#T: A New Visitor

[scarletmika]

Kiss Me Again : ̗̀➛ Robert "Bob" Reynolds x Reader

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Reynolds/Sentry x Goddess!Reader

Summary: A crush isn't a problem, and when that crush becomes love, it's usually a good thing. For Bob, it terrifies him, because he'd managed to fall in love with a literal Goddess. Why would a Goddess choose a broken man like him?

Warnings: SO much fluff, shy Bob (I would be too), pining, age gap (inevitable when one of them is a literal Goddess), probably some very incorrect Norse Mythology but it's fanfiction people, SPOILERS kinda for Thunderbolts*, female reader description

Word Count: 4,727 words

Requests are open! : ̗̀➛ Find my masterlist here A/N: this was an anon request and the second I read it I said "I must write this right now" and then I ran with it

PART TWO Kiss Me Forever : ̗̀➛ Robert "Bob" Reynolds x Reader

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧

“So, Winter Soldier…when you say ‘otherworldly visitor’ do you actually mean ‘otherworldly’ or is she just very…you know…beautiful in that entrancing sort of-”

“Oh my god, Alexei, when he says ‘otherworldly,’ he does mean ‘otherworldly,’ why is that so hard to understand?”

Bob was nothing short of confused throughout the entire conversation playing out before them. Bucky had called a meeting of the entire group, stating an ‘emergency,’ and gathered them all in the meeting room that Valentina had designed for staging before missions. It wasn’t a room that Bob was in often, still yet to have gone on a mission with the team as he worked to find a way to use his powers without losing control of himself, but even being in there for less than 5 minutes, he could tell why his friends hated it so much.

The A/C in the conference room was terrible, and as someone who ran hot naturally because of the ‘medical trial,’ it wasn’t doing Bob any favors in the summer heat of New York City. The table was entirely too large for the small team, judging by the way that Bucky had to practically shout down the table to where Alexei sat at the head of it, claiming it was the best seat and the most important. All in all, Bob hated it, though there was a lot about the newly renovated tower that everyone hated, given it had all been Valentina’s design work.

“Look, can we forget about the ‘otherwordly’ comment for two seconds? If either of you says it again, I may just carve out my own eardrums,” Yelena made a show of holding her freshly sharpened knife to her ear, giving Ava and her father a blank look, before turning her attention back to Bucky. “Wherever she may or may not be from…why exactly have you invited some woman to the tower?”

“To train him,”

Bob’s head shot up when it got quiet in the room, realizing that Bucky’s finger was jabbed in his direction, and all eyes were on him. His own eyes went wide, and he himself thought they might fall out of his head, as he pointed at himself.

“T-train…me?”

“You said you were ready to begin learning to fight, that you had a pretty good grasp on the…other sides of you,” Bucky explained as Bob shifted uncomfortably at even the mention of the other parts of him he wished to keep locked away. “There are three super soldiers in this room, and we all got our asses handed to us by you months ago in this very tower. Trust me, if anyone can train you and keep up, it’s her.”

The team gave one another skeptical glances, turning to Bob who looked just as confused. Yelena hung her head, rubbing at the sockets of her eyes with the palms of her hands as she turned back to Bucky.

“And who in the hell could possibly be strong enough for that?”

“...the Goddess of Strategy-”

“EXCUSE ME?”

The room erupted into absolute chaos as Bucky uttered those three simple words, hanging his head with a groan that resounded through the room as the team yelled over one another, their words impossible to decipher.

Bob, on the other hand, was frozen. He’d kept himself entertained in the attic of his childhood home with many, many books on Norse Mythology stolen from the local library. He’d grown up reading the myths of Thor, Loki, and the likes, only to learn years later that those gods were, in fact, real.

Yeah, Bob knew exactly who you were. He couldn’t decide if the flush quickly crawling across his skin was due to the yelling in the room or because he’d harbored a crush on you, his favorite Avenger, since he was a literal child.

“If you think Valentina will allow this-”

“When have I ever cared what Val thinks-”

“Are we glossing over the Goddess aspect of this-?”

“Please, she could probably break little Bobby in half with a look-”

“FRIENDS, MY WONDERFUL TEAM, LOWER YOUR VOICES!” it was a very contradictory statement for Alexei to be shouting, standing on top of the rolling chair at the conference table, which the entire team was shocked wasn’t buckling under the pressure. It did the trick, though, the ceaseless arguing and shouting coming to an end as everyone looked to the older man expectantly. “I trust the Winter Soldier’s judgement, but this old Russian only has one question…who is this Goddess?”

These days, Yelena seemed to always be groaning around her father and anything he said, and this was no different. She muttered something in Russian under her breath, which most of the team by now had come to learn meant something along the lines of “shut him up before I do.” Bucky attempted to do just that.

“She’s-”

“Thor and Loki’s sister, daughter of Frigga and Odin. Goddess of Strategy, has a sword formed at Nidavellir that she’s- she’s kind of deadly with, but it’s really cool because it can summon the Bifrost. She was uh, trained in sorcery by Frigga, was an Avenger…” Bob hadn’t even realized that he’d gone on a tangent, interrupting Bucky and info-dumping everything he could about the myth that was you before his brain could stop him. He could see Yelena’s smile quirk up into a smirk as that red flush he’d already had deepened as he realized what he’d just done. “I just uh, I-I think I must’ve- I read that somewhere…once…a long time ago. A really-really long time ago.”

There was quiet in the room for a moment before Walker laughed, slamming his hand down on the table as he gestured between Bucky and Bob.

“Nice one, Barnes! Seems the student has a big ‘ole crush on the teacher you found for him!”

If the blush on his cheeks could get worse, it did. Bob avoided making eye contact with anyone at the table, gaze entirely focused on his hands as he wrung them together in his lap.

“Alright, lay off. Fact of the matter is, Bob needs a teacher that’s not easily breakable, and she’s the best of the best,” Bucky side-eyed Bob for a second, catching his eyes for just a brief moment. “I sent a message to New Asgard, they got it to her, and she said she’d do it. So bury your crushes, get your teasing out now, because she’s arriving tomorrow and I’d like if we could act like the Avengers and not the Avengerz for once. This woman did save the world…multiple times.”

Bob tried to do just that, he really did. There was endless teasing from John the rest of the day, and while Ava and Yelena didn’t directly contribute, they didn’t try to stop John’s comments either. Bob did his best to ignore them and brush them off, too busy giving himself a pep talk all day that he could do this. It was a harmless crush on a literal Goddess he’d had for years; it was nothing. He was an Avenger now, he could do this.

His pep talk had been great the night before. But it couldn’t prepare him for the moment you actually arrived at the tower in a stream of color.

The Bifrost was a sight in itself, but seeing it before your own eyes, as Ava muttered under her breath, was like its own separate wonder of the world.

The stream of colors dissipated before their eyes, leaving that same etched pattern it always did into the helicopter landing pad of the Tower they now called home. A conversation that it was decided Bucky would get to have with Valentina. When the colors were gone, you were left standing in the Bifrost’s place.

Bob hadn’t prepared himself for what it would be like to see you in person. Somehow, you were prettier than he even thought was possible.

The Asgardian armor you’d donned for years was still shiny, the light of the sun reflecting off of it. It was almost an exact copy of Thor’s own armor, though entirely blue and gold, billowing blue cape hanging from your shoulders, flowing in the wind of the city. Bob could see Styrkr, your sword, sheathed across your back, glinting in the sun as you stalked toward the group, a smirk that Bob thought could rival the sun itself on your lips.

You were beautiful. Gorgeous. Ethereal. There was no shortage of words that Bob could use to describe you in that moment as you stopped in front of Bucky.

“Well, Barnes…you look better than you did years ago, that’s for sure,”

Even your voice had the flutter in Bob’s stomach threatening to eat him alive from the inside out.

Bucky laughed, quickly pulling you into a hug that you eagerly reciprocated.

“I’d make a comment about how you haven’t aged a day, but I don’t think I need to point out the obvious,”

“Isn’t the longevity of Asgardians so fun?” you both shared another laugh, Bucky’s arm thrown over your shoulders as he seemed to give you an affectionate squeeze, a history of fighting and the semblance of a friendship clear between the pair of you. Your gaze drifted over the team beside him. “So…this is the New Avengers, huh? Still weird that you’re living in the tower I once called home.”

Bucky was quick to introduce the team to you. Yelena and Ava were nothing but respectful, while John still seemed to carry that ‘entitled arrogance’ as Ava typically called it in his greeting to you. Alexei had the entire team wishing that he just…knew how to be normal, for once. Loud, boisterous, but it brought a smile to your face nonetheless.

“I’ve got to say, you remind me a bit of Volstagg and Fandral if we mixed them into one person. I think you would’ve gotten along well with them,” the comment seemed to make Alexei surge with pride, even as he leaned over to his daughter and asked loudly ‘who the hell were those people.’ It was when your gaze finally made it to Bob that he felt his heart was going to stop. “So…that means you must be my indestructible, ‘power of a thousand exploding suns’ student.”

All eyes were on Bob in that moment, and he was struggling…hard. He tried to speak, to remind himself of his pep talk from last night and to portray confidence, but he was a stumbling mess of words.

“I uh, I’m-I’m Bob. That’s uh, that’s me…exploding suns and s-stuff. I’m the n-new student…yay. And I-I know who you are…b-big Norse Mythology fan…”

Bob could hear the snickers of his teammates, not entirely subtle about them, and could see the grimace on Bucky’s face. But not you.

Your smirk had softened into the sweetest smile. Your head had cocked to the side, eyes almost the tiniest bit brighter as they trailed his form up and down, and Bob could feel the sweat forming as he tugged at the collar of his sweatshirt, knowing you seemed to be assessing him.

“Bucky…you failed to warn me how cute my student was,” Bob’s breath had caught in his throat as you sent him a wink. “You know what they say…it’s always the quiet ones.”

You were going to be the death of him, Bob had decided in that moment.

You requested to spend that first day alone with Bob in the training room of the tower, gauging his comfort level in any form of fighting in the slightest. The team respected that, but that didn’t mean they hadn’t all found reasons to take turns walking past the training facilities in hopes of eavesdropping on conversations and catching glimpses of this training that they all thought was going to end terribly.

Bob’s eyes were locked on you as you removed the heavy armor plating you wore, laying it out on one of the benches until you were left in the form-fitting undershirt and pants that sat below your armor. Yeah, this was going to be absolute torture for him.

“Do you want to see it?”

Shaking himself out of the stupor that Bob seemed to put himself in, his eyes went wide as they focused back on your face. He was confused until he glanced at your hands, seeing that you were holding your sword, Strykr, out toward him.

“O-Oh! Oh uh, I don’t know-”

“She doesn’t bite,” you joked with a slight laugh, taking a step toward him and holding it out. “You said you liked Norse Mythology, so I figured you’d want to take a look at it before we get started.”

You were right, but Bob didn’t need to say that. With a shaky hand, he reached out and took the sword in his own hands, and he could almost feel the power flow through him just from holding it. 

It was heavy, but not too heavy, a strange lightweightedness to it while still feeling like it took godly strength to swing. He realized, holding it up close, that the sun glinting off of it wasn’t what he’d seen earlier on the helicopter pad. The sword itself had a faint glow to it, almost pulsing, a power he could only assume came from the fact that it was forged in the heart of a dying star.

“It’s beautiful…” Bob managed to say without stuttering through it, probably because he hadn’t taken his eyes off the sword as he adjusted his grip on the hilt. “It ’s-it’s almost like-”

He hadn’t realized how fast he’d swung it, unused to the lightweight feel of the sword that was, most definitely, heavier than it looked. Your hand caught the blade easily, not even flinching, as it swung toward you, simply eyeing him with a curious look and a genuine smile.

“Well…never seen that before,”

“I-I’m sorry!” Bob dropped the hilt immediately, sure his cheeks were going to be permanently flushed red after spending time with you. You’d only let out a light laugh, catching the hilt easily, swinging it quickly in your hand before placing it down next to your armor. “I didn’t mean to! It’s just so…it’s so l-light.”

“It’s actually not. For most normal people, even for super soldiers like Bucky, it’s quite heavy,” you replied with a smirk as you rose back up to your feet. “Guess that’s a better explanation for your strength level than the bullshit ‘power of a thousand exploding suns’ shit Valentina came up with.”

Bob laughed lightly, wringing his hands together as his eyes followed you. Taking your place across the sparring mat from him, ten feet between you both, you stood ready for a sparring session. Bob…he stood as if he was in fight or flight mode.

“So…uh, how d-do we do this?”

“Depends. Bucky says when it comes to training you…don’t have much,” Bob nodded at your comment, watching as you tilted your head curiously. “You want to take it slow, or you want me to throw you in the deep end?”

“Uh…w-what’s the deep end entail?”

Bob had barely finished his sentence when your hands flicked, tendrils of navy blue magic wrapping around his waist and tugging him across the mat in your direction. A gasp left Bob involuntarily at the motion as the magic dissipated, leaving him barely on his feet in front of you. A single swipe of your leg had him plummeting to the ground on his back, landing with an ‘oof’ as your foot came to rest on his chest, barely pressing him into the mat.

“Y-you…” Bob was speechless, staring wide-eyed up at you as you simply smirked down at him. “T-that’s cheating!”

“No, that’s called the deep end,” you laughed wholeheartedly, reaching down to take his hand and tug him back to his feet, and he knew you didn’t miss that now signature red flush on his cheeks. “And that is why we’re going to start slow.”

“...why’d y-you even offer the deep end, then?”

“Girl’s gotta have some fun from time to time. Come on, let’s start with basic stances,”

Those training sessions started as once a week, before quickly evolving into twice a week, and before the team knew it, you essentially lived in that tower once again, there all day, every day. None of them minded, loving the stories you’d tell them over dinners of your adventures with your brothers when you were young, of the pranks that Loki enjoyed playing on Thor but never played on you, and even stories of everything that had once happened in the very tower the team now called their home. The more you were around, though, the more the rest of the team managed to find a way to tease him relentlessly when you weren’t in the room over his ‘obvious’ little crush.

Those moments of domesticity around you were what Bob loved the most, especially when it somehow managed to just be the two of you.

For weeks, even when you began to visit more and more often, the pair of you sparred together for hours, and that was the end of it. Bob, though, remembered the day it changed like it was yesterday. He wasn’t sure he’d ever forget it. The rest of the team had been sent out on a mission by Valentina, but you’d still promised you’d have your usual training session that day, even without them lurking around.

You’d thrown a punch that Bob managed to quickly dodge, even if he stumbled slightly on his feet afterward. Thinking of everything you’d been teaching him, Bob managed to steady himself, lock his feet into position, and throw a punch back at your ribcage. It connected, even though you hadn’t even flinched. You’d spun away from him, circling him with a smile on your face.

“Good! Next time, though, actually hit me,” Bob’s eyes widened, realizing what you were saying. You’d been trying to get him comfortable with his own super strength for weeks now, and that was the one thing he was still struggling with. “You have it, so use it. Don’t let it use you. Focus on it, channel it, and use it. You can do this, Bob. Don’t think, just do.”

Bob closed his eyes for a moment, thinking back on everything you’d been teaching him. Being the Sentry meant potentially letting that dark side of him overtake him, so he’d blocked off the Sentry. He’d blocked out his own powers, but he couldn’t. He had to accept that the Sentry and the Void were parts of him, and he didn’t need to be them in order to channel their strengths. He just had to be Bob, and when you were the one teaching him that, he seemed to understand it.

You charged forward, and he could see the magic encasing your fist as you threw a punch. Bob managed to duck, switching places with you. Your smirk quirked up as your leg came flying up at super speed. With a deep breath, Bob’s hand managed to catch it, not missing the way your eyebrows shot up. He threw your leg back to the ground, taking in a sharp breath as he thought about everything you’d taught him, and threw a punch toward your ribs, this time channeling the power surging through his veins that he tried so hard to block out in fear of losing control.

A gasp left your lips the second his fist connected, your body dropping to the ground as you fell on your knees, hand immediately holding onto your side. Any confidence surging through Bob in that moment dissipated in a second, and panic overtook him.

“O-Oh my god! I’m s-so sorry. I shouldn’t have- I shouldn’t have done that, I-I didn’t mean to hurt you-”

You laughed, and that laugh was enough to stop Bob’s incessant rambling of apologies. His gaze met yours as you looked up at him, and there wasn’t a trace of malice in it. There was pride, and something else buried beneath it that had the constant fluttering of his heart beating erratically once again.

“That, Bob, was perfect. Now…you want to get dinner together?”

From that day on, many of those days in the tower didn’t even consist of training. 

You’d introduced Bob to the shawarma restaurant in downtown Tony had dragged you all to all those years ago, watching as Bob fell in love with the food. That became a typical Thursday outing for you both for lunch. In that time, simple walks around Central Park became more common than not. Bob enjoyed the peacefulness of the park, the contrast it had to the bustling city around it, and he found tranquility in walking through it. He didn’t leave the tower much, terrified of losing control, but when you were with him, he felt like he could do anything.

Moments in the tower with you were still his favorite. He could listen to you for hours on end, and he had, as you walked with him through the tower and told him stories upon stories from your years spent here with the people you’d called family for so long. There was a story for almost every room. And eventually, when those days turned into you crashing in one of the spare bedrooms Valentina had set up in the tower for the night, you’d both found yourself watching movies in the common room until the early hours of the morning before Bob’s insomnia would let him sleep, even if the others weren’t joining you.

The team had noticed. It was hard not to. The Bob they’d known, the one who often shied away from long conversations with them but could still throw out a snarky remark, had grown more comfortable. He’d left his shell, but only around you.

“Did you anticipate this?” Yelena questioned Bucky one day, who was comfortably sitting at the island counter of the tower’s kitchen. He’d followed her gaze to the common room, seeing you laughing on the couch at something Bob had said while yet another movie droned on in the background.

“To this extent? No,” Bucky shook his head, before glancing back at Yelena with a smug smirk. “But I hoped it might go this route. I’m taking credit for it.”

Yelena found herself watching you both again, and Bucky followed her gaze.

“Do you think she likes him…like that?”

The super soldier pondered it for a moment, but there was no mistaking it. Not with the way you smiled at Bob, no matter what he was saying, that glint in your eyes. He knew you well enough to know it was written clearly across your face.

“Yeah…she’s not very subtle. Then again, if you’ve met her brother, neither is he. She looks at him like Steve looked at Peggy, and that’s all I have to know,”

Bob was in deep, and he knew it. That crush he’d harbored was long gone.

He was in love, and god was it terrifying. To fall in love in general was a scary thing. Bob had lost enough in life; falling in love just meant there was another thing in his life he could lose. It complicates everything more when he’d gone and managed to fall in love with a literal Goddess.

It had been months of training, but something in the air this time was different. Bob couldn’t focus, couldn’t pull his eyes from you, and you seemed to know it. Every time you turned away, his eyes locked on you, but you always managed to glance back and catch him with a small smile.

His head felt fuzzy, that flutter still in his heart when he looked at you, and paired with that weightless feeling in his stomach, he knew being around you would never be easy again from this day forth. He was so mesmerized by the simple idea and sight of you he almost didn’t see your smirk as you entered fighting position, ready to spar again.

You were on him in seconds, this time with a knife in your hands. Both of you knew it couldn’t hurt him, but he also knew even if it could, you never would hurt him with it.

Bob sidestepped, but his mind was blank, the simple scent of your perfume sending him over the edge as he lost his entire train of thought. You’d taken advantage of the opportunity, knocking him down to his back on the ground.

What he hadn’t expected was for you to staddle him, knife pointed directly at his neck as you smirked down at him and the wonder written across his face.

“I win…”

Bob’s breath was caught in his throat, he didn’t know what to do. But you seemed to have him exactly where you wanted him. Your smirk shifted, a soft smile replacing it, as your hand rested gently on his chest, over the undershirt he wore to these sparring sessions. He knew you could finally feel the erratic beating of his heart reserved just for you.

“I’ve been teaching you for months now to fight. To be confident,” your voice came out in a whisper, and there was nothing for adoration laced through it. “I’ve spent enough time with you, Bob, I know you. So be confident…and tell me the truth about your racing heart.”

Maybe it was the way you always had a way of calming him, or maybe it was the training you’d been giving him for months, but something clicked in Bob. He sat up, leaning back on his hands until he was completely sitting straight up on the sparring mat, you still perched in his lap. A tentative hand came up to your waist, lying on it, and squeezing it gently. Your hands followed suit, running up his arms until they rested around his neck.

“You…” Bob tried to find the words, but his nerves were clear in his voice. “Y-you make me nervous.”

You hummed, hands finding the hair that curled at the nape of his neck.

“In a good way, or a bad way?”

“G-Good way,” he’d managed to get out, leaning is head back into your touch. “Good but…but scary.”

“Why?”

“B-because loving you means…I c-could lose you,” once the words started flowing out of him, they couldn’t stop. He’d held it inside for weeks now, and the weight on his shoulders was finally lifting off him with everything he said. “And I’ve lost enough. I…I don’t want to think a-about losing you, about you…not feeling the same way.”

You cocked your head at that, one hand trailing to his jaw as you caressed it beneath your fingers.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“B-because why would a Goddess…want a broken man like me?”

He could see it clearly, the sadness that seemed to flood your gaze at his words. You opened your mouth as if to speak again, before shutting it in a moment of contemplation.

Then, you’d surged forward and kissed him.

Bob’s heart could barely be contained in his ribcage the second your lips met his, and he pressed back with a surge of confidence that only you could give him. But it was a kiss that held so much more in it than what someone on the outside might see.

Your magic was woven into the kiss, into the feeling of your lips against his, and he could feel it. He could feel your emotions, your memories, flashing before him in every move of your lips against his. From the moment you’d stepped out of the Bifrost and looked at him, he could feel the twin flutter he’d had that had moved through you. The affection, the adoration, the love that poured off of you in every moment, from Central Park to movies on the common room couch.

Feelings that he believed could never be reciprocated, not for a man like him. Your magic-infused kiss told him the entire story of how you fell for him, just like he fell for you. There was no denying it.

Your lips parted from his, but they didn’t stray far. The space that hung between them was non-existent, and your lips brushed over his faintly with every word you spoke to him in a hush.

“Do you believe me now?”

“I…I don’t know. Y-you…you might need to kiss me again.”

[spilladabalia]

Visitors - V I S I T O R S '81

[dadbots]

Had a pretty fun weekend. :)

[silversurfersx]

media duties | f1grid pt.2

part 1

f1 grid x driver!reader [smau] - part 2

summary: the reader does anything to escape her media duties

faceclaim: Jamie chadwick and random peopke I found on ointerest

warnings: swearing, theoretical violence

liked by georgerussel63, landonorris, maxverstappen1 and others

yourusername: got a visitor in the paddock today😊 he had the cooler car 😔

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user: is alex ok?

user: what happened in slide 3???

alex_albon: why did you post this?

yourusername: bc auggie is adorable alex_albon: obviously, but that's not what I meant yourusername: oh you mean me hitting you with my car... yeah, that's meant as a threat for everyone alex_albon: what for? yourusername: leading Netflix to my secret hideout alex_albon: you were hiding in the Haas hospitality with Auggie and the Haas kids yourusername: yeah I couldn't understand a word those two said

user: ah yes...

user: is it weird that I'm jealous of auggie's car?

user: no, cause same

___

Auggie cruised in his Spiderman toy car in front of you through the paddock. In high pitched squeaks he imitated motor noises.

Chuckling at the small boy, you followed along grabbing your phone from your pocket when you felt a ping. Looking down you saw Alex's message about Netflix wanting to film a segment once again.

'I can't, I gotta take care of auggie, sorry'

You texted back, looking for another excuse, as you knew that taking care of Auggie wasn't the best excuse, as there were enough people at Williams who could look after your nephew for an hour. They did when you raced as well.

Your eyes moved over the paddock, stopping on Nico Hulkenberg kneeling alongside his daughter, who was Auggie's age.

"Auggie, what do you think about making a new friend?"

The blonde boy turned back, quickly hitting the brakes of his toy car. "A new friend?"

"Yeah, you see that girl over there?" You nodded at the small girl, whose name you never really learned. "She looks nice, doesn't she?"

"Yes! Do you think she wants to be my friend?" The boy asked eyes wide in question. You shrugged. "Maybe we could go and ask."

"Yes!"

___

___

"Y/N what are your plans for next year?" The media person asked rising to their feat in the crowd of reporters during the press conference.

Slowly you lifted the microphone up to your lips. "I don't know."

"You were seen in the Haas hospitality earlier today. Was it contract related or did you hide from someone again?" They asked which was followed by chuckles from everyone in the room.

Smiling you answered. "I was hiding."

Again chuckles erupted.

"Did you get caught?" Max interrupted from next to you on the couch. Laughing you nodded. "Yeah, Alex told on me."

"Ah, you shouldn't have told him." Max reprimanded you.

"Yeah, I know." You nodded. "But I hit him with my car, so now we're even." You argumented, ignoring the wide eyes from the media. Yuki grinned from beside Max, who couldn't hide his own amusement.

"That seems alright then." Max replied.

"If i may interrupt and go back to my initial question." The reporter interrupted. "Y/N, what are your plans for next year, do you have a new contract in sight?"

"Not really." You shrugged. It was a lie, but it wasn't any of their business, yet and you didn't even know if t would work out.

___

liked by sebastianvettel, francolapinto, williamsracing and others

yourusername: a great honour to be able to join seb and his crew!❤

It was an absolute honour meeting you, seb and all the people who worked this project. I am proud to have been part of this!!!🇧🇷🤩🥰

SennaForver 🇧🇷🇧🇷

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user: absolutely beautiful what you did

user: we love seb!

user: senna forever!!!

sebastianvettel: it was an honour to have you join us as well❤ [liked by yoursusername]

alex_albon: so this is where you went?

___

___

It was only logical that a day would come, where you were actually late for media duties, though no one believed you. Your constant lying about your whereabouts during media duties finally got to you.

"Where did you hide out this time?" Alex greeted you when you ran on stage for the fan event. "I didn't, I swear, I fell asleep and forgot to set an alarm."

Alex looked at you suspiciously, not quite believing you. "Was it Max?"

"No, I swear, I slept in." You tried to reassure. Looking out at the crowd you tried to convince them. "Sorry guys, but I swear I did sleep."

Laughs filled the crowd at you attempts of convincing.

"Was that a 'we believe you'- laugh?" You asked receiving once again a similar laugh. Leaning back to look at the Alpine boys who were with you. "Are they laughing at me or with me?"

"I think at you." Pierre teased and Esteban joined. "I would too."

"At least I know I'm funny." You replied, grinning.

Alex leaned towards you, putting the microphone away from his mouth. "Did you actually sleep in?"

"Yes, I swear." You replied.

___

___

liked by landonorris, alexalbon, maxverstappen1 and others

yourusername: I swear guys i played too much sims and fell asleep... also I got a special helmet ⛑️

view comments

user: she's out here fighting for her life, haha

user: happens to the best of us

user: damn, she's fighting harder than when she's escaping Netflix

landonorris: did u feed me?

yourusername: i let you drown in the pool, lol landonorris: what 🙂 yourusername: oscar was really sad oscarpiastri: nah landonorris: 🥲 yourusername: that's rough

alexalbon: but did you?

yourusername: 🤡

user: sick helmet ⛑️

user: are we all just gonna ignore lando?

yourusername: ignoring him is always the safest option 👍

___

Drive to Survive interview:

"Hello, my name is Y/N Y/LN and I am racing for Williams Racing." You closed the clap with a tight smile, the bright lights surrounding you blinded you.

"Okay, great, it's good to finally catch you." The reporter announced making you unwillingly smile. "Yeah, you guys are very adamant, just wouldn't give up."

"We promise to keep it short for you." The woman laughed.

"Grand."

"Where did you hide this time?" The question continued.

"At Aston."

"Is it nice there?" The woman said as the interview continued.

"It's very green."

"Oh, I bet. How are you finding this season as it is slowly ending? What are your plans for next season, there are only a handful of seats left?" The interviewer pressed as you shifted in your seat knowing what she was out for. Carlos took your Williams seat for next year, so the question arises, 'what should you do?'.

Obviously you were in talks with a few people, looking over the open seats and even at spots in other categories like wec.

"It's been crazy, but I know what I'm doing."

"So you got a plan?" The woman asked curiously. "Is it for vcarb? They've been looking at you, I've heard."

You shrugged pursing your lips . "RedBull sugar free? Who knows."

"You're really not giving us anything, aren't you?" She interviewer chuckled and you smiled cockily.

"Nope." You looked over the camera personal, as the interviewer searched her notes. "Are we finished? Do you just cut to some dramatic scenes of me now?"

The lady shook her head chuckling. "Not quite, sorry."

Internally sighing in disappointment you nodded.

"Alright."

___

[CAPTION] thank you Charles (my secret santa) for the invisability cloak, now I can hide even better☺️🧙‍♀️

charles_leclerc: you are welcome ☺️🥰 yourusername: 😘

[hiiikiko]

𝖈𝖆𝖚𝖌𝖍𝖙 𝖎𝖓 𝖞𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝖜𝖊𝖇

[1: spider-man’s more awkward than i thought..”]

spiderman!ellie x reader | tlou m.list

synopsis: ellie is in your biology class, she’s the quiet teachers assistant, who also happens to double as your agency’s part time photographer, but you notice that lately she’s been acting strange..

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You never really noticed her before, to you, she was just the nerdy TA and your agency’s assistant photographer but right now, you needed her to be your saviour. You were failing your biology class, a side effect of how many modelling gigs you’ve picked up to pay your tuition but what good was paying your tuition if you couldn’t even pass your classes? That’s how you ended up practically begging Ellie to tutor you.

“God, please, Williams,” you sighed, taking her hand in yours, “I’ll do anything! I’ll even pay you or I could speak to the agency—.”

“I-it’s fine, Y/l/n, I can do it,” she pried her hand out of yours and nodded, “Just put in a good word with your boss, yeah?”

You practically jump when she says that, “Oh thank you, thank you so much! Um, do you have my number?”

Ellie bashfully nods, “Uh, yeah, I have all the model’s numbers..”

You nod, “Okay, cool! Let’s meet at my place tonight, yeah? Maybe around 6? I’ll send you the location and the door code.”

Ellie straightens up, “Uhh.. can’t do six.. can we do it earlier? Maybe 4..?”

She looks a little nervous about asking, her eyebrows are furrowed and she’s staring into your eyes, anxiously waiting for your response, “Oh.. yeah that’s cool!”

With that, you go your separate ways.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

At your apartment, you prep it for your visitor, shoving your clothes into your laundry hamper, putting out some snacks, straightening up your ‘living room,’ it wasn’t really a living room, given that you lived in a small studio apartment, it was really just a corner of your apartment with a couch, rug, and coffee table. Come on, it was New York and you’re a college student! This is as good as it’ll get for now.

Just as you’re folding a blanket, you hear a thud against the glass door leading out to your balcony. Just as you’re about to take a step towards it to inspect it.. ding dong! You jump a bit, forgetting all about the peculiar sound and making your way towards your front door. Peaking through the peephole, you see Ellie, she’s awkwardly rubbing the back of her neck, camera bag resting on her shoulder and her bangs messily in her face.

“Hey,” you smile and open the door to let her in, “Uh, make yourself at home.”

“T-thanks,” she nods, taking off her shoes and putting her bag down, “Nice place you got.. very, uh, homey. Oh, you a fan of Spider-man?” She nods at the Spider-Man poster on your wall and the Spider-Man t-shirt you’re wearing.

You giggle at her attempt at making small talk, “Thanks, can I get you anything? Water.. soda.. tea..? And, yeah, I know it’s kinda ‘fan girly’ of me but he’s just so fuckin’ cool, y’know? ”

“I’ll take a water,” she sits down on your couch, she looks really tired, not sleepy tired but she looks like she just fought Captain America.

“Shall we get started,” you place the glass in front of her and sit on the floor, the fluffy rug underneath aiding as a cushion, she nods and the two of you get to work.

The first few tutoring sessions went just like that, they were stiff and awkward but eventually, you realized that Ellis isn’t just a nerd that occasionally takes your pictures, she’s also really funny and is actually a really good teacher, she’s patient but doesn’t treat you like you’re dumb. She talks you through the formulas and makes sure you understand each chapter by quizzing you. She’s actually not awkward about this after all, she seems confident when she’s talking about cells. Watching her is nice, her eyes light up when she gets to a chapter that she is obviously interested in and a small smile falters on her lips. You never really realized it before but not only is she really smart, she’s also REALLY hot. Like, the way her veiny arms l flex when she reaches over for her glass of water, the veins flexing under her tattoo, the way she gazes at you through her eyelashes, and her smirk when she gently teases you for getting a problem wrong.

On one particular tutoring session, the rain pattered heavy against the thin glass on your balcony doors, creating a serene, almost cozy atmosphere. You and Ellie were sitting close together on the floor, a thick textbook resting on the coffee table in front of you, you could feel her breath against your neck and her voice was deep and raspy, almost like she’d been out in the rain earlier, and—

“Hey, you with me?” Ellie waves a hand in front of your face, “Hm, maybe we should stop here for now, yeah? It’s getting la— shit, it’s 7?!”

Your expression fell at the thought of her leaving, so you thought ‘fuck it’ as you decided to try and get her to ‘sleep over.’

Ellie scrambled to get on her feet, grabbing her bag and putting her battered converse on, “Oh, you’re leaving? But it’s pouring out there, wanna spend the night?” You graze her arm with your hand, you know it’s wrong to wanna sleep with your TA and your coworker but.. it had been so long since you got any.. and shit, how could you stop yourself now? You could feel her lean muscles underneath her baggy jacket.. you had no idea she even worked out.

Ellie’s eyes flicker to your hand, almost like she was considering it, “S-sorry.. I really gotta go, see ya Friday, yeah?”

And before you could say anything else to try and convince her to stay, she was out the door and you could hear her footsteps echoing down the stairwell.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“The nerve that girl has!” You throw your hands up, “She didn’t even consider it.. I mean, look at me! An up and coming model offers you the night of her life, you say yes!”

Your friends nod in agreement, “I just don—.” Just as you’re about to make another comment, you see Ellie come into the lecture hall, a band-aid on her eyebrow, ouch. What in the world could have happened between 7 p.m. and this morning?

Your friends turn to see what’s got your tongue, then one of them speaks up, “Haven’t you heard? She is always getting weird scratches.. a guy in my last class said that she tends to get in a lot of fights, crazy, right?”

Ellie gets into fights? You scoff at the idea, no way, she’s the most gentle person you know, you can barely feel her touch when she adjusts your hair during shoots, besides she’s way too awkward, you can imagine her trying to talk herself out of a beating, no way. Right?

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

During that night’s tutoring session, you ask her about the bandaid, “Oh,” her hand darts to her forehead, “This? I, uh, got it when I fell off my skateboard..”

Convincing enough, right? But the tone in which she said it betrayed her statement, damn, she was a shitty liar.

“Hm,” you hum, still not completely convinced.

Ellie’s eyes rest on yours for a moment before going back to this week’s chapter. Usually, you could focus pretty well but right now all you wanted was to ask her more about the cut, right as you’re about to bug her again, she interrupts you with a question of her own. “Hey, uh, are you booked for that shoot on Sunday?”

You can tell she’s trying her best to act as nonchalant as possible but the way she’s nervously tapping her pencil against the textbook, the way her teeth gently bite her soft pink lips, and the way her eyes look like a deer caught in headlights betray her rather calm tone.

“Yeah, didn’t Regina tell you? She booked me a few weeks ago, something about how they want a ‘fresh young face’ or whatever,” you on the other hand, have mastered the art of being nonchalant, your voice calm and your eyes never leaving the paper of your textbook.

“R-really?” Ellie looks like a puppy who’s owner just shook a bag of treats before forgetting she’s supposed to be feign the whole ‘mysterious loner’ shtick, “I mean, uh, cool, cool. I’m gonna be there too, so, uh.. yeah.”

“Mhm,” the rest of the night carries on like nothing happened, Ellie continues teaching and you continue ‘listening,’ which was a little hard because your eyes kept drifting to her eyebrows again.

There’s something about her that you just don’t get.. if those rumours are true, which you highly doubt because look at her, she’s smiling while talking about RNA… be so for real right now, there’s no way BUT if it is true, why is she so gentle? Sure, she’s clumsy but her personality, she’s not hostile, hell, she blushes whenever you graze her hand. You know how the rumour mill works and it doesn’t just churn out baseless rumours, most have some kind of truth to them, so, how did someone make one about Ellie being so violent, you wonder.

“Uh, Y/n?” Ellie’s eyes move towards the balcony doors, “Can you, uh, please stop staring? You’re making me nervous..”

Your face erupts in a blush, the sweet red colour creeping up your neck, coating your ears, and finally, sweeping over your face, “S-sorry, just spaced out.. haven’t been getting much sleep, you know?”

Ellie nods, “Yeah.. I get it.. neighbours arguing a lot ‘nd stuff, right?”

You nod before realizing, “I never told you that.”

Ellie lets out a forced chuckle, “Uh, you did! Well, you didn’t tell me directly, just heard you say it… God, please believe me, I’m not stalking you, I just heard you say in passing, I swe—. Um. I should go, it’s getting late..”

“Huh, it’s only 6..?” You stand up with her, hoping she doesn’t leave so soon.

“Sorry, but I really should—?”

You grab onto her bulky jacket, tugging on the sleeve a bit, causing it to slip down her shoulder a bit and reveal her shirt underneath, huh, it looked like…

“Hey,” she blurts out and straightens out her jacket, “Wh—?”

“Oh my god, is that a spider-man tshirt?” You jump up, a smile creeping onto your face.

Ellie is washed with relief, “Uh, yeah! Gotta love the, uh, the guy, right?”

Nodding you say, “Totally! You should’ve said something sooner, I’m like his biggest fan, I even have an, allegedly, signed poster of him!”

Ellie’s ears burn bright, “R-really? Can I see it?”

You scramble to your room and pull out a small signed flyer, “See?”

Ellie gently holds it then she snorts and mutters, “Yeah, that’s not real.”

Your expression falters, “Wh-what? As if you’d know,” you pull it from her grip, your pride hurt and internally kicking yourself for spending so much on what could be a damn knock off.

“Oh, I think I’d know a thing or two about ‘Spider-Man’,” she chuckles.

“What does that mean,” you shoot her a glare.

“Oh, nothing.. I just, uh, met him” Ellie is scrambling for any way to cover up her loud mouth.

“No way, really?!” You jump up.

“Y-yeah, a few times actually.. back in my first year of college, he let me take some pictures of him a few times for the paper.”

You squeal and begin to bombard her with questions, “What was he like? Is he tall? How does he sound? Wh—?”

Ellie is patient with you and answers all of your questions, stretching she takes a look at the clock and jumps up, “Fuck, I really should get going, it’s rainy and the parade is tomorrow and that means more cr —.”

“More, what?”

“Uh, more cramped subways!” (Ellie is internally patting herself on the back for coming up with a word that begins with ‘cr’ instead of saying criminals.)

“Oh, alright.. see ya.”

Ellie is out the door quicker than you could say ‘your friendly neighborhood spider-man.’

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

It’s the day of the parade and everyone’s spirits are high. Today, everyone is celebrating the election of the new city mayor. There will be a parade, drone show, and a market. Even you’re excited. You and your friends are making your way through the crowded streets when you bump into Abby, your ex. She must be here for her family, Abby’s family was widely renowned. Her dad isn’t just a highly esteemed surgeon, he’s also CEO of Oscorp and has very close ties to the city officials. You don’t really want any drama, so you pass by without giving as much as a nod.

“Hey, Y/n,” you hear through the crowds, a groan leaving your lips before looking up and meeting green eyes instead of blue ones.

“Ellie! What’re you doing here? I thought you would hate this kinda stuff.’

She holds up her camera, “Just takin’ photos, the Daily Bugle needs some front page stuff and they assigned it to me.”

“Oh, very cool,” you smile, “S—,” Just as you’re about to ask her if she wants to check out the stands with you, you feel a hand grip your shoulder, it’s Abby, fuck.

“Hey, Y/n, long time, huh? Wanna come see my dad, he’s been asking about you, oh, so has Manny.” Before you could reject her, Ellie is already walking away and Abby is steering you to the city hall building.

Abby drones on and on about her latest lacrosse victories and about her latest conquests, you just nod and try to space out. Normally, you wouldn’t go with her but you so desperately wanted to meet with her father. Being in premed meant you need as many connections as possible, so you were hoping Mr. Anderson could give you some pointers.

As the two of you round a corner you feel a rumble then hear a boom.

“What the fuck was that,” Abby stops and runs up the stairs, your feet are frozen in place but you quickly pull them from their cemented state and chase after her, “Abby, stop! It’s too dang—!”

Then came the second boom and suddenly, you felt the ground beneath you crumbling, fuck, this is it, isn’t it? Just as you’re about to accept your fate, you feel hands grip your waist and you’re flying..?

Through the dust, you can make out a red and blue silhouette. “I-it’s you!’

The masked figure looks at you, “Yeah.. i-it’s me.”

Uh, Spider-Man is a lot more awkward than you thought..

[girl-lostconnection]

been thinking about the punk x nerd au w simon and ohhhhh my godddddddddd

what if he begins running and working out during highschool and he fills out and discovers himself a bit more — and is significantly more attractive — and nerd!reader is all over ittt, and they actually start to like each other and they get closer.

what if he also goes into the military in this au, after they’ve both graduated and she’s devastated — losing her bsf like that, but they see each other later in life when he’s on leave and she’s elated and confused because that can’t be him, right? not her simon? and whose scarf is that, barely peaking out of the collar of his jacket on this cold manchester day?

hmmm just what’s been stewing in my brain!

Anon, imma be honest, its like you know something that I don’t and I’m all here for it cause reader just watching as this awkward angry teen turns into bloody behemoth of a man…damn, anon. Give me 14 of these right now. Also I’ll write about second part of your ask since it’s a little further away in the future.

THANK YOU for this opportunity to talk about Unsweetened Lemonade AU Ghost coming home from military🌟

The Soldier

Warnings: plus size gn!reader, Simon is hungry for more than just food, fluff, slight suggestive themes

Simon comes back home and it’s like nothing changed at all (like he’s still 17) — same rooftops and same streets and same tight feeling in his chest — the remnant of the war he was going through even before enlisting.

It still stings sometimes, deep inside of him, barbed wire on the inside of his jawline.

Sometimes it still aches, but Simon is no longer lanky and awkward with sharp angles and no coordination and a whole lot of rage.

Simon goes into military and comes on the other side almost twice heavier than he was before. (Twice as dangerous, twice as deadly)

The bulk of muscle and a nice level of fat born from regular training and regular meals finally shows how much sense his long limbs and towering height make.

He doesn’t regret the decision one bit, for the most part. (He only regrets he couldn’t sneak you into the base as his emotional support person)

You write to him and he gobbles up your every letter with the same hunger he finished every bite you brought him back in highschool, with the same hunger he held onto you before leaving after enlistment.

Simon reads these letters again and again until the new one comes.

He gets dropped off in the neighbourhood where you live (mates laugh and smack his shoulder, joking about lad or lass that’s gonna be happy to see him, joking that he needs to bring the pretty thing around because they’ve been dying to know who are you).

The duffel bag is slinged over his shoulder, your scarf still wrapped around his neck and anticipation coiling in his belly.

It’s been a minute since you saw each other.

Since he saw you, since he could wrap himself in your warmth, nuzzle his face in the soft pudge of your tummy (god, he missed it so badly sometimes it felt like physical aching).

Simon has been hungry for more than your meals.

He shifts his weight from one leg to another, trying to warm up as he fumbles with the written address on the scrap of paper. It shouldn’t be far from where he is right now. Just a few minutes and then he’s home.

Just a few minutes and he’s gonna see you again.

Meanwhile you don’t really expect any visitors, flat is a bit of a hot mess in Simon’s old T-shirt, cookies baking in the oven — utensils all over kitchen table.

Simon wrote that he’s getting off on leave in a few days or so and you are stress cooking because god knows he always ate a lot and you don’t know how well he ate in military.

So you decide that’s better safe and sorry and start getting ready two days before he’s even supposed to be back in Manchester.

Imagine your surprise when someone knocks on your door — three short knocks, sound crisp clear when you freeze looking through the peephole because what the hell.

On your doorstep there is a mountain of a man, for the lack of better word, you frankly can’t even see his face since he stands too close to the door — black sweater and awfully familiar scarf peeking out of the collar of his jacket.

And you are so baffled you almost miss the familiar “Luv, open up, ‘ts me” from the man on your doorstep and maybe he’s got the wrong address and looking for someone else.

But you don’t manage to finish the thought before your body moves on its own and swings the door open.

Jesus Christ.

He’s even bigger when you are face to face with him, the need to crane your neck just to see dark eyes with adorably blond eyelashes certainly doesn’t help with how astounded you are.

“Can I help you?”, you aren’t sure what is going on or who is that but then the man scoffs in even more familiar way, pulling the scarf down and oh my god. It’s Simon. This is your Simon.

“Forgo’ me so quickly?”, he’d sound annoyed if he wasn’t so happy to see you, brown eyes soft with adoration. And before you can answer he’s taking a step inside your flat, closing the door behind him. It’s cold outside after all, surely you wouldn’t leave him out in the cold.

“Though’ I was special”, the rumble of his voice kicks the air out of you, eyes wide and face heating up quickly because Jesus Christ, he’s big.

Thighs thick and hips meaty, legs looking like he could crush your skull if he wanted to (lord have mercy, don’t think about it, no, you must stay focused).

He’s big and he smells good (why the hell he smells so good, it should be illegal, you will look like absolute creep sniffing him) and he’s looking at you like he can’t get enough of you. Like this reunion is even better than what he imagined.

God, you just might need to crawl into the freezer and sit there for a minute because you are too hot and he’s so fucking hot, what the hell, who is this man and what did they fucking feed him in military???

“Simon”, the first time is more of an exhale but then he nods, shaking his jacket off, duffel bag hitting the floor with dull thump and in the next moment you are all over him.

“Simon”, your hands wrapping around him (you are NOT gonna think that your two hands are not enough to close around his midriff) and face pressing to his chest — pectoral muscles cushioning against your cheek.

Oh, this is bliss. This is so good you just might forget about anything else.

You now know where you’d like to be buried.

In this man chest, please.

And Simon can’t help but hum, the sound low and pleased — his hands hoisting you up so he can get a grip on your thighs, fingers sinking into the meat of them and bloody hell, this is good.

This is fucking lovely.

He’d love to have his head between these thighs of yours.

As a matter of fact, could you maybe suffocate him with them so he can die happy (and hard as a rock)? Please?

But it can wait a little because you are finally in his hands, your arms wrapped now around his shoulders, eyes shining with absolute joy — looking at him like he’s everything. Like you are happy. Like you’ve been waiting for him.

He’s here. Simon is home.

Simon nuzzles his nose into your cheek, teeth itching to sink into the softness of it, itching to take a bite, itching to lick the blood off—

Ghost hoists you up a little higher because there’s no need for you to feel just how happy he is to see you. Not yet, at least.

“Yeah, luv, told ye, it’s me”, he murmurs, practically vibrating with satisfaction when your grip on him tightens.

Yeah, that’s right, don’t let go of him. Sink yourself into him just as he wants into you, taste the blood from his veins — it’s all yours anyway, he’s all yours.

Always been.

It takes him a few minutes to actually let you down, body immediately aching for the warmth and softness he’s been missing so badly.

But he can smell that you’ve been cooking something and if it’s okay with you he’s willing to sate his hunger with something more traditional.

Simon eats and keeps a close eye on you eating (can’t have you go hungry on him), passing the best bites back, pressing them against your lips — eyes half-lidded and heavy when your tongue accidentally flicks against the pads of his fingers.

Simon leaves the kitchen only when you both are full and sated, the button on his jeans popped open because well, maybe he was hungry for your meals too.

Can you really blame him? He’s been away so long, he just needs to catch up on everything he missed.

Simon pulls you onto the couch to tuck in to his side, mumbles something about “afternoon nap, luv”.

He is a lot like sated predator, all lazy grace and heavy bulk and heat rolling off in waves. Simon nuzzles his big head into your neck, palms holding onto the small of your back and your thigh, splayed over them possessively. Holding you close.

He’s out cold in the matter of minutes, finally relaxed and full and so warm. Finally with you. Not going anywhere, not leaving the side of his lovely sweetheart.

All yours, you just got to let him stay and protect you.

Just let him stay and love you, devour you, keep you warm and soft and round with happiness.

Just let him and he’s going to make sure you never regret it.

[lordprettyflackotara]

dance w the devil || ticci toby & kate the chaser

smut MINORS DNI 18+. tw: you’ve been kidnapped sorry, weed usage, choking, virgin!toby, boss bitch slightly less feral than cannon!kate, mentions of physical abuse (yk, since you’ve been kidnapped)

You sat in the cold basement, shivering as the concrete scratched against your skin. The chains bonded to your wrist rattled as you shifted uncomfortably, the blinding light of the basement door opening making you cringe. You squinted your eyes, expecting to see the familiar shapes of Masky and Hoodie. The two hell hounds that belonged to the devil, you had decided. You had enough bruises on you to justify your judgment. You were surprised to see two new visitors, ones you hadn’t seen before. One was tall and lanky, orange goggles covering his eyes and a tarnished face mask covering the rest of his face. Beside him is what you assumed to be a woman, her face covered with a similar mask to Masky’s.

Her hands were shoved into her hoodie’s pocket, while the man carried an axe slung over his shoulder. They flicked on the light switch, the light bulb being held by a string above you sparking to life. You narrowed your eyes as you examined them, the two not as in sync as Masky and Hoodie. “H-Hello there!” The man greeted, crouching down to your level. He attempted to caresses your face, causing you to instinctively try to bite him. Your body was completely restrained except for your mouth. This was done purposefully, the hell hounds hoping you’d spew whatever they wanted to know. But you didn’t know what they were talking about at all, leading you to be trapped in the dreaded basement until you spewed up whatever they were looking for. Your teeth clashed together as the man pulled his hand away, chuckling as he looked back at his partner.

“Wow s-she’s almost as f-feisty as you Kate!”

The woman now known as Kate rolled her eyes under her mask. “Shut it goggles,” She hissed. The brunette lifted up his goggles, his chocolate eyes searching yours. You weren’t quite sure what for, your heart pounding as you tried to back away. “Jesus t-they made those p-pretty tight huh?” The man asked, referring to your restraints. You slowly nodded, unsure if the truth would bite you in the ass. He reached forward, assertively grabbing your bound wrist and unlocking it. You watched the metal fall and hit the floor with a clank, your hands instantly shooting to rub your sore wrist. “My names T-Toby, but you can call m-me whatever you want,” He purred. You blinked, attempting to move further away from the brunette. Kate grabbed his shoulder, shoving his backwards. “Shut up you’re scaring her,” She barked. It was apparent to you the two weren’t too fond of one another. It made you question why they decided to come together and not alone.

“Alright i’ll cut to the chase so goggles stops trying to butter you up like a shitty piece of cornbread,” Kate spat. She crouched down to your level, sliding up her mask. If you took away the dried blood splatters and dirt that painted different parts of her face, she was quite pretty for such a feral woman. “We’ve come here with an offer we think you’ll find quite enticing,” She continued. You managed to maintain eye contact with her, her rough voice somehow soothing to you throughout the terror. “You see kid, Toby’s a little virgin with no woman experience and you can bet your sweet ass i’m not going to be a test subject,” Kate went on. You felt your eyes widened as you knew where this was going, instantly trying to use your freed hands to back away. “Nuh uh, absolutely no fuckin way,” You snapped. Toby went to intervene, Kate’s hand stopping him. It was her silent way of telling him to give her a second. “Hold that thought, let me finish,” She said. Your eyebrows furrowed as you tucked your knees to your chest.

“Toby here can just guess how to fuck a girl. But foreplay? He doesn’t know shit. You let me teach him how to make a girl cum and we’ll let you spend some time in the sunshine,” She told you. You couldn’t hide the sight of your face lighting up. “You’ll let me go outside?” You asked. Toby tried to approach you again, both of them crouched down and to your eye level. Kate cut him off before he could talk, knowing her pitch landed. “It’ll be supervised of course, but you look like you could use some vitamin D,” She clarified. The thought of seeing raw and bright sunshine filled you with joy, your feet aching to touch the grass outside. It was hard to recall the last time you had been in the suns warmth. It was a miracle the hell hounds let you use the bathroom in peace. You began to agree, the realization of your filth occurring to you. “I’m uh, not the cleanest though, I don’t know,” You answered hesitantly. Kate delivered Toby a wicked grin, one that sent a chill down your spine.

“Why don’t we get you a bath kid?”

You were hesitant to undress in front of the duo, the bathroom much cleaner than the basement. “This is mine and Jane’s personal bathroom. You’re welcome kid. The majority of the residents here are gross,” Kate said, noticing your gawking. You took that as your cue to undress, shoving your shirt over your head. Glancing at yourself in the mirror you hardly recognized yourself, having lost weight dramatically and your cheeks hollowed. Toby turned on the water, checking the temperature to ensure it was nice and warm. He couldn’t help himself from staring at you as you awkwardly stood there naked, avoiding his assertive gaze. Kate pressed up against you, her breath hot against your ear. “Don’t worry kid he’s just admiring,” She cooed. Her fingertips traced over a bruise Masky had given you, the skin becoming a dark purple. “Damn, Masky got you good huh?” She muttered to herself. It was then Toby extended his hand, guiding you towards the bathtub. Kate went around him, pouring some bubble bath into the tub to create soap.

The inviting scent of vanilla flooded your nostrils, putting you slightly at ease. You swallowed as you took his hand, allowing him to guide you into the bath. You were shaky as you sat down, the waters warmth causing you to let out a relieved sigh. It was only when Kate sat on the edge of the tub the reality of the situation came crashing back down. Your eyes fluttered open at the sound of a lighter, fear washing over you. “Relax, this is more for you than it is for me,” Kate said casually. The familiar smell of weed clashed with the vanilla, your eyes watching her take a deep inhale. “I-Is this really n-necessary?” Toby asked. Kate rolled her eyes, handing the freshly lit joint to you as she exhaled. “Do you want her relaxed or not? You can’t make a girl cum if she’s scared of you. Unless she’s into that,” Kate replied. You tried to flick the water off of your finger tips as you took the joint with a shaky hand. “Are you into that?” Kate added, glancing at you. You nervously inhaled the joint, hoping whatever they laced it with would cause you to not remember this humiliating ritual. “N-Not on the first date no,” You sputtered, coughing as you exhaled.

Kate grinned at the sight, Toby kneeling beside the bathtub. You went to hand it back to her, causing her to shake her head. “I think you may need that. Let’s get on with it so goggles here can get his rocks off. Open your legs,” She commanded. You did as instructed, Toby eagerly shoving his hoodie sleeve up to his elbow. He used his right hand specifically, your fearful gaze not failing to notice his left was covered in bandages. You nervously inhaled the joint as Toby’s hand dipped into the water, awkwardly cupping your cunt. “Alright goggles you know where the clit is right?” Kate asked. You avoided eye contact as your face became red, the smoke leaving your lips. Toby rolled his eyes, cockily placing his thumb on your clit. “Y-Yes Kate i’ve seen p-p-porn,” He quipped. Kate glanced at you, finding your flushed face quite cute as you stiffened in the tub. “Alright genius go ahead and rub slow circles around it, get her to loosen up a bit,” She instructed. Without arguing he listened, causing you to unexpectedly whimper. Your body responded well to his touch to your surprise, your hesitation floating away with each full circle he did. “Good job, now go ahead and put a finger in there. You needa make sure she can hypothetically adjust to your size. Not that I think there’s much to worry about,” Kate guided. With his spare hand Toby playfully slapped her leg, before doing as instructed.

This time you groaned, feeling his single digit exploring your walls. “Hear that goggles? Thats what we wanna hear. Add another one,” Kate continued. You felt a slight stretch as he added in a second finger, your walls clinging to him. “Now do a scissoring motion,” Kate added, accepting the joint as you passed it to her. You could feel the drug swirling around your lungs, your body relaxing and becoming content in the tub. “A s-scissoring motion? T-that sounds fuckin s-stupid,” Toby bickered. You tried to grind your hips against the brunettes hand, your core now throbbing with desire and desperation. “Do you see how desperate she is goggles? Get with the program. Jesus, nevermind. Just curl your fingers,” Kate sighed, before inhaling the joint. You gasped as he did so, curling perfectly against your g spot. You involuntarily moaned his name, becoming even more embarrassed once you had realized what you had done. “See goggles? Thats what you’re supposed to hear. Go faster,” Kate ordered. Toby seemed to understand, his own cheeks turning pink as he curled them faster inside of you.

Your gummy walls came to life, clinging onto his slender fingers as he abused your g spot. You gripped the sides of the tub, the high only increasing the euphoria the awkward brunette was providing. He could feel his cock growing harder in his pants, tucking his bottom lip in between his teeth. Your moans bounced off the walls of the bathroom, the sound so sinful you refrained from thinking of anyone hearing it. “There we go, now she’s starting to loosen up. Keep rubbing the circles. That’ll push her over the edge,” Kate instructed, continuing to smoke the joint as she watched the pornographic scene unfold. Once Toby had the green light it made him go faster and harder, abusing your g spot with his fingers as he watched you come undone for him. Your eyes landed on his, the two of you entranced with the other as he finger fucked you. “F-feel good?” Toby asked. You licked your dry lips, forcing yourself to form a coherent sentence. “So good, please don’t stop,” You whined, his fingers relentless as he played with your cunt.

You could feel the knot in your stomach tighten, your knuckles turning white from gripping the sides of the tub so hard. “You see goggles sometimes she’ll need a little extra push to cum. Let me help,” Kate offered. You watched her flick what was left of the joint aside, before her pale hand wrapped itself around your neck. You audibly gasped, your gaze flickering to her. “Nuh uh kid. Don’t look at me. Look at him while you cum on his fingers like the good little slut you are,” Kate hissed. You whined as her fingers restricted your airway, your vision seeing spots and stars as your hips grinding against Toby’s hand. You tried to obey Kate’s command, maintaining eye contact with Toby as your orgasm crashed down over you. Your vision went white, your thighs trembling and splashing the water as you came. Your thighs attempted to shut, Toby’s hand refusing to leave your cunt. Kate chuckled as she released your throat, allowing you to breathe fully. As you inhaled the duo exchanged looks before returning their gaze to you.

“You didn’t think that was it did you? Goggles needs a full lesson and that was just the start up.”

[milkbobatyun]

foolish little dove

pairing: yandere!sunday x reader

genre: angstober, events, yandere

summary: the consequences of not listening to the head of the oak family

word count: 936

C O N T E N T W A R N I N G : yandere behaviour, manipulation, fear

a/n: this can be read as a continuation of my first yandere sunday piece 'my love, mine all mine'

the plush mattress of the bed dipped underneath you, the room furnished with an abundance of luxury—silk sheets, velvet drapes, golden accents, all shining in the glow of the candlelight. it was more than any common person could afford. yet, this was just a gilded cage, a dream disguised as a nightmare,

you were the dove, wings weighed down by invisible chains, helpless as you await for the fate your captor planned for you. the balcony teased you, thick, tempered glass doors teasing you, though it remained locked, the taste of freedom just out of reach.

oh how you prayed you could fly into the sky from the balcony, to feel the fresh air blow gently against your skin.

the vast room seemed to grow larger every day, the loneliness gnawed at your insides, making you yearn for company.

the sun rose and fell, night’s moonlight flooded the room. the repetitive ticking of the grandfather clock downstairs struck through throughout the room, the gramophone’s needle scratched out the same haunting tune, echoing around the bed chamber. 

you lost count of how many days you were locked up. the staff brought you your meals, took you to the bathroom to bath, their routine revolving around you like clockwork. your days began to blend into each other, making your mind a blurry haze.

today, a key jangled in the lock, the soft creak of the heavy oak door echoing in the still room.

sunday’s heavy boots thudded across the floor, muffled by the plush velvet carpet.

your blank gaze slid away from where your hands tangled each other, your hair hanging around your face like lifeless vines, towards the new figure in the room. when you catch sight of a white coat and not the mundane black uniform of the servants, your head snaps up, eyes lighting up with hope.

your eyes meet sunday’s steady gaze, lunging forwards, hands grasping at him, at his clothes, to prove to yourself he wasn’t a figment of imagination. those hallucinations happened more often now. 

sometimes, it was your family, screaming in agony, their bloody hands clawing at your exquisite clothing, cursing you to eternal suffering, their screams worming its way into your ears. other times, it was the trailblazer, haunting the dark corner of your room, a silent visitor who would stare blankly in your direction.

the smooth velvety fabric rippled cooling against your soft and warm skin. sunday’s mouth twitched into an amused smirk, as he closed the distance in a few long strides. for a fleeting second, you allowed yourself to believe that he was here, to free you from the cold shackles around your ankles. his cold hands, concealed by his pure white gloves, traced your face.

“my, my,” he purred, voice soothing. “how is my little dove?”

“please,” you pleaded, tears streaming down your face. “please, let me go… i beg of you” your voice trailed off, dying like the hope you held in your heart.

a hollow chuckle flooded the room, sunday’s face twisted in cruel humor.

“you still don’t get it, do you?” he hisses, voice taunting. “you’re mine now, little dove. even if i let you go, where would you go? home?” 

a twisted smirk adorned his face. 

“oh right,” he continued, tapping his finger on his chin in mock consideration. “you don't have one anymore! maybe because…they’re all dead!”

his eyes were alight with evil delirium, looking down upon you like a hawk would upon its prey. 

with one finger twirling a lock of your hair, sunday leaned close to your ear, lips brushing your ear like a lover’s promise, and whispered, “remember, my little dove, you’re mine now, always and forever.”

with a gentle, almost lover-like caress of your cheek, sunday placed a kiss on your forehead, before he turned on his heel, heading towards the door.

something within you snapped and you moved before you could think, hope shining in your eyes. you tried to run towards the opening. though your legs, weak with days of sitting around, failed you. sunday watched you with sadonic delight, gaze cold and emotionless as he observed you while you flailed about, like a newborn deer. 

throwing dignity to the wind, you dragged yourself towards the door, the comfort of the carpet burning against your skin. you watched as the shining sliver of freedom shut behind sunday. 

the door clicked shut with an echoing finality. hearing the snap of the lock, turning back into its place, you remained, clawing at the door. you were but a dove in a gilded cage, weighed down by invisible chains, freedom nothing but a cruel illusion, always out of reach.

taglist (open): @yeonjunsfox

∧,,,∧ ( ̳• · • ̳)  © curated with love by milkbobatyun 2024 / づ ♡

[hoesoflamentation]

↫↫↫↫↫ 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘵 '𝘯' 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵 ↬↬↬↬↬ a three-part series loosely based on the album by sabrina carpenter, feat. om! mammon x f!reader, 18+

// synopsis: for as long as you can remember, you've been best friends with the indigo-haired boy next door...and for just as long, you've been in love with his sexy, smug older brother, mammon. after both of you move away, you thought you could finally forget about his wide blue eyes & his big bad mm. but as luck would have it, you're moving back home - and so is he. what a coincidence.

if you'd like to join the taglist, please leave me an ask or send me a message <3

↫↫↫↫↫

P A R T O N E. " wanna try out my fuzzy pink handcuffs? "

// synopsis: your breakup brings you back to where every gen z ends up eventually... your parents' house. it's moving day, and your best friend levi didn't tell you that his brother mammon is tagging along for a day of heavy lifting. but when mammon goes through your unmentionables, it dawns on you that he might just wanna make you fall in love. will you be able to resist him when you're so fucking horny?

// tropes & content warnings: bsf's brother, strong language, masturbation references, play-fighting, suggestive content, a pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs (you do the math)

↬↬↬↬↬

↫↫↫↫↫

P A R T T W O. " just know you'll taste me, too "

// synopsis: your new bestie comes to visit you and your old bestie, but she's not the only visitor in town: you heard mammon's back together with his ex-girlfriend, and if that's true, then you're going out tonight. and if you happen to see you-know-who at the bar, then it's not your fault if you decide to close your eyes and feel his lips. after all, a girl can only stand up to temptation for so long. will she retaliate or take it in stride?

// tropes & content warnings: bsf's brother, strong language, alcohol use, kissing, dubcon, lying & scheming

↬↬↬↬↬

↫↫↫↫↫

P A R T T H R E E. " now he's thinking 'bout me every night "

c o m i n g s o o n !!

// synopsis: mammon hasn't stopped thinking about you since you kissed him, and tonight he can't stop blowing up your phone. one minute you're having a girls' night with your bestie, and now he says he can't sleep. oh baby, you know - and after years of pining, you certainly aren't about to turn him down when he shows up to your room looking like that. clearly, you're not the only one who can relate to desperation...

// tropes & content warnings: bsf's brother, strong language, sexual content - more specific warnings to be added later but don't want to spoil it <3

↬↬↬↬↬

a/n: when i came up with this idea, i got so excited to try out a new style of fic that's a bit longer & has a continuous storyline!! i feel like it's going to be a real display of how far my writing has come since i started this blog, and i can't wait to share it with you!!

[breakmeoff]

Dopamine

pairing: jackson wang x fem!reader warnings: swearing, suggestive dialogue, angst, comfort, aftercare. smut: oral (m and f receiving), fingering, soft dom!jackson, usage of “daddy”, praise kink. kinda turned into mostly porn w/no plot - sry not sry. MDNI, 18+ only

word count: 3.1k

synopsis: the pressure of his new album was getting to him, and the only thing that would calm his frayed nerves was getting a hit of dopamine; precious time with you. note: trying something new here, so please bear with me while i get my footing. my initial thought was to write one-shots loosely based off of some of the lyrics in jackson's songs that inspire me. however, in falling down the rabbit hole that is pinterest, i have seen so many other pictures of him that are possibly making me want to write other versions of him (husband!jackson? dad!jackson?) not quite sure yet, but i am happy to hear any/all suggestions if you have them! as always, thx for reading :)

Masterlist

Sometime after midnight, you were curled up on the couch, unintentionally passed out while the television screen played some trashy reality show you’d fallen asleep to.  

The work week had already been draining, and so after two glasses of red wine and some greasy take out, all you wanted to do was turn your brain off.  So much so, you turned off all of the lights in your apartment before collapsing onto the sofa, and shut down your phone.

A few soft, methodical knocks rapped on your front door not far from the living area.  Blinking your eyes open slowly, you looked around the room in a daze trying to refamiliarize yourself with where you were when your attention fell back on the quiet noise.  

Pushing yourself up lazily from the couch, you adjusted your sleep shorts and tugged down your oversized hoodie as you meandered to the door.

With a quick peek through the peephole, you were surprised to see the visitor just outside.  Opening the door quickly, your eyes fell on the slumped over figure of your boyfriend, Jackson, leaning against the doorframe.  “Hey…” you murmured quietly, furrowing your brows at the state of him.

Wearing his signature baggy black jeans, black hoodie pulled over his messy hair and chunky black boots, you could barely see his eyes due to the shadow of the hood over them.

“Baby, what are you doing here so late?  What time is it anyway?”  Your voice was soft, gingerly reaching out to him to pull him inside your apartment.

“Almost 1 AM, sorry, you weren’t answering your phone…” he mumbled, shuffling his feet inside before kicking off his shoes and pulling his hood back.  “I just needed to be with you.”

“I… I turned my phone off, I’m the one who is sorry.  Didn’t mean to cut you out too,” you apologized, shutting the door softly behind you.

Taking a few steps forward, Jackson lifted his arms to slump around you, burrowing his nose into your neck, breathing you in.  Feeling the weight he was carrying, your arms wrapped comfortingly around his midsection.  

“Are you ok…?”  you whispered into his ear, placing a soft kiss to his temple.

“Yeah… no… I don’t know.  Lately I’m so caught up in the moment that I’m forgetting the big picture I think.”  He paused, pulling back a little bit to press his forehead against yours with a heavy sigh.  “There's so much in my head, can't put it down.”

“Pretty substantial stuff for so late on a Wednesday night,” you tried to tease quietly.  Pressing your lips to the tip of his nose, “why don’t you go sit on the couch and I’ll make you some tea?”

Jackson finally lifted his head, making his first real attempt at eye contact with you since he walked in.  “There’s just too much on my chest…” 

You placed a comforting palm above his heart, nodding empathetically.  “Go sit down, baby.”

Turning around, he made his way over to the sofa and leaned back against the cushions, tipping his head against the back while shutting his eyes.  

A few minutes later, you came over to sit beside him, handing him a warm mug of green tea.  Shifting his eyes back to you, he took the beverage gratefully and took a slow sip before placing it on the coffee table.

Snaking one of your arms around his shoulder, you softly began kneading at his muscles, trying to relax him quietly.  

Dipping his head forward with his eyes closed, he sighed gratifyingly, mumbling something about shoulders tight.

“Tell me what’s going on, what’s got you so stressed out?”  

“I think it’s the new album, there’s a lot of pressure to get it right.  And my team is insistent that I am out there promoting almost every fucking day…” Jackson said, shifting to lean his back against you, silently encouraging you to continue rubbing his shoulders.  

“Everything just feels like it’s getting heavy, and I’m not seeing anyone turn on the light at the end of the tunnel…”

Your deft fingers continued to caress his fatigued upper body, pressure changing from light touches to firmer strokes up the column of his neck.

“The initial reactions to Buck are positive though, right?”  You murmured quietly, trying to keep the level of your voice calming to match the rhythmic motions of your hands.

“Gratefully,” Jackson agreed, sighing deeply to the feeling of your careful ministrations.  

“Be kind to yourself, there’s a lot going on right now and I know it’s got to be so draining but you have to take care of yourself too.”  With his head resting back against your shoulder, you placed a feather-light kiss to the top of his hair.

Reaching for one of your hands, Jackson pulled it down to kiss the back of your hand softly before resting it flat on his chest.  “Truthfully, I’m here because I was craving some of your care…”

“Oh yeah?”  You playfully questioned, curling your fingers into the fabric of his shirt beneath your hand.

Craning to look back up at you, a mischievous glint in his eye becoming apparent in his dark, weary face.  “I need a little smoothing out the rough…”

“That so?”  Fingernails dragging slowly across his chest, applying just enough pressure to cause his breath to hitch.

Jackson sat up again, moving his back to lean against the couch cushions as he reached out for you, hands gripping your waist in an attempt to coax you into his lap. 

“...I want relief I know only you can provide,” he murmured, ghosting his breath over your wanting, parted lips.

“I want to feel your touch…” Jackson whispered against your neck, his hands digging into your thighs as he began rocking you against his growing arousal below you, achingly slow. “I want release…” 

With your eyes pinched shut and your head tipped back, you exhaled the sweetest moan as he began trailing the tip of his tongue down the side of your throat.  “Jacks…” you whimpered breathlessly, arms wrapped around his shoulders.

One of his hands meandered its way up your back, up to the base of your scalp where his lean digits curled your hair into a makeshift ponytail and gave it a commanding, possessive tug. 

With even more of your neck now exposed to him, he sucked at your heated flesh, leaving a deep rouge bruise in his wake, eliciting another desperate whine from you.

The air between you was thick, heady with anticipation and each touch ignited a heated spark between you.  “Fuck, I love when you beg for me…” Jackson groaned, nuzzling into you as both of his hands dropped to the bottom of your hoodie, inching it up your otherwise bare hips and waist.

“The noises you make are intoxicating,” he continued, his calloused palm creeping up enough to cup your now exposed breast.  “...you’re like a damn drug, one I can’t get enough of.”  His expert fingers lightly rolled over your nipple, causing it to harden instinctively under his careful touch.

“It’s like my body just knew where to go to get a fix…” he murmured, dotting kisses along your jaw, up to your mouth, finally melting his lips against yours in a slow, all-consuming manner.  “I came here to get some dopamine,” he confessed against your mouth.

“...to get a hit of my favorite addiction,” Jackson paused, leaning back just enough to fully remove the hoodie you were wearing, exposing your chest and upper body to him entirely.  Lifting his eyes to yours, wandering hands resting on your warm, flushed skin. “... you.” 

The intimacy of his words, so poetic and full of intensity, always did something to you.  Your mutual yearning for each other never wavered.

You began rocking your hips on top of him more fervently, applying more direct pressure of your damped heat on top of his erection below which was becoming harder by the second. 

Weaving your lips together, you pressed your bare chest against his torso, the flames of your internal fire stoking your hunger for him with every movement.

“Let me take care of you baby…” you hushed against his lips, your fingers now at the bottom of his own sweatshirt, pulling it and the tank below off at a teasingly slow rate, heightening his anticipation.  

Raking your fingertips down the expanse of his defined chest muscles and toned torso, thin red lines marking his flesh that would linger as a reminder of your touch, you pushed yourself off of his lap and fell to your knees between his legs.

Jackson stayed quiet while his gaze remained fixed on your face, his lips parted, watching your every move so intently.  Though when your fingers reached to the front of his jeans, you heard his sharp inhale when you unbuttoned his pants, and drug the zipper down.  

Leaning forward, eyes still locked in on his own, you pressed a soft kiss to the curve of him straining against the fabric of his boxer briefs.  Noting the small, growing damp spot near the head of his cock, you couldn’t stop yourself from dragging your tongue against it.  

“Fuck,” he exhaled, unable to look away.

Once your fingertips reached the waist of his clothes, Jackson lifted his hips just enough to help you slide everything off, his heavy erection now twitching before you.

Eagerly, you brought your soft palm to the head of his cock, smearing the precum that had collected there to drag down his shaft.

Teasingly, you placed a chaste kiss to the leaking tip of him before dragging your tongue all the way down his hard length and right back up before wrapping your plump lips around him. 

Shifting your weight to get more comfortable, you began bobbing your head up and down him languidly, enjoying the sound of his breath getting steadily heavier.

“Shit, my lady looks so pretty with my dick in her mouth…” he cooed, gingerly moving his hand to your forehead to brush away any unruly strands of hair out of your face.  

Your cheeks flushed a soft pink at his praises, which only encouraged you to take him further down your throat.  Noticing how his words affected you, his hand shifted to the back of your head and helped guide you down as far as you could go, nose pressing into his lower abdomen as a low moan reverberated around his cock.  

“Gooood girl,” he purred, holding your head still for a moment.  “Such a good fucking girl for me.”  Releasing his hold on you, you pulled back off of him completely, gasping for air as a sticky trail of drool connected your lower lip to the head of his dick.  

Wrapping his hand around your hair again, not to force you to move, but to hold you close and keep himself grounded, he became mesmerized by the rise and fall of your breasts with your deep inhales. 

You’d never felt truly desired before Jackson, and how he looked at you like you hung all of the stars in the sky - cherished, revered, loved.  

“So tasty…” you whispered, looking up at him through your eyelashes, bobbing your head back down his flushed cock.  “Want to make you feel so good, Daddy.” 

“Fuck, you could make it go all night and I’d die a happy man,” Jackson said, his voice gravely, low, hoarse.  

Even after years of being together, the pull he had over you was undeniable.  The heat of his gaze caused you to press your thighs together, becoming desperate for some sort of friction.

Closing your eyes, you placed one of your hands on the top of his thighs for stability as your free hand snaked down the front of your body and beneath your soaked panties.  

Noticing the hitch in your breath, Jackson’s eyes moved down to your hand, unable to see it beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts.  Groaning deeply, his hips instinctively lifted, chasing the exquisite feeling of you gagging around him.

“Oh is my girl feeling needy?”  he teased, his grip on your hair tightening, thrusting against the back of your throat in slow pumps.  “Go on, touch yourself… I know you’ve been waiting for me.”

Jackson’s words of approval made you moan around him, encouraging you to press your middle and index finger against your swollen nub, rubbing small circles against the bundle of nerves.

Pulling your lips off of his cock with a loud pop, you inhaled a sharp intake of breath at the sensation between your legs.  

“Fuck,” he whispered, watching your reactions.  Bringing his hand to the base of his dick, he began stroking himself with his free hand, his other still tangled in your hair.  “Finger yourself, let me hear how wet you are.”

“Yes Daddy,” you whined, dipping the same two fingers down your slit and into your throbbing pussy.  Building a slow rhythm, you pressed the heel of your palm against your clit as a wet, squelching sound could be heard from between your thighs.

Leaning forward again, you dipped your head between his muscular legs and dragged your tongue flat against one of his balls.  Hissing at the sudden feeling of your wet, warm breath, Jackson began twisting his hand faster up and down his length. 

Sucking one of them into your mouth, you twirled the tip of your tongue around the delicate flesh, unable to help your moaning. 

The feeling of your vibrations against his most sensitive area caused his grip in your hair to tighten, and he held your head closer against his body, writhing against you as his speed on his cock became erratic.  

“Such a filthy little girl for me, drooling all over me like you can’t get enough… you like it when you’ve got Daddy’s balls in your mouth, don’t you?”  

Nodding frantically, you let go of one and switched to the other, swirling your tongue around it as your fingers buried in your cunt increased their momentum. 

“You gonna cum from just your fingers, sweet girl?”  He asked, almost more demanded.  “Put your mouth back on my cock, you better suck Daddy dry before you fucking cum.”

The switch of his tone from soft and gentle to harsh and domineering was dizzying.  Doing as he demanded though, you took your place back higher on your knees, taking the length of his pulsing cock deep in the back of your mouth once again.

The sensations of Jackson fucking up into your mouth and the sloppy sound of your fingers moving in and out of your slick was becoming too much. 

Digging your fingernails into his thigh, grasping on for purchase, you began rubbing the palm of your hand more fervently against your clit, chasing your eminent release.  

Unable to speak with him so deep down your throat, you hallowed your cheeks and hummed a moan against him, doing all you could to push him over his looming edge.

“Gonna fucking cum princess…” he grunted out, holding your head against him as he bucked up into your mouth once, twice.  Tipping his head back, he left out a filthy, load moan as you felt his warm, sticky seed coating the back of your throat.  

Between the addictive sounds of his climax, the tangy taste of him on the back of your tongue, and the walls of your pussy fluttering around your fingers, you were so close. 

Jackson pulled himself out of your mouth, letting you catch your breath as you so desperately tried to push yourself over the edge.

Regaining his senses, he saw you struggling before him and without any warning, pushed you back onto the floor and ripped your shorts off your legs. 

Pulling your hand away from yourself and letting him manhandle you, you laid back flat against the carpet as Jackson pulled your legs over both of his shoulders and buried his face into your pussy.

“Oh my God, fuck fuck…” you cried, lifting your head just enough to watch him pull your clit between his lips and began sucking.  

Bringing one of his large hands between your thighs, he slipped two of his fingers into your slick walls, already so wet for him.  Curling them just right, and flicking his tongue against your sensitive nub, you started trembling under his touch.

“Gonna c-cum… Daddy please let me cum,” you begged, your fingers finding the back of his head for stability.  Groaning against you, he demanded with one simple word.  “Cum.” 

With his command, the pressure of his fingertips against that sweet spot deep inside you and his skillful tongue, you came hard, involuntarily grinding against his face. 

Jackson left his fingers still, buried inside you, and placed soft kisses against your clit as your body convulsed under the aftershocks of your intense release.

Gently, he released your legs back to the ground, soothingly massaging the tops of your thighs as you tried to catch your breath.  First licking his lips, he brought the back of one of his hands to wipe the remnants of your arousal from his mouth and leaned up to grab the blanket off the back of the couch. 

Laying down beside you, Jackson draped the blanket over both of your naked bodies.  Shifting so he was hovering halfway over you, he brought a hand up to brush the damp strands of hair away from your face and leaned in to kiss you gently.  

“You ok?”  He asked, barely above a whisper.  With a simple nod of your head, you turned to nuzzle into his neck, taking a deep breath.  “I was supposed to be the one taking care of you tonight,” you mumbled.

“Just being here, you telling me sweet nothings…” he paused, pressing his lips to the top of your head, “you got me all right.”

You hummed softly, wrapping an arm around his waist and tangling your legs between his.  “Really was just trying to be an ear for you to vent to, a shoulder to lean on.”

Jackson laughed low, “ain’t no time for talking when we’re tongue-tied.”

tag list: @angel-writes-here

let me know if you'd like to be added to any future jackson fics!

Masterlist

[apoemaday]

What Didn't Work

by Donna Masini

Chemo      Tarceva     prayer meditation    affirmation      Xanax Avastin     Nebulizer     Zofran Zoloft     Vicodin     notebooks nurses     oxygen tank     pastina magical thinking     PET scans     movies therapy     phone calls     candles acceptance     denial     meatloaf doctors     rosary beads     sleep Irish soda bread     internet     incantations visitors     sesame oil     pain patches CAT scans     massage     shopping thin sliced Italian bread with melted mozzarella St. Anthony oil     Lourdes water     St. Peregrine tea     spring water     get well cards relaxation tapes     recliner     cooking shows cotton T-shirts     lawn furniture     a new baby giving up Paris     giving up Miami     charts bargaining     not bargaining     connections counting with her     breathing for her     will Pride and Prejudice     Downton Abbey     prayer watching TV     not watching TV     prayer prayer     prayer     prayer lists   

[worstloki]

I actually think it would be so funny if Thor adapted to Midgardian clothing and such, wearing t-shirts and jeans and after Asgardians start settling on Earth that's generally what has to happen. But Loki keeps wearing his complicated leathery Asgardian clothing for the apparent sole purpose of jump-scaring any visitors to New Asgard

[steddieas-shegoes]

because it's yours

for @steddielovemonth using the quote prompt: "If there is love, smallpox scars are as pretty as dimples. I'd love your face no matter what it looks like. Because it's yours." - Stephen King

rated t | 1250 words | no cw | tags: post-vecna, eddie munson lives, pre-relationship, injury recovery, first kiss, getting together

▪️◾▪️◾▪️◾▪️◾▪️◾▪️◾▪️◾▪️

Eddie’s not allowed visitors in the hospital, at least according to Wayne and Hopper. It’s for his own safety, they say.

Steve knows that’s partially bullshit. He’s good at sensing bullshit. But he plays along anyway, convinces the kids to just visit Max and they’ll plan a welcome home party for Eddie when he’s released. It gets harder by the day, especially when all the news they hear is that Eddie is healing well and should be good to go home even sooner than they thought.

No one tells them when he’s released.

Steve only finds out because he walks by the room Eddie’s been in, and instead of the door being closed, it’s wide open. There’s unfamiliar voices coming from the room. It could be doctors or nurses, but something makes him pause and peek in the doorway.

It’s an older woman and what appears to be her adult children, all of them having a very serious conversation about how she needs to be more careful while gardening.

Steve leaves before he’s caught eavesdropping.

He considers stopping by Dustin’s, see if he’s heard the news. Maybe the kids found out first.

Who is Steve to Eddie really?

Just because they gave each other looks and flirted a little and Steve carried him out of the Upside Down and-

He swallows the hurt and decides to go straight to Wayne’s new trailer. It’s just outside of town, easy to get to even with the damage done by the cracks. He’s been there a few times to check on him, even helped him set up his cable.

When Wayne opens the door, Steve knows something is off.

He doesn’t invite him in. Instead, he steps onto the porch and closes the door behind him. He gives Steve an awkward smile instead of his usual warm, comforting one.

“Is he home?” Steve asks.

“He’s sleeping,” Wayne allows. “He’s still recovering.”

“Do the kids know he’s home?”

“Son, he-“

“Why is he hiding? Everyone’s worried and just wants to make sure he’s okay. No one would keep him from resting!” Steve hates that his voice pitches higher. His hands are shaking. He’s never spoken to an adult he respects like this. “We just wanna know he’s safe.”

“He is.” Wayne sighs. “I told that boy no one was gonna stay away for long. He insisted everyone would forget him. I said no. He didn’t listen.”

Steve’s eyes dart over to the window he knows goes to Eddie’s bedroom. He’d been the one to help set it up when Wayne moved in.

“Can I please see him? I’ll be quick. I won’t even tell the kids yet. I just need to see,” Steve begs. “Please, Wayne.”

Wayne wordlessly opens the door and gestures for Steve to come inside.

He leads him to Eddie’s room, reminding him with a look to be quiet and not wake him up. Steve gives an understanding nod and walks into the room.

There’s sunlight sneaking through the blackout curtains, just enough to light up the bed that Eddie’s already wide awake in. Steve can’t help the smile blooming on his face.

Eddie looks scared, though.

His eyes are wide, and he’s pulled himself to the farthest corner of the queen sized bed. His hair’s a mess, proof that he probably was asleep just before Steve got here.

“Hey, Eddie,” Steve waves. He doesn’t come any closer to the bed. “I just wanted to get eyes on you. Feeling alright?”

Wayne’s standing in the doorway behind Steve, probably trying to determine if he needs to step in or ride this out. If Eddie asks, Steve will leave. He doesn’t want him to be uncomfortable.

“What’re you doing here?” Eddie asks.

Steve watches the way his jaw moves around the words, how his mouth twists differently, like it’s taking more effort to talk. The scar going across his cheek, up into his temple, and down to his neck seems to be the cause of it. It’s still an angry red, stitches visible in some places where the bites must’ve been deeper.

He walks forward slowly. Eddie doesn’t stop him. Neither does Wayne.

The scar is big. It’ll always be big, though Steve has plenty of experience with scars and knows it’ll fade into a paler pink than it currently is. It’ll be a reminder, every day, of how he almost died. Eddie will have this memory every time he looks in the mirror, every time his own fingers brush against the ridged skin.

Steve cups the side of Eddie’s face that’s scarless.

Eddie gulps.

“Is this why you didn’t want anyone to visit?” He whispers.

Eddie doesn’t answer, but his eyes closing and head tilting down is answer enough.

“Eddie, look at me.”

Eddie opens his eyes.

“Do you really think a scar could scare any of us away? After how we found you, a scar is the least of our worries. You don’t have to hide from us.”

Steve’s not sure if Wayne’s still standing in the doorway, too focused on the way Eddie’s holding his gaze now. He’s lost weight and he’s still pale, but he’s alive. He’s still beautiful.

Maybe even more now.

“You’re alive. Everyone just wants you alive.”

“I’m gonna look even weirder now,” Eddie rasps out. Steve wonders if there’s damage to his throat, something his voice may never recover from entirely.

“I dunno. I think it’s pretty badass. Since when do you care about looking weird, anyway?” Steve smirks. “The Eddie Munson I know would find a new ridiculous story to tell every time he’s asked about something this cool.”

“I was leaning towards making people believe I got in a fight with a dragon,” Eddie shrugs one shoulder. His cheeks are red, warm underneath Steve’s touch.

“And won.”

Eddie leans his head forward, resting his forehead against Steve’s. “Of course I won. A knight in shining armor saved me.”

“You saved everyone else first. Don’t forget that part of the story,” Steve reminds him.

“A hero’s brave sacrifice…” Eddie mumbles. Steve chuckles. “Maybe true love’s kiss?”

“Isn’t that supposed to break a curse?” Steve whispers, suddenly nervous about all the times they flirted before. Flirting is harmless until it’s not.

“You’re right. In this case, it’s the curse of never kissing a nice guy.”

“And you think I can break that curse?”

“Can’t hurt to try.”

It’s a little awkward at first, mostly because parts of Eddie’s jaw are still numb from nerve damage and moving in certain ways is difficult. But once Steve adjusts, and they both giggle against each others’ lips, it’s easy. They fit.

Eddie tries to deepen the kiss, but he is still healing, and he has to pull away when his stitches tug painfully.

“Your battle scars won’t matter to any of us. They damn sure don’t make you less beautiful to me. Everyone misses you,” Steve rubs his arm, the one with no visible bandages. “Can I at least bring Dustin over later? Let him see that you’re actually alive and the hospital and government haven’t been lying?”

“Is that what everyone thinks?”

“You have to remember we’ve been through this a lot. Hopper was dead until he wasn’t. Anything can be faked.”

“That’s reassuring,” Eddie groans. “Yeah. Bring everyone by tomorrow. I’ll even shower.”

Steve kisses the top of his head. “Do you need help?”

“With showering? I just might, big boy.”

The way Eddie smiles is different now, but Steve loves it all the same.

[queereads-bracket]

Queer Adult SFF Books Bracket: Round 1

Book summaries below:

Every Heart a Doorway by Seanan McGuire (Wayward Children series)

Eleanor West’s Home for Wayward Children No Solicitations No Visitors No Guests

Children have always disappeared under the right conditions; slipping through the shadows under a bed or at the back of a wardrobe, tumbling down rabbit holes and into old wells, and emerging somewhere... else.

But magical lands have little need for used-up miracle children.

Nancy tumbled once, but now she’s back. The things she’s experienced... they change a person. The children under Miss West’s care understand all too well. And each of them is seeking a way back to their own fantasy world.

But Nancy’s arrival marks a change at the Home. There’s a darkness just around each corner, and when tragedy strikes, it’s up to Nancy and her new-found schoolmates to get to the heart of the matter.

No matter the cost.

Fantasy, portal fantasy, mystery, magical realism, boarding school, novella, series, adult

Paladin's Hope by T. Kingfisher (The Saint of Steel series)

Piper is a lich-doctor, a physician who works among the dead, determining causes of death for the city guard's investigations. It's a peaceful, if solitary profession…until the day when he's called to the river to examine the latest in a series of mysterious bodies, mangled by some unknown force.

Galen is a paladin of a dead god, lost to holiness and no longer entirely sane. He has long since given up on any hope of love. But when the two men and a brave gnole constable are drawn into the web of the mysterious killer, it's Galen's job to protect Piper from the traps that await them.

He's just not sure if he can protect Piper from the most dangerous threat of all…

Fantasy, romance, mystery, secondary world, standalone-ish within series, adult

[lotusteabag]

'68 FIREBIRD | CALEB XIA

SUMMARY: during a summer of grease-stained hands and quiet yearning, you and caleb rebuild a pontiac firebird—and, unknowingly, each other. by the time the engine roars to life, so does a love that's always been idling just beneath the surface.

PAIRING: mechanic!caleb x fem!reader CONTAINS: fluff and comfort, romance, childhood friends to lovers au, 80s au, slight angst (a misunderstanding), mutual pining, emotional tension, soft jealousy, inaccurate depictions of a mechanic and the innards of a car, mechanic caleb supremacy NOW PLAYING: just the two of us (feat. bill withers) by grover washington, jr. WC: 12.3k WARNINGS: none!

–IGNITION (Starting the spark.)

There’s a kind of heat that only happens at the end of a long day–not the sharp, punishing kind that sits heavy at noon, but one that’s slower, softer, almost sleepy. The kind that turns the edges of things golden, that makes every breath feel dipped in syrup. You coast through it on your battered bicycle, wheels humming a lazy, warbling tune over the cracked asphalt, your shadow stretching out behind you like a tattered flag.

The old parking lot behind the garage is half-swallowed by weeds and broken glass, bordered by a sagging chain-link fence and rusted-out pickup skeletons. It smells faintly of motor oil, warm tar, and the first tentative promises of summer. You kick your bike to a wobbling halt, dust puffing up in little ghostly clouds around your sneakers, and there he is–Caleb Xia.

He’s leaning against the side of a car, loose-limbed and easy, the sunset pooling across his skin like spilled fire. His shirt’s sleeves are rolled haphazardly to his elbows, grease staining the strong line of his forearms. His dark brown hair is mussed, curled at the ends from sweat and the weight of the day, and when he lifts his head to look at you, his eyes–those ridiculous, impossible galaxy-purple eyes–catch the light and scatter it back like twin stars.

You don’t know how he does it, how he carries himself like a smile you haven’t seen yet, like some secret he’s almost willing to tell. Caleb’s the kind of boy people instinctively orbit–friendly, steady, the kind of charm that doesn’t burn so hot as much it glows slow and certain. There are rumors already: about how the new girl at school asked him to the dance and he turned her down with a laugh so gentle she didn’t even mind; about how the garage hired him even though he barely had experience, just because he’s a fast learner and you can’t teach heart like that.

Sure, he’s wearing his work boots, grease-smudged jeans, and a T-shirt that’s seen better days, but he looks like he belongs to the sunlight–not the grime. Like he was made for both. Like the world tried to rough him up but couldn’t touch the core of him.

You skid to a stop a few feet away, breathless in more ways than one, and throw a hand dramatically over your forehead.

“I’m dying,” you announce. “Out of pure boredom. You have to save me.”

Caleb arches a brow, unimpressed but smiling anyway. “You gonna keel over right here, pipsqueak? Should I start diggin’ your grave now, or later?”

“Pfft,” you scoff, dropping your bike unceremoniously onto the hot ground. “You owe me. I watched that boring documentary about carburetors with you. I sat through two whole hours of engine diagrams.”

“You fell asleep halfway through,” he reminds you, pushing off the car with a lazy stretch. His shirt rides up just a little, flashing a slice of tan, grease-smeared skin before settling back down. “You were drooling.”

“Details,” you wave him off, already beelining toward the object of your shameless begging: a sleek, cherry-red ‘67 Mustang–an old project Caleb had nursed back from the dead over the last year. It gleams in the dying light like something alive, something that could run forever if only you knew how to coax it.

You circle it reverently, hands behind your back like a museum visitor, making a low, appreciative noise in your throat.

“Let me drive it,” you please, turning those big, hopeful eyes on him–the ones you know he can never quite resist. “Come on, please, Caleb. Just around the lot. I won’t even shift past second gear.”

He exhales, slow and weary, like a man being asked to give up his most prized possession to a rabid raccoon.

“You barely know how to work a clutch,” he grumbles, but there’s no heat in it. Only that familiar fondness, exasperation wound tight with affection.

You bounce on your heels, undeterred. “I can learn! You’re supposed to teach me! That’s what good friends do!”

He scrubs a hand through his hair, smearing grease across his temple without noticing, then sighs the kind of sigh that says I’m going to regret this, but I’d let you wreck me if you asked nicely enough.

“Shortstack,” he mutters, “you’re gonna be the death of me.”

You beam like the sun itself. He rolls his eyes, opens the driver’s side door with a reluctant, theatrical groan, and jerks his head toward the seat.

“You break it, you buy it,” he warns, but his voice is warm, not sharp. A warmth that whispers I trust you with the things I love most.

You scramble forward, giddy, already half in love with the feeling of the cracked leather under your palms, the faint metallic tang of old air-conditioning and gasoline filling your lungs.

Outside, the last sliver of sun sinks beneath the horizon, leaving only the bruised purple of twilight and the first shy stars peeking through. Inside, everything smells like oil and old dreams, and Caleb–standing beside you, smirking despite himself–feels as solid and steady as a lighthouse against the tide.

Sliding into Caleb’s Mustang feels like stepping into his personal history. Every inch of it seems to hold some tiny echo of him–small details that tell a story deeper than words ever could. The leather seats, worn soft from hours spent coaxing life into stubborn engines, bear faint smudges of grease, tracing the shape of his fingertips. A cluster of cassettes spills haphazardly from the glove compartment–Led Zeppelin, Fleetwood Mac, Queen. His old denim jacket, smelling of gasoline and summer grass, drapes casually across the passenger seat like an invitation, sleeves frayed at the cuffs from restless hands. You run your fingers over it briefly, a soft shiver chasing the contact.

He slips into the passenger side next to you with the easy grace of someone who’s spent countless evenings doing exactly this–windows down, music loud, the world reduced to a blur of neon lights and endless pavement. The car shifts slightly beneath his weight, creaking softly like an old house settling into its bones, comfortable and familiar. Caleb watches you with amusement dancing in his eyes, the corner of his mouth tugging upwards into a gentle smirk as you fumble to adjust the seat, scooting forward until your toes finally brush the pedals.

“Easy there, pipsqueak,” he murmurs teasingly, his voice warm and deep, curling softly at the edges in a way that feels like smoke from a bonfire. “Don’t want you straining something just tryin’ to reach.”

You shoot him a mock glare, heat rising lightly to your cheeks, grateful the gathering twilight masks your blush. You’re acutely aware of him beside you, his long legs sprawled carelessly beneath the dash, one arm resting casually along the back of your seat. The air in the car grows thick, honeyed with tension–an innocent kind, sweeter for its clumsiness, unspoken and untested but undeniably there.

He reaches across you, the faint scent of motor oil and something uniquely Caleb enveloping you as he taps a finger lightly on the ignition key dangling from the steering column, keys jangling softly like tiny chimes. Your eyes catch the slight roughness of his hands, fingertips calloused from hours of wrenching bolts and sanding metal, a small cut on his thumb healing unevenly–marks of someone who works with care, patience, persistence.

“First things first,” he instructs softly, voice gentle with infinite patience. “Clutch down, remember? Easy does it.”

You nod vigorously, biting down a smile that threatens to split your face in two. The pedals feel heavy under your feet, impossibly stubborn, as if silently challenging your determination. Caleb’s car–so effortlessly his–seems to test you, to size you up in that quiet, teasing way he always does. Your foot barely reaches, stretching slightly, toes pointed. He chuckles softly, a sound that sparks like a struck match, bright and fleeting.

“Need me to grab you a phone book, shortstack?” he drawls lazily, the rich amusement pooling warm in the pit of your stomach.

You huff, defiant, lifting your chin. “I’m fine. Totally fine.”

“Mhm,” he murmurs, eyes glittering softly with humor. But he leans closer anyway, broad shoulder brushing yours, the warmth of him seeping through your skin, soothing your nerves. You realize suddenly that he’s close enough for you to see faint freckles scattered across his nose, barely visible beneath his summer tan. Tiny constellations, secrets mapped in skin. You swallow hard.

Your palm rests hesitantly over the gearshift, fingers curling around its worn leather surface, waiting, heart thumping hard beneath your ribs. Then, without a word, Caleb’s hand settles gently over yours, fingers folding easily over your smaller ones. He guides your movements carefully–first, second, back to neutral–his palm rough yet oddly gentle, warm, secure, lingering just a fraction longer than necessary.

Heat floods your cheeks again, and your breath comes quicker, a tiny hitch he pretends not to notice. You glance sideways, trying to read the quiet expression on his face. Caleb’s eyes remain on your joined hands, thoughtful, his thumb brushing almost absently against the back of yours, once, twice, before pulling away slowly. A breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding escapes into the silent car.

“See?” he says finally, voice carefully casual. “Nothin’ to it.”

He sits back comfortably in his seat, the arm stretched out behind your shoulders remaining there, warm and reassuring. You glance again at his profile–strong jaw set softly against the fading light, galaxy eyes reflecting a quiet glow of dashboard illumination. The realization hits you gently, a truth you’d known somewhere deeper than thought: Caleb isn’t just teaching you to drive–he’s wordlessly handing you a piece of himself, carefully trusting you to handle it.

Determined now, you steel your nerves, foot pressing down on the clutch more confidently this time, gearshift familiar beneath your fingers, a little braver because he’s here. You twist the key, ignition turning with a satisfying click, the dashboard flickering to life, needles jumping expectantly in their dials. Caleb’s grin widens, proud and encouraging.

“Good,” he praises softly, so gently it squeezes your heart. “Now ease off the clutch–slowly. Real slow, pipsqueak.”

You do exactly as he instructs–until the car jolts violently forward, lurching and sputtering, engine coughing loudly in protest. Caleb’s laugh bursts out suddenly, rich and unapologetic, filling the car like summer thunder. Embarrassment floods your veins, but his arm tightens reassuringly around the back of your seat, bracing your body from the clumsy jolt, his warmth a comforting shield.

“You’re tryin’ to kill my car already?” he teases, laughter still lingering at the edges of his voice.

You groan softly, embarrassment giving way to reluctant laughter of your own. “This really was a bad idea.”

“Nah,” he murmurs affectionately, leaning closer again, reaching gently to help you reset. His shoulder nudges yours comfortingly as he guides you through the motions once more, infinitely patient. “You’ll get it. She just needs you to go easy on her.”

It’s absurd, really, but you think he’s talking about more than just the car.

Together, you try again–once, twice, engine stumbling and then steadying, each attempt clumsy yet exhilarating. His voice remains calm, encouraging; his hand finds yours again briefly on the gearshift, each touch lingering longer, holding tighter. And when you finally manage a smoother glide forward, a gentle, triumphant hum of the engine beneath your trembling fingertips, Caleb looks at you with such warmth that it steals your breath away.

“Atta girl,” he whispers softly, the corners of his mouth curling into a lazy smile, eyes shimmering gently in the dim glow of dashboard lights. And somehow, impossibly, in this tiny moment–clumsy and chaotic, full of sputtering engines and quiet laughter–you feel something spark between you, fragile and hopeful, glowing softly like embers beneath ash.

The Mustang rolls forward, carrying you both into the twilight–into something uncertain and unnamed, but already achingly familiar. Something bright and warm. Something just beginning.

–CHASSIS (The frame–the first bones of trust.)

You hadn’t expected nostalgia to smell like rust and engine oil, yet here you stand, ankle-deep in dusty gravel, breathing it in like it’s something precious. Summer has returned–older now, mellower somehow, the sunlight softer at the edges as it trickles gently through gaps in rusting metal. The junkyard spreads around you like an old, forgotten kingdom, towers of gutted vehicles stacked one atop another, silent sentinels guarding the memories they used to carry. Long shadows stretch and fold along their battered shells, the sky a dreamy shade of blue that deepens subtly at its fringe, like ink spilled into water.

Caleb walks ahead of you, navigating this mechanical graveyard with the familiar ease of someone visiting an old friend. He’s grown, you realize, in more ways than just the broadening of his shoulders or the quiet confidence in his steps. His presence feels richer now, layered with experiences that have shaped him softly but surely into the man beside you. There’s something beautifully unchanged too–the way sunlight seems drawn to him, highlighting the subtle streaks of honey-gold in his dark hair, teasing out the gentle kindness that lives in every silent glance.

He had knocked on your door early this morning, sunshine drenching him like a halo, looking impossibly hopeful and slightly mischievous all at once. “Come with me,” he’d said, voice carrying that irresistible note of warmth you could never quite refuse. And now here you are, trailing behind him through aisles of rusted frames and faded chrome, each row telling stories of adventures once had and roads long forgotten.

Your fingers skim lightly over the corroded hoods and doors as you walk, each surface a different texture beneath your touch–rough, pitted, flaking away in your palms. You feel the soft ache of memories stirring somewhere deep, recalling afternoons spent sprawled in Caleb’s driveway, knees scraped and fingertips raw from sandpaper, laughter muffled by the low, steady hum of a radio playing softly in the background.

Caleb pauses suddenly, as though something invisible has called out to him, a silent voice drawing him nearer. You watch his eyes settle on a shadowed form at the far edge of the yard, tucked away beneath a tarp so weather-worn it’s nearly indistinguishable from the dusty earth around it. He moves closer, steps careful, reverent, anticipation brightening his expression into a boyish kind of hopefulness you’ve missed more than you realized.

He peels back the tarp slowly, gently, like he’s pulling away the veil from a masterpiece, and you can’t help but frown at what lies under. The car–what’s left of it–is barely recognizable as anything once roadworthy. Its surface is battered, doors missing, rust forming intricate patterns along the skeletal frame, the paint long stripped away by years of weather and neglect. Yet even in this sorry state, the car holds itself with a kind of dignity, a quiet pride in having survived so much for so long. 

“A ‘68 Pontiac Firebird, “Caleb whispers to you, and you know instantly he’s found what he came searching for.

You move closer, joining him in quiet contemplation, the weight of years and dreams hanging softly between you. Caleb reaches out and runs his fingertips carefully along the hood, tracing the lines and curves as though relearning something he once knew intimately. You watch him, aware suddenly that this isn’t just another car. It’s a new story Caleb wants to tell–a fresh chapter waiting to be penned with his diligent hands, patience, and endless, steady affection.

“She’s beautiful,” he murmurs softly, almost to himself, eyes lingering over the battered frame with a quiet awe reserved for the most precious of discoveries. He catches your skeptical glance, and something warm and amused flickers gently in those galaxy-bright eyes. “Or, well, she will be,” he corrects himself, his voice threaded through with quiet conviction.

You step closer, inspecting the tangled wires spilling from beneath the empty dashboard, the gaping hollows where seats once rested. You run your fingers over the faded metal edge, imagining the countless journeys and whispered conversations that once filled this space. Caleb watches wordlessly, content just to see you sharing in this hushed reverie. After a long moment, he nudges you playfully with his shoulder, a gentle press of warmth that feels as comforting as an embrace.

“Could use some tiny hands,” he teases, leaning against the car beside you, his voice low and warm, carrying faint echoes of that younger Caleb who taught you to drive. “You could fit in places I can’t, pipsqueak.”

You smile softly at the nickname, the affectionate teasing, the silent promise woven subtly between his words. It’s his way of inviting you into this dream he’s shaping, into the gentle labor of restoring something broken into something beautiful again. It’s Caleb all over–believing deeply in what others overlook, seeing potential where the world sees ruin.

You brush rust-stained fingertips against the car’s cold metal again, the sunlight warming your shoulders, the soft drone of insects and distant birdsong creating a slow, sweet soundtrack for this moment. Caleb stands close enough now that his presence is like a solid warmth against your side, steadfast, reassuring. Something twists softly in your chest, tender and achingly familiar, like a song you haven’t heard in ages but still know every word to.

This, you think to yourself, is how all great things begin–not in perfection, but in quiet hopefulness, patient hands, and hearts that see beyond the surface. You glance sideways at Caleb, the way the afternoon light catches in his eyes, the tender lift at the corner of his lips, and you feel yourself drawn inevitably into this new adventure he’s chosen for you both.

You’re not sure how long you both stand there–sunlight warm on your backs, breathing in the faded scent of oil and metal, silent promises passing gently between you–but when Caleb finally speaks again, softly, decisively, you know you’ve already made your choice, just as he made his.

“This one,” he says firmly, a note of finality in his voice, gaze still fixed on the car. He turns his head slightly, those deep violet eyes meeting yours like a vow, and his smile blooms into something brilliant, hopeful, utterly genuine. “Let’s take her home.”

You nod, unable–and unwilling–to hide your own fond smile in return, and together you both step back, leaving your fingerprints in dust, your silent hopes tangled with rust and old dreams, ready to bring something broken back to life.

The garage Caleb calls his own isn’t much to look at from the outside–a sagging structure tucked behind his family’s house, its paint peeling in long strips like sunburned skin, the roof patched here and there with mismatched sheets of tin. But inside, it’s a kingdom.

Posters from old car shows and bands you both loved when you were younger–Sex Pistols, Def Leppard, AC/DC–are tacked haphazardly to the walls. A battered cassette deck hums softly from a workbench cluttered with socket wrenches, oil cans, and faded Polaroids stuck with yellowing tape. There’s an old green couch against the far wall, threadbare and drooping, a graveyard for stray tools and half-drunk bottles of Coke.

The Firebird sits square in the center, the centerpiece of it all.

It took two days to drag her home and clear enough space to work, but the moment she rested beneath the buzzing fluorescents, it felt like she belonged. And maybe you did, too.

Caleb tosses you a pair of oversized coveralls that smell faintly of gasoline and soap, a teasing glint in his violet eyes. “Hope you’re not afraid of a little dirt, pipsqueak.”

You catch them against your chest with a dramatic oof, grinning despite yourself. “I’ll have you know,” you say loftily, stepping into the baggy legs, “I’m a professional now. Expert dirt-getter.”

His laughter bounces off the metal rafters–rich, warm, the kind of sound you feel under your ribs.

You start with the seats. Caleb shows you how to find the bolts hidden deep beneath the rusted frames, your fingers bumping clumsily against the cold metal. He kneels beside you, demonstrating with slow, easy movements, the fabric of his shirt pulling tight across his back every time he leans forward. His forearms flex as he works, and you try not to notice, not really, not in any way that would make things weird.

“Lefty-loosey, righty-tighty,” he murmurs under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear, and when you flash him a glare, he smirks wickedly.

“I know that,” you huff. “I’m not a complete idiot.”

“No one said you were, pipsqueak,” he says easily, bumping his shoulder into yours with deliberate gentleness. “You’re just… fun-sized.”

You stick your tongue out at him and return to wrestling with a stubborn bolt, cheeks burning hotter than they should.

The hours pass in a haze of dust and low music, the scratchy vocals of an old cassette mixing with the clink of tools and the rhythmic scritch of sandpaper. You lose yourself in the work, hands blackened, arms aching pleasantly from the effort. Grease streaks your face and smudges your clothes, settling into the crooks of your elbows, the creases of your palms. Somehow, it feels right–like this is what you were made for: this dirt, this sweat, this slow and steady act of bringing something broken back to life.

At one point, Caleb leans over to show you how to wedge a ratchet into a tight corner near the floor pan. His chest brushes lightly against your shoulder, warm and solid, and when you glance up, he’s impossibly close. His hair falls slightly into his eyes, damp with sweat, and there’s a smudge of oil trailing along the line of his jaw.

You freeze, half holding your breath, your hand still clutching the ratchet awkwardly mid-air. Caleb notices the grime streaking your own cheek and, without thinking, lifts his thumb to swipe it away. His touch is gentle, slower than it needs to be, the pad of his thumb lingering just a fraction longer than necessary.

“There,” he murmurs, voice roughened slightly from the dust in the air–or maybe something else. His thumb brushes across your skin again, lighter this time, before he draws it back, clearing his throat quietly.

You mumble something in return–maybe a thanks, maybe just a noise–and duck your head back toward your work, praying he can’t hear the way your heart thunders wildly against your ribs.

From the corner of your eye, you catch him looking at you again–not the playful, teasing glance he usually tosses your way, but something quieter. Something almost… awed. It lasts only a moment before he schools his face back into easy nonchalance, tossing a bolt into the battered coffee can you’ve both been using as a parts bin. But the look lingers, burned into the inside of your chest like the slow fade of headlights down an empty road.

Later, when the sun begins its slow descent, casting the garage in long golden bands of light, you both step back and survey your progress. The Firebird’s interior is gutted, seats piled neatly to the side, bolts and panels catalogued into little cardboard boxes with Caleb’s careful scrawl. Dust floats lazily in the shafts of sun, and the world feels smaller somehow, folded neatly into this warm, messy moment you never want to end.

Your arms are streaked with grease, and there’s a tear in your jeans you don’t remember getting, and you’re absolutely certain you’ve never looked less presentable in your life. But when Caleb glances at you again, his smile is so easy, so fond, that you think–maybe just for a heartbeat–that he’d rather have you here like this, messy and real, than anywhere else.

You don’t dare say anything. You don’t want to risk losing this fragile, perfect thing you’re building together–not just the car, but something quieter, something stitched carefully between laughter and stolen glances and the brush of fingertips over dusty cheeks.

Instead, you nudge him lightly with your shoulder, mimicking his earlier teasing, and grin when chuckles low under his breath.

“You’re not so bad for a shortstack,” he says, voice playful but soft, carrying a note of something unspoken.

You bump him again, just to feel the solid, familiar weight of him beside you, and the two of you stand there for a long moment in the golden hush, breathing in oil and sun-warmed metal, the Firebird gleaming softly between you like a dream just beginning to take shape.

–ENGINE (The heart–beginnings of yearning.)

The heart of any car is its engine, and right now, the Firebird’s heart is just an empty hollow, a cavernous space yawning wide where metal and machinery should breathe life into steel and chrome. It feels like possibility and like absence, like something desperately waiting to be made whole. When Caleb first lifts the hood for you, revealing that gaping emptiness, you feel it somewhere deeper than just your eyes. There’s a quiet ache in it, a yearning not so different from the unnamed feeling you carry around yourself these days.

Caleb pulls an old tarp off a collection of boxes, revealing the meticulous puzzle he’s assembled piece by painstaking piece: pistons, rods, rings, timing chains–all patiently waiting, polished and lined up with careful precision. This is how he is with everything, you think quietly–calm, determined, making sense of chaos until it’s something whole and beautiful again. You envy that quality more than you’d ever admit.

The afternoons blur into one another, each stretching long and slow beneath the lazy summer sun. You’re out in the garage every day now, elbows-deep in engine grease, fingertips raw and stained from endless sanding, oil smudges stubbornly clinging beneath your nails. Your clothes are a lost cause, grease-splattered shirts and jeans becoming badges of honor rather than accidents. The radio hums quietly in the corner, cassette tapes cycling through the familiar rhythms of your shared childhood–Springsteen and Mellencamp, Petty’s melancholy lyrics mingling with the hum of cicadas outside the open garage door.

Together you work meticulously, learning the careful ballet of assembling an engine from scratch–pieces sliding smoothly into place with Caleb’s steady hands guiding yours, gentle yet firm. You memorize the slow, attentive way he explains everything, voice patient and easy. He trusts you more each day, passing you tools and tasks without hesitation, as if he’s always known you’d fit beside him exactly like this.

When the pistons finally slot into place for the first time, a flush of pride warms your chest. Caleb notices your silent triumph and nudges your shoulder gently, eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles.

“See? Told you you’d get it, pipsqueak,” he says, his voice low and warm, something more than teasing lingering softly behind his words. You duck your head, smiling, heart stuttering beneath your ribs.

Between the scrupulous steps–aligning crankshafts and securing timing chains–the conversations between you shift quietly, deepening with each passing hour. Caleb speaks of dreams he’s never mentioned aloud before: opening his own garage someday, maybe even taking over the one he’s apprenticing at now. There’s pride and silent ambition in his voice, and you find yourself swept along by his easy confidence, drawn gently into the soft warmth of his hopes.

You, however, find it harder to speak your own dreams aloud. Instead, you talk quietly of your fears–the nagging sense of being small, left behind somehow. Your own aspirations feel less clear, murkier, harder to grasp. How can you explain to Caleb, who shines effortlessly, drawing people to him without ever trying, that your own life feels tentative, uncertain? You work at an ice cream store, scooping cones and serving sundaes, watching kids and families pass by, their laughter and chatter flowing around you like water around a rock. You don’t hate it–but sometimes you feel like you’re watching your life from behind a glass counter, invisible and unable to truly touch it.

Caleb hates it when you say things like that. He stops working entirely when you mutter something self-deprecating, something quiet and dismissive, and the forceful gentleness of his response takes you by surprise.

“You’re not small where it counts,” he insists, voice roughened by sincerity, violet eyes darkening seriously as he studies you. “Never were, pipsqueak.”

You feel yourself flush again, heart stuttering hard against your ribs, your chest suddenly too tight to breathe properly. Caleb rarely speaks like this, rarely lets seriousness harden the edges of his playful nature. It unsettles you, makes you ache in a way you don’t quite understand–like something warm and tender opening inside you, vulnerable and uncertain.

You duck your head again, busying your hands with tools and engine grease, too afraid to let him see how deeply his words have burrowed beneath your skin. You want to believe him–you desperately want to–but doubt remains, whispering from somewhere deep inside you. Still, Caleb’s conviction makes you want to trust, want to hold onto this moment, his steadfast certainty like sunlight warming your shoulders, chasing away shadows you’d grown used to.

Late in the afternoon, while aligning the crankshaft carefully into its bearings, your fingers slip awkwardly, fumbling clumsily with a stubborn bolt. Caleb moves without a word, his hand covering yours, gently steadying your grip, guiding your fingers back to where they belong. His palm is rough, calloused, yet impossibly tender, fingers lingering softly over yours for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Neither of you speak, the moment stretching between you, filled with unspoken things, fragile and tremulous.

When he finally draws away, the absence of his warmth leaves you strangely bereft, hollowed out in a new way you don’t fully recognize. You glance sideways, catching him watching you with quiet contemplation in his eyes, a look that’s almost longing, though you can’t quite trust yourself to read it clearly. He’s Caleb–charming, charismatic, effortlessly magnetic. You know half the town is probably head-over-heels for him, and yet here he is, quiet and patient beside you, spending his summer afternoons breathing new life into old steel and rust, as though there’s nowhere he’d rather be.

Maybe that’s enough, you think, tightening the next bolt carefully, fingers trembling slightly. Maybe just having this–these gentle moments, this quiet understanding–is more than you’d ever dare to ask for anyway. You don’t have to name it, you don’t have to define what this is or what it might become. It’s enough to feel the steady presence of him beside you, the rhythm of your days marked by laughter and the slow, methodical work of rebuilding this heart of steel together.

The sun sinks lower outside, painting the sky in streaks of apricot and lilac. Caleb pauses to wipe his hands clean, streaks of grease still shadowing his fingertips. He nudges you gently again, that familiar warmth returning to his voice, layered with quiet meaning.

“You and me,” he says softly, nodding toward the engine. “We could build anything, you know.”

You glance up, meeting his gaze. For just a moment, something open and vulnerable flickers between you both, a truth held steady beneath his careful gaze. You nod numbly, feeling something deep inside you shift into place, just like the last piston slotting neatly home.

“Yeah,” you reply quietly, your voice almost a whisper, careful not to reveal too much. “I know.”

The days roll by in slow, hazy loops, stitched together with warm grease-streaked afternoons and the thrum of distant thunderheads gathering on the horizon. In the lull between wrench turns and socket sets, you start to notice things. Not big things, not moments that stop your breath–but small ones. The kind you only realize you’ve been storing away when it’s too late to pretend they don’t matter.

Like the way Caleb always brings an extra soda–root beer for you, because he knows you like the glass bottles better. He never says anything, just hands it over wordlessly, the glass sweating in your palm. Or the way he leans into door frames when it rains, all tall limbs and lazy posture, but subtly tilts his body just enough to keep the worst of it off your shoulders. It’s instinctual, unconscious–the kind of consideration that’s never been asked of him and yet seems woven into who he is.

And then there’s how he looks at you–or maybe, more accurately, how he doesn’t look at anyone else.

People come and go from the garage sometimes–friends from the shop, old classmates, girls who lean into their laughter a little too obviously when they spot him covered in grease and smiling in that slow, golden way of his. He’s charming, everyone says so. Popular without trying. Caleb’s the kind of guy people want to orbit. You used to wonder if it bothered you. Now you know it doesn’t–not really. Because he never looks back. Not the way he looks at you, with quiet attention and a softness so steady it feels like a place to rest.

He asks you what music you want on before you even speak, knows which tool to hand you without you needing to ask. At some point, his hands start brushing yours more–passing bolts, steadying tools–and he never pulls away too quickly. Not anymore. Neither do you.

You’re not sure what this is. What it could be. But you know, somehow, in that space behind your ribs, that you’re becoming each other’s heart without even trying.

It’s late one afternoon when the sky suddenly turns mean. Thunder rolls in like an angry drumbeat, low and heavy. You’re elbow-deep in the wiring harness while Caleb turns the carburetor, the Firebird’s innards slowly knitting back into something that almost breathes again.

The rain comes fast–loud against the tin roof, a metallic lullaby. Caleb doesn’t flinch. He just shifts beside you, leaning his shoulder closer to yours, and grins.

“Guess we’re stuck here for a bit,” he says, brushing a streak of oil from his jaw with the back of his wrist. “You okay with being trapped with me, pipsqueak?”

You snort. “Trapped? Please. You’d get lonely without me, anyways.”

He laughs, full and warm, the kind that spills into your bones and lingers there. “I think I’d survive without your commentary on my spark plug gap.”

“I think you wouldn’t survive without me making fun of your spark plug gap.”

“You wound me,” he says, pressing a hand dramatically to his chest, but the look in his eyes is soft, fond. Like he’s grateful for your presence even when your words are sharp. Especially then.

The rain grows heavier. Water runs in small rivulets down the windows, blurring the world outside. Inside the garage, the light is golden and comforting, making everything feel like a memory even while it’s still happening.

You settle onto the couch for a break, dropping beside him with a sigh. He tosses you a rag, and you wipe your hands while he fiddles with the radio dial until something older comes through–a song from your shared childhood, something scratchy and sweet. Phil Collins, maybe. Or Bryan Adams. It hardly matters. The moment’s already perfect.

“I remember this,” you murmur, head tipping back against the couch cushion, the ceiling fans clicking above you in a lazy circle. “You played it on repeat one summer. Drove everyone nuts.”

“Not you,” he says, nudging your knee with his. “You never complained.”

“Yeah, well. I was too busy trying to keep up with you.” You mean it as a joke. Mostly. But it comes out softer than you intend. Honest.

Caleb’s smile falters just slightly–not in a bad way, but as if he’s considering something. Turning it over in his mind.

“You never had to,” he says after a beat, voice low. “I mean it. You were always enough just… being you.”

You glance at him, and the way he says it–like it’s the simplest truth in the world–makes your breath catch in your throat. You look away too fast, down at your hands still covered with traces of grease and oil, suddenly not knowing what to do with them.

You want to say something back, something real, but the words get lost somewhere on their way to your mouth.

Instead, you lean forward and grab another part from the toolbox, letting the silence settle again, but it’s not heavy. It never is with him. Just comfortable. Like the moments between switching gears–necessary, natural, leading somewhere you can’t quite see yet.

Later, after the wiring’s cleaned and the timing chain finally aligned, you both stand over the engine bay in shared satisfaction. It’s still not finished–there’s so much left to do–but for now, it’s enough. The Firebird has a heart again. Quiet and waiting. Ready to run.

Caleb wipes his hands on his jeans, and without thinking, offers you the last sip of his soda. The gesture is so casual, so second-nature, it sends a small, unexpected ache through your chest.

You take it. Drink. Smile.

He watches you with that quiet, unreadable look of his again. The one that makes you feel seen. Not admired, not adored–known. All your edges and doubts laid bare. And still–still, he stays.

“You think we’ll finish this by the end of summer?” you ask, mostly to fill the space, though part of you dreads the answer.

“Maybe,” he answers, dragging a hand through his hair. “Maybe not. Doesn’t matter. We’ll get there.”

We. The word hums through you, steady and certain.

He smiles, soft and easy. “You and me? We’re the team, remember? As long as we’re in it together, we can fix anything.”

You want to believe that more than you’ve wanted anything in a long time. And for the first time, you think maybe you really do.

–TRANSMISSION (Learning how to move forward–together.)

There’s a delicate rhythm to shifting gears–a careful dance of timing, precision, and patience. Caleb’s voice hums gently beneath the hood of the car as he walks you through it, fingers tracing the smooth curve of a gearshift, each gesture slow and steady. You watch him quietly, memorizing the way he moves, the fluid certainty of his hands and the soft, thoughtful set of his brow. It’s familiar, almost achingly so, and you realize he’s taught you all this before. Years ago, when you’d sat beside him in his old Mustang, the sunlight melting gold over the cracked parking lot. You remember his laughter back then, warm and reassuring, as you’d fumbled your way through clutch pedals and stalled engines. It feels like a lifetime ago, and yet nothing’s changed at all.

“You already know most of this,” he murmurs, a faint, teasing smile curling the corners of his mouth, “or did all of that expert teaching of mine slip your mind?”

You roll your eyes, nudging him lightly with your elbow. He chuckles, a deep, comforting sound that mingles softly with the summer breeze drifting through the open garage doors. The sunlight slants lazily through dust-specked air, the afternoon worn comfortably around you both like a faded denim jacket. You listen to him anyway, hanging onto every quiet word, every patient instruction, not because you need to hear it again, but because it feels good just to stand beside him like this. Together. Like it used to be.

And somewhere in the gentle lull between his words–somewhere beneath the hum of cicadas and the murmuring of the radio–you start to understand why transmissions matter. It isn’t just about gears shifting smoothly or engines humming to life. It’s about timing. It’s about things aligning perfectly, synchronizing just right so nothing stalls or falters. Caleb explains it with a seriousness that surprises you, his voice low and rich, as if he’s talking about something sacred, something infinitely fragile.

“Everything has to work together,” he says softly, fingers brushing lightly over the gears. “Miss one step, one little shift, and everything falls apart. You gotta trust the timing, trust yourself, and know exactly when to move forward.”

You nod quietly, letting his words settle deep in your chest, feeling their gentle weight like stones dropped carefully into still water. You can’t help but wonder if he’s talking about more than just the car–but the thought drifts away, unspoken, replaced by the comfortable silence you always share.

Later, as evening slips into night, you find yourselves working beneath the soft glow of a bare bulb hanging over the engine bay. Caleb’s decided to test an old Chevy engine he’s rebuilt for someone else, its heart throbbing quietly beneath the hood. He gestures for you to climb into the driver’s seat, trusting you without hesitation.

You slide into place, feeling the old leather seat creak softly beneath you, simple and comforting. Yet your heart kicks harder, nervous suddenly in a way you shouldn’t be. You know this–it’s as familiar as breathing–but it’s the way Caleb watches you, so patient and expectant, that makes your fingers tremble just slightly when you grip the wheel.

He nods, eyes gentle, voice calm. “Just like always, pipsqueak.”

You exhale carefully, foot pressing slowly on the clutch, feeling the quiet catch of gears beneath your palm. But something slips, just a fraction–your timing just off–and the engine stalls abruptly, coughing once before falling silent. Your stomach tightens painfully, embarrassment flaring hot in your cheeks. You stare at the dashboard, fingers white-knuckled on the steering wheel, afraid to meet Caleb’s gaze. You know better than this. He knows you know better. A pang twists sharply inside you; you don’t want him disappointed–not in you.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, barely audible, staring fixedly at the silent dash, cheeks burning fiercely in the dim garage.

But Caleb just laughs softly, warm and unbothered, leaning closer, reaching out and gently ruffling your hair. The casual affection eases something inside you immediately.

“You’re fine,” he murmurs reassuringly, the words kind but firm, smoothing over the anxious twist in your stomach. “Even pros stall sometimes. It’s about how quick you recover.”

You glance up hesitantly, heart still thumping too fast, and see nothing but easy warmth in his eyes. No disappointment. No impatience. Just Caleb, steady and certain as ever.

He starts the engine again, guiding your hands gently through the motions until the car purrs evenly beneath your fingertips, humming softly in perfect harmony. You sit there in silence, breathing slow, the calm returning to your chest like a steadying hand.

Later that night, you borrow his uncle’s old convertible, cruising aimlessly down winding back roads beneath the velvet-black sky, the breeze catching in your hair, tugging softly at your clothes. The radio murmurs quietly, a familiar old song drifting through the night air–Foreigner, maybe, something nostalgic and soft-edged. Caleb drives with one hand lazily draped on the wheel, the other arm resting along the back of your seat. Neither of you speak much, content just to sit together, hearts beating in tandem beneath the hum of tires on asphalt.

You tilt your head back, eyes closed, letting the wind carry your thoughts away like leaves scattered down an empty road. Caleb shifts gears smoothly, effortlessly, the car moving like an extension of himself, natural and confident. You feel every muted shift resonate through you–a soft vibration, comforting and secure.

When you finally glance sideways at him, his profile glows softly in the dashboard lights, quiet and thoughtful. Something seems to flicker briefly across his expression, something almost vulnerable. He opens his mouth slightly, as if he’s about to say something important, something tender–but instead he just swallows, gaze snapping to meet yours in a warm, wordless glance before returning to the road ahead.

You turn your head back again, heart beating slow and careful. The stars glide gently above, blurred by the speed, stretching endlessly toward the horizon. It feels like you’re standing somewhere delicate and fragile, balanced carefully between gears, between moments–waiting quietly, patiently, for the right timing.

You understand, suddenly, what Caleb meant earlier in the garage: that moving forward requires patience, a trust in timing, and an understanding that every little shift matters. One wrong move might stall everything–but the right move could send you hurtling forward, smooth and easy, like you’ve always belonged exactly there.

And somewhere beneath the gentle hum of the engine and the whisper of night air around you, you realize quietly–almost wordlessly–that you don’t want to move forward without him. You’re not sure exactly what that means, not yet, and you’re afraid to name it aloud–but it’s there all the same, resting softly behind your ribs.

Caleb seems to sense your realization, glancing again at you with that affectionate look he always has, the one that makes your heart feel too big for your chest. He smiles softly–barely there, a gentle upward curve of his mouth–and shifts smoothly again, moving you both forward together, steady and sure, toward whatever comes next.

Neither of you speak. You don’t need to. Not yet.

The road stretches out ahead, illuminated only by the headlights slicing gently through the darkness, guiding your path toward something uncertain, unnamed, but inevitable–something you’ve been moving toward without realizing it, each gear shift, each subtle glance, pushing you slowly toward it.

Together.

–BRAKES (When you have to stop, even when it hurts.)

July has settled into something thick and slow, syrupy in the heat, the kind of weather that makes everything stick to your skin and refuses to let go. The garage air hums quietly with the metallic whir of box fans trying desperately–and failing–to move the sluggish summer around. Caleb works beside you, sleeves rolled up neatly past his elbows, the thin cotton of his faded t-shirt clinging to his back with sweat. He’s concentrating, brows knit slightly as he leans deep into the engine bay, one hand braced against the Firebird’s warm metal shell, the other gripping a wrench tight enough to whiten his knuckles.

You steal glances sideways at him between your own tasks, eyes drawn softly to the line of his shoulders, the quiet strength in his movements, so familiar now you could trace each one with your eyes closed. It’s comforting in the simplest sense, standing next to him like this, working side by side as you always have. But lately, comfort has been shifting into something else–something unnamed and tenuous, something you’re almost afraid to acknowledge even to yourself. It simmers quietly beneath your ribs, barely-there and gentle, until suddenly it’s not.

The garage doors are wide open to the street, and sunlight spills lazily across the concrete, pooling around your sneakers and Caleb’s work boots. You both glance up when a soft, unfamiliar voice calls Caleb’s name, lilting delicately like the chime of small silver bells. There, framed in afternoon gold, stands a girl you’ve never seen before–pretty in that effortless, polished way you’ve never quite managed. Her hair catches the sunlight, gleaming in soft waves, and her pale pastel sundress makes her look like she’s stepped straight from a magazine spread, a glossy contrast to your oil-streaked jeans and rumpled shirt.

Caleb’s face brightens in recognition, the wrench slipping from his fingers into the cluttered toolbox with a sharp metallic clang. You notice–immediately, instinctively–the way his posture straightens, the easy smile spreading warm and open across his face, eyes sparkling with pleasant surprise. He wipes his hands roughly on an old rag, stepping toward her, already laughing softly as she murmurs something you can’t quite hear. The sound feels distant, muffled somehow, like you’re suddenly watching the scene unfold from behind thick, fogged glass.

You linger by the Firebird, your own hands curled absently around a screwdriver, knuckles white from how tightly you’re gripping the handle. You’re careful to appear disinterested, but something twists painfully in your chest–sharp, unexpected, quietly fierce. It’s nothing you’ve ever let yourself name, something tucked away deep beneath the easy, familiar rhythm of your friendship. But now, watching the casual intimacy of Caleb’s smile directed toward someone else, it rises abruptly to the surface, raw and vulnerable and achingly confusing.

Their laughter floats gently toward you, soft and bright, the sound wrapping itself around your throat like a tightening thread. You try not to listen, try to focus instead on the wiring harness and screwdriver in your hands, but you hear snippets anyway–references to old friends, memories you’re not part of, something about a summer party that happened before you and Caleb ever found this quiet rhythm of working side by side. Each shared word feels like a silent confirmation of your exclusion, a reminder of something that never quite belonged to you.

Caleb seems oblivious–or maybe he’s pretending. You’re not sure which would hurt less. He leans casually against the tool bench, arms crossed easily, listening attentively as she speaks, his violet eyes warm and affectionate. She laughs at something he says, her delicate hand lightly touching his arm, lingering just a moment longer than necessary. You feel your stomach drop at the sigh, hollow and heavy all at once. It isn’t fair, you know that, but a strange possessiveness flares suddenly within you–strange, ugly, and frighteningly real.

You turn away sharply, back toward the engine bay, burying your attention fiercely in the familiar, comforting tangle of wires and grease. You don’t want to watch anymore, don’t want to feel these complicated, ugly things twisting quietly inside you. But every muffled laugh, every gentle murmur behind you feels like a fresh wound–silent, subtle, yet aching in a way you can’t fully understand.

Hours seem to pass, each minute stretching like warm, sticky taffy in the slow afternoon. When you finally glance back, they’re standing closer now, Caleb’s eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles gently down at her. Something deep inside you cracks softly at the sight. You’ve seen that look before–directed toward you in quieter moments, soft with patience and kind teasing. But now it feels tainted somehow, uncertain, fleeting. You wonder suddenly if you’d imagined it all–every glance, every touch, every shared smile. If the intimacy you’d felt had only ever been childish affection, innocent and short-lived, easily given and just as easily forgotten.

Eventually, the girl leaves, her laughter trailing like perfume behind her, sweet and lingering. Caleb stands by the open garage door, watching her go, sunlight highlighting the thoughtful set of his shoulders. He turns back toward you slowly, smile fading into something quieter, almost questioning, but you look away quickly, afraid to meet his gaze, afraid of what you might see–or what you might not.

You clean up in silence, careful not to let your hands shake as you wipe grease from your fingertips. Caleb says nothing, but you can feel him watching, silent and puzzled, uncertain in a way he rarely is. You want him to say something–anything–to reassure you, to laugh away your sudden uncertainty and restore the delicate balance you’ve shared, but the silence hangs awkwardly between you, heavy and new.

When you finally leave, slipping quietly out the garage door into the fading daylight without a word, you glance back only once. Caleb is still standing there, framed in the soft, amber glow of sunset, watching you go with an expression you can’t quite read–something almost desperate flickering softly behind his eyes. But neither of you speaks, neither of you breaks the silence, and so you turn away, heart twisting painfully as you disappear into the evening shadows.

That night, as you lie awake beneath tangled sheets, staring at the ceiling, the painful ache inside you settles wordlessly, stubbornly into place. You wonder bitterly if you’ve misread everything–every gentle glance, every careful gesture. If Caleb has only ever seen you as someone younger, smaller, someone to protect and guide, a kid he’s been quietly humoring all these years. You curl your fingers tight into the sheets, jaw clenching around the painful, humiliating thought, realizing for the first time that maybe you’ve always been a step behind–always catching up, always wanting something just beyond your reach.

Maybe everything you’d felt–everything you still feel–has always been just yours alone.

In the weeks following that afternoon, everything feels different–blurred somehow, like looking through rain-streaked glass. You begin to slip quietly away, retreating little by little from the warmth of Caleb’s orbit. Visits become shorter, your laughter muted, strained. Where you’d once lingered comfortable beside him, passing gentle banter back and forth, you now keep yourself guarded, words fading into careful silences. The garage, once your sanctuary, feels tight and suffocating, walls pressing closer each day. You convince yourself it’s better this way, safer. You’ve always been a step behind, after all–always the kid, tagging along, clinging to someone who never truly needed you in the first place.

You bury yourself deeper in work, the Firebird, focusing fiercely on sanding rough edges, smoothing primer coats, finding any excuse to keep your eyes carefully downcast. You pretend not to notice Caleb’s gaze on you, patient and puzzled, increasingly desperate as each silent afternoon passes. When your hands brush accidentally–still inevitable despite your best efforts–you pull back quickly, cheeks burning, heart aching sharply beneath your ribs.

Caleb notices. Of course he does. He always notices. It kills him quietly, painfully, evident in the shadows beneath his eyes, the uncertain lines forming at the corners of his mouth. But you refuse to confront it, refusing to see beyond the stubborn walls you’ve built, determined to shield yourself from truths too painful to bear.

Then, one evening as the light outside turns purple and dusky, he finally snaps.

You’re alone together in the garage, the Firebird freshly painted and gleaming softly under the glow of the hanging bulb. Despite its outward beauty, the car remains hollow, silent without its heart, its emptiness mirroring your own careful distance. Caleb watches you quietly from across the room, jaw tense, violet eyes clouded with silent hurt he’s no longer trying to hide.

You keep your gaze fixed stubbornly downward, sanding the same smooth spot over and over until your fingertips ache. Suddenly, Caleb crosses the distance in swift strides, stepping directly in front of you, leaning heavily against the Firebird, blocking your escape.

“Stop,” he says quietly, voice low and thick with frustration, and your hands freeze mid-motion, sandpaper trembling faintly in your grip. You can’t meet his gaze–you’re afraid of what you’ll see there, afraid it’ll confirm every ugly fear you’ve been carrying for weeks.

He exhales sharply, forcing himself steady, voice softening slightly, though the ache still threads gently beneath each word. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

Your chest tightens painfully, a hot lump rising swiftly in your throat. You shake your head, words stuck fast in the back of your mouth.

“You have,” he insists stubbornly, eyes narrowing in desperation. “Don’t deny it. Did I–” he pauses, voice breaking. “Did I do something wrong?”

You swallow roughly, finally daring a glance upward. Hurt flickers openly across his expression, raw and vulnerable, and something twists sharply inside you, your heart aching fiercely against your ribs.

“No,” you whisper hoarsely, voice rough, unsteady. “It’s–it’s not you.”

He steps closer, the space between you shrinking dangerously, his voice gentle yet edged with quiet frustration. “Then what is it? You’ve barely spoken to me since–since that afternoon. With her.”

You flinch visibly, eyes dropping immediately to the floor. Embarrassment floods hot and bitter through your veins, your fingers curling tightly into fists at your sides. You shake your head again, mutely denying everything you’re afraid to say aloud.

“You think I’m blind?” Caleb asks, voice shaking now, frustration breaking through his frayed control. “Or stupid? Do you really think I’d ever–” he cuts himself off sharply, jaw tightening in anger–not at you, but at the misunderstandings hovering painfully between you both. “Look at me,” he demands softly, voice barely above a whisper, but so full of hurt it cuts deep.

You finally raise your eyes, gaze locking helplessly onto his, heart thundering so violently you feel dizzy.

“Have you ever,” he begins quietly, achingly, voice raw with vulnerability, “ever seen me with someone else? Honestly? Have you?”

You swallow thickly, head shaking slightly, unable to form words around the lump tightening in your throat.

“Exactly,” Caleb breathes roughly, fingers trembling slightly at his sides. “And yet you’re pushing me away, convinced I’m something I’m not. Convinced of something I’ve never felt, never wanted.” He pauses, voice cracking softly. “Not from anyone but you.”

You stare at him, speechless, your pulse roaring loudly in your ears. His words sink slowly into your chest, slipping quietly past the fragile walls you’d so desperately constructed. You’re wavering now, breath hitching, terrified of what he’s saying, even more terrified of believing it.

“Don’t,” you whisper desperately, eyes flooding suddenly, hot tears burning your vision. “Don’t say that. Don’t say something you don’t mean just because you’re trying to fix this.”

Caleb’s eyes darken further, pained and wounded. He reaches out instinctively, fingers ghosting gently along your cheek before falling away abruptly, hands dropping helplessly back to his sides.

“You think I don’t mean it?” he asks hoarsely, voice aching, the hurt in his tone palpable. “After everything–after every afternoon we’ve spent in here, every drive we’ve ever taken, every stupid joke we’ve ever shared–you think I’m just humoring you? Treating you like some kid I keep around for fun?”

You nod miserably, tears slipping silently down your cheeks, raw humiliation tightening in your throat. “Isn’t that what I am?” you whisper brokenly, your voice barely audible. “Just a kid, Caleb? Someone you’ve always looked after?”

He makes a soft, desperate sound in his throat, reaching for you again–this time catching your shoulders gently but firmly, forcing you to look up, his violet eyes fierce, bright with sincerity and hurt. “You have never–never–been just a kid to me,” he says, intense, voice quavering slightly. “Do you hear me? You were never just some kid.”

You stare up at him, eyes wide, lips trembling, tears still quietly tracing hot paths down your cheeks.

“Then what am I?” you choke out, voice shaking softly, frightened yet desperate for an answer. “What have I ever been to you?”

He breathes sharply, thumbs brushing along your shoulders, holding you steady. His gaze softens into something heartbreakingly tender, eyes searching yours frantically. “Everything,” he whispers roughly, the word so kind, so merciful, so achingly vulnerable, it steals your breath completely. “You are everything to me. I don’t want anyone else–I never have. Not once.”

You break quietly, shoulders shaking with sobs you’ve held in far too long. Caleb gathers you close immediately, strong arms folding around you, pulling you gently to his chest, holding you steady against the warm, comforting beat of his heart.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper brokenly against his shirt, voice muffled, tears soaking through the thin fabric. “I’m so sorry–I didn’t–I couldn’t–”

He shushes you softly, palm brushing gently over your hair, holding you securely. “Don’t,” he murmurs soothingly, voice thick with emotion, warm breath kissing your temple. “Don’t apologize. Just–please, don’t push me away. Don’t shut me out, pips.”

You nod, face buried in his chest, breathing him in–oil and soap and quiet summer nights. It feels right here, held tight in his embrace, the hurt finally bleeding into relief, truth settling sweetly between you.

“You scared me,” you whisper, voice trembling, unguarded and real. “I didn’t know–I thought it was just me, all this time. I thought I was imagining everything.”

Caleb’s grip tightens around you, his cheek pressed comfortingly against your hair, warm and tender. “You’re not imagining it,” he whispers, voice steady, achingly sincere. “You never were.”

You hold onto him tighter, heart slowly steadying, truths whispered softly between you, gentle reassurances stitching the cracks back together. And finally, for the first time, you believe him.

–SUSPENSION (The delicate balance–learning to trust the ride.)

Summer tilts gently toward its close, lingering like the final chords of a song that you can’t bear to finish just yet. August heat mellows into a softer warmth, shadows stretching a little long, the evenings breathing a quiet coolness around the edges. Time feels delicate now, precious somehow, the last golden days slipping silently between your fingers like sand. You’re aware of every moment–keenly, almost painfully aware–as though you’re trying to hold onto each one before it slips inevitably away.

The Firebird is close to finished now, so near completion you can almost taste the sweetness of it–bittersweet, maybe, because finishing it means letting go, moving forward. And you’re close to finished too, nerves stretched taut beneath your skin, emotions raw and frayed. Every glance Caleb gives you feels deeper now, layered with a vulnerability that hadn’t existed openly before. It’s delicate, careful–still threaded softly with echoes of awkwardness–but slowly, surely, comfort returns, piecing itself back together beneath your fingertips.

Caleb asks you to help him install the suspension–an intricate, delicate system of shocks and springs, designed carefully to carry weight and soften every jolt the road has to offer. It feels fitting somehow, poetic even. You’ve both been carrying each other’s weight quietly, gently absorbing shocks without realizing it. Now you’re here, together, working side by side once more, meticulously putting into place the final pieces that will carry you both forward.

The garage feels hushed, peaceful in the late afternoon sun. Caleb works silently, his hands sure but movements slightly cautious, mindful not to disturb the balance that’s slowly, painstakingly returning between you. You match his quiet, saying little, yet each small task feels significant–passing tools back and forth, holding parts steady for one another. The silence is gentle, comforting in a way that hasn’t been for a while. Yet beneath it lingers something raw and open, a muted awareness that makes your heart beat faster whenever Caleb’s finger’s brush against yours.

You watch him as he tightens bolts, grease smeared lightly across his knuckles, forearms flexing beneath rolled sleeves. He’s tense in a way he rarely is, his movements precise, deliberate, almost overly careful–as though he’s still afraid of pushing you away again. You ache softly watching him, wishing suddenly that everything could be easier, wishing desperately you knew how to fix things properly, completely.

Then, quietly, carefully, you move closer. You slide beside him to help align a stubborn bolt, shoulder brushing gently against his, aware of the faint hitch in his breath. He doesn’t speak, just keeps working, breathing slower now, steadier. You’re grateful he lets you close, grateful he trusts you again, even if it’s tentative, fragile.

The afternoon wears on, shadows sliding longer across the concrete floor, sunlight filtering golden through the half-open garage doors. Caleb finally breaks the quiet first, his voice rough, barely above a whisper.

“This is important,” he says softly, hands gripping the wrench tighter than necessary, knuckles white. “It’s gotta be done right, or everything else falls apart.”

You look up slowly, watching him, sensing there’s something more behind his words–something he can’t quite say yet. You nod, signaling you’re listening, signaling you’re there. He takes a measured breath, grounding himself, and meets your gaze finally–violet eyes raw, defenseless, agonizingly open.

“I don’t just want you in the passenger seat,” he says eventually, voice low, thick with something you’ve never heard from him before–need, maybe, longing, definitely. “I want you here. With me. Always.”

The words land like feathers between you, heavy and fragile, yet precious in their vulnerability. Your heart swells painfully, fingers quaking slightly where you grip the suspension coil you’re holding. Caleb watches your reaction wordlessly, breathing uneven, chest rising and falling softly beneath the thin cotton of his shirt.

“Caleb,” you whisper, voice trembling, unsure how to respond to such raw honesty, overwhelmed by the depth of emotion in his gaze. He steps closer, wrench dropping from his fingers to the concrete, forgotten entirely.

“Tell me you understand,” he murmurs roughly, voice tight, eyes desperate, quietly pleading. “Tell me you feel it too–that it isn’t just me. Tell me you want this, us, as much as I do.”

Your heart skips treacherously in your chest, words catching tightly in your throat. You nod quickly, helplessly, eyes shining, vision blurring. “I do,” you manage, voice shaking, throat closing. “I’ve always wanted–”

He doesn’t let you finish, closing the distance swiftly, catching your face carefully in his still-grease-smudged hands, and kisses you–messy, urgent, impossibly tender, lips slightly parted, warm and careful against yours. His fingertips tremble slightly, the faint roughness of his calloused palms feeling like home, safe yet thrilling. You kiss him back clumsily, heart swelling fiercely beneath your ribs, heat flooding through your veins, dizzying and overwhelming. It feels like every careful moment, every gentle glance, every ache you’ve quietly carried is pouring out into this single, desperate kiss.

When he finally pulls back, breathing ragged and shaky, forehead pressed fondly against yours, you let out a quiet laugh–a soft, tearful, joyfully astonished sound that quickly dissolves into a gentle sob. Caleb laughs too, relief spilling through him visibly, thumbs swiping carefully over your cheek to wipe away tears.

“Don’t cry,” he whispers kindly, voice impossibly tender, lips brushing reverently over your damp cheekbone. “Pipsqueak.”

You laugh again, breath hitching, wet, heart aching sweetly at the nickname spoken now in the softest voice you’ve ever heard him use. You press your face tightly against his chest, letting the strength of him steady you, the comforting scent of grease and soap and summer filling your senses, grounding you.

He wraps strong arms around you, littering the crown of your head with soft kisses, mumbling soothing nonsense words that mean everything.

“I thought it was just me,” you whisper against his chest, fingers clutching his shirt, desperate not to let go. “I was so scared, Caleb. I know what you said that day but I still thought I was alone in this.”

He tightens his embrace gently, breathing against your hair. “You were never alone,” he murmurs roughly, voice thick with quiet regret. “I should have told you sooner–I was just as scared as you. Terrified of ruining everything we’ve ever had. But god, the thought of losing you–”

He trails off, shaking his head, his breaths becoming slow and steady to regain his composure. “I can’t lose you,” he finally whispers fiercely. His voice breaks around the words, raw and open. “I need you here, always. Exactly like this.”

You nod against his chest, heart slowly calming in tandem with the steady warmth of his embrace, finally allowing yourself to believe him truly, finally feeling completely safe.

“I want that too,” you whisper, eyes drifting shut, inhaling him deeply, chest swelling with quiet happiness and overwhelming relief. “Always.”

He holds you closer, fingers gently threading through your hair, lips pressed to your temple, murmuring quiet promises you’re finally ready to trust completely. And in this fragile, tender moment, it feels like you’re both suspended carefully–balanced delicately on the edge of something new, something thrilling and real.

Neither of you moves for a long time, simply holding each other, hearts beating in sync, breathing slow and gentle, the garage around you softly lit by fading golden sunlight. The Firebird sits silently beside you both, patiently awaiting the final touches–just like the two of you, ready to carry the weight together, carefully absorbing every shock that comes your way.

Together, at long last.

–HEADLIGHTS (Looking ahead–the future shining bright.)

Late August has a certain magic to it–one foot still in summer, the other gently stepping toward autumn. The air turns just a bit sweeter, carrying faint whispers of falling leaves and cooler nights to come, but tonight still feels like pure summer, warm and inviting beneath a deep velvet sky scattered carelessly with stars. The Firebird sits proudly beneath the soft glow of the garage lights, finally, beautifully complete. It gleams, sleek and smooth as liquid fire, its cherry-red paint reflecting your smiles on the glossy surface like something out of a dream.

Caleb invited you tonight with an air of quiet excitement, eyes sparkling with barely-contained pride. You came prepared, carrying a silly gift hidden behind your back–an apple-shaped air freshener you’d picked up from the gas station on your way over. A joke, but also not, a tiny symbol of something sweetly familiar, something that felt like home. When you presented it to him, dangling from your fingertips, Caleb laughed–a deep, warm sound that settled somewhere inside your chest–and carefully hung it from the rearview mirror with exaggerated solemnity.

“There,” he teased, grinning widely as it swung from side to side, its cheerful scent filling the car’s interior. “Now she’s perfect.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress the smile tugging at your lips. He leaned forward, pressing a quick, playful kiss to your forehead, and you felt the blush rise immediately–warm, comforting, still surprising somehow.

Now, shoulder pressed against Caleb’s in the Firebird’s front seat, your heartbeat flutters gently, fingers drumming lightly against your knees. Everything you’ve both worked for, every careful step taken together, has led here–this quiet moment under the stars, anticipation crackling like static between you.

Caleb’s hand hovers uncertainly over the ignition, fingers brushing against the keys dangling loosely from the steering column. You glance sideways at him, heart swelling at the gentle set of his profile, bathed in soft moonlight. He’s so heartachingly familiar to you, yet new somehow, transformed from the boy you once knew into the young man beside you now–steady, patient, a quiet strength you’ve come to lean on more than you’d ever admit aloud. He’s impossibly beautiful tonight, messy dark hair catching in his eyes, lips curved ever so slightly in anticipation, eyes painted in the colors of nebulae reflecting the warm glow of dashboard lights.

“You ready?” he asks, glancing sideways at you, lips lifting into an easy, affectionate smile.

You nod, chest tight with excitement, fingertips tracing lightly along the Firebird’s smooth leather seats. “Ready when you are.”

He turns the key slowly, deliberately, eyes shining as the engine rumbles to life, low and powerful beneath you both, humming evenly, perfectly. The sound floods the car, fills your chest, spills warmth and joy and sweet triumph into every empty space between you. The headlights blaze suddenly, piercing the darkness ahead, two beams of golden-white slicing neatly through the night.

Caleb exhales, fingers tightening on the steering wheel, a proud, relieved smile spreading wide and open across his lips. He shifts gently into gear, foot pressing lightly on the clutch as if testing the waters, making sure every carefully assembled piece aligns perfectly. The Firebird responds smoothly, like an extension of his touch, purring contentedly as it rolls slowly forward into the quiet night air.

You sneak a glance at him, heart threatening to explode, something tender fluttering deep inside your chest. Caleb meets your gaze, eyes softening, the corner of his mouth lifting as he watches you. For just a moment, the air feels delicate, suspended between you, a thousand quiet promises whispered silently beneath your shared glance.

“She drives,” he murmurs, almost reverently, violet eyes sparkling, thumb brushing against the wheel. “She really drives.”

You grin fondly, nudging his shoulder lightly with your own. “Was there ever any doubt?”

He laughs, low and warm, settling around your heart like a bed of flowers, easing something tight and uncertain inside you. “Not with you beside me.”

You glance down, heart stuttering at his sincerity. You swallow, daring yourself to believe every soft word. “You mean it?”

Caleb shifts into neutral, letting the engine idle as he turns to face you fully, one hand reaching to brush lightly along your jaw, thumb tracing against your cheek. “Hey,” he murmurs gently, eyes serious now, quiet reassurance threaded deeply in his tone. “You’re enough. You’ve always been enough. You don’t need some grand plan or future mapped out perfectly to matter–to me or anyone else.”

Your throat tightens, vision blurring with sudden tears you blink stubbornly back. “But you’ve got dreams, Caleb,” you protest, voice quavering, vulnerabilities surfacing with a vengeance. “You know exactly what you want, exactly where you’re headed. I don’t–I’ve never known.”

He shakes his head gently, eyes tender and patient, fingertips brushing your hair back from your face. “Dreams change, pipsqueak. Life changes. All I know–” he pauses, breathing quietly, “–is whatever comes next, wherever this car takes us, I want you there with me. Always. Just you. Exactly as you are.”

Your heart breaks softly, beautifully, something warm and healing spilling into your chest cavity, chasing away shadows you’ve carried for far too long. You lean forward, heart swelling fiercely, and press your lips to his–a quick, soft kiss, sweet and playful yet carrying all the meaning you can’t fully articulate aloud. Caleb smiles against your mouth, fingers cupping your cheek, warmth flooding sweetly between you.

When you finally pull back, faces just inches apart, Caleb grins, eyes bright and teasing. “Careful, shortstack,” he murmurs playfully, thumb tracing your bottom lip. “Keep kissin’ me like that, we’ll never make it out of this driveway.”

You laugh, heat flooding your cheeks, heart thundering in your chest, comfortable and safe yet thrilling in its newness. Caleb turns back toward the road ahead, shifting into first gear again, his hand reaching instinctively to find yours, fingers tangling together between the seats.

“Wanna ride with me, pipsqueak?” he asks, grinning broadly now, eyes crinkling at the corners, sunlight somehow woven into every glance. “Wherever this thing goes?”

You squeeze his fingers, warmth expanding deeply throughout your body, certain of only one thing–one truth you’ve quietly known all along, even before you’d allowed yourself to believe it.

“Yes,” you whisper, eyes shining, heart finally settling into place, safe and secure. “Of course I do.”

He smiles tenderly, eyes softening, fingers tightening lightly around yours, and presses the accelerator carefully. The Firebird leaps forward smoothly, powerfully, headlights slicing easily through the darkness, illuminating a path toward whatever lies ahead–unknown yet filled sweetly with possibility, tenderness, and gentle, inevitable joy.

You lean your head back against the seat, smiling, breathing slow and steady, comforted by the hum of the engine beneath you and the warm, reassuring presence of Caleb beside you–steady, patient, and wholeheartedly yours.

You don’t know exactly what’s next, don’t know exactly where this road might lead. But as long as you’re beside Caleb, heart open and trusting, you’re certain of one thing–wherever this journey takes you both, you’ll be exactly where you’re meant to be.

Together. 

NOTE: thank you so much for reading! @gojover perhaps this is for you since you lowkey went feral at the thought of mechanic caleb (not judging). i am also in no way a mechanic nor am i qualified or skilled to be building cars so there are definitely a hundred thousand inaccuracies so please go easy on me (art by DeluluDough on X)

[heliosunny]

Just see that you do lucky eggs with kevin, can you do it with su?

I really need this man 😭🙏 (I'm a simp for him lmao)

LUCKY EGG

Yandere!Su x Reader

The museum was bustling with visitors, each admiring the historical artifacts and priceless art. You navigated through the crowd, pausing occasionally to admire the more striking exhibits.

Then, in the center of the hall, a particular display caught your eye.

Inside a grand glass case sat an egg. The plaque beneath it read:

"The Ancient Relic of an Unknown Civilization—Speculated to be a Vessel of Power."

Shrugging off the odd feeling, you lingered for a moment longer before moving on. After all, it was just an exhibit.

Later that evening, you were curled up at home, scrolling through your phone, completely unaware of what had transpired after you left.

The news played in the background as you lazily sipped your drink.

"Authorities are investigating the sudden disappearance of the museum’s prized relic, which mysteriously cracked open last night. Footage shows an unidentified figure emerging from the exhibit before vanishing. Officials are urging the public to report any suspicious sightings—"

You yawned, setting your cup down. "Damn, whoever took it is in for a bad time. Hope they get caught."

BANG

A loud crash from your front door made you jolt. You hurried over, hesitating for just a second before unlocking it.

A man stood there—no, collapsed there—leaning against the doorframe as if he had barely managed to reach you. His long grey hair was matted with sweat.

"Found you."

And then he crumpled into your arms.

You called an ambulance immediately, watching anxiously as they lifted the strange man onto a stretcher. He was severely weakened, his body cold to the touch. The doctors said he was suffering from extreme fatigue and malnourishment—like he hadn’t eaten in years.

You stayed at the hospital, though you weren’t sure why. Maybe it was guilt? He had collapsed at your doorstep, after all. But you also had no idea who he was or why he was looking for you.

Once he woke up, you decided—you’d leave. This wasn’t your problem.

But the next time you visited his room—he was gone.

The whole situation had been bizarre, but at least it was over.

Or so you thought.

You felt it before you saw him—an eerie sensation of being watched. And then, from the corner of your vision, he appeared.

"Why are you following me?"

"I wanted to stay."

"No. You can't stay with me." You crossed your arms, standing firm. "I don’t even know who you are. You should go back to the hospital—"

"I don’t want to go back there," he interrupted softly. "I want to stay with you."

"Well, that’s not happening."

And with that, you turned on your heel and walked away.

You expected that to be the end of it.

But it wasn’t.

The next day, you spotted him at the café where you grabbed your morning coffee. He sat at a table by the window, staring at you with those unreadable eyes.

The day after that, he was waiting outside your workplace, his hands neatly folded in front of him as if he had all the time in the world.

By the fourth day, you snapped.

Dragging him into a quiet alley, you glared up at him. "Enough. Either you give up, or I’m calling the authorities."

"Give me three days."

Your brows furrowed. "What?"

"Three days." His voice was gentle, "If I can’t persuade you by then… I’ll leave."

"And what exactly do you think you can do in three days to change my mind?"

Su simply smiled. "You’ll see."

The first day passed almost too smoothly.

Su didn’t just sit idly. By the time you woke up, the smell of breakfast filled the air. You groggily shuffled into the kitchen, only to find the table neatly set. Su stood by the stove, stirring something in a pot with serene focus.

"You’re awake" he greeted, placing a warm cup of coffee in your hands before you could protest.

"Uh… thanks." You took a sip automatically, only to freeze mid-drink.

Wait.

You were supposed to be serious about this. This was a test, not an invitation for him to play house.

You set the cup down, clearing your throat. "This doesn’t mean you’re staying."

"Of course not. But I still have two more days."

He wasn’t just helpful—he was ridiculously competent.

You came home to find your apartment spotless. Every surface gleamed, your books were neatly arranged, and even that stubborn leaky faucet had mysteriously stopped dripping.

That night, you accidentally scraped your arm on a sharp cabinet edge. It wasn’t serious, just an annoying little cut—but before you could even grab a bandage, Su was already at your side.

"Sit," he said, gently taking your wrist.

"Where did you learn how to do this?" you asked, watching him work.

"I’ve always known how to care for others," he replied, "It’s what I do."

A doctor? A healer of some kind? You had no idea.

But you did know one thing—this wasn’t just about being useful. Su genuinely wanted to stay.

And that made this whole situation even harder.

By now, you were used to him being around.

When he handed you your morning coffee, you took it without thinking. When he set dinner on the table, you sat down without hesitation. When he spoke, you listened.

And that was exactly why you needed to put an end to this.

After dinner, you set down your fork and looked at him seriously. "Your three days are up."

Su placed his hands neatly in his lap, tilting his head slightly. "Yes."

"And?" You exhaled. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

"Have I not proven myself worthy of staying?"

"That’s not the point!" You stood up. "I never wanted you to prove yourself as some kind of servant! I don’t even know who you really are!"

"You know enough."

You had learned more about him in three days than you had about some people you’d known for years. He was intelligent, efficient, skilled, and knew how to take care of others. In another life, maybe this wouldn’t have been so strange. Maybe he would’ve been a trusted companion.

But this wasn’t another life. This was now, and you weren’t going to let some mysterious man worm his way into yours just because he could cook and clean.

"This isn’t about whether you’re ‘worthy’ of staying!" you snapped. "I don’t want you here! I never asked for this!"

"I know."

That only frustrated you more. "Then why are you still trying?!"

"Because I want to be by your side."

"That’s not your choice to make."

"Then what must I do?" he asked, "What must I do for you to allow me to stay?"

"You don’t get it, do you?"

Without another word, you turned and walked out.

He didn’t follow.

You needed space.

Your life was already chaotic enough, balancing jobs as an explorer and dungeon conqueror. Normally, you had to be summoned to a site, but tonight, you just wanted to clear your mind—so you went out on your own, picking a lower-level dungeon nearby.

It wasn’t much, just a small underground ruin filled with slimes and weak monsters. Nothing that required effort.

"Stupid, stubborn, infuriating man..." You slashed through a group of slimes, watching them explode into useless puddles. "Who even does this?! Cooking, cleaning, waiting outside my job like some lost puppy—"

A goblin jumped at you, and you sliced it down in a single strike.

"‘Give me three days’? What kind of nonsense is that?! Stupid—"

Another group of slimes appeared. You tore through them with unnecessary aggression, their remains splattering across the dungeon floor.

"I don’t need him. I don’t need anyone. He should’ve just left when I told him to—"

By the time you finally stopped, panting slightly, the dungeon had been wiped clean. You let out a breath, wiping some monster goo off your sleeve.

That should’ve been cathartic.

So why did you still feel unsettled?

You sighed, rubbing your temples. It was late. You should head back.

Stepping out of the dungeon, you stretched, feeling the cool night air against your skin. You had expected to walk home alone, to have time to think.

But you weren’t alone.

Su stood near the entrance, waiting. His long hair shimmered under the moonlight.

"You—How did you know where I was?" you demanded.

Su blinked, as if the question was unnecessary. "I know you."

"That’s not an answer."

"You always do this when you’re upset."

"You shouldn’t be following me."

"But if I don’t…What if you don’t come back?"

"You were angry when you left. What if you ran into something stronger? What if you got hurt? What if someone else found you before I did?"

"I won’t allow that."

You barely remembered collapsing into bed that night. After the dungeon run, the fight with Su, and the weight of the entire day pressing down on you, exhaustion had won over.

AAAAAAAAAAH

Your eyes fluttered open.

Did you hear a scream? The room was quiet now, eerily so. Maybe you had imagined it? A leftover thought from some distant dream?

Then—another noise.

You were on your feet before you realized it. You stormed toward the living room, prepared for something.

Su wasn’t awake. He was curled on the couch. His breath came in ragged, uneven gasps, his brows tightly furrowed, and his fingers clutched the fabric beneath him as if it was the only thing anchoring him.

"No…" he murmured. "Don't leave me…Don't do this... "

"Y-you alright?"

He didn’t respond.

"Kevin? Why are you..."

Without thinking, you moved closer, kneeling beside him. His breath was uneven, and for a moment, you wondered if touching him would make things worse. But watching him tremble made it impossible to just stand there.

You reached out, resting a firm hand on his shoulder. "Wake up!"

In a flash, his hand shot up and grabbed your wrist.

You barely had time to react before his eyes snapped open.

"…You’re alive."

You nodded slowly. "Of course... You were having a nightmare."

"I… apologize" he murmured, "I didn’t mean to disturb you."

"You don’t have to apologize," you said, still watching him carefully. "Do you… want to talk about it?"

For a moment, Su looked like he might answer. But then, he stopped himself from doing so.

"It was just a dream. You should rest. I’ll be fine."

You weren’t sure if you believed that.

-----

By now, you had grown used to Su’s presence lingering around you, always nearby. Whether you liked it or not, he had woven himself into your routine.

But today, he was nowhere to be found.

At first, you ignored it. Maybe he had finally gotten the message and left. Maybe he was resting after the nightmare from last night. Maybe he realized there was no point in staying with you.

Yet, as the hours ticked by, an uneasy feeling settled in your chest.

So you went looking.

You were walking through the streets, half-expecting him to be waiting at some corner, when you overheard a group of kids running past, chatting excitedly.

"That weird guy is still there!"

"Yeah! He’s just staring at that tree like it’s gonna talk to him or something!"

You knew exactly who they were talking about.

Turning on your heel, you caught one of the kids’ attention. "Hey, where?"

They eagerly pointed toward a small park down the street.

And sure enough—when you arrived, Su was there.

He stood beneath a towering tree, his hair gently swaying in the breeze. From afar, he looked impossibly serene, his eyes half-lidded in thought as he inspected a handful of leaves between his fingers.

He hadn’t noticed you yet.

You exhaled before approaching. "Su."

"Mm?" He didn’t even flinch at your sudden presence. Instead, he turned his gaze toward you, calm as ever. "You found me."

"I shouldn’t have had to. Why here?"

He glanced back at the tree. "I just wished to observe."

You frowned, crossing your arms. "Observe what? A tree?"

"They’re different here." His fingers brushed against the leaves, "The veins, the way they curl at the edges… They resemble ones I’ve seen before, yet they’re not quite the same."

"You’re seriously getting lost in thought over leaves right now?"

Su finally turned to fully face you. "Is it strange?"

"Yes."

"You say that, yet you still came to find me."

"You should find somewhere to stay," you said. "Or your family. Someone who knows you."

"I have already decided. I will stay with you."

-----

If Su wanted to stay, then fine. But he needed to pull his weight—in a normal way. Not by cooking and cleaning like some overly devoted servant, but by actually getting a job and proving that he could function in society like a normal person.

Except…

It wasn’t going well.

Su had no background. No identification. No records.

That alone made every employer suspicious. Pair that with his eerily calm demeanor and strange, too-perfect speech patterns, and not a single place would take him in.

You glanced at Su as you both sat on a worn wooden bench in a quiet plaza. His posture was as straight as ever, hands folded neatly on his lap, looking completely unbothered by the failure of the day.

Meanwhile, you were exhausted.

"This is impossible," you groaned, rubbing your temples. "Not a single person trusts you."

"That is understandable," Su replied. "I do not belong to this era."

"You really need to stop saying things like that."

He merely offered a small smile. Then, after a pause, he tilted his head slightly and murmured, "We will succeed in the Veridion Tradepost."

"…What?"

"I saw it" he said, completely serious.

You stared at him, waiting for him to say he was joking. He did not.

"Right..."

"We will find an employer there. One who does not care for background checks. One who simply requires results."

You exhaled slowly. "Su, if you’re just guessing—"

"I am not guessing. You will see."

The place was as chaotic as you remembered—merchants haggling, travelers passing through, deals being made in hushed voices.

It wasn’t exactly the best place to find employment, but it wasn’t the worst either.

And, somehow, Su was right.

You weren’t sitting for more than five minutes before a man approached, eyeing Su with a shrewd look. "You. You look sharp. You good with numbers?"

Su nodded once. "Yes."

"Good. You start now. We’ll handle the pay later."

You stared in disbelief as the man turned and gestured for Su to follow. Just like that.

Your head snapped toward Su. "You—"

"Told you so."

"Don’t get smug about this."

"I wouldn’t dream of it."

You huffed, crossing your arms. "You better not screw this up."

-----

The exhaustion from the day knocked you out as soon as you hit the bed.

You didn’t even remember dreaming.

Yet, something pulled you from sleep. A strange feeling, like you weren’t alone.

Your instincts kicked in immediately, your body tensing—then your eyes snapped open.

And there he was.

Su was sitting beside your bed, his silhouette barely illuminated by the faint glow of the moonlight filtering through the window.

"What is going on?"

"You were restless. I was making sure you were alright."

"…What?"

"You had a nightmare."

You frowned, trying to shake off the grogginess. "I don’t…" You trailed off, searching your mind for any scraps of a bad dream, but there was nothing. Your sleep had been deep.

"I don’t remember that"

"I saw it."

"Saw it?"

He nodded slightly. "Your breathing changed. You murmured something—"

"Su," you cut in, rubbing your temples. "Even if I did move in my sleep, that doesn’t mean it was a nightmare. Sometimes people just… shift around."

"No."

The certainty in his voice made you pause.

"Something disturbed you. And I was here to make sure it wouldn’t harm you."

"I appreciate the concern, but I’m fine. You should go back to sleep—you have work tomorrow."

"...As you wish."

----

Su had worked hard these past few weeks. You had to admit—even if he was suspiciously too perfect at everything he did—he earned his keep.

And today, he had done something surprising.

He invited you for a meal.

"It’s only proper," he had said earlier. "The first meal I pay for with my earnings should be shared with you."

It was oddly… sentimental. But you weren’t going to turn down free food.

Except when Su arrived at your place to pick you up—he found it empty.

And then he saw you. You had just finished a minor dungeon run, nothing serious—just an excuse to clear your head and let off some steam. You emerged from the ruins with a group of fellow adventurers, laughing lightly as you wiped off stray bits of monster slime.

And there was him. Orion. A fellow explorer, taller than most. He had a hand lazily slung over your shoulder, grinning as he leaned close.

Su did not like that. Not one bit.

"Oh, there you are!" you finally said when Su made his presence known, stepping forward from the crowd. "I was just about to head back—"

"Clearly," Su cut in smoothly, his gaze flickering to Orion, "Though it seems I wasn’t needed after all."

"What?"

Orion smirked, "Relax, pretty boy. We were just finishing up—"

"And you were unbearably close. I wonder, do you always hover like a parasite, or is this a special occasion?"

Orion let out a laugh, "Big words for someone who looks like he’d snap in half with a strong breeze."

"Words?" Su’s tone remained eerily calm. "Or simply facts? You—who couldn’t even match me in a million possibilities—think you stand a chance?"

The playful glint in Orion’s eyes shifted to anger. "Yeah?" he said, rolling his shoulders. "Want to try?"

Before you could stop them, Orion swung.

Su dodged effortlessly, his body shifting like he had already seen every possible angle of attack. Then, in a single fluid motion, he struck—his fingers pressing sharply against a nerve in Orion’s wrist, forcing him to drop his weapon with a startled curse.

"Predictable," Su murmured in disappointment, his grip tightening just enough to make Orion wince. "You lost the moment you decided to challenge me."

"Tch—!" Orion struggled, but it was useless. "Damn—what the hell are you?!"

"Someone you shouldn’t challenge."

"Alright, enough. We’ll talk later!" you called over your shoulder to Orion and the others while grabbing Su away.

You had tried everything—reasoning, scolding, even outright ignoring him—but nothing worked. So, in a final act of defiance, you decided on something drastic. You refused to eat.

It wasn’t like you were starving yourself entirely—you just made it clear that you wouldn’t eat any food he made, nor would you accept anything from him until he stopped his nonsense.

At first, he didn’t take you seriously. Then, by the second day, you could see the frustration seeping into his usually calm features.

"This is foolish," he finally admitted, watching you push away yet another meal. "I yield. Eat."

You leaned back, crossing your arms. "And?"

"And I will not be… unreasonable."

You gave a firm nod, finally picking up a piece of food. "See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?"

Su didn’t reply.

Instead, he merely watched you eat.

----

The Abyssal Maw was considered a mid-tier dungeon. Dangerous, but nothing a well-prepared team couldn’t handle.

That’s what they thought.

That’s what they all thought.

When the party descended into the ruins, there were no immediate threats. The air was damp, thick with the scent of moss and old stone. Flickering torches lined the walls, casting elongated shadows. The deeper they ventured, the quieter it became, as if the dungeon itself was swallowing sound.

Then, one by one—people vanished.

"Where’s Orion?"

"He was just here!"

"Spread out! We can’t lose anyone else—! Velan? VELAN?"

But those who went searching never returned.

Some would hear a whisper, a familiar voice calling from just around the corner. They would step toward it, convinced it was a teammate—only for the world around them to shift.

They were no longer in the dungeon.

Instead, they found themselves in a dream.

Some stood in warm sunlight, reliving their happiest moments. Others found themselves in places they had long forgotten—childhood homes, old battlefields, lost memories crafted with perfect, vivid detail.

The ones who realized it wasn’t real—who tried to break free—were met with something else entirely.

They saw the walls of their dream world crack, and through those fractures, a pair of eyes watched them from the abyss.

Then—blackness.

They never woke up again.

Not everyone was taken into the dream world.

Some were left behind.

And for them, the dungeon was no longer just a dungeon. It became a graveyard.

A slow, rhythmic tap of something wet hitting stone.

The first corpse was discovered impaled against the dungeon wall—suspended unnaturally, as if something had arranged it on purpose. His eyes were missing. His face was frozen in silent horror.

The second was found curled in a corner, clutching his own throat—his own nails having ripped through his flesh as if trying to claw something out of his body.

The third was alive when they found him.

"It’s here," he whispered, trembling violently. "It’s still watching."

"What? What’s watching?!"

He turned his head, staring at them with his own reflection.

His face had no features. Only a smooth, mirror-like surface that showed nothing but their horrified expressions looking back.

Then, he laughed, right before his body collapsed into nothing but black mist.

By the time the last few adventurers reached the exit, they were no longer warriors. They were survivors.

They didn’t know what had happened.

They didn’t know what had killed their comrades.

All they knew was that something had hunted them.

When you returned home, you found Su collapsed at your doorstep.

His breath was shallow. His clothes were torn, stained with dirt and streaks of what looked like blood. His usually pristine hair was disheveled, and his fingers twitched weakly as if he had barely made it back.

"Su—!" You rushed forward, kneeling beside him. "What happened?!"

His lashes fluttered as he barely opened his eyes. "Ah… You’re here…" His voice was hoarse, "I… I tried to make it back sooner…"

You lifted him up, wrapping his arm around your shoulder. "Hold on, I’m taking you for treatment."

"I apologize," he murmured, his breath warm against your neck as you supported him. "For making you worry."

You shook your head, dismissing the thought. "Just focus on staying awake, alright?"

And though his body trembled against yours—though he played the role of the injured victim so perfectly—

There was one thing you didn’t see.

The faintest, smallest smile on his lips.

---

The night was silent.

Not a single trace of wind. No footsteps in the empty streets. Only the soft glow of the moon illuminating the world beneath it.

A figure walked through the darkened city with precise, unhurried steps. His clothes were pristine once more, his earlier “injuries” long gone as if they had never existed.

Because he had never been weak to begin with.

His destination stood ahead—the Grand Archives Museum.

The place where everything began.

The place where the egg had once rested.

And the place that could no longer be allowed to exist.

Su moved like a shadow, slipping past the outer guards undetected.

Security was pitifully simple. Locked doors meant nothing. Magical barriers had gaps he could exploit. And the few night patrols? They never even saw him.

He entered the halls one last time.

His gaze swept across the exhibits—ancient artifacts, forgotten relics. Useless things. Things that had no meaning except for one.

His fingers traced the empty pedestal where the egg had once been displayed.

Everything had gone perfectly.

But just to be certain, just to be sure—

It had to be erased.

He took a small vial from his sleeve, tilting it between his fingers. The liquid inside shimmered unnaturally. Su let the liquid drip onto the floor, the walls, the displays. He walked through the museum painting destruction itself with each precise step.

He set it alight.

The fire bloomed without sound. No crackling, no roaring flames—just a silent, hungry inferno that devoured everything without mercy.

By the time the alarms blared, the flames had already swallowed the heart of the museum. By the time the first people arrived—it was too late.

The Grand Archives were reduced to ash.

Far from the burning ruins, he sat in a quiet, secluded space—his sanctuary of thought.

Visions unfolded before him.

Infinite possibilities. Countless paths.

But nothing. No immediate threats. No unforeseen obstacles. No future where you left him.

It was exactly as it should be.

Everything was falling into place.