#Math Lab answers

[peapod20001]

I didn’t realize how many songs from The Offspring I liked until my brother sat near playing me multiple in a row lol

[rongloa]

𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢’𝐦 𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐭 (𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮) — m.grayson oneshot

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲. being mark’s best friend has always been difficult, he’s a nerd. but when he suddenly starts disappearing mid-hangout you can’t figure out what you’ve done wrong.

𝐰𝐜. 4.5k

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭. you’re acting like a doormat again, generous use of angst, big misunderstandings, feelings of abandonment, mark being a dickhead and not realising what he’s been doing is hurting you, swearing, and then they kiss, after arguing though

𝐚/𝐧. i actually had so much fun writing this darling ( @flwrch1d ), thank you sm! it’s not a lot but i tried my hardest for you 💪🏽

Before everything, it was always the three of you.

You, Mark, and William — the trio glued together by years of inside jokes, movie marathons, and a shared cafeteria table that was somehow always sticky. But really, it was you and Mark who were inseparable.

It wasn’t weird, not to either of you. It just was. Movie nights that turned into sleepovers on the couch. Falling asleep with your head on his shoulder while he quietly changed the TV volume. Late-night walks with no destination, sharing earbuds and arguing over which Studio Ghibli movie was objectively superior— you always won those types of arguments.

He wasn’t exactly popular, but Mark had that quiet, harmless kind of presence that didn’t invite trouble. He wasn’t the smartest, a little awkward, one of those nerds no one hated but no one really hung out with either—excluding you and Will.

But you were his person. The first one he texted when something stupid happened in math class. The one who knew what his hoodie smelled like and the kind of cereal he ate when he was stressed. You made space for him in your life without even thinking. And for a while, it felt like he made space for you too.

But then things changed.

Slowly at first. One missed hangout. Then another. Then a week where he barely answered your texts. He started looking tired all the time — eyes rimmed red, shoulders tense like he was bracing for something invisible. You asked if he was okay. He’d smile, say “just tired,” and change the subject to the newest Seance Dog comic.

You started doing more things without him. William did too. The table at lunch got quieter. Your weekends got longer.

And then you met Daniel.

It was dumb — your pen ran out of ink in chem lab, and he offered you his like it was a grand gesture. He had an easy confidence to him, the kind that wasn’t trying too hard. Funny, in a smug but charming way. You told him a joke Mark once made and Daniel actually laughed. And for a second, it felt nice. Like being seen again.

You never meant to start spending so much time with him.

But Daniel texted back. He showed up when he said he would, at that cafe you and Mark used to go to religiously. He didn’t vanish without explanation. And when you smiled at him, he looked at you like he knew exactly what it meant.

The hardest part? Mark didn’t fight it. He didn’t ask where you were going. He didn’t stop you. He just watched— from across the hallway, across the lunchroom—with that Mark Grayson-specific look on his face.

You’d convinced yourself he didn’t care. But that wasn’t Mark, not at all.

It still hurt, walking past his locker and seeing him laugh at something William said, only to fall quiet the second he noticed you looking.

It all started small.

Daniel offers to walk you to class one day when Mark doesn’t show up in the morning. You’re used to that by now — used to watching your phone screen go dim, unread texts hanging in your chest like anchors on sewing thread. Daniel doesn’t make excuses. He’s just there. Warm smile. Easy laughter. He knows your coffee order, knows you hate the sound of metal chairs scraping on tile. He starts waiting for you outside of lecture halls. Offers you half his lunch.

And you let him.

Because he makes you feel noticed. Present. Not like someone left on the back burner while other things pop up.

It’s not like you mean to pull away from him. Or William, for that matter. It’s just… easier, sometimes. Being around Daniel means no tight smiles, no dodging questions, no waiting for at least a ‘still alive’ text.

Still, every now and then — when Daniel says something funny and you laugh without thinking — you catch Mark watching.

He doesn’t say anything. He never does. But his eyes follow you like he’s trying to decode a language he forgot how to read.

It happens during second period.

You’re in the back row of your history class, seated beside Daniel like you have been for the past few weeks. Mark’s two rows ahead, and slightly to the left — close enough that you can see the curve of his jaw, the way he keeps tapping his pencil against his notebook, like he’s itching to be anywhere else. He always did hate Mr. Jace.

You try not to look. Or at least, not to be caught looking. But it’s hard. Not when a muscle flutters in his jaw like he’s thinking about anything but the Industrial Revolution.

Daniel leans closer, nudging your elbow with his. It snaps you away from Mark, away from the thought of Mark’s hair being longer than it was last time you hung out. Your heart stutters, is he gonna call you out?

“Tell me again why this guy thinks he can teach history through interpretive dance?” Oh.

You snort. It slips out before you can stop it—and for a second, you forget.

“That’s what I used to say to Mark all the time,” you say, grinning. “W–we had this running joke that Mr. Jace choreographed the French Revolution.”

You glance back towards your best friend—your old one—before you can help yourself.

He’s frozen. Completely still.

His pencil is hovering mid-air over the page, like he’s paused in the middle of writing. You see his shoulders stiffen — just barely — and then he presses the pencil tip to the paper hard enough that it snaps. The sound is small, but you feel it in the way Mark’s fingers tremble. In the way those brown hues are cast down straight at the shards of graphite scattered on his book.

He doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t even flinch at the fact he just crushed a pencil in his fingers. Just calmly gets up, gathers his things, and walks out of the classroom without a word.

You blink. Flinching at the way he slams the door shut behind him. Little wooden bits scatter onto the floor, and a girl at the back of the class shrieks.

The teacher didn’t even notice he left, but he damn well does now.

Your heart starts pounding.

Daniel nudges you again, quieter this time. “Hey… what was that about? Is he okay?”

You shake your head slowly, the joke dying in your throat. “I don’t— I don’t know.”

But you do. You just don’t want to say it.

Because you remember that joke. The dumb one about Mr. Jace tap-dancing through history. Mark used to do it with a fake accent, arms waving dramatically in your living room until you were wheezing with laughter in the throw blanket Mark brought over. It was your little thing, one of many.

And now you’d handed it off — just like that.

You glance back at the door again, chipped at the edges and swinging on its hinges, as Mr Jace huffs and puffs in all his red-faced glory.

The hallway is empty.

You don’t see Mark after that class.

You check the hallway. The stairwell. Even the front entrance of the school where he sometimes stands, where he used to wait for you.

Nothing.

You tell yourself it’s fine. That maybe he just needed air. That he wasn’t angry, just overwhelmed. But the lie tastes bitter, and your phone feels impossibly heavy in your fingers. You glance up at your chem teacher—an older lady with large lensed glasses, she’s too nice for this school—then back at the screen. It’s a selfie of Will and you at Burger Mart, Mark standing behind the counter with your order held out like the world sent him a punishment in the form of his friends. You miss them, both of them. You breathe out a half-sigh half-laugh.

Swallowing your stupid sorrow, you unlock it.

You open your messages and stare at your last conversation with him—from nearly two weeks ago.

You: did you wanna go for lunch at that new cafe today?

You: markkkkk?

You: we can go somewhere else if you want

All left on read. You didn’t say anything after that, didn’t wanna bother him. Maybe he was finally moving on. Better friends or something.

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard. You type something. Delete it. Type again. Biting at your nail as you resist the urge to rip it off entirely.

Finally, you send:

you okay? i saw you leave class

Three dots appear. You sit up straighter, heart kicking like it’s on a timer. You spare a glance at Miss Lily to make sure she hasn’t caught you.

They vanished.

No reply. No message. No explanation.

Just that haunting “Read 2:33 pm” stamp glowing beneath your text like a ghost.

You shove your phone back into your pocket, frustration and something deeper rising in your throat. You sit back into your chair too hard, making the metal legs scrape across the scratchy linoleum, staring at the ceiling like the answer might be written in the cracks.

“You alright?”

“Yeah, I’m all good Danny.”

It doesn’t stop you from thinking about him.

It’s worse at night. When the house is still and your phone’s gone quiet. You replay old voice messages—ones you never deleted, where he’s laughing too hard at his own joke or asking you where you are that time you got lost in the shopping mall.

You see him everywhere, too. In the hoodie at the back of your closet that still smells like popcorn and the cologne he used to borrow from his dad. In the half-empty slushie cup in your freezer from the last time he showed up unannounced and dragged you to 7-Eleven “just because.”

You sit at your lunch table now with Daniel sometimes. William stopped sitting with you last week. You don’t blame him. It’s not the same. Maybe Mark said something.

And the worst part is that you still look for him—in the hallways, at his locker, in the corners of your classrooms where he always slouched like the chairs offended him personally. Horrible posture even for a teenage boy. You tell yourself you don’t care. That if he wants to ghost you, fine.

But you do care.

You care so much it feels like grief.

And every time you check your phone, you still hope the read receipt disappears—replaced by something that feels like him again.

The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the pavement as you and Daniel make your way down the neighborhood sidewalk, your steps syncing in that easy, casual rhythm that comes from walking the same way more than a few times.

Your backpack digs into your shoulder, but you walk slower than usual. You’ve been doing that a lot lately. Drawing out the silence between things. Trying to outrun your own thoughts.

He’s talking about something—a goofy movie, maybe, or how the vending machine still owes him two dollars and a grudge match. You nod along, offering the right laughs at the right places, but your heart’s not really in it. Hasn’t been, not lately.

Because your mind keeps flickering back to Mark.

To that pencil snap in class. To the unread messages. To the way he looked at you like you were a stranger.

Daniel notices your quiet. He always does. For a guy he’s a bit too in tune with your inner workings.

He nudges your arm gently. “You’ve been kinda spacey today.”

You force a smile. “Yeah, just tired. Long week.”

He buys it. Or at least pretends to. “Well, you sure you don’t want me to walk you all the way home?”

“I’ll be fine,” you say, slowing as you reach the corner where his street splits off. “Thanks, though.”

He hesitates, like he wants to say more, then just nods. “Alright. Text me, okay?”

You nod and wave as he heads off, then slide your headphones on, turning up the volume just enough to fill the empty space.

The music cushions your walk—from the odd 80’s song to something stupidly sad that you skip because you can’t handle that right now, to ‘Get down on it’ by Kool and the Gang of all things.

You laugh at that switch up, you remember that one time Will, and Mark, were playing blind karaoke and Will somehow, out of all the songs in the world, began singing Pitbull. You were dying on the couch, quite literally. You choked on one of the sour strips you were eating. Mark fell over himself trying to save the day. He did end up saving the day and ending your near-death experience, your ribs were so sore that night.

Your shoes crunch along the sidewalk. Your fingers trail over the stray flower bushes as you pass. You miss those dumb little sleepovers you used to all have. It makes you miss the group.

What you don’t notice, is the footsteps behind you.

Not until you reach your gate—the familiar squeaky latch already at the tips of your fingers—when a haggard voice cuts through the one quiet song in your playlist.

“Please wait!”

You freeze, nearly like a deer in headlight.

Your heart does a strange, sharp flip. He’s a little breathless, like he jogged to catch up, hands tapping at the sides of his sweater you know better than your own. He looks bigger, or maybe the sweater’s gotten smaller. You can’t tell. You slip your headphones off, scratching at the stupid little sticker he put onto it.

His brows are furrowed like he’s barely holding it together. His lip is split—not badly, but enough that you notice.

He’s standing at the edge of your driveway, chest rising and falling like he ran the last block to catch you. His hair’s a little messy, wind-tousled. There’s a quiet desperation in his eyes—the kind that makes your own throat tighten.

“I need to talk to you,” Those bay brown eyes you missed so much flickering all over your face. “Please.”

You stare at him for a second.

Then push open the gate, you take two steps in and when you don’t hear him behind you, you simply turn. Tugging at the loose threads of your cardigan as you watch him. Finally, finally he’s here and you don’t know what to say, or how to feel. So you spit out the first thing you can think of, the way you used to talk to him. Like slipping back into normalcy.

“You coming, or what?”

He blinks like you’ve just broken whatever trance had him frozen in place, then finally moves—quick strides crunching over the cement path behind you. The two of you slip through the side gate like you used to—like nothing’s changed, like the silence between you hasn’t cracked the foundation. The gate creaks shut with that familiar metallic whine, and the two of you are alone in the backyard.

The sky has moved slowly into dusk. The sky’s already dipped into shades of gold and lavender, the edges of the day softening like bruises fading. The backyard is lit by the warm glow of the string lights above flickering to life as they sense the dark. You’d put them up with Mark last spring, threading them between the beams with both your hands dirty from potting soil and pruning the gardens. Your hanging plants sway gently in the breeze—ivy and succulents and little flowering herbs you’ve been nursing for months. Longer than all this stuff, has been happening. Ferns and ivy hang from every corner.

Little ceramic pots painted by hand line the railing, overflowing with green and bursts of colour that slowly blur with the darkening of the sky.

It smells like rosemary and fresh dirt.

Mark lingers by the patio entrance as you step up onto the wood, slipping off your shoes before curling up into one of the cushioned chairs closest to the back door. You don’t invite him to sit. You don’t have to. You know he loves these chairs, not as much as you, but still.

He doesn’t, at first. Just stands there, watching you like you’re the only thing right this moment.

You break the silence. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

For a moment, a singular breath between you both, the only sound is the hum of the lights and the soft creak of the wind swaying hanging pots.

He exhales through his nose.

“I’m sorry.”

You cross your arms, eyes fixed on a chipped piece of the wooden patio floor. “For what?”

“For avoiding you, for not answering, for all this stuff that I’ve done.” He pauses, toeing at a stray leaf. He can’t even look at you as he says it. “I just want us to go back to normal.”

You laugh.

Not because it’s funny, but because it’s the only thing stopping your throat from closing. A dry, bitter thing that makes Mark’s shoulders tense.

“Normal?” you echo, your voice sharp. “Mark, you haven’t even spoken to me in weeks.”

“I know,” he says quickly, eyes snapping up. “I know, okay? But it wasn’t because I didn’t care—”

“Then what was it?” you cut in. “Because from where I was sitting, it sure as hell felt like you just didn’t want me around anymore.”

“I was trying to protect you!” he fires back, louder than you expected. He catches himself, fingers curling so hard his knuckles turn white. “God, I didn’t want to drag you into—into the danger, the pressure. I thought if I just… let you go a little, you’d be safer.”

“That’s not your decision to make,” Your voice starts to shake now. “You say you’ll meet me and you don’t show up. You never explain anything, you just disappear. You don’t get to disappear, an—and then act like we can just snap back to what we were.”

“I was doing my best!” He starts pacing toward the edge of the patio. “You don’t know what it’s like, okay? Balancing everything. Trying to be there for everyone and still not being enough.”

“And you think I don’t know what that feels like?” You’re on your feet now too, arms at your sides, fingers curled into fists. “I’ve been showing up for you, Mark. Even when you wouldn’t answer me. Even when it felt like I was screaming into a void just hoping for one text back.”

His jaw flexes. He turns, hands gripping the railing, back to you.

“I didn’t know what to say.”

You stare at him, your voice dropping, cracking. Like one of the pots he dropped when you were painting them.

“You could’ve said anything.”

The string lights buzz quietly above, casting halos around the plants you’ve poured your heart into, into him. The air feels heavier now, thicker, like it’s trying to hold the weight of everything that’s never been said between you.

“I felt like you hated me,” you say. “Like I did something wrong.”

He turns then, his eyes wide, like the idea guts him. “No. God—no. I never hated you.”

“Well, you sure made it feel that way.”

He’s breathing harder now, chest rising and falling like he’s been running, but this time, it’s not from chasing you down the block. It’s from running in circles inside his own head. And you’re just… tired.

“You don’t get to play the victim in this,” you say, quieter now, but firmer. “You ghosted me. You left. And you only came back when you saw someone else being there for me.”

That hits. You see it land, like a real punch.

His lips part like he wants to argue, but no words come out. So you just stare at him. And wait.

Because if this is going to mean anything at all—he needs to mean it.

“I was trying to protect you.”

“Bullshit,” you snap.

The word hangs in the air between you, sharp and ugly. You don’t regret saying it.

He doesn’t look away, doesn’t glance out at the garden. “You don’t get it. I couldn’t tell you. Not then.”

“Why not? What could possibly be so bad that you’d rather have me thinking you hated me?”

He chews on his words, opening his mouth more than once, it makes you angry. He can’t even find a good reason. Right as you’re about to start up again, he blurts it out. “Because I’m Invincible.”

Silence.

The word falls like a nuclear bomb in a suburb.

You stare at him.

“What?”

Mark steps closer, eyes flicking over your face like he’s watching you come apart. “I’m Invincible. The superhero. That’s where I’ve been. That’s why I leave. That’s why I’ve been gone.”

You’re frozen. Your lips part, but nothing comes out.

“I didn’t want to drag you into it,” He’s jumping all over his words, speaking so fast it hurts your brain as you try and figure out, how? “I thought if I distanced myself, if I cut it off before it got serious, I’d be keeping you safe. But I was wrong. I just hurt you.”

You don’t say anything at first. You can’t. The boy you grew up with is a superhero? Invincible? He was scared of cockroaches. How—how could, why could— your brain muddles and flips.

Your chest feels like it’s caving in—everything you’ve been holding back for weeks, maybe months, starts clawing its way out of you in shallow breaths and a pressure behind your eyes that refuses to stop building.

“I thought you hated me,” you whisper.

Mark’s face crumples. “What? No. No, I—”

But it’s too late. Your throat tightens and the tears start falling, hot and fast. Not the kind you can wipe away and pretend never happened—these are ugly sobs. The kind that rip out of your chest in pieces, leaving your voice shaking and your hands trembling. You try to cover your face, embarrassed, but your body won’t stop heaving.

“All this time,” you gasp, “I thought I did something wrong. I thought I pushed you away or—God, something. You stopped texting back, you’d look right through me, and I kept trying to pretend it didn’t hurt but it did, Mark. It did, and you didn’t even say anything.”

Mark’s already moving before you finish—stepping forward, arms wrapping around you with a desperation that almost knocks the wind out of you. You don’t fight it. You collapse into him, fists gripping the front of his sweater, sobbing into his shoulder like you’ve been carrying this pain in silence for way too long. You have been.

“I didn’t hate you,” he whispers, over and over again, holding you like the world is ending. “I never hated you. I thought you’d be safer if I stayed away. But it just made everything worse. I’m so, so sorry.”

His voice breaks at the end.

You cling to him like you’re scared he’ll vanish again, shaking with all the weight of what’s gone unsaid. He just holds you tighter, like he needs you just as badly.

“I missed you,” you manage through the tears, voice muffled by his shoulder. “I kept waiting for you to come back.”

“I’m here,” Mark whispers, forehead pressing to yours as he holds you so lovingly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You sniffle, the sound ugly and wet and real, like everything else.

His thumb catches a tear slipping down your cheek. You open your eyes, and his are right there—wet and glistening, holding yours like they never stopped trying.

“I’ve been in love with you since the day you made me sit through that terrible romcom and you cried harder than the main character,” he says softly, lips curved with the smallest, saddest smile you’ve ever seen on him. “And I didn’t even care that it sucked because you were leaning on me the whole time.”

You let out a watery laugh, tears still spilling, and he cups your face gently, reverently, like you’re made of glass and starlight and a thousand things he almost lost.

“I didn’t know how to be both,” he murmurs. “A hero and myself. But every time I was out there—saving people, fighting monsters, almost dying—I just wanted to come back.”

You reach up and hold his wrists, holding him now. “You should’ve told me.”

“I know,” he breathes. “I was scared.”

“So was I.”

He leans in, foreheads still touching, your breath shared under the fairy lights of your backyard. The rosemary sways in the breeze, brushing against your leg like a memory.

“I love you,” he whispers.

You let out a broken sound—half sob, half laugh. “Say it again.”

He smiles through his tears, nose brushing yours. “I love you.”

And this time, when he kisses you, it’s like the sadness finally gives. It’s messy and tear-soaked and trembling, and everything you both have been holding back for too long. His hands are in your hair, yours around his neck, and the kiss is so, so soft but aching—like the words he couldn’t say finally found a way out. It’s messy, so messy but you need this. Need him.

When you break apart, foreheads still pressed together, you whisper, “I love you too.”

You don’t need to ask if he’s staying. You already know the answer.

.

[cressidagrey]

Lessons in Math (and Humility)

Welcome to Mysterious Mrs Piastri's Mondays. Apparently this is a thing now. (Ever since I hear that interview where Kimi was asked which subjects he's scared off an the answer was Math, I knew I was gonna write this.)

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: Kimi Antonelli thought he could handle anything — race cars, pressure, a wet track…but his math homework may destroy him. Enter Bee Piastri. 

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

Kimi Antonelli didn’t ask for help lightly.

Especially not with math.

He was a racing driver, not an idiot. He could handle telemetry, fuel loads, braking calculations, tyre degradation graphs — all of it — without blinking. He’d memorized braking points at Spa, figured out fuel maps on the fly, and survived radio calls with engineers who thought “you’re fine” covered every possible scenario.

He was good at numbers. At racing numbers.

But this assignment?

This nightmare of partial derivatives and matrix transformations?

It stared at him from his tablet like a personal attack, every line of notation a new insult to his intelligence.

After twenty minutes of glaring at it — tapping his pen, checking his notes, checking them again as if they might have magically rewritten themselves — Kimi finally let out a groan of pure, unfiltered despair.

He flopped face-first onto the hospitality couch, tablet slipping from his hands onto the seat beside him.

Without lifting his head, he announced, voice muffled against the cushions: “I’m going to fail math and bring shame to the entire grid.”

The nearest breathing human — unfortunately — was Ollie Bearman, who looked up from where he was very happily slurping a suspiciously neon smoothie.

Ollie raised an eyebrow. “What’s the problem?”

Kimi lifted one arm limply and waved the tablet in the air like a white flag of surrender.

“This. Derivatives. Partial equations. I don’t know. Numbers are evil.”

Ollie blinked once. Then grinned — the kind of grin that meant he was enjoying Kimi’s suffering way too much.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “Arthur Leclerc almost failed stats back in F3.”

Kimi turned his head enough to squint at him. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. Like, barely passed.”

Kimi perked up slightly, seizing onto the news like a lifeline. If Arthur — who had a literal racing dynasty backing him — struggled, maybe there was hope for the rest of them.

“How’d he survive?” Kimi asked, sitting up slightly.

Ollie’s grin widened.

“Oscar.”

Kimi stared at him. “Piastri?”

“Yep. Quiet nerd back at Prema. Absolute lifesaver. Helped Arthur cram for finals and everything.”

Kimi narrowed his eyes. He thought about Oscar: quiet, steady, terrifyingly good at everything he touched, like someone had programmed him in a lab.

Of course Oscar would have hidden superpowers. Of course.

Kimi hesitated, pride warring with desperation.

And then sighed dramatically, letting his head thunk back against the couch.

“Fine,” he said. “Find me Piastri. I have no pride left.”

Which was how, ten minutes later, they ended up with Oscar Piastri sitting cross-legged in the McLaren motorhome, frowning deeply at Kimi’s tablet like it had personally offended him.

“Okay,” Oscar muttered, squinting, “it’s not impossible. It’s just badly worded.”

Kimi leaned forward, full of hope — desperate, grasping hope.

Maybe this would be fine. Maybe Oscar Piastri — quiet, unflappable, secret nerd of Prema lore — could fix this disaster.

Five minutes later, that hope was dead.

Oscar exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’m going to be honest with you, mate: I have no idea what they’re asking for.”

Kimi flailed, waving his hands like he could physically summon better news. “But you saved Arthur! You’re the math guy!”

Oscar held up a hand, grimacing. “That was basic stats, Kimi. You know, averages. Standard deviations. This—” he pointed at the tablet like it might bite him, “—this is multivariable calculus meets actual sadism.”

Ollie Bearman, who had been perched nearby pretending not to watch the trainwreck unfold, snorted into his water bottle.

Oscar sighed again, this time reaching for his phone.

“No—” Kimi said, panicked, feeling his dignity slipping further into the abyss. “Don’t call someone. Don’t bother anyone. I’ll just fail and move to a cabin in the woods, it’s fine—”

Oscar was already dialing.

“Relax,” he said, calm as anything. “Felicity’s here. She likes this stuff.”

Five minutes later, Felicity Piastri wandered into the motorhome.

Kimi had seen her around the paddock plenty of times over the last year.

The first two things he’d learned about Oscar’s wife were simple:

1. She was tiny and startlingly pretty — the kind of pretty that could probably kill a man if she wanted to.

2. If Felicity Piastri was somewhere, Bee Piastri, Oscar’s terrifyingly adorable four-year-old daughter, was never far behind.

Today was no exception.

Bee marched in beside her mother, two neat pigtails bouncing with every step, each tied with papaya-colored bobbles (a detail that felt almost aggressively on-brand). A stuffed frog plushie dangled from one hand, like a trusted battle companion.

Both of them — Felicity and Bee — looked unfairly bright and well-rested for how emotionally wounded Kimi felt.

Oscar, completely unbothered by the incoming reinforcements, handed Felicity the tablet without preamble.

She glanced at it. Paused. Then blinked slowly.

“You’re all stumped by this?” she asked, her voice dripping with mild disbelief.

Kimi wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

“It’s the notation!” he blurted defensively. “And the question’s vague! And the examples were misleading!”

Felicity tilted her head, looking at him with the kind of fond pity reserved for particularly slow puppies. “It’s literally just a chain rule application with a matrix shortcut.”

“That’s not helping!” Ollie said, muffled into the crook of his elbow where he was laughing himself into an early grave.

Meanwhile, Bee had clambered neatly onto Oscar’s lap without hesitation, perching herself like a queen surveying her court. Kimi noticed absently how Oscar automatically shifted to make room for her — steadying her with one hand, pressing a soft kiss to her temple like it was muscle memory.

“Mama, is it hard?” Bee asked, peering at the tablet with great seriousness.

Felicity smiled. “Not really. But it’s annoying.”

Bee thought about that for a second. Then squared her tiny shoulders like she was preparing for battle.

“Can I try?” she asked.

Oscar sighed deeply. “Bee, it’s complicated—”

But Bee was already moving, plucking the tablet from his hand like it was no big deal, mumbling to herself under her breath.

“Okay, so you take this one first because it’s inside the brackets... and then you swap the middle bits because that’s the rule from the blue notebook... and then you put it all together and it looks like a frog but it’s actually a plus sign.”

Kimi blinked.

Ollie blinked.

Oscar just shook his head like a man who had accepted the chaos a long time ago.

Three minutes later, Bee beamed, handed the tablet back to her mother, and swung her legs happily.

“There,” she said proudly. “Now it’s not grumpy anymore.”

Felicity leaned over, checked the solution... And grinned.

“She’s right,” she said brightly. “Great job, sweetheart!”

Oscar gave a low, half-proud, half-resigned chuckle. “Welcome to my life.”

Kimi stared at the screen.

A four-year-old. A four-year-old had solved the math problem correctly in under three minutes.

Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised. He had heard rumors last year — something about Bee spotting an issue with a McLaren suspension load calculation before any of the engineers did.

But seeing it in real time?

Devastating.

Absolutely devastating.

“I— how did you—?” Kimi stuttered, still struggling to comprehend reality.

Bee shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Mama says numbers are friends. You just have to make them sit next to each other nicely.”

Kimi blinked down at the tablet, then at Bee, then back again.

Maybe... maybe racing cars was safer. Maybe he should stick to corners and apexes where the worst that could happen was a spin, not having his soul annihilated by a toddler.

Felicity kissed the top of Bee’s head and said entirely too casually, “There you go. Courtesy of a four-year-old.”

Oscar smiled and held out a hand. “Great job, Bumblebee.”

Bee high-fived her father so hard the smack echoed around the motorhome.

Kimi slumped back into his seat, utterly defeated.

Maybe he had brought shame to the grid after all.

Later, Kimi found himself slumped in the corner of the McLaren motorhome, a half-crushed juice box in his hand — courtesy of Bee, who had handed it over solemnly “for bravery.”

The worst part?

He genuinely needed it.

He sipped the apple juice in silence, staring into the middle distance, quietly reconsidering his entire academic career.

Maybe he could just... never open a math textbook again. Maybe he could live the rest of his life solely calculating apex speeds and brake bias. Maybe if he was fast enough, no one would ever ask him to solve another derivative.

Maybe.

Across the room, Felicity leaned against the table, arms folded, smiling sweetly — the kind of sweet that definitely had shark teeth hiding underneath.

“Bee’s better at recognizing patterns than most adults,” she said casually, like she wasn’t casually shattering the egos of Formula One drivers before lunchtime. “She’s been beating Oscar at card games since she was two.”

Oscar, sitting beside Kimi and munching on a cookie he definitely hadn’t earned, patted Kimi’s shoulder with exaggerated sympathy.

“Don’t feel bad,” he said, trying — and failing — not to laugh. “She inherited her mother’s brain.”

Kimi just groaned into his hands.

It didn’t help that Bee chose that exact moment to skip past them, Button the Frog tucked securely under one arm and a packet of glittery frog-shaped stickers in the other.

She looked so pleased with herself. Completely oblivious to the devastation she had left behind. Or maybe — horrifying thought — not oblivious at all.

Kimi made a note to himself:

Never challenge Bee to anything involving numbers.

Never doubt Felicity’s terrifying brain ever again.

Maybe just stick to driving cars really fast. It was safer for his dignity.

Probably.

Maybe.

[phantomrose96]

Sham Sacrifice

(Hi it's time for my favorite headcanon)

...

Vlad Masters sat firm and proper on the Fenton Family couch, legs crossed, teacup pinched in his fingertips, fighting subtly against the sinkhole that came with the mistake of taking Jack’s usual spot on the couch. He appeared with all the same charm and delightfulness of an ant swarm rearranging your picnic.

Danny stood at the doorway, just-still-in-the-kitchen, just not inviting himself to join the adults in the living room where Jack boomed and rambled and Vlad sat so stiff and polite and nice that his tea in his hands was going cold.

“Oh, Danny you’ll love this story—Danny, you should join us—Danny this was, what, summer of ’84? When was that heatwave, Vladdy? The one where you—”

“There’s no need to bore Daniel with the mad ravings of two old kooks, Jack. Kids would rather be off at the mall or—some store, surely. No need to stick around Daniel on my behalf. I assure you I won’t be offended if you leave.”

“No worries, V-man. I’m good right here. I love hearing Dad’s stories." Danny met Vlad's challenge, speaking with more poisonous courtesy than Vlad had proffered first. "In fact I think he should tell a few more, if he’s got more in mind.”

“In fact I do have more in mind—” Jack answered.

Neither Danny nor Vlad were listening to Jack. They held eye-contact, Danny with a stern unblinkingness of a sheepdog on duty. A lot was said without words. A lot was understood when Vlad decided to visit through the front door. Vlad only used the front door when he wanted something.

And it was never good when Vlad wanted something.

“—the core reactor project, yeah? That summer? That was in the lab with no A/C. Top floor. We were sweating like pigs, all of us. And I dared you to eat the really moldy pizza from our fridge the night before and you ralphed right into—”

“—Surely you remember this more fondly than I do. Daniel, really, you can go.”

Not a chance.

“Actually,” Danny answered, brightening some as his opportunity struck. “I am interested in this. For science class I need to write a report on the invention of an important piece of technology. I was gonna ask Mom and Dad about the Ghost Portal. And now that you’re here, I can get the whole history.”

Jack made a giddy little noise. He leaned forward, words primed, but Vlad was quicker to the draw.

“Sorry to say, your faith in me is unfounded. I wasn’t the portal guy back in college—that was always your mother and father’s passion project. I was their skeptic.”

“Bet that’s got you feeling pretty foolish right now, doesn’t it V-man?” Jack chided, a quick jab to Vlad’s ribs that nearly unseated the teacup from his suspended saucer. “Considering the fully-functioning portal right beneath our toes.”

“I hardly feel foolish, Jack. Your calculation for the portal in college was never going to work.”

“What do you mean? Of course it did.” Jack thumped the ground with his foot. “It’s running the old girl right now.”

At this, Vlad’s eyes narrowed. For the first time he’d been shaken off whatever skeezy machinations had brought him in. His pride was being challenged, and by Jack no less.

“Absolutely not. With that calculation? Absolutely not.”

“Well forget the tea biscuits Vlad, because you’re going to be eating your words in a second. Mads, hold my spot,” Jack said, as if anyone was planning to take his spot. He bounced from the couch, scooted from the living room, and vanished into the dark maw of the lab stairs, leaving only the waning beat of his footsteps behind.

His absence filled only a swallowing few seconds. The footsteps returned, bounding upward, creaking with his heavy cadence, and Jack bounced back into the room in much the manner he left. A pad of yellow lined paper was clutched in his hand. When he dropped it on the coffee table, it revealed row after row of tight scribble, churning math, carrying down the page and occupying two entire pages more that Jack flipped through.

“Same baby I came up with in college. It just needed heavier dampening and higher voltage than what we made back then. The portal downstairs has that in spades. Well, in like two-thirds of a spade.” Jack tapped something on the last line. “The projection was still only hitting 70% of the threshold we calculated to reach dimension penetration. But it’s an art, not just a science. We fired it up anyway, and it took!”

Vlad grabbed the paper pad, agitated. His eyes ran over it. Then again. Until he settled on one line, a firmness overcoming his face. He tossed the pad back onto the coffee table, and Vlad leaned back into the couch, arms crossed.

“The lambda, Jack.”

“The lambda?”

“Check it again.”

Jack did, lips pursed, pad of paper nearly swallowed in his big meaty hand.

“What about--?”

“It squares. The units don’t balance otherwise. It originates from an integration step of λ*∂λ/∂t. It squares.”

Jack’s brow remained furrowed, firm, until delight cracked into his eyes, and he let out a laugh.

“Gods, my handwriting is gonna be the death of us. Mads,” he tapped something unseen on the second page. “That’s the genius of Vladdy. Cracked this puppy wide open with just a glance. I never noticed that in all my checking. That explains the missing 30%, at least. That explains how the portal took. Lucky for you Danny that Vlad was here—”

“Jack,” Maddie said.

“—your report can have the correct formula. It’ll be—”

“—Jack—”

“—A+ worthy—”

“—Jack,” Maddie said, curt. “Lambda is the ambient ecto-energy. It’s a few ten-thousandths of a unit.”

“It—huh.”

Maddie had surfaced a pen from her pocket. She sheared a few blank pages out from the back of the pad and started the formula fresh. She made quick work of copying it over, quicker work of solving it through – lambda-squared intact.

She hit the final line and hatched a pen mark beneath the number. Jack stared, confused.

“That can’t… no.”

He repeated the same. New pages torn loose. Formula copied over, processed, line by line by line—lambda squared—by line by line by line.

Jack settled on his answer. Same as Maddie’s.

Confusion made his face tense.

“So it’s not 70% of the way to the threshold… It’s 0.013% of the way to the threshold.”

He held the pen hard, his whole body holding firm and taut as the gears turned in his head. Jack’s eyes flickered across the formula, again and again and again. He looked to Maddie, like a dog issued a command he did not understand.

“But it worked,” he said, small. “But it worked.”

Jack stood, robotic almost, eyes lost in something far away. He disappeared into the lab almost as quickly as he had a few minutes before, but now he exited with a smoothness and a quietness so very uncharacteristic of him. It bothered Danny, somewhere deep in his gut.

Maddie followed, a possession matching Jack’s.

Danny’s fingers curled and uncurled. He’d succeeded. He’s successfully interrupted Vlad’s… whatever this was. But the disquiet infected him. He didn’t like it.

“So what does that mean?” Danny asked, perhaps to Vlad. “What’s wrong with the calculation?”

Vlad sipped on tea ice cold.

“Who knows?” Vlad lied.

…

The math didn’t work.

Maddie and Jack burned through paper, burned through pencils, burned through hours.

The math didn’t work.

Clothes stuck to skin. Sweat lingered fetid and stale in the cold basement air. Exhaustion beat like a slurry through their veins.

The math didn’t work.

The portal supervised all, placidly green, the light for their table, the light for their work when the lightbulb overhead burnt clean out and neither Jack nor Maddie could be pulled away to replace it. It stood, it watched, a testament of contradiction to everything they could not solve on paper, and yet everything they built directly into the fabric of reality.

And it should never have worked.

They threw every radical what-if they’d ever conceived over 20 years of ghost research.

The ecto-ether layer.

The latent activation stitches in space fabric.

The anti-ectomatter collision proposal.

The positive-feedback crystallization theory.

And still nothing worked.

All together, every crackpot theory in their favor taken for granted, racked them up to an activation energy 200x more potent than the calculation, and still just 2% of what would be needed to rip open, and hold open, a stable fissure between their reality and the ghost zone.

Maybe by pure luck, unfathomable luck, Fentonworks basement was directly situated atop a natural portal.

Maybe that would explain ripping it open. It did nothing to explain the stability. Natural portals were unstable by definition. There and gone in a few seconds. Not hours, days, weeks, months, a year, that the Fenton Portal had been open. Never so much as faltering.

It was late. 3am ticked away to 4am, and 4:30am. The discarded paper stacked higher than Jack and Maddie both. Calluses oozed from their hands at another attempt, and another, and another.

Maddie flipped through a folder’s worth of yellowed papers, aggressively thumbed over and over after two decades left untouched. And she settled on the one she’d passed over a few dozen times already, always seeking something else, something better.

This time she unsheathed it, and she placed it on the lab table.

“…If a mouse died. In the machine. If a mouse ran through the machine and accidentally bridged two live wires, and died of violent electrocution. 500 milliamps. Instantly melted into the circuitry.”

Maddie’s mouth was cotton-dry while she wrote. Ambient ecto-energy was low. Always very, very low.

Unless something very, very bad happened to something with the capacity to become a ghost.

The numbers wove. Maddie started the formula fresh, and it was pure muscle memory. A mouse. A big mouse, even. A 99th percentile beast of a mouse. And a wire that had been wired incorrectly. Something grounded that never actually grounded. An absolutely horrific amount of electricity.

0.37%, by pure numbers. If she included every permissive crackpot idea they had thrown on top, it topped out at 6% of the needed activation threshold.

Not a mouse.

“A cat,” Jack said, words gummy, tongue dry, face tired. “If we’ve got mice down here, maybe… a stray cat wandered in. Chased the mouse.”

Maddie nodded. It didn’t matter if it made sense.

She penned it in. A large cat. A devastating electrical short. Cats carried more ecto-potential than mice did. Ecto-potential did not necessarily go up with size. It went up with complexity. The things with the most ecto-potential were the things that most became ghosts.

1.45%, by pure numbers. 18% at absolute, absolute crackpot best.

“A dog,” Jack proposed with a shaky laugh. He swallowed. “A mouse… chased by a cat… chased by a dog… all electrocuted at once”

Maddie didn’t say the thing they both knew, which was that both of them would have noticed the evidence left behind by the electrically exploded pieces of a dog.

Maddie did it anyway. A mouse and a cat and a medium-sized dog, maybe just small enough to notice no evidence of, all together. All at once. All violently ripped apart, sacrificed to a machine still asleep in its wall.

Mice did not often make ghosts. Cats did not either. Dogs, occasionally. But infrequently. Very infrequently.

37%. At best.

“Jack.”

“Maddie, I know just—maybe something really smart—”

“—Jack—”

“—like an octopus—”

“Jack.”

“I hear, maybe, pigs are smart. If it was—”

Maddie was writing, already. Not for a pig. Not an octopus. Jack watched, and he knew what the numbers meant. The ecto-potential she penned gave her away. An ecto-potential that high.

65kg, an estimate

10,000 milliamps, a catastrophic accident, a death certificate.

A human’s amount of ecto-potential.

Maddie wrote.

And she wrote.

And she did not apply a single crackpot theory, not a single discredited proposal, not an ounce of exaggeration.

138%.

Threshold, and then some.

Comfortable, easily, then some.

For the first time, after all the hundreds of times she and Jack had penned this equation over the course of 2 decades, the number met her and Jack’s threshold.

A breakthrough.

A revelation.

A pure eureka moment.

Jack and Maddie were silent.

Alone in a humming basement. Alone with only the soft swirls of the portal for company, happy, stable, purring its contentment, singing to the cold air.

“It has to be something else,” Maddie said. And she said it weakly. And she said it childishly.

“You’re right. It can’t be this,” Jack echoed. “If someone died down here, we’d know. Dead bodies don’t walk away. We’d have seen it. O-or even if, if the body got stuck in the portal, we’d have heard of someone going missing.”

Maddie sat, quiet. A thought held her mind hostage.

“Unless they didn’t go missing,” Maddie said, and she said it barely audibly. “Unless the portal spit them right back out.”

“Then—that’s what I said—a dead body, on the floor, we’d have seen.”

“Not a dead body.”

“It had to be lethal, Mads—”

“I know Jack. But if they died, here, in the portal Jack, then their ghost did not get ripped away from the body and sent to the Ghost Zone. …They ripped the Ghost Zone here.” Palms slick with sweat smoothed over her notes. She pointed to one specific line and found her pen tip trembled no matter how badly she stabilized it. “The ecto-potential of a creature is how strong of a pull their ghost creates on the Ghost Zone. A strong enough pull means the ghost can reach the Ghost Zone and stabilize, like a fish reeling itself up, yeah? We agree on this Jack, yes?”

“Yes,” Jack answered.

“It’s what makes the math even work, Jack. Someone dying in the portal didn’t reel themselves to the boat. They reeled the boat in. Jack, they brought the Ghost Zone here…” Maddie wasn’t breathing right. She pulled sweat-soaked bangs away from her face. “Their ghost never left their body Jack. They died, Jack. And they walked back out.”

“…No. No,” Jack said. “No, they didn’t.”

“Then what?” Maddie asked.

Jack stared. He looked away. He didn’t like the expression on Maddie’s face.

“It—what about the ecto-ether theory?” Jack said, of the theory they’d tested and retested and tested all over, all night. He grabbed his pencil back up and pointed it aimlessly at Maddie’s piece of paper, pointed end out in self-defense. “If the ecto-ether is maybe… if it’s only 250-times stronger than we calculated. Then it could…”

Jack’s voice died. His pencil hung idle. Maddie’s paper remained unblemished.

“If it… was a pig,” Jack offered. “If it was a pig that died in the portal.”

“How, Jack? How would a pig get in? We lock all the doors at night, Jack. No one else can get in, Jack. It’s just us, Jack.”

Jack and Maddie were not there when the portal turned on.

Maddie’s statement carried two possibilities. Only two. Both felt like claws digging all the flesh right out of Jack’s heart.

“I want… I want to try the ecto-ether theory again,” Jack choked. “I think it’s the ecto-ether. I think it’ll work.”

Jack slid a piece of paper over, already covered in scribbles. In its single untouched corner, he started the equation for the several-thousandth time that night.

Above their head, birds were singing.

Sunrise hailed unseen from the windowless laboratory.

…

At 6am, Vlad answered his cell phone. The reception crackled, struggling through the layers of sheetrock above his head.

“Vlad?” Maddie’s voice crackled. “Sorry, did I wake you up?”

“Not at all my dear.” Vlad leaned his weight against the wall, playing with the singsong melody in his voice. “But you sound exhausted. Is anything the matter?”

“Yes. Well… Yes. Jack and I have—all night—trying to fix the equation.”

“Naturally.”

“We found something that maybe works.”

“Oh?” Vlad asked. He straightened, pacing now, cracklingly attentive. “And what might that—”

“If someone died. Activating the portal. We have an on-switch inside the portal’s interior. The trigger we use to press it is external to the portal, of course. But if someone went inside the portal, and they pressed it directly, and if they died, and pulled the Ghost Zone here—”

Vlad’s red eyes reflected pools of iridescent green. He twirled his free hand in the fringes of his cape, tongue working over the fanged edges of his teeth. He stared, consumed, forward.

“—and just, you, I was thinking, you’re the only other expert I’d trust to… maybe weigh in.”

“What does Jack think?”

“He denies it. He’s still. He’s trying other theories.”

“Well who knows, surely? The answer may lie somewhere you haven’t looked.”

“…I’ve looked everywhere, Vlad. That's the thing. There is no more ‘somewhere else’. I’ve looked.”

“You sound like your mind is made up.”

“I just… if maybe you have some idea.”

“Am I meant to talk you out of this idea?”

“Vlad.”

“Do you think I have some secret information you don’t? Sorry to say, I’m just your skeptic.” Some noise came through muffled from the other side. Vlad flashed a smile. “But…as your skeptic I will offer you this—It all sounds a bit absurd, doesn’t it? To kill someone and have them come back intact and… for you to never notice? Who would they be? How would they be? Surely not human anymore, surely. How would you never notice?”

Vlad paced forward, booted feet clicking along his laboratory floor.

“It would be ridiculous,” he continued, with a building crescendo, “so unfathomably self-centered surely, to not notice something like that befall someone so close to you, who died at the hands of your own invention? …If I’m correctly inferring who, in your household, you suspect of having activated the portal?” Vlad’s tongue lingered along his teeth.

Maddie’s line held, quiet. And the seconds of static drew long.

“Ah, apologies. I’ve overstepped,” Vlad continued. “I meant this as a vote of confidence in you. You and Jack both. Two people as attentive, caring, compassionate as yourselves. You would notice. I promise.”

“You’re… Okay, thank you, Vlad. I appreciate it.”

“Is there anything else, my dear?”

“No. No. Thank you, Vlad. I’ll think about this.”

Maddie’s line clicked dead. A chuckle built to Vlad’s lips and he let his head tip back with mirth. It lasted only a moment. He stowed his phone. And as if the interruption had never happened, Vlad reaffixed his attention on his own portal swirling in front of him. It bathed him, swimming green, purring contentment.

And Vlad vanished into his portal.

(Chapter 2)

[ew-selfish-art]

DPxDC Au: Normally when Danny vandalizes ancient cave walls and historic places on his 'favor' missions for Clockwork, he gets sent back to erase them. But no, apparently this time, when Danny added his actual phone number into some painting, he's not allowed to go back and fix it. Ugh.

...

Tim has had the painting of Bruce professionally reviewed a few times since the old Bat was retrieved from the time stream. He's not entirely sure how the painting still exists, he's not even sure that it matters any more... But one day Tim catches something new in the painting.

It was small, and it could've just been the light at first but... Is that a phone number in the background?? It looks like black marker on the black curtains and it makes him feel feral. The family is kinder this time about how they think he's gone crazy- but each one of them admit that they can't remember a phone number ever being present.

The lab reports that the number was added over the paint- and that it's an ink based marking akin to a sharpie but like, hundreds of years old. So... It's been added recently but not at all recently enough for Tim to have an explanation.

Tim doesn't want to hear any more of his family members opinions on the matter and he certainly isn't going to just, stop investigating or something stupid like that. So, he takes the painting to the tower, gathers his team (Cassie, Kon and Bart), and they call the number in the middle of the night after a lot of planning/back-and-forth/catastrophizing.

It doesn't answer until the final ring, and the static that comes through the phone is bone chilling. A deep, monstrous groan which echoed with agony fills the room.

"I have a math test in like, three hours, who the fuck are you and why the fuck are you calling in the middle of the night?" The voice now complains, still sounding vaguely inhuman despite it's very human word choices.

"Your number is in a historical painting, we had a few questions but uh, you can call us back later?" Tim cringes as he says it but he hadn't planned on having to reply to someone trying to go back to bed. Or someone who was apparently also a teenager. (He had so, so many contingency plans for like, every kind of villain, alien or demon. lame.)

"...Ugh. might as well." The voice calls out, agreeing with a sigh that echos so deeply the team can feel it in their bones.

"Cool. Good luck on your test?" Tim offers.

"Mph." And the line hangs up.

...

Danny is at lunch with Sam and Tucker when he remembers the late night call. He'd spent the morning bitching about never getting a full night of sleep and it finally occurred to him what had happened. Of course his friends think it's hilarious that CW wouldn't let him erase his number. Of course they do.

They stop laughing when Danny calls the number back.

"Hello, this is Red Robin of Gotham. I have Superboy, Wonder girl and Impulse present with me. How did your math test go?"

[wip]

A very very minor thing I have been curious about for a while, and I'm finally asking: why do you calculate queue posting times the way you do? For example, if I set my queue to post 3x a day, naively I would expect it to post every 8 hours. But in reality it posts every 6 hours with a 12 hour gap between days. Why complicate the math like that?

Answer: Hello @circumference-pie!

Buckle up y’all, it’s story time again!

First: nobody who works at Tumblr right now was a part of the work of planning the default queue implementation, which was more than ten years ago. So the full story behind “Why does it work that way?” has unfortunately been lost to the sands of time. All we can do is tell you how it works today and surmise some reasons why. The queue is actually a very clever system and part of how it works explains some of why it works the way it does. Also, there have been attempts to do what you ask—we still have “Queue 2.0” available in your Tumblr Labs settings, which tries to get closer to how you expect things to work.

Anyway! How the queue works today is not actually a queue in the traditional sense. There is no single list of posts that are in “your queue”. Instead, when you “Add to queue” after creating a post, we’re actually scheduling it to post at a future time, as if you had used the “Schedule post” option instead. We’re just calculating that time on your behalf when you use “Add to queue”, based on your settings, and how many other scheduled posts you have already. We use a secondary “index” model, called “ScheduledPost”, to keep track of posts you have scheduled on your blog. We do mark the ones that are a part of “your queue”, but the data model doesn’t keep one list of your “queue” per se.

You can see this in action on your blog, hiding in plain sight. If you add a bunch of posts to your queue, and then schedule a post for a specific future date, you’ll see both in your blog’s “queue” list, side by side. Because technically to us, they’re the same thing: queued posts are really just another kind of scheduled post, relying on the same always-running service to publish scheduled posts across all of Tumblr. Here’s a fun fact: we typically have about ~14.5 million future posts to publish from this list at any given time and are publishing hundreds of these scheduled posts every second.

So when you’re adding a new post to your queue, what we’re doing behind the scenes is starting at the beginning of your “day”, and creating time slots based on your queue settings. If a time slot is already filled, we move on to the next one. That’s why the default queue scheduler works how you describe—we’re trying to fill those “slots” based on the start of the day, rather than trying to divide the calendar day evenly. This just makes it much simpler for us to understand, scale, and predict when our “peaks” will be. At peak times, the publish-scheduled-posts service is publishing tens of thousands of posts in a manner of seconds. We did rewrite that post-publishing part of this architecture a few years ago to improve its efficiency and solve a lot of “lost post” bugs, but we didn’t change how “Add to queue” works.

However, the Queue 2.0 project available in Labs was an attempt to change the queue system to work as you expect—instead of starting at [beginning of day] and creating enough slots to fit [number of slots] every [number of hours], it tries to divide the calendar day into [number of slots] and fit the result back to the original algorithm’s mapping of the day. We never productionized this alternative approach, because it has a few bugs that some blogs hit in extreme cases, and we’ve never had time to fully fix them. It also can cause a bit of weirdness when time zones diverge, like with daylight savings time. Also, a lot of people prefer the default algorithm, and we haven’t thought of a nice way to transition everyone from one to the other. So for now, both options exist, and you can choose which algorithm for queue-slot-generating you want to use. We hope that makes sense! 

While complicated, it is a great example of a system built by engineers to make sense and be scalable and predictable. But sometimes these kinds of systems, while clever, aren’t very intuitive to understand without digging into how they work.

Thanks for your question, and keep ’em coming. 

[cedarmoonzz]

between the bars •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

followed by: once more to see you and slow like honey

fandom: gravity falls

ship: ford pines x reader

warnings: brief mention of boners, making out, angst

summary:

being engaged to the world’s smartest idiot feels like navigating a storm while he’s engrossed in his portal research. you wonder if there’s anything you can do to help him.

Three months.

Ninety-one sleepless, tormented days. 

That’s how long you’ve watched Ford, once so full of life, become a shell of himself.

Each day seems to blend into the next, weighed down by the crushing demands of his portal. His bright eyes have lost their spark, replaced by a weary, distant look that suggests he is fighting a constant battle with exhaustion. He’s always buried in his research, disappearing into a maze of endless calculations and theories, only coming up to ask for coffee, food, or help with his measurements. Each interaction is a reminder of the distance that has grown between you, making you ache for the vibrant person he is beneath all the work. It allows you to realize something.

Stanford is an incredibly stubborn man.

You count your breaths, letting the full force of Ford’s distance fill you. Once a day, only in the evening, you allow yourself to feel abandoned, lost, and alone—but only here, only in the evening, before Stanford trudges upstairs for his third pot of coffee. Afterwards, you must set these feelings aside, for there is still so much work to be done, so much still at stake.

Stanford lets you handle all the paper calculations and complex math for the portal, trusting you with the intricate details crucial to his project. Yet, despite your role, he keeps you from seeing the fruits of your labor. You are barred from the basement, the place where the results of your hard work come to life. This exclusion only deepens your sense of isolation and frustration, as you toil endlessly without ever truly understanding the impact of your efforts. The distance between what you contribute and what you’re allowed to see only reinforces the feeling of being a cog in a machine, valued for your skills but denied any real connection to the end result.

Beyond the kitchen door, you can hear your lab mates arguing. The last light of day was leaking through the fissures of the window shutters, changing shape as they paced outside, their shadows stretching to where you sit, hidden, not yet prepared to face them. Though you could not make out their words, you could detect the urgency in their voices. You pressed your palms against your eyes and sighed, then rolled up the loose sleeves of Stanford’s (now your) sweater.

With a harsh, abrupt grunt, akin to the percussive crack of a twig beneath a boot, your fiancé wrenched the splintered door open, slamming it shut with a resounding thud. You were jolted from your thoughts, having been lost in your own reverie as the unexpected noise shattered your concentration. As he stood there, his face etched with a mixture of anger and exhaustion, you could see the deep lines of fatigue and frustration carved into his features. He muttered a stream of incoherent curses under his breath, his visible irritation and weariness painting a stark picture of his emotional state.

Softly, you encouraged him. “Ford, what is it?”

He didn’t answer; he only stood, looking at you as if he might scream.

“It’s Fiddleford!” Stanford growled. “He’s speaking nonsense! Trying to propose that only bad can come from the portal we spent months on! Your calculations, my handiwork and experience? All down the drain because McGucket is scared? It’s ridiculous! I should’ve never trusted him. It seems I can trust no one with my work these days!”

His words caught you between places: you stare down at the ring that graced your finger, the tea kettle whistling, trails of steam emitting behind you, leaving you in between your selves.

“No one?” you repeat, but did not elaborate further. You did not want to be cruel to him, but now that he had insulted you (now, of all times, when you were working so hard to understand him), it was difficult to resist lashing out at him.

Ford paused, words caught between his teeth as you stood in silence. “[Y/n]… my love.” Regret crept into his voice, daring to color his words with a warmth you were sure was genuine—but rather than comfort, it only wounded you. “Of course I can trust you. This portal… It wouldn’t be possible without your work.”

It broke you—or broke what feeble grip you had on yourself, the reserves of strength you used to keep your grief and despair in check all spent.

“My work,” you spat out, almost hissing the words through clenched teeth. You threw the kettle off the stove and pivoted to confront him, closing the distance between you with two broad, angry strides. Pointing a finger at him, you seethed, “Is that all the trust you have? Just your precious portal? Ford, when was the last time you actually talked to me? I can't deal with this anymore! I followed you all the way to Gravity Falls, to the middle of nowhere, and you barely let me see the full scope of my work. Always holed up in the basement.”

Your palm remains red from the heat of the kettle’s handle, but that does not burn as bad as the heat of your fiancé’s abandonment. And still, stupidly, in spite of it all, you wanted to trust Ford. To believe that there was a reason, an explanation for all the half-truths and deceptions. You want to protect him. You want your answers. You want to see him: not a passing nod of acknowledgment, or a pat on the back as you walk past him, or a fragment of him in a dream, but his skin in the flesh, and you loathe yourself for how badly you want it… but you turn that loathing outward, funneling it through the anger, and set the air around you crackling with fury.

As you glared at him, a profound sense of abandonment and worthlessness enveloped you like a shroud. It felt as though you had been reduced to nothing more than a glorified calculator in Ford’s eyes—a mere instrument, a cog in the vast machinery of his ambitions, used and discarded with no regard for your own significance. The weight of your perceived insignificance bore down on you, each moment in his shadow a reminder of how fleeting and unimportant your role had become. The very essence of your being seemed to diminish with every unacknowledged contribution, leaving you to wrestle with the crushing realization that your efforts and sacrifices had been eclipsed by his relentless pursuit, barely noted and even less appreciated.

Stanford’s eyes met yours, narrowing ever so slightly as he took in the gravity of the moment. He measured the tension between you, a flicker of regret crossing his features as he struggled to comprehend the full extent of your pain. The silence stretched on, thick with unspoken remorse, before he finally cleared his throat, his voice betraying a hint of sorrow for the hurt he had caused and the realization of how far he had let things go.

“I'm sorry, [Y/n].” Stanford reached out to hold your waist—and did you imagine it, or did you lean into that touch, pressing your body to the warmth of his open palms? You swallowed. Softly, he asked you, “Do you want me to go?”

You shook your head, more as an excuse to look away from him than anything—now that you had reprimanded him, you realized just how close he was, and your hair fell in front of your eyes, offering you a moment of reprieve. It was difficult having him so near; when your rage subsided, you were left with a profound sense of abandonment and a wounded heart. In a voice tinged with desperation and hurt, you asked, “Why can’t you just let me help you, Ford?”

As the words left your lips, you found yourself instinctively moving closer, your breath mingling with his. The proximity heightened the tension between you, the unspoken emotions crackling in the air. Your lips nearly brushed his as you whispered, the vulnerability in your voice blending with an undeniable, charged intimacy.

“[Y/n],” he begs, but he keeps his hands around your waist. “It’s dangerous…” But even as he speaks, his head is falling towards yours, his mouth ajar and questing, breath ragged.

You lift your hand from the collar of Stanford’s lab coat to hold his face, running your thumb tenderly over the stubble that graced his sharp jawline.

“I’m just as capable as Fiddleford,” you whisper, only inches between you now, so close that you can feel his breath on your neck as you speak the words. “Let me prove myself to you.”

Ford shudders. When his eyes meet yours again, they read something within them—perhaps some hidden fate or doom—and then, he remains. He holds you in his eyes like he is weighing you, or trying to carry a piece of you away with him. With a weary sigh, he lifts his hands to frame your face instead, tracing your cheek with his thumb. He leans forward—you dare not breathe—and presses his lips to your brow, just below the line of your hair. You can feel the soft warmth of his breath against the top of your head. Your eyes sting with tears; you will your body not to shake.

“I know you’re incredibly intelligent, but what Fiddleford saw in that portal… it ruined him. I don’t want the same fate for you.” He pleads, raising a hand of his own as if to pry yours from his face, but it trembles instead, then covers yours, holding the warmth of your palm to his cheek. “It is not that simple.”

“It can be,” you insist, as you lower your other hand to rest above his frantic, pounding heart. “It is.”

The space between the two of you is shrinking before you know whether you or Ford had moved first. Then your palm was carding through the tangled brown hair at the back of his head, drawing him closer as you kiss. When your mouths first met, Ford flinched, as though he might retreat… but he parted his lips for you, and your knees weaken at the taste of his tongue. You clutched his lab coat; his hands danced across your waist to the small of your back and held you against him. His heat rose against you; you could feel him through his slacks, insistent against your thigh—

“I’m sorry,” Stanford whispers, his lips brushing against yours before he pulls away. He turns abruptly and exits the room. Without another word, he heads straight for the basement, leaving you standing there, your heart aching with the weight of unsaid confessions and unfulfilled desires. The intensity of the moment lingers in the air, a palpable reminder of the emotional distance that remains between you.

The way he looked at you was too much; so much unspoken between the two of you, so much you wish to tell him, confess to him: how he always makes you feel safe. That this whole research project, the calculations and all, had only ever been bearable because he had let you be by his side. That his presence is more valuable to you than anything; that you had treasured every moment spent with him. That you’re worried for him.

That you felt like he was in danger, and you were running out of time.

[inkedtension]

Hypothesis: You’re Mine

requested. Nerd Gojo x reader (smut)

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

You don’t know exactly when he started studying you, but if you asked him, Gojo Satoru would say it was the first time you beat him.

Not at math—that’d be too predictable. He had pride in his equations. He had owned that mathlete crown since middle school. But you walked into physics lab on the first day of your second year, not just knowing the concepts, but folding space-time diagrams like origami, talking about entropy like it was a bedtime story.

You were beautiful. It hurt. And worse—you were clever. Unforgivingly clever.

He was done for.

From that moment on, you were the only variable worth solving. And Gojo, loser among men, gangly and twitchy with glasses and pens sticking out of his hoodie pocket, began documenting you like a Nobel prize experiment.

“Subject: [Name]. Lab Partner. Goddess. Entity of Devastation.”

You always looked perfect. Not just cute or pretty—sharp. Lip tint just enough to make him bite his own. Glasses? Rarely. You didn’t need them—your vision was already too clear. And your answers in class? Always correct. Always concise. You didn’t speak often, but when you did, people shut up.

And he listened. He recorded. He analyzed.

He had a whole Google Doc titled:

“Nobel_Potential_Tensor_Calculations.”

The Complete Observational Thesis : Personality, Patterns, Perfections, and Maybe One Day… Consent.

It had tabs:

Wardrobe rotation patterns (updated every week)

Pencil preference (Which he archived when you left them behind)

Tone shift when addressing classmates vs. him ("Everyone else = flat or neutral. With me = teasing, sarcastic...flirty?? Hypothesis: She knows. She wants me dead.")

He was beyond salvation.

Everyone thought you had a thing for the basketball team. Guys with tattoos and overconfident smirks. 

But no. You weren’t into the jocks. He’d studied that, too. Watched how your eyes barely twitched when they flirted. But in the lab, when he muttered something under his breath and you leaned in with a smirk and said, “Come again, Satoru?”—

That was the first time you called him by name.

Yeah, he almost did come again.

His brain exploded. Then imploded. Then exploded again.

He fumbled with his notes, his pen, his mouth. You’d said Satoru like it meant something. Like you were letting him in on something private. And that was the moment.

He got worse after that.

He rewound that syllable in his mind on loop, like a prayer: Satoru, Satoru, Satoru…

In the privacy of his dorm room, he’d press his face into the hoodie you once borrowed when the classroom was too cold. He never washed it. He never could. It smelled like your shampoo and something divine.

His hand would drift down. His breathing shallow. And all he’d see was your expression when you said his name.

He wasn’t proud of this part of himself.

He nearly died. From arousal or humiliation—or arousal by humiliation—unclear.

 But he wasn’t sorry, either.

You knew.

God, of course you knew.

You noticed the way he twitched when you leaned too close during lab. The way his hand would tremble if yours brushed it by accident. The way he stared—like he was watching a star about to collapse into itself.

You weren’t oblivious. Just patient. Meticulous.

You knew what he was. A pervert. A loser. A genius. And you liked it. You liked him. How can you not?

But why let him know all that? It was more fun this way.

You wore a little more perfume when you knew you’d be lab partners. Purposely tied your hair up so your nape showed. Sat next to him in the library, thighs barely brushing, and didn’t move.

You whispered his name sometimes—only sometimes—just to watch him suffer.

"Satoru, can you hand me that? Thanks."

And that one time you said, "You smell nice today."

He didn’t breathe for twelve whole seconds. He counted.

He didn’t want it to stop.

He had dreams. Filthy ones. You, in his hoodie and nothing else, sitting on his desk with your legs parted. Wearing his glasses, and they were fogged from the heat of it all.

He didn’t want it to stop.

He'd wake up sticky, aching, and trembling, whispering your name like a lunatic. Then he’d go to class and pretend he hadn’t spent the last eight hours picturing your moans.

Every time you leaned over to help him debug a line of code, every time you tilted your head and smiled lazily at him like you knew he wanted to ruin you on a lab bench—he choked. Figuratively. Sometimes literally.

He’d beat off after class so often it started to feel like a Pavlovian response to the sound of your voice.

But he never asked you, never touched you. Never even tried.

Because Gojo Satoru, freak that he was, needed your yes more than he needed oxygen. He'd wait. Forever, if he had to.

But if you ever whispered that consent?

He’d ruin you with the kind of obsession that doesn’t come back from the brink.

One rainy Thursday, you sat next to him during a lab session and sighed dramatically. “Laptop’s dead. Guess I’ll just wait.”

He offered his. A little too fast. “You—you can use mine.”

“Oh?” You blinked slowly at him. “Won’t that leave you helpless and alone without your lifeline?”

He flushed. “I–I can manage.”

Of course, that was the moment Suguru texted. Something about the court. Satoru hesitated. You looked up at him from under your lashes, already pulling the laptop toward yourself.

“Go. I promise not to look at your other things.”

He laughed nervously. If only you knew.

Except… you did.

And by the time he returned—sweaty, flushed from playing one very bad half of basketball—he opened the lab door and nearly dropped dead.

There you were, brows slightly raised. One finger delicately on the trackpad. Lips formed in what could only be described as a fell-from-hell smirk and—

Amusement.

A single chill ran down his spine.

“Uh,” Gojo wheezed, stepping closer, dread forming in his gut like a black hole. “What… are you reading?”

You turned your head slowly, like a predator who’d just caught something squirming.

Your voice came out smooth. Too smooth.

“You’re thorough, Satoru. I’ll give you that.”

Well in your defence, his hard drive had an entire folder encrypted under layers of fake research data—labelled as “Nobel_Potential_Tensor_Calculations.” Inside was the real data. About you.

It had everything. What coffee you liked. How often you changed your perfume. A spreadsheet of your class schedule. A compiled zip of your voice memos from shared project meetings. A screenshot folder filled with blurry images from zoom meetings—your face caught mid-laugh. He had graphs of your seating preferences. Charts of your skirt lengths per semester. Hypotheses filed under “Effects of Verbal Affirmation on My Autonomic Response.” Subfolder: She Called Me ‘Satoru’ Twice This Month.

Creepy, you'd call, if you hadn't done some 'research' on him yourself.

well, he doesnt have to know that, right?

You looked up slowly. Smiling. “’Behavioral Log, 3:52PM. She touched my hand accidentally. Temperature spike. Heart rate elevated.’” You raised a brow. “This is... dense research, Satoru.”

His mouth opened. Closed. He tried to swallow, but his throat felt dry. His cock? Already twitching like a traitor.

“I—It’s just a dumb— It’s not real research, I just—”

You tilted your head. “Didn’t know I was the subject of an ongoing study.”

He stepped back, hard, like your chair was a landmine. His whole face flamed. His breath was shallow. You were still reading. Still smiling, smugly.

“I especially liked the part where you documented what lip balm I wear.” You tilted the screen toward him. “‘Subject applied Burt’s Bees pomegranate at 9:42 AM. Lip-to-cup contact observed. Resisted urge to bite desk.’ That’s cute.”

His soul left his body.

You kept going, merciless.

“Also, I can’t believe you actually made a flowchart about my laugh. What were the categories again? ‘Soft and rare,’ ‘cynical chuckle,’ and…” You grinned, devilish. “‘Accidental wheeze—induced during suggestive jokes.’”

He was going to combust. Right there. Just explode into a puff of shame, lust, and regret.

He wanted to fuck you on that desk. With his glasses slipping down your nose, with his name on your tongue, with your thighs shaking around his head while he shoved that smugness right out of you. Right here. Now.

And then—you walked away. As if you hadn’t just lit a match and dropped it into the very core of his existence.

Well, you were wet.

Gojo sat down. Hard.

He stared at the screen.

His entire manifesto was still open.

“...fuck,” he whispered.

He came in his boxers on the way to the locker room. No hands. Just the memory of your voice purring the word Satoru while reading from his worst-kept secret.

Arousal by humiliation, it is.

He didn’t talk to you for three days.

You didn’t make it easy.

You laughed a little too loud when he passed by. You pressed too close at the vending machine. You dropped your pen on his desk. And today—today you “accidentally” fell into his lap during the club meeting.

“Oops,” you whispered, blinking up at him.

He’d frozen. Completely. You were sitting on him. Right on him. His cock pressed against your ass through just four-maybe layers of fabric. He was stiff in more ways than one. If he didn’t move you soon, he’d—god, no. Not again.

You stood too late.

He excused himself with a choked, “Sorry! Be right back!” and nearly tripped out of the room.

He ran to Suguru again. “Spare pants. Please. Please—”

“You came again?”

“Shut up, it’s not—shut up—”

Gojo didn’t even want to know how much Suguru already knew. He didn’t even want to think about how Suguru might’ve pieced this together.

The next day, you were nowhere. No hallway run-ins. No sarcastic greetings. No sly jokes. He was almost relieved.

Until someone grabbed him and yanked him into the abandoned AV room.

“—wha—!”

You. Chest heaving. Eyes angry. Hands gripping his collar.

“You’ve been ignoring me.”

“I—I wasn’t—”

“Shut up.”

You shoved him against the wall, your body flush against his. He could feel your warmth through your clothes. Your breath on his neck.

“You wanna fuck me, right?” you asked lowly.

He blinked. “What?”

“You wanna bend me over this table and fuck me like a little experiment, right?”

His knees nearly buckled.

“Well?”

He opened his mouth to stammer something—anything—when you slowly, deliberately, knelt.

He stopped breathing.

“Tell me to stop,” you said, undoing his belt.

“Tell me,” you repeated, glancing up at him. “Tell me no.”

He was shaking.

When you pulled his pants down and his hard, flushed cock sprang free,

Your lips parted slightly in awe, eyes widening at the full length of him, flushed and twitching, precum already smeared against your lower lip. You let out a low, breathy gasp.

“Oh my god, Satoru—” That broke him.

A sharp growl escaped his throat—one you’d never heard from him before. He yanked off his glasses with one hand,

“I wanna see you in them.” he murmured. His voice was hoarse now. Deeper.

His fingers brushed against your hair as he bent slightly, lifting the frames.

You watched him , even though your heart was thudding in your chest. There was something raw, desperate in the way he handled the glasses. Something that made your pulse spike.

He pressed the glasses back onto your face. The delicate weight of them slid down your nose slightly.

The moment your mouth wrapped around him—warm, wet, slowly easing him past your lips like you were savoring him—Satoru’s mind went blank.

Gone. No equations, no frantic calculations, no escape route. Just the heat of your mouth and the dangerous way you were watching him, eyes half-lidded, smug, daring him to breathe.

“Fuck,” he whispered, voice breaking. “You’re really—ah—”

Your hand gripped the base of his cock, stroking him gently while your tongue flicked over the head. His legs trembled.

His hand on your head tightened slightly, clutching your hair, not pushing, just guiding. You moaned—just faintly, just enough—and the vibration nearly made him lose control. He throbbed against your tongue.

“Shit—okay, yeah, like that, just—fuck, you’re perfect—”

You were trying to keep control, but he could see the strain in your throat as you took more of him. Could feel your saliva sliding warm and messy down the base. Your jaw trembled around him. Your hand squeezed his thigh for balance, and that alone made him buck forward just a little, hitting the back of your throat.

You choked, just a bit. Gagged. Pulled back with a small whimper and your eyes watering.

And then—then you looked up again. When did he pull up his oversized cardigan and put the edge in his mouth? You didn’t know but God, was it hot.

The glasses were a little crooked now. Your lips were swollen. And you smiled.

He let out the loudest moan yet. Desperate. Raspy. Feral.

“God, you’re—are you even real?” he whispered, breath hitching again. “Been jerking off to this for months. And you—you just—fuck—”

You moaned around him again, deliberately this time, teasing.

He let out a choked curse. His grip in your hair tightened more firmly now, finally taking control of the pace—slow, deliberate thrusts into your mouth, watching his cock slide between your lips. His thighs were tensing. His voice was breaking.

“You wanted this,” he hissed, gently rocking his hips into you. “All those little games—you knew. You knew what you were doing to me.”

You pulled off for air, nodding.

He groaned—long and low—and then pushed back into your mouth, deeper, letting his head fall back against the wall.

“Don’t stop,” he begged, desperate now. “Fuck, don’t you dare stop—just like that—”

he came down your throat while pushing your head down so that your nose touched the base of his happy trail.

He swears he never came that hard his entire life.

Well, it was safe to say he didn’t hold back after that day.

[nana-luvy]

. 𝐇𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐡𝐨𝐠 .

warnings: cheesy dripping in sugar fluff, high school!Luke Castellan, afab!reader, reader is apparently a little obsessed with pink

In which you should've talked a little quieter.

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

You know that myth that high school girls use weird nicknames instead of actual names to talk about people behind their back ? That was far from a myth to you.

"Pikachu ? Who the hell is that one again ?" you asked your friend, visibly confused.

"It's the new guy, Harry, remember ? You know, Harry Potter to thunderbolt to Pikachu," Silena tried to explain without getting too annoyed about having to repeat herself for the nth time. The nicknames weren't always the best idea when one of you two had really a short-term memory.

"Oh, right, right..."

The two of you had nicknames for almost everyone in the class. You had to --you loved a good gossip session at the back of the class during econ, and there were plenty of people to talk about. And Silena, committed as she was, had a new crush every week who required a nickname of his own.

"But, wait- Didn't you talk to me about spider just a few days ago ?" you asked, furrowing your eyebrows.

"Nah girl, spider is so last week... Plus, I saw his arms were as thick as twigs under his hoodie. That's a no-no for me, babe." Silena flicked her hair behind her shoulder sassily.

"Amen, sister," you added, initiating your iconic 'Legally Blondes' handshake.

“Anyways, I have chemistry right now, see you later ~”

“You’ll tell me everything about lab coat right ?” you yelled as your frend left in the other direction.

“And you about hedgehog !” She answered, turning around the corner.

You chuckled to yourself, putting your earphones back on, laughing softly at the mere thought: to have something to tell, you'd need to have any sort of interaction first...

Hedgehog was the nickname Silena had given to your own crush, Luke. Well, little... You had been pretty head over heels for months, now. But, in your opinion, he just had the whole package: curly hair that always looked effortlessly perfect, brown eyes like molten chocolate that drew you into their comfortable warmth, an athletic build after years in the fencing team, a charisma that shone through his every action, and a mischievous smile that could melt the coldest hearts.

He was in most of your classes, including math, were you were headed to at the moment. He usually took the seat in front of yours, and some days you had to put in the extra effort to not get distracted by the soft scent of his cologne or the overpowering of his radiant aura.

And apparently today was one of those days, as you heard his laughter resonate through your ears as soon as you sat on your chair, one you could hear even over the music still blasting in your earphones. You tried to ignore the soothing sound and simply unpacked your stuff, organizing your desk for the hour to come. But you didn't expect a discreet knock on your table, slightly startled by the movement in your vision, and expected even less to see Luke looking back at you when you looked up.

"Ca..row y...en?"

For a second you just looked into his eyes, incredulous, diving into the amber you worshiped so much, before he tilted his head to the side questioningly, a perfect curl falling perfectly on his oh so perfect face... Realization hit you and you instantly took the earphones out of your ears, your music still blasting.

"Sorry, couldn't hear you. You said ?" you rushed, clearly nervous despite your best effort to hide it.

He chuckled, a melody shooting straight to mess with your thoughts. "Yeah, that's pretty loud.." He motioned to your earphones. "Is that really Ayesha you're listening to?" he added, hint of a laugh in his voice as he quirked his eyebrow.

And you couldn't stop the light blush dusting your cheeks. "And unironically."

"Not bad." Luke said, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Anyway, I was asking if I could borrow a pen ? I forgot half my stuff this morning and... yeah.” he explained, like trying to justify himself.

“Oh yeah sure, let me just-” you immediately delved into her case, trying to find something other than pink inked pens. Finally, you handed him one. “That should do it. Sorry it’s pink, it’s the only one I have I think… but it’s supposed to write in black, don’t worry.”

“No problem, I think I noticed you didn’t have much other color in your stuff anyways.” he chuckled, before delicately taking the pen you were holding, fingers brushing ever so softly. “Remind me to give it back at the end of the class.”

When he turned back to the board, the teacher now finally in the class to begin class, you were totally red. As cool and normal as it might've been to Luke, that slight, barely there contact had you in total panic mode, hand almost shaking, your fingers hanging in the air as you scrutinized every inch of skin that just touched his.

Finally, you would have something to tell your best friend after all.

--

The bell rang and you bolted out of your seat: you needed to find Silena and take your mind off what had happened just an hour ago. Quickly putting everything back in your backpack, you sprinted out of class, greeting the teacher before going out the door and practically running into your friend, that was apparently already waiting for you.

"The teacher let us out earlier than planned." Silena explained before the question even came up.

"Something happened." You said, wide eyes looking into nothingness. You grabbed your friend's wrist, quickly urging her to the other side of the hallway, not to stay at the entrance of your class.

"With.. who I think something could happen with?"

"Yes."

"Girl, we have five minutes before the next class, so you better make them count." she seriously replied, obviously wanting to know every single detail of the experience. An experience that just remembering had you dizzy and shaking from how unreal it was.

You explained everything, in detail as Silena expressly asked for an in-depth commenting, while going towards the next classroom for Lit, which you had together.

"I swear to goodness it felt like out of a fanfiction..." you whined, still having that tingling feeling in your fingers where Luke had brushed.

"I totally get you, I mea- Those fudging ashes." Silena glared at the two abyss creatures that had taken your usual spots, in the front row, before pouting dramatically. "I don't wanna seat at the baaack..."

You lead her to the back of the class, or more like dragged her, before taking seats next to each other on the last row.

"Could've been worse, we could've been separated." you stated seriously, though a small grin tugged at your lips, because it was a serious matter indeed: there was no way you could sat away from your best friend, how could you pass time in class if you did ?

"Right." You both sat down, putting everything you needed on your desks. "But I can't believe we didn't even have time to talk about lab coat, that boy is really taking over your thoughts... Dang, he's stealing my girlfriend." Silena shook her head from side to side disapprovingly, hugging you from the side in the clingiest way. "You know, I'm really starting to hate hedgehog for that, that little dwarf..."

You scoffed at her statement, before sighing dreamily. "Nah, you can't possibly hate him, he's too cute for that..."

"Why, thank you ~"

The boy in the seat right in front of yours twisted, a large grin on his face as he spoke those words, and you realized you should've paid attention when you took a seat. Because of two simple, common words. But two simple words spoken by Luke, that made you go pale and Silena stifle a laugh behind her hand.

He turned back to the board and away from you and your best friend in the same second as the lesson began, the two of you looking at each other with two purely different gazes. If one of you was clearly entertained by the interaction, a spark of mischief dancing in her brown orbs, the other looked like she wanted to get immediately buried alive 6 feet under. You wanted the ground to split under your chair and swallow you whole.

Silena just nudged your arm with her elbow, before going to listen to the teacher like nothing happened.

Meanwhile, your brain had probably never worked that hard and that fast to come up with a reason as to why in the world and how in the world he knew, all the while trying not to both gush like a crushing thirteen years old or burst into tears from the embarrassment.

The bell rang again and she had paid little to absolutely no attention to the lecture, words written on the white board completely meaningless to her, except maybe the 'cemetery' that did have a certain charm to it in this instant.

"Silena ? I'm going to the toilets. Meet me there." you said to your friend, keeping your sentences short. Your eyelids flickered in shock and panic after what had occurred just an hour ago, again, blinking repetitively. You plastered a small smile on your face before picking up your bag and going out of the classroom.

Once in the school's bathroom, you waited a good ten minutes for your friend, and Literature being your last class of the day you had time to waste. You paced the room, trying to clear your mind, thanking waterproof makeup when you splashed cold water on your face multiple times to try and ease the raging blush of your cheeks.

A few more minutes passed by, and Silena still hadn't come in yet. Actually, the door hadn't opened once since you'd come in; yes, a lot of people had class at this hour, but still, it felt weird. Curiously, you peeked outside of the room, wondering if the bathroom had been closed for public while she was in there for no one to come inside. And when you opened the door, stepping outside, you stumbled upon Luke, looking at his phone, leaning on the wall between the two bathroom doors.

But by the time he looked up, his eyes catching a movement, you had ran back behind the door, your back pressed to the stiff material while your chest heaved up and down quickly, in full blown panic mode again.

"Hey, you okay ? You don't sound well." You could hear his muffled voice on the other side, his worried face immediately conjuring in your mind.

"I"m good! I'm.. I'm good. Fine. Really. Don't worry."

"Very convincing..." You could just imagine his pretty brown eyes squinting with an amused expression on his face.

"What are you even doing here, lurking outside the toilets?" you asked, trying to calm your breathing while still sounding as unbothered as possible.

There was a short moment of silence. "I didn't give you your pen back, earlier."

Perfect, just perfect. "Luke, you can give it back tomorrow- you know what, just keep it, i have plenty of pens. Just go home."

A new silence. "You don't wanna know how I know ?"

You hesitated for a few seconds, pondering what could be the smartest choice, but ultimately opened the door a little, passing your head out.

Turning in your direction, Luke couldn't help but grin, weakly attempting to suppress a laugh at the scene and taking a deep breath to contain it. "Sorry, I'm not mocking you."

"Sure." you mumbled, finally going fully out of the bathroom and standing in front of the door, a few feet away only from the curly haired boy. "So ?"

"Well, I'd say you should pay attention to who's walking behind you when you describe a situation thoroughly, even when you use 'hedgehog' instead of a name." he simply replied, his characteristic smile dancing on his lips as he shrugged like it was obvious.

And you mentally face palmed, because it was obvious. Your eyes widened noticeably and you froze, a simple "Oh" the only breath that made it past your lips.

For a moment you stayed silent, completely frozen on the spot, your brain completely out of service.

"Y/n ? Is there someone behind your eyes ?" Luke joked, shaking a hand in front of your eyes in search of a reaction of some kind.

A name. Your name. In his mouth, rolling of his tongue, crossing his lips, like the only word that should ever exist. And it brought you back to the front of your mind.

“Yeah I- uh- how much did you hear, exactly ?” you asked, scanning his face.

“I’d say…. since the beginning until the end ?”

“Okay well then this is the moment where I tell you to please, please, forget all about it, it is no useful information to you, and I’m now going back inside the bathroom until you leave, bye.” You replied in one go, closing your eyes through it all to not have to face Luke's judgmental gaze, before reaching for the door knob.

But just before you opened it, the boy caught your wrist, your head snapping in his direction in confusion.

“Don’t you think it might be a bit dramatic ? I mean, maybe just forgetting about it isn’t the best solution.” he hinted.

You squinted your eyes at him, annoyance almost taking over your shyness. “Well, seeing as I don’t really feel like dealing with the problem in the logical way, I think my way is actually pretty good, saving you the hassle of the nice rejection and all...”

If you didn’t know better, you could’ve sworn you caught a glimpse of deception flashing behind his amused expression, his smirk faltering for a split second.

There was another moment of silence, before Luke replied. “I mean, is it really good to make assumptions like that ?”

“Actually it is, helps face reality when you already have it all figured out before it happens, you know ?”

The amusement on his face was slowly laced with confusion. “I really don’t get how you’re so smart yet so… not.”

“Uh… Ouch much ?” you replied, slightly offended.

“No I mean- To tell you the truth, i did forget half my stuffs today, but i totally had a bunch of pens in my bag.” He ran a hand through his hair in frustration.

“Then why would you ask for one ? You wanted a pink one ?” you laughed, trying to ease the growing tension building up in you again, for some reason.

“My friend said it’d be easier to talk to you that way. And I mean, it indeed is since I'm pretty sure I'm talking to you right now.” he said with a little laugh, that sounded more anxious than intended.

You looked at him in disbelief, arching a brow. “Why ?”

Luke finally let go of your wrist, hand coming to scratch his nape awkwardly. “I don’t know… I just wanted to talk to you ?”

“Exactly, why ? You give really little information, you know ?”

“I mean, you looked cu-ool.” he said, tripping over his words a little, his eyes visibly widening.

“Cyool...?” you squinted, confused, before shaking your head to just dismiss it. “Congrats, that makes you one of the two only people who think so, first is my mom.”

“Oh, come on, smartass, don’t make me say it.” he shut his eyes for an instant, nervously sliding a hand through his messy curls.

“Say what ? If you got something else to say, better make it quick before i go back to hide from my embarrassment, that I definitely did not forget about like i’d like to.” you urged him, smiling sarcastically.

Luke looked back in yourr eyes for a moment, the brown of his almost covered by a cloud of hesitation, before he finally parted his lips. “I obviously wanted to say cute, not cyool.”

As expected, you simply froze again. Not even blinking, just staring straight in his eyes, though as if you looked into nothing.

“And I thought it would be no good to just forget about it simply because it’s the perfect occasion to finally ask you out on a… date.” he nervously continued, muttering the last word.

His eyes searched yours for an instant, darting from left to right and looking for a reaction, or even just a connection, before you finally snapped out of it. You blinked repetitively, eyes darting everywhere but on Jamie, before literally pinching herself, ensuring you weren't just daydreaming and wouldn't wake up in math class.

“Waw, uh, okay, I don’t think I ever got that far in a fake scenario. Uhhh…” You just opened and closed your mouth multiple times without even letting out a sound, completely overwhelmed by the current situation. “Hey you know what ? I- um…” You cleared your throat, somewhat hoping it might help clear your thoughts, and finally looked at the boy in front of you. “I’ll text you.”

And you ran off towards the school’s main exit, bag and pink pen in hand.

Stunned for a few seconds, Luke just picked-up his own backpack off the ground and started walking in the same direction, laughing softly. “Weirdly, that was kind of expected..”

Just a few minutes after you left him, he received an instagram notification from what he knew was your account, an audio message. ‘Well, that on the other hand is unexpectedly quick.’ he thought, opening it.

“Yo ma boyyy, it’s Silena ! Soooo… your girl is um… out of service for a little while, I think.. Girl you okay ?? But I’m telling you, she’s totally on for the date thinggg ~ Just text her the details and I’ll personally make sure she makes it in time and place, do not fre- env- do not worry, wow, I can’t even speak properly anymore, I'm turning into you. Anygayssss, maybe don’t text her today though, y’know ? Cause she’s like, freaked out as hellll, but um, yeah. See ya !”

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

'thank you' part on a tiktok kicking my feet like crazy, felt like I had to write it ~)

But yeah, hope you guys enjoyed reading, I love you allllll

Nana <3

[soobnny]

classmate au | sim jake

❝ i’m sorry we only got 26/30 on this worksheet ❞

heeseung | jay | JAKE | sunghoon | sunoo | jungwon | ni-ki

jake…

oh jake.

student athlete and math genius jake

you’re in the same class but he feels so far because he hangs out with his rly pretty friends

u can only look from afar

he’s always a tiny bit late to class

always drawing attention to his pretty boy face 😞

at 7:30, the bell rings and classes start

at 7:31, jake walks into class late

but the teachers always give him a pass bc how could they not when he smiles at them like that and apologizes like that

even ur teachers are down bad

he probably becomes your class representative for that one strict teacher’s class bc they always have a soft spot for jake

u want the deadline of the homework extended? ask jake to message them

he sits in the middle seats

not too prim and punctual to be at the front

but still likes school enough not to completely goof around at the back

sometimes your math teacher lets you do quizzes and worksheets by pair

(it’s the only way some of you can get a passing grade)

by statistics and some type of sampling, you end up getting partnered up with jake

“hi, good morning,” he’d greet with his infamous smile

now you get why all the teachers swoon for him

he’s so cute. this is going to be a problem

this is going to be a BIG problem

you were already bad at math, and now there’s a big pretty distraction sitting next to you

though, tbh, you were also relieved when you heard your name with his bc he’s ltrly known as a math genius

he’s one of the students that teachers excuse for their math contests

and wait 😭 did he just say something to u? did he ask about a formula bc u honestly have no clue

“(name)?” he’d shake your shoulder gently and it’s enough to bring you back on earth

“sorry, did you ask something?”

“oh, i’m done … if u wanted to compare answers? or if u trust me enough?”

you trust him enough

he’s ltrly THE carry

jake will speedrun differential calculus like he’s writing the alphabet

uh oh.

why does he look so HOT with his pencil and the way he writes numbers

you’re going insane

you should never be paired with jake ever again

but by some twist of fate, you always end up as jake’s partner in numerous activities

lab work and experiments and communication reports?

“jake and (name),” the teacher would announce

ofc… typical of friends, they HAVE to push you around as you walk to your seat beside jake’s

while you’re of great help with anything else, you’re starting to feel bad about his literal carry in math tho

“are you sure it’s ok? i’m just rly horrible i’m sorry,” you’d apologize

he would just laugh and dismiss your concerns

“nooo, it’s okay. i’m fine! i can tell you didn’t get enough sleep last night”

(you spent the night binging a new show that came out)

your stomach doesn’t feel so good after that one.

who gave him the right to NOTICE things now???

when your teacher returns your paired worksheets, he has the GALL to apologize

a big fat 29/30 will be written on top and he’d say “oh i’m sorry we had one mistake 😕” like BOY SHUT UP !!!!

after your partner shenanigans, you’d start talking more in the classroom

he’d give u a fist bump if u bumped into each other in the hallways while walking with ur respective friend groups

sometimes even shout your name to get your attention only to wave at you

“why are you smiling like that?,” sunghoon would ask accusingly

and you know what? jake has no shame

“(name). she’s pretty cute, no?”

BYE absolutely no shame

so now, when he speedruns an activity, you’ll find him hovering around you until he starts to make conversation

if the teacher leaves early ?? suddenly he’s transported to the seat next to yours and flirting

being friends with jake is chaotic…. bc that would automatically mean being friends with HIS loud ass friends

pretty friends have upgraded to pretty LOUD friends

they’re so annoying too

“jake and (name), can you buy us water?”, heeseung would ask

WHY R U BUYING WATER FOR HEESEUNG

but jake’s already taking your hand and dragging you away bc he will take every opportunity to hang out with you alone

BTW computer science god idk i just got the vibes

during valentines that year, he codes you a little website please end me

mind you, you aren’t even together yet

he just codes for you as a friend 😂😂😂 as if anyone’s believing that

oh and he also avails those anonymous services so you’ll just be receiving flowers from the student council throughout the day

“oooooh, who are those from,” he would be smiling like it’d be so painfully obvious it’s from him

“do you like them?” NOOOOOOO he just wants to know ok!!! tell him you love them please

OK back to normal no more valentines

when class dismisses, you’d find him lounging around the basketball court with heeseung

sweaty….. wet hair…. oh dear

jake is a sight to see when he’s playing basketball

u usually sit at the bleachers anyway bc ur friends enjoyed watching

he is SOOOOO annoying esp now that you’ve grown closer over the months

he’d make stupid plays and draw attention to you 100%

“if i get this shot in, will you go on a date with me?”

cue the screams and the teasing and the fake vomiting as you’re pushed around

OFC he makes the shot

he’s sim jake, math genius AND student athlete

“so, tomorrow after class?”

“huh?? i thought you were joking??”

“what? no! have i not been obvious? i ltrly flirt with you evry chance i get??”

“well… idk! maybe you do that with everyone!”

“only you”

OK WISH I WERE YOU THEN 😒😒😒😒😒

note. credits to user @.luvknow for the layout of this post! let me know what you think! please discuss these with me i’m crazy

[tremendouscreationperson]

A few of you wanted a part three so here goes

Reader gets called Doll and Toots but other than that I think it's pretty GN

Part 1 Part 2

Ford - no Stan - had spun his tale. You weren't sure any of it could be possible. How was you supposed to believe that Ford was alive but not in this universe/realm/reality?

You sat in the lab he had brought you to - it was cold and dank, stark lights illuminated metal plates and cascaded up the walls to show off a large triangular 'portal'.

"Why'd you have to die?" You asked, eyes glued to the journal upon your knees.

For-Stan had been waiting for any questions, willing to provide you answers. "Seemed easier."

"And lying to me?" You flicked through the stained pages. "That was easy?"

"It wasn't." He told you honestly, just hearing his voice was crazy. You had believed he was dead for two years and he wasn't! He was here the whole time. "Gotta admit, I had you fooled."

The attempt at a joke was not humourous in the slightest. "This isn't normal behaviour."

Stanley didn't know what else to do. He hadn't thought you would ever realise, perhaps that was stupid on his part but he really thought he was able to coexist with you as Ford.

"So..." You took a deep breath. "Recap: this is Ford's journal and he wanted you to take it away and you both argued and he got sucked into that thing and now you're him and Stan is dead and you're trying to get him back?"

Stan nodded, twiddling his thumbs. "Yeah. It's been hard, I had to relearn math."

"Who else wrote in here?"

"Huh?"

You pointed at the page. "That's not Ford's handwriting. Although look, 'ford' signed it." A humourless chuckle escaped. "Who else is pretending to be your brother?"

Stan was at your side in an instant, looking over your shoulder. Being so close to him was maddening.

He was alive.

Your Stan was alive.

Yeah, maybe he was a fraud and there was weird space mumbo jumbo that you still don't entirely believe but he was alive.

Your face was turned towards him as he studied the page, his fingers grazing yours underneath the words. How did he look like him now?

You didn't see Ford in him at all.

The way he stood, his neutral expression, even his hair was different. Was Stanley.

"I didn't notice that." He spoke lowly due to the proximity.

"Is there anyone else in the town called Ford?"

Stan's gaze landed on you, his nose inches from yours and he opened his mouth to speak before closing it and just observing you. He really took you in.

Despite the lies you were still here. Still entertaining this. He really wished he had more to offer you but he didn't.

He was just him. He wasn't his brilliant brother or full of mysteries or answers. He was just Stan, a con artist who scammed people daily.

"I don't know." The words finally left his mouth and he quickly stood upright.

~~

Rather than leaving tonight, you had stayed longer because of the news, calling in sick at work, how often could you say someone had come back from the dead?

The two of you ate half the pasta you made, sitting awkwardly opposite each other at the table.

He had been open and honest, answering all of your questions keenly and encouraging you to ask more. And you had to admit that was nice but the news still sat heavily on your shoulders.

Mostly because: FUCKING HELL THIS WAS CRAZY and a slither of: you had told FORD THAT YOU LOVED STANLEY AND BROUGHT HIM UP IN MANY CONVERSATIONS AND HE WAS THE ONE YOU WERE TALKING TO AND YOY WERE EMBARRASSED AS FUCK BUT YOU NEEDED TO HELP AND HDJAKSIEIES

"You, er.. you okay?" Stan toyed with a meatball.

"It's just a lot to process." That wasn't a lie. "I'll probably be like this for a few days."

He gave you a sincere smile, "take your time, do-"

Your eyes snapped up to his pink face. "Were you going to call me doll?" He nodded in affirmative, his ears reddening as well. You weren't sure why but you spared him with: "Hmm, better than toots."

"That was one time!" He insisted.

"That's all it took."

"I only said it to piss you off." He smirked cheekily, his face returning to its usual hue.

"It worked." Rolling your eyes as you giggled. You didn't hold any real malice, he was being cocky demonstrating his pick up moves and they did not work... Well they did but it was easier to pass off your hot face and wide eyes as anger rather than awe.

Stan laughed along with you, enjoying the sound. Loving how easy it was to just be himself. He didn't have to wear the gloves which made everything impossible, he didn't have to act stiff and drop big words into his 'lexicon', and he didn't have to lie. He could be himself.

He knows he doesn't deserve this, by God he knows that, but he would take all you'd willingly give; if that was just dinner before you drove away forever then he would take it and be thankful for the time.

"Want a beer?" He found himself asking.

You didn't reply straight away, ideas tumbling around your head. He loved watching your mind work. "Got anything stronger?"

Stan winked and disappeared to get the whiskey he'd stashed away.

And so the two of you found yourselves sitting on his 'balcony' (a little ledge, that you had to climb through a window to access, underneath the 'mystery shack' sign) forgoing glasses and passing the bottle between you.

"Must feel good to tell someone." Your words slurred as you laid on your spine, staring at the stars beyond the trees.

"It does." He took a sip. "Feel bad that it was you though."

You swivelled your neck to give him a confused face. He bellowed out a laugh. "Oit, don't laugh at me." Your socked toe jabbed his thigh.

Stan placed a hand over your foot, just holding it, forcing your hips to manoeuvre into a more comfortable position. You faced him as he watched the treeline. "Sorry to drag you into this."

"Sorry I didn't notice sooner." How didn't you? He was clearly Stan. There was nothing here that said Ford. "You're so obviously my Stan." You rolled your eyes and folded your arms in annoyance at yourself.

Stan's brows shot up and he turned to catch you grumbling at yourself. "Your Stan?"

Your eyebrows met and you scrunched your face in confusion again. "What?"

"You said 'my Stan'." His lips began to lift into the smuggest smirk as he leaned forward, entering your bubble. "I didn't realise I was your Stan."

"Shut up." You playfully pushed him away. "We're drunk, you don't know what you heard."

Stan didn't let up, instead he found your hand and intertwined your fingers. "I kinda like being someone's Stan." He spoke with a half shrug.

You couldn't believe what you were hearing. Was this a dream fueled by your longing and whiskey? "Well, you know how I feel because you were spying on me! Pretending to be Ford to hear what I had to say about you!"

"Hey, I told you Stan liked you too!" He defended.

"Do-" You paused. When did the two of you get so close? You were nose to nose. "Does Stan still feel that w-"

You weren't given a chance to finish the question because his lips were on yours. He kissed you slowly, one palm on your cheek as the other wound around your spine, pulling you in close. Your hands were pinned against his chest as you kissed him back enthusiastically.

Stan's slow kisses morphed into an intense make out session as he ran his tongue across your bottom lip and you gave him access. His hands exploring all over your body, squeezing and caressing your sides and chest causing your spine to curve.

The two of you were buzzing and the kiss was a little sloppy but it was perfect. You wouldn't want it any other way.

He finally allowed the two of you a breather, kissing his way down your neck, nipping and sucking the sensitive flesh. You squirmed again, back arching as a whispered moan tumbled from you.

That sobered him up, Stan raised his head from your neck, looking down at you and saw the needy look in your eyes. "Maybe we should wait 'til we're not blitzed."

The automatic frown you wore had him chuckling as you pulled his face back to yours, kissing him with as much vigour as you could muster.

Stan bit your bottom lip and his fingers settled on your thighs, how he managed to find himself in between them he didn't know but you pulled him closer with your legs and he had to pinch himself.

This was real.

All the shit he had done.

Every scam, every fraud, every crime, everything.

And you still looked at him with those eyes.

Fuck.

Maybe he loved you.

.

.

.

@aratheegreat @ngs991-2 @seahorrorz @misty-eyed-memory @50shadesofwinchesters @ryoiii @viceroywrites @atseoks @countlessimagines @aweleyirene @hesthermay @darlingdia1007 @piningforstan @emmygirl33 @imafangirlofeverything @daniel-meyer-03

.

.

I work in a DIY shop and this is what I had to look at for the majority of my shift 😂😭 he haunts me

[jessiexflem]

- all-american | jessie fleming x reader

content: fluff, UCLA Jessie! (and Teagan being a butthead)

word count: 1.4K

requests are open :)

“You’re staring again,” Teagan pokes her teammate with the eraser on her pencil.

Heat rises up Jessie’s neck and face as she turns her head to glare at the Australian, “I am not!”

“Oh, whatever,” Teagan scoffs, rolling her eyes, “you’ve been giving her heart-eyes the entire time we’ve been here.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah? Then what’s the answer for number twelve?”

Jessie glances down at her calculus homework, the paper mostly unaltered except where she had scribbled her name in the top corner. 

“Thought so,” Teagan replies smugly, “Gotta get your head screwed on, Jess, our grades depend on it.”

“You aren’t even supposed to be talking right now,” Jessie points at the ‘quiet please’ sign above the librarian’s head before focusing back on her homework, hoping it would encourage her friend to drop the subject.

“Come on, Jess, why don’t you just ask her out?” 

“I thought you told me to focus on our homework,” Jessie sets her pencil down with a huff, “Plus, why would I do that?”

“Because you like her?” the Australian gives her a ‘duh?’ look.

“No, I don’t!” Jessie’s cheeks flush, “What makes you think that?”

“Well, for starters, we’ve been sitting here for over an hour, and you haven’t noticed that I moved your calculator underneath my notebook” Teagan chuckles, “Not to mention, any time you see her, she’s all you can talk about for hours. ‘Y/N’s so smart, Y/N showed me how to do this in lab, Y/N wasn’t in class today, and I missed her so mu–’”

“We’re just lab partners, that’s all,” Jessie shakes her head. 

Teagan crosses her arms, tipping her chair onto its back legs. She narrows her eyes at her roommate, a cheeky smile tugging at her lips. “Alright, so if you insist you don’t like Y/N, you won’t mind if I ask her out on a date?”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“But you don’t like her, right? So, you wouldn’t be jealous?”

“Go for it,” Jessie replies dryly. She knew there was no way Teagan would actually ask you out, she barely knew you. She wouldn’t even know who you were if she hadn’t (annoyingly) crashed one of your study sessions during midterms last semester. 

Putting her head down, Jessie redirects her attention back to her neglected math problems. The assignment was due at midnight, and she managed to make zero progress. Copying the numbers from the first question, she starts working through the equation until she realizes she needs a function on her graphing calculator.

“Can I have my calc–” Jessie stops mid-sentence as she looks up to see Teagan waving you over to their table, “What are you doing?!”

“You said I could ask Y/N out, so I figured I’d catch her as she was leaving.”

Backpack slung over your shoulders, you weave your way toward where the two were sitting. You notice Jessie’s posture tense as she whispers frantically to her teammate. Catching her eye, you direct a smile at your lab partner.

“Y/N!” Teagan greets cheerfully, “Done studying for the day?”

You shrug, “I should probably look over my ethics study guide a bit more, but I could feel my brain going numb and figured it was time for a break. What about you two?”

“Well, if you’re needing another study break later this week,” Teagan starts. Intrigued by what she had to say, you didn’t notice the color drain from Jessie’s normally rosy cheeks. “We were wondering if you were free Saturday afternoon? Jessie and I have a game at 4, and we wanted to invite you to watch.”

Jessie, realizing she was subconsciously holding her breath, let out a deep exhale. 

“I’d love to! I haven’t been able to make it out to one yet,” you say as your phone begins to buzz in your hand, “I’ve got to head out, but text me the details, Jess?”

Jessie nods rapidly, her brain unable to form a coherent answer. She watches you walk away, feeling Teagan’s eyes burning a hole in her cheek. She didn’t even have to turn her head to know that her friend had the biggest smirk on her face.

“So, if I ever think that my lab partner’s getting asked out on a date, should I look like I’m about to puke, too? Or are you going to admit you have a crush on the girl?” Teagan teases.

“I hate you,” Jessie mutters, glaring at her.

“Bet you can’t wait to show off your first team All-American skills, huh? You better practice what goal celebration you’re going to dedicate to her.”

“I’m done talking to you.”

“Jessie and Y/N, sitting in a tree, K–”

“Just give me my calculator back.”

--------------------------------------

Jessie was having a horrible game. She couldn’t remember the last time she played this poorly. Constantly losing the ball in the midfield, getting outrun and out-muscled by her opposing mark. Her head was running a thousand miles a minute, and the only thing she could focus on was that Y/N was sitting front row. 

It was the opposing team’s corner, and Teagan was shouting directions, ensuring each of her outfielders had their mark. The ball gets served in, and Jessie goes up for the header, making contact square on her forehead. However, instead of directing the ball out of the 18, her body was angled slightly toward the goal, meaning the ball veered toward Teagan instead. Luckily, it hit off the post and fell to their teammate, Hailie’s, feet, who cleared the ball toward midfield.

“Jessie, what the hell?” Jessie hears Teagan shout from behind her.

The halftime whistle blows, and Jessie couldn’t get to the locker room faster. Before she could reach her cubby, Coach Cromwell pulls her off to the side.

“Fleming, do you want to explain why it looks like you’ve never touched a soccer ball before in your life?” Coach Cromwell raises an eyebrow at her. 

“I–I don’t know, nerves, I guess,” Jessie gnaws on the inside of her cheek, unable to make eye contact with her coach.

“Well, you better get your nerves sorted by the end of halftime unless you want to get benched for the rest of the game.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jessie nods, keeping her head down as she shuffles to her locker. Teagan, assigned the cubby next to her, frowns at her, brows furrowed with concern.

The second half went smoother for the midfielder. Her tackles were timed better, and she had better possession of the ball. The game remained tied at 0-0, UCLA pushing the ball into the opposing half of the field. Hailie sent a ball into Jessie’s feet, and she dribbled down the sideline, the opposing winger closing in on her. Faking left, she got the opponent to bite, leaving her a hole for Jessie to slip the ball between her legs. The crowd went nuts, you included. Jessie laid the ball off for her teammate, Ashley, who took the ball into the corner drawing a defender so the Canadian could make a run in. Ashley crossed a low-through ball into the box, which Jessie met at the top of the six, slotting it into the bottom-left corner of the goal. 

You jumped to your feet, cheering as loud as you could. Noticing Jessie scanning the crowd, you give her an overexaggerated wave, to which she acknowledges with a smile. The game ends 2-0, Ashley tacking on another goal in the final two minutes. Waiting for Jessie and Teagan to complete their “good games” and post-game huddle, you stick yourself by the fence in a spot where they could easily find you. 

“Y/N, you made it!” Teagan exclaims, jogging over, Jessie not far off her heels. 

“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” you beam, “you guys did awesome! Great goal, Jess.”

Jessie’s cheeks flush as Teagan throws an arm around her, “She nearly had two.”

“You’re never letting me live that down, will you?” she groans, trying to avoid Teagan’s soft punches to her ribs.

“Teagan!” the three of you turn to see Hailie motioning Teagan back over to the bench, giggling, “Come here!”

“I’ll be back,” Teagan says, shooting Jessie an obvious wink before running off. Jessie throws her hands up in protest, grumbling something under her breath. She turns back to you, cheeks still red.

“Um, thanks for coming to watch,” she smiles sheepishly. A few yards behind her, she can hear Teagan making loud, fake coughs. Their conversation from the other day flashes through her mind. “I still have to shower, but would you, uh, maybe want to get dinner? With me, I mean?”

“Teagan and Hailie, too? Or, are you asking me out on a date?” you grin.

“I–well, I mean,” Jessie stammers, her face hot. 

“Because I’d much rather it be a date,” you assure.

Relief floods through Jessie’s entire body. “Then it’s a date.”

[lortsyall]

Echoes of Eywa's Child.

chapter 1.

(Neteyam x Human!Reader series)

Pending....Pending....

Date: December 21st,2174.

Location: Office,Unit 4,Avatar Department,Human Outpost Biolab,Hallelujah Mountains,Pandora.

Time: 10:15 AM.

A long time has passed since I've known about this once alien planet. 4.4 light years away,a world full of life,like a lost paradise,sat idly in silence,away from the death and destruction that has scattered over Earth like a goddamn plague.

The ones before us saw the danger of it all,and yet they turned a blind eye,all because the climate change and the fractures in the atmosphere caused by the heightened levels of carbon dioxide wouldn’t affect them in the long run. They’d be dead anyway by the time it got too serious. So much for doing the right thing.

I wasn’t even born when they discovered Pandora,though until I actually got a grasp of reality and gained consciousness like everybody does at 5 years old,I’ve actually wondered if the so-called “Goldilocks Zone” existed somewhere else. If God smiled upon the universe and gave another planet the privilege of life.

Trust me,I have no idea how I even got here. So much time has passed since I’ve breathed in the polluted air of Earth,but I guess it’s for the benefit of all.

Guess we'll do it like they always do,huh?Start from the beginning of it all.

Pending...Pending...

Date: January 26th,2170

Location: Home,New York,USA, Earth.

Time: 12:43 PM.

Nobody ever thought that a girl like me would end up as the head leader of the Avatar Department,or an important person in the Resistance. And I gotta say,I never quite imagined myself becoming this. I dreamt of stages full of fans,as my fingers gave birth to heart-shattering riffs. Of poetry books released under my very own name,painting the pages with complicated feelings and sensations,all of a broken and imperfect human heart. Of having my own star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame,making my country proud as a well known actress overseas. Though all those dreams were scattered away,like a feather in the wind,the moment I decided to do what any other scared yet artistically talented person who wants to make her parents proud does.

I got into STEM. Mechanical and Biological Engineering.

And between the sleepless nights of studying,drowning myself in math equations and lab reports,I got a one-way ticket to Pandora in my first year of college,from the one and only Parker Selfridge. Head administrator of the RDA’s operation in Pandora. I can still feel the anxiety lingering on my tongue. They never came with internships for first years,so what was he here for?

He came in to give out 5 internships at my college,yet he left with a new potential piece for this chess game. Me. All thanks to a question he asked that I knew the answer of. And to think I almost didn't say the answer because I thought everyone knew it,but as it turns out,only I did. I sat in the hallway with my friends,staring dumbfoundedly at the bussiness card he gave me.

Only back then,the RDA were treated as heroes,important people who made way for a better life. For an undead Earth. The propaganda was all enough to trick a little mind like mine,though it’s funny how I always thought I was a step ahead of everyone. Life on Earth as I remember it was,to say the least…grey.

The cities were gray. The people were gray. The sky was…well,grey. And between spending the rest of my life here,with my dreams crumbling before my very own eyes,and going out there to actually fight for a new home for humanity,you can guess why I chose the latter.

Nothing out of the ordinary was happening for me here anyway. Gorgeous girl,great personality,they all said,but nobody ever settled. Nobody ever stopped in their tracks to take in the pure and total beauty of the chaos that is me,so I never had a serious partner before. And…I guess I was also excited to see if the stories are true.

How an actual human betrayed his own race for a…Na’vi tribe princess?At least that’s how they put it,and I don’t even want to mention how embarrassing it was for the RDA to come back to Earth with their tails between their legs back in 2154. No unobtanium. No money. No Avatars. No nothing. I was three when that happened,and I remember playing with my cousins with our cardboard toys as our parents watched the TV in confusion and…disappointment,so you can guess why they made Jake Sully seem like an actual demon,and the death of a colonel was a pretty big deal,after all.

Thing is,the RDA only shows you the pearl in their hands,and not the mouth getting ready to swallow you whole. And now I know why they were so understaffed. That total failure after 2154 made people lose trust in the RDA over the years. But to me?

The decision came easily. I needed something new.

What didn’t,though,was the pure work I’d have to do in just 6 months. Learning the language of the natives,the Na’vi. Getting to understand the differences between our anatomy and theirs. The fauna and flora. The tribes. The ecosystems. And…of course,Eywa herself,though I learned that from Dr. Grace Augustine’s botany books,not from the RDA’s training program. I honestly don’t know what Selfridge saw in me,when I know I have friends better in college than me,but I better not question it too much.

I tried telling myself that as soon as I got in cryo,it wouldn’t be a goodbye,rather a…see you later. Looking back at it now,I think it was just wishful thinking. For now,I was me,the girl nobody ever really took seriously. Just another face in a sea of others. Next time I wake up,I’d have to work in an entire department with people twice my age.

Pending...Pending...

Date: July 31st,2174

Location: Pandora????

Time: ?????

The cryo-sleep thaw was a nightmare and a miracle all at once. My lungs burned as they dragged in air for the first time in four years, my throat raw and dry, every breath tasting metallic. My joints ached as if I’d aged a century.

“Subject revived.” the sterile voice of the AI announced, flat and emotionless. I tried sitting up, only to slump back down against the cryo pod’s restraints. My body wasn’t mine yet—not entirely.

“You’ll feel like shit for a while,” said a woman in a crisp lab coat, her voice muffled as she checked my vitals. “Side effects of long-term cryo. It’ll pass. Welcome to the ISV Valkyrie, and congrats on making it to Pandora.”

The word hung in the air, heavy and surreal. Pandora.

The next few hours were a blur of debriefings and medical checkups. My body eventually began to cooperate, but my mind lagged behind. I shuffled through endless corridors with other groggy personnel, each of us too stunned to speak. We were like ghosts wandering through a ship that pulsed with life—technicians barking orders, holograms buzzing with real-time scans of the moon’s surface, the low hum of engines preparing for atmospheric descent.

When the ship finally broke through Pandora’s atmosphere, I felt it in my chest. The vibrations reverberated through every bolt, every panel, and through me. The world outside the viewport was alive. The dense, green forests sprawled endlessly beneath the floating Hallelujah Mountains, their bases wreathed in ethereal clouds. The sky shifted from pink to blue in the blink of an eye, its colors alien yet breathtakingly familiar.

For a moment, the hum of engines and the chatter of voices faded away. It was just me and the sight of this strange, beautiful moon—a place that could have been paradise if we weren’t here to ruin it.

The ship landed with a jarring shudder, and the real work began.

Adjusting to life on Pandora was like learning to breathe all over again. Everything about this place demanded respect—the gravity was lighter, the air richer, and the biology... unfathomable. Days blurred into weeks as I threw myself into the work at the Avatar Department.

My mornings began with syncing sessions in the link pods, my mind slipping into my Avatar body like stepping into a cold pool. It wasn’t seamless—at first, every movement felt foreign. I stumbled through training exercises, my longer legs and stronger muscles betraying me at every turn. But slowly, the body became mine.

Afternoons were spent reading over files on Na’vi biology, studying their neural networks and learning their language. The words felt clumsy on my tongue, but I persisted. When I wasn’t in the lab or out on field assignments to observe Pandora’s ecosystems, I was immersed in RDA briefings.

That’s where I first heard his name again.

Jake Sully.

The briefings spoke of him like a ghost, a legend who had long since passed into myth. But here, his name was a warning.

“Resistance forces led by Sully attacked the rail line near Sector 7 again,” one of the military officers growled during lunch at the canteen. “Three shipments of amp suits lost. That bastard and his little insurgents are crippling our operations.”

The room buzzed with tension as reports of attacks piled up. Sabotaged trains, stolen supplies, and destroyed equipment—it was chaos. To the RDA, Sully wasn’t just a traitor. He was the personification of everything standing in the way of their plans.

But the more I learned, the more conflicted I felt. The propaganda painted him as a terrorist, a man who had betrayed his own kind for a primitive cause. But every whisper I caught from the scientists who had been here longer told a different story.

“Maybe Sully isn’t the villain they make him out to be,” I muttered to Dr. Ellison one evening as we worked late in the lab.

He glanced at me, his expression unreadable as he pointed towards a CCTV with his head,as if to say "Shut up. They're listening."

"That’s dangerous talk,you know. Keep your head down. Do your work. They don't like questions.”

I nodded, but the seed of doubt had already taken root.

The attacks continued, each one more brazen than the last. The RDA ramped up their operations in response, sending more troops and machinery into the wilds of Pandora. But for every move they made, the Resistance seemed to be one step ahead.

And then there was the tension between the people I worked with. Some were diehard loyalists, determined to see the mission succeed no matter the cost. Others—mostly the scientists—spoke in hushed tones about the beauty of the Na’vi culture, the interconnectedness of the flora and fauna, and the destruction we were bringing to this world.

I kept my head down, just as Ellison had warned. But at night, as I lay in my bunk staring at the ceiling, I couldn’t help but wonder: which side of history would I be on?

Pandora had a way of getting under your skin. The longer I stayed, the more I realized it wasn’t just a place. It was a mirror, reflecting humanity’s best and worst instincts back at us. And somewhere in the middle of it all was me—a girl who had come here for a fresh start, only to find herself caught in a war she didn’t fully understand.

The attacks became more than background noise; they became a constant undercurrent to life on Pandora. At first, they were just distant explosions, reports in the briefing room, or muttered curses from the military personnel in the mess hall. But over time, the Resistance started to feel like a presence, a shadow that loomed over everything the RDA tried to accomplish.

Jake Sully wasn’t just a name anymore—he was a force of nature.

The first time I felt the Resistance's impact directly was during a supply run. It was supposed to be routine—a quick trip to outpost Beta-5 to deliver Avatar-linked monitoring equipment. I was tagging along as part of my training, mostly to observe.

But the Resistance didn’t care about schedules or safety zones.

The attack was fast and chaotic. One moment, the AMP suits ahead of us were trudging through the dense forest, their movements mechanical and predictable. The next, arrows rained down from the trees, followed by explosions that sent the towering machines toppling like broken toys.

The ambush hit like a storm—sudden, violent, and unstoppable.

One moment, I was riding in the back of the supply truck, surrounded by crates of equipment and two guards sharing a nervous laugh. The next, the forest erupted in chaos.

The first explosion flipped the lead AMP suit, its towering frame crashing to the ground with a deafening roar. The convoy came to an abrupt halt as arrows rained down from the trees, their sharp points glinting like falling stars.

“Get down!” someone yelled.

I hit the truck bed hard, the impact knocking the wind out of me. My mask rattled against the metal floor as I scrambled for cover behind a crate. The world around me dissolved into a cacophony of gunfire, shouting, and the eerie war cries of the Na’vi.

The guards fired blindly into the trees, their exo-packs hissing as they struggled to maintain their aim under the pressure. I peeked over the edge of the crate just in time to see one of the AMP suits stagger, an arrow embedded in its cockpit.

Panic set in. My heart pounded so hard it felt like it might burst. I wasn’t a soldier. I wasn’t trained for this. My human body was fragile here—one wrong move, and I’d be dead.

I clutched the sidearm they’d insisted I carry, though my hands were shaking too much to use it. What was I even doing here? This wasn’t supposed to be my fight.

A shadow passed overhead. My breath hitched as I looked up to see a Na’vi warrior leaping from a tree, his bow drawn, his movements impossibly fluid. He landed on the roof of the truck with barely a sound, his golden eyes scanning the scene below.

And then, those eyes locked onto mine.

For a moment, the chaos of the ambush melted away, leaving only silence between us.

He stood above me, perched on the edge of the truck’s roof, silhouetted against the glowing forest. His figure was tall and commanding, every line of his body taut with a warrior’s grace. The flickering bioluminescence of the nearby trees played off his skin, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across his lean, muscular frame.

His face was angular and strong, the high cheekbones and sharp jawline unmistakably Na’vi, yet there was something softer in his expression. His golden eyes, large and luminous, fixed on me with an intensity that felt like a physical force. They weren’t filled with rage or cruelty but something far more unnerving—calculated curiosity, as though he were trying to read my soul in that single moment.

The streaks of blue war paint decorating his face didn’t fully mask the smooth, rich azure of his skin, which gleamed faintly under the pale light of Pandora’s twin moons. His braids, adorned with small beads and feathers, swayed gently with each subtle movement, a testament to the culture he carried with him like armor.

But it wasn’t just his appearance that struck me—it was his presence.

He radiated confidence, a quiet power that demanded attention without arrogance. It was the kind of aura that made the world around him seem smaller, less significant. The chaos raging around us felt like a distant hum compared to the weight of his gaze.

And yet, beneath that commanding presence, there was something deeper—an unmistakable grief, perhaps, or a burden that someone so young should never have to carry. It was in the set of his shoulders, the faint downturn of his mouth, and the way his hands gripped the bow with both precision and purpose.

“Drop it,” he said, his voice deep and steady, but with a softness that caught me off guard.

The words hit me like a command, though they weren’t barked or shouted. It was the tone of someone who expected to be obeyed—not out of fear, but respect.

For a second, I couldn’t breathe. The sidearm in my trembling hands felt heavier than it should, as if the very act of holding it was a betrayal. His gaze flicked to the weapon, then back to me, and I realized with a jolt that he wasn’t looking at me like an enemy. He was looking at me like a question.

“You are… different,” he said, tilting his head slightly, the movement as fluid and deliberate as everything else about him. His accent curled around the words, each syllable infused with the lyrical cadence of his native tongue.

I wanted to speak, to ask him what he meant, but my throat felt dry, my voice lost in the weight of the moment.

He crouched slightly, lowering himself onto one knee so we were nearly at eye level. Even then, his presence dwarfed mine. Up close, the details became sharper—the faint patterns of his skin, the slight twitch of his ears as they picked up the sounds of the battle behind him, the faint rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

“You do not fight,” he observed, the faintest hint of curiosity threading through his words. His eyes lingered on mine, their golden glow unwavering. “And you… fear.”

It wasn’t an accusation. It was a statement of fact, delivered with neither judgment nor malice.

His hand shifted slightly, and I flinched, but he didn’t reach for me. Instead, he pointed at the weapon still lying on the ground between us.

The Na’vi reacted instantly. He grabbed my arm and pulled me to my feet with startling gentleness.

“You do not belong here,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “Run.”

“What—”

“Go!”

He released me and darted back into the fray, moving with the grace of a predator and the determination of someone who had everything to lose.

I didn’t run. Not immediately. Instead, I crouched behind the truck, my legs trembling as I watched the battle unfold.

He moved like the forest itself, blending into the chaos with a skill that seemed almost supernatural. He wasn’t just fighting—he was leading. The other Na’vi warriors followed his signals, their coordinated strikes overwhelming the RDA forces.

For every bullet fired, they had an arrow. For every shout of anger, they answered with a battle cry that sent chills down my spine.

And yet, amidst the violence, there was something strangely... noble about them. They didn’t kill indiscriminately. They targeted the machines, the vehicles, the weapons. It was as if they were trying to make a point rather than simply annihilate us.

When the ambush finally ended, the Resistance had melted back into the forest, leaving behind a convoy in ruins. Smoke rose from the wreckage, and the air was thick with the smell of burning fuel.

I stumbled out from behind the truck, my legs barely holding me up. Around me, the survivors were regrouping, their faces pale and shell-shocked.

“Medic!” someone called, dragging a wounded soldier from the wreckage.

But I couldn’t move. My mind was stuck on him—the way he’d looked at me, the way he’d spared me when he could have easily ended my life.

“You do not belong here,” he’d said.

The words echoed in my head as I stared at the destruction around me. For the first time, I began to wonder if he was right.

[fluff-lover]

Healing Touch | Chapter 5: Return Home

Chapter summary: You and Logan travel to Alberta in search for some answers as he slowly regains his memory.

Masterlist

This chapter contains a lot of Logan’s origin story, but it’s more based on the comic than the movie X-Men Origins: Wolverine.

7K words… who am I?

It’s been a few busy weeks to say the least.

After you and Logan agreed on working on his trauma together, you started having small sessions at night where you would use your power on him. In each session you placed your hands on each side of his head while he laid down on the lab’s bed and started healing his amnesia. You worked slowly, not wanting to trigger any bad memory without warning. 

There was only so much you could do, and there was no guarantee any of it would work. Your powers only worked on a physical level, meaning you could heal parts of Logan’s brain that didn’t heal on their own, despite his enhanced healing. But Charles saw this as an opportunity to train and even expand your powers, hoping that in time you would be able to heal the emotional type of wounds, or be the one to caused them.

Fragments of Logan’s memories began to resurface, scattered and incomplete, like pieces of a puzzle he wasn’t sure how to assemble. He remembered his parents: his mother, Elizabeth, and the man he believed to be his father, John Howlett. He could recall the house he’d grown up in, the details hazy but still familiar. He even knew his name wasn’t really Logan. But that was where the trail ended.

What had happened to them? How had he discovered his mutation? The answers felt just out of reach, buried beneath layers of fog he couldn’t penetrate, no matter how hard you tried.

In search of more answers, you started planning your trip to his childhood home: Howlett Estate. You would take a flight to Lloydminster and then drive for two hours to Cold Lake. Originally you suggested taking a smaller plane from Lloydminster to Cold Lake’s regional airport, but took pity on Logan’s distaste for flying and decided to rent a car instead.

You knew this would be hard on Logan, facing his memories and old traumas wasn’t easy, so you wanted to make sure this was a pleasant trip.

Coincidently, the trip took place during Jean and Scott’s wedding, so Logan wouldn’t be in the mansion during that time. Hopefully this trip would also help you rebuild your trust in Logan. Despite reassuring him over and over again that you’d forgiven him already, your friendship changed and required a lot of care to go back to how it was before.

The day of the flight you had maps, flyers and all kinds of accessories for your trip, and you had a blast going from one place to the other in the airport, getting lots of snacks and things to pass the time. Logan was never too far behind, following you around and indulging on anything you wanted.

Despite his nervousness, Logan enjoyed seeing you so excited and bubbly, but most importantly, so relaxed around him. He worried your friendship was ruined when he first hurt you but you were slowly building the trust back up.

It was only after you landed at Lloydminster and got in the rental that the real fun started. 

“I booked the cutest, cosiest looking Bed & Breakfast I could find, it’s adorable.” You said as you entered the address to the GPS. Logan groaned from the driver’s seat.

“I’m regretting this already.” He joked. “You know what? I take that back, I regretted this the moment you gave me a plane ticket.”

You laughed. 

“Oh come on! It wasn’t so bad! I took your nausea away, didn’t I?” 

His frown deepened.

“I still don’t like flying. If men were meant to fly, we would be born with wings.”

“Good thing I’m not a man.” You joked. “Be glad I got us a car instead of another flight for this part. Just drive, old man.” You said before opening a bag of snacks.

“Old man? Fuck off.”

You giggled.

“Aren’t you like a thousand years?”

Logan scoffed.

“...No.” He said after an awkward silence. “Your math is off. Also, don’t eat in the car, you’ll leave crumbs all over.”

You giggled again, and despite his grumpiness, Logan smiled.

“Whatever you say, grandpa.”

“Fuck you!” He said, but there was no malice in his voice. You just looked at him and took another bite of your snack.

“I’m hungry!” You said as an excuse. “Do you want some?”

“Nah, I’m fine. I don’t like candy.” He said, throwing you a look.

“Who the hell doesn’t like candy?” You asked dramatically “I think I have some Sour Patch kids around here, you’ll like them.” You said as you looked through your back.

“What makes you say that?”

“Because… your face looks like you’re constantly sucking a lemon.” Logan turned his head to look at you in disbelief. “Hey! Eyes on the road!”

“What do you mean I look like I’m sucking a lemon?” He asked confused.

“You know…” You pursed your lips, frowned your brow and raised your shoulders, trying to give your best impression of Logan. “Like you’re sulking.”

“I don’t sulk.” He said.

“Right… And I don’t cry while watching The Notebook. Are we just telling lies now?”

“Just give me that.” He snatched the bag of sour candy from your hand. “You’re terrible, you know that?”

“Yes, but you love me anyway.” You smiled and Logan just shook his head in defeat before pouring some candy straight into his mouth.

The ride was filled with banter and jokes. Seeing Logan so relaxed and somewhat happy made your heart flutter. You had never seen him like this, and you hoped it would last.

Watching him drive with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a relaxed smile on his face also did things to you. He looked so handsome, you would try to steal glances every once in a while.

When you finally arrived at the B&B you squealed in delight and jumped out of the car. The building had a “cabin in the woods” feel to it, but much bigger in dimensions, and it was surrounded by a large garden.

“It’s perfect! Just like in the photos! Isn’t it lovely?”

“It looks like a flower shop threw up on it.”

“Ew.” Your face quickly dropped. “Just because of that, you’re carrying the suitcases while I check us in.” You said before stomping towards the door.

“I was carrying the suitcases anyway!” Logan grumbled.

He took the suitcases and quickly caught up with you as you made your way to the reception. There you were welcomed by a sweet looking old lady.

“Welcome! You must be the honeymooners, the Wyatts!” She greeted them.

You quickly shook your head, your belly filling with butterflies at the idea of the two of you looking like newlyweds.

“Oh no, we’re not together. I mean, we’re together, but not together-together… We’re not married!” You tried to explain awkwardly while Logan tried not to laugh. “We booked two bedrooms under the name Howlett.” You said, your face growing hot.

“Yeah, we book two rooms in case the first bed breaks.” Logan joked, making you open your eyes so widely he thought they would pop out of your head.

“Logan!” You hissed and slapped his chest. Logan simply smiled and winked at you. Any other time you would be giggling like crazy at the idea of Logan and you breaking a bed, but you weren’t alone. The lady looked back and forth between the two of you before handing you two keys.

“You have room 13 and 14, they’re down that hall, across from each other. Breakfast is served from 7 to 10 in the dining room.”

You took the keys and nodded your head.

“Thank you ma’am.” you said before walking away fast, your face warm.

Your room was beautiful. It was tastefully decorated, had flowers on pretty much every surface, and the bed looked very cozy. You jumped on the mattress while Logan put your suitcase down.

“Comfortable?” He asked.

“Mhmmm.” You were barely audible with your face squished against the covers. Logan chuckled.

You felt the bed dip and raised your head to see Logan sitting down on the foot of the bed. He looked like there was something he wanted to say, so you sat up on the bed to give him your full attention.

“So, um… Listen,” He cleared his throat. “I just wanted to say… I appreciate everything you’re doing for me. You didn’t have to do any of this, but you did, and I wanted to say thank you.” 

You smiled shyly. Logan wasn’t a man of many words, so when he opened up like this you made sure to appreciate it and soak into the moment.

“Nothing to thank me for. Helping people is what I do, it’s what I love. Maybe I never realized there are other ways I can help other than using my powers.” You shrugged. “I guess I never had a friend that mattered to me as much as you do.” You said with a certain vulnerability in your voice. Of course you left out the part of you being completely, utterly in love with him.

The admission took Logan by surprise. How could you, a sweet, selfless, beautiful woman not be surrounded by people you loved and loved you back.

“Why?” He asked. You tilted your head and frowned.

“Why, what?”

“Why me?” He shook his head, confused. “Not only I didn’t do anything to earn your friendship, but I also hurt you. You could have so many friends, so many people, why did you stick with me?”

You stared at him for a moment in shock.

“What do you mean you didn’t do anything to earn my friendship? You’re the first friend I made at the mansion.”

“That’s it?” Logan scoffed.

“For starters.” You placed your hand on top of his and gave him a reassuring squeeze. “Logan, you earned my friendship with respect and support. Most friendships don’t start with great gestures, they start with kind words, spending time together, showing kindness. My first morning there I was nervous but you told me I would be okay. Words matter, Logan. And I knew I wanted you officially in my life the day you took me to the hospital to help. Remember?”

Logan looked down at your hands together and nodded.

“I remember thinking I had never seen anything like it. Not only you healed those kids, but the relief their parents must’ve felt…” He said softly. “And you never cared about people giving you credit…”

You chuckled. 

“It’s better that way.” You shrugged. “I also knew we would be friends when you started training me. You didn’t think I would be useless on the battlefield just because I don’t have fighting skills. I appreciated that, I appreciated you having faith in me.”

Logan rolled his eyes.

“I couldn’t have you running around trying to save everyone but not knowing how to protect yourself.” He said teasingly.

“I would’ve been okay. I can heal, remember?”

“Just because you can heal doesn’t mean you should allow yourself to get hurt in the first place.” Logan whispered.

Those words touched you deeply. Without even thinking you leaned in and kissed his cheek. Logan blinked and looked anywhere but you, the tips of his ear turning red.

“I think that’s the sweetest thing you ever said to me. Thank you.” You whispered.

Logan cleared his throat and got up, dropping your hand in the process.

“Right. Of course. Anyway, we have a big day tomorrow, right?” He rubbed his palms on his jean-clad thighs, looking awkward as hell. You nodded your head. 

“Meet me at 9 for breakfast and we’ll head to the Howlett Estate afterwards.” you said. 

“Aye Captain!” He picked his suitcase on his way to the door and turned to look at you. He looked like he wanted to say something again, but this time he just pressed his lips into a thin line.

“Good night, Logan.” you said after a moment. 

“Good night, sweetheart. I’ll see you in the morning.” he winked at you and walked out.

-

Logan was used to sleepless nights, but tonight felt different. His mind kept drifting to you, no matter how hard he tried to push the thoughts away. At one point, he got up, rummaging through his jacket until he found his lighter. The one you’d given him. He turned it over in his hand, his thumb brushing over the engraving, something he often did when he thought of you.

Yet you managed to get him flustered all over again. The little kiss on the cheek you gave him earlier was driving him mad. It had been so long since he felt anything like this, so kind and gentle, so intimate without being sexual, he didn’t know how to act about it.

There was no way he could keep denying it: he had feelings for you. Could you possibly feel the same way? Your last conversation was about your friendship, how come all the sudden friendship wasn’t enough? Where did all these feelings fit in?

Logan raked a hand through his hair, frustration tugging at him. You were everything he wasn’t: beautiful, sweet, kind. The kind of person who made the world a little brighter just by existing. Surely you didn’t feel the same way about him... right? You were kind to everyone; that was just who you were. It didn’t mean you liked him.

Still, he couldn’t ignore how deeply these feelings had crept up on him. They hadn’t come all at once but had grown slowly, quietly, in the peaceful moments you’d shared: the late-night talks, the easy silences that somehow said more than words ever could. He hadn’t even realized how much you’d come to mean to him, until tonight. Until that kiss.

This would explain why he felt so jealous of Alex Summers, why he was so traumatized by the sight of your blood on his hands. Only you could get him to board a plane willingly, so what else would he do for you?

“Fuck…” he muttered under his breath, his voice heavy with frustration. Things were about to get a lot more complicated. There was no way he could tell you how he felt. You deserve the best: someone kind, someone who could give you everything you deserved. That wasn’t him. Not after everything he’d done. Especially not after that night…

The memory hit him like a punch to the gut. The night he attacked you. The guilt from that moment never left him, gnawing at the edges of his mind. You’d forgiven him, but he hadn’t forgiven himself. He didn’t deserve someone like you, not after that. Not ever.

Logan sat back on the edge of the bed, staring down at the lighter in his hand. His thoughts spiraled, a storm of self-loathing and regret. He convinced himself, as he always did, that he was destined to be alone. No good woman would ever settle for someone like him, let alone you.

-

The next morning arrived with an unexpected cold, so you threw on your warmest clothes and headed to the main hall for breakfast, excitement bubbling inside you at the idea of finding out more about Logan’s past. 

But the feeling wouldn’t last. When you got to the dining room you found Logan was already there, looking grumpier than usual. He had a deep frown on his face, and looked at his coffee cup as it had personally offended him.

“Hey, good morning.” You greeted him.

When he looked up at you, his face softened and his shoulders seemed to relax.

“Morning. Slept well?” He asked as you sat down across from him.

“Not really, I guess I was too excited about today to sleep. What about you?”

Logan mulled over it for a moment.

“Same.” He said simply.

“Are you okay?” You asked. “We don’t have to do it today if you’re not ready.” You reassured him. He quickly shook his head.

“No, there’s no point dragging this on any longer.” He ran a hand down his face. Your heart ached for him, he looked tired and angry.

“Logan…” You went to reach his hand, but he quickly pulled it away.

“You should go get some breakfast, we have a long day ahead.”

You got up and headed to the table where the food was served. If Logan wanted to be a grumpy cat, so be it.

He really did look like he was sucking a lemon.

The ride to the Estate was quiet, a big contrats from the ride the day before. There was no banter or jokes, just music playing softly on the radio.

When you finally reached the Estate, you let out a whistle. 

“Damn, Logan! I didn’t know you grew up filthy rich.” You joked. The main building, a manor that seemed frozen in time, stud tall and big at the top of a hill, surrounded by a vast land.

“Neither did I.” He said with a somber tone. Being back here after so long made Logan feel uneasy, like he was entering a sacred place that was prohibited to him, while at the same time walking into a dangerous place. Either way, he didn’t want to be there. You could tell this wasn’t easy for him and you wanted to make him feel at ease, but you could only help him as much as he would allow it. And right now he was being too stubborn for that.

When he parked the car you both got out, but as Logan headed to the door he noticed you weren’t following. Instead you stood by the car, arms crossed on your chest and a pout on your face.

“You coming or what?” He asked annoyed.

“No.” You stomped your foot like a child about to throw a tantrum. “Not until you tell me why you’re being such an ass this morning.” You pressed.

Logan glared at you.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Come on.” 

You shook your head.

“Nope. Something happened and I wanna know what.”

Logan groaned.

“Coming here was your idea, so come on, let’s get moving.”

But you didn’t budge, shaking your head.

“You’re doing it again!” You said.

“Doing what?” Logan asked confused.

“Pushing me away.” You replied, your voice shaking. It made Logan stop in his tracks. He had sworn he wouldn’t push you away again. With a defeated sigh he ran a hand down his face and walked back towards you.

“I’m sorry sweetheart, I didn’t mean to. I guess I’m really stressed right now, not knowing what we may find there.” He said pointing at the building with his thumb over his shoulder. “I barely got any sleep but I don’t mean to take it out on you.” He reassured you.

Damn, you really had him wrapped around your finger, didn’t you?

“Why didn't you just tell me? You know you can tell me anything.” The sad look on your face, with a little pout on your lips, made Logan’s defense crumble.

“I know, I’m sorry sweetheart. You already did so much for me I didn’t want to burden you with something else.”

You pouted even more.

“After all this time you still haven’t learned that you’re not a burden for me.” You shook your head and stepped closer. “I guess I’ll just have to keep reminding you.” You took his hand and walked towards the door. “Come on!”

Logan smiled softly. Of course you forgave him right away, you just couldn’t stay mad at him.

He was so screwed!

“Is it anything like you remember?” You asked him and he looked around the building.

“Somewhat, yeah. But mostly things look out of place.”

Several families lived there after the Howletts, and in the latest decades functioned as a museum, so changes were to be expected, but at least most of the structure was left the same since the last time Logan was there.

You were spotted by an employee behind a counter.

“Welcome to Howlett Estate! Would you like a guided tour?” He asked.

“No.” Logan said simply. You threw him a look.

“We would like to explore on our own, but we may have questions for later.” You added politely.

“Okie dokie! Here are some flyers and you can use your phones to download more information.” 

You took the flyers and smiled.

“Thank you!” You said before taking Logan by the arm and walking away. “I like him, he says okie dokie.” Logan simply rolled his eyes.

Stepping into the museum felt like traveling through a time machine. The furniture, the lamps, the carefully preserved clothes, all of it carried the weight of 200 years of history. You couldn’t help but wish these artifacts could speak, sharing the stories they had witnessed. How many footsteps had echoed through these halls? How many secrets were tucked away within these walls?

With your arm gently hooked around Logan's, you strolled at a leisurely pace, making sure he didn’t rush through the space. You wanted him to take it all in, to truly absorb every detail around him.

In the main room rested an imposing portrait of the Howlett family: John, Elizabeth and little James.

“Is that you?” You whispered pointing at the boy on the painting.

“I think so.”

“Awww you were so cute!” You gushed. Logan blinked and looked away, the tips of his ears turning pink. “Look at those little shorts!”

“I looked ridiculous in those clothes.” He deflected.

“Uh I’m sure they were very fashionable at the time.” You shrugged. “Your mom was very beautiful.”

Logan stared at the woman in the painting with a newfound pain in his chest: he craved for a motherly love he never felt. For someone who lived such a long life, he surely missed out on a lot of things.

“She really was.” He said softly.

You stayed quiet, knowing Logan needed a moment to process everything. There were signs of recognition in his eyes, but you didn’t dare to ask. If he wanted to share a memory with you, he would let you know.

You moved from one room to the other, until you reached a children’s bedroom and Logan stopped in his tracks.

“I remember this place…” He walked in slowly, taking everything in.

“Yeah?” You were curious. “Was this your bedroom?”

“I think so. It looked a bit different then, but yeah…”

“You had a big ass bed.” You pointed out the fancy mahogany bed. “I bet you were very spoiled.” You teased, but you dropped your playfulness when you saw the lost look on Logan’s face.

“I remember spending a lot of time in bed. I was a sickly kid.” He then walked to the bed and stared at it for a moment. You could almost see the wheels turning in his head. Suddenly Logan pushed the bed to the side, as if it weighed nothing.

“Logan!” You chastised. “We’re not supposed to touch anything!”

“Just keep watch.” Logan said before kneeling down and reaching behind the head of the bed.

“What are you doing?” You asked before leaning against the door, watching out for anyone coming your way.

“I left something in here…” he tapped around the wall until he heard a hollow sound. The room had clearly been reformed through the years, but to Logan’s surprise his little hidden spot was untouched. With one of his claws he managed to pull out a piece of skirting board and there it was: his little box of treasures.

He quickly put the board back in its place and then moved the bed.

“What is that?” You asked as you both sat on the bed. Logan opened the tin box, dust flying everywhere, and was met with little pieces of his childhood. There was an uncharacteristic tenderness in the way Logan picked the first item, his movements careful and deliberate, a stark contrast to his usual rough manner. 

It was a little lead soldier.

“I remember this, my grandfather got it for me during a business trip.” He said before going for another item, and then another, and another. “He wasn’t very nice, so little things like this meant a lot to me.”

In the box were all kinds of things a boy could treasure: a few colorful marbles, a feather, some coins…

“It’s like a time capsule.” You whispered before reaching in and taking a postcard from the box. It had a beautiful painting of a rose. You turned it around and read outloud “Love you forever, your little flower -Rose.” You smiled softly. “Mmmm who’s Rose?” 

Logan took a moment to think before picking the car.

“A childhood friend.” He said. It was a lie, or at least not the whole truth. Logan and Rose’s story was a long and messy one, one that ended in tragedy.

“A childhood friend.” You repeated with a scoff. “I didn’t know you called your friends “little flowers”.” you teased, elbowing him playfully.

Logan rolled his eyes.

“Shut up.” He said before snatching the card from your hand and placing it back in the box. If it wasn’t because of the shy smile on his face you would think he was actually mad.

Then something in the box caught his attention and his smile dropped. You watched as he carefully picked up an old pocket watch from the box.

“This was my father’s.” He said softly. “It was broken, so he didn’t use it anymore. He told me I could keep it and maybe one day I would figure out how to fix it.” He frowned, caressing the watch with his thumb, the same way he did with his lighter. “That day never came.” He said sadly.

You watched him quietly, before placing your hand on his back and rubbing soothing circles on it.

“You just got a piece of him back, that’s something…” You commented.

“Yeah, you’re right.”

“Excuse me?” A voice behind you said. You quickly threw your coat on Logan’s lap, hiding the box, before turning to see a tour guide standing by the door. “You’re not supposed to sit on the bed.” He said, a disapproving look on his face.

“Right! Of course! I’m sorry!” You jumped from the bed and walked towards him. “So, I have some questions, I saw there are a lot of portraits on the staircase, are they members of the Howlett family? Who are they?” You talked fast, pushing the guide out to the hall to give Logan a moment alone. You gave Logan a pointed look over your shoulder before stepping out of the room.

Logan kept looking into the box before finally closing it and putting it in your bag. He would look more into it later, for now he had to make sure you weren’t getting in trouble.

He found you asking all kinds of questions to the poor guide, who looked confused and flustered.

“... so if the mattresses were filled with feathers, how many geese or ducks would they need to fill in a king sized bed?” you asked.

“I wouldn’t know, ma’am.”

“I imagine it would be a lot!”

“Right.”

“And they made their own candles, right? Now, how do you make a candle?” You asked, playing dumb.

“I think that’s enough, sweetheart.” Logan said, stopping by your side. The guide sighed with relief.

“I have one more question!” You said before turning back to the poor guy. “What happened to the Howlett family? Are they still around?”

“I’m afraid the family’s history is a tragic one. For starters John and Elizabeth’s first son, John Jr. passed away when he was a baby. Years later they had their second son, James. There aren’t any actual records, given the time, but for what we could gather James was an illegitimate son Elizabeth had with the groundskeeper, Thomas Logan. Either way John raised James as his own. Not that he had much of a choice, at the time it would’ve been a massive scandal if people knew James was a bastard child.” while the guide talked and pointed out some portraits you glanced at Logan. There was a storm brewing behind his hazel eyes and you worried he would lash out any moment.

“Whether Mr. Howlett knew or not isn’t clear, but we do know he fired Logan. One evenight Thomas returned and the two men fought to death. It’s believed that he came back to take his son away and was killed in the process, not without mortally wounding John first. Still, someone must’ve taken little James, because he went missing after that. People in town searched for him, but he was never found.”

Slowly and very discreetly you stood by Logan and took his hand. With a squeeze to his fingers you told him you were there for him. This couldn’t be easy for him to hear. He squeezed your hand back, your touch grounding him.

“Feeling incapable of carrying on without her husband and her soon,Mrs. Elizabeth Howlett took her own life. The Howlett name remained, thanks to John’s father, who kept the place up and running until his death. He never stopped looking for James.” The guide concluded.

There was an extended silence, as everything seemed to sink in.

“That is very sad.” you said softly after a moment.

“Indeed.” the guide said. “Anything else you’d like to know?”

You looked at Logan and he shook his head.

“No, that would be all, thank you.” You replied.

“Of course, don’t forget to stop by the gift store!” the guide said before retreating away.

You turned to look at Logan fully.

“Are you okay?” 

Logan barely nodded his head.

“Enough for today.” He mumbled before walking away. 

It wasn’t long before you were both sitting at a table in the far corner of a bar. Logan knocked back drink after drink while you nursed a beer. The tin box laid open on the table while Logan inspected some of his old “treasures”. You were quiet for most of it, but you were worried about him and couldn’t keep silent much longer.

“Are you okay?” You asked. “I know today was intense and a lot happened, but did you at least get some answers? Any memories?”

Logan nodded before downing another drink.

“He was wrong.” He mumbled.

“Who?”

“The tour guide. He got most of the story right, but some details were wrong.” Logan took his father’s watch with a longing look. “My father didn’t kill Thomas Logan, I did.” He confessed. “That night I found out I was a mutant, I killed him with my claws… I was just a child.” He shook his head in shame.

“Oh Logan, I’m so sorry.” you said placing a hand on his arm.

“Thomas Logan was my biological father, but he didn’t mean anything to me. John Howlett didn’t raise me to avoid a scandal. He loved my mother and he loved me. In my heart he will always be my true father.”

“What happened after?” You asked.

“Rose and I ran away with help from my grandfather. The memories get hazy after that, but I do recall…” He took a deep breath. “I recall killing Rose by accident.” He said sadly.

“Oh, Logan…” You didn’t know what to say. 

“I hurt everyone I care about, even before I knew I was a mutant I hurt my family.”

“No, Logan, stop. The way you were conceived wasn’t your fault, you didn’t choose to be your father’s son. You didn’t kill your mother, that’s on her.” You shook your head.

“What about Rose, uh? Or the others that came after her? My life is an endless battle, one death after the other.” He shook his head in defeat. “You should go back to the Mansion without me.”

Your heart dropped.

“What?” the question came out in a shaky voice. “I’m not going anywhere without you.”

“Angel…” Logan sounded exhausted. “I’m a bad man. You don’t need a bad man in your life.”

You frowned and felt hot tears threatening to spill out. 

“Logan, I need you to listen to me.” You said while taking his hand over the table. “I know you say you’re a bad man because you feel guilty, because you have a conscience that weighs on you. But what if I told you that doesn’t make you a bad man. It does the opposite.” He looked at you confused. “A bad man doesn’t care if he hurts someone else, he only cares about himself. A bad man doesn’t have a conscience. And this, James Logan Howlett, is how I know you’re not a bad man. Because you care, I know you do, you care so much and behind this tough exterior there’s a good man craving forgiveness, companionship and even love.”

Logan looked at you for a moment, his eyes going from one side of your face to the other, as if he was memorizing your face.

“Sweetheart…” He breathed out.

“Please don’t leave me.” you begged, catching him by surprise. “You left once and it nearly killed me, please don’t do it again, don’t push me away.” Without realizing, tears started rolling down your cheeks. Logan reached up to touch your face and your eyelids dropped as he wiped your tears.

Your heart ached for him. You were convinced he would never love you back, not the way he loved Jean, but when he touched you like that you couldn’t help but feel a little bit of hope.

In the meantime Logan wondered how he got someone like you to care for him so much, to see the good in him when he couldn’t see it himself. You were so beautiful and if it was up to him you would never cry tears of sadness ever again.

“It’s been a long day, we both need some rest.” He said, both of you exhausted.

Once back at the B&B Logan walked you to your door.

“Will you be okay tonight?” You asked softly.

“Yeah.” Logan replied without thinking too much, before frowning and rubbing his neck. “I think so...” he added unsure. “...probably not.”

“We can stay up and talk a little bit more, if you want.” You offered.

Talking was the last thing Logan wanted to do.

“Angel…” He stepped closer, something shifting in his eyes. He lifted a hand to your face, so slowly it felt as if he was trying not to scare you, and placed it on your cheek. Your breath hitched and you tilted your head against his hand, seeking his touch. “I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done for me.” Logan whispered.

As if drawn together by an invisible force, you stepped closer until your chests were nearly brushing. Logan hesitated, his gaze searching yours for any sign to pull away, to stop. But all he found was an invitation: a soft, loving look that made him feel like the only person in the world. It was as if nothing else existed, no one else mattered, and you wanted him just as much as he wanted you.

“I would do anything for you, Logan.” you confessed. 

And that was all Logan needed to take the next step. He leaned in and pressed his lips against you in a chaste, tentative kiss. Your hands moved up his chest to rest on each side of his neck, pulling him closer, his free hand resting on your hip.

When Logan pulled back he didn’t go far, he rested his forehead against yours. You opened your eyes slowly and looked at him still trying to wrap your head around the fact that he had kissed you. You dreamed of this moment so many times, you weren’t ready to let go.

You tilted your head up and kissed him again, this time with more enthusiasm as the initial shock washed away.

Logan wrapped his arm around your waist while you ran your hands up his neck and your fingers through his hair. When your tongue slipped past his lips, Logan let out a low growl and pulled you closer.

“Fuck, sweetheart…” He hissed against your lips. “I should’ve kissed sooner.” He said before kissing you again.

“I wish you had.” You whispered. 

Logan pressed you against your door, wanting to feel you impossibly close.

“I don’t think I can stop.” Logan admitted. 

“I don’t want you to stop. I've wanted this for a long time.” You said, but before he could kiss you again you pulled your face away slightly. “But I need to know…”

Logan pulled back to look at you better and waited.

“Yes?”

Suddenly you felt like you couldn’t speak, no words would come out of your mouth. When Logan saw you struggle, he tilted your chin and made you look at him.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m sorry if I pushed you too much.”

You quickly shook your head.

“No, it’s not that… It’s just that…” You took his hands, wanting to ground yourself. “If we’re going any further, I need to know it’s not because you can’t be with Jean.” You looked at him shyly. “I don’t want to be your second choice.”

Logan stared at you for a moment in shock. He knew you were aware of his feelings for Jean, you even held him when he cried over her engagement with Scott. So it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that you had your doubts. He wanted to shut those doubts down fast.

“You’re not.” He said. “I’m an idiot, this entire time I’ve been pinning after her yet you were here by my side, putting up with my crap.” He shook his head. “All those times I talked about her, did I hurt you?”

You chewed your lower lip as you tried to come up with an answer. But you didn’t need to, Logan saw right through you.

“Oh, sweetheart…” He pulled you closer and kissed your forehead. You instantly clinged onto him. “I’m so sorry.”

“You didn’t know.” you tried to comfort him. “I’m sorry I killed the mood.”

Logan chuckled lightly against your skin.

“You didn’t kill anything. I’m glad we talked about this.” He pulled back and cupped your face. “I don’t want Jean, not anymore. I want you, even though I’m convinced I don’t deserve you.”

You rolled your eyes and gave his shirt a little tug.

“You keep saying that, can I convince you otherwise?” You asked with a flirty tone as you played with his dog tags. Logan smirked.

“Perhaps I can be persuaded.” He flirted back.

You quickly opened your bedroom door and pulled him inside. You couldn’t help but giggle as you pushed his jacket off his shoulders and he kicked the door shut. This was everything you dreamed of! Logan easily picked you up by your thighs and you quickly wrapped your legs around his waist.

“You better not drop me!” You laughed.

“Never!” He chuckled and kissed you again.

Logan set you down carefully on the dresser where he took his time tasting your lips and exploring your mouth. Your hands wandered all over his chest, his broad shoulders, his biceps… you wanted to touch every inch of him. You couldn’t get enough of him.

At one point he pulled back and caressed your cheek.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured, his voice carrying an uncharacteristic softness. His eyes held a rare tenderness, mirrored in the gentle way his fingers brushed against you. It was a good thing you were sitting down because your knees were weak and you felt like melting inside. “My sweet little angel.” Logan added before kissing you again.

Your hands worked on unbuttoning his flannel and quickly pushed it off his shoulder, dropping it on the floor next to his jacket.

“Logan…” You whispered against his lips. “Take me to bed…”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

You spend the rest of the night in Logan’s arms, making love and having all kinds of conversations in between, from deep and revealing to fun and silly. But you only had so much energy, and after the fourth round your eyelids started to drop. Logan watched you as you curled up against him, his fingertips caressing your arm up and down. You were breathtaking and he kicked himself for not realizing sooner.

At one point you felt the sheets rustling and the bed moving. You turned to see Logan sitting on the bed, slowly dressing himself. With your eyes heavy with sleep, you tried to sit up, lifting yourself up with your elbow.

“What are you doing?” You asked softly.

Logan turned to look at you and smiled at the sight: you looked adorable, half asleep, your hair a mess, your lips bruised from all the kisses. and the sheets barely covering your naked body.

“Go back to sleep, baby.” He whispered.

Your heart dropped.

“You’re leaving? Why?”

The worry and sadness in your voice didn’t go unnoticed to Logan.

“It’s not what you think.” He shook his head and leaned to kiss your forehead. “I just can’t fall asleep next to you.”

“Why?” you pouted.

“I’m worried I may hurt you again.” He admitted.

You looked at him for a moment, giving him your best puppy dog eyes.

“I wish you didn’t leave.” You wanted nothing more but to sleep in his arms.

“I know, baby, I know.” He sighed. “I’ll keep working on it, I promise. I just don’t want to hurt you.”

You reached for his hand. What he didn’t know is that this was hurting you too.

“Will I see you in the morning?”

Logan smiled and lifted your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles softly.

“Darling, after tonight, you won’t ever get rid of me.” He chuckled and leaned to kiss you. “Get some sleep, I’ll bring us breakfast in a few hours.” He promised.

“Mmmokay.” You sighed and nuzzled your pillow. “It better be a good breakfast, with lots of kisses.”

Logan chuckled and got up.

“All the kisses you want, my angel.”

--

Taglist:

@starsmoonn

@insanesosciopath

@rebloggingfanfictioninthechaos

@ayamenimthiriel

@charmingballoon

@espressopatronum454

@uncertified-doc

@ltristessedureratoujours

@all-for-kpop

@readerofwords616

@tezooks

@tomhockstetter7-111

@yvonneeeee

[shadyfestivalperfection]

Tiny Sorceress~Oneshot

Summery: Bucky and Sam take care of Y/n who accidentally turned herself into an eight month old baby.

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Sorceress!Girlfriend!Reader

||Master List||

“—And I’m just saying,” Sam Wilson said, gesturing wildly with a half-eaten slice of pizza, “if Redwing had emotions, he would definitely like me better than you.”

Bucky Barnes didn’t even look up from his spot on the couch. He was stretched out like a very grumpy, very tired cat, his metal arm behind his head and a bowl of popcorn balanced on his chest.

“He doesn’t like you,” Bucky replied lazily. “He’s a drone. He doesn’t like anyone.”

“You’re just jealous because he listens to me.”

“He listens to programming. Calm down, Wilson.”

Sam scoffed and shoved the rest of the pizza in his mouth, pointing an accusatory finger at Bucky. “That’s exactly what someone would say if they lost an argument to a bird.”

Bucky gave him a slow blink. “You lost an argument to a coffee machine once. Let’s not throw stones.”

“That machine gave me decaf, Barnes. That wasn’t a loss—it was sabotage.”

“Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

The two men settled into a lull, the kind that came with an entire day off. Y/n, Bucky’s girlfriend and full-time sorceress-in-training (technically more powerful than she liked to admit), had holed herself up in her little mystical lab earlier that morning with a book bigger than her head and an energy drink labeled “MANA-ZONE.”

Bucky hadn’t seen her since.

He assumed she was fine. He figured that if anything went wrong, the walls would probably shake—or something would explode. That was usually how magical accidents started.

He’d been dating Y/n long enough to know when to worry and when to give her space.

Sam was halfway through a rant about superhero tax breaks when Bucky’s phone vibrated on the coffee table.

Without thinking, he grabbed it and answered.

“Barnes,” said the clipped voice on the other end.

Bucky sat up slowly, recognizing the speaker immediately. “Strange?”

“Get to the Sanctum. Now.”

Bucky was already on his feet. “What happened? Is it Y/n?”

“She’s—well—yes. But I can’t explain over the phone. Just hurry. It’s… urgent.”

And then the line went dead.

Bucky didn’t think. He didn’t breathe.

He just grabbed his keys.

___

“You didn’t even tell me what was going on!” Sam shouted from the passenger seat as Bucky ran a red light in a stolen-looking SUV.

“I didn’t have time!” Bucky barked back. “He said it was Y/n!”

“And that means we break traffic laws?!”

“If she’s hurt, yes!”

Sam threw up his hands. “Damn. You are whipped.”

Bucky didn’t deny it.

When they skidded to a stop outside the Sanctum Sanctorum, Bucky barely had time to knock before the doors flew open.

Doctor Stephen Strange stood there looking like someone had just thrown him into a toddler gymnastics class.

“Thank God,” he muttered, stepping aside to let them in. “We’ve had a situation.”

“What kind of situation?” Bucky demanded, heart pounding. “Where is she? Is she okay? Is she hurt—”

“Technically? No. She’s… uh… quite healthy.” Strange rubbed a hand down his face and gestured toward the foyer.

That’s when Bucky heard it.

A soft little giggle.

A happy, high-pitched squeal.

He turned the corner—

—and nearly dropped dead.

Sitting in the middle of a ring of softly glowing runes, chewing on the corner of her own oversized sleeve, was a plump, eight-month-old baby.

She had Y/n’s hair.

She had Y/n’s bright eyes.

And she looked up at Bucky and lit up like a damn firework.

“BAH!” she squealed, arms outstretched. “Buh-buh-buh!”

Bucky stared.

Then blinked.

Then slowly turned back to Strange.

“What. The. Hell.”

Strange sighed. “She was experimenting with temporal regression spells. Apparently, she got the incantation slightly… wrong.”

“Slightly?!”

“I didn’t say she was good at math. Look, the spell is temporary. She should return to normal in 48 hours.”

“FORTY-EIGHT?!”

“I said it was temporary.”

Bucky turned back toward the giggling baby. Y/n had rolled over and was attempting to crawl toward him like a very determined muffin.

He dropped to his knees, completely at a loss. “Y/n? That’s you?”

She stuck her whole fist in her mouth and blinked up at him.

Sam peered over Bucky’s shoulder.

“Well,” he said slowly. “She’s got your eyes. Sorry, I mean—your girlfriend’s eyes. In a… baby. Body.”

Bucky turned around with the most betrayed expression he’d ever worn.

“Don’t help.”

___

Ten minutes later, the Sanctum had successfully unloaded its smallest magical disaster into Bucky’s arms, along with a diaper bag that seemed to horrifyingly already exist for her size.

“Did she conjure that too?” Sam asked, looking at the pink and silver bag with a grimace.

“She’s a planner,” Bucky muttered, adjusting the tiny, squeaky girl now happily playing with the zipper on his jacket.

Strange waved them out the door. “She can’t cast anything like this—her magical core’s dormant while the regression holds. So no hexes, no portals, no sudden dragon appearances. You’ll be fine.”

“And what do we do if she—” Bucky paused. “Needs something?”

“Figure it out. You’re adults.”

“You’re the wizard!”

“I’m not a babysitter.”

The door shut in their faces.

Sam let out a low whistle.

“Well. This’ll be fun.”

Bucky looked down at the bundle in his arms.

Y/n blew a spit bubble.

___

Back at the apartment, chaos erupted in three parts:

1. The Diaper Disaster.

“This isn’t fair,” Bucky muttered, holding up a packet of wipes like it was a bomb. “She’s supposed to be this all-powerful sorceress, and I’m stuck doing damage control on her butt.”

“You do realize she pooped glitter, right?” Sam said, squinting into the trash can. “That’s definitely not normal baby poop.”

“She ate magic.”

“Do we call Strange again?”

“I’m not calling that smug bastard to talk about her glitter poop.”

“Then you’re on your own, Snow White.”

“Traitor.”

2. The Feeding Fiasco.

“I don’t know how much to give her!” Bucky hissed.

“She’s a baby. Just give her the bottle and let her decide!”

“She might get full!”

“Or she might turn us into frogs if she’s hungry. I say risk it.”

Bucky cautiously handed the bottle over. Y/n grabbed it with both tiny fists and latched on like a starved gremlin.

Bucky melted.

Sam took a photo.

3. The Great Escape.

“Where’d she go?!”

“She was just there!”

“I told you to baby-proof the couch!”

“She crawled like lightning!”

“WHY IS SHE IN THE FRIDGE?!”

___

By midnight, both men were exhausted.

Bucky was slumped on the floor, his metal arm cradling a sleeping baby Y/n curled up on his chest like a warm, wiggly blanket.

Sam was on the couch, texting someone a photo of Bucky snoring with a bottle of formula in his lap.

“I gotta admit,” Sam said softly, “she’s kinda cute like this.”

Bucky grunted.

“Barnes?”

“Mm?”

“You ever think about…”

“What?”

“You know. The future.”

Bucky looked down at the tiny sorceress nuzzled into his shirt.

“…Yeah,” he murmured. “I do.”

___

Bucky woke to the gentle but persistent thwack of something soft smacking his face.

Thwack.

Thwack.

Thwack.

He blinked awake to find a plush teddy bear levitating a foot above his head—slowly and repeatedly bouncing off his forehead.

“Oh no,” he groaned, sitting up on the couch.

Across the living room, Baby Y/n was standing—standing—in her playpen, hands raised like a conductor mid-symphony, face scrunched with concentration.

The teddy bear rotated in the air, sparked with gold runes, then zoomed straight into Sam’s head on the opposite chair.

“OW—”

“Morning,” Bucky muttered.

Sam sat up, bleary-eyed and pillow-faced. “Is that bear flying?”

“Yep.”

“She’s not supposed to have magic in baby form!”

Bucky shrugged and stumbled toward the playpen. “Guess she’s advanced.”

Y/n giggled and, without warning, launched the teddy across the room like a missile.

Sam yelped and dove for cover.

“Oh yeah,” he muttered. “She’s gonna be a great teenager.”

___

“Why does she have fangs?” Sam asked an hour later, peering nervously into Y/n’s open mouth as she gnawed on a rubber duck.

“She’s teething,” Bucky replied, eyes wide. “But, uh… sorceress teething. With… magically enhanced baby teeth.”

“Those are tiny daggers, man!”

“Don’t let her near your phone.”

“She already bit through a bottle nipple!”

“Yeah. She’s powerful.”

Y/n made a guttural, adorable war cry and tossed the rubber duck at Sam’s head.

They ducked (no pun intended).

“Okay,” Sam said, clapping his hands. “New rule: Only plush objects within biting range. And someone hide my socks. She has a taste for cotton.”

“She’s chewed through three binkies already.”

“Let me guess. You bought normal ones.”

“…Yes?”

Sam stood dramatically. “This calls for reinforcements.”

Bucky blinked. “Are you going to Target?”

“I’m going to Target.”

___

Sam returned 45 minutes later with:

1 pack of “Extreme Comfort Binkies – Sorcerer-Grade, BPA-Free”

2 baby spellproof onesies (“They’re literally baby armor. Why do these exist?”)

A pacifier clip shaped like a magic wand

And a bottle of baby-safe calming potion from an underground mystic apothecary.

Bucky stared at the haul. “You fought a wizard for these, didn’t you?”

“I bargained,” Sam said, proudly. “Also, the cashier may now owe me a favor in the next timeline.”

“You scare me sometimes.”

Sam handed Y/n the new binky.

She examined it with her tiny, judgmental eyes… and finally accepted it with a grunt of approval.

Bucky almost cried with relief.

___

By noon, the calm had broken.

“Is she… burping sparkles?” Sam asked, eyes wide.

Y/n sat on the floor in her padded onesie, hiccupping clouds of glittery mist.

“Either that or she swallowed a disco ball,” Bucky said, crouching in front of her.

She hiccuped again. A miniature lightning bolt zapped from her mouth to the TV remote, which exploded into pieces.

“…That’s new.”

Sam slapped a post-it to the wall. “Day Two: Baby now a tiny, sparkly time bomb.”

“She’s not dangerous.”

Another hiccup lit Bucky’s shirt on fire.

“…She’s slightly dangerous.”

Y/n squealed with joy.

___

“Okay,” Bucky said, staring at the baby bathtub like it had just insulted him. “This cannot be that hard.”

Y/n, now slightly grubby from her glittery magic burps, clapped her tiny hands.

Sam watched from the doorway. “You’ve fought aliens, Bucky. You got this.”

“Right. Okay. Soap. Water. No drowning. I can do this.”

He lowered her gently into the warm water.

Y/n immediately splashed so hard Bucky looked like he’d been hit by a water cannon.

“Alright, alright—gentle, sweetheart!”

She laughed and kicked, casting tiny bubbles into the air that somehow played music.

“Is that jazz?” Sam asked, peeking in.

“She enchanted the water!” Bucky groaned.

“She’s literally throwing a bath party.”

Y/n raised her arms dramatically. A stream of bubbles rose up in a perfect glowing arch… and burst in the shape of a middle finger.

Bucky and Sam stared.

“Okay, no more late-night reality shows for you,” Sam muttered.

___

7:00 PM.

Y/n had refused three storybooks, demanded her teddy bear “floaty,” and summoned six stuffed animals into a wiggling orbit above her crib.

Sam watched, exhausted, as the plush toys rotated like a cuddly solar system.

“She’s… going to sleep like this?” he asked.

Bucky, equally tired, nodded. “She won’t rest unless the bear is in geosynchronous orbit.”

“I didn’t even know babies knew that word.”

“She doesn’t. She feels it.”

They finally got her to sleep, surrounded by stuffed animals glowing faintly with magical energy.

“Okay,” Sam whispered, collapsing onto the couch. “She’s asleep. You can breathe now.”

Bucky exhaled, then muttered:

“She’s gonna be the death of me when she’s older.”

Sam smirked. “Oh, you’re in this deep, man.”

“I think I love her more now than I did when she was full-sized.”

Sam chuckled, cracking open a soda. “You say that now. Just wait till she’s big enough to cast spells again.”

“She already flipped me off with bubbles.”

They both groaned.

___

The door knocked at exactly 8:00 AM the next day.

Bucky opened it, bleary-eyed, holding a sippy cup in one hand and a plush bear in the other.

Doctor Strange raised an eyebrow.

“Rough night?”

“She turned my toaster into a swan.”

“Ah. She’s accelerating. Good news: the spell will wear off in about an hour.”

“Thank God.”

Strange stepped in, checked on baby Y/n (who was busy biting the corner of Sam’s hoodie), and nodded. “When she wakes, she’ll be back to normal.”

Bucky looked at her peacefully sleeping form.

“Good,” he said softly.

“…But I think I’ll miss her.”

___

Y/n woke up groggy, limbs heavy, cheek squished against something soft. A second later, she sat bolt upright.

“Why do I taste rubber duck!?”

Her voice sounded normal. Her arms were long again. Her head no longer fit in a mixing bowl.

She blinked.

She was on Bucky’s couch, wrapped in a comforter with her hair an actual bird’s nest. There was glitter on her hands, her shirt was a child-sized “Future Sorceress” tee stretched to its absolute limits, and a teddy bear with burn marks sat staring at her like it had seen war.

“Oh, gods,” she groaned. “What did I do?”

From the kitchen, a pan clattered.

“Morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Sam called, grinning.

Y/n’s eyes widened. “Oh no. Not Sam. Please not Sam—”

Then Bucky appeared from the hallway, tousled, tired, and holding a baby bottle filled with orange juice.

They stared at each other.

Then Bucky smiled.

And promptly dropped the bottle.

Ten minutes later, Y/n was fully awake and fully mortified. She sat curled up on the couch in Bucky’s hoodie while the guys recounted the last 48 hours like war veterans.

“You tried to fly a teddy bear.”

“You bit through three pacifiers.”

“You turned our toaster into a swan.”

“You flipped me off with a bubble.” Sam added with reverence.

Y/n buried her face in her hands. “I want to disappear.”

Bucky was grinning ear to ear. “You were adorable. And terrifying.”

Sam nodded. “A menace in footie pajamas.”

“Why do I remember everything?” she moaned.

“Strange said the spell was a regression, not a full mental wipe. Guess it was more like… toddler with a genius IQ.”

“I bit you.”

Bucky held up his arm. “You left tiny teeth marks on my metal arm. I’m keeping them.”

Y/n groaned again.

Sam looked thoughtful. “You also enchanted the baby monitor to scream every time I said the word ‘pants.’”

“…What?”

___

After a long shower (which was somehow still glittery), Y/n stepped into the kitchen to find Bucky cleaning up melted pacifiers and one very suspicious duck.

She wrapped her arms around him from behind.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “You didn’t sign up for magical baby duty.”

He turned, pulling her into a proper hug.

“I’d do it again.”

“You literally looked like a man on the edge.”

“Yeah. And I still liked every second of it.”

Y/n blinked up at him.

“…Even the part where I spit glitter on your face?”

He smirked. “Especially that part.”

They kissed—gently, sweetly, like they hadn’t seen each other in years.

From the living room, Sam yelled, “STOP KISSING AND FIX MY SWEATER, GREMLIN!”

Y/n sighed and walked out. “Did I bite that too?”

Sam pointed to the hoodie sleeve. “You gnawed through it like a tiny sorceress beaver.”

Y/n winced. “Okay, I deserve that.”

___

By noon, things had finally returned to normal.

Y/n conjured fresh pancakes to make up for the chaos. Bucky sat beside her, trying to brush glitter out of her hair.

Sam scrolled through photos on his phone.

“Okay, okay,” he said suddenly. “Real talk. Can I keep one?”

Y/n looked horrified. “Of me? As a baby??”

“You had chubby cheeks and your magic made the apples levitate. It was hilarious.”

She covered her face. “I will hex your eyebrows off.”

“I’m already bald. Try me.”

Bucky snorted.

Y/n turned to Bucky and whispered, “You didn’t take any too, did you?”

He gave her the most guilty look.

“…Bucky.”

“I just—just one! For my phone lock screen. You were so tiny.”

Y/n narrowed her eyes.

“…Let me see.”

He showed her the photo. Baby Y/n, mid-squeal, teddy bear levitating behind her, cheeks round as moons and eyes wide with wonder.

She paused.

“…Okay. That’s kinda cute.”

Bucky beamed. “I knew you’d say that.”

___

That evening, Strange showed up to check in.

He eyed Y/n with wariness, then sniffed the air. “Residual magic. Your baby aura’s still in the walls.”

“I’m working on it,” she grumbled.

“You also triggered a latent enchantment. The teddy bear is now sentient.”

Y/n gasped. “What?!”

A deep growly voice said from the couch: “I AM MR. CUDDLES. I SEEK VENGEANCE.”

Everyone screamed.

Strange calmly trapped the bear in a glowing bubble.

“I’ll be taking that,” he said, levitating it toward the portal. “Also—no more regression spells without supervision.”

Y/n scowled. “It was accidental!”

“Still.”

As he stepped into the portal, he glanced at Bucky.

“Good job surviving. Most men would’ve fled.”

Then he vanished.

Sam muttered, “Next time he pulls that, I’m hiding in Wakanda.”

___

Later that night, Bucky and Y/n curled up in bed.

She rested her head on his chest, still slightly embarrassed.

“Were you scared?” she asked softly. “When Strange called you.”

He nodded. “Terrified. Thought you were dying.”

She pressed a kiss to his chest.

“But when I got there and saw you—eight months old, mad about your footie pajamas—I just… couldn’t stop laughing.”“I was mad about the ducks.”

“You bit him.”She groaned again.“But,” Bucky added, tilting her chin up, “even in baby form… I still loved you.”Her heart melted.

“I love you too, Barnes. Even when you let me chew Sam’s hoodie.”

“Honestly, that part was kind of a highlight.”They laughed, tangled in each other, and drifted off to sleep—teddy bears safely locked in magical quarantine.

-the end

[stevie-petey]

Had an idea and wanted to pester you about it (I’m kidding, I hope I’m not actually pestering you). What if you were to write a cute snow day blurb for Stug? Set in between S3 and S4? I ask because it’s currently snowing where I’m at and just thought “dang, that’d be so cute.”

you could never pester me i loooove answering blurbs <33 now if i may pester you i changed the timeline to between seasons 2 and 3 because i couldnt resist the idea of pre-dating steve n bug playing in the snow together n being all shy n cutie ugh

enjoy !

"its snowing," steve leans your desk chair back, nearly tipping over completely as he peers out your window. "like. a lot."

theres a mound of assignments on your desk and you only spare a quick glance outside. "oh," your absent minded tone doesnt go unnoticed by steve. "thats nice."

he narrows his eyes. "i thought you loved snow."

"i do," this time more genuineness comes through your voice. you look outside again and ache when you see just how snow has fallen. "but..."

your head tilts down to the work scattered between you and steve. youre insanely behind on calculus assignments and steve has a lab report three weeks overdue and today is the first real day your injuries from demodogs and billy have healed enough to even attempt to understand what a derivative is.

jonathan is stuck at home taking care of will and promised you hed help you with the math as soon as he was able, but now, with all the snow that inevitably will block the roads, you know youre doomed.

steve sees the stress that tenses your spine and an idea pops into his head. he snatches the homework from you and is running out of your room.

"what the-?" but hes already gone, annoyingly fast when he wants to be.

you run after steve, having no other option, really, and find him and dustin rushing to put their coats on.

"shes here!" dustin screeches when he sees you. he shoves at steve, urging him to hurry up, and your mother watches fondly from the kitchen.

you push past your brother. "what is happening?"

steve zips up coat and winks at you, giving no response other than flinging the front door open and chasing dustin through the snow. theyre gone in a heartbeat, giggling like children as they fucking prance through the falling snow.

"id join them if i were you, y/n." your mom says with a slight chuckle. "steve told me to hide your homework until you were 'soaked in snowflakes'."

your jaw drops. "mom-"

"im sorry, sweet girl." she laughs at you now. "blame that handsome boy of yours and go play with your brother outside. itll be good to get some fresh air!"

"but-"

"wear a coat!"

and then your mother shuts her bedroom door, leaving you to watch steve tackle dustin into the snow as they shriek and wrestle in the slippery ground.

"my eye!" steve squeals in pain, rolling around, and dustin giggles menacingly. feeling your eyes on him, steve flings a distressed hand towards you. "y/n, help a guy out here, would ya?"

even though he cant see you, you still roll your eyes at steve. dustin echoes his own sentiments of wanting you to join. the boys plead with you over and over and youre weak to them.

sighing, you grab your heaviest coat. "if either one of you even thinks about tackling me, youre dead."

dustin salutes you. "yes, ma'am."

you help steve up. his hand is cold and his nose red and eyes shining and you cant help but giggle slightly at the sight of him. theres flecks of snow that line his brown hair and hes a delicate kind of pretty that rivals the spiral of snowflakes.

"saved me again, angel." he winks at you again, causing you to blush.

"shut up." you shove at his chest, avoiding his tender eyes. they reveal more to you than you know hes ready to admit.

steve laughs and dustin throws a snowball at your face and everything is warm and soft.

“COME HOME” BLURB MASTERLIST

if you’d like to buy me a coffee ☕︎