — after all, it’s not his fault that he likes ji-eun and it’s not something you can pin on him and grill him for — but for now, you’re going to dance a little more, sing a little more, and-

“i gotta pee!” you gasp all of a sudden, realising that you haven’t peed once since coming here and there’s a lot of tequila sloshing around in your system

“what?” namjoon furrows his brows, reaching up to tap against his ear, “too loud, can’t hear you!”

“i gotta go pee!” you repeat yourself, pointing towards the staircase leading upstairs, “’m gonna go pee n then ‘m gonna come right back-“

“oh, pee?” namjoon nods, finally catching your words before stepping aside a little, “okay, i’ll be right here!”

»»————- 👻 ————-««

the silence of the bathroom is more than welcome as soon as you step in and flick the lights on, not at all surprised to see a pair of elegant looking wall sconces lighting up the space

you squint your eyes as you lean into the mirror, double checking that your makeup is still somewhat intact and you don’t look insane

“hm. not bad.” you mutter to yourself, turning your head from side to side before nodding, reaching down to pull the endless amounts of tulle up so you can hopefully not piss all over yourself in your tipsy state

…

you set the lid down as the toilet flushes, turning the tap on and rinsing your hands underneath the cool water

“oh, damn-“ you wince when you realise you’re washing some of the blue body paint away and you quickly turn the tap off, shaking the water off your hands before reaching for a neatly folded cotton towelette of course, because regular paper towels aren’t fancy enough for a park jimin party

you give yourself one last glance in the mirror (you could use a little more lipstick but it’s dark down there so no one’s going to be able to tell anyway) before flicking the lights off

“oops! i’m sorry-“ you apologise instinctively when you open the door and stumble right into someone, taking a few steps back before looking up to see that it’s jimin, “oh, hey…” you clear your throat quietly, standing up a little straighter before offering him a meek smile

you always feel like you’re in trouble when you’re around jimin and it’s the worst feeling in the world

like he’s the principal and you just got caught cheating on a test and he’s about to call home to tell your parents as punishment

or he’s an officer and he’s about to test you with the breathalyser and you know you’re going to fail because you definitely can’t walk in a straight line right now

“why am i not surprised that you clearly don’t know how to handle alcohol?” jimin snorts, holding his hands out in case you fall over, “you better not throw up all over me, this suit is custom made-“

“i wasn’t throwing up in the bathroom, i just went in there to pee-“ you roll your eyes, placing both hands on your hips before shaking your head, “you are ridiculous, you know that? even if i was throwing up in your stupid fancy toilets, the normal thing to do would be to ask if me i was okay and if i needed some water! you- you are just so self-centred and just-“

“yeah, uh-huh-“ jimin reaches up to pat the side of your face with a smile, “by the way, if you were looking for jungkook, he’s at the VIP booth with ji-eun and the rest of us.”

“oh, perfect!” you nod, thankful for the information, “i’ll pop over and say hi in a bit, i think it’d be good to sit down too because my heels are kind of killing me and i wouldn’t be surprised if i had, like, a million blisters right now-“

“woah, i never said you were allowed to be in the booth with us.” jimin scoffs, pressing a hand against your shoulder to keep you from moving, “silly girl.”

your lips part slightly as you look at him, and for a moment the only thing that can be heard is the faint boom and bass of the music playing from downstairs

“are you… serious?” you ask, unsure if jimin’s joking with you or not

the bored expression on his face tells you that he is indeed, super serious

all of this just feels so incredibly cliquey and immature and stupid and you know that you’re supposed to be the bigger person because jimin clearly won’t be and you like to think that you’re ten times more emotionally mature than him but he’s making it harder and harder for you to not want to shred up his nice suit with a pair of scissors and cuss him out in front of everyone

“i’m dead serious. i’m just telling you this so that you don’t embarrass yourself when your drunk ass stumbles over and tries to join us.” jimin says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the entire world, “enjoy the rest of the party, sweetheart.” he brushes past you to head into the washroom and-

“you’re a fucking dickhead, you know that?” you snap, jimin stopping in his tracks before turning his head slightly so you can just make out the side of his face, “i think i’ve been nothing but nice to you ever since i met you, and to be honest, i can’t even think of one reason why you are constantly so fucking rude and overall just unpleasant to me. i don’t say anything when you purposely cut me out of the conversation, i don’t nag when you ignore my questions and comments but respond to everyone else’s, and most importantly, i’ve never called you out for being a jackass when i think i’ve had every chance and opportunity to. if you have a problem with me, then just say so so that we can hash this stupid weird rivalry out and just get along. your best friend and my best friend are in a relationship, and i think it’s in everyone’s best interest that we at least try to get along-“

“oh, shut the fuck up, y/n.” jimin scoffs, turning around to face you, “you know, you always act like you’re better than everyone else, that’s why i don’t like you.”

you feel your shoulders stiffen at the comment before you shrug, crossing your arms over your chest, “well, i’m sorry if i’ve given you that impression but that’s not my intention, i don’t think i’m better than you, i don’t think i’m better than everyone else, and i can’t control how you feel about me but-“

“oh my god, even when you’re confronting me about being a dickhead to you you’re still being a sensible goddamn person, it’s like you’re purposely trying to piss me off-“

“okay, well, i’m not going to apologise to you for literally being myself because there’s nothing i can do about it. this is a you problem, not a me problem, so if you insist on being such an unreasonable drama queen for however long we’re going to have to spend time together, then i think the solution here is just for you to ignore me — which, you’re already doing a stellar job of, congratulations — and in return, i’ll happily ignore you.”

“i hate when people aren’t themselves. i pick up on that shit right away, and i gotta tell you, y/n, you might be the fakest person of them all.”

“what the hell are you talking about?”

“i think we both know you’re hiding something from all of us. i think you’re hiding something from yourself, too. i think you’re lying to yourself.”

there’s a pregnant pause in the conversation and for a second you want to ask him what exactly he’s implying here, but…

“alright, jimin, well-“ you turn around to head towards the stairs, “you’re fuckin’ being weird, and i’m just trying to have a good time, so i’m just gonna go back down-“

“yeah, have a wonderful rest of your evening, corpse bride-“

you resist the very strong urge to whip around and literally just strangle the man, but you remind yourself that before you had this little interaction you were actually having a very good time

“y/n!” jungkook stands at the bottom of the staircase as you make your way down, being careful not to trip over your heels, “hi!”

“jungkook! oh, there you are- i was wondering where you were-“ you loop an arm with his as you drag him through the hoards of people and towards the bar (you really need a drink and it looks like namjoon is back on the clock)

“there you are!” he laughs lightly, reaching over to tap your hand gently, “i’ve been texting you all night trying to figure out where you were but- is your phone on do not disturb or something?“

“no, it’s not! i’m sorry, i should’ve checked my phone-“ you smile sheepishly, “i’ve been dancing with namjoon this whole time but- where are you guys sitting?”

“i don’t know, some area that jimin squared off for us and a few others- ji-eun’s been asking about you, she wanted to say hi-“

“oh! oh my god, yeah, i should probably go say hi to ji-eun-“ you gesture for namjoon to get you some water and he nods, grabbing a cup and filling it up for you, :your ken costume turned out great, by the way-“ you laugh, patting jungkook’s bare chest, “it’s, uh- it’s really giving horses and the patriarchy.”

“thank you, thank you- and your costume turned out so cool too, we should watch corpse bride again when we eventually have another movie night-“

“sure! sure, for sure.” you clear your throat quietly, a moment of awkward silence settling in between the two of you

your friendship feels so… different now

like there’s this unspoken air of something in between you and jungkook like an invisible brick wall

and maybe it’s the liquid courage currently sloshing around in your body and the leftover exhilaration from finally calling jimin out on his bullshit, but now you have the urge to talk to jungkook about the weird tension

“hey, kook, listen-“ you reach up to scratch the back of your neck, “there’s something i’ve been meaning to tell you but i’ve definitely been putting off for a while…”

all of a sudden, a drum roll begins to boom from the speakers, the spotlights darting around the crowd before shining towards the main stage at the front of the room, whoops and cheers bouncing off the walls as jimin waltzes his way towards the microphone, a cocky smirk on his face as he raises his hand to get people to quiet down

“oh, shit, the costume competition results!!” jungkook nudges your side as the two of you turn to face the front, “we can talk about it later, i wanna see who won what- i voted myself for best ken costume, so-“

you let out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding and you nod, thankful for the interruption

maybe it’s a good thing you were interrupted

telling him in the middle of a party probably wasn’t the best idea, anyway

»»————- 👻 ————-««

once again, you really have to hand in to jimin

the man truly knows how to throw a party, because it seems like just about everyone is having the time of their lives — and this costume competition just made things so much more fun

there are definitely a lot of good costumes here tonight and jimin decided to change it up with twenty-five different categories to go through so he’s kind of speed running through the names

most scary costume, most realistic costume, most well-made costume: he’s got a lot of categories to get through

you keep a content smile on your face as the costume contest continues to go on, enjoying jimin’s commentary to the point that you nearly forget that the two of you hate each other and he totally just disrespected you like he’s never disrespected you before twenty minutes ago

“i wonder how that guy made it look like his head was floating… that shit was so cool.” jungkook claps his hands along with the crowd and you nod enthusiastically

“i know, right?! i’m sure he probably took it off tiktok or something - we can definitely look it up after the party and maybe we can try to recreate-“ you stop yourself mid-sentence, suddenly remembering that you guys haven’t exactly been the closest as of late so it feels weird to be offering to do something together, “um-“ you clear your throat, offering a half-hearted shrug, “yeah, we can, like, look it up later or something. maybe you and ji-eun can figure it out and let me know.”

“yeah! or- you know, you and me-“ jungkook licks over his chapped lips, “like- you know, like- old times or whatever-“

“yeah, yeah- maybe! maybe-“

“now, before i announce this special category, i have something to read because-“ jimin sucks in a breath through his teeth before cocking his head to the side, “well, let’s just say it’s some context for the best simp costume of the night.”

you can’t help but frown at the strange category — out of all the halloween costume competitions you’ve been to, “best simp” has certainly never been one that you’ve seen before

“just wanna remind everyone that this is just a costume competition, everything is based off the costume you’re wearing.” jimin adds, taking a slip of paper out of his back pocket before unfolding it with nimble fingers, “so, uh- you know. don’t take anything seriously, you know? just gotta loosen up and have fun.”

your brows dip slightly at the weird disclaimer

…

something about this doesn’t feel right.

“dear j, this is something that i’ve wanted to tell you for a while but have never had the courage to until now. throughout our entire friendship, you’ve been so kind and loyal and honest with me, and i think that you deserve the same, so this is me being honest with you.” jimin speaks into the microphone, reading the words off the slip of paper with a tone of amusement laced in his powder-soft voice, “to be honest, i’ve liked you for nearly a year now, and i’ve tried so many times to push those feelings down but it’s clear that my feelings aren’t going anywhere anytime soon…” he recites, a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth as he puts the piece of paper down, “any thoughts on who the winner could be? or should i keep going?”

your eyelids flutter slightly at the weird change in mood of the lines and a strange feeling of familiarity of those words

“me at that one hot english professor.” a voice pipes out from the crowd and that gets a round of laughter

you laugh along politely, but you can’t help but feel as though something is off

something is off

something is very, very off

“i cherish you as a friend and the last thing i want to do is to make things weird, so… you don’t have to worry about my feelings, you know?”

oh my god.

you feel the blood immediately drain from your face when you finally realize why these lines are so familiar — it’s because they’re from the note you wrote for jungkook when you were going to tell him you liked him.

your brain begins to work overtime to figure out how the hell jimin got his hands on that note and why the hell he’d think it’d be okay to read it aloud to this massive group of people and what the hell he’s even doing right now

“what i’m trying to say is that i like you, j. i like you so much that i don’t know where to even put my feelings, and i’m sick of holding my feelings back and pretending that i’m fine with being just your friend.”

you know that jimin’s never really been a fan of you, but even this seems like too much of a dickhead move even for him

you pluck at the cuff of your sleeve anxiously, tracing your steps all the way back to the day you were going to tell jungkook about your feelings for him and the note that you’d accidentally given him that you were hoping was rotting away somewhere in a dump yard but clearly isn’t

jungkook said he’d given ji-eun the note to spit her gum out into

but what if she uncrumpled the paper and saw the note?

and what if jimin was there when she uncrumpled the note?

and then they read it together and ji-eun mentioned that you were reciting this aloud in the bathroom and-

your heart starts to race in your chest and you feel the hairs prickle on your arms as anxiety begins to bubble in your stomach, and you know that no one’s looking at you but you feel like everyone’s looking at you

you feel sick

you feel like you’re going to throw up and explode at the same time

“how could you like someone for a year and not tell ‘em?” jungkook snorts, nudging you with his elbow, “who do you think the poor sucker is who said that?”

“beats me.” you breathe out, feeling yourself shrink slightly when you notice jimin starting to scan the audience, clearly laser-focused on finding you, “i have to- um, i think i need some fresh air, it’s a little warm in here-“

“oh- okay-“ jungkook doesn’t get the chance to say much else before you’re turning around, pushing yourself through the crowd of people and trying your best to stay calm

just breathe

in and out

in and out in and out in and out oh my god HURRY UP MOVE MOVE MOVE-

you’re sure that no one will notice if you slink out through the back

and you can always text namjoon later and say that it was great spending time with him but you had a personal emergency and needed to leave the party earlier

and if jimin decides to expose you, at least you’ll be gone and out of this house and nowhere near any of these people and you don’t have to look at their stupid sympathetic faces and you don’t have to deal with-

“and the best simp of the night goes to our lovely corpse bride.”

you freeze when the spotlight lands on you, your heart going a hundred miles a minute as it starts to beat harder and faster in your chest

you only manage to turn your head weakly to glance over your right shoulder, catching jimin in your peripheral view before you’re slowly twisting around to face him, feet glued to the ground

“why don’t you come up here and accept your sash, corpse bride?” jimin smirks, plucking the satin sash from (a shocked looking) taehyung’s arms before raising it up in the air slightly, “congratulations on winning, you get two free drinks from the bar. one for you and one for… well, probably also you. get on up here and claim your coupons!”

you feel your face burning bright red in humiliation and you’re unable to tear your eyes away from jimin, your hands clenched into tight fists at your sides

this is a nightmare

this is actually a nightmare

this is traumatising in so many ways

the music seems to quiet down, a loud silence washing over the room as people look at you with expressions of confusion on their faces, everyone clearly a little thrown off at the weird category

eyes, there are just a million pairs of eyes on you and you feel like you can’t move or breathe or even do anything but stand still in shock

it’s only then that you notice the calculating look on jungkook’s face, his eyelids fluttering slightly before his eyes widen and his head snaps up and over to look at you

his lips part slightly as his eyes dart over the features of your face and you feel your entire body flushing in humiliation and shame, forcing your eyes away from your friend and back to the dickhead on the stage

“you are really something else, park jimin.” you manage to mutter out before turning on your heel and pushing your way through the crowd, people stepping aside to let you out

“aw, where are you going? you had a great costume, that’s all we were trying to say!” jimin laughs, actually laughs into the microphone before shrugging, tossing the sash over his shoulder before moving on, “alright, well, more drinks for me, i guess. the next category is best couple’s costume-“

“y/n- y/n, wait!” jungkook’s voice is the one thing you hear among the music and bustle of the crowd but he’s the last person you want to talk to right now so you pick up your pace upon spotting the front door

tears blur your vision as you finally burst out into the open air, your chin trembling as you try your best to keep your composure and not completely burst into tears

“oh my god, oh my fucking god-“ you whimper, sucking in large breaths of air

run, run, run, the only instinct you have is to run, and you reach down to yank both heels off before taking off into a sprint, the grass slightly damp beneath your bare feet

it feels very cliché to be running out of a mansion in a big poofy dress, but you can’t even take the moment to laugh at yourself because the only thing you can focus on is the fact that everything has changed completely and you’re forced to face reality a lot sooner than you would’ve liked

“y/n, come on!” you turn to glance over your shoulder to see jungkook hot on your trail, “you can’t just run away from a discussion you don’t want to have, we need to talk because we both know that things have been off since i started dating ji-eun and now-“

“okay, well, now you know, then!” your chest heaves as you come to a stop to catch your breath (you have no idea why you thought running would be a good idea, you get winded after thirty seconds on the treadmill), spinning around to face your friend who skids to a stop, tripping over his feet a little before standing up straight, “the secret’s out, jungkook. we finally solved the puzzle. i love you. i’ve loved you for so long that i don’t even remember when i started feeling this way, but all i know is i love you. you’re the first person i think of when i wake up and you’re the last person i think about before i fall asleep. i would literally drop everything i was doing if you needed me, and you’re the only person i want to spend my free time with.” all the words that you’ve been holding in for the last who knows how long finally spill out, your mouth running uncontrollably, “i love you so much that i helped you set up your date with ji-eun, i love you so much that i’m willing to run in the rain just to get you a teddy bear and a bouquet that’s not even going to me, jungkook, i-“ you blubber, reaching up to wipe at your eyes, “i don’t know what to do. there is no one else in the world i’d rather be with than you, jungkook, and i- to be honest, maybe it’s a good thing that jimin did what he did because you do deserve to know the truth and you do deserve to know how i really feel about you. if this didn’t happen i think i’d just keep it to myself for the rest of my life, but you deserve to know this. i love you, jungkook. i love you and i don’t know if i can keep being friends with you if you’re dating someone else because it’s actually killing me on the inside-“

“i love you, y/n,” jungkook breathes out, and you feel yourself letting out a breath that you didn’t even know you were holding

relief

for the first time in a long time, you feel relieved, like a massive weight’s just been lifted off your shoulders

you feel your heart soar in your chest, and suddenly it’s like all the humiliation and shame has completely washed away, and suddenly you have the feeling to run back into the house to thank jimin for doing this because you know you wouldn’t have said anything if it weren’t for this slightly traumatising experience

“i love you, i do, but… not in that way.” his shoulders droop slightly and you feel your heart beginning to crackle like a delicate glass sculpture, each splinter creating more damage than the last, “i love you like you’re the first person i call when i get good news because i know you’ll be proud of me, or when i get bad news because i know you’ll be there to comfort me. i love you, like i envision you standing next to me at my wedding fixing my tie or calming me down when whoever i end up marrying is walking down the aisle. i love you like you’ll be fun auntie y/n who spoils my kids with shopping sprees at the mall and who allows them an extra scoop of ice cream after dinner. i love you because you make me a better person, i love you because you encourage me to be the best version of myself i can possibly be. i love you because you remind me to be smart and kind and humble and honest and i trust you to be the one to put me in my place if i ever need it but i-“

“stop.” you feel nauseated hearing all of these words coming out of his mouth, telling you that he loves you because and he loves you because but not just i love you too. “just stop, jungkook.” you know that you can’t control someone else’s feelings but you can control your own reactions, and if jungkook would’ve kept rattling on you don’t know what you would’ve said but you know you probably would’ve lashed out at him

and it’s good that you finally got your answer, right? he loves you, but not in that way — not in the way that you love him

“y/n, please-“ jungkook whispers, reaching out for you, his eyebrows scrunching together when you take a small step back, wrapping your arms around yourself, “please, i can’t lose you as a friend, you mean so much to me-“

“i need some time.” you manage to force out, the sickening feeling of humiliation and shame and embarrassment and disappointment and frustration and anger swirling around in your stomach, “i just need some time.”

“how much time?”

“you should probably go back to the party.” you clear your throat quietly, offering your friend a weak smile, “i heard you and ji-eun were up for best couple’s costume. not saying that jimin rigged the system or anything, but-“

“y/n, how much time?” jungkook’s looking at you with sad puppy-dog eyes, and though it breaks your heart to see him like that, you need to put yourself first for once

every instinct inside of you screams to console jungkook, to reassure him and let him now that you’ll still be around but you just need some space from him and the whole situation

your eyes begin to water again as you press your lips together, shaking your head quietly, “i’m gonna go see if i can catch the bus home.”

»»————- 👻 ————-««

(- “the FUCK is wrong with you, huh?!” jungkook barks, slamming jimin up against the wall before grabbing two fistfuls of his shirt, “you sadistic fuck, who in their right mind would ever fucking do that to another human being?!”

“i’m the sadistic one?” jimin laughs, reaching up to wrap his fingers around jungkook’s wrists, “are you fucking serious? you’re the one whose been dangling yourself in front of y/n like a damn carrot to a starved rabbit-“

“what are you talking about?”

“you can’t stand here and honestly say that you didn’t have an inkling that y/n liked you more than a friend. i’ve seen the way you talk to her, i’ve seen the way you look at her, i’ve seen the way you are around her- you think i’m the evil one? at least i don’t take advantage of my friends who are CLEARLY head over heels in love with me and would obviously do anything i wanted them to do and ask them to help me set up a date that i’m taking someone else out on-“

“get a fucking life and mind your own damn business for once, you motherf-“)

🎙️ console y/n or call out jimin because what the hell was that?! (talk to my characters!)

📚 why not explore the rest of the library while you're here? (go say hi to yoongi and y/n in la vie en bonsai!)

💫 or perhaps you want something shorter to read? (drabbles and mini series!)

🌟 or something even shorter? (teeny tidbits!)

644 notes · View notes

absolutebl · 9 months

Text

Best 23 of BL 2023 - Quirky Awards

SHOCK & AWE AWARDS

1. Biggest BL surprise of 2023:

The last 3 months of 2023 in general got my biggest WTF award.

GMMTV fielding OffGun AND TayNew in the same quarter while also airing Last Twilight (arguably one of their best BLs ever)

That they ALSO optioned 3 JBLs

That there's a high heat omegaverse BL staring Pavel

That there were 20 BLs airing and none of them Korean.

With 5 VAMPIRE BLs announced for next year

But my prize in this category goes to My Dear Gangster Oppa.

It's just crazy:

Thai talent, Korean money + IP (this is adapted from a manwha) airing on a Chinese channel (iQIYI). Plus it was GOOD and made smart reuse of a pair who richly deserved it. I'm delighted by the eclectic insanity of this production. And wonder if any other film genre could even do anything like this.

2. The “that country did WHAT?” award:

The 8th Sense from Korea?!

I mean, seriously?! Dealing with metal health, suicide, darkness, therapy, age gap, & first time love BUT FROM KOREA? And then openness and casual boyfriend physical affection? What's next? An actual hard fought coming out narrative with an HEA? Gay domesticity and families?

Careful Korea, you'll strain something. Possibly your own culture and film industry.

I should stop having expectations of Korea, they keep surprising me.

Runners up: Korea letting OnlyOneOf do Bump Up Business not to mention that OmegaX thing. AND Korea adapting Why R U? What are you up to, Korea? Qua? Is this a coded message? Should we send help? Do you need snacks?

3. Biggest casting whoa! where did you come from? award:

GeminiFourth in My School President.

Seriously? Babies what? How did GMMTV find you? How do you exist? How is BL this lucky?

4. That studio did WHAT now? award:

GMMTV putting EarthMix into Moonlight Chicken.

And then doubling down with G4 as the damn sides.

Fucking genius.

5. I’m sad you were ignored award:

Destiny Seeker.

It's just a really fun little Thai pulp, the pairs were good, silly dialogue, plus consent and other good rep. I enjoyed it. No one talked about it AT ALL.

6. 2023 BL That Actually Made Me Lose My Mind Award?

Laws of Attraction. -The casting, the crazy story, the soapy drama! But specifically: Film playing Charn - the range of his smiles alone. GLORIOUS

I mean I Feel You Linger in the Air also sparked something in me, but LoA drove me actually nuts.

NARRATIVE AWARDS

7. Best story 2023:

La Pluie

I know, you're surprised, right? At the time I didn't chat much about it but I really enjoyed the discourse others were having. I love anything that really examines the fated mates (soulmates) trope and the idea of "the one". What a clever way to do that. (This is one reason UWMA is my favorite Thai BL.)

This one reminded me of the way Color Rush approached allegory and that's no bad thing. Such an impressive little piece.

8. Best narrative structure 2023 award:

Unintentional Love Story.

I know this may seem a simplistic pick. But I love the tidiness of this no frills contemporary romance, how the culture of work and personal ethics and corruption fight against the main character's affection and integrity. Poor baby boy is driven into a corner and then punished for it. But it is punishment he feels he deserves, and so it is up to his (now) ex to figure out what went wrong and why.

It's just great. I love it when no one is stupid or wrong, it's just impossible circumstances and unintentional love deeply felt.

9. Best 2023 dialogue (script) award:

Jun & Jun

Never before has Korea laced a BL with that much perfectly executed innuendo. It was a master class. I didn't know you could be that lascivious in Korean, quite frankly. Plus the way the 2 Juns constantly seamlessly transition between formal register (work, public - where they are boss/employee) to informal register (when they are alone and age mates + childhood sweethearts).

Beautiful to hear and watch.

10. Favorite scene 2023:

The dub con scene in I Cannot Reach You because I AM TRASH for an out of control seme. I'm sorry I just AM.

I have said it before, I will say it again, NO ONE DOES THIRST like Japan. And when that thirst bubbles over, it is heart-clenching and very hot.

11. The most rewatchable BL of 2023 award:

Our Dating Sim

That scene where they lie on the floor + the stolen kiss + giggle? Come on, it should be on comfort repeat in war rooms. It could bring world peace.

ACTORS & CHARACTERS AWARDS

12. Best performance of a queer actor in a leading role, 2023:

Fluke in Make a Wish.

It was fun to see him as an irreverent immortal and while I love OhmFluke I also really enjoyed this new pairing. It was a genuine pleasure to watch.

13. Best pining 2023:

The moot pining in Tokyo in April is...

Boys, seriously? Japan must you destroy us like this? Hurts so good.

14. Best wingman 2023 (The Namgoong Award)

Tiw from My School President

I mean, come on, of course it's him!

(Also can you believe Mark went on from this to do fricking Only Friends!? To Last Twilight! Come on GMMTV GIVE HIM A LEAD!)

15. Biggest OMG I LOVE you boys together, YAY!

Dimpled McMafia & Feral Bunny Foo Foo from Kiseki Dear to Me.

They were feral for each other.

We were feral for them

It was a whole delightful THING.

16. Most unexpected return of a BL pair? award:

The Private Lessons pair showing up in Love Class 2.

I know it was only a cameo, but SERIOUSLY? Thank you SO MUCH Korea! A big studio picking up a Strongberry pairing? I love you.

Seriously tho between them, Taiwan & Korea tried for ALL THE CAMEOS this year.

17. Well aren't you two just the prettiest? award:

NetJames in Bed Friend.

Need I say more?

18. LIFETIME ACHIEVEMENT AWARD

Bah Vinh in Vian & Mr Cinderella 2. I did like either show but I loved him in them. Especially the make outs.

Yes you have chemistry with all the boys in Vietnam and you kiss beautifully. But it's okay now honey, you have the crown. Relax, you're stressing us out.

RANDOM PICKS

19. Favorite Linguistic Moment of 2023:

Our Dating Sim

Caught in the act by the elevator scene. OMG it's so funny. They're being such boyfriend shits to each other, and to be caught in the act by THAT character, and try to manifest formal language whole cloth? Hilarious.

Honorable mention to War Peanuts in Destiny Seeker.

20. Biggest disappointment of 2023:

You Are Mine

Seriously Taiwan, AGAIN you disappoint me with an Office BL? You're Taiwan, land of offices and suits. This should be YOUR SETTING TO WIN. And yet... argh. I mean it wasn't bad. But it wasn't good either. Stop it Taiwan, do better.

Runners up? Between Us, Chains of Heart, Dangerous Romance - this was a HOTLY contested category.

+ 2 Winners in the sub-category of FUCK YOU FOR THAT ENDING award:

The Director who Buys Me Dinner - I mean this nicely but: you have your lane now Korea, stop hurting us, that's Japan's responsibility and they do it better.

I Feel You Linger In the Air - I'm just hugely disappointed. Thailand ALMOST got its second 10/10 from me, but that damn ending.

Argh.

21. Best Wardrobe/Prop Use 2023

The shower of packaged bedsheets in My Personal Weatherman

Amazing. Brilliant. No notes.

22. Best Queer Rep 2023

Chot in Step By Step

In fact, all the queer characters in this show were treated with great integrity.

AND props to this cast for refusing to do fan service. GOOD FOR YOU! Fuck those sasang wankers.

Runners up? The found family cast of Love in Translation and the Rainbow Rice Cakes in The New Employee.

23. Best Meta Trope call out

Tin Tem Jai

Come on, what a zinger, but at themselves (and Taiwan)

Final question: which of the 23 was the hardest for me to pick?

Honestly? Question #1 this year. But also question #20.

(Last year: 2022's Version)

Remember I only pull from shows that were completely finished by the end of 2023. Or The Sign probably would have taken multiple categories. But it will fall into 2024 offerings.

(source)

573 notes · View notes

leclsrc · 2 years

Text

has yet to pass ✴︎ cs55

centre image by tony belobrajdic

genre: exes to lovers, slow burn, fluff, humor, slight angst, yearning, some sexual tension

word count: 12.5k

Four years after an angry breakup, the universe is bored enough to nominate Carlos Sainz for GQ Sports’ Man of the Year and assign you to be the writer of his profile.

notes... internet translated spanish lol

auds here... requested, this fic is long! i hope you all like it apologies for the inactivity </3 exes to lovers we have a very love/hate relationship but this was a pleasure to write

You’re half sure your head is about to pop out from how annoyed you are.

At the office, mornings move slowly in the very corporate-desk-job kind of way, but today is notably slower. Your boss had called you in an hour earlier to discuss important matters, and this is your third hour waiting already. Either your boss is a dumbass, or you got the wrong email, which both essentially mean the same thing anyway.

The time on your Panthère tells you you’re curving into the three-and-a-half hour territory, and right as you’re about to get up to get a glass of water, the large wooden door swings open and your name is called through the crack in it. Suddenly the irritation dissipates into nerves, and because Jonathan didn’t specify anything in the email, you realize you could be wading into anything right now. Termination. Promotion. A brick to the head.

“Morning,” you offer once the door’s been shut behind you.

“Sorry for the wait,” he says politely. “We’ve been in discussions with GQ Sports all day. All night last night, too. It’s all proper boring.”

You nod, remaining fairly quiet and waiting for him to break the news to you. He clears his throat, places his hands on his hips and exhales.

“Right, so this is all related to GQ, actually. They’re doing a Men of Sports segment and they asked us to assign one of our writers to an athlete. You’re our best right now, really—your article turnout last year was absolutely stellar. So, there’s, ah… there’s tennis, yeah, there’s footie, obviously, and—under usual circumstances, you’d get to choose one of either. But we actually really wanted to cover racing this year.”

The cloud above your head carrying the dreams of interviewing Leo Messi or Roger Federer pops dismally.

“Racing.” You repeat curtly.

“It’s gotten proper viral this year!” He smiles, gestures to nothing to prove his point. “Every teenage girl’s got a crush or other on a driver. Anyway, we set you up with the racing category, and the segment comes out in around six months.”

“I’ve got a tiny bit of a qualm about th—”

“So it’s decided. GQ’s going to pick out the driver for you, and you’ll be introduced at a gala next week.”

“Wait—” you laugh uncomfortably. “I’m thankful for the opportunity, and wow, thank you for choosing me, really, but do I not get to pick my own driver?” You clear your throat. “I mean, I’m spinning the story.”

“I know,” he sighs. “But this deal moved pretty quick, so a majority of the leverage goes to them. Don’t worry, though—a lot of the drivers will have great stories, I’m sure. You’ve got Lewis, you’ve got the Verstappen guy, you’ve got the Rosberg fellow…”

“Rosberg retired in 2016.”

“Oh, fuck, seriously? Well. Hit me with a brick then.”

—

The gala is a fundraiser to celebrate the season kicking off, you realize when you step outside the car and read the navy blue banner across the entrance to the carpet. It’s all fancy fonts and table placements, but One look at the watches and earrings in this place will tell you there’s more than enough funds already. You digress, anyway, walking inside to find the only one person you’re familiar with in the world of racing.

“Lewis,” you mutter when you locate him, voice dry with dread (and lack of alcohol), “kill me now.”

“On the off chance you’re serious—I’m actually willing to do so.” You slap his arm and he scowls.

“I’m supposed to meet the driver I’m writing about tonight, but the GQ guy hasn’t texted me. Christ, I hope it’s you. At least I have years’ worth of blackmail on you to really sell the profile.”

He only laughs, guiding the both of you to a champagne tower and offering you one. You down it in seconds, suffocated by nerves and the curiosity blooming inside you. “You don’t think it’s…?”

“I think they keep track of those things,” he replies, but his voice is only half-sure. “Conflict of interest and that. But Jonathan did say it was a quick deal?” You nod. “So it’s not impossible, I suppose.”

Big help, you chirp sarcastically, eyes perusing the large room. There are tables populated by celebrities, by politicians, and of course, by drivers. You keep scanning, squinting to chisel your search further, but it’s cut off by a tap of two fingers on your shoulder.

“Hi. I’m Nick, the GQ rep, and I believe you and I have a meeting,” says the man behind you with an excited smile. “Why don’t we…?”

He gestures to the expanse of the room and you nod, falling into step beside him. He introduces the article, the concept of shadowing the athlete to achieve a more immersive piece of work as a result, something novel and innovative.

He’s right in the middle of talking about Jonathan when he stops at one of the cocktail tables and stations the two of you there. “Okay. You’re one of the biggest names in sports journalism right now, so it means a lot for you to want to represent racing. Especially because both Neymar Jr. and Nadal expressed bids to get you to write their segments!”

“They wh—”

“Right, here we are. Meet your shadow—or, subject—for the next six-ish months.” He places two hands atop your shoulders and wheels you around, so your eyes meet those of, “…Carlos Sainz Jr.!”

Yeah. This is fucking rich.

Nick is talking but none of it falls right on your ears. Everywhere in your mind, alarm bells ring at full volume, alerting you to the danger present, almost. You plaster on a fake smile to acknowledge his presence, but his outstretched hand goes unnoticed. Clearly picking up on the tension, Nick gives a sheepish giggle and ducks out of the exchange, leaving the two of you woefully alone.

“Carlos,” you say politely. “What a nice surprise.”

There is a limited amount of phrases that are considered acceptable to say to an estranged ex of four years. There’s oh, what a surprise!, didn’t expect to see you here, you look well. It’s limited because nobody ever thinks to run into their estranged ex of four years, and even then, any sane person would do well to avoid interaction at all costs. So you’re really the luckiest son of a bitch in the world to be situated with a stuffy public interaction, under the guise of professionalism, with your ex-boyfriend.

Your history is heavy in the air. The last time you saw each other, things had been a lot different, but now you’re two professionals. Really. You really are professional.

“I refuse to be within ten metres of the guy,” you say, on your third martini. Lewis faces you with poorly hidden concern, and beside him, roped into your lovelorn matters, so does Sebastian Vettel. “Ten metres. Actually, no. Make it twenty. How can I be arsed to write an all-over-him feature about a guy I absolutely hate and haven’t seen in four years?! I had it all sussed—get assigned to Lewis, write the best feature, then restore his eighth world title.”

“—She’s joking,” coughs Lewis.

“Oh, but now? Now, it’s get assigned to my ex, write like shit, never get recognized for a good piece, and die hungry and alone on the streets of London. You know, I should just call Jonathan and tell him I don’t want this. I’d rather go back to writing normal articles.” You pry your clutch open but a hand stops you before you can.

“Don’t.” Sebastian’s voice is gentle, but firm. “This is a test of character, don’t you think? More than that—it’s a test of how good you are as a writer.”

“True,” interjects Lewis, chewing on a quiche. “If you can write a stellar profile about an ex, I mean—you’re just proper talented. But it’s also about how strong you are now, morally. Emotionally.”

“I’m perfectly fine emotions-wise, thanks,” you retort. Both men shrug, backing off, and you feel like you should be smug about it—but your mind is stuck on the topic even as the night passes.

You end up deciding when you’re kicking your heels off in your flat a few hours later, giving Jonathan a ring despite the late hour. It takes a while for the man to pick up, but he does eventually, with an excited tone colouring his voice—“How’s my star writer? Sainz, huh? Real eye candy.”

“About that…” you start, walking over to your bookshelf and chewing your lip, trying to think of the right way to decline the offer. Your eyes land on one of the several awards you’ve garnered in your profession—in fact, the very first one. Most Promising Journalist, it reads, embedded into the front’s frosty surface.

Four years ago. And you’ve proven it since, if the crowd of glass around it is anything to go by. Why let a petty ex destroy what could potentially be one of your biggest gigs yet? Your segue outside of sports journalism?

“Earth to—yeah, hello? About what?” Jonathan’s voice breaks you out of your thought train.

“… I just, uh,” you say, nodding, “I wanted to say I’m really excited.”

—

Carlos Sainz Jr., 27, is on the rise as one of Formula One’s most talented drivers… (add more info…) His smooth driving style and charm has led him to become one of the most popular figures in the sport, both on and off the paddock. He is also a huge, absolutely irritating, cannot for the life of him be humble!!!, SON OF A BITCH, PRICK, ASSHOLE—AND THE BIGGEST WANKER ON PLANET EAR

“The team will be here in just a minute,” says the lady who’d ushered you into this meeting room in Maranello. You half-shut your laptop in fear she’ll catch sight of your brief Word document meltdown, but she doesn’t seem to notice, setting a glass of water beside you and you stare idly at it while waiting for the rest of the room to enter. You’re expecting Nick, Carlos, Mattia—the boss—and Charles, his teammate. Jonathan’s already beside you playing Candy Crush on his phone, as per boomer law.

This meeting is pointless. You’ve already exchanged the bare minimum pleasantries with Carlos, anyway, and you cannot for the life of you decipher why there needs to be a whole new corporate clash just for this. But here you are anyway, awaiting your ex-boyfriend’s arrival into the room and back into your sweet life.

He enters with everybody else, his hair half-damp and his eyes meeting yours almost immediately. You clear your throat and turn away, standing to shake hands with Mattia. He’s pleasant about it, expressing excitement for the final output and commending your earlier work as a writer. You offer the polite small talk back, discussing plans for the article and the release date.

“Over at GQ Sports, we’re really trying to make this concept as immersive as possible. That requires the writer to shadow the athlete at almost all times, maybe taking a couple days off if needed. That might mean she gets a paddock pass, and things like that.”

“That’s no problem,” Mattia says. “Anything for the article.”

You end up being introduced to Charles, too—Charles Leclerc, who wears a contagious smile and won’t stop letting his eyes frolic in between you and Carlos, like he can sense the history. You suspect Carlos brought him up to speed, anyway, but it’s still a bit amusing. While the meeting carries on, Charles chips in with a joke. “Hey, if you find this guy irritating, you and I are going to get along.”

You laugh a bit, but remain mostly quiet for the sake of being professional. You miss the way Carlos’ eyes linger on you a second too long, focusing on the tail-end of the meeting so you can, for lack of better word, get the fuck out of here.

Of course, though, you’re stopped in the middle of the parking lot by Carlos himself, whose apologetic face is the first thing you see when you turn around with a huff. You’d already known it was him—he was calling your name loudly as he jogged over to you—but it’s still a sour surprise.

“What?”

“Let’s”—he pauses to take a breath—“talk. Listen, I know it must be an imposition for you to write about this, about me. Let me make it clear that I’m 100% okay if you choose to switch athletes. And if you needed any background information, I’ll be willing to give you that.”

“I don’t care what you’re okay with,” you say blankly. “And I’ve got Google.”

“Right.” He stares. “Um. Okay, well, let’s—can we agree, then? To be civil, for the period of time this article will be written?”

You consider the truce. As much as you’d like to be snarky with him and make your disdain all the more clear, you’re also not interested in making a scene or causing any type of fuss around his—and your—colleagues. The glass awards on your shelf flash through your mind, and you inhale softly. “Okay.”

He smiles. This seems a bit more difficult than you thought, for reasons you didn’t even consider.

“Forget anything ever happened,” he says when your hands meet. Something jolts through you.

Yeah, you’re fucked.

—

Your introduction to the actual sports part of the profile goes well, with a flurry of chaos in Bahrain.

Despite Jonathan’s texted reminder from Friday morning (Stick to Sainz the whole time), you find yourself staying in your comfort zone, ergo following Lewis around nearly the entire weekend. Granted, you are itnroduced to a few more drivers—Mick, Esteban, Alex—but also Lando, one of Carlos’ closest friends on the paddock, who makes dirty jokes from the get go.

Still, even Lewis has to remind you you have another driver to actually cover, so you reluctantly detach from him on the race day and begin your search for—

“Carlos,” you utter, breathless from exhaustion when you finally locate him inside his room at the motorhome, which you swear you checked twenty minutes ago. Either he’s avoiding you or he’s truly impossible to find. He adjusts his suit and looks at you with an unreadable expression.

“Yes?”

“I need a couple of words from you.” You smile politely, taking a seat on the couch armrest. “Like, pre-race nerves, jitters, routine. Anything?”

“I have a playlist,” he says, humming. “I like to call family, have a talk with the engineers.” He says it like en-yi-neers, but you already anticipated it. You’ve known en-yi-neers for years. You know how he talks, pronounces everything. “And I say a prayer, trust the car.”

“Trust the car?” You type the last few words onto your laptop, which you’d been toting around all day. It balances on your lap. “Any follow-ups to that, considering there’s been some chatter around the car this year and its supposed faultiness?”

“I just do what I do best,” he replies, steadfast. “The rest is a gamble I’m willing to take.”

“Perfect.” You finish. “That was a great line. Thanks so much, really.” It’s your reporter voice, the one you use for just about everyone else on the paddock. He nods in response, and the room ebbs into silence again. It’s awkward, when you excuse yourself and exit, already planning exactly how you’re going to tell this to Lewis. Halfway out the door, you purse your lips, turn, and then:

“Good luck, by the way.” Your voice falls soft.

He looks up, momentarily surprised. “Thank you.”

You nod a little, smiling as you shut the door.

Carlos ends up getting second place—you’re beside a zealous Ferrari engineer when it happens, walking along the pit lane. Compared to your stoic smile, their reaction looks like the pinnacle of human emotion. Your turmoil is all inward, a melting pot of emotion for the driver. Would it be weird, you think, to feel proud? To feel happy? When things have ended?

Much later, when you’re wrestling for comfort in the throng of cheering Ferrari engineers, you squint to find Carlos on the podium.

You’re aware there are photographers everywhere, with high-def cameras that rival your natural eyesight, even, but still you tug your phone out and snap a few shitty zoomed-in pictures of him in second place, smiling and sprayed with champagne. You think of the profile, of the words you’ll use to capture this moment, the season kickoff. But most of all you think of the way his eyes seem to search for something specific in the mass of people, or the way you wished for them to meet yours.

—

Sainz, a self-proclaimed music lover, loads a pre-race playlist that changes every few locations. He names some of his favorite artists and songs as sources of motivation.

You climb into the passenger seat of his Golf when you finally find him, after a half hour of asking around everywhere. First, it was “in the motorhome,” then it was “in a meeting,” then it was “hanging out with Charles”—none of which ended up being true, anyway. He doesn’t question your presence (he hasn’t much, lately), just lets his eyes wander over to you briefly before you begin asking questions.

“Favorite song?” You get straight to it, stressed over the article. Jonathan has been on your ass about missing a deadline and causing the third world war in the process, or something or other. You sigh when you settle into the seat.

“Not even a hello or a buenas noches,” he says as he pulls out of the parking lot to drive the both of you to your hotel. “What’s this for?”

“You already know,” you say, humming as you sift through notes. “Listen. You did an interview before with Toro Rosso, right? Where you said your favorite artists were Muse, Kings of Leon, and The Killers. Right?”

“What the—you are a serious stalker.” He laughs out loud, eyes still on the road ahead.

“It’s kind of my job, Carlos,” you say, smiling and gritting your teeth. “Just answer.”

“Sí, sí. Yeah, I like that genre. I like rock, I guess… rock, indie, 80’s. You’d be surprised how little of an effect music has on my pre-race routine, though, even if I have a playlist.”

“Tell me more,” you muse. Your laziness to retrieve your laptop results in you scribbling soundbites onto your notebook instead.

“Music is an escape for me, you know? I like it a lot. So as long as something gets me going, I’m good with it. It doesn’t have to be by a favorite artist, or a famous one, or a Spanish one. Though I have been listening to Shakira a lot lately.” Obsessively listens to Shakira, you write. “It’s just release. Lately, I’ve been listening to the same few ones on loop.”

“Care to share?” Music = release. Same songs looped.

He presses something onto the centre console, and music flows throughout the car right after. “This.”

Baby I’m Yours by Arctic Monkeys, you write, and then, all at once, you slowly realize exactly what you’re writing. You stare at the scrawled-on words, the song bleeding into your ears and saturating your brain. You’ve always thought of this song with a weird feeling, one in between nostalgia and hurt, and now it’s on full blast. In Carlos’ Golf, no less, which happened to be the venue for many of your listening parties back then.

Back then—when nobody knew much of this song and it hadn’t yet become an indie anthem. It was just another cover by your favorite band in 2015. It became your song, the song for kitchen dances, the song for long car rides, the song for the red lights, the song for the morning routine.

But now it’s just a song.

“Carlos,” you say. It’s supposed to sound strict, firm, even a little angry. But you’re so affected, it leaves you quietly instead, weakly almost. “Come on.”

“Do you remember when you first showed me this song?” He responds instead, the volume still loud. You allow yourself to smile a little, leaning your head back and watching the cityscape of Bahrain whir past. In a foreign city, you think, you feel more at home than ever.

“Yeah,” you profess. “On my iPhone—what was it then? iPhone 5, or something.” You both laugh a little. The dam has broken, it seems, and topics of your past relationship seem to now be open to discussion. But it doesn’t feel alien, or weird, or uncomfortable. Carlos laughs, makes fun of your old lockscreen, and all is well.

A lot of memories have unwittingly attached themselves to this song. It’s the kind of song where, even in the opening notes, you’re already stunned with the myriad of them. There are the obvious ones: first finding the song, first dancing to it. But it trickles down into the smaller, more niche ones.

The time you got a busker in London to perform it for you both, and danced like idiots at ten-thirty in the evening, while some onlooking geriatric couple watched with mild entertainment. The time you got him a vinyl record of this EP, and left it in the cab before you were supposed to give it to him, leading to you crying on his sofa while he cuddled you and fed reassurance into your ear. The time he attempted to learn the chords to it and broke the string of your decorative guitar.

Like always, Carlos drives one-handed. He’s usually responsible, but if he’s cruising, or driving at a relatively slow pace, he likes to lean back and use his left. His right lays, unmanned, on the centre console of the Golf. You don’t notice it’s there until you finish writing a sample line on your notebook and you lower your left hand absentmindedly, brushing a finger against his in the process.

Your instinct is to jerk away, but Carlos is calm, humming to the song and reading road signs. So you let it rest there, in part to show yourself you’re capable of relaxing, but—and it feels like a heavy thing to admit—also because you like the feeling.

So your hands are there, just shy of each other, barely touching. His pointer finger twitches, almost like he’s trying to hold it back from inviting yours to wrap around it. You let yours brush over them a little bit, pulling away. Then he coughs, and lifts his hand to make a right turn, so you resume writing, eyes downcast.

—

You’d spent the Saudi weekend less with Lewis (in a bid to follow his advice) and socialized a bit more with Lando and Charles, who both proved to be pleasant company. They played table tennis with you and even shared a good chunk of grid gossip.

“Pierre and Yuki have soooo done it,” whispers Charles, scandalized, sipping a G&T from a decorative polka dot straw.

“Shut up!” You clap a hand over your mouth. “I mean, I had my suspicions. But really? They’ve shagged?”

“Oh.” He pauses dumbly, scratching his head. “I meant they’ve done marijuana.”

“Damn it, Charles,” bemoans Lando. “You’re a sodding buzzkill. We’ve all done weed, this is not news. The gay sex would’ve been.”

The afternoon progresses into night, and you seem to be on a roll with the sports component—Carlos gets to P3 in Saudi Arabia. You travel to his motorhome room after the debrief, where you hope he’ll be, and find him packing shit up inside.

“Good work out there,” you say, and when he looks up he finds himself meeting your eyes in the mirror. He fumbles with the zip of his suit and you walk a little closer.

He huffs out a polite thanks, tugging on the zipper harder. The cloth’s eaten it, a problem that’s been plaguing his race suits as of late—a problem, according to his engineer, easily solvable if he’d just be more patient with tugging it downward to loosen. A problem you’re familiar with as well, from his Toro Rosso days of ranting to you about zippers and sewing.

You lean against the wall and maintain safe distance. “I’m going to ask you about the race later.”

“Alright. What specifically?” He begins the mental Spanish-English translation in advance.

“Whatever you can give,” you reply, nonchalant. “Maybe more on the feeling while racing. The different perspectives of P3? Sort of like—yeah, you’re on the podium, but it’s not P1.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” he laughs a little, a bit embarrassed he hasn’t fully undone the zipper yet. “Um, sure. I’ll meet you outside afterward.”

“Thanks. And—” You stop yourself in your tracks, still facing him in the mirror. His eyes find yours again, eyebrows raised from the unfinished sentence. “—Be patient with the zip.”

He chuckles, memories surfacing like bubbling lava. “Right. Bueno.” He turns and throws his hands up, looks like he’s surrendering almost. “Help me out?”

You’re incredulous—it’s a highly compromising position.

But he’s not really smiling, and he seems to be seriously asking you to please help zip him up, so you nod. Nod once then twice, walking slowly over to him and placing two fingers on the zipper. You don’t notice how shaky your grip is until you see the way your hand trembles.

Slowly, you tug. Upward, then downward, then upward again, to loosen the stubborn thing. Your eyes move until they meet his, and you realize how close together you are. From here you can see the faint pink indents on his face from the balaclava, and you wonder almost how it’d feel to stroke over it with your thumb. It twitches on the zip and you remember to yank it again.

“Just give me a second,” you say, but you’re not even paying attention to the zipper.

Just him. Just the proximity. The thoughts of what if—what if you leaned closer, right now? Closed the gap, shut your eyes, let your finger trace over the shape left behind by his balaclava, zip forgotten?

“Take your time.” His voice is deep, gentle.

His eyes pierce yours, the tension growing in between you until you can barely breathe.

You pull and finally, it gives, unzipping the whole way. You blink, breaking eye contact and stepping backwards so fast you almost trip. “I’ll be outside.” The door is shut, the noise damning behind you as you finish an entire cup of water in what you genuinely think to be record time.

—

“Fine. Fifty euros.”

“Fifty?! Cheap trick. Make it two hundred.”

“If you’re in the hundred territory, might as well make it five hundred. Turn this into a serious thing.”

“Deal.” The Brit and the Monegasque clap their hands together in a firm handshake. “Let’s talk terms.”

Charles recites his end of the bet, as clearly as he did when this was first wagered just ten minutes ago. “She and Carlos will start dating before the article is even published.”

“They’re exes, innit?” Lando laughs. “You’re wrong, Charl-ito. They will never date, ever again. Exes don’t date.”

“Unless they’re soulmates,” he reasons.

“Psh, what do you know about soulmates?” The younger raises a condescending brow. “You dated a girl and then her best friend.”

“Back off,” insists Charles petulantly, watching Lando messily write down the evidence of their wager on a small slip of paper. For proof, he’d said, before slipping it into the back of his opaque phone case. He waves it around. “We shall see.”

“You will definitely be paying me up,” Charles says proudly. “Just you wait.”

—

“Care to listen to me?” You hoist yourself onto the stool of this hotel bar, ordering yourself a martini.

“Always,” says Lewis, immediately facing you. He’s always been one of the kindest, most genuine people in your life. He’s known you forever, and he’s the only person here who really knows the extent of your history with Carlos, all the layers, all the fights, all of it.

You sigh and lean against the backrest, deflated. “Carlos and I… I don’t know if this is going to work.”

“The article?”

“Being with him.” You pause to reword it. “Around him.”

“I see. Hasn’t it been, what—four years now, though?”

“Yeah, but…” But why does it feel like you both want those four years gone? The car ride with the song, the eye contact, zip situation after Saudi. You lick over your lips and sit a little straighter.

“Lew, it’s just—and you should know this—when you break up with someone, you’re forced to unlearn all the things you knew about them.” You sigh. “All the… just all of it. The habits, the quirks, the favorite words, the way they like their toast and eggs. And if you can’t, then fine, it’s still okay, because why would you ever need it again? But I haven’t forgotten anything, and now he’s back in my life.”

Lewis stares, with eyes that convey solemnity and a little sadness. He seems to understand, watching you intently, the way your eyes are glassy with unshed tears.

“So now I see him, and it feels like he’s like”—you inhale—“this sounds… bad, but like… I’m… like he’s a lover, kind of. In disguise, a little bit. I don’t know. Like, I have to pretend I know nothing about him, like every little fun fact is a new thing for the profile… but I know everything.” And what a heavy burden it is.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

“No, don’t be. I’m pretty sure this is all one-sided.” You take a long sip. “That’s the price to pay for ending on bad terms, I suppose.”

“Just think,” he muses out loud. “When this is all over and you’re accepting your Pulitzer, you won’t even be thinking of him one bit.”

“Right,” you say. Carlos, Carlos, Carlos. He’s the only thing on your mind. “Right.”

You find a working title for the article later. Carlos Sainz, it reads on your Word document. On racing, gracious defeat, and life’s driving forces.

—

Like every other sport, Formula One drivers have their share of bad competition days. Sainz recalls a time his car failed and caused him to DNF—racing vernacular for “Did Not Finish,” a damning phrase for any driver on the grid.

A double kill vibrates through Carlos.

It’s a consecutive hit that’s both professional and personal, and greatly affects the momentum of the profile you’re busy writing. In Australia he’d been reserved, eyes stormy, walking alone but not angry. He’d congratulated Charles and everything, even offered a few words for the article. The last you saw of him was with a beer, brows knitted together.

Tonight you’re in Imola. He’d been okay after the race, the usual silence that comes with a bad result.

No hard feelings, he’d said. This is the business. Hugged Danny, excused himself; nobody said anything. It’s a normal response to a shit day. You spend the post-race buzz with Lewis and Sebastian this time, but you manage to congratulate Lando on the podium finish when you catch sight of him.

“Maaate!” He cries gleefully when he sees you. “Where’s the muppet?”

“Mourning,” you drone. “Reasonably so, I guess.”

“Tough crowd,” he says, kissing his teeth. “But, yeah. Hey—shots on me!”

“Tempting offer.” You eye the bunch of tequila on the table. “But I think I’ll retire early. I need to send a draft pretty early tonight.”

“All good. Have fun being a loser,” he says, watching you leave.

The hotel, it turns out, is not nearly as fun as the party. Which is common sense.

You spend time writing and rewriting a few paragraphs of the article, stuck on the title of it and honestly wishing you were with Cuervo and vodka right now. You suppose you don’t need one just yet—they usually come to you late, anyways. Jonathan sends you three follow-up emails regarding a draft, so you send him the latest version and read over the file, reciting favorite lines under your breath.

In the middle of reading on the Bahrain P2 and a little segment on Sainz’s favorite Ferrari moments, somebody knocks on your door.

It’s a surprise—you don’t spend much time with people on the paddock, and only few of them know your room number, which leads you to narrow down the person on the other side to a select group. There’s Lewis, most likely of them all. Charles, who you’d grown much closer to as of late. Level with him is Lando. Then maybe, just maybe, Sebastian, to offer late night advice.

It could’ve been any of them, but it’s not. It’s somebody else.

“I’m sorry.” His voice threatens to break. “I didn’t know who else I could talk to.”

“Carlos?” You blink.

You usher him in after, and you hope his mind is anxious enough that it doesn’t pay much attention to your hideous pajama situation (old hoodie, souvenir L.A. pajama pants). You end up on your balcony, both of you facing the frigid nighttime air. It freezes your cheeks, casts your hair backwards. Your eyes slide to his stoic figure, the way even his hair is blown back by the wind.

He’s quiet, but more relaxed, less stiff. “Sorry, again.”

“S’okay.”

You duck back inside and return with two cigarettes and a lighter. “Wanna?”

“Awful habit.” But he accepts it anyway, sticking it in between his lips. It bobs as he speaks, still unlit. “I need this, though.”

“I don’t do it regularly,” you defend, pressing the flame to the cig. He exhales. “Some situations call for them.”

“This definitely does. Bit of a slap to the face, you know?” You nod. “I’m sorry.” The apology carries more weight than it should, and you know why.

Like it’s the most difficult thing in the world, you breathe a few times before you respond in a hushed tone. With your words comes a huff of smoke. “Don’t beat yourself up over it. You gave it your all, took a risk, it went to shit. But you gave it your all is what matters in the end. You put heart into it, which is something not everyone does in sports these days.”

“I feel… complimented.” You both laugh at the lack of good phrasing, so he rewords it. “I meant, I feel, how you say? Touched. It means a lot to be praised by you.”

“Does it?” Smoke again, another whiff of it.

“They only ever want to praise the podium finish, the P1, the title holder.” He lets the words fizzle. “But here you are praising a driver who finished like shit twice in a row. More people should be like you, paying thanks to the underdogs.”

It’s not the underdogs, you think. It’s just because of you.

“More like the shit drivers,” you say instead, in a low rumbling voice. He laughs, calls you stupid in Spanish, and it’s a dead issue.

Later, before he leaves, when the room’s much darker and less bathed in moonlight, you whisper goodbye to him through a small crack in the door. He smiles a bit, and you catch it even with the lack of lighting.

“Thank you.” He says. He means it. You catch his perfume when the door swings closed. It smells like wood.

—

Sainz has off-grid hobbies, one of the most notable of which is cooking. He claims to have a good hold over the kitchen, and cooks several of his favorite dishes on the rare weekend off. Blah blaaahhhh, cooks well. Usually wears funky apron. WRITE THIS PROFILE ALREADY STOP EATING PASTA YOU DIPSHIT

Lando had invited you all to an Airbnb owned by a friend in Umbria, a two-ish hour drive from Imola.

With two free days, you’d followed a small group of drivers—Carlos included—to soak in the rest of Tuscany. Charles and Lando, however, left as soon as you arrived, to check out the last few hours of the farmer’s market. Alex had met Lily at the Eurostar station and they’d gone biking together.

This effectively left you and Carlos alone, which was not an unusual occurrence, but still proved to be a bit tense. With the kitchen free and the fridge stocked, Carlos suggested he cook for you both. Despite your best efforts, you ended up at the island writing and taste testing sauce, chicken, anything he slid over to you on a saucer with a tiny fork beside it.

“You’re going to give me cholesterol problems,” you quip. “This pasta is too good.”

“Cacio e pepe.” He twirls some onto a fork, straight off the pan, and shoves it into his mouth, a low mmmm leaving him once he gets to chewing. You laugh, a stifled sound through the noodles in your mouth at the exaggerated show of delicious food.

“Any favourite food you think is notable enough for the profile?” You type again, backspacing your harsh reminder. Makes a mean cacio e pepe (look up translation later). “Like, food you cook yourself, or even other recipes.”

“This,” he says, pointing to the pan. “This is fuel.”

“Amen.” Loves cacio e pepe.

“And it’s good with chicken.” He points to the oven, where he’s been baking chicken for a bit now. The kitchen smells of it, of the rosemary and oregano and pepper. “Oh, and put that I cook with music on. Let me connect my phone.”

Cooks w/ music. “Why do you need to mention that?”

“Ladies love a chef,” he says simply, letting a familiar song thrum into the woody kitchen. “And I love ladies.”

“Okay, slag.”

“Fuck off!” He begins shimmying all across the kitchen island, cranking open the oven mid-dance to check on the chicken, then continuing to clean the counter. Still he dances, and not very well, either—he always claimed singing was a stronger suit of his, so you allow the fool to be a fool.

Back when you two were still together, Carlos already had a preference for 70’s disco in the kitchen, saying it brought out the dancer in him. Nothing seems to have changed in that department, and you smile with mild embarrassment and amusement watching him dance across the kitchen, using the kitchen towel as a prop and swinging it around.

Loves dancing to The Communards while baking rosemary chicken. “Let me taste the chicken, by the way,” you ask when you finish typing, hopping off the stool and walking to the oven. He continues dancing, hips cocking poorly from side to side to the old song. He retrieves a fork and cuts a piece of chicken, reviewing its doneness briefly before turning with a piece of it stabbed into the utensil.

“Open,” he says. “It’s hot.”

It’s too natural, the way he slowly feeds you the piece. You don’t even realize it until you’re chewing, and by then he’s back to dancing to the song that’s now reaching its end. “It, uh,” you stutter, a bit nervous, “it’s really good.”

“Of course, I cooked it,” he says smugly. You grab a lime from the fruit bowl and throw it, hitting him in the back of the head in retaliation. He turns slowly, still dancing, lips stretched into a challenging smile.

Lando and Charles walk in ten minutes later to Carlos and you, yelping and chasing each other around the wide counter, chicken left atop it and forgotten in favor of the tag game. Charles, toting bags of fruit, faces Lando with a victorious expression. Pay up, he mouths, cocky.

—

It’s much too hot in Miami, but you appreciate the heavy beach culture and the even heavier nightlife.

You work on the profile until your fingers hurt from typing, sending Jonathan another draft for approval. Charles joins you on a cocktail taste test at the open bar until your tongue tastes like gin and your head is a bit spinny. Both Ferrari drivers end up having a shitload of pictures of you sleeping on the leather couch, enough that Lewis ends up getting ahold of them, too.

It’s a 2-3, in the end, with P1 going to Max. The latter throws a party at some place along the beach strip, invites you in one of the only conversations you’ve ever shared with the guy so far. He seems a bit unfriendly, but when you walk into the exclusive club later that night, you find him doing a handstand in front of a beer keg, so that’s that.

FUCK YEAH! Max hollers, following it with a howl so happy it reverbrates in your ears. It’s crowded everywhere, and you’re pretty sure Lewis isn’t here, so you spend a few minutes roaming around, getting a good grip on the vibe of the place.

It’s Carlos who finds you in the middle of the dance floor, nursing yet another drink to aid your lack of social skills. His voice is rough in your ear and it smells like a Jägerbomb, a low laugh escaping it right after. “All alone?”

“Unfortunately,” you tease, turning to face him. “Man, I thought guys were confident in Florida.”

“Cuidado,” he warns, smiling. “This dress is pretty difficult to resist.” His tongue’s definitely been loosened by shots, his eyes half-lidded and looking you up and down. You laugh, raising one eyebrow at the sudden flirty tone, but welcoming it nonetheless, depositing your now empty glass on whatever cocktail table is nearest. Who said you were sober?

“Nobody’s inviting me, so why don’t you and I dance instead?”

He licks over his lips—he never seems to keep his tongue in his mouth—and winks, nodding.

And here in Miami, through the strobing purple lights of this ridiculously expensive club, you wrap your arms around his neck and dance to whatever Calvin Harris song is blaring through the bass.

His hands are all over you, loosening your stiff stature; they wring into the fabric of your obejctively too-short dress, raking it up a bit. You lean back and he leans forward, following you, drawn into you, your noses pressed together and your eyes meeting. Your breath heightens, holds, your fingers moving to his long hair and holding him close to you.

His hand moves over your ass, pulling you in. He smiles, pokes his tongue into his cheek, and you giggle, almost causing your lips to touch. Your mind is haywire from the alcohol, but you can’t really bring yourself to care. The warmth grows between you, closer and closer, the dynamic easy—

And then someone spills their drink on both your feet, causing you two to break apart and laugh off the tension instead. You’d almost fucking kissed. However you’re going to tell this to Lewis, you don’t even know.

And you’re not entirely sure, you think as you rinse whiskey and bile off the tip of your heel in the bathroom, how it sounds like to write Sainz and I almost made out in public on the GQ profile.

—

Nick emails you directly to ask if Carlos can do some test shoots in Miami for the profile cover.

You convince him to agree, even if he thinks he’s no good in front of a camera, and you two show up to a mostly empty warehouse studio. There’s a white backdrop situated toward the back and a tiny-sized crew of people working.

“Hi. Is this for GQ?” You ask the photographer. “Test shots?”

“Oh, hi.” He stands and shakes your hand. “I’m Luke. Big fan of your work, by the way. So the concept today is just plain shirt, long hair, gorgeous face, white background. Good?”

“Bueno,” Carlos says behind you with a smile.

You sit on a chair a few metres behind Luke while he works, watching the shots pop up on his screen every time the shutter clicks. As it turns out, Carlos is a brilliant liar, because every single shot—even one where he was fixing a wrinkle in his tee—looks perfectly usable anyway. Sainz is a natural stunner, you jot down.

It’s a bit awkward to admit you can’t help but stare, but his face is undeniably handsome, especially when he’s in front of the camera. Thankfully for you, and heavily owed to Carlos’ natural skill for modeling, the ordeal’s over in less than thirty minutes, and you begin preparing your stuff to leave.

“Oh, crap. I forgot I had to do a test bridal shoot for R&B’s wedding anniversary in September.” Luke sighs, clicking through the photos rapidly.

“R&B. The… music genre?” You ask, confused and toting your bag on your shoulder.

“Silly! Ryan and Blake. As in, Reynolds and Lively? They plan their photoshoots way in advance, and they always need sample poses to choose from.”

“Oh, I get it.” You smile. “Well, we’re sorry for keeping you.”

“You”—he stops both you and Carlos, pacing in front—“you two wouldn’t… mind, would you?”

“Mind… mind what, now?” Your eyes flit toward Carlos’ and you both laugh nervously.

“Being my mannequins for the bridal shoot!”

Both of you balk, making up all kinds of excuses, but as fate would have it, Luke is very convincing and you’re against the backdrop after five minutes of persuasion. He directs you into different silly, quirky poses—a piggyback ride both ways, smiling goofily, the like. Carlos can’t stop laughing every time the shutter clicks, at how silly the two of you must look.

Luke plays some music to get you both looser, and directs you into a few mocking dance poses. Then he directs you in a partners-in-crime pose, which you love the outcome of. Okay, last one, newlyweds, he says. Carlos, why don’t you get behind her and wrap your arms around her waist?

You clear your throat, letting him do so anyway, his hands big around your frame. “Careful,” you whisper when he’s right behind you. Luke raises an inquisitive brow behind the camera, watches your chemistry unfold through the viewfinder. Your breath hitches a little, but you swallow the nerves.

Look into his eyes, Luke says. So you do, meet them, force yourself not to look away for once and just stare. It’d been easy to do this, because you could just as easily break the stare, but now it’s different. Your eyes flutter, and his stay unblinking.

It’s like that for a minute, just staring, like all the things you want to say can communicate themselves through eye contact alone. Another twenty seconds pass before Luke coughs, breaking the moment.

“I said we were good like a minute ago, guys,” he says knowingly, packing up with a smirk.

—

Lewis advises you to avert your pent up “romantic” tension to another boy. It’s difficult, but you challenge yourself to find somebody anyway, maybe outside of racing, to use your extra paddock pass (courtesy of Mattia) on. The guys in your DMs are all skeevy, or you’ve unfortunately ghosted them, so they’re all out.

After some searching, you end up using your extra pass in Spain, and for James, a Sky Sports sound editor for streamed football games. He’s British and a huge Tottenham fan who you met during drinks with a few reporters the month prior. Not bad, but not necessarily your type; at this point, though, you’ll take anybody above the bare minimum. And James is above it—a gentleman, kind, funny in the quaint English way. He could be taller, but you find him charming enough.

Noise flows through the paddock, chatter and cheering and interviews. “This is so cool,” says James animatedly. “I feel like a regular Schumacher.”

You give a phony, flirty laugh and enter the Ferrari hospitality, raking your hair backwards. “I’m going to get something real quick, okay? Stay put…” You point at a lone chair. “Over there.”

“Alright,” he says with a smile. “I can’t roam arou—?”

“No!” You say, a tad too quickly. “I mean, sorry. Don’t. Just. I’ll be back really quickly.” Before you can even retrieve your phone charger from Carlos’ room, the owner himself walks into the area, squirting water into his mouth and furrowing his eyebrows together when he sees you standing beside a stranger.

“Hi,” Carlos says, a bit bluntly. His eyes are darting everywhere but at you, lingering a bit too distastefully on James’ timid figure. “You are?”

“Her date,” James says with a nervous laugh, pointing a thumb towards you. “James. Huge fan of you. Of the team.”

“Sure.” He offers a tight-lipped smile, hand meeting James’ outstretched one to form a polite handshake.

It’s awkward, is what it is—awkward and stuffy and Carlos won’t look at you. He clenches his jaw a little, smiles, looks up and down. “You, uh… how long have you guys been…?” He waves a finger in between the both of you, almost fearfully, like the answer will cast him into ashes.

“Not—not long, really.” James laughs again to relieve the tension that seeps across the room. “A month?”

“A month?” Carlos repeats, arms crossed.

“We haven’t even, like, had se—”

“That’s—” you cut in, sharp and apologetic, “wow, that’s plenty. Thanks, James. Could you get us some drinks? I’ll have a beer.”

“It’s one-thirty,” he says.

“Yeah,” you respond. “A beer.”

He leaves you both alone sheepishly, and you turn to face Carlos’ intense expression.

His arms are crossed and he rakes a hand through his hair—but he doesn’t say anything. Why should he, anyway, he thinks to himself, staring at you. You wore your hair in a ponytail today, so he sees more of your pretty face. Oh and so does James. Pendejo.

“Are you okay?” You ask, even if he knows you know what’s up.

“Totally. Muy bien.” He shrugs, drinking water again. “Should I not be?”

“Never said that,” you say, raising both eyebrows.

“Okay. Well enjoy the beer.”

So he’s jealous. Fine, sue him. He’s jealous of the British gangly guy you thought was good enough to invite onto the paddock. Barely even made a lasting impression. He gives a small, phony smile and walks back, meeting Charles along the way.

“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost, mate,” says the younger, slinging an arm over his shoulder. “Maybe the ghost of James?” He flicks the guy’s forehead, laughing.

P4, it ends up being. Not nearly good enough. But James is the first to say, “Congratulations, hombre!” in a God awful accent, so it becomes ten times worse, really.

—

“Alright guys, Carlos and I here today with some members of our team, and we’re going to play some fun trivia games.” Charles’ eyes read from the signboard behind the camera, his amusement wholly unscripted as he looks from you to Andrea and back to Carlos.

You honestly don’t know why you agreed to this. It might have been Lewis’ gentle persuasion or your boss’ overenthusiastic persistent voice, or the sleepiness that’s been wearing you down and boggling your mind lately, or—and it’s probably this—the fact that James ghosted you after Spain, because you “clearly have a thing with Sainz, and I don’t wanna be a homewrecker.” Whatever it is, you’re apparently a guest on the C² Challenge segment.

Today is a trivia game against Charles and Andrea, and you’ve all been given a general guide to what the questions entail—math, music, general knowledge, and one scripted Ferrari question at the end. The structure is fairly basic; each team member gets to answer one at a time, both contributing to overall points—and no coaching allowed, for some odd reason.

Charles is a little shit, so he’s made an off-camera bet: loser should treat winner to a round of shots at the next afterparty/get-together. And—who are you kidding, really—Carlos is also a little shit, so he’s game for the bet and has fired you both up to win, spouting Ferrari trivia in your ear should it come up.

“I got it,” you say snappily when he hasn’t stopped pestering you for five straight minutes. “I got it.”

“Oh, did you got it?” He asks sassily. “Okay. When did Ferra—”

“We’re starting in three,” says the cameraman in Spanish, Italian, then finally English.

He holds three fingers up and you hug your tiny dry erase board closer to your torso, readying your camera smile. The video—and the game—start off well enough, a quickfire competition developing between the two teams that infects you and Andrea quickly.

“Stay calm and collected,” Carlos proclaims, lips stretched into a proud smile. “Our team motto.” He elbows your side and you roll your eyes with a smile, teasing.

“I think it’s, ah, always—always cheat, mate,” Charles protests, pointing an accusatory finger.

“You are soooo—tch, I propose we kick Charles for poor sportsmanship,” retorts your teammate, laughing. The force of his laughter shakes the stool he sits on and you bite back a smile, remaining relatively quiet like you’ve been since the start of the video.

The remainder of the game passes with Carlos and Charles neck and neck, you and Andrea working overtime to make sure your teams don’t lose the bet. Eventually it boils down to one question, which Carlos is in charge of answering. Behind the camera, the producer raises a signboard and reads it out: We all know C². What is eight squared?

What a relief, you think. They’ve basically handed the win to you and Carlos on a silver platter. You wait, bumbling in your seat and raising an L sign toward Charles, who sticks his tongue out in response. Excitedly, you watch Carlos cheer for himself and finish writing, turning the board inch by inch until you all see the answer he has written on it.

Everyone stares. Then: “Team Charles wins!”

“Que?!” Carlos blinks, scandalized and a bit amused. He stares at the question then at his answer then, as if dreading the laser eyes, at you. Your eyes narrow, disappointed.

“Carlos. What is eight squared?”

“Eight squared. Eight, and you take another eight, and—it’s right here.” A tan finger points firmly at the number written messily, square in the middle of the whiteboard.

“Eres un tonto,” you quip, remembering bits of teasing you’d used on him years before. “Carlos, it’s 64. Eight times eight, not eight times two.”

“Ay, puta—” He shuts his eyes and laughs. “Lo siento! Sorry, sorry. Sorry! I cost us the win.”

Across you, Charles is coaxing a much more begrudged Andrea into a childish victory dance, pulling his arms up and down to convey the joy of winning. You sigh exasperatedly, but smile . For what it was worth, you had a great game anyway. The noise grows, and you watch the producers pack up, the cameraman parting from the camera for a moment to converse with one of them.

Left alone with you for a bit, Carlos lets his voice slip into a quieter one. “Sorry again. I forgot.”

“Forgot?” Your brows furrow, confused. “What?”

“That, you know”—he points at the lonely 16 on the whiteboard he holds—“it’s supposed to be 64.”

“Oh.” You laugh, a light sound. “Whaaat?! It’s not that deep, Carlos. Seriously, don’t worry about it. It was all fun.”

“Well, I’m glad you had fun,” he says softly, smiling.

“Yeah, me too,” you say, unable to hide your smile. You stay like that for a bit, something blooming in the pit of your stomach you can’t—and refuse to—name.

—

You get two days off, and Charles had suggested you all go to Paris before you go to Cannes, where the Ferrari team is apparently expected for a meeting before Monaco. You’re the one who’d said yes first, even if Carlos seemed to hesitate; he had asked why, to which you responded you’d never been before.

You’d read about it, watched about it, and like every other human on Earth, seen pictures of it. But you’d never been to Paris; work placed you mostly in London, sometimes South America, other times Italy. But Paris was never a destination. So Carlos allowed the greenlight and you flew, with Lando, Pierre, and Esteban tagging along for shits and giggles.

“I’ve waited my whole life for my Eiffel Tower moment,” you say, not even trying to hide your wonder. Carlos got the best room for himself, but invited you in, for the view. He doesn’t tell you he went through hell and back to get precisely this room, so you could peek inside and see the tower.

“Well, you’re here now.” He wedges the hotel balcony door open and walks toward the railing. You follow suit, arms crossed over your torso, eyes stuck on the view. “How is it?”

“It’s as beautiful as I imagined it to be,” you confess honestly, eyes still stuck on the tower, the way it stands alone and glittering against the black of night. Cliché as it is, you feel like you’ve checked one huge box off your bucket list, staring at the landmark like it’s going to evaporate into thin air.

Beside you, Carlos hums in agreement, but his gaze is stuck on something else. “I know.”

“Oh, do you?” You laugh. “Are you in the business of admiring beautiful things?” You tease, looking up at the stars.

Sensing his eyes on you, you slowly avert your gaze until your eyes meet. The light reflects in his eyes, and they meet yours blindingly, beautiful, luring you closer. The joking tone of your words is caught in your throat, desert dry, your lips parted to spout words you’ve now forgotten, lost track of.

Your silhouettes dance against the lights of the city below, two figures admiring the other. His eyes flicker down to your lips, linger there a second too long. You stumble closer, your foot touching his. “…Paris.” The words struggle to leave but they do, quietly, an admission of guilt. “It’s always reminded me of you.”

“Not Spain?” He asks, leveling your volume. You’re closer, so close you feel his breath fan soft against your own face. His voice is deep, accented so thickly, the way it is when he talks with you because he falls into a familiar rhythm of knowing you’ll decipher whatever he has to say.

You giggle, a low, breathy sound. A barely there shake of your head. “I… love it so much, is why. Always have.”

Had there been a pedestrian across the street who looked just a few floors upward, they would’ve found the both of you there, smiling foolishly, blanketed by the night sparkles of the Eiffel Tower and the rest of the city. They would’ve seen the way Carlos leaned in, his eyes on yours and then on your lips, the way you nodded in silent, warm invitation. Come closer, you seem to say. Don’t stray any further.

A lock of your hair touches his jaw, from how close you two are. So close. Everything smells like him, like the musky woody perfume he wears, the detergent he uses. All of that, and everything underneath. The scent of him. Just him.

You hold your breath when you both lean in, eyes fluttering shut and waiting, waiting for his lips to meet yours.

The door shakes with several knocks, Lando’s voice seeping from the other side of it. “Mate, we’re gonna be late for dinner!” He says boredly, letting his fist collide with it a few more times for good measure.

Instantly, you and Carlos separate, both of you clearing your throats, rushed flimsy excuses escaping your mouths at the same time. You’re warm all over, the excitement, the nerves, tapering off into nothing as you walk back inside the room, busying yourselves with anything. Oh, I need to check if Jonathan’s emailed me. Oh, let me go answer the door.

Lando is waiting, expectant, on the other side when Carlos pries the door open. “Mate! Dinner! I texted you like twenty minutes ago and y—oh.” He spots you sitting at one of the lounge chairs in the room, and immediately his brows raise. “Hey, dude. You’re here?”

“Yeah, to, uh—to get Carlos to OK some edits,” you say with a smile, hoping your nonchalance isn’t too shaky. “I needed to get a draft in by three hours ago, so.”

“Oh. Right, obviously.” His eyes narrow a little, but he doesn’t relax much, gaze suspicious and a bit beguiled. “Well, if you’re not busy, we’re having dinner?”

“I’m good,” you decline, a touch too quickly. “It’s getting late.”

“Alright, well it was a courtesy invite, you dipshit,” Lando teases, and everything feels a bit more normal. You just flip him off, and Carlos retrieves his coat, eyes still not meeting yours when you all exit at the same time. Lando makes up for the hole in the conversation, droning on and on about the restaurant they’re going to, and how good it seems to be.

The elevator ride is equally charged, and you spend it humming and interjecting Lando’s words to come across as unfazed, even if you’re so totally not. Once you’re alone you finally let big exhales leave you. You don’t know if it’s from the anxiety of almost being caught, or the anxiety from the kiss unfinished.

—

LOVE the latest draft, Nick & I both. Could we get a deeper angle? Something re: regrets? Would really tie it together! Best, J

“Huh. Do you have any regrets?” You ask, tearing your eyes away from the short email. Next to you, Carlos nods his head slowly. You’re on the beach in Cannes, taking time off before the meeting and people-watching. Charles had joined you for a good half hour before leaving to sleep in the hotel instead, leaving you two to bask in the now setting sun.

“Everyone does, no?” He stretches a bit. The topic is tense. “But yes, I have some specific ones.”

“Like?” You ask weakly.

“I was stupid when I was younger. More immature, more forgetful. You grow older and you think of all the things you could’ve done right, years too late. There’s a proverb I heard once that goes—camarón que se duerme se lo lleva la corriente. It means to—to stay alert. Don’t let things pass you by.”

“And do you think you followed that advice?”

His eyes meet yours. “Do you?”

—

It’s quiet when Carlos walks inside your flat, and already his heart begins to drain, filling with guilt.

He steps over the creaky floorboard, notices your car keys on the table, your jacket haphazardly slung over the rack, your Chanel bag half-open on the dinner table beside an empty wine glass and a sweaty bottle of Cheval Blanc. The bedroom door’s half-open, light bleeding into the dark rest-of-the-place, and when he gently pushes the door to get in, the sight he faces is crushing.

“…Estás bien?”

You face the window, your back to him, in a beautiful, beautiful black dress. Your hair had been up, but it’s unpinned now, falling in loose, messy waves. You hiccup, and then tense. Feigning nonchalance, you croak out, “Yeah, yeah.”

“I’m sorry,” he says honestly. “I didn’t know the thing was earlier.” His eyes hover to the glass award on the bed, one you’d hoped he would watch you receive tonight.

“I said I’m fine,” you say. “Just”—you sniffle—“it’s fine, Carlos, just get out.”

You’re standoffish, and cold, but Carlos knows you’re incredibly hurt. In an attempt to try and coerce a conversation, he stays. “Let’s have dinner tomorrow,” he suggests in a low voice. “On me. Right? To celebrate.”

“Leave me alone, Carlos.”

“I wanted to go,” he insists. “I had a meeting that ended late, and—”

“It doesn’t fucking matter,” you assert, turning. You’ve clearly been crying hard, your face flushed and shiny, a few rogue tears still on your chin. “Just go.”

“I know how much this mattered to you.”

“And yet you didn’t go.” You sniff, wiping fruitlessly at your face. “Carlos, just…” Your voice sounds thin, heartbroken, worn with pain and real tiredness.

“Cut me some slack.” Carlos argues softly.

“No, I just… I don’t even know how things got to this point, Carlos. We used to be so much happier. But now, it’s like I have to demand for your time like everyone else does. Now, I—I cook, I plan dinner, I put my own career on the back burner so I can spend more time with you even if I’ve gotten calls, promotions that you don’t even ever… ever ask about, just everything. I don’t think… I don’t feel you love me that way. Care for me, that way. You’ve never shown it, not lately especially.”

“You should’ve told me,” he says, hurt.

“This kind of thing, it…” you shake your head, wiping your clammy hands on the black silk. “It doesn’t need to be said.”

“Let me make it up to you.” He steps closer but you’re quicker, almost stumbling in your rush to avoid him.

“No,” you protest, “just go, Carlos, just go. Get out and close the door.”

“Cariño—”

“Go,” you say, voice hard with contempt. You refuse to meet his pleading eyes. “Go, Carlos.”

So he does.

He passes by, again, your handbag, with the sleek travel-sized bottle of Santal 33 you keep with you always peeking out, and the Cheval Blanc he’d bought you a few months prior, and the jacket you’d bought with his approval almost a year ago. He lingers in his car for a minute, the rain pelting the Golf noisily.

He drives off, wiping tears from his own face.

And maybe, had he stayed a little longer, he would’ve seen you tearfully emerge from the elevator, into the lobby, then out into the rain, still in your black dress, and let yourself get soaked waiting for him to come back, refusing to believe he’d even let himself leave you so broken.

—

You play Uno to pass the time, your last night in Cannes.

He’s won two games in a row at this point, and you’re almost 100% sure he has a plus four card in his hand, so you play a bit more deliberately, eyeing him with a challenging glint in your eyes. You’re a bit watered down by your earlier conversation, but you feign nonchalance anyway.

Blue 2. Blue 5. Green 5. Then finally, he slaps it onto the deck—a plus four card. “Oh, come on, Carlos,” you say, almost actually irritated.

“I’ll kiss it better,” he says. Suddenly overwhelmed, you push yourself off the counter and storm out.

He follows you, stumbling into the empty balcony and softly shutting the door, voice still colored with laughter. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know you’d be so upset about the—”

You barely hear the rest of his clearly half-hearted, humorous apology. It doesn’t matter to you.

What does matter is everything from the years past crashing on your shoulders like debris, like rain, finally giving under the weight of being so close to him again. Everything. The tangled fog of your relationship, the start, the middle, the terrible end neither of you wanted. You pulsed with want, with yearning, with sadness.

So you ask yourself why? Why? Why? Why couldn’t he have come back? More importantly—why did he let you go so easily?

The truth is, you’ve drowned yourself in work so long you’ve forgotten what it’s like to feel, to be felt. And if Carlos is doing this, all this, all the touching and the tension and the debris and the rain that crash on you like a bruising, torrential storm, for his own pleasure, like this is all a game, then you’ve yearned for nothing.

“This isn’t about the game, Carlos!” It heaves itself out of you in a half-sob, carried by the wind.

He stops—stops walking, stops smiling. Just stops and stares, brows knitted with concern. You refuse to look at him, staring instead at the skyline, arms crossed. The view blurs with tears, lights meshing together prettily.

He stutters your name out in a feeble response. It’s mortifying, the way you start to cry when it leaves his mouth.

You turn then, willing your lips to stop quivering. “Good for you,” you say shakily, “you can—you can fool around, kiss me like it’s nothing, pretend like we never even mattered so you can make jokes about how we’ve ended up here again, back, together.” You inhale, but it’s no use; you’re crying even as you speak. “And I’ll laugh, because it can be funny, you know, fuck it. But… I’m so—”

The wanting shows, in moments like this. Wanting love, wanting comfort, wanting warmth, an escape from work and stress and life. You know how it feels, to be loved. You’d been familiar with it, at some point. You want it again, the ache, the kiss, the pain of it all. More than that, you want him. For just a moment. But all this wanting is so exhausting.

You want this profile to be over. You want to pull him close and tell him how proud you are, but also how hurt you are. You want Spain. You miss Paris. Everything, everything, every memory, every single painful loving thing bursts inside you.

“—tired.” You nod your head, licking tears that have perched on your lip, smiling humorlessly, shrugging. “I’m—I’m tired, and lonely, and being around you makes it worse. Being around you hurts me. It hurts you. This profile was a bad idea, and I should’ve trashed this the moment I learned I’d be covering you. Because I knew then it would’ve turned to shit, and I was right.”

He stares, unmoving. He remembers, too. He’d tell you everything if the words clicked just right. But they never do; they tangle like cotton balls in his throat before he can kneel and name everything he remembers, everything he loved about the two of you. Cariño. Just be mine, tell me everything, tell me you love me.

You wipe a hand over your face. “Let’s just let this go already. You know, we really were good for a while. This… this is maybe just one of those things where we made it in another life, but not this one.”

At his returned silence, you nod, then walk quietly past him and back into the room.

It’s just as empty as you’d left it, dim and lit only by the warm light above the kitchen counter. Your forgotten Uno game lies on the same spot, beside the two empty wine glasses. You stare for a second. Life had been different when he’d lay down his cards just minutes ago.

A coat is tugged from in between couch cushions, your heels from by the door hastily pulled on. Every movement feels heavy, like sandbags are tied to your limbs, your tongue, your eyelids. You turn, one last time, to see the moment suspended in time—and you meet his eyes. Even across the room you feel like you’re drowning in them, dark and solemn.

“Wait,” he says, and even with just one syllable he’s managed to stop your world from turning again. “You’re right. Everything you said. When I’m around you, I hurt. I’m reminded of how awful I was then. It’s painful to be together.”

Eyes meet, eyes blink, eyes close.

“But you didn’t trash the feature. And I still enjoy your company. You could be covering Rafael Nadal or whoever right now. I could be in a jet to Japan. But you and I are here, are we not?”

Only you. It’s only you.

“I’ve missed you.” It rips through him. “I want to be here with you. I want to make the pain go away, so let me.”

“It’s useless,” you protest, tearily. “This won’t work. I’ll get mad, you’ll get fed up, I’ll get bored, you’ll put work before us.”

“Okay.” He paces toward you, nearer and nearer, closing the distance between you both. “I’ll make it work.”

“Carlos,” you weep, “I don’t know why you don’t get it. Life sucks. And all we get are little moments where things are… are good. So don’t waste the moments like this. Let’s not waste the moments on this.”

“You’re not a waste,” he says—and you crumple into his arms, worn, exhausted.

A knot in your heart is slowly unraveling itself. You’ve waited, yearned for so long, and finally you’re in his arms again, with the kind of quiet resolution only he would understand. You left the lights on for him. You’d do it again, but you don’t have to.

You bury your head in his chest, a chorus of apologies leaving him. I’m sorry, he says. I’m sorry, I love you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Everything.

I love you, you say weakly. I love you, that’s enough. I waited for this to leave, but all it did was hide. The love has yet to pass. It never will.

—

“Yours really is the best selling one!” Nick pulls you in for a hug. “We have Nadal and CR7 on the roster, but Sainz’s is selling like crazy. Your writing is just—” He kisses his fingers. “You are amazing.”

“You flatter me,” you reply gracefully, letting him pull you into another embrace but prying him off a bit faster. You don’t need another Jonathan-esque freakout in the middle of the room.

The GQ party, six months later, almost a mirror of the fundraiser just a few months ago. Only this time, you’re not tacked onto Lewis, and you’re not buzzing with nerves (as much). You had run into Lewis when you entered, and Charles too, and Lando when he spotted you, but none of them are your plus ones to this event.

Your profile is the talk of the journalism scene. Nobody can shut up about it, and it thrills you, excites you, to be witnessing your work be recognized beside Carlos himself. He brings you a glass of champagne and presses a kiss to your cheekbone, smiling against it.

Neither of you notice Lando and Charles behind you, watching like hawks. The elder cackles, presents his hand like a sacrifice and turns to the Brit. “Aha.What did I tell you, chat?”

“Five hundred euros,” moans Lando, slapping a bunch of bills onto it. “You’re an intuitive prick.”

“Those two are soulmates.” They stare at your foolish figures, smiling like idiots, high-fiving even. “The kind that’ll always, always find their way back to each other. Always.”

Lando shrugs. “Hey, honestly, for once, I’m glad I lost a bet.”

“I look great on the cover,” Carlos says, both of you staring at the screen’s display of it.

“Shut up,” you smile, interlocking your fingers. “Well, my writing looks great inside.”

“Really does,” he says. “I’m so, so proud of you, cariño.”

“Proud of me?” You tease, staring up at him. “You made the last minute title change that caused fans to go crazy.” You both turn to stare at it displayed on the screen, smiling fondly.

Carlos Sainz—on racing, gracious defeat, and refinding love.

#f1 #carlos sainz #carlos sainz drabble #carlos sainz smut #carlos sainz imagines #carlos sainz fanfic #f1 x reader #carlos sainz x reader

3K notes · View notes

vintagetimetarot · 6 months

Text

When will it happen? timing reading 🕰️

Hi everyone, I know I said I would upload a love reading next (it’s coming) but I felt really called to do a timing related reading, since I think I’m getting the hang of learning to interpret timing in tarot. This is a general reading, so only take what resonates. Some readings could be shorter or longer than others because this is very based on what just comes out to you. Make sure you ask a question related to the timing of something. Let’s get to it, pick a vintage item below for your reading.

Pile 1

So, in terms of the timing of your question, I feel like there are two different types of people in this pile. If you are asking about love or anything to do with a specific person, I feel like this thing you are asking about is going to happen between seasons changing. So I think this could be (at least from my northern hemisphere perspective) between the end of summer to the start of fall, so between 2-6 months. If you were asking a question about conflict, personal growth, or anything unrelated to what goes into the category of the first type of people, I see this thing happening when you have come to a certain realization of breakthrough. I see this happening a bit slower, probably 4-8 months. Because there is this energy of being very stuck for awhile, but eventually prevailing over time from catching a new perspective. This is your reading pile 1, I hope you got some clarity.

Pile 2

Ok, so in regards to your question, you could either be asking about an event that you may not be particularly looking forward to, or there is just an emotionally charged question. I do see this event you are asking about happening quickly regarding the context. I think if you are asking about something that takes typically longer, this could be about 5 weeks from now. If you are asking about something quite quick, I’m getting five days from now. I think your question may have to do with a certain situation of conflict for most of you, or something related to this has been bringing you a lot of genuine stress, anger, and/or anxiety. A message I’m getting is to not get too in your head about this, and remember you control your own destiny. YOU are taking the lead here. That’s all Pile 2, I hope this brought you clarity.

Pile 3

You got all major arcana cards, so pretty strong energy. You may be asking about something or big or something you are very passionate about. So, I think the answer to your question is that the timing of this really depends on your actions right now, they could slow down or speed up the timing of this. This question involves a lot of divine timing. I know it might be annoying to hear, but the pace of this really depends on you. If you continue with positive actions towards this event, I do not see this happening any later than 5 months from now. But again, there is this emphasis that this is really dependent on the work you are putting in so to speak. That’s it Pile 3, I hope this brought you some clarity.

Pile 4

I think based on the cards I pulled, this may be a bit of a longer timeframe from when you expect this event to happen. I do think whatever this is, there is definitely a positive outcome to this, if you are asking about something you want to happen, don’t worry, it will eventually happen but it’s going to take time. It is not found to happen overnight. This could be dependent on another person or other people, which is why this is taking so long. I feel like this may happen within a year, at the earliest I feel like this could be is 6 months from now. There’s an emphasis on waiting for the right opportunity and having patience. This is all pile 4, I hope this brought you clarity.

#tarot #tarot reading #pick a pile #pick a card #pac

261 notes · View notes

mylifesjustacarousel · 16 days

Text

bridget’s sister - part ll

pairing: james hook x fem!reader (requested!)

summary: part two of bridget’s sister!

type: fluff, then angst, then fluff

CW: bullying

WC: 3K

part 1 | part 3 | part 4 |(requests are open!)

“Oh my goodness, you guys kissed?” Bridget squealed, pulling you over to her bed to sit down. “How was it? Who kissed who? If he hurts you, I swear to-”

“B!” you interrupted her, “It was very nice, I kissed him, and we, uh, we actually have a date later tonight.” Bridget’s eyes widened as a smile blossomed on her face. She grabbed your hands, squeezing them tight. “I am so happy for you! What’re you guys doing? Is it, like, a date date?”

“We’re having a movie night in my room. But, I do need your help. I know neither of us have a lot of experience in the dating category, but I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing.” You got up, starting to pace the room. “I know what you’re going to say, that if he doesn’t like me for me then it’s not worth it. But, I don’t know how to do any of this dating stuff at all, and we’re technically not even together yet because he never really even asked me.”

Bridget got up, grabbing onto your shoulders. “First things first, stop talking. Secondly, I have been waiting to plan a date for you since the day you were born. Now, he seems like an action movie kind of person, but I suggest a comedy. Everyone likes comedy. Don’t be nervous, you’re going to have the best time.”

“I wish it was that easy to not be nervous, Bridg. He’s such a natural flirt, I cannot compete.” Bridget nodded, letting go of your shoulders. “Just do what feels comfortable. Put your head on his shoulder, get close to him. But, just remember, you don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to do.”

Bridget went over to her tray of freshly baked cookies, putting a few into a plastic bag and handing them off to you. “You’re going to have a great time tonight. Now, take these and go get ready. I’ll see you tomorrow, buttercup.”

“If this doesn’t go well I’m throwing myself into the Enchanted Lake.”

“Goodnight, buttercup.” Bridget gently pushed you out of the room, shutting the door behind you. You groaned, taking a deep breath before making your way to your room.

You finished lighting the last candle before setting your matchbox down and looking around the room. It was perfect, thanks to a little help from Bridget. You had candles, comfy blankets, freshly baked cookies. Perfect for a date. You smoothed out your outfit, a simple Merlin Academy hoodie and sweatpants, and waited anxiously. Your palms felt like the ocean was living on them.

When there was a knock at the door, you took a deep breath. Okay, this is it. You opened the door. “Hey, James. I, uh, just finish setting up. Come in!” Hook walked in, taking a glance around the room. But you were looking at him. He was wearing a red hoodie, he clearly had a favorite color, and pajama pants. His hair was messy and he looked absolutely gorgeous. He noticed you staring and went over to you, his arms snaking around your waist. “I know I’m incredibly handsome, but you don’t have to keep staring.” he teased.

“I was doing nothing of the sort.” You shrugged, trying to pretend like your face wasn’t beet red. Hook smirked, leaning down and pressing a kiss to your lips. Your arms wrapped around his neck, absolutely just melting into his touch. He pulled away after a few seconds. “It looks nice in here. Did you pick out a movie?”

“Oh! Um, give me one second!” You pulled away from him, going over to your shelf where your TV sat. You picked up the movie case, showing it to him. “It’s a comedy, I heard good things about it. But, if you wanna watch something else, we can look for another movie! I really don’t mind!”

“Easy there, lass. It’s perfect. Pop it in and come join me.” Hook slipped his boots off before sitting down on your bed, making himself comfortable. After putting the movie in and pressing play, you crawled onto your bed, sitting down next to him. He wrapped his arm around you. “There we go, darling. Nice and comfy.”

You scooted closer to him, hesitating before leaning your head against his shoulder. “Is this okay? I have no clue what I’m doing.” you mumbled, looking up at him. Hook broke out into giggles. “Darling, it’s okay! You’re getting yourself worked up. Here, come here.” He snaked his other arm under your legs, moving you so you were sat in his lap. You laid your head on his chest, your nerves calming as you listened to his heartbeat. You didn’t think someone so cruel could be so sweet.

As the movie went on, the two of you got more and more comfortable with each other. In fact, you weren’t really paying attention to the movie much at all. You were more so paying attention to him; his perfect smile, the way his fingers toyed with the hem of your sweatshirt, his infectious laugh. Hook looked down at you, a grin breaking out on his face. “Do I have something on my face? You’re staring an awful lot.”

“Just… enjoying the view.” you replied. “I’m sorry for doubting you, by the way. There is more to you under that hard exterior. In fact, I think you might be a little bit of a softie.” Hook cupped your cheek, his face mere centimeters away from yours. “That’s for you, and for you only.”

“I thought we were watching a movie, pirate boy.”

“Movie schmovie.” He closed the gap between the two of you, his hand cradling your face like you were a priceless art piece he was terrified of breaking. You welcomed his embrace, his lips moving against yours with such tenderness. It felt like butterflies were erupting in your stomach and like your cheeks were on fire. Hook pulled his lips away after what seemed like hours, but was only minutes in reality. Though, you kind of wished for the former.

With every second the two of you spent together, you felt yourself getting more and more comfortable with him. It was hard for you to let your walls down around others, but he just made it so easy. Surprisingly. It was still shocking that the arrogant pirate who threatened to make everyone who looked at him wrong walk the plank, could be so caring towards someone.

As the movie reached it’s end, the two of you got up to say your goodbyes. There was still a curfew, after all. Hook wrapped his arms around you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah? Don’t miss my beautifulness too much.” he teased, earning a shove from you. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow, James.”

He blew you a final kiss before making his way out of your room, shutting the door behind himself. Once the door was shut you started jumping up and down, squealing to yourself. You couldn’t even help it, he was such a charmer.

The next day quickly approached and you were sat in the courtyard with Bridget and Ella. They were talking about their classes for the day while you were sat beside Ella, doodling in your notebook. Ella noticed and glanced over. “James Hook. James plus y/n. James Hook with a heart.” Ella read off what you were writing and you quickly scooted away, hiding your notebook against your chest. “I assume things are going well?” Bridget asked. “Has he asked you out yet?”

You blushed, realizing that he hadn’t even really asked you out yet. “Well, no. But, we’re hanging out tomorrow night, so maybe he’ll do it then.” Ella raised a brow. “Maybe? If he doesn’t do it soon, then maybe you need to ask him. Do the rest of the VK’s y’know… know?”

“Um, I’m not really sure.” you mumbled. You know that the rest of the VKs would be absolutely furious to hear about you and Hook. The princesses of Wonderland are the types of people that the VKs despise, even if they don’t have an exact reason for it. “I don’t really want to be a secret, but I can’t say that I want anything to do with Uliana either.”

The bell started to ring and you got up, shoving your notebook into your bag. “I have Beginners Enchanting, I’ve gotta get going. I’ll be by later, B.” Bridget got up, pulling you into a hug. “We’ll see you. Let us know if he asks you!” You rolled your eyes playfully. “Alright, mom. I’ll see you later.”

You put your bag over your shoulder and walked off, making your way to your next class. On the way there, unbeknownst to you, you had walked right by the VKs. Hook grinned as he saw you walk past, his eyes filled with adoration. Uliana quickly noticed, shooting him an evil glare. “I don’t know what you see in her, Hook. Just look at her, such a prissy pink princess. What’s your plan?”

“You’d feel differently if you got to know her.” he replied. “She’s different. I really like her.” Uliana scoffed, rolling her eyes. “You say that about every girl you can get your hands on. Come on, let me have a little fun with her, it wouldn’t hurt.” Hook immediately shook his head. “Nope. Absolutely not, she is off limits.”

Uliana had a shocked look on her face, like someone told her that her pet eel had died. “Off limits? Listen here, pirate wannabe. You don’t get to tell me who is off limits. You know what? Maybe I’ll pay her a little visit later, say congrats on the boyfriend. Or are you just gonna string her along like you do the rest?”

“It’s not like that, Uli. I am going to ask her out, not that it’s any of your business. Leave her alone, I’m serious. C’mon, Morgie, let’s go.” Hook gestured for the boy to follow him and he happily agreed, trailing behind the pirate. Uliana turned to Maleficent and Hades, a sinister smirk on her face. “Be a dear, Mali, and distract him tonight? I have some business to take care of.”

You were on your way back from your final class of the day when you were stopped in your tracks as you were passing through the courtyard. Uliana was stood in front of you, that same sinister smirk on her face. “Hey, girl! Funny seeing you here! What’re the chances?” she said, walking towards you. You took a step back, feeling uneasy. “Oh, what? You think I’m gonna hurt you? No, no. I just wanted to say congrats, No one ever thought you would get a boyfriend, especially someone like Hook. Don’t worry, you can trust me.”

“I trust you as far as I can throw you, Uliana.” you mumbled, taking another step back. She sneered, getting in your face. “Don’t be so shy, princess. But, don’t get too comfortable, you know how he is with girls.” Uliana took on a caring tone, but you could tell she didn’t care for you one bit. “He tells them that he cares, uses them for whatever he wants, and then goes on to the next one. But, y’know… boys, right? So, my advice to you?” She got closer to you, the backs of your legs hitting the fountain. “Stay away from Hook, or you’re going to regret it. He doesn’t like girls like you. No, he likes them a little more… like me.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, squid face.” You felt a rush of confidence go through you. She scared you, but not that much. “Feeling jealous, Uli? I know how you get when all of his attention isn’t on you for once.” She scowled, her hands reaching up to grip your shoulders. “You stay away from him, or it’s gonna really suck for the both of you.”

Her hands gripped your shoulders tighter as she pushed you right back into the fountain, the cold water enveloping you. You flailed around before your hands found the bottom of the fountain, pushing yourself up. Huffing, you looked around for Uliana. She was nowhere to be found.

This isn’t gonna be good, you thought.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Your alarm clock went off and you reached over, hitting the top of it to turn it off. You were already awake, in fact, you had never gone to sleep. Uliana’s words rung through your head the entire night, rendering you sleepless. She didn’t scare you, or at least you thought that she didn’t. After you had to walk the rest of the way home in soaking wet clothes, it made you realize that maybe she wasn’t messing around. There’s no way that Hook would let her actually do anything to you… right?

You got up to get ready for the day, feeling a sense of dread. For once, you weren’t excited to go to class, or to see James. Not because of him, but because of Uliana. She ruined everything. She had you doubting the person who worked so hard to gain your trust.

Grabbing your backpack, you made your way out of your room, praying that you didn’t happen to run into Hook. “Hey, Buttercup.” A voice called out, almost making you jump ten feet into the air. You turned around, seeing Bridget standing there.

“She knows, B.” you mumbled, feeling yourself slowly slip into a state of panic. Bridget instantly realized and wrapped an arm around you, bringing you into her room. “How did she find out?” she asked. You threw your bag to the floor, your chest heaving up and down. “I don’t know! B-But she found me last night when I was coming home and, um, she pushed me into the fountain and she told me to stay away from him. That he was just using me!”

Bridget frowned. “Okay, okay. Big breaths for me.” She held onto you, taking deep breaths with you as she tried to calm you down. You took shaky breaths, tears threatening to spill. “I don’t know what to do, Bridget..” She say you down, pulling you close so that your head was on her chest. “Don’t let Uli get to you. She’s mean, and she wants you to feel this way. Don’t give her the satisfaction. I think you should talk to James.”

“I don’t want her to hurt him, I don’t want to lose him.” you whispered, desperation in your voice. She rubbed your arm. “You won’t lose him. Please go talk to him, buttercup. I’ll even go with you, if you’d like.”

You sighed, curling up in her arms. “I’ve got this. This is, uh, this is my fight. Unfortunately.” Bridget just nodded, holding you until you felt ready to go. After a few minutes you got up, silently grabbing your bag off of the floor. “Are you sure you wanna go to class today? I’ll let you stay here, I’ll even tell your professors that you’re sick.”

“I’m okay. Thank you, B. I love you.” You blew her a kiss before leaving her room, shutting the door behind yourself.

Hook spotted you making your way to your first class of the day and made his way over to you. “Hey, darling!” He wrapped his arms around your waist, twirling you around. You leaned into his touch, a pained look on your face. “Hi, James…”

He frowned, his brows furrowing as he tried to read your expression. “What’s wrong?”

“I, um…” you gulped, trying to build up the courage to say what you were about to say. “I don’t think we should see each other anymore, James.” His face dropped. If it weren’t so noisy with other students passing by, you could probably hear the sound of his heart shattering. “I’m sorry, what?”

You frantically looked around, making sure none of the other VKs were around. “I’m sorry. I really like you, but I can’t risk losing you completely. Ul- She knows. She knows about us, and she’s not happy.”

“What did she tell you, y/n? Whatever she said, it’s not true.” He cupped your cheek. “What’s not true? She told me all about how you are with girls. Boys, right?” you grumbled, avoiding his gaze. He huffed, feeling anger bubbling in his chest. “Darling… Yes, that is true. But, I don’t want that with you.” He hooked your chin, forcing you to look up at him. “I’ve done some things that I’m not particularly the proudest of, but being with you isn’t one of them. Whatever Uli said doesn’t matter, because I’m telling you right now that I really like you. I do, and I want this to be more than just a fling.”

“But, Uliana…”

“I don’t care!” he exclaimed, “I don’t care about how she feels about us. I care about how you feel about us, though. If this isn’t something you want, then that’s fine. But, I’m not going to stop fighting for us.” There was a beat of silence before you pulled him close, kissing him passionately. He held your waist, his hand playing with the fabric of your shirt.

You pulled away, giggling to yourself when you saw your lipstick smeared on his lips. You took your thumb, gently wiping it off. He took your hand in his, bringing your knuckles to his lips and giving them a gentle kiss. “I will do whatever it takes to make sure you never have to worry about Uli again. I, uh, was going to ask you this when I saw you tonight, but I just need to ask you right now.” He let go of your hand, his arms wrapping around you once more.

“Will you be my girlfriend, darling?”

You pressed a kiss to his cheek, leaving a little mark. “It would be silly of me to say no. Yes, of course I will.”

“YOU!”

a/n: teehee i know i’m evil. part 3?

taglist: @skellseerwriting @sleepyking @ljaylmaoo @lesbpotmurdocklokistan @yokolesbianism @eretsupremacy89 @descendantsramblings

#_emily’s writing_#descendants #descendants the rise of red #the rise of red #descendants x reader #descendants the rise of red x reader #the rise of red x reader #james hook #james hook x reader #young hook #young hook x reader #young james hook #young james hook x reader

105 notes · View notes

vanillanaps · 1 year

Text

Still Get Jealous | Steve Rogers

Request - Hello, I think you are a master writer and I have a drabble of blurb request only if you’re up for it though. Could you write a jealously trope for steve using the song red high heels? :> If it doesn’t inspire anything, that is okay. Thank you!

A/n - I must’ve forgotten how to write drabbles/blurb cause babyyy I got carried again lmaoo. But, unfortunately anon I didn’t find inspiration with the song you requested I still wanted give you jealousy and red high heels, hope it still fulfills you!!

Category - Steve Rogers x Reader, Angst

Warnings - Steve is a jealous asshole with a reckless mouth, reader drinks to ignore the pain

Word Count - 1.3k

♡♡♡♡

It had been approximately two weeks since Steven Grant Rogers left you alone in your apartment after he had broken up with you. In just a little over a month, it would’ve been your year anniversary with Steve. You were both happy and getting ready to take things to the next level, so it was beyond shocking when he sat you down to explain that he ‘just couldn’t do it anymore’ but you were smart enough to spot the bullshit.

Regardless, you cried. You were falling in love, hard and fast just for him to up and leave you out of the blue. But, as the second week of sulking had taken its time slowly ending, something in you snapped. You realized that you shouldn’t be home, crying and depressed about a man who clearly couldn’t give a rats ass about you.

Wiping your tears, you sat up as you searched for your phone in your tangled sheets and blanket. Once you found it, you quickly dialed the number of your favorite girl who could easily take you out of your slump, “Wanda?”

“Hey, Y/n. I’m so glad you called, you haven’t been responding to my text, I was worried.” She had answered the phone with concern in her voice.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry. I just,” You paused, sighing as you threw your covers off of yourself, jumping out of bed, “I’m just sick of crying over Steve you know? I want to go out, I want to have fun, I want to get back to who I was before him—and I wanna do it tonight.”

“Tonight? Y/n, are you sure you’re ready?” Wanda questioned. She was fully supportive of getting you out of the house, but she just wanted you to be sure.

“Yes, tonight. Be ready in an hour.” You told her, hanging up before she could respond, knowing she would try to mother you. Get your real feelings out as to why you were so suddenly ready to go out. But that’s not what you wanted. Even if it was for one night, you just wanted Steve off your mind.

♡♡♡♡

The music blasted loudly in the speakers surrounding the club, the atmosphere through the roof. As you took it all in, you could slowly feel the man slipping from your mind, “Let’s get a drink!” You shouted to Wanda. The two of you held hands as you shuffled to the bar, careful not to lose each other in the club, “Tequila shots please!”

“How many?”

“Just keep them coming!” You shouted to the bartender. He nodded, pouring up the shots and passing them over onto the counter.

“Are you sure, Y/n?!” Wanda asked, picking up her shot as you grabbed yours.

You nodded, “I just need one night not thinking about that—idiot!”

She nodded before holding up her glass to cheer with you, “To forgetting about that idiot!” You both laughed before clicking your glasses and taking the shots.

As promised, the bartender kept the shots coming after each time you both finished one. You felt there was no better way than drowning your sorrows than letting the liquor run through your body, mellowing you out and then letting you forget about the world surrounding you.

But no alcohol in the world could help him forget. Not as he stood in the back corner of the club, watching as you and Wanda take shots back to back. At first, it didn’t bother him. You were out with your friend, having a good time. His ears didn’t turn red from anger until he saw what you were wearing. You had his favorite number on.

A black, skimpy, body con dress that squeezes you in all the right ways, showing off your attributes that he loved. Barely covering your ass so if you were to bend over, the entire club could see all of you. You had your hair in his favorite style and not to mention that red gloss that was painted across those lips that felt like heaven to him. But that wasn’t the worst of it.

Steve made his way closer to you, not close enough to be seen but close enough for his eyes to trail those legs that used to be wrapped around him 24/7. Catching those red, sexy, strappy, five inch stilettos that he bought you. The ones he use to fuck you endlessly in. How could he be such a fucking idiot.

“Wanda, I wanna danceeee!” You slurred, all of those shots starting to take control of your mind and body. You felt good, you felt great.

“Come on!” Taking her last shot, she grabbed your hands quickly pulling you to the dance floor.

You weren’t sure when it happened or how it happened, but at one moment, you were dancing with your best friend, having the time of your life. The next, your ass was pushed up against some man’s crotch as you grinded on him. His hands trailing to any part of your body he could reach. You didn’t mind though, you deserved this. You especially didn’t mind when he nuzzled his face into your neck, pressing soft kisses into your shoulder and neck. For the moment, you were enjoying it and then—you weren’t.

“The fucks your problem dude?!” The random man yelled when you were snatched from his hold.

Your body ran cold when you pulled yourself together, just long enough to see who ruined your dance, “Steve?! What are you doing?!” He ignored you as he grabbed your hand and dragged you through the club and to the exit, “Stop it! Let me go!” He didn’t stop until he got you outside of the club, “What’s your issue?!”

“Two weeks huh? That’s all it took for you to be in the club? Dressed like a hooker and dancing like a slut?” Steve shouted. Immediately he regretted it when he saw the look on your face, but there was nothing he could do to take it back now.

You scoffed, shaking your head, “You’re a real piece of shit, you know that Steve? You broke up with ME for no reason! I cried for two weeks straight because of you! But now, since I’m in the club, with a hooker outfit that YOU bought me, by the way, I’m a slut?!”

Steve's blood was running hot and he was running of anger and jealousy, “You’re drunk, Y/n.”

“I’m not drunk!” You shouted, right before stumbling over your feet, “I’m not that drunk! I’m sober enough to realize that I was doing and to tell you to leave me the fuck alone! I’m not going to spend the rest of my life crying over you when you don't want me! And that stunt you just pulled? Let alone calling me a hooker and a slut all in the same breath? I’m glad we broke up!” You felt it, you felt the tears starting to bubble underneath your eyes, but you didn’t let them fall, “Just leave me alone! I just want to be the person I was before you ruined me, you asshole!”

“Y/n, I’m sorry.” He called out as you started to back away from him, “I broke up with you because I was scared! Everything between us was moving fast and—and I didn’t know what to do so I left!”

“I don’t care, Steve! I don’t care! It’s too late!” You shook your head, not wanting to hear any more excuses. Not wanting him to ruin your night anymore than he already had, “Go find someone else to be scared to fall in love with.”

Just then, Wanda came running out of the club, relieved to see you standing there, “Oh my god, I’ve been looking for you! I was worried.” She breathed, but halted in her tracks when she saw Steve a couple feet away, “Steve? What are you doing here?”

“Leaving, he’s leaving.” You responded for him, turning your back to him and facing Wanda, “Let’s go back inside, I need another drink.”

She nodded, wrapping her arm with yours as the two of you headed back inside without so much as a glance back at the man who realized he truly lost everything.

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x y/n #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x f!reader #steve rogers x fem!reader #steve rogers angst #steve rogers fic #steve rogers one shot #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers au #captain america x reader #captain america x you #marvel fanfiction #marvel fic

674 notes · View notes

trashmouth-richie · 1 year

Text

eddie x fem! reader

masterlist

w/c 7.8k

summary: things heat up in more ways than one for the roommates, thanksgiving makes everyone thankful.

warnings: NO MINORS, language, fighting, mentions of child neglect, mentions of murder

a/n: thank you to my beta readers: @jo-harrington @sweetsweetjellybean pls check out their work they are both so amazingly talented 🩵 thank you to @blueywrites for screaming with me on certain parts of this story + @fracturedarkness for helping me plan future parts for this series.

again— I’m no longer doing a tag list for this series— this week as really opened my eyes to a bunch of shit in this world and I’m fucking pissed off about it.

“Do you think it’s enough food? Last year Mike ate all the mashed potatoes so I’m just hoping there is enough for everyone.”

The holidays were always a stressful time for most people, housewives stressing over meal planning, guest lists and matching outfits for their Christmas cards—ones that coordinated well and hid the fact that they were miserable with their lazy, limp dick husbands. Poor Nancy fell into that category all too well.

She’s walking circles around her dining room table, counting the dishes on her fingers. Ham, turkey, cheesy potatoes, mashed potatoes, sweet potato casserole, corn, green bean casserole, a relish tray, strawberry fluff, gravy, two pumpkin pies, two pecan pies, a jello mold, two dozen caramel Rice Krispie bars, a pan of iced banana bars, and one can of jellied cranberry sauce on a crystal plate.

When Nancy asked you to join the Wheeler/Byers/Hopper’s gang for thanksgiving this year, you quickly accepted the invitation, asking if there was anything you could bring. She requested you bring the dessert. So the night before Thanksgiving, you started the tedious task of keeping Eddie from eating all the icing and caramel.

“Eddie! Have you seen the caramels I just bought? They were on the counter next to the flour canister.”

“Nope! Haven’t theen ‘em,” he answers all too quickly, “you thur you bought ‘em?”

“Yes I’m su—,”

Goddamn him.

Walking into the living room you approach the metal head, splayed out on the couch, fingers shoved in his mouth picking at his teeth, “oh Eddie?”

“Mhmm?” He hums, innocently, looking at you with big doe eyes.

“You wouldn’t happen to have caramel stuck in your teeth, the same caramel I bought and said, ‘please don’t eat these they’re for the Rice Krispie bars,’ would you?”

Rose colors his cheeks, “what? Me? Not listening? Ok O’Donnell,” he says with a scoff.

“Eddie,” you say sternly, hip thrown out and arms crossed over your chest.

“Ok! Fine! They were just so fucking good! But I’m dying right now— my teeth feel practically glued together— do we have any floss?!”

“Nance, I think there is more than enough here, you and Jonathan will have leftovers for weeks, months possibly.”

Fretting, Nancy wipes her fidgeting hands on her apron, “I just want it to be perfect— you know how I am.”

Type A, that’s how she was.

“It’ll be perfect, Nancy,” Jonathan agrees, coming up behind her and holding her around her small waist, “just like you.”

Scarlet heat accentuates her rouged cheeks. “Ok ok, no kissing the cook just yet,” she says, peeling herself from Jonathan’s arms, “can you and Argyle set the card table up in the basement?”

The turkey almost melted like butter on your tongue, the gravy was rich and savory. Karen’s cheesy potatoes were creamy and the crunchy cornflakes on top were to die for; the entire meal was delicious. The labor of Nancy’s love for her family and friends showing through her craftsmanship of amazing cuisine. You hadn’t seen Karen or Ted since the wedding, being the closest thing to parents you had, you were ecstatic when Karen joined you over the hot water and soapy sink, washing the china plates.

“So sweety, how have things been going lately? Nancy said you have a roommate?” Her tight blonde permed curls shaking behind her as she scrubs the pot used to make the gravy.

Drying the freshly rinsed dish, you answer with a coy smile on your face, “I’ve been good, doing better than I have in a while, yeah, I have a roommate, uhh Eddie Munson.”

“Oh Mike’s friend? He always was so kind to him, taking him under his wing and showing him the ropes in high school,” she looks at you then, her lavender eyeshadow catching the light over the sink, “I’m happy you two are dating.”

Dating.

Dating Eddie Munson.

Scenarios fly through your mind, Eddie holding your hand at the movie theater, him behind you—his chin resting on your shoulder helping you play video games at Arcade Land, watching him write songs and play his guitar, kissing his lips sweetly, deeply— moving down his neck, his chest. His fingers on your thighs—

You’re sweating.

Head dizzy and full of visions of you loving Eddie and Eddie loving you back dance in your head.

“W-we’re not dating, just—”

How would you describe your relationship with Eddie? Roommates? Friends? Waiting for him to kiss you?

“—friends,” you say, enunciating the word slowly, rolling it off your tongue.

“Well,” Karen says, a hidden smile on her knowing lips, “I’m happy you two are just friends.”

Friends.

Such a complicated word. Because you and Eddie were more than that, but definitely not dating. The tension between you was electric, and sometimes jarring, but you went to bed thinking of him every night, hoping he would just open the door to your room, slip beneath the sheets and hold you while you dreamed.

[Two weeks prior]

The morning after you had comforted him, you woke up alone— his side of the bed still warm as if he had just gotten up. Sleeping so soundly you weren’t sure what day it was, or the time. The alarm clock on your night stand said 7 o’clock but that couldn’t be right. You and Eddie had both slept for over twelve hours, the comforting kind of sleep that lulls babies to sleep, gentle, sweet, pillowy dreams in one another’s arms. Getting dressed for work, you slip a pair of jeans on, and change into a long navy blue cardigan, headband to match. Lacing up your converse, you open your bedroom door.

Eddie’s in his room getting dressed for work when you find him. Knocking on the opened door gently, you poke your head in, his eyes lift and meet yours, a sleepy, coy grin colors his face, but it doesn’t meet his eyes.

“Hey,” he whispers softly, stopping mid button on his work coveralls.

The black bandana around his head presses his bangs nearly flat, the soft waves of his chocolate dipped curls reflect the sun light with a honey oranged hue.

“Hi,” your voice is small and meek.

An overwhelming feeling of dread* clouds your mind. Where would this new found friendship and comfort lead you both? Maybe Eddie was regretting the entire night. You haven’t been on this comfort level with someone you were physically attracted to ever. Steve was like a brother to you. And Chad— you were never comfortable with him, your skin crawling just thinking of it. But Eddie? The sight of him gave you butterflies, his arms holding your waist while you slept was an intimacy you haven’t experienced before, and you wanted to relish in the feeling of it.

He fiddles with his rings on his fingers, rolling them around and around before his mouth opens to speak, “I’m sorry for yesterday,” he blurts out, looking down in shame, unable to meet your curious eyes.

Barely comprehending that he’s apologizing for being vulnerable, you walk towards him slowly. He notices your staggering steps and inches backward. His walls are back up, caged in with his feelings, barbed wire on the top so you couldn’t find a way in, electric fence surrounding the brick walls—the highest voltage imaginable.

“Ed—”

“Please,” he begs, voice cracked and broken, wavering on another breakdown, “please don’t… I don’t need your sympathy.”

Tears well in your eyes at his recoiling. How can a night of comfort turn into despair and hostility the next morning? Nose burning, signaling your brain that tears would be falling any second, you wipe your eyes hastily.

Eddie felt like his neck was out, exposed to the world, waiting for the guillotine’s blade to slice his skin, until the crimson of his blood spilled in the basket, severing his head, a trophy amongst the weak.

Munson’s didn’t accept charity, his whole life that's what he felt like to Wayne, a charity case, a goddamn roadblock in Wayne’s life stopping him from finding a girlfriend, sleeping on a real bed, forcing him to work overnight just for Eddie— he’d never forgive himself for the pain he’s caused him— and now you? Offering your bed to him, your fingers twirling through his hair as he came undone. Whimpering like an infant, coating your thighs with thick tears. Sure it felt nice to have someone there with him, to reassure him it was all going to be okay, sweet, angelic voice of reason. But when he woke this morning he felt disgusting, like a predator, a vicious wolf preying on a sweet innocent lamb offering herself to him because he was upset.

He didn’t want that for you. He didn’t want to taint your soul with his past.

“I’m not giving my sympathy,” you voiced into the void, whether he heard it or not you weren’t sure.

Eddie breathing heavily, trying to contain his emotions from spilling out of him, “good, because I don’t want it.”

He walks around you in a huff, the muted scent of cigarettes and cologne hit your nose, as he passes you and walks into the bathroom, shutting the door all too hard. Following him, you’re certain you are full fledged crazy at this point, like in a scary movie when the lead actress stays in the house instead of running away.

Opening the door, opening Pandora’s box, you push it til it swings wide, he’s hovering over the sink brushing his teeth, white and blue toothpaste decorate the corners of his mouth.

“Tooty,” he groans, spitting a dollop of toothpaste into the sink, “seriously— I don’t want to talk about it, whatever you have to say save it for the human Care Bear Harrington—I don’t want to hear it.” he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

Stones would be impressed with how still you’re standing, head raised waiting for him to look you in your eye. Refusing to break. A storm in your eyes threatening to flood. “Why are you acting like this?”

“I’m not acting like anything,” Eddie grunts impatiently, “are you ready?”

When you don’t say anything, he moves you out of the way, large hands around your arms, stepping around you and going into the kitchen.

Following him, you won't let up, his head in the fridge he pulls out the orange juice carton, drinking directly from the jug, “Eddie, you can talk to me about it, I’m a good listener.”

He shakes his head and rolls his eyes, gasping for breath as he swallows the citrus liquid, “I said— I said, I didn’t want to talk about it and I meant it, I’m a grown ass man— ”

Interrupting him, not giving him time to finish you blurt, “Doesn’t make you less of one just because you’re upset.”

His teeth clench so hard they almost crack, his hands balled into fists at his sides, the orange juice container crumbling in his grasp. Years of therapy as a child did nothing to help him. And neither could you.

“Stop,” he snaps, his eyes pinched tight, a wave of fury washing over him, only seeing red. “Jesus Christ enough! I don’t need this shit right now, I’m gonna be late for work!”

He stomps towards the door, shoving his boots on haphazardly, throwing his leather jacket under his arm, the same leather jacket you had worn the night before, your perfume lingering on the inside.

The smell of you lighting his fire even more, he’s losing all self control.

“What’s your problem anyway?” he grumbles, kicking open the front door, waiting for you to follow. His eyes are wide and full of hurt, anger, crippling anxiety so deep he didn’t even know if he was breathing. But no matter how mad you looked, how many tears you kept wiping away from your lash line, he couldn’t stop.

Keys in the ignition he puts the van into reverse and yanks the wheel quickly, driving like he robbed a bank.

Anytime you try to speak he cuts you off.

“Do you like getting involved with people's lives? Why are you so desperate to know what happened? Need something to gossip about at the salon? So you and your boss can whisper shit about me again? Hmm? ”

“What the fuck are y—” you try to say, but he cuts you off again, he’s raging war on himself and on you, it’s far from over, no surrender flag in sight.

“That must be it right?” he preens, barely stopping at the stop lights as he flies to your work, tires squealing around corners, “I’m here because you need something to talk about, the well full of hot gossip of Hawkins must have run dry. Well guess what sweetheart? It’s not anything I haven’t heard before.”

He’s so clueless, so expertly out of sync with what you were trying to convey, what you were begging him to understand. The tears are free falling and you don’t stop them, screaming at him, “Eddie!”

“What?!” he barks back, chest heaving with hatred filled lungs and venomous words so toxic they’re burning your skin.

Aching soul and self doubt at an all time low you try to will the words to not shake as you deliver, “do you really think I would hold you while you were sad with any other intention than consoling you!? You were upset and the least I could do after you helped me was try to make you feel better!”

He tried to argue but it’s your turn to cut him off, holding up a hand as he fumed through his nose. He parks in back of the salon, slamming on the brakes as you both jolt forward. “Let it go, Too—”

“I care about you, you stubborn asshole!” You grab your purse between your feet and open the door and jump out.

“Just stop,” Eddie pleads, his eyes brimming with tears, “don’t.”

“I can’t,” you say back in a whisper, your voice breaking at the last syllable, you reach for the door, out of breath and holding in your sobs the best you can, “oh, and for the record— Josie was telling me to be nice to you and give you a chance— my mistake.”

Slamming the door you don’t hear him break, you don’t hear him thrust the heel of his hand into the steering wheel until it aches and burns. His nerves shooting pain through his entire arm. You don’t hear him scream and hate himself as he drives to work, his body soulless, empty, fragile.

“Tooty, are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” you tell Josie for the tenth time.

You definitely were not fine.

Distracted the minute you got to work, your mind raced with questions of the unknown. Hurt, confused and pissed off, you had mixed the wrong color formula for your clients hair, resulting in money down the drain from your own paycheck as you threw the mixture away and started it again, for the third attempt.

At 10 o’clock you were folding towels in the back when you realized you had bleached an entire load of darks. The once rich black towels were now faded with splotches of orange.

Eddie’s words had ripped through your heart, hurdling themselves into the deepest parts of you that were sheltered away from anyone, taking up solace in your forbidden soul, hollowing it out.

By noon you were crying while rolling a client's perm rods into her hair, having to step away multiple times before Josie gently told you enough was enough and that you should go home for the day.

Not wanting to call Eddie and get a ride you decided to walk the half mile through town back to your home on Cherry lane.

Kicking a rock with the toe of your shoe for most of the walk home, you mull over the events of the day. Wiping your eyes with the sleeve of your cardigan as you tread along the sidewalk.

[Thanksgiving Day]

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with me to Nancy and Jonathan’s? It’ll be fun!”

Eddie is leaned against the driver window of his van, his finger tracing a smiley face into the dust in the dash. “I wish I could, but Wayne and I go fishing every year on Thanksgiving— it’s a tradition.”

Every year since Eddie was ten years old, Wayne took him fishing on Thanksgiving, starting early in the morning and going until sundown, ending the night camping beneath the stars, cooking their daily catch for supper, “save me a piece of pie okay?” he finishes, ruffling up your hair, a shit eating grin on his lips.

Feeling horrible that your car was still out of commission, Eddie had let you borrow the van for the night after you dropped him off at Wayne’s. “And you’re positive it’s okay if I take the van?”

“Does a bear shit in the woods?” Eddie’s laugh spread across his cheeks, the black beanie he has on his head inching closer to falling off every second, “Tooty,” he breathes, his brown eyes dipping into yours, “take the goddamn van and have a good time—and hurry up, you’re gonna be late.”

[2 Weeks prior]

🎶 it was the third of June another sleepy dusty delta day

I was out choppin’ cotton and my brother was baling hay

Bobbie Jo’s tune was ringing in his ears all day— no matter how loud he cranked the radio in the shop, no matter how many times he tried to hum a different tune— her -* words rang through his mind like silk, coating his skin and implementing old memories he didn’t want brought up.

He was filled with fury. A ticking time bomb. It should have been no surprise when Sean and Aaron started poking at him, how unhinged he would become.

“What’s got your panties in a twist, Munson,” Sean sneers, changing the oil on the Ford truck, “your little girlfriend finally figure out you’re a fucking loser?”

Eddie had already thrown a wrench across the shop out of frustration when he realized he forgot his lunch. He slammed the hood of a blue minivan on his fingers right after morning break, and now Aaron and Sean were starting in on him.

His breath erratic, trying to breathe through his nose to calm himself down but failing. His misery over taking his nerves. He grunts through barred teeth, “We aren’t dating,”

Sean perks up at the news, his wiry mustache splattered across his top lip like a squashed caterpillar, decrepit and sparse. “Oh shit, so she’s single, huh?”

“Damn,” Aaron chimes in, his hands cupped around his junk as he shakes it back and forth between his greasy hands, “what I wouldn't give to be balls deep in that pretty little mouth, that’d shut her up for good.”

“You’re skating on thin ice, fuck rag, I’d watch my mouth if I were you.” Eddie’s shoulders are tensed, adrenaline at an all time high. Fight or flight screaming through his blood racing through his heart and speeding up his heart rate.

“Whatchya gonna do about it, freak?” Sean spits pushing Eddie in the chest, “ ‘Name the time and place’ yeah motherfucker? How about right here right now?” Standing toe to toe with Eddie, but a foot shorter he peers into Eddie’s face, egging him on.

“Ever since you moved in with that whore you’ve been such a little bitch about everything— I mean I get it, honestly— Chad always said she had the sweetest p—”

Sean chokes on the last word as Eddie’s fist connects with his cheek, his rings would end up leaving bruises in their shape on his skin for weeks to come.

Sean throws a punch at Eddie but he is quick to dodge it, years of fighting in the trailer park giving him an upper hand. Blood spews from Sean’s mouth as Eddie upper cuts him in the chin, his tongue almost split in half as he bit down from the impact.

Eddie is blinded momentarily as Aaron socks him in the eye, a deep purpling plum colored bruise that took weeks to heal. Stumbling backwards his back hits the red sun faded tool box, Sean came swinging a crow bar out of nowhere and hit Eddie in the ribs, a groaning thud as the sound of his bones shatter in his body.

Behind his back, he reaches for whatever is closest, a wrench wrapped tight in his fingers gets thrown in the air at Sean, hitting him in the throat and knocking him over onto the smooth concrete of the shop floor, gasping for breath.

Aaron tackles Eddie, sending him into the air compressor, four fists are swinging and bodies shifting as they both struggle for dominance. Eddie’s lip is cut and his eye is swollen almost shut. Aaron’s nose is dripping blood on Eddie’s shirt as he punches him in the same place that Sean hit him with the crow bar. He’s able to get a knee up between Aaron and himself and twists his body to get above him, and when he does he lays punch after punch into Aaron’s swollen bloody face.

With each rocking fist connecting with flesh, Eddie has one thing on his mind, you. He thinks about the foul way they had disrespected you. The way you had cried when you told him you couldn’t stop caring about him. How he was close to losing you because he couldn’t open up and let you in. How terrified you must have been for all those years when you were scared and alone, nobody there to hold you and comfort you. And while he’s pummeling Aaron into a bloody pulp of cracked teeth and swollen eyes, it finally clicks for him.

The fight didn’t last long, but was effective enough to get Eddie suspended for the rest of the work day— and Aaron and Sean got a nice week's vacation with no pay.

Eddie’s knuckles are coated in a mixture of blood and spit. His jaw aches as he drives home with one eye open, it’s the clearest he’s seen in a long time.

[Thanksgiving]

“Fish ain’t bitin’ much are they?” Wayne and Eddie have both cast and reeled in their rods multiple times with zero luck. The small boat Eddie had gifted Wayne with for Christmas 3 years ago stood at still waters of Lover’s Lake, both men chilled to the bone.

“Nah, they sure aren’t. Probably no fish left in here after the summer you had.”

Since Eddie had graduated, Wayne dropped down to part time at the plant and went to dayshift. A true dream for him and for Eddie, offering to pick up most of the bills, a silent thank you for all the years that Wayne has taken care of him when he didn’t have to, but did anyway— the only caring person in his life, until you.

The wind whips through Eddie’s hair, tugging the curls out from the confinements of the cotton stocking cap snug on his head. The once crisp autumn foliage is soggy like forgotten cereal in a bowl of milk around them from the previous nights rain, chilling the usual humidity from the air and adding a depth of ice in their veins as they shake and shiver in their jackets, Eddie in his leather jacket, Wayne in a weathered faded khaki canvas coat.

Ruddy hands with silvered rings light two cigarettes, passing one to a pair of calloused, aged hands. Inhaling deeply and blowing warm smoke in the whispering winds of the quiet fog around them.

Wayne runs a rough hand over his sunned scalp, itching the small patches of hair left, as he readjusts his tattered cap, letting the nicotine settle into his bones and soothe the stubborn ache in his jaw, like ointment on an arthritic joint, “you ever gonna bring that girlfriend over to meet me or you keepin’ her alls to yourself?”

“What girl?” Eddie says quickly, coyly, blowing smoke into the space between the two of them, hiding his mouth with the curtain of his curls, opening the coffee can full of mud and worms, pushing another worm on the end of his hook.

Wayne hadn’t talked to him about girls since he was fifteen when he walked into his room and tossed a box of rubbers at his chest and grumbled, “use ‘em,” under his breath.

Irritation blooms against Wayne’s brows, “boy, don’t play dumb with me,” he cracks at Eddie, a false stern voice in his gruff voice, “the one you’re dating you little wise ass.”

“I’m not dating anyone, Wayne.” Eddie says, pretending to be preoccupied with the tackle box full of neon fishing lures and bobbers. He runs his thumb over the rough cracked surface of the faded red and white bobber, the same one Wayne gave to him when they started fishing all those years ago. The memory brings a smile to his face.

The gruff scoff from Wayne’s throat suggests bullshit to his ears from his nephew’s mouth, a noise Eddie has heard many many times in the two decades he had been living with Wayne, one that told him that he better tell the truth, and right the hell now. No matter that he now towers over Wayne, he’ll always be his boy, the wide eyed boy with a mountain of guilt on his shoulders, his son.

And as Wayne always knew— the more he poked and prodded, the more Eddie would clam up. They sit in comfortable silence, the slight breeze rippling the water on Lover’s Lake, rocking the small fiberglass boat and swaying the two Munson men gently.

How could he describe the relationship between you and him? Not dating, but hopefully more than friends. He didn’t have many friends that he’d willingly let help him battle his inner-most demons. In fact, Gareth and Jeff were still left in the dark about it. The breeze continues to grow frigid and burrows itself between the layers of his clothing, freezing his skin and peppering it with goose bumps. The chattering of Eddie’s teeth remind him of Steve’s birthday when he offered you his jacket, and opted to freeze the rest of the night just so you wouldn’t be chilly.

It’s simple really, he admitted it to Steve, but somehow admitting it to Wayne was worse than the hit from the box of condoms against his chest.

He says it all too fast, out of breath, and barely audible. But he says it. And a smile spreads across the weathered leather of Wayne’s face, pulling his mustache up, a glimmer of a sparkle in his eye, “see, now was that so bad?”

[2 weeks prior]

His knuckles ache, and he’s not positive if it’s from the blows to Aaron’s face or the way he’s gripping the steering wheel. His realization while busting open Aaron’s cheek made him eager to get home. Eager to clean himself up before he went to pick you up from work.

The house is silent as he walks through the garage, his angry hurtful words bounce back to him off the kitchen walls, the counter. The orange juice was still where he left it, crumpled and misshapen.

He truly was an asshole. Hurting the one person who cared for him other than Wayne. He sits down in a chair and unties his boots, blood splattered on the toes. Peeling the sweat stained work coveralls from his body, he tosses them down the steps to the basement, leaving them for later.

He stands partially naked in the kitchen, clad in only his underwear and socks, the kick of adrenaline wearing completely off, the promise of pain against his broken ribs rings searing heat through his body.

A glance around the kitchen stills the breath in his lungs. The kitchen is a wreck from the waffle night, the colossal beginning of a budding relationship that he was currently in the trenches hoping to fix. The once silky batter is now hard, pale concrete cemented onto the sides of the glass mixing bowl. The waffle iron was open, sprayed with cooking oil that was sitting with its cap off on the counter. The plates were sticky with cold syrup and now styrofoam resembled waffles, still on the table from where you had both sat. Forks and knives laying atop the ceramic plates in a haphazard way, awaiting the return of warm hands to finish their job.

Without thinking he starts to clean up, filling the sink with hot water, scraping the food from the plates into the garbage, putting away the orange juice and the left out butter and cooking spray. In no time the kitchen is sparkling and Eddie’s body is screaming at him to rest. The cuts on his knuckles are cleaned but swollen, soap stung from the water. His side aches, adrenaline slipping away with every growing minute.The pain is almost unbearable.

A clicking noise from the front door has him turning suddenly, a slight panic in his nerves as he stands stone still.

A block from the house, your tears return, cold, and stuck to your face like ice on poles. You’re exhausted, stomping the entire way home drove shin splints up your legs, the cold cramping dull in your calves. Thinking of Eddie the entire way home you are dumbfounded— completely and utterly confused at his reaction. How could he not know how you felt about him? Why was he begging you to stop? Wondering if you’ll ever get the answers to those questions you wipe your nose with the sleeve of your cardigan. If he was going to guard himself again, and put the barriers back up— so could you.

The door is stuck as you try to open it, pushing and shoving your shoulder into it, it finally gives, stumbling your way into the living room in the most ungraceful way. The scent of freshly wiped surfaces sting your nose and stop you dead in your tracks. You weren’t expecting to be relieved from seeing Eddie, but the relief is short lived as you notice the deep violet and indigo bruise painting his eye.

“Ed—,” you gasp, covering your mouth as you run towards him, foregoing the screaming in your legs, “wh— oh my God!”

His eyes melt at your appearance, scarlet rimmed eyes and wet cheeks take him in, eyebrows dipped into unease and apprehension. He feels your hesitancy, thick like fog surrounding you both as you reach your fingers up to his cheek. Ice cold pads of your fingertips skim the tender skin of his face, brushing the wispy hair of his bangs from his eyes with your fingertips to get a better look at him.

He doesn’t speak, barely breathing at your gentle touch on his face. The frosty coolness of your fingers burn his skin with every silky movement of your hands. He tries to avoid your eyes, avoid the pain he knew was from earlier and his cowardice.

Fingers dancing along his skin, you scan over his torso, the same way you did on the morning after Halloween, the bruising from the mishap of the steps is replaced by a pattern of splotchy deep bruising.

“They’re broke,’’ Eddie groans, his split lip ripping open, from him trying to force a smile, “looks cool though right?”

Using humor to deflect the true way he feels was an easy defense mechanism for him, but you won’t bite. Won’t take the bait he’s dropping into your waters, won’t nibble at his small offering.

Trying not to break, you stand your ground, “what happened?”

“Nothing that wasn’t deserved,” Eddie says, eyes casted downwards at your hands near his ribs, “I was just having a shitty enough day— my own fault—“, he adds quickly, his eyes flicking to yours, not wanting to put salt into the already festering wound he created, “I—uh—I took care of it.” He says in a final explanation.

“And now I’m going to take care of this,” he motions between you both, sliding his hands down your arms and settling them in your hands.

“Tooty— I,” he exhales as deep as his lungs will allow given the break in his ribs, spilling his stitched up heart to you, letting the walls fall with each word, “I’m sorry— I’m so fucking sorry. Nothing I do or say will ever amount to how shitty I feel for making you cry, for pushing you away. I’m a coward when it comes to this type of shit, and it was too heavy— too muddy for me to explain. I figured if I’d shut you out you’d go back to how it was before— before Harrington’s birthday, before Halloween befo—,”

A shake of your head and a sharp intake of breath come from your body. Did all of this mean nothing to him? The flirting, the gentle touching, the sweet gestures? It was all just something he wanted to forget?

Voice small and shallow, “Is that what you want Eddie? To go back to how it was before, when you first moved in?”

A single tear falls from your face, and without thinking, without second guessing himself or wondering if you would think he was being weird, Eddie is quick to brush it away with the curl of his forefinger. His swollen knuckles are tight and achy. He tries to hide a hiss from his teeth, wanting to live in this euphoric moment for as long as he can, as long as you will allow him to. He extends both hands now to your face, his rough thumbs rubbing over the expanse of your cheeks, fingers behind your ears, curling into your hair.

“I want,” he breathes easy now, as if the touch of your skin on his fingers mended his broken bones, his eyes soft where it allowed, one still swollen shut, “I need you to know that I care, too— and I don’t want you to ever quit caring about me— baby, I’ve cared about you for years—- and I can’t get myself to stop.”

And when a sob breaks from your chest, he pulls you into him, “c’mere,” the sensation steals the breath from your lungs, you’ve never been touched with such gentleness, such care. He’s holding you as if you’re glass. Fragile, cracked and held together with shitty Elmer’s glue that was a tempting snack for children. It’s so delicate the way he’s stroking your skin.

Minutes or hours pass you’re not sure. His warmth engulfs you, his musky cologne and spiced deodorant is a gentle blanket around you. Wrapping you in a swaddle of his admiration.

His hair tickles your cheeks, tattooed arms are twisted in your hair,and wrapped around your back. The shine of your tears coat his bare chest, his chin rests on top of yours breathing in your hair shushing you gently.

You spend the night working Eddie’s rings from his already swollen fingers, pressing ice packs to his bruises and spreading neosporin on his cut lip, rubbing it gently with the tip of your finger, Eddie giggles at the concentration on your face and the way your tongue is poked out.

He’s infatuated with the way you make him feel. His heart soaring higher and higher with each delicate touch of your fingers on his skin.

He’s up late that night, stomach full from your homemade chicken noodle soup and his heart even more full. Flying higher than cloud nine, your sweet face on his mind.

[Thanksgiving]

A sadistic voice echoes from your tv screen, “a little young for ya isn’t she Richie? BEEP BEEP RICHIE!”

Richie Tozier sips the Dixie cup of water, leaning against the bookcase in the Derry library, Pennywise continues his antics of torture as balloons drop from the ceiling, popping with blood spluttering on the library go-ers faces, oblivious to the fantasy nightmare Pennywise ensues.

The front door opens with a thud as a shriek and the popcorn bowl on your lap goes flying through the air. Eddie walks hurriedly through the door. A shivering spine of fear and realization hits you all at once. His boisterous laugh reverberates the living room walls as he picks popcorn from your hair, and places it in his mouth, a loud crunch between his teeth as he plops down next to you on the couch.

“Think you got your holidays mixed up, sweetheart— it’s Thanksgiving, Halloween was last month.”

Rolling your eyes you make a face to mock him, which only fuels his fire and has his cold fingers jabbing into your sides and tickling you so hard you scream out. Begging him to stop.

“Don’t!,” you squeal, holding your breath and giggling at his unrelenting tickling. He finally gives up after your face has gone red and your hair is a mess, laughing tears rolling down your cheeks.

Eddie sits back on the couch taking a huffing breath, a wild smile spreading from ear to ear, “that’s what you get for watching IT without me!”

Scoffing, you pick up the bowl of popcorn and the paled yellow crunchy kernels spilled on the ruby red throw blanket, “wait, weren’t you supposed to be camping with your uncle tonight?”

Eddie breathes out a sigh, bending at the waist to gather the kernels off the floor. The rest of the fishing trip with Wayne, Eddie spent it quieter than he had ever been, contemplating his next move, how could he show you that he was serious? How could he let you in? Show you his ugly past without scaring you, without you running for the hills? The answer was easy.

“I have something— somewhere I wanna show you,” he whispers, standing to his full height. Looking for the familiar mischievous glimmer in his eye, you are surprised by the genuine sparkle replacing it. His face his earnest, almost a look of doubt on his lips, scared of your reaction.

He peels the blanket from your lap and reaches down, his hand held out extended to yours, “come with me?”

The air is bitter. The driveway is glittering with a sequined frost, dancing with the shine of the street lights. Warm breath fills the inside of Eddie’s van as he slots the key into the ignition and fires it up, cranking the heat. Snuggling further into your knitted scarf, hiding the chill of your nose as Eddie backs down the driveway, heading out of town.

It doesn’t take long to get to where he was going, the drive in silence had you questioning what was going on in his mind. The path was overgrown, hidden from the road, hidden from anyone who didn’t know that it was there. The headlights of the van bob along with each sunken hole on the dirt drive. Jostling the van this way and that.

Nestled into thick trees past an old loose and corroded barbed wire fence, in place for property lines, sits a small house, paint chipped and barely visible. The roof was caved in by a large tree falling on it, the sagging porch still had bleached yellow crime scene tape hanging on by threads to the moss eaten pillar.

Eddie throws the van in park, sniffling slowly and looking around. “This uh,” he stutters, clearing his throat, “this is where I lived with my mom, my old man was in and out most of the time—drunk or in jail, I don’t remember him being here that much except the last time.”

Silence is golden, and you give him your undivided attention as he twists in his seat, bent knee leaning on the door frame.

“That,” he says pointing to the fallen tree in the back, “was an apple tree, apples this big around I swear,” he motions his hands in a circle, a chuckle in his throat, “we didn’t live here for very long, a year, or two maybe…”

His voice fades, and at first he second guesses bringing you here. He can imagine you piecing this puzzle of woe together, his life. The tragic tale of Eddie Munson, he didn’t spin a web of luxuries for you to pretend with him for a moment, a second, that he was anything other than what he was—but when your cotton gloved fingers slide into his, interlacing them—it gives him the courage, the resilience to continue.

“…I was six when it— when she was… he—,” he trails off, unable to finish, but it doesn’t take a genius to connect the dots. The abandoned house, the barely-there flicker of yellow tape, she wasn’t only dead— she was murdered, by his father’s hand.

Comprehending what he’s getting at, you can practically hear his heart breaking. Eyes never leaving his face, you take him in, his eyes are wet as he blinks back tears, using his other hand to pinch the inner corners of his eyes, and hide behind his hair, his face is ashen, once ruddy cheeks from when he came home and tickled you is now swallowed by stale ash, sucking the life from his eyes, his cheeks, his soul.

“.. right in front of me…” he hangs his head low, sniffing quietly, “Wayne took me in after that.”

Eddie and you were alike in more ways than you had thought, although your parents were still alive, they were equally absent from your life, much like Eddie’s parents. Sure you both had people who took care of you, and as sweet as the gesture was, it was never really the same. The aching torture of having to defend for yourself, put a brave face on for your temporary care takers so you don’t seem like a bother to them, so they won’t worry about the weight of taking you in— was all too familiar.

“Eddie,” you whisper softly, rubbing his hands with your thumbs.

Yearning and breaking for him, the cords of your heart reach to his, tethering them together as you slide over the center council, and carefully land into his lap. He’s surprised at first by your brazenness, but once you wrap your arms around his neck and hold him into you, he melts like chocolate at your heated touch.

Your fingers tug into his hair at the nape of his neck, his nose and lips make their way in between your scarf and your neck, the slight chill against your skin sends goosebumps down your spine, a throbbing in your core.

Realization spreads through your heart, your brain, the hair follicles on your head, the painted nails on your toes. Holding him, him holding you, his arms around you, your arms buried in his hair, his fingers rubbing patterns into your back as he sighs deeply and regulates his breath—for the first time in your life, you realize this is what love feels like.

To be loved and to be in love. It was undeniable. Right? Friends didn’t do this. Roommates didn’t do this. But two people who cared deeply for one another and were bonded together by more than just traumatic circumstances? That was love.

In this moment, nothing else matters.

It’s just you and him.

Him and you.

The flutter of your heart short circuits as it seeps hot sticky love all over your face, blooming warmly in your cheeks. Grasping him tighter, you pull away, settling your forehead into his. Whiskey poured eyes staring back into yours, for a brief second you swear you can feel his heart flutter with yours, beating as one.

Eddie doesn’t play his music loud on the way back. A comfortable echoing still in the van as it clunks along the road. His voice barely above a whisper when he speaks. He feels satisfied. Happy even? Like the weight of the world was off of his shoulders by you simply knowing his past. You didn’t ask questions and in the moment he didn’t need you to. His arms wrapped around you was more than enough, your fingers twirling in his hair, the smell of your perfume behind your ear. The way you let him grieve, let him take you somewhere he hasn’t gone in years, was something he’d appreciate for a lifetime to come.

Once home it’s like any normal night, only he doesn’t tease you. He doesn’t fight over the bathroom or use your toothbrush, he doesn’t argue when you pop Christmas Vacation into the VCR, even though you can quote the entire movie. He’s completely engulfed by you, watching you brush your hair, the extra roll of the waistband of your pajama pants. The ridiculous colors of your fuzzy socks you insisted on wearing now that the weather was colder.

He’s never felt nervous around a girl before, usually throwing himself around, showing off his exquisite rack like a stacked buck in rut, rubbing his antlers on trees, showing his mighty dominance.

But you weren’t just another lonely girl looking for a night with a lead singer, or a girl pretending to be in love with him just so she could score coke from his supplier while also fucking him behind his back, and you definitely weren’t a faceless girl that he plowed to forget it all.

Meaning much more to him than just some silly fuck, or a high school “sweetheart” that ended up being a heartless cunt, or a dumpster for his cum.

No.

You were much more than that, to him.

More than a roommate, more than a friend, more than Eyeball’s bratty fucking sister.

He could write sonnets about the little lines in between your brow when you pulled your eyebrows together, usually when you were mad at him. He could sing songs about your laugh, not the small polite one, the loud one, the one that rang every doorbell to his heart and and he gladly answered. He could hum a tune of gratitude about your cooking and the silent ways you care for him and your close friends. He’d get his ass kicked by the entire male population of Hawkins if it meant keeping you safe.

You were it for him.

The only one to make him feel, the only one he wanted to see at the end of the day, in the morning when he got up.

Watching you giggle and let out a yawn, he places a couch pillow between his hip and yours gesturing for you to lie down. He almost goes into cardiac arrest when you move the pillow entirely, your head resting in his lap. A sleepy smile on your face as you tug the blanket under your chin.

Yup.

You were it for him.

And he's a sucker, addicted to the way you made him love you so effortlessly.

hope you all enjoyed this volume! volume ix is where it heats up 🔥

@big-ope-vibes @br0ck-eddie @b-irock @loveshotzz @mopeymopeymouse @shiftingtherain @courtingchaos @nightonblogmountain @word-wytch @ghost-proofbaby @hanobe8 @abibliophobiaa @joejoequinnquinn just a few of the coven 🩵🩷

This is for you

*sacrifices 🖕🏼

#honey i’m home #eddie x fem!reader #eddie munson #stranger things x y/n #eddie x you angst #Eddie x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fan fiction #eddie munson fanfic #eddie x you fluff

1K notes · View notes

actually-safer-to-kiss · 1 year

Text

See How It Shines

Summary: Spencer gets home from work to find Reader in tears over the new Hozier album.

Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader

Category: Fluff and comfort

Content warnings: The masterpiece of Hozier’s Unreal Unearth, me stopping halfway to listen to the entire album, me crying to every song I reference

Word count: 1.2k

A/N: shoutout to anyone who picks up on every song reference I make. I am instantly in love with you.

Spencer had been etched with the weight of unsolved cases and the relentless march of time, and he was forced to call it a night around six. The team had already pulled an all-nighter earlier in the week, so Hotch decided they all deserved rest. Spencer, however, wasn’t tired (he was; it was the late cups of coffee). Nevertheless, he makes it to his apartment door, skipping every other step. As Spencer turned the key in the lock, a soft melody flowed from the other side, haunting him yet drawing him in.

When the door opens with a slight creak, the music only grows. The living room was a sanctuary, bathed in the golden hues of twilight and table lamps, together casting long, ethereal shadows across the aged wooden floor. Plants adorned the walls and shelves. Since you moved in, he has never shared a space with so many simple living things. His record player, a testament to decades of shared music between him and his mother, spun its vinyl tale. This time it was for you, as it breathed life into the album as you sat on the couch in a nest of blankets.

Ah yes, it was Hozier day. The anticipated album release of Unreal Unearth. His girlfriend highly anticipated it. She had been vibrating as the week drew to a close with five days left, then three, then one. And it was well worth the wait, considering the tears continuing to streak her face as the Irish man begged for someone to not fall away from him.

Spencer set his bag down by the door and proceeded toward the couch with caution as if he were ready to pounce like a predator on prey. Except the end resulted in a tender hand on your shoulder. You looked up at him with a puffy face and snotty nose. It was Spencer’s next instinct to grab a tissue from the end table and offer it to you. Of course, you took it. And even though the answer was obvious, he still felt the need to ask, “Are you okay?”

It was a struggle for you to inhale, so you blew your nose again. "I didn’t expect this to be a breakup album.” The album sleeve was wrapped in your arms, proving to already be a prized possession. The tracklist was organized by the layers of Dante’s hell they fell under.

Spencer gave you a small smirk before placing a kiss on your head. “Well, I’ll go ahead and get started on dinner.” It was his turn to take the culinary reins for tonight. “Do you need anything?”

“I need to know who this woman is, Spencer.” You throw your head back as Hozier hits a high note that neither of you has heard from him before. You stay there as you ask, “Who made this man feel so much pain?”

“You want to fight Hozier’s ex-girlfriend?”

“Ew, no.” Your nose scrunched. “I just want to know how. The power to make a man feel this way.”

Spencer chuckled. He had answers. And he’s happy to not reply with any of them. “I’m making chicken parmesan. That okay?”

You nodded, soon returning to singing about holding a heart like a steering wheel. But you then grabbed his hand. Your eyes are red, and Spencer is sure you’ll need drops before the end of the night. “Did a part of you die the first time I called you ‘baby,’ Spencer?”

Spencer couldn’t help but smirk as he quirked a brow. “Do what?”

“They’re song lyrics.” You let go of him.

Spencer has never fully understood the uproar that comes with Hozier. Then again, no one really flocks to Beethoven and Chopin like they used to. Plus, Vivaldi wasn’t known for belting out in the middle of his pieces and Spencer can at least admit Hozier’s belts ( well, the ones he’s heard so far) tug at him by the chest. He came back to his senses quickly when his mismatched socks landed on the cold tile. He washed his hands and opened the fridge door with his good knee.

Songs of water and knives reminded him he had chicken to wash and cut. And the familiar feeling in his own kitchen gets the tasks in Spencer’s head in order. He could feel the weight of his week slowly lift, replaced by Spencer attempting to chop to the song. It was inefficient. Some songs play shockingly fast for a breakup album. He settled for a more percussion style of noise, making each slice more deliberate as a testament to his meticulousness.

The flour and breadcrumbs sizzled in the oil that mingled with the sight of you matching the pitch of the song and humming where Hozier shouted, caressing the album sleeve like it was alive and needed your warmth. The weight of the lyrics settling in your bones caused your head to fall in shock as a long, high note carried through the whole apartment.

The album played on, weaving tales of love and loss, each one successfully targeting your core and striking effectively. And when Spencer got into the groove of his own routine in the kitchen, he listened to the lyrics as they almost guided him to autopilot, reminding him of the joys that come with his leg around you in bed, ensuring you don’t move anywhere except closer to him. And how the idea of losing that is something he does not care to dwell on for long.

He could keep it together, he thought.

Until his voice soars about the glistening of an animal’s eyes. About the force of love for someone recklessly in the middle of the street. Spencer couldn’t help but feel a lump forming in his throat. It was a visceral reaction—Spencer's sniffle. But it wasn’t unheard.

You turned your gaze toward Spencer, your eyes soft with understanding. You could hear the emotion in his breath and the slight catch in his throat. “Spencer?” You asked.

“I’m fine.”

Your lower lip quivers with a puffy smile. “You’re crying.”

“No, I’m chopping. Chopping while completely fine.” His sniffles continued to give him away (sanitary stations over pride every time).

You couldn’t help but find the situation adorable. You lazily got up from the couch, letting one of the blankets slide off with you, dragging along behind you across the wood floor and then the tile. You carefully put your hands around his waist because safety comes first. You squeeze him, and he laughs a little. For a moment, he puts his left hand on your arm, keeping it there. You noticed how his fingertips were colder than expected as you looked at the cutting board from under his arm. “So basil makes you cry? Is that it?”

Spencer laughs again, diverting his gaze from the record player and clearing his eyes from unshed tears. “Today, it apparently does. There must be some emotional properties I didn’t consider.”

“Nothing to do with an Irish man singing his heart out?”

Spencer rubs his nose on his sleeve. Fuck sanitation right now; he’s about to go through it. The snot is evident. See how it shines, indeed. “Is he really singing about roadkill?”

“Yep.” You sniffle in return as you lay your head on his back.

“Fuck.”

“I know.”

“How does he do it?”

“That I don’t know.” You held Spencer as he let the music hit him. Taking moments to turn from the food to wipe his tears.

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid/reader #spencer reid/you #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid comfort #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid fandom #spencer reid blurb #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fic

510 notes · View notes

midnightmusings06 · 2 months

Text

Valentine’s Headcanons- SDV Bachelor Edition Pt. 2

summary: What the sdv bachelors would do for you on Valentine’s Day!

pairing: sdv bachelors x gender neutral farmer

category: fluff

word count: 865

a/n: these are inspired by some of the heart events + personal headcanons <3 and a continuation of my previous post!

Alex:

Alex knocks on your door early Valentine‘s morning, a small hand picked bouquet of flowers clutched in his hand and a blush tinting his cheeks.

“Happy Valentine’s Day! I know it’s early but I thought maybe I could take you for a walk this morning?” He puts an arm behind his head, looking a little nervous.

The two of you enjoy a peaceful morning beach walk, his hand clutched in yours, as the cool ocean water washes over your feet.

As you walk, you find several beautiful shells, handing them to Alex to put in his pockets as you walk.

“Darling just what do you intend to do with all these shells?”

“They’re for keepsakes of course!” You grin, placing more shells in his pocket.

He rolls his eyes, but you know he’s only teasing you.

When you return back to your house, you decide to make ice cream together, despite it being quite cold outside.

The two of you make a huge mess of cream and sugar, but it’s all worth it when you spoon feed each other your homemade creation.

The weather clears for a bit, so Alex proposes playing football together, which results in the football hitting you in the head due to your lack of hand eye coordination.

“Y/n! Are you alright? I’m so sorry I didn’t mean to hurt you!” He rushes to your side, and while it only hurts momentarily, he treats you as though you’ve suffered a grave injury.

He wraps you up in his hoodie, now devoid of your shells which now lay on your counter, as you holds you from behind on your couch, threading his fingers through your hair as the two of you eventually fall asleep.

Shane:

You hadn’t expected Shane to do anything special for Valentine’s Day, as he’d expressed discontent with the idea of the holiday before, claiming it was “just another Hallmark holiday”.

You also hadn’t expected Shane to invite you to his place for, in his words, “a special movie night”.

When you arrive, you find his room clad with comfy blankets and pillows, where you sit next to him on his bed, making yourself cozy.

“Before I show you my surprise, I have a gift for you.”

He pulls out two matching sets of pajamas, covered in blue chickens.

After you put your pajamas on, he leads you to sit on the bed as he connects his laptop to his mini tv.

A small film montage begins to play, as he nestles up next to you, laying his head in your lap.

Clips from dates and candid photos and shots he took when you weren’t looking, stitched together with your favorite song playing in the background.

You comb your fingers through his hair, tears beginning to brim in your eyes watching this film made of love.

The film ends, and Shane looks up at you, a small smile on his face, “Do you like it? I know it’s kinda cheesy but I thought-Mmph!”

You cut him off, connecting your lips with his in a tender embrace, moving in tandem.

“I love it darling, it’s perfect.” You smile down at him.

“Thank you, for always staying by my side. I know I don’t deserve you, but thank you. I love you with all my being.” He whispers, a sweet utterance kept between the two of you.

Sam:

Sam made sure to give you an idea of his plans several days before Valentine’s Day, telling you brimming with excitement,

“It’s gonna be the perfect day! We’re gonna go to Stardrop for an epic gaming sesh, you should wear your comfiest pajamas because why not! Oh and bring blankets, snacks and all the good vibes to my place! I can’t wait!”

You show up at Sam’s house that morning wearing your favorite pajamas, with your favorite candy and blanket in hand, where he greets you in his own pajamas.

You walk to Stardrop Saloon together, and compete in several rounds of Junimo Kart, Journey of the Prairie King, and pool.

“Ugh not again! You win y/n,” Sam sighs, having lost another round of pool against you.

Throwing your hands up in victory, you exclaim, “Victory is mine once again! Have you finally given up yet?”

He pouts, until you wrap him in a big hug.

After heading back to his house after a few more rounds of arcade games, you walk into his room which is completely decked out in pillows, and a small pillow fort sits in the middle of the room, battery operated lights haphazardly strung about them.

“Tada! What do you think? I worked all night last night to make it, but then I fell asleep and it fell apart, so I had to rebuild it this morning!” He rambles, a small blush growing on his cheeks.

He grabs your hand, leading you into the small fort, where your snacks and blankets await for maximum comfort.

He moved his family’s tv to his room for the occasion, where he had a stack of the best 90s and 80s movies you two loved ready to watch.

Eventually, the two of you fell asleep watching The Breakfast Club, wrapped in each other’s warm embrace.

#sdv x reader #stardew valley x reader #stardew valley fluff #alex x farmer #sam x farmer #shane x farmer #sdv shane #sdv alex #sdv sam #stardew valley #sdv farmer

91 notes · View notes

reidsworld · 5 days

Text

Scars of Time Chapter Three: (Don't Fear) The Reaper

Summary: In which you and Logan meet the X-Men.

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Fem!Mutant!Reader

Category: Fluff, Angst

Content Warnings: Canon-typical violence, arguing, use of Y/N

Word Count: 5.3k

Song… (Don't Fear) The Reaper by Blue Oyster Cult

Mars speaks… hey… it’s been a while😅 picked this song cause i couldn’t think of anything else that would fit this lmao

Masterlist | Series Masterlist | < Previous Part | Next Part >

2000

The road stretched endlessly ahead, a ribbon of asphalt cutting through the wilderness. Logan gripped the wheel of his truck, eyes focused on the horizon, while you sat beside him, your hand resting lightly on his thigh. It had been three years since that night in the bar, and in that time, your lives had become a shared journey through the vast, ever-changing landscape of North America.

In those three years, you'd weathered countless miles together, each town a fleeting chapter in your story. From the initial sparks of connection, your relationship had deepened into something profound and steady. You’d grown accustomed to the life of constant movement, of nights spent in dingy motels and mornings starting with the scent of gasoline and cigars. Each stop had its own rhythm, its own set of challenges and triumphs, but through it all, you and Logan had found a rhythm of your own.

You'd learned to navigate his world of violence and seclusion with a blend of tenderness and resilience. The nights after his fights were always a mix of adrenaline and intimacy, where the rough edges of his life softened in the glow of your presence. You’d watched him slowly let down the walls he’d built around himself, revealing glimpses of vulnerability that were rare and precious.

Despite the unsteady nature of your life, there was a comforting familiarity in your days together. The way he would glance at you from the driver's seat, the way his laughter would break through the silence of the truck's cab—these were the moments that anchored you, making the chaos of your travels feel almost like home.

But as you settled into this routine, you couldn’t help but feel a lingering restlessness. The sense of always being on the run, the uncertainty of where you’d end up next, gnawed at you. You had found something enduring with Logan, a love that made the dark moments lighter, but there was an unspoken longing for a place where you could both put down roots, a place where the endless road could finally come to an end.

“Where are we headed next?” you asked, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between you.

Logan glanced at you, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Got a gig lined up in Laughlin City. Figured I’d make a little cash.”

You sighed, knowing exactly what that meant. “Another fight?”

Logan’s smirk faded, replaced by a look of mild irritation. “It’s easy money, Y/N.”

You turned to face him, concern etched in your features. “Logan, you don’t need to do this. We don’t need the money that bad.”

“I don’t get hurt,” he countered, his tone defensive. “You know that.”

“I know,” you admitted, your voice softening. “But it’s not about that. I don’t like seeing you in that ring, taking hits just for a few bucks. It… it feels wrong. And I—”

“Y/N, I’m fine,” Logan interrupted, though his tone lacked its usual gruffness. “I can handle it.”

You reached out and placed your hand over his, squeezing gently. “I know you can. But I love you, Logan. And it scares me, watching you fight like that. Even if you don’t get hurt, I don’t want you to keep doing it.”

Logan’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles whitening. He didn’t respond, but the tension in his jaw told you he was listening.

The crowd roared, their shouts echoing off the grimy walls of the underground arena, but for you, the noise faded into a distant hum. Your eyes were fixed on Logan in the ring, the harsh lights casting deep shadows across his face. The man he was fighting was relentless, landing blow after brutal blow, and every strike seemed to land with a sickening thud. Each punch, each slam, was like a knife twisting in your heart. You clenched your fists, your knuckles turning white, as you watched Logan take hit after hit, his normally stoic expression faltering with each brutal impact. The sight of him, battered and bloodied, made it hard to breathe, your worry intensifying with every second he remained in the ring.

As Logan endured the relentless assault, your silent pleas became a quiet mantra in the chaos of the arena. Your eyes never left him, and in the midst of the pounding fists and frenzied crowd, you found yourself whispering, “Come on, Logan. Fight back. You can do it.” Despite the roar of the spectators, your voice, though soft, cut through the din, reaching him clearly thanks to his heightened senses.

Logan’s head snapped in your direction, catching the unwavering support in your eyes. A spark ignited in him, and he straightened, shaking off the disorientation from the pounding he’d endured. With a fierce growl, he shifted gears, his movements swift and precise. The change was instantaneous; where he had been a punching bag, he now became a whirlwind of fury. With a series of powerful strikes and calculated blows, Logan took control, swiftly and decisively turning the tide of the fight. The crowd’s cheers grew louder as the man crumpled under Logan’s relentless assault, and you exhaled a breath you hadn’t realised you’d been holding.

After the fight, the crowd had mostly dispersed, leaving the area around the cage quiet and littered with the aftermath of the night’s events. Logan emerged from the cage, his chest glistening with sweat and a satisfied, albeit weary, expression on his face. He made his way over to where you were waiting, arms crossed, your eyes tracking his every move with a mix of concern and annoyance.

You approached him as he reached you, handing him his clothes with a sigh. “Here you go,” you said, your voice carrying a hint of frustration. “You know I hate seeing you like this.”

Logan took the clothes from you, pulling his shirt over his head and slipping into the jacket. He met your gaze with a look of regret. “I know, Y/N. I’m sorry.”

You gave him a soft but resigned smile. “I love you.”

He managed a small smile in return, though the guilt in his eyes was evident. “I love you too, darlin'. Now come on, I need a beer.”

You both walked across the dimly lit room to the bar. Logan’s heavy steps were matched by your lighter ones, the silence between you filled with unspoken understanding.

As the two of you sat down on the bar stools, Logan spoke, "I'll have a beer and…"

“I’ll just have some water, please,” you added.

Logan pulled out some cash as he took a drag of his cigar. The bartender quickly brought over your drinks before turning to get Logan’s change. As the TV played the news, you couldn’t help but glance over at the only other person sitting at the bar, a girl.

“Ellis Island… opening its doors again… Preparations are nearly completed for the upcoming United Nations World Summit… The leaders of over 200 nations will discuss issues ranging from… to the mutant phenomenon…”

The last few words spoken by the news reporter caught both your and Logan’s attention. You noticed the girl perk up at those words before turning her head toward you as if she thought you were onto her for some reason. You squinted your eyes as you made eye contact with her.

The sound of footsteps approaching and a tap on Logan’s shoulder caused the two of you to turn around.

“You owe me some money,” the man from Logan’s last fight said. His friend tried to get him to walk away, but he quickly brushed him off.

“No man takes a beating like that without a mark to show for it.”

He shrugged his friend off again and leaned in to whisper in Logan’s ear.

“I know what you are.”

Logan turned his head. “You lost your money. You keep this up, you’ll lose something else.”

The man began to walk away but quickly turned back around with a knife.

“Look out!” the girl shouted.

“Logan!”

Logan turned and pinned the guy. His claws extended on both sides of the man’s neck, the middle claw slowly inching toward his throat.

“Get out of my bar, freak,” the bartender said, cocking his shotgun at the back of Logan's head. In one swift motion, Logan sliced through the shotgun, sending gunpowder and debris flying everywhere.

He growled, glancing between the bartender, the man, and the girl.

“Logan, let’s go,” you said sternly. His claws retracted as he looked into your eyes. You nodded toward the exit before moving to leave. You made eye contact with the girl one last time as Logan followed you out. The weight of their gazes lingered on the two of you as you left the barn-like building.

The truck’s engine rumbled softly as it idled, parked in the dimly lit lot beside the bar. The cool night air seeped through the slightly open windows, mingling with the lingering tension from the night’s events. Logan climbed into the driver’s seat, his movements a bit jerky as he tried to shake off the adrenaline still coursing through him.

You followed him into the truck, the door shutting behind you with a heavy thud. You glanced at him, noting the way his fingers clenched the steering wheel as if trying to ground himself. He glanced over, a hint of defensiveness in his eyes.

“What the hell was that back there?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady despite the frustration bubbling under the surface. “You didn’t need to escalate things like that.”

Logan scoffed, and he shot you a look of irritation. “I escalated things? He was the one who pulled a knife on me, Y/N. I was just defending myself.”

You took a deep breath, trying to keep your emotions in check. “I get that he had a knife, but you didn’t need to go to the extreme. You could’ve handled it differently.”

Logan's expression shifted, the frustration in his eyes mingling with something softer. “What do you want me to do? Let him stab me? I was protecting us.”

You moved closer, placing your hands gently over his. “It’s not just about the fight. It’s about how it affects you. I don’t like seeing you like this—having to fight and getting into these kinds of situations.”

Logan's shoulders slumped slightly, and he looked down at his hands, where the claws had retracted. You could see the residual tension in his grip, a reminder of the struggle that had just occurred.

“Let me help,” you said softly, your voice soothing as you began to heal the lingering pain in his hands, your hands emitting a soft glow. The warmth of your touch seemed to bring a sense of calm, even if the emotional strain was still there.

Logan closed his eyes for a moment, the discomfort easing as your healing ability worked its magic. When he finally met your gaze again, his eyes held a mix of appreciation and regret. “I didn’t mean to worry you. I just… sometimes I feel like I need to prove something, to show that I’m still in control.”

You shook your head, a gentle smile on your lips despite the frustration still simmering. “You don’t need to prove anything to me, Logan. I just want you safe. You mean too much to me to see you getting hurt like this.”

Logan’s gaze softened, and he gave you a small, apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. I’ll try to be more careful.”

You nodded, giving his hands a final reassuring squeeze before pulling back. “That’s all I ask.”

With a sigh, Logan turned the key in the ignition, and the truck’s engine roared to life. As he drove away from the bar, the silence between you was filled with a quiet understanding, the night’s events slowly giving way to the comforting routine of being together.

Logan slowed the truck, his sharp eyes narrowing at the sound of a thudding noise coming from the trailer behind. The faint echo reverberated through the night, unsettling the quiet rhythm of the drive.

“Stay here,” he muttered, his voice low and commanding, the unspoken edge of protectiveness familiar to you by now.

You nodded, not arguing, even though you hated being left in the dark. His hand briefly brushed yours as he reached for the door handle, a silent reassurance before he stepped out, disappearing into the shadows. Alone in the truck, you strained to listen. Muffled voices reached you, Logan's gruff tone unmistakable.

Moments later, the truck door swung open, and Logan climbed back inside, his movements abrupt. The slam of the door jolted the quiet atmosphere, making you raise an eyebrow at him.

“No, you didn’t,” he growled, his face set in a tight scowl.

You shot him a look, silently asking for an explanation. Logan sighed, running a hand through his unruly hair. His frustration hung heavy in the air.

“Just some kid tryin’ to hitch a ride,” he muttered, but you caught the tension in his voice, a hint of something deeper.

You exchanged a glance with him, silently asking really? Before you could press him further, the truck lurched to a stop again. Logan avoided your gaze for a second before the passenger door opened, and a familiar face climbed in—the girl from the bar.

You shifted in your seat, sliding closer to Logan to make room for her. He grumbled under his breath, but didn’t protest. His arm brushed yours, a subtle reminder of the space you two shared—close and protective, even in moments like these.

With a soft smile, you reached into the glove box, pulling out a granola bar. “Figured you might be hungry,” you said, handing it to her.

The girl looked surprised at the kindness, her guarded expression faltering. “Thanks,” she mumbled, quickly taking off her gloves and devouring the snack.

“I’m Rogue,” she said after a moment, her voice tentative but grateful.

“Y/N,” you replied, your tone friendly. “Nice to meet you.”

You offered her a reassuring smile, sensing the weight she carried behind her eyes. She glanced over at Logan, then at you, as if trying to piece together your relationship. When she noticed Logan's dog tags around his neck, her curiosity won out.

“Were you in the army?” she asked, her voice soft but direct. “Don’t those mean you were in the army?”

Logan’s face hardened instantly, and without a word, he tucked the tags back under his shirt. You reached over and lightly touched his arm, grounding him. He didn’t say anything, but the tension in his shoulders eased at your touch. You had that effect on him—an unspoken comfort.

Rogue looked around the truck, her eyes sweeping over the worn seats, the cluttered dashboard, the makeshift home you'd both created on the road. "Wow," she murmured, her voice filled with a mix of wonder and disbelief.

“What?” you and Logan asked in unison, making her pause.

“Suddenly, my life doesn’t look so bad,” she said bluntly, though there was no malice in her tone, just raw honesty.

You scoffed lightly at her words, but it was more amused than offended. “Hey, if you prefer the road…”

“No, no!” Rogue quickly shook her head, her cheeks flushing slightly. “It looks great. Cozy, even.”

You noticed her rubbing her hands together, trying to warm them. Without a second thought, you turned the heater on and gestured towards the vents. “Here, put your hands by the heater,” you suggested warmly, moving to help her.

She recoiled instantly, her body language suddenly tense. “It’s nothing personal,” she explained hurriedly, slipping her gloves back on. “It’s just… when people touch my skin, something happens.”

You furrowed your brow in concern, your curiosity piqued. “What kind of something?” you asked softly.

“I don’t know,” Rogue admitted, her voice quieter now. “They just get hurt.”

There was a heavy silence, only broken by Logan's low voice. “Fair enough,” he grunted, taking a drag from his cigar as he gripped the wheel.

“When they come out, does it hurt?” Rogue asked, her gaze shifting to Logan’s hands.

“Every time,” Logan responded gruffly, but his hand reflexively tightened under yours. You glanced at Logan, noticing his usual stoic expression falter for just a second. You placed your hand gently on his thigh, offering comfort. He didn’t flinch—your touch was something that always calmed him. Even after all this time, you knew the pain he felt from his claws coming out lingered, not just physically, but deep in his mind. You squeezed his thigh gently, silently reminding him he wasn’t alone in this.

“So… what kind of name is Rogue?” Logan asked after a beat, clearly trying to shift the conversation.

Rogue smiled faintly, catching on. “I don’t know. What kind of name is Wolverine?”

You let out a soft laugh before speaking up. “His name is Logan,” you teased, giving Logan a playful nudge. He rolled his eyes but the corners of his mouth twitched slightly, betraying his amusement.

Rogue’s curiosity didn’t stop there. “Marie,” she said, introducing herself. “Are you like us? Why don’t you have a code name?”

You shrugged, glancing out the window as the road stretched endlessly ahead. “Yeah, I can heal people,” you said, a bit casually. “But I guess I’ve never really had a reason to come up with one.”

Rogue seemed to take a liking to you, her smile warmer now. “You should think of one. Something cool.”

“I’ll let ya know when I do,” you smiled back at her, then turned to Logan, who was watching the exchange silently. There was something unspoken between the three of you now—a connection. Maybe not a family, but something close enough to survive the road ahead.

“You know, you should wear your seatbelt,” Rogue said, breaking the tense silence that had settled in the truck.

Logan glanced sideways at her, the edge in his voice unmistakable. “Hey, look, kid, I don’t need advice on auto safety–”

Before he could finish, the truck lurched violently as it crashed headlong into a fallen tree, the impact cutting him off mid-sentence. The force sent Logan hurtling through the windshield, shattering glass in every direction. Your heart pounded as you braced against the dashboard, barely processing the chaos.

By the time you gathered your senses, you could already see Logan slowly standing up outside, a deep gouge in his face knitting itself back together as his healing factor kicked in.

“You guys alright?” His voice, gruff but steady, called out.

You nodded, shaken but unhurt, though your eyes immediately darted to Rogue. She was clearly panicking, her hands gripping the seat tightly. “I’m stuck!” she shouted, her voice rising with fear.

Logan’s attention snapped to something behind you. His nose twitched, and his expression darkened, eyes narrowing as he sniffed the air. That familiar, unnerving look crossed his face—the one that always signalled danger.

“Lo?” you asked cautiously, fear creeping into your voice as his claws suddenly unsheathed with a menacing snikt.

Before you could react, a massive figure lunged out of the darkness, crashing into Logan with bone-crushing force and throwing him into a nearby tree. The sickening sound of the impact echoed in the night.

“Logan!” You screamed, heart racing. Instinctively, you scrambled to get out of the truck, but your attention shifted to the trailer, where flames were already licking at the edges. Rogue needed help, and fast.

You turned back to her, torn between rushing to Logan’s side or getting Rogue to safety. The loud, bone-rattling sound of Logan’s body slamming onto the roof of the truck made your decision for you. You forced yourself to trust that Logan would be okay—he always was.

The fire roared louder, and the truck groaned under the heat, its metal frame straining. You leaned over toward Rogue, your voice trying to sound calm despite the chaos. “It’s gonna be okay, I’ve got you.”

Panic flared in Rogue’s eyes, but she nodded, her breath coming in shallow gasps. The fire cast eerie shadows, growing brighter as the situation worsened. You kept trying to reassure her, working quickly to free her from the seatbelt.

Suddenly, the sound of gunfire erupted, and you spotted two figures in the distance. A beam of energy shot toward the towering man attacking Logan, sending him flying back. Your heart pounded harder—whoever they were, they were helping.

Just as you managed to loosen Rogue’s seatbelt, the truck door was ripped open. A man stood there, his face set with determination. Without a word, he shot a beam of red light from his eyes, severing the seatbelt in one clean hit. His presence was commanding, and there was no time to question it.

“Come on!” he shouted, pulling you and Rogue free just as the truck exploded behind you. The force of the blast sent heat and debris in every direction, but you were already clear, tumbling into the dirt with Rogue at your side.

The hum of the jet’s engines filled the cabin, but it did little to calm your nerves. Logan lay on a stretcher nearby, still unconscious, his usual tough exterior softened by sleep. His face was unmarred now, thanks to his healing factor, but you could sense the tension still lingering in the air. You sat beside him, your hand resting on his arm, grounding yourself in the steady rise and fall of his chest.

Across from you, Rogue sat stiffly in her seat, her wide eyes darting between the unfamiliar figures in the cockpit. The man behind the controls—Cyclops—glanced back occasionally, his visor hiding any readable expression. The woman beside him, with striking white hair and an air of quiet calm, gave you a reassuring smile before turning her attention back to the flight.

You could feel the tension building in your chest. The silence was heavy, and finally, you couldn't hold back any longer. “Where are you taking us?” you asked, your voice sharper than intended. Your protective instincts were on high alert.

Storm turned her chair slightly to face you, her tone gentle but firm. “We’re taking you to a safe place—the X-Mansion. You’ll be protected there.”

You frowned, glancing down at Logan before meeting her eyes again. “Protected from what? Who are you people?”

Cyclops turned slightly in his seat, his posture rigid. “We’re mutants, like you and Logan. We’re part of the X-Men—a group that helps others like us.”

Your grip on Logan’s arm tightened slightly, a defensive reaction to the unknown. “And how do you know so much about us?” you asked, your voice edged with suspicion. You hadn’t trusted anyone in years, especially not people who seemed to know more than they were letting on.

Storm met your gaze, her expression softening with understanding. “We’ve been monitoring unusual activity involving mutants in the area. Logan’s powers—his healing factor, his claws—aren’t exactly subtle, and neither are yours. We knew you’d eventually need help.”

Your stomach twisted uneasily at the thought of being watched. “So, what—you’ve just been spying on us?”

Cyclops shook his head, his tone steady but firm. “It’s not like that. We monitor for mutant activity because we’ve seen what happens when people like us get caught by the wrong hands. We’re trying to prevent that from happening to you.”

Your eyes narrowed, scepticism flaring. “You mean like the people who attacked us?”

“Exactly,” Storm said softly. “There are people out there—organisations—that hunt mutants. They want to control us, or worse, eliminate us. We’ve seen it happen.”

The words hit harder than you expected, the reality of what she was saying sinking in. You and Logan had been on the run for so long, always keeping a low profile, always expecting the next fight. But somehow, they had still found you.

Rogue, sensing the tension in the air, shifted in her seat. “So… this mansion,” she asked tentatively, “what is it, like a school?”

Storm nodded, her expression softening as she addressed Rogue. “Yes, it’s a school where mutants learn to control their powers. But it’s also a home, a place where you don’t have to hide who you are.”

Rogue’s eyes lit up slightly at the idea. “That sounds… kind of nice,” she murmured, clearly intrigued by the thought of not having to be afraid of her own abilities.

You, on the other hand, remained wary. “And what about Logan?” you pressed, your gaze flicking back to him. “What happens to him?”

Cyclops turned in his seat to face you fully. “Logan will be safe. Professor Xavier—he’s the one who runs the school—can help him. He’s helped a lot of us.”

“Help him how?” you asked, brow furrowing. You had spent years watching Logan battle with the fragments of his memory, struggling to piece together the life he could barely remember. The idea of someone messing with his mind didn’t sit right with you.

“Xavier’s a telepath,” Storm explained, her voice gentle. “He can help Logan recover memories, if that’s what he wants.”

Your stomach twisted again at the thought of someone digging through Logan’s head, dredging up things that might be better left forgotten. “And what if he doesn’t want to remember?” you asked, your voice softer now, almost pleading.

“That’s his choice,” Cyclops said simply. “We’re not forcing him into anything. But at least he’ll have the chance to decide.”

You glanced down at Logan, his usually sharp, focused expression softened in sleep. The thought of him having answers, of finally putting the pieces together, was tempting, but the risks felt too high.

Rogue’s voice broke through your thoughts. “So… there’s more of us? At the mansion?”

Storm smiled, her eyes warm. “Yes. There are students and teachers—others like you who are learning to control their abilities.”

Rogue looked over at you, her expression hopeful, and you offered her a small nod, though your own uncertainty still weighed heavily on you. “Maybe it’s not so bad after all,” she said quietly, more to herself than anyone.

You weren’t so sure. Trust didn’t come easily, especially after so many years of running, hiding, and fighting to survive. But as the jet sped through the sky, you couldn’t help but wonder—maybe, just maybe, this place could offer something different. Something better.

Your hand squeezed Logan’s gently, your thumb brushing over his knuckles as the X-Mansion came into view through the jet’s window.

You sat in Charles Xavier’s office, the weight of the past few hours pressing down on your chest. The polished wood desk, the rows of ancient books, and the stillness of the room seemed surreal, a stark contrast to the chaos you had barely escaped. Your thoughts wandered to Logan, who was being monitored in the basement by Jean Grey. You hated being apart from him after everything that had happened.

The door creaked open, and instinctively, your head shot up. Logan stepped into the room, looking a bit out of place in black sweatpants and an oversized X-Men sweater, half-zipped and worn without a shirt. His eyes immediately scanned the room, searching for you, and when they found you, the tension in his shoulders eased.

You stood up from your chair and crossed the room to meet him halfway. The second you were within reach, Logan pulled you into a firm embrace, his arms wrapping around you tightly as if confirming you were real, safe. His grip was strong, a little desperate, and you could feel the exhaustion radiating from him.

“You okay?” he murmured, his voice low and rough, but thick with concern.

You pressed your face against his chest, the familiar warmth of him grounding you. “I’m fine,” you whispered. “What about you?”

Logan pulled back just enough to look down at you, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from your face. His eyes searched yours, lingering for a moment longer than usual, as if ensuring you were truly unharmed. “I’m alright,” he said softly, but his expression tightened. “Where’s the girl?” he asked, referring to Rogue.

“Rogue? She’s here, safe,” Charles answered calmly from behind his desk.

Logan’s attention snapped to Charles, his brows furrowing. “Really?”

Before you could say anything else, the door opened again. Two people entered—one a tall man with a visor, the other a striking woman with white hair. Their expressions were calm, but serious, a contrast to the light banter you often shared with Logan.

Charles wheeled forward slightly, gesturing to them. “Ah, Logan, I’d like you to meet Ororo Munroe, also known as Storm, and Scott Summers, also called Cyclops.”

You smiled at them in recognition, offering a small, polite hello. They nodded back, their gazes assessing but not unfriendly.

Another figure walked in behind them, a woman with red hair and a composed presence.

“And I believe you’ve already met Dr. Jean Grey,” Charles added with a faint smile.

Logan gave a nod but remained guarded, his eyes following Jean as she moved to stand next to Charles.

“You’re in my school for the gifted,” Charles continued. “For mutants. You’ll be safe here from Magneto.”

Logan crossed his arms over his chest, his scepticism apparent. “What’s a Magneto?” The question came out almost simultaneously from both you and Logan, and you shared a small look.

Charles didn't seem fazed by the interruption. “He’s a very powerful mutant who believes a war is brewing between mutants and the rest of humanity.”

Logan rolled his eyes. “Sounds like a real stand-up guy.”

Charles pressed on, his voice measured. “I’ve been following his activities for some time. The man who attacked you is one of his associates—someone known as Sabretooth.”

Logan’s brow shot up at that, and a short, disbelieving laugh escaped him. “Sabretooth?” His tone dripped with sarcasm as he turned toward Storm, pointing at her with a click of his tongue, “Storm.”

He shifted his gaze to Charles, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What do they call you? Wheels?”

A brief silence hung in the air as Logan’s remark settled. You shot him a look, trying to rein in the humour bubbling up, but his teasing was a small relief after the stress of the day.

Charles, unflappable, merely smiled. But Logan wasn’t done. “This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. With a quick glance at you, he grabbed your hand and tugged you toward the door. “Come on, let’s get outta here.”

Before you could even react, Scott stepped into Logan’s path, blocking the exit. Logan immediately dropped your hand and squared off with Scott, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him closer.

“Cyclops, right? You wanna get out of my way?” Logan growled, his voice low and dangerous.

“Logan, stop,” you urged, stepping forward and reaching for his arm. “Just hear him out, okay?”

Logan’s jaw tightened, his muscles coiling as if he was ready for a fight, but he stayed still. You could feel the tension between him and Scott, thick in the air.

Before things could escalate, Charles spoke again, his voice calm but firm. “Logan,” he said quietly, his tone cutting through the room. “It’s been almost 15 years, hasn’t it? Living from day to day, moving from place to place, with no memory of who or what you are.”

Logan’s grip on Scott loosened, his expression shifting. “Shut up,” he muttered, his voice wavering ever so slightly.

Charles didn’t stop. “Give me a chance,” he said gently. “I may be able to help you find some answers.”

Logan looked over at you, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. “How do you know?” he asked, his voice low but edged with vulnerability.

Instead of answering aloud, Charles’ voice echoed in Logan’s mind. You could see the brief flash of shock on his face as he realised what had just happened.

Logan blinked, the hard edges of his expression softening into a mix of curiosity and disbelief. “What is this place?” he asked, a faint, bemused grin tugging at his lips.

Charles smiled kindly. “Come,” he said, gesturing to both of you. “I’ll show you two around.”

Mars speaks... (again) guess who finally updated!! Any and all feedback is always appreciated🫶

Tags... @annagraceevanss @jane-the-virgin0 @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @paintlavillered @morganas-pendragons @lanabobana @inthetub @kellyxo1 @lillycore @twinky-wink @politicstanner @emiemiemiii @savy-luvs-dilfs @charlyrmv @rockerchick05 @londonbeachgirl @lefroggie @swthxrrry @marifilue @th3mrskory @aesthetic0cherryblossom

#logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett fanfiction #wolverine #wolverine x reader #hugh jackman #x men #deadpool and wolverine #fanfiction #mini series #Scars of Time #reidsworld

56 notes · View notes