#again this isn’t a good explanation of my full thoughts

[ponderingmoonlight]

Seeing JJK men shirtless for the first time

Pairings: (true form) Sukuna x fem! reader; Nanami x fem!reader; Choso x fem!reader; Gojo and Geto x fem!reader; Ino x fem!reader; Toji x fem!reader; Ijichi x fem!reader

Word Count: 6k (this is literally one third of my bachelor thesis lmao)

Warnings: Spice in Sukuna's, a little bit in Choso's and in Toji's part, true form Sukuna so slight spoilers regarding his appearance, I'm sorry but Choso's part is a lil shitty

Notes: You guys...This has to be my biggest fic yet and let me tell you, I poured my heart and soul into this piece. So please, if you find the time, leave me a like, a comment or a reblog. I appreciate it more than you could imagine 🤍

Sukuna

You don’t even know how you ended up here. To be exact, it still feels like a feverish dream to you. Only one second ago, you were on your way to find your friends, injured with your shoulder throbbing each passing second. But now…

Your eyes roam around the barely lit area, gleaming in that unpromising red light that runs shivers down your spine. There is absolutely no logical explanation for how you ended up here.

“Sure took you some time to finally wake up again.”

That dark voice hollering at you, the sarcastic undertone in it. It’s a man, without any doubt. And just by the sound of his masculine voice you can tell that he’s build like a wall.

Is it wise to move forward, to discover this place? Well, standing here like an idiot definitely won’t help to find a way out of here, right? And you definitely need to find out who that man is…

“Who are you?”

Your voice gets lost against the tall walls, echoes back at you over and over again. But no answer.

“Are you the reason for me being here?”

There is no doubt in the fact that his eyes are all over you. Like a hunter, he roams around you in silence while your tingling nerves almost cause you to lose your mind. Who is he? Where are you? What is all of this?

Your feet dash forward once again. Straight into the darkness, chasing after a dim beam of light that catches your interest immediately. Maybe this is your way out, maybe you’ll get to meet your friends again, maybe-

Suddenly your breath gets stuck in your throat, feet stopping immediately. That thing…

You swallow hard, eyes fixated on the most muscular male upper body you’ve seen in your entire life. No, this isn’t a thing. This is a grown man.

“Stop staring at me like that”, he growls with his now familiar voice.

This is him, the person who talked to you earlier. You want to confront him, want to ask him for a way out, but instead you stare him up and down. Those oh so muscular four arms decorated by hypnotizing tattoos, a chest so broad it takes you all your strength to outstand the urge to press your head against it. But what really catches you off guard is his mouth. No, not the mouth on his face. Your gaze gets caught by the parted lips that cover his stomach, teeth exposed to threatful that the thought of getting killed crosses your mind for a split second.

“Are you done now, stupid girl?”

Before you even realize what’s happening, you find yourself lying in his arms, his body pressed so tightly against yours that you fail to breathe. His half naked body, muscles touching your bare skin…

Oh god, this is so wrong. There is no doubt in the fact that this is Sukuna in his true form, the king of curses in his full glory. And you? You are nothing but a tiny human compared to him, an ant underneath his boot.

But why does it feel so good, then? Why do your knees give him, why does your body start to throb in places where it shouldn’t?

A whimper escapes your lips, body almost collapsing into itself when you can feel his mouth there.

Against your bare skin.

Caressing the sensitive flesh of your thighs.

“If you just break into my kingdom like that, then I can do whatever I want with you”, he whispers against your ear.

“P-please”, you groan, not even knowing yourself what exactly you’re begging for.

“(y/n)?”

You close your eyes, searching for the feeling of his tongue against your skin.

“(y/n)!”

No, don’t open your eyes, don’t get distracted.

“(Y/N)!”

When your eyes dart open again, you aren’t greeted by Sukuna’s stinging gaze. No, the innocent eyes that look at you filled with worry belong to someone else.

“Man, you really have me worrying out here for you. You just broke down and started whimpering”, Yuji explains while lifting you off the ground.

Was it…all a dream?

Nanami Kento

Your heart races, blood rushing through your ears like electricity. You told him right from the start that leaving on his own wasn’t a good idea, that the injuries of other jujutsu sorcerers make you believe this might be a special grade curse.

But Nanami Kento never listens when you worry about him.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but it seems like there’s a gaping wound placed under my ribcage on my right side.”

You didn’t hesitate a single second, rushed after him with your little case like you always do. As Shoko’s co-worker, it’s your responsibility to look after injured jujutsu sorcerers. Even though you’ll never be as good as her, you will always make it your mission to help as fast as possible.

Especially him.

His signal grows stronger and stronger with every step you dash towards his location, mind racing back and forth. A gaping wound, what is that supposed to mean? Did he get hit by a gun, a curse? You don’t allow yourself to catch your breath, eyes focused on the little dot that comes closer.

“Are you alright, (y/n)? You really don’t need to rush to my side like that.”

A wave of relief washes over you when you see him leaning against the wall of a public toilet. But only until you catch a glimpse of the deep red tissues covering the sink and ground, his usual dark blue shirt discoloured in horrific crimson.

All colour drains from yourself while you lunge yourself at him, thick fear rushing through your veins.

“Why didn’t you call me sooner? You already lost a hell amount of blood”, you press out, inspecting the wound carefully.

This looks bad. Really really bad. If you don’t act right now, if you don’t start to use your technique immediately…

“Take off that shirt. Now”, you instruct him without waiting for his response while putting on gloves and showering your hands in sanitizer.

You fail to understand the meaning of your automatic words until he stands in front of you, bare chested.

Oh.

Your breath gets stuck in your throat all over again, eyes shamelessly discovering the way his muscular chest rises and falls steady.

“Did you just…”

Suddenly your mouth feels dry like the desert, mind unable to form a single sentence. Since you know Nanami Kento, you always know him as that well-dressed gentlemen in that suit that makes his butt look delicious and his shirt that leaves you pondering about the way he might look underneath when you’re supposed to work. There was never an opportunity to peek at more than his veiny forearm. And now this force of a man is standing right in front of your hungry eyes, showing you that reality is so much better than everything you could have imagined.

“Sorry, didn’t you tell me to take my shirt off?”

“I…”

When Shoko wasn’t around, you always pondered about the way he might look under his dark blue shirt. Do his tight muscles draw those valleys onto his belly you’ve seen on TV before? Does his biceps have that popping vein his forearms make you suspect?

You can’t help but allow your eyes to roam around his frame freely. That little scar decorating his chest. Is it from a fight? And that minor trail of untrimmed hair that lets your gaze wander to places…

“I don’t want to be rude but…I’m not feeling that well, (y/n). Would you mind treating me?”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Blood rushes into your cheeks immediately, face heating up by the horrific thought that he caught you staring at his bare chest like an idiot. Fuck, he definitely thinks you’re nothing but a freak now. What if he’ll ignore you from now on? What if you won’t see him again after that? What a dumbass you are, didn’t you see countless men without a shirt on already-

“Hey, stop worrying. I’m more than flattered that I caught the attention of someone like you but…let’s do this when I’m feeling better.”

Your widened eyes fail to leave his oh so gorgeous face while your trembling hands go to work, mind too focused on what he just said.

“Let’s do what?”, you finally breathe out.

Is this…a smile forming on Kento Nanami’s lips? You feel like tripping all over again, heart pounding so roughly against your ribcage that you might pass out right by his side any given moment.

“I like the way you look at me, (y/n).”

What a simple reply. And yet, his words send you into another dimension.

“You…WHAT?”

Choso Kamo

Your body threatens to fail you, eyes in desperate search for Yuji. When Megumi finally gave in and told you he went out on his own, you almost lost your mind. Yuji, Sukuna’s vessel, on his own in Shibuya when everyone chases after him? Megumi definitely deserves another slap for that.

You sprint down the empty hallways of Shibuya’s train station, following the distant sound of battle. Please, let Yuji be alright. As his bigger sister, it was always your aim to protect him. When Yuji joined Jujutsu High, you did as well. When Yuji decided to fight in first row, you did too. There is no way you’ll allow your little brother to die, even though technically you aren’t related by blood. But even as your step brother, you can’t afford to lose him.

“Yuji?”

Nothing. Your body hollers back at you unanswered, mind slowly but surely starting to get into panic mode as the sound of cracking metal grows closer and closer.

And then you see it, the chaos that lays itself out in front of you dipped in neon purple lights. Blood is splattered across the area, the floor swimming in water that escapes the nearby toilet.

The toilet…You furrow your eyebrows. Is this… a wave of pink hair?

“Yuji?”

His eyes meet yours. The so determined gleam in them escapes instantly when fright replaces it.

“Get away from here right now, (y/n)!”, he screams at you just before a fist pushes him into a nearby wall violently.

Your brain threatens to fail you, body dashing into the toilet without thinking twice. Whoever this is will pay for hurting your brother so violently, for causing all this mess.

“Didn’t I tell you to walk away?”, Yuji questions with an irritated voice.

“And I told you more than once that I won’t leave you hanging!”, you hiss through gritted teeth.

“Are you two done?”

A male voice that makes you turn your head instantly. The second your eyes find him, your breath gets stuck in your throat. Oh, what a force of a man he is with strands of dark hair sticking to his wet face, his gorgeous eyes looking at you so unbothered. But what almost sweeps you off your feet is the way his robe allows you a single peek at his firm muscles that are lit by neon purple.

“Oh my”, you mumble to yourself.

Who on earth is this guy? Why is he fighting Yuji? But most importantly…Why does he have to look so steaming hot?

“Why are you not moving, (y/n)? Get out of here right now”, Yuji taunts urgently.

“What a waste”, you jeer at the man in front of you while taking a few steps towards him.

Choso can’t help but look at you bamboozled. How you move so confidently even though you don’t even know who he is, your eyes still fixated on…

His body? Are you looking at his abs?

“That a handsome guy like you acts like this.”

His eyes widen unintentionally, hands not daring to move. He should kill you right on the spot, should end your life just like that of Itadori Yuji. You’re partly responsible for the violent death of his brothers as well, given the fact that you’re also wearing that uniform. But his tight fists don’t dare to move a single inch, glued to his sides.

“Idiot, you don’t even know who you’re talking to. I will kill you just like Yuji Itadori, I will-“

“Will you, though?”

You come to a stand in front of him.

“W…What are you doing, (y/n)?”

Yuji’s voice shifts into the background. This definitely isn’t the first time you get close to a handsome man, but the others definitely weren’t that handsome. Just one look into his surprised eyes, the delicate marks on his face. And that force of a body. There is no doubt in the fact that this man trains a lot.

“I am distracting him, what else?”, you purr.

“I am not distracted.”

“Are you sure about that?”

Before he’s able to think about your words any further, you wrap your longing arms around his neck and hold him firmly against yourself.

“Because your eyes tell me something else.”

Now it’s Choso who fails to breathe. He never understood the simplicity of tender touch, the urge that drives humans almost crazy. What is so special about another hand placed against your skin, about lying in each other’s arms? He might have never understood if it wasn’t for you. You with your arm wrapped around his neck. You, with your free hand wandering down his chest, the wet fabric exposing his tight muscles without mercy.

In the split of a second, he begins to realize what touching each other seems to be about.

“Respect. Out of all the trained men I see on a daily basis, you have to be the most handsome one out of all. You work out a lot, don’t you?”

Your fingertips discover the valleys of his abs even further, force Choso to feel an uncomfortable tightness in his pants. Fuck, he doesn’t even know your name, has never seen you before. How is it even possible for you to have this power over him?

“None of your business, idiot”, he breathes out.

“What’s your name?”

Your voice does things to him his mind fails to understand, his sharp breath now hanging in the air between both of you. You are threatening, your glowy eyes showing more than urgently that you aren’t playing. But that slight smile on your face, the confidence dripping from every pore of your body…Who are you?

“Choso Kamo.”

“I’m (y/n)”, you reply while allowing your eyes to take one last glance at his tight abs.

Oh, you’ll definitely regret what you’re about to do. What if you won’t get to see him afterwards, the most handsome man you ever laid eyes on? There’s no other way, though.

“And I hope I’ll get the chance to be this close to you again.”

One innocent kiss pressed against his soft lips. One innocent kiss that sends him straight onto the ground, emerged into nothing but darkness. A pretty useful cursed technique, probably the reason why you get called femme fatale at Jujutsu High.

“What a shame, I really liked that guy”, you comment with Yuji coming to a stand right by your side.

“You didn’t have to touch his abs like that…”

“Oh I definitely did”, you reply instantly.

Your hands brush over his upper body one last time before you turn around and walk away.

Gojo Satoru & Geto Suguru

What a lovely day. Well, lovely apart from the stinging fact that you are forced to babysit the vessel of Tengen-sama when a bunch of bounty hunters chases after you. Your shaded eyes roam around the area without any break, too scared of the consequences that carelessness could have. In contrast to Gojo, you take this task very seriously. You, who is nothing but an average jujutsu sorcerer at jujutsu high, surpassed by her classmates a long time ago. Who, who only got the chance to go on this mission by coincidence.

Well, and then there’s him.

“(y/n), why are you not wearing a bikini? We’re at the beach, aren’t we?”

Gojo Satoru, the honoured one. Of course, they would choose him to escort the plasma vessel. It’s only logical for him to be here.

“We’re on a mission, Satoru”, you remind him urgently without even looking his way.

“Hey, are you alright? There’s no need to be so tense, (y/n). We have everything under control.”

And then there’s also him, Geto Suguru. The boy with the most charismatic smile you’ve even seen, so gentle and kind that it’s almost unbelievable he’s even talking to Satoru.

“I won’t be tense when she’s finally with Tengen-sama. This mission is very important to me”, you mumble with your eyes fixated on Riko and Misato walking in front of you, completely unbothered by the fact that both of them almost died more than once.

“Hey, stop looking so serious, (y/n)! I’m here to save you if it get’s heated”, Gojo purrs from behind, literally forcing you to roll your eyes behind your sunglasses.

“Why do you always have to tease her like this? (y/n) can help herself and you know that”, Geto remarks instantly, letting himself fall behind to mumble something you can’t understand into his best friend’s ear.

You worked your ass of for this opportunity, always stayed longer than anyone else on the training field, always learned until far past midnight while everyone else was sound asleep. There was never anything except getting a better jujutsu sorcerer in your life. God, you didn’t even have a single boyfriend in all those years.

Enough. You straighten your shoulders and force your eyes onto Rika again. For now, you have a job to do. There’s no time to think about something so wasteful as boys.

Your gaze roams around the beach before you allow the plasma vessel to get into the water with a wink. No one but a little family without cursed energy is located around you, so everything should be fine. Also, Gojo would have detected an enemy with his six eyes. Gojo…where on earth is he, though?

When you turn around in order to follow his and Geto’s muted voice, your breath gets stuck in your throat. You really don’t know what you expected when going to the beach with both Suguru and Satoru, but that? Both of them wear nothing but shorts and a shirt – an opened shirt. Your gaze hits their bare chests one after another, races back and forth while your mouth opens on its own. To be honest, you’ve never seen a real guy shirtless. Maybe here and there at the swimming pool when you were training or at the beach. But they weren’t like them. They weren’t this toned.

“Enjoying the view, (y/n)? Looks like a cat got ya tongue, huh?”, Satoru jeers at you.

“Not every girl looks at you, Satoru”, Suguru comments dryly.

“Hey, are you alright, (y/n)?”

You missed out.

Fuck, you definitely missed out.

How is this he first time you saw both of them shirtless? Geto with a firm body that doesn’t match his soft personality at all. Gojo, who isn’t only blessed with his immense powers but with a god-like body as well.

“I…Uh…”

You can’t find words. How are you supposed to say anything logical when your heart almost beats out of your chest? They were never more than comrades to you, never more than strong jujutsu sorcerers you look up to. But damn, at this very moment, you truly see them as man.

Suguru puts his hand on his hip which makes his muscles dance delicately, head tilted to the side in sheer confusion while he walks towards you. Lord have mercy, you really are doomed. How are you supposed to concentrate on this mission when now you’re aware of how they look underneath those strict uniforms?

“Are you feeling unwell? It’s totally fine if you go back to the ho-“

“No”, you interrupt Suguru immediately when he puts his hand on your shoulder.

His bare hand.

While he stands in front of you with his bare chest.

You never longed for men. No, your only interest has always been your training, to become greater, better, faster, stronger. But at this very moment, when both of their toned bodies stare right back at you, you suddenly feel a weakness you’ve never felt before, a hunger that was unknown until now.

“Can’t you see that (y/n) is busy staring at us right now, Suguru? Bet that’s your first time ever seeing something apart from training”, Satoru teases you.

Faster than your mind is able to follow, he stands in front of you, grabs your wrists and presses your palm against his naked chest. His heartbeat pulsates against your fingertips, forces a warmth between your legs you’ve never felt before. Those tiny hair that tickle against your oversensitive skin, the heat that radiates from his body, that makes you almost faint.

You stumble back a few steps only to get caught by Suguru, who presses you against his body firmly.

“Hey, are you not feeling well?”

“I…I…”, you stutter.

Oh god, you feel like dying and flying at the same time, lying like an idiot in Suguru’s arms while Satoru still grins at you.

“Want me to take off my pants as well, (y/n)?”

“SATORU!”

Ino Takuma

“Why do I have to train with this jerk again?”

Your eyes roll backwards while you let yourself fall onto a nearby bench theatrically. God, how much you hate that guy, the way he always acts so competent around Nanami makes your guts turn in pure disgust. Doesn’t he understand that you are better than him, that you are Nanami’s favorite student? Ino Takuma doesn’t stand a chance against you.

But why does Nanami insist on both of you training together, then?

“Because both of you need to work on your abilities and you complement each other perfectly.”

“That’s not true!”, you answer along with each other instantly.

No, you despise Ino with all your heart. There’s nothing you could learn from him. Him with that stupid grin, him with that dumb confident walk, him in that oversized black sweater.

“I will be back after my mission. It is your choice how you spend your time until then. Stay safe.”

Fuck, Nanami knows exactly what he did with those words. Of course, there’s no way around spending your time with that jerk now.

“Can you stop breathing so fucking loud?”, you jeer at him.

“Me? Nothing but hot air comes out of your mouth. Save your breath, idiot”, Ino bites back instantly.

“You know what? Let’s start right now. I can’t wait to beat your puny ass.”

You dash to the other side of the large room after bumping into his shoulder provocatively. There is no doubt in the fact that you will make Ino regret coming into your life like this. You are the one and only one who deserves a recommendation from Nanami and not him. Just one look into his oh so confident face makes your veins pulsate.

“What’s wrong? Are you scared, (y/n)?”

You let out your shaky breath, hands balling into tight fists. That fucker will regret every stupid comment he ever made when you’re done with him.

“If you were as good at staying dumb stuff as you were at fighting, you’d probably be a special grade by now.”

He dashes towards you with his mask covering his face. Just in time, you are able to dodge his merciless attack while holding onto your sword so tightly that your knuckles stand out white. Over and over, he tries to hit you, tries to distract you while you swing your swords without regard as well.

“I won’t lose this fight, (y/n)”, he presses out while pushing you backwards.

“I won’t either.”

Over and over, again and again, your body collapse against each other, his flying fist missing your face only by inches. You have to fight back harder, sweat sticks to your forehead while you squint your eyes in order to follow his rapid movements. How much you hate to even think about the stinging fact that Ino is a decent fighter, that both of you actually meet eye to eye.

You ball your fists even tighter, let your powers roam free in your pulsating veins. Still, you won’t allow him to win this. You will stump him into the ground, make Nanami proud, show him that you deserve his recommendation. This is your only way to become a grade 1 sorcerer, to surpass Ino.

With one well-placed dash of your bare hand, his sweater gets torn into pieces while you position yourself in front of him, so ready to give him that last hit he deserves, so ready to win this fight.

This fight…Your eyes follow the movement of your hand, watch how the black fabric hangs on for dear life, how it reveals something you’ve never seen before.

Your eyes widen in sheer surprise, blinking against the sudden sensation that hits you. Are those really Ino’s abs? So well-toned that you simply can’t look away, covered in a layer of glittering sweat and flexed to the brim.

“Oh my god”, you mutter to yourself.

This is definitely not the sight you expected. Of course you know how much he trains, that he has to be somehow fit. But that?

“Why you’re looking at me like that?”

“You look like fucking adonis”, you spit at him.

“Why do you have to look so damn good?”

“Huh?”

“This is not fair”, you continue, grabbing his arm and yanking him towards you.

“You don’t deserve to look like that.”

“Are you out of your mind, you idiot?”, he hisses through gritted teeth.

Like in slow motion, a sudden redness creeps up his face and discolors his cheeks red.

“Just shut the fuck up”, he continues.

Your eyes travel downwards his body again. What a great figure, what a body of steel. Why does it have to be Ino Takumo who looks this damn good? Why on earth does it have to be him? Your cheeks heat up like fire, a nauseous feeling threatening to eat you up alive. Is it even more disgust, more hatred than you already hold for him? No, this feels somehow different.

Is this…desire?

“I need to get out of here”, you announce before turning on your heel and aiming to walk away.

“No, there’s no way in hell I’ll let you leave like that you creep. Did you just check me out? I thought you’re disgusted of me.”

He grabs your arm and pulls you backwards before you’re able to stop him, his eyes gleaming at you.

There you stand, both of you with red faces, just looking at each other like plain idiots while you force yourself to keep your eyes focused on his face.

“You don’t deserve to be this hot”, you reply in a haste.

Why do his lips suddenly look this inviting? You actually never saw him up-close, always kept your save distance to your greatest enemy. Ino is a jerk, nothing but a trash talker, a pain in your ass since you first saw him. But on the other hand, he’s well-toned and strangely handsome with the way a coat of sweat decorates his forehead, his troubled eyes and those lips. Those lips you never payed attention to, those lips who did nothing but talking shit until this day. You can’t help but wonder how they feel pressed against yours, how his abs feel pressed against the palms of your hand. Out of instinct, your head moves forward, closes the gap between both of you step by step. How did you never notice his delicate smell and how hot he looks with that mask?

“Ino”, you breathe his name out like a prayer.

“(y/n)…”

“What’s going on here?”

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

You stumble backwards immediately, heart dropping to the floor. There he stands like a knight in shining armour. None other than Nanami Kento.

“I didn’t know you were still busy, I’ll come ba-“

“This is a misunderstanding”, you desperately try to explain yourself.

And there it is. Even worse than seeing him standing in front of you with his arms crossed after catching you only inches away from your worst enemy.

A smile. A tiny fucking smile forming on Nanami’s lips.

“Is it, (y/n)?”

“I hate you”, Ino mumbles next to you.

“I hate you too.”

Toji Fushiguro

To say that you’re bored is an understatement. You feel like fucking dying with that little brat walking by your side. These last days were like a trip to hell and back.

“Let me say I’ll never babysit some stupid kid again”, you announce into the silence around you, earning a cheeky grin from Gojo.

“Totally agree with that.”

“Oh yeah?”, Riko replies challenging.

Just seconds before a blade pierces trough Gojo next to you with full force.

Just before his blood splatters across your face.

“Satoru”, you hear Geto breathe out far away.

“Get Riko away from here right now”, you instruct him out of instinct.

When you turn around, you get greeted by the hottest green eyes you’ve ever seen. The man who forces his blade straight into Gojo’s chest looks stunning with that maniac smile plastered on his gorgeous face.

“Now that’s a pleasant surprise. Apart from piercing through my friend, of course”, you comment dryly.

It’s clear that he’s older than you. Just one glance into his masculine face tells you that he’s no one to be messed with. Well, separately from the sword he pierced through the honoured one.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt ya, princess. But you and your little friends have something I need to kill”, his low seductive voice hollers back at you.

“(y/n), you shouldn’t stay here, y-“

“I got this Suguru. Get Riko to Tengen-sama as soon as possible”, you interrupt him immediately.

Your heart almost beats out of your chest by only a glimpse at the stranger standing in front of you. Finally, something exciting. Or rather, someone exciting.

“C’mon, we both know I can’t let that happen, princess.”

“Get out of here as well and use your reversed technique, Gojo”, you instruct the white-haired man again.

“I’m the honoured one, remember?”

“Well, I’m a woman”, you hiss through gritted teeth while walking past him.

“Seems like we have to fight, then.”

His smirk is intoxicating while he dashes towards you with neck-breaking speed. Over and over, you escape his blade just by inches while enjoying the wave of dopamine that rushes over you.

“You’re hot”, you jeer at him while dodging another attack.

“Ya know, we don’t have to fight here. Lemme finish this real quick and then we’ll have a talk under four eyes”, he replies with his enormous biceps rushing over your head.

“A talk, I’d rather see you naked.”

“Oh yeah? Don’t force yourself.”

A grin creeps up your face while you attack him with both of your swords, swinging through the air so effortlessly that he can’t help but stare at you. How are you so different from all the women he’s met before? So fearless, so forbidden hot. Maybe not his age, but given the gleam in your eyes mature.

What he’d do to run his fingers through your hair once, to watch your expression twitch underneath his merciless touch. You’d sure feel good pressed against his body with your bare back pressed against the mattress.

“Oh no, seems like I broke your shirt. What a shame”, you purr with your eyes locked onto his now exposed upper body.

Just as you expected, exactly how you imagined a man like him to look like. A body built from heaven itself, his abs so firm that you’re sure they’d feel like cement underneath your touch. What a force of a man.

What a shame he came here to sabotage your mission.

“Would have happened sooner or later anyway”, he replies while pinning you against a nearby tree, desire obviously clouding his dark eyes.

You can’t deny the fact that you are oh so tempted to enjoy this little sensation, a timeout from that shitty mission. Carefully, you allow your hands to discover the valleys his upper body has to offer, to feel his muscles tense underneath your merciless touch. There’s no shame in admitting that this was your favorite first glance of a male for a long time.

“You’re probably my favorite.”

The smirk on his face grows even wider while he traps you between his strong arms. What a shame, you think to yourself. You definitely have to tell Gojo to work out even harder after seeing a guy like him.

“But I can’t afford to play favorites when it comes to men. You’re in my way and if you sabotage my mission, I’m screwed, big guy. Let’s just stay here and let that girl live-“

Suddenly all air escapes your lungs, you fail to breathe when he pushes your body onto the ground with full force.

“Thought you were in control, huh? Too bad for ya, I don’t get distracted by a girl touching my abs. Even though I have to admit you’re a nice one. Now you stay here and let me finish your little friend before killing that vessel, okay?”

Your eyes widen in sheer horror as he simply walks away. Him, with his shirt hanging in shreds down his body, exposing his shamelessly toned back to your watery eyes.

He tricked you with the force of his muscles. And you actually fell for it.

Ijichi Kiyotaka

Your heart is racing in your chest, fingertips trembling by the nauseous wave of stress that washes over you. Again, something you didn’t calculate correctly. Again, some students got stuck underneath a curtain.

Your feet rush you to his room immediately. He’s probably the only one who’s able to fix the mess you’ve caused. After all, this is what he always does. Making sure no one gets hurt, having your back when things get messy.

For you, Ijichi is a blessing walking on earth. And he might be your only saviour right now.

With rapid steps, you dash into the building you know so well, the building he calls his come. Even if blindfolded, you’d always find your way to the man who seems so powerless in a world full of people who are ridiculously strong. Forced into the shadow, always looking out for everyone except himself.

“Ijichi, I need your help, I-“

You dashed into his flat like you always do, expected him sitting on the table while reading a book like he always does when you come around. But today, that doesn’t seem to be the chase. All of the sudden your mouth starts to feel dry, eyes fixated on nothing but his naked upper body.

His naked upper body.  

“(y/n)! I…I didn’t expect you here today!”, he frantically mumbles while fighting for dear life with his white shirt.

“I never expected you to be so trained”, you breathe out, glance getting stuck on his surprisingly toned chest and six-pack.

“Don’t make fun of me, (y/n). I’m just an average guy”, he tries to laugh your words off.

“You look fantastic. Literally, you’re definitely able to keep up with Gojo. Are you training in secret?”, you insist.

“Don’t say something like that too loud, (y/n). If he hears you-“

“It’s nothing but the truth. You look absolutely…stunning.”

“Stunning” isn’t enough of a description for those butterflies violently racing through your stomach. It takes all your strength to stop your eyes from moving downwards again, to burn the picture of his toned abs inside your brain. How are you supposed to ever look into his face when knowing very well what an attractive man he is?

“Do you…mean it?”

His eyes meet yours, search for a spark of sarcasm in your glance. But there is no doubt in the fact that you mean it. Every single word you said about his lousy body, the praises.

A woman like you…Finding him attractive?

“Of course I do”, you mumble.

Oh.

Tags:

@arehzhera @ploylulla @tzubaki @beatrexworld @kenstarsworld

@hellkaiserinphoenix  @lauv4chuuya @sindela @kayleegomez @sunshine7queen

@magalimachete @gatitam @idontknow1123 @creative1writings @sanicsmut 

@mynahx3 @sad-darksoul @chilichopsticks @hellkaiserinphoenix @chuyasthighs0

@ynackerman9499 @keepghostly  @froufrousnowman @tomiokathedepresso @gojosrealwife 

@coffeeluvr96 @mahi-tamashi @weebotaku21 @chaoticwinnercupcake @lees-chaotic-brain 

@risuola  @sugurulefttesticle @wordskeeper @baku2345 @polarbvnny

@ruixrei @bam-bam-bam-bame-blog @lavenderdrxp @localhehecat @alicerhr

@kayleegomez @belovedvamp @wifenanami @chilichopsticks @dlwlrmas-world

@oikawarz @darkstarlight82 @satoreo @kentocalls @cheesemachine44

@ryva @kenjakusconcubine @baku2345 @komelrebi-san @deezy12299

@okay-it-is-ivy @paridoliaaa

Links to the pinterest pics used for the banner:

[kanyerealdaughter]

#PREGNANT GIRLFRIEND

fluff , (fem,reader) , cussing , (katsuki baukgo x reader)

other versions | phinks magcub | taiju shiba | renji abarai.

—————————————————————————

imagine asking your boyfriend to shave you down there before you give birth. you would've done it, but your big swollen belly gets in the way every time you try to shave. katsuki large hand rests protectively on your belly again.

" now... how about a warm bath?" he asks softly, knowing how much pregnancy can make your muscles ache.

" okay yeah." you nodded agreeing you gave the green light to katsuki as he helps you stand up, supporting you gently as you rise from the couch. he leads you to the bathroom, running the warm water in the tub and adding some soothing bath salts.

" here, let me help you in." he says, assisting

you into the tub before sitting down beside you. he watches you sink into the water with a small sigh of relief. your baby bump sticks out of the water, round and full. he realizes how protective he feels towards you both. his eyes lower to your body, taking in your fuller breasts, wider hips, and the baby bump.

you started to blush as his eyes roamed over your pregnant body trying to hide underneath the water, he notices your blush and realizes you caught him staring. he grins mischievously, his eyes darkening slightly.

" do you know how sexy you look when you're pregnant?" he asks suddenly, his voice lower than usual. his eyes drop to your breasts again, then to your belly.

" katsuki.." you said softly, but he just chuckles softly at your shy mumble, leaning closer with a playful smirk.

" what? it's true." he murmurs, his fingertips lightly tracing the curve of your baby bump.

" you're carrying our child, your body's changing beautifully... and it's incredibly attractive."

" no it's not that katsuki.. it's just... um.. i-i haven't shaved.. since you know i'm pregnant.. a-and it's difficult to reach down there with my stomach ..." you said awkwardly, staring down at the water.

he smirks turns into a soft, affectionate smile with his reddish face as he listens to your awkward explanation. he gently reaches out, his fingers brushing against your leg under the water.

" mm yeah.. it's okay, sweetheart. i don't mind at all."

" really..?” katsuki expression softens at your request, his heart melting at the thought of taking care of you, even something as simple as shaving your legs.

" of course, i can do it." he says gently practically scoffing at you like he isn’t capable of shaving you, his hand moving to part your legs carefully under the water.

" just relax, okay?" you nodded slowly, feeling a bit happy once he agreed to do it. he carefully washes your legs and private area with a soft washcloth, being extra gentle around your sensitive skin. he then takes out a razor and shaving cream, applying it carefully to your skin. he shaves your legs and private area slowly and carefully, making sure not to nick you.

"... c-cold.." you said quietly, feeling the coldness of the shaving cream.

" almost done." katsuki murmurs softly, his brows furrowing together to see that he really focused, his fingers spreading your legs wider underwater to get a better angle. he rinses the razor in the warm bathwater frequently to keep it clean.

" lift up a little?"

" okay." he gently helps you lift your heavy pregnant belly with one arm to get better access, his other large calloused hand holding the razor. he carefully shaves around your sensitive area, being extra gentle.

" you're doing good, baby. almost done." he reassures you softly.

" can you spread your legs wider?"

" i-i'm trying..." you mumbled slightly whining as your back arch, spreading your legs the best you could with your pregnant belly making your back get in pain slightly.

" shh, you're doing perfectly." he adjusts your position slightly, helping you balance against his shoulder.

" just a little more..." his voice is gentle and patient as he carefully finishes shaving. once done, he thoroughly rinses the area with warm water.

" there... all cleaned up." he helps you lie back comfortably in the tub again, running a warm washcloth over your sensitive skin to make sure it's completely rinsed.

" better?" he asks softly, his hand resting protectively on your belly. his eyes meet yours with a mixture of love and desire.

" thank you, my love.." you said gently with a nod before sinking into the warm bathtub. his expression softens at your thank you, his heart nearly melting at how sweet and trusting you are.

" anytime, baby. that's what i'm here for.. to take care of you and our little one." katsuki said with his fingers trace circles on your belly under the water.

𖣂 KANYEREALDAUGHTER SPEAKS - idkkk i kinda love this on with bakugo.

words - 0.0k

», ᴀ ᴋᴀɴʏᴇʀᴇᴀʟᴅᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ

copyright ©️. ᴘʀᴏᴅᴜᴄᴛɪᴏɴ . «

[heartsriki]

ALWAYS YOURS, NEVER MINE ⌇늦은

pairing ᝰ jungwon x fem!reader (?) — featuring.. riki & jay word count: 3k+

⌇ … warnings & genre ↺ pt. 2, angst, high-school au!, gut-wrenching angst like trust, love triangle, crying, lots of selfishness coming from won, hurt no comfort..., one-sided love.

synopsis — why did jungwon hide rikis love letter to you? (PLEASE READ PART 1)

lee's ₊˚⊹ ᰔ comment ┊there were a lot of questions/asks for explanations from pt. 1 so here it is! guys lowkey started tearing up I'm so sorry jungwon biases... I couldn't help myself again...

5 months before…

Today was Jungwon’s worst day possible. He hadn’t done as well as he wanted on an important test—not a failing grade, but not perfect either. On top of that, he left his stuff somewhere and couldn’t remember where.

Usually, he was calm, cool, and collected, but right now, he felt helpless. Resting his head on his desk, he let the frustration settle in, feeling like he was slowly being submerged in water—until he felt a slight tug on his hair.

Slowly, he lifted his head, only to see you, your hand still hovering above him. You flinched at his movement, clearly not expecting him to be awake.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry! I thought you were asleep, and your hair just looked so fluffy—” you blurted, your words tumbling over each other.

Jungwon just stared at you, silent.

You took his lack of response as a reason to keep going. “Anyway—I found this bag and recognized the name. Here you go!” You slung it over the back of his chair, grinning.

He glanced at the bag before looking back at you. You knew him? He didn’t know you.

The silence stretched, and you hummed, shifting awkwardly. He still hadn’t said thank you. You were about to excuse yourself when you caught a glimpse of the paper under his arms.

“Hey, a 75? That’s great! Man, I barely got a 65—you’re so smart. You wanna study sometime?”

Jungwon opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, the classroom door swung open.

“Y/N! We need you in the student council room—the boys are fighting again!”

You groaned, dragging your hands down your face. Without another word, you gave him a small wave, flashing a pretty smile before running off.

Jungwon raised his head, staring at the spot you had just been. “A 75 isn’t even good,” he murmured, resting his head back down. “What a weirdo.”

Yet, despite himself, he kept thinking back to that moment. He wouldn’t admit it, but it brought him a strange sense of comfort. He also didn’t even want to imagine what would’ve happened if he had really lost his stuff.

Days passed, and while he didn’t speak to you much, he saw you everywhere. Then, one day, as he strolled through the library, he spotted you working at the front desk.

He lingered behind a shelf, watching as you glanced around before sneaking to the back of the library.

Curiosity got the better of him. He followed.

Turning the corner, he caught you opening a small box, slipping a piece of paper inside. When you turned around, both of you flinched.

“Jungwon? What are you doing here?”

He crossed his arms. “What are you doing here? What’s in the box?”

Quickly, you stretched your arms out, blocking him. “It’s nothing.”

Jungwon smirked, trying to peek past you. “If it’s nothing, let me see.”

Before you could stop him, he had already snatched up the paper. You groaned, covering your face as he read it.

“You were embarrassed over cussing someone out for wearing the same headband as you on picture day?” His grin widened, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“I talked about wearing that headband for weeks…” you mumbled, looking away.

For a moment, he stayed silent. And then—he burst out laughing. Full, unrestrained laughter—the kind he hadn’t had in ages.

From that day on, he stayed by your side.

Jungwon was well-known around school. Girls found him handsome, even flirted with him, guys thought he was pretty damn good at sports and cool to hang out with. But because of that pedestal, few ever approached him as a true friend.

You didn’t seem to care about all that.

Instead of just waving at him in the hallway, you ran up to him to rant about your day. Instead of borrowing a pencil and ignoring him for the rest of class, you swapped desk numbers just to sit beside him. Instead of leaving him alone when he shut down, you stayed. Always.

You became his best friend. And he was yours. Thats all he ever needed.

That’s what he told himself, anyway.

February rolled around—the month of love. The halls were littered with Valentine’s posters, the air buzzing with excitement.

Jungwon didn’t think much of it. Maybe he’d just hang out with you that day.

But when he sat down next to you in class, you were grinning at your phone, giggling.

He smiled. “What’s got you so giddy today, huh?”

You turned your screen toward him. “I got Riki’s contact today… look!”

Jungwon’s smile faltered. He glanced at the name on your screen. Ah. Right.

He forgot about your tiny crush on Riki.

Nodding, he turned to the window, pretending it didn’t bother him. But the dull thump in his chest told him otherwise. I guess you’ll be busy that day. How lame.

Later that day, he was on the soccer field when his phone vibrated. Seeing your name, he grinned stupidly and opened the message.

You:

JUNGWONJUNGWONOMG

PLSPLSANSWERLOOKATURPHONE

Wonnie:

Ok what the hell

What is it?

You:

You are NEVER going to believe who just slid into the back of the library.

Wonnie:

Is it Jake again? Poor guy

Maybe Jay? Idk tell me

You:

Nishimura… Riki…

Jungwon stared at the screen.

Riki? Well. It was about time. He had been into you without a doubt.

Scoffing, Jungwon typed back.

Wonnie:

… Fr?

Maybe he confessed to you?

You:

Right, totally.

Jungwon frowned. You could be so oblivious sometimes. To more than one person.

Wonnie:

Think about it.

Setting his phone down, he exhaled sharply. He had a weird urge to see you. Maybe you wanted to talk about it.

He sighed, packing up his things and heading toward the library.

As he neared the back entrance, he spotted Riki slipping out. Their eyes met for a second, but neither spoke.

There was something in that look. Knowing.

Jungwon clenched his jaw and walked past him, slipping inside unnoticed.

Then, his eyes landed on the box.

For a split second, he hesitated. Then, without thinking, he stepped forward.

Glancing around, he reached inside. There were a lot of letters. But he found Riki’s almost immediately—a pink envelope decorated with tiny white hearts, his name written neatly on the front which was uncommon for love letters being left vulnerable in a box.

Jungwon stared at it. “What an idiot.”

Without thinking, he plucked it from the box, turning it over in his hands before slowly opening it.

Inside, a note.

Hey, I don’t really know how to start this. Okay, so… I think you��re really annoying. But for some reason, I like how annoying you are. You’re incredibly nosy, but I don’t mind when you peck at my life. I don’t know when I started to feel this way, but I know how I feel now. I like you. A lot. Too much, actually. If you feel the same, then… I don’t know. You’ll know what to do. You always do. — N.R.

Jungwon exhaled, rubbing his temples.

If you knew about this, you’d be over the moon.

And yet—before he could stop himself—he shoved the letter into his bag.

Why?

He convinced himself it was to toy with you. Something deeper inside knew other wise.

When Jungwon saw you through the student council door, scanning through all the love letters, he felt a soft pang in his chest. You were looking for Riki’s… he knew it.

When he entered, he played it off—laughing, smiling—knowing he had the one thing you had been waiting for this entire year. But when the opportunity came to fess up, he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

When Riki stepped in, both Jungwon and Riki locked eyes. It didn’t even last a second, but the way he looked at him… he knew. He definitely knew that Jungwon had grabbed the letter.

Jungwon excused himself, whispering, “Good luck,” into Riki’s ear. A small part of him meant it. It was more for you.

He walked slowly to the locker room, overthinking about you and Riki. Overthinking about you and himself. What is this? It hurt. It hurt so much.

He was caught off guard by a hand on his shoulder. It was Jay, another friend of his.

“Hey man, where’s your girlfriend?” Jay asked with a knowing grin.

Jungwon blinked, still walking toward the locker room. “Girlfriend? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Jay sighed, glancing around before looking back at him. “Don’t play dumb. You know I’m talking about Y/N. Did you confess yet?”

Jungwon stopped, causing Jay to stumble a little. Jay looked at him, puzzled.

Confess. Did he like you? Is that what this is?

That’s what he thought about for the rest of the day.

He liked you.

He liked you.

He liked you. You. You. You.

He fumbled on the field, spaced out during conversations, and excused himself from after-practice hangouts.

When he got home, he immediately went to his room, throwing himself onto his bed and sighing at the ceiling. The moment of peace was interrupted by a vibration in his right hand. He brought his phone up to his face and saw your contact. You always called him after his practice.

He answered, bringing the phone to his ear. “Hey.”

“AHHHHHHH, Wonnie! You won’t believe it! He likes me back! Isn’t that crazy? For some reason, his love letter went missing—some weirdo took it. But he confessed to me!” you squealed from the other line.

He smiled a little at your happiness, ignoring the heaviness in his chest. “That’s great Y/N… You guys dating now?”

“Actually, we’re taking things slow. He blabbed about needing to take care of something first.”

That made Jungwon sit up. “Take care of something?” he asked.

“Yeah. No clue, but it doesn’t bother me. I’ve been waiting long enough—I can wait a little bit more.” You smiled to yourself.

Jungwon thought. Riki didn’t need to take care of something. He needed to take care of someone.

“I’m sure it’ll happen soon,” Jungwon said, trying to sound reassuring.

You sighed at his words. “Thanks, I feel like the happiest girl in the world.”

Jungwon didn’t respond to that. “I’m pretty tired from practice. Talk to you later?”

“Oh! I’m so sorry, Wonnie! Of course—sleep well, alright?”

“…You too.”

And with that, he hung up.

Jungwon stared at his phone, the call screen fading to black as the weight in his chest settled in. His fingers curled around the device, gripping it tighter than necessary.

He likes me back!

Your words replayed in his head over and over, each time pressing harder against the part of him that had only just realized the truth.

He liked you.

And now, he was too late.

Jungwon exhaled sharply, tossing his phone onto his bed before running a hand down his face. The ceiling blurred in his vision as he lay back down, feeling—what was this? Emptiness? Regret?

He wanted to be happy for you. He was happy for you. You were his best friend. That’s what best friends did. They supported each other, no matter what.

But then why did it feel like his heart was being squeezed in a way that left him breathless?

Riki still hadn’t officially asked you out. That was something, right? But Jungwon knew it wasn’t for the reason you thought.

He needed to take care of someone.

Jungwon scoffed to himself, letting his arm drape over his eyes.

Riki knew. He definitely knew.

And now, Jungwon had a choice to make.

Does he let this be? Pretend his feelings didn’t exist, swallow them whole, and stand by your side like he always had?

Or does he do something about it?

His fingers twitched at the thought, but deep down, he already knew his answer.

Jungwon had never been the type to back down from a challenge. But this—this wasn’t some game. This wasn’t a competition he could win just by trying harder, running faster, pushing himself more.

This was you.

And if anyone deserved to be happy, it was you.

Even if it wasn’t with him.

“Pass it!” Jungwon yelled across the field.

He had been practicing all morning, through breaks, and even during lunch. Soccer was his escape—the only thing that drowned out the noise in his head.

But that peace was shattered when he spotted a figure standing by the benches near his stuff.

Riki.

He stood there, arms crossed, gaze steady. His expression was unreadable, but Jungwon knew exactly why he was here.

Jungwon hesitated for only a second before calling for a break. With a deep sigh, he jogged over, wiping sweat from his forehead before sitting down on the bench. He didn’t look at Riki, just grabbed his water bottle and took a sip.

Riki sat beside him, wasting no time.

“Do you know what happened to my letter?”

Jungwon glanced at him from the corner of his eye, then turned his gaze back to the field. “Why are you asking questions you already know the answer to?” His voice was flat, expression unreadable.

Riki exhaled through his nose, nodding slightly as if he expected that response. “Why?”

Jungwon leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You know the answer to that too.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. The distant shouts of players and the sound of cleats against the field felt worlds away.

Finally, Jungwon sat up, patting his thigh before standing. “Is that it? I’m pretty busy.” He nodded toward the field, crossing his arms.

Riki stood too, this time meeting Jungwon’s gaze head-on. His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it.

“However you feel, take it out on me. Not her, she cares for you.”

Jungwon clenched his jaw.

Riki let the words linger before turning on his heel and walking away.

Jungwon watched him go, fingers tightening around his water bottle. His chest felt heavy, like something was pressing down on it, suffocating him.

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply before kicking the bench. It barely moved, but it was enough to make his frustration bubble over.

Why did Riki have to say it like that? Like he was some selfish idiot who didn’t already know that? Like he didn’t already hate himself for it?

With a forced breath, he shook his head, pushing everything down, just like he always did. He had a game to focus on.

Without another glance at the benches, he jogged back onto the field, forcing himself to get lost in the only thing that still made sense.

A week after that encounter with Riki, Jungwon found himself in your room. He was doing homework while you sat beside him, pouting at your phone. He glanced at you and smiled.

“What are you grumbling about?” he asked.

You sighed, putting your phone down and continuing with your work. “It’s nothing…”

Jungwon raised a brow. He had never seen you this down before. “What? Tell me. You always tell me what’s wrong,” he pushed.

Pouting, you looked at him with puppy eyes. “It’s Riki… It’s been about a week, and I haven’t seen him or heard from him. Do you think he ghosted me?”

Jungwon stiffened. He had overheard from some guys that Riki had gotten into serious trouble with his parents and now had to work overtime at his part-time job. He sighed, looking at you. You were so obviously heartbroken. Should he tell you?

Or should he be selfish?

This was his chance. He could win you over. He could show you that he was here. That he would always be here.

He gulped, staring back down at his work. He was selfish—just for a moment. But then, he heard a broken sniffle come from you. His eyes snapped to you, watching as you tried to dry your tears, a fake smile on your face as if pretending everything was okay.

His heart dropped. Did Riki really mean that much to you?

Jungwon quickly moved next to you, guiding you to rest your head on his lap. Your cries softened as he gently patted your head, just like he always did.

He looked down at you—your eyes shut, your breathing slowing, the tension in your body fading. And then, softly, he spoke:

“I overheard that he got into some pretty big trouble and is working overtime at his job. He probably didn’t want to trouble you with that stupid mentality of his.”

Your eyes shot open. You turned your head, looking up at him. “Really?”

He nodded. “Really.”

In an instant, you shot up, grabbing your jacket and shoes. “Gosh, that jerk. Where does he work? I’m gonna give him a piece of my mind. Text me the address?” you said, pacing around the room.

Jungwon watched you, unable to find the right words. He wanted to stop you.

Before you could rush out the door, he stood up and grabbed your wrist. You looked up at him, confused. “Wonnie? What is it?”

“I—uhm.”

This was it. He should tell you now. If he didn’t, it would kill him. But as he looked at you—eager, desperate to see Riki—he exhaled and let go.

“Take your umbrella. It’s raining.”

You smiled, running past him to grab it. “Thanks! Leave whenever you want! And don’t forget to take some leftovers home!”

And just like that, you were gone.

Jungwon stood frozen, staring at the empty space you had just occupied. Slowly, his eyes wandered around your room.

The walls covered in posters. The notebooks scattered on your desk. The lingering scent of your perfume.

It was all so familiar.

His mind filled with memories—the time you both got front-row tickets to your favorite band and shouted while holding hands, the nights he stayed up to bring you food when you were sick, the first time you hugged him while crying into his chest.

And yet, despite all those moments, despite everything he had done for you… he never came to terms with his feelings.

A tear slid down his cheek before he even realized it. He wiped at it absently, staring at his damp fingers in disbelief.

Then, without warning, the tears came faster.

He sucked in a shaky breath, trying to stop them, but his chest tightened, and his knees buckled beneath him. He collapsed onto the floor, hands gripping the fabric of his pants as silent sobs racked his body.

It was too much.

The love he had buried.

The longing he had ignored.

The pain of watching you run to someone else.

He had lost you.

And the worst part?

You were never his to begin with.

[fluer-the-fairy]

𝖙𝖔𝖒𝖔𝖄𝖔

Chapter 2

Batfam x Card-Captor!reader

A/n:- Yaay :D

♡ previous ♡ masterlist ♡ next ♡

Tomoyo smiles as she pours you a cup of tea. How thoughtful of you to visit her during the weekend!

You usually do but this time you didn’t have much of a choice…

You spent the entirety of yesterday wallowing in your bed making up a hundred excuses you could use to explain yourself.

But it was fine. Kero was supposed to be your back up. I mean as a century of being surely he would be able to save you from this!

‘sigh’ Too bad that his glutenous nature is an obvious trait.

Currently your sat in Tomoyo’s room while she pours tea for while Kero gobbles down one desert to another.

Tomoyo sets down the tea pot.

The silence in the room growing louder in your ear’s.

“N/n-”

“I found a mysterious book in my houses library and accidentally released an ancient magic into this world and now I have to repay my debt by sealing them away-!”

The explanation comes out of you like word vomit. Carefully watching Tomoyo’s face, dissecting her reaction to check if your choice of words was good enough.

You take a deep breathe before trying again. “I found a mysterious book in the library. It had a bunch of cards in it. I read one of the word’s names out loud, Windy and all the cards got blown away by a large gust wind that formed…”

“Yeah, that sounds about right.” Kero say’s. Patting his now bloated stomach.

Tomoyo chuckles. “You have quite the appetite, don’t you?” “Don’t worry I prepared more deserts for you.”

“Woah! Aren’t you a classy missy, I like this girl.” Kero says turning to your tensed form.

Your body tense’s up even more when you fell Tomoyo hold your hands. Her thumbs caressing them like she’s trying to calm you down.

“You’re not mad...?” You ask meekly

“N/n why would I be mad?” She ask’s tilting her head.

The grip on your hand tightens...

“N/n…

…don’t you get...

...how exciting this is!!!???” She exclaims. Kero could have sworn her pupil’s formed heart just then.

“My dear N/n as a super hero! It’s Exactly what the ‘the amazing life of Y/n: the video diary’ needs!” She says standing up hugging her camera like it’s the most precious artifact in the universe.

“Now hold on I didn’t say I was going to be a super hero…”

“Hell, not even a vigilante at that…”

Tomoyo pauses for a minute before her smile returns even bigger and brighter

“Your right we can’t have N/n fighting crime. You’re like a magical girl, sealing away the ancient forces that once again have risen.” She cups her own cheeks, Her mind filling with scenarios.” This is perfect…just so perfect.”

Her hands find yours again. “N/n from this day forth I’m going to be manager!”

“Heyyyy! Isn’t that my job???” Kero say’s looking from his plate.

“You can be her manager too mister Keroberos! But N/n seriously you can’t be a magical girl who fight while in her pajamas” she rolls in a felt board, which was full of sketches for outfit and design concepts.

“From now on I’ll make all the outfits you wear to every fight you have.” Tomoyo states.

 Kero flies up to the board, inspecting the design.

“Gotta hand it to ya missy these designs are great. Say do I get an outfit too?”

“Of course! A matching outfit with N/n’s outfit!”

“I even had my mother’s company make up a communication device.”

“Yohoo, you really thought of everything!”

You watch the two scheme with each other. You’re glad that Tomoyo took it well… She’s never been one to get mad or over react. Even now with her all excited its tame.

Screw it…

You don’t really care if anyone catches you.

You have Tomoyo’s support and that all that matters.

Or at least that’s what you try to tell yourself. But the fear of getting caught is evident even on your face. What if Toya finds out or Alfred finds out? Or even Bruce…

You don’t really want to think of that reality.

Before you even knew it, the weekend was over.

And right now, you’re were putting on your skates while Damian rushes at you for revenge. But his foot deserved that, no gets to call you a monster and get away with it other than Toya… and that’s only cause he’s taller than you…

Speak of the devil… you can already see him through the gate. You skillfully dodge Damian’s attempts at hitting you and skate your way out of the gate, meeting Toya halfway.

“Morning little miss monster.” Toya Greets, although it’s hardly a greeting

“I’m not a monster!” You retort. This is how most of your interactions start.

“You didn’t get time to eat?” Toya asks noticing the half-eaten toast still hanging from your mouth.

“You were that excited to see me, eh?” He says, his chest puffing up like some parrots do when they are cold.

“Shut up… you’re so full of shit…” You mumble, while chewing on your single piece of toast.

A ‘Gasp’ escapes Toya’s lips as his hand dramatically fly to him chest “N/n!? A young lady does not speak like that! “You could only stare at your pathetic excuse for a brother.

“No, but seriously, where’d you learn that word?” He asks leaning into the front of his bicycle.

“You did.” You state flatly.

.

..

…

“Let’s go pick up Yukito.” Changing the subject ever so quickly.

. . .

Yu~ki~to~

Of course! Yukito!

He’s been your brother’s friend since he started high school.  At first you had the biggest crush on him so much so Toya would tease you non-stop about it.

But over time… You realized it was platonic. To you he filled that loving father role you never had. And let’s be real you idolize him above all else. Can we blame You though? The man’s good at everything. You would be crazy to not think he’s great.

Some time’s you did wish he was your brother too.

By the time you reached Yukito’s house, he was already outside waiting for you too.

“Yukito!” You rush past your brother stopping Infront of the young man.

“Good morning, Y/n.” He say’s bending down to your level. You mumble out a morning to which Yukito smiles.

Toya eventually reaches the two of you and hand Yukito a bag. “You got me food! Thanks Toya!” Yukito say’s face full of glee and he peeks into the bag.

You watch the two’s interaction eye’s narrowing in suspicion. Toya notices your gaze.

“What?” He asks

“…Nothing…” Yeah, it’s nothing…But you’re sure these two are dating…

That or they have massive crushes on each other and are too afraid to confess in the scenario that it ruins their friendship. Classic slow burn

“Welp, N/n your school just around the corner, isn’t it? Go on now shoo.” Toya says gesturing his hand like he was shooing away a bug.

“What??? I didn’t even get to properly talk with Yukito”

“Yeah yeah, but geez look at the time almost 7:30-”

“7:30! Oh, I have to go- Bye Yukito, Toya pick me up after school!” and with that you rush off.

. . .

“What was that about?” Yukito asks, looking concerned

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“You usually walk her to the entrance. You didn’t this time.”

“I just- somethings strange” Toya’s expression shifts, a mix of worry and unease.

Yukito walks closers to him, watching as you blend into the number of students entering the building “Do you see something? Maybe it’s just your mother you mentioned you couldn’t see her that well anymore when she visits”

“No…this one’s different…I can’t really explain it.” That all Toya says. He’s not sure what it is but it feels ancient, it feels powerful.

He just hopes you haven’t gotten into a mess you can’t handle.

You rush through the corridors trying not to bump into the Greek looking sculptures you hate so much. Trying to reach your class right before the clock reaches 7:30. Being late to homeroom is a nightmare. Especially walking into the classroom when everyone’s already settled down.

It’s embarrassing.

You see Tomoyo standing near the door way to your classroom. However, your excitement to see her dies down when you notice her puzzled expression.

. . .

“Tomoyo...?” You ask, she slowly turns to you.

“N/n...” She say’s as you get a glance behind her…

The classroom Is completely trashed!

Desk’s thrown all over the room. Papers and files scattered everywhere…

“Who would do such a thing?” Naoko says. Picking up one the desks and replacing it.

“You think it’s one of those thugs from the 8th grade??? I swear to you… they should have fifth graders help clean up than get outside help!” Chiharu says, balling up her fist’s.

“Let’s help out.” Tomoyo says. “Come on N/n-”

But you couldn’t move…

Not while this tingling feeling is creeping up the tips of your finger’s.

It’s ticklish. It suffocating.

It’s familiar? It feels unique yet similar to something you felt before-

Clow card.

That’s definitely a Clow card-!

“Do you feel sick N/n” You snap back to reality when you hear Rika’s voice. Coming back to find all four of them surrounding you.

“Oh. No, I’m fine. Here let me help you cleanup”

“So, this was all a Clow cards doing?” Tomoyo asks. Holding the small communication device while both you and her listened to Kero at the other end.

“Yup. It can be a number of different cards…Like power or most likely shadow”

“Shadow?” You ask.

“Since this happened over night” Kero states

“Speaking of which. Your more sensitive than I thought… that’s probably why you felt the book of clows presence all the way from your room.” He adds.

“We’ll have to catch it at night when its most dominant.” The more you hear him talk the more obvious the gaming sound you hear from the other line become.

“Keroberos are you seriously playing a game right now!?” You scream, so much so that the people around you start to stare.

“Whaaat? Oh no you’re breaking up sorry I’ll talk to you later bye~” Before you could protest, he hangs up. Which only make you fume even more. But you can’t exactly focus when Tomoyo becomes a sparkling mess right next to you.

“I can’t wait for you try on the costume” she says more to herself than to you.

Tonight is going to be a fun night…

yippee..

Damian is on his usual route. Why should he be when you’re not in your room.

Before patrol he wanted to do his regular taunt on you before you go to sleep. He won’t admit it but that’s just how me makes sure your safe before he leaves

But you weren’t there.

You. Weren’t. There.

You never leave your room, especially at night. Whoever you’re hanging out at school with is being a bad influence on you. It’s not like you to sneak out! And that weird stuffed toy you carried around to school yesterday is missing too…

That’s why instead of going through his usual assigned patrol route he’s taking every turn to reach all the places you usually hangout.

He also needs to check that stuffed toy. Check if it has a tracking device or worse a camera…

And he also needs to check if you really were that person he saw up in the sky that night.

You stand embarrassingly still while Tomoyo films a 360 of Kero and your glory like the paparazzi

“Tomoyo, I know your excited for this an all, but isn’t this a bit much?” You ask, sealing staff in hand. The costume she made is pretty but there’s just one tiny issue that may screw this entire operation.

“We are just straight up breaking into our school; I might get spotted with this on don’t you think?” Tomoyo lowers her camera smiling.

“No worries, I already have that taken care off. I already prepared a special unit to shut of the cameras and any recording device in the vicinity. And I have a team at the ready in case any footage does get leaked onto the internet”

“Oh…That’s actually a relief” You forgot, money is a scary tool.

“Yes…N/n Greatness can’t be captured by such a low-quality security camera, and only worthy eyes can witness her heroic deeds” Oh…That’s not…

Whatever! At least her motivations are kind of in the right place.

” Ready to head in?” Kero asks and right on que your anxiety creeps back in. To be fair you’ve only done this one before and that was fifty feet up in the sky! But hey this is on the ground so this will be easy wont it?

“Okay…” You say, before the three of you collectively through the gate.

The halls are so much creepier now. Especially considering the Victorian style art and sculptures on the wall, it makes you feel like you’re in a horror movie.

So, the moment you hear something move behind you instinctively point you staff towards it. You were met with those statues you hate oh so much.

But you couldn’t dwell on it longer when you felt the clow cards presence rush past you.

You chase after it for Kero could even instruct you. You just want to go home

Tomoyo and Kero tried to run after you, but your speed was inhuman.

Eventually the chase leads you to the soccer field outside. You’re coming to a stop as you look for the mischief maker.

“Slow down kiddo…Little missy did you get the scoop?” Kero ask’s turning to Tomoyo who has camera in hand, beaming with happiness.

“Every second!”

You chuckle finally turning to them but pausing when you see what behind them.

That statue…

IT MOVED!?

Tomoyo and Kero turn around to see what your staring a.

” Did that thing seriously follow us all the way here?”

Omg it’s like a weeping angel…

You couldn’t even stare in shock at it for than a second when the thing starts floating…

“N/n the shadow!” The shadow? oH!

The shadow below the floating statue was holding up the statue. You grab Tomoyo and jump out of the way before the statue hits you.

Wait… This shadow… “Isn’t that…Chiharu ’s shadow?” Tomoyo asks and she would be right. Those two braided pigtails can’t belong to anyone else.

“Kero take Tomoyo somewhere safe.” You say before you charge towards the shadow.

“On it!” Kero says dragging Tomoyo behind a bush.

Shadows come from all side’s merging into one giant monster. It lunges at you and you try to dodge but there’s only so much you can do.

You cast ‘Fly’. Getting to higher ground seems to be your only option. What you weren’t expecting was for it to start chasing you. Trying to pull you down.

“She’s amazing isn’t she.” Tomoyo’s saying recording your every move with her camera.

“Yeah, but her options are limited with the little cards she has”

Shadow Itself is harmless, but considering it had time to collect more than a 100 students shadows, it’s going to be difficult to beat. Not to mention she can’t just catch it willy nilly. She needs to reveal its true form.

“Little missy, is there a way to turn all the lights on?”

“Yeah! I know where the breaker is.” Tomoyo leaves expecting Kero to follow her.

By the time they reach the breaker your already exhausted. The fatigue causing the vision to blur.

It only get’s worse when you feel the shadow grab onto the bottom of the staff, trying to drag you down.

Kero can already tell your mana’s nearly gone. He musters all of his strength onto his little arms and flips the breaker.

Once the lights turn on the Shadows form shrinks until it’s just a singular cloaked person on the middle of the field.

Gathering your strength, you lift the Your staff to seal it off.

"Reclaim the guise you were meant to inhabit! Clow card!" The figures form breaks as it gets reverted back into a card.

‘shadow’

Tomoyo and Kero run to you, Checking your form for injuries.

“Let’s leave, Turning the lights on will definitely put people on alert.” The last you manage to properly say. Slowly dragging your self out of the premises while Tomoyo holds your hand.

She’s on the phone with someone but honestly your too tired to care…

Toya sits in him room. He’s supposed to be doing home work but instead he finds him self doodling on the corner of his pages.

He still can’t get of that feeling of his back. He’s always been able to sense whenever his little sister is in danger. A fact he takes pride in. That’s the reason how he’s always been her silent protector.

That’s why he can’t stand this feeling. He knows she gotten her self-wrapped up in some kind of paranormal activity. He can sense every drop of mana she wastes; He want to scold her and tell her to cut it out.

But for some reason…

He like this is all beyond him…

“Toya…”

His head snaps back as he hears that voice… a familiar voice

“Mom...?”

“Toya, your sister… she’s been involved in ■■■■■■■ magic- “

Huh?

“don’t worry too much, okay?” her ghostly form cups his cheeks. “It’s all been planned out”

And with that she disappears…

Guess has to keep an extra eye on Y/n

If that’s even possible

Taglist:- @leeiasure , @rovcarmen , @rainschnael , @nisarelle

[rxzennia]

hibernation/ brumation

– tales of the voracity pathstrider

✎𓂃 winter dormancy.

in his five years of being your boss, aventurine hasn’t ever seen you send in a request for leave. but here he is, staring at your application for a month-long vacation.

a month? isn’t that a little too long?

you didn’t even stick a little comment about where you’re going or what’s happening, dammit! he wants to know so bad, but he feels like he’ll either overstep his boundaries or come off as clingy if he asks.

he’ll approve it, of course!

he wants you to not hate your job, and part of being a good boss is letting his subordinates take the leaves they’re entitled to

and you deserve a nice, long break, anyway

but the curiosity is killing him inside. what will you be doing? will you still hang around the IPC?

he really, really wants to barge into your office and wrench an explanation out of you

and also, how dare you try to take leave right into the holidays! rude

he wanted to take you out to dinner! to fancy places! he was prepared to have a schedule full of you!

totally not dates or his attempts to spoil you

he totally isn’t thinking of doing it so that you’ll spoil him in return

he’s found out that you respond to him if he rants at you

and that you get very soft and careful with him if he presses the right buttons

he digs that so much it’s unreal

there’s something about having you, of all people, treat him tenderly

perhaps because he’s seen firsthand what kind of monster hides in your scarf

or… what kind of monster hides beneath your silent, icy exterior

it just hits different when someone like you treat him so gently

and he knows for a fact that you’ll never abuse that power you have

he absolutely loves that. 100%.

“guess who’s here!” aventurine announces as he enters your office without so much as a knock, “hard at work, my favorite secretary?”

“out, please.” you hiss, sparing him barely a glance from your computer, “i’m concentrating.”

since when did your complaints stop him

he saunters over and sits himself on your armrest anyway

your scarf lift him up and set him down on the couch opposite to you

he finds his way back to your chair

you put him on the couch again

he comes back to your armrest

is he a cat obsessed with a particular box (namely, your chair) or something

you give up

“what is it?” you relent, scooting over so he can fit onto your seat, too, albeit barely

this man does not hesitate to invade your personal space

“where are you going for a month, hmm?” he asks with a playful smile, “can’t even tell me?”

oh, so that’s what this is about

but why is he resting his face in his hand and looking at you like he’s trying to flirt?

“hibernation.” you keep typing without giving aventurine much of a reaction, “not exactly, but close. brumation.”

wait. wait, what?

it doesn’t take a genius to know that aventurine is currently flabbergasted. “you… hibernate? like sleep hibernate?” 

“no, i hibernate awake.” you mumble sarcastically, but he catches it even if your words are muffled

“c’mon, i’m just checking!” he throws his hands in the air as if protesting your attitude

“yes, i sleep, for the most part.” you scoot over a little more and lift him up, setting him down in your lap. “but i’ll be awake here and there.”

you rest your head on top of his and continues to work, effectively caging him in

he realizes you’re much more like a snake than he thought

not in an alarming way

you’re coiling around him, but, like, in a friendly danger noodle way

“will you?” he chuckles; maybe his plans aren’t entirely foiled, after all, “for how long?”

you look at him. “a few minutes up to an hour?” 

you’re only getting up for water and/or changing sleeping positions

never mind, his plans to try to spoil you is, in fact, foiled

he pouts. he had the entire thing planned out already! all five days that you’ll be off!

he looks like a kid who’s about to buy the last donut but you beat him to it and buy the donut right in front of his eyes.

“you can visit.” you say, and you see him light up almost immediately. 

though, you don't think there’s much worth visiting, but whatever makes him happy

when aventurine visits you during your well-deserved vacation, he’s pleasantly surprised. you’re sleeping so peacefully, despite the fact that you usually rarely sleep at all.

you’re curled up into half a ball under your blankets and your scarf

and letting out little snores

is this what you look like when you’re asleep? 

so adorable. if only you’d let him see it often…

but he doesn’t know the frequency of your brumation period

as far as he knows, it’s once in five years, but he has no idea if it’s more than five years

you’re not covering your face, either

aeons, he loves seeing your unobscured face

you’re so beautiful under your scarf

especially the patches of scales along your neck, they glitter in white gold under the light

he wishes you wouldn't try to cover them up

during your entire month, he’s going to be in your room whenever he’s free

he will totally try to sleep next to you at night

what? it’s not like you haven’t shared a bed before!

it’s just that you’ve never been asleep by each other's side!

you will cuddle into him if he tries to hold you

and you will get fussy if he tries to get out of the hug

if only you were as honest when you’re awake

aventurine has been trying to catch you in your small conscious windows, but he’s having not much luck with that. though, this isn’t exactly a gamble, so “luck” might not be the right word here.

he’s so busy; he’s drowning in work 

your temporary replacement isn’t very good at their job

or maybe he’s just used to the way you do things and now everything feels wrong

he wants you back already 

because nowadays he barely has an hour to spend with you apart from bedtime

he hates it

what do you mean by he can’t sit next to your sleeping form while he signs papers?

horrible, very horrible

but eventually he does catch you when you’re awake

you’re drowsy and you’re dragging your blankets and your scarf with you around your room

the cutest thing he’s ever seen in a long while

he watches as you clumsily pour yourself some water, spilling some on the table because you can’t line up the jug and the glass properly

and he watches as you sluggishly flop onto your couch after you’ve downed the water

“had enough of the bed?” he asks, sitting down next to you and brushing a few strands of hair away from your face

“hnnnnnngh,” you grumble and turn to face away from him, you just want to go back to sleep

then you remember this is your boss’s voice

and you reluctantly mumble, “it’s too warm…”

do you even know what you’re saying? you’re melting his heart

“oh, that so? it’s too hot over there?” aventurine snickers softly, his hand caressing your face, the cool fabric of his glove making you sigh in delight. “you’re so lovely.”

he recognizes the amount of trust you have in him to let him visit you when you’re sleeping, and it’s doing things to his stomach. you’re so lazy, so barely aware of your surroundings, but you trust him to be around you while you are in this state.

there is an urge, and he acts on it. he nuzzles against your cheek, rubbing your noses together and planting a small kiss on your forehead. he’s been dreaming of holding you like you’re his greatest treasure, but he’s never mustered up the courage to do it. 

maybe someday he will tell you, and then he’ll be allowed to adore you openly the way he’s always wanted to.

“my favorite snake,” he whispers to himself, feeling a shudder of affection throughout his bones, “sleep well. i’ll look forward to taking you out when you rise.”

[oikarma]

when you fall, you fly 𝜗𝜚 mv1, ln4

summary: (17k) you learn that winter doesn’t have to be cruel and brittle, spring doesn’t have to be full of new beginnings, summer is not only tangle of desire and heat, and fall. it ends the fall of ‘29. fall, beautiful fall, where the wrong things fall away, where home becomes where the heart is.

notes: read part one first!!

part one / part two

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

It’s a call. Lando.

“Took you long enough,” he says. Over the phone, his voice is low. That might be because of the volume, which you turn up.

“Sorry. I’ve been—”

“Busy? Yeah. I know. Too busy to text. To call. I had to find out from Instagram you were out with your friends last night.”

“It wasn’t a big thing,” you explain. We just went to dinner after the library.”

“You didn’t even tell me you were going.” Lando exhales, sharp through his nose. “And I was waiting for you, I thought you’d call me or something. I’m not trying to be the bad guy, okay? I just miss you.”

And I was waiting for you.

“I feel like you’re slipping away,” he adds.

Just like that, guilt surges in your chest. He was waiting for you. You should’ve asked first, maybe he thought you were avoiding him. You should be better at communication, stop overthinking. Two overthinkers never make a good relationship. 

“I’m not, I swear. I needed to focus for a second. My professor, well, she’s making me check in every week. She was worried.”

“Worried about what?”

You say, “about me. About if I was okay.”

He doesn’t even hesitate. “You are okay, sweetheart. You already made it.”

“I didn’t, though,” you whisper. “I kind of stopped showing up for everything.”

There’s a lulling quiet, before Lando breaks it.

“And why do you think that is?”

You don’t understand. “What?”

“Why do you think you’re burnt out, hm? Who’s been there for you every time you needed to breathe? Me. I’ve done nothing but take care of you, sweetheart. You don’t know when you need a break.”

It’s not untrue. It sticks in your throat. He’s right. When you’re tired, he makes you nap, so you can focus better. When you’re just staring at the screen, he tells you to come back to it later. When you need a drink—fuck, he’s there right beside you.

He softens again. “Just come back. I’ll make everything easier. We’ll go somewhere, forget all this crap. Promise. You don’t even have to come to race week. No media, nothing.”

Your phone shakes slightly in your hand. You sit there, eyes unfocused, staring at your desk piled with papers. “I’ll think about it,” you say quietly.

“No, sweetheart,” Lando says, “don’t think. Just say yes.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

He hasn’t responded to you in a few hours, though there’s no ‘read’ to be seen yet. Maybe he’s just busy. You hope he’s busy. You take another bite of your sandwich and go back to your paper, flagged full of your run-on sentences.

Knock. Knock.

It’s late. Who could it be, at this hour? The cursor still blinks on your laptop screen, which you slam shut. You shuffle in your sweats to the door, aware of how raggedy you look. Your bun is barely a bun, more like a knot of hair, and your brain is fried. You must look like a panda. But you’re finally feeling like yourself again, or maybe just starting to. At least you know what you’re doing.

Knock. Knock.

You come to the door, pull it open, and who else could it be?

“You weren’t answering,” Lando says, by way of explanation. No hello. He has his hoodie on, the one you remember stealing in Miami, and a rolling suitcase stands by his side.

“I texted you,” you say, “you didn’t respond.”

“Too busy to say you miss me? You never ask about us, sweetheart, it’s always about your work and your life and I just…” You step back, letting him in before your neighbor gets a look. He drops his bag and starts pacing.

“Lando,” you say, trying to console him.

“What the fuck?” Lando’s voice isn’t raised, no, he would never raise his voice at you. “I haven’t seen you in how long? Two weeks? You’re not answering half my messages, and now you’re, what, academic weapon again?”

“Don’t. Don’t make fun of me for trying,” you snap.

His eyes flash. “I’m not. I’m not. I just,” he runs both hands through his hair. “I don’t get it. We were—God, we were so fucking good. And then you leave and it’s like you flipped a switch. Like I’m out of your life.”

You fold your arms. “I had to leave. My job, my grades, my life, I couldn’t do it if I was following you like a lost puppy across Earth.”

“Your life,” he echoes. “What about ours?”

Ours.

Ours. His and yours, yours and his, him at your job, you at his race, him in your apartment, you in his Monaco place, you in his bed, him, maybe, maybe, in yours. If you’ll just let him in.

“I booked Monaco. You never even replied. I won, and I was hoping you’d change your mind and maybe I’d see you out there, because you thought I was important and I tell you you have nothing to prove to anyone, but sweetheart, I have everything to prove to you. You’re gonna pretend that I didn’t mean anything to you?”

“I didn’t ask you to book it.”

“You didn’t have to.” You hear his voice crack. Your heart does a little, too. “You’re everything to me, you know that? You’re the only one who knows me.”

You don’t know what to say. He looks like he hasn’t slept, even though his skin is still as bronze as you’d expect a fallen deity. There are creases under his eyes to match yours. His fingers shake, like he wants to touch you but doesn’t know if he’s allowed. Those gossamer eyes, they mirror all you want, all you know you shouldn’t want.

“Can I stay, just for the night?” Lando asks. You’re going to say yes, of course, because you can’t leave him out, not when he’s done all this for you. You’re going to say yes, even though you know it’s not just one night. Once he’s back, it’s never just one night.

You nod.

He wraps his arms around you like he’s drowning. Honey and saffron invade your senses, so tantalizing. You hate how much you missed him.

“I’ll be good. I swear. I just needed to see you.”

You let him in. You know he’s not going anywhere anytime soon.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The coffee’s shit but it’s keeping you going, so it’s half-finished and sitting on the windowsill. Your coursework’s going well again. Your inbox is clean, your professor’s last email had actual praise in it, golly gee! and you finally caught up on shifts at the bar. It feels like your life again.

It’s background, really—you plan on going to Netflix, but the first thing that pops us is the weekend sports wrap-up. The screen fills with F1 coverage, highlights from team press conferences, shots of the paddock in Imola.

You hear a voice say, “still no Lando Norris at media day, we’re missing his presence.”

You glance over your shoulder. The Lando Norris in question is sitting on the couch, a hand on your thigh, like he can’t bear a single moment away from you. He looks up from his phone, to the TV. 

“Turn it off,” he says.

“Lando…”

“Please, baby.” He sets his phone down, looks at you properly. “Just turn it off.”

You hesitate. “When do you plan to leave? You have to race, you know, you booked the tickets, yeah?”

“I know,” Lando assures you. “I’m going. I’ll be fine.”

“You’re not doing your press. Your training. You’re barely checking in with the team—”

He cuts in, lifts his hand from your thigh and intertwines it in yours. “Because I want to be here. I like this. You. This flat. Waking up and seeing your books everywhere, you making shitty coffee in that sweatshirt with the bleach stain.”

“But you have a job, too,” you say, treading carefully. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Lando brushes his thumb over your wrist. Softly: “No, you’re not. But I’ve never had this before. Someone who doesn’t just want me for that other stuff.”

You should feel flattered. And you do. You do.

Yet part of you feels like you’re taking something from him. He’s slipping, a little, away from his life, and you’re letting it happen. You’re causing it, really, because would he be here in this place—probably costs less than what he gets a day—if you’d never met? 

And he’s so happy, so happy he doesn’t see you freezing before you move to turn the TV off. Doesn’t notice the small frown on your face as you close your laptop, too. He’s so happy. You don’t want to ruin it.

This is perfect, you think. This is perfect. You won’t ruin it for him, for you.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

He lingers in the flat even though he’s gone. Lando only bothered taking the important things: identification, phone, charger, etc. He leaves his clothes, a bottle of his cologne, and everything else with you. It’s a sign of trust, that he’s planning on coming back. The reminder warms you, like you’re a home for someone. That someone feels comfort in your presence.

As promised, you’re watching the live F1 feed. Lando’s on screen again, this time in the post-qualifying interview. You see his caps pulled low, eyes flicking off-camera like he’s itching to leave. He answers the questions, yes, but even you know he’s doing shit at it.

“P3. Not bad at all, Lando. Car performed great today, I hear. But you look a little tense today. Everything alright?”

“Yeah. Just tired,” he says. “Car’s great, yeah.” He keeps saying ‘yeah.’

The moment his back is out of the frame, your phone vibrates next to you for the third time in ten minutes.

lan why aren’t you picking up

lan i hate thisi wish you were here

lan i feel like i can’t breathe without you

you i’m watching. you did great, baby

Three dots appear. Then they go away. You don’t blame him. What you sent wasn’t enough.

The broadcast cuts to the paddock camera. Lando’s walking fast, alone, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets. He looks out of place, the second time you’ve ever seen him like this. The first time…well, it wasn’t the best situation for him to be in. You’re worried.

Your phone buzzes again.

lan i’m sorry baby i just can’t sleep without you

lan i can’t even eat the sameit’s not fair that you’re not here i know you’re busy i just

lan it hurts

You rest your forehead in your hands.

You want to be strong. You want to stay on track, the way he always said you should. But the truth is, you’re not sleeping either. Not well. There’s a bottle of ambien, open, useless. Your grades might be up, your shifts handled, your life back on its rails. Fuck. None of it feels good without Lando. It’s like he brings you purpose and when he leaves he takes it all with him.

You look at the screen again. He’s already disappeared. Some other driver is talking.

You wish you were in his hotel room. Wish you could take off his fireproofs for him, kiss the red lines from his suit off his shoulders, trace the imprints of the earpiece on his face, tell him he doesn’t have to be perfect when he’s with you.

Because you’re not perfect either. You just want to be his.

You open your texts again. He deserves a little more.

you babyyou’ll win tomorrow

you and then you’ll come home, yeah?

you i miss you too, lando

Your phone lights up again almost instantly. You see his contact photo, him curled up around your knee, eyes closed. He’s calling.

You press ‘accept,’ and before you can even say ‘hello,’ his voice fills your ear.

“Thank god,” Lando breathes. “I was going insane.”

You sink back onto your pillows. “I’m here.”

“I hate being without you,” he says. “I, well, I was in the paddock today and nothing felt right. My helmet felt too tight. My engineer was talking and I wasn’t even hearing him. You’re just in my head all the time.”

You take in his words. “I watched quali. You looked…”

“Like shit?” he offers, trying to laugh. It falls flat.

“No. Like you needed to be somewhere else. Are you okay? Fuck, no, you’re not.”

“Yeah. I’m not,” he whispers. “Know where I need to be? With you.”

You press your lips together. 

Lando says, “you’re mad at me.”

“No, I’m not. I just…I don’t know how to be good at both.”

“What do you mean?”

You murmur, “This. Us. And school. And my job. I feel like when I’m with you, it’s all I want. And when I’m away, I feel like I’m betraying you somehow.”

“You’re not.” He’s fast with it, so fast. “You’re not. You’re so good, baby, you’re everything. I just—” Lando inhales, voice shaking, and you hear in it the same desperate plea as when he called out to the Universe, why, why; it breaks you, “I need you to want me enough to come back.”

“I do, Lan. But I also want other things. Things I gave up for a while. And I’m trying to get them back.”

More quietly: “I just miss you so much it makes me sick.”

You don’t hesitate before you say, “I miss you too.”

“I don’t sleep when you’re gone,” he murmurs. “I barely eat. I just…wait. It’s like, baby, you’re what keeps my world spinning.”

You wonder if he knows he’s saying all this to make you come back. If he knows it’s working. But Lando does look terrible, not like how he looks when he’s with you. You don’t want to hurt him, not like this. And it’s always better when he’s by your side, isn’t it?

“I’ll see you soon.”

“I’ll win for you tomorrow. And then I’ll come home to you.”

Home to you. You’re his home now. You don’t know exactly what that means.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The trophy’s heavy in his hands, but it doesn’t feel like anything. P1, win, what does it all matter? All the chaos and sweat and perfect tire management and everything. It worked. It fucking worked. Good to the team, yeah, he says, while scanning the crowd like a lunatic. Hoping. Just in case.

You never said you’d be here. Never promised. He was the one who promised, said he’d win—he did—said he’d come home—and if he’s not on his way right now, fuck.

Lando’s cap is pulled sideways by one of the crew, doused again in champagne. He laughs on instinct, because that’s what you do when the cameras are rolling. He doesn’t think it’s funny, actually.

He wants to leave. Just get on a plane. He wants the hotel room dark and cold, wants your hair on his chest, your voice low, telling him he’s good, good enough for you, good enough for all this. Needs yo, right next to him. He wants your thigh thrown over his, and the weight of you making him feel like the world stops for a second. You make it quiet. You make it better.

Magui’s voice cuts through the haze: “You coming? Everyone’s going to the club.”

Lando blinks at her, like she’s speaking a different language. “I don’t want to fucking party.”

“You just won,” she points out. “You’re supposed to be happy.”

“I am happy,” he snaps, instantly regretting it. “I just. Fuck, Magui, can you let me breathe? I want to go.”

“Where?”

He doesn't answer, not like she’d understand. Lando just shoves a hand through his hair, reaching for his phone. No texts. No missed calls. Just your name in the recents, staring back at him.

God, he misses you. And you’re not even his. Not really. He wonders why you stay. The money? You don’t ask for it, never ask for it first. He always offers. He wonders if he’s really enough, if that’s all you want. 

He won. And all he wants is you.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

lan hi baby, don’t know if you’re up yet but i won

lan i thought you’d be here i don’t even know why you never said you would

lan just wanted you to see it

He doesn’t send the last message he types: Come back to me already.

you hey no i’m up, i was watching you

you you deserve it lan i’m proud of youi wanted to come i really did

you sometimes i don’t know how to be around you when you’re like this. when you win and the whole world wants you and all i can give you is me

you miss you

lan you’re everythingi don’t want the world i just want you

lan please

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The first bottle doesn’t break.

It bounces. Pathetically, a dull thud against the floor of the hotel suite, spinning once on the carpet before rolling to a stop near the base of the bed. Lando stands there for a second, swaying slightly, glaring at the empty bottle of gin. It tasted like shit.

Then he picks up the second one.

That one shatters. Glass explodes against the wall, clear liquid dripping down in sharp streaks like tears. His breath comes out rough, uneven. He watches his work then grabs the nearest object—some expensive hotel vase—and hurls it at the window. It cracks, just slightly. Not enough. Not enough to match what he feels. The vase, not the window. The windows are remarkably strong.

“Fuck,” Lando says under his breath. Paces the room in fast, angry steps. His bare feet crunch over broken glass, probably bleed, he doesn’t care.

The room is a mess now. Pillows on the floor. Curtains yanked half off. The minibar gutted. Two chairs overturned. A lampshade split down the side. It still isn’t enough. Still doesn’t touch what was under his skin.

Your smile haunts him. Your text: “i wanted to come i really did”

Bullshit.

You said it. What does that mean? I love you I really do but then I run off with another guy. Words mean nothing. You’re back at school, posting dumb little stories with your friends and smiling like everything was fine. Like you don’t have a boyfriend losing his goddamn mind three countries away.

Boyfriend.

No, he doesn’t get to use that. Officially, he is your sugar daddy. He trades in money, you trade in companionship and favors. Officially. The ugly truth is that his mind had ignored that a long time ago. You mean things to him.

Clearly, he doesn’t mean things to you. You look happy and he can’t fucking stand it, because Lando doesn’t know how to be happy without you. Not anymore. Doesn’t know how to sit still, or think clearly, or go more than four hours without checking if you’re online. You made him feel real. You make him feel real, when he’s next to you. Without you, he doesn’t know what he is anymore, just a shaking, destructive mess of ego and want and desperation.

He takes another drink straight from the bottle—vodka this time. Bitter and burning and useless, just like him. He thinks that blithely. Lando wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and snarls, “she says she wants me but she’s fucking fine. She’s fine without me.”

He’s trembling now. He swears he can smell your perfume, feel your skin under his fingers, hear your laugh from across the room. He hates how much he misses you.

It feels like being fourteen again. Like being small and lonely. Like everyone good eventually leaves. 

Two knocks on the door. He doesn’t register it at first, too wrapped up in his own fury.

“Lando?”

He turns around slowly at the sound of your voice. Like a man possessed, he’s turning the door handle. You, an apparition, in the doorway. Your expression is caught between confusion and fear. He can’t speak, can only stare at you. 

“Lando,” you repeat, gently this time. You look around the mess of a room. “What the hell is going on?”

“You said you wanted me.”

“I do, baby.”

He knows he sounds childish when he says, “then why the fuck are you smiling in pictures with people who aren’t me? Why does it look like you’re happier when I’m not there?”

You step in and shut the door slowly behind. “Lando. I came back.”

“Not because I asked you to,” he says, bitter. “You didn’t come when I needed you.”

“Don’t be an ass, Lando. I came once I could.”

“Me? You left.”

“I didn’t leave you. I just went home. I told you I’d be back. I told you I wanted you. Why can’t you believe that?”

He doesn’t answer. Can’t. His face twists like he’s trying not to cry. But then he is already crying—just quietly now, silently, the kind of tears that come when there is nothing left to throw or scream or burn.

“I don’t know how to keep you,” Lando whispers.

“You don’t have to keep me. I’m not going anywhere.”

He doesn’t. But he can’t say it, so he falls into you instead, hot with shame.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The hotel bed smells just like him. You’re overwhelmed by the sheer amount of sensory details—honey and saffron, Lando curled into you like a child, one arm around your hips, his hair tickling your jaw. 

You remember that night, how you found him. Trowing things like the rage might turn into wings and take him somewhere far from the hollow ache of missing you. You’d stood in the doorway, too stunned to speak at first, your suitcase still in hand. He had looked at you like salvation. Then he collapsed.

Now he sleeps, days later, face pressed to your skin, like nothing happened.

You brush a hand through his curls. Lando sighs, burrows deeper. You don’t move. You don’t breathe too loudly. There’s something fragile about this moment, like if you shift wrong, you might tip him back into that chaos.

It worries you, really. He wrecked a whole place over you. To be flattered or frightened, that is the question.

Lando stirs. “You’re awake,” he mumbles, voice sleep-warm.

“Yeah. You okay?”

“Mhm. You’re here. I’m okay.”

It’s simple. Sweet.

He opens his eyes and you see it: the desperate joy, the relief so intense it makes his hands tremble as they skim your back. “Don’t leave again,” he whispers. “Please.”

You don’t say anything. You don’t promise. Something inside you knows you can’t, not if he keeps unraveling like this. Not if his love starts to feel like a trap lined with silk sheets and broken glass.

You hold him anyway, for as long as you can.

Bzz.

“I’ll get it,” you murmur, untangling one arm to grasp for your phone. 

He makes a quiet noise of protest, tightening his grip on your waist. “No. Stay.” You slip out of bed as gently as you can.

Your phone is face-down on the floor, near a toppled plant. You crouch, pick it up. 

“Baby, c’mon. Leave it.”

You turn slightly. He’s watching you now, chin in his palm, yes sleepy but alert. 

“Is that work?” he asks flatly.

“No, Mara.” 

“Of course it is.” Lando flops back onto the bed with a sigh, one hand thrown dramatically over his face. “She wants to take you away again.”

“She’s just checking in. Haven’t texted her in a bit.”

“You’re here now,” he says, sitting up suddenly. “That’s what matters. Right?”

You don’t answer right away.  He climbs out of bed and pads toward the kitchen. “I’ll make coffee. You want breakfast? I got those stupid little French pastries you like.”

“Lando—”

“I’m fine, really,” he calls over his shoulder, cheerful in a way that feels like armor. “You being here fixes everything.”

mara(malade) you know if you run off you should really turn your location off

mara(malade) look babe i think you both need space

mara(malade) is he okay?

mara(malade) more importantly, ru okay?

You want to say yes. You want to believe it. Lando—beautiful, brilliant, broken Lando—is now singing softly to himself in the kitchen. You move to sit at the counter, wrapping your arms around yourself.

“I warmed up the croissants,” he says, placing a small plate in front of you with a flourish. “Fig jam, your favorite. You’re spoiled, you know that?”

He’s smiling too much. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

You pick at the corner of a croissant. “Lando.”

“Black or oat milk?” He’s already reaching for the mugs.

“Lando.”

He pauses. “What?”

“I just…I wanted to talk about…that night.”

“What about it?”

“You were upset,” you say carefully. “And the suite—”

“I said I was fine.” Lando won’t look at you.

You set the croissant down. “I know. But seeing all of that, it scared me a little.”

“You’re not scared of me.”

“I didn’t say I was. I just, well, I want to understand.”

He laughs under his breath. It’s not happy. “Understand what? That I missed you? That I didn’t know if you were coming back? That I was losing my fucking mind because I thought you were gone?”

Your heart twists. “You weren’t losing me. I texted you that morning.”

“I don’t know that.” Lando’s staring at you now. There’s something wounded in his eyes. “You don’t need anything from me. Not money, not help. You have this whole life without me, and I’m just—fuck, what am I supposed to be if you don’t need me?”

“I want you, Lando. That’s supposed to be enough.”

“You say that like it is.”

He doesn’t mean to sound cruel. You know that. His hands curl into fists on the counter. You stand up, come around slowly. Place your hand over his.

“Then let it be enough. Let me want you. You don’t have to break everything to make me stay.”

Finally, he exhales. Presses his forehead to yours. “I’m sorry. I just don’t know how to be okay without you.”

You don’t answer. You hold his hand tighter. You don’t say what you’re thinking, which is you didn’t know how to be okay when your mom died, that’s how I found you. I made sure you didn’t die that day. Will you always associate your escape loneliness with me, now? 

The coffee finishes brewing, but neither of you move to pour it.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You’re watching a sitcom on the television. Lando loves making fun of you for your taste, but you know he secretly enjoys them too.

His phone buzzes on the counter. Lando looks at it and groans. “Manager.”

You don’t say anything. He answers on speaker. “Yeah?”

“Lando,” the voice is clipped, slightly exasperated. “We need to talk. We just got the hotel’s report.”

“About what?”

“You know what. Smashed mirror, broken fixtures, bottle damage, water damage, hell, they said there were footprints on the mini bar.”

You stare straight ahead at the show. People are laughing. You try to remember what the joke is about.

“I’ll pay for it,” Lando says, flatly.

“That’s not the problem. They’re asking if you're okay. We’re asking if you’re okay. Lando.”

He doesn’t respond.

His manager continues, “they’re saying you’ve been off since Miami. We all saw you show up with someone. You know. She’s not in the tabloids, her reputation isn’t a problem. We don’t know who she is. The problem is that ever since then, you’ve been unpredictable.”

Lando raises an eyebrow, though the person on the other end can’t see. “Unpredictable?”

“You trashed a hotel room,” his manager snaps. “You skipped media. You haven’t answered half your PR scheduling emails. You’re supposed to be gearing up for Monaco, and instead you’re—”

“What? Instead I’m where? Taking a fucking break for once? Letting myself feel something?”

“We’re not saying she’s the problem. We just don’t know what this is. And you won’t tell us. You’re shutting us out.”

“Because you treat everything like damage control,” Lando mutters.

“We need to know if we’re dealing with a temporary shift or a full derailment. If we’re going to step in.”

He lets out a bitter laugh, one that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Of course. Step in. Right. You stepped in real well when Luisa was getting death threats. You stepped in real well with Magui and look how that turned out. What the fuck do you ever do right?”

“Lando. You don’t get to disappear without people asking questions. You don’t get to change overnight without consequences.”

In response, he snaps, “I’m not changing. I just—fuck—I finally feel like myself. And you’re mad it’s not the version you can market.”

You shift on the couch, quietly turning off the TV. 

“She’s not the problem. We just need to know if she’s going to become one. For the team. For you.”

Lando hangs up. He stands, frozen, then walks back to you, lying on the couch with his head in your lap. “They don’t get it,” he mutters. “They never fucking get it.” 

“I don’t think they’re trying to blame me.”

“I know. They just don’t know what to do with you.”

You blink. “Is that bad?”

He looks up at you. “No. It’s perfect.”

He says it’s perfect, you want to think it’s perfect, but the way he clings to you tells you exactly how tightly he’s holding on. How scared he is that the world is trying to take you away.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

“Can I use your laptop for like ten minutes? Just email stuff. Mine’s broken.”

He yawns over his phone. “Yeah, yeah, it’s in the office. The black one. Passcode’s your birthday, you know.”

You kiss his forehead. “Thanks, baby”

You sit cross-legged in his desk chair, crack open the laptop, and type in his passcode. Mail is already open.

The first email, unread, sits bold at the top of the inbox:

Subject: RE: PR Proposal - Confirming Relationship Partner for Next Quarter Re: Images from Miami

You click before you can talk yourself out of it. The thread is long, too long. God, this is invasive! Someone from marketing has pasted photos of you and Lando at Miami. Lando leaving your bar. Lando and you at dinner. Another of him reaching for your hand when you cross the street—bloody hell, when was this? You don’t remember half of these. 

Below that: paragraphs discussing “optics,” “alignment with brand image,” and suggestions for “alternatives with higher familiarity quotient,” i.e., influencers with cleaner public profiles. One name is underlined.

The last message, from his manager, is curt:

Let’s discuss timing. If we move forward, need confirmation he’s on board by Friday. Otherwise we’ll have to talk to her.

What? Who is the “her” they refer to? You? Too many questions. You log in to your own account, reply to your professor Back in the living room, Lando’s messing with his new camera lens. He perks up when you return. “You find it, sweetheart?”

Yeah. Thanks.”

He pulls you back onto the couch by your wrist. Tugs you into his lap. “You’re quiet.”

“Just tired, baby.”

His fingers skate down your spine. Don’t work too hard. You don’t need to, you know? You could just not worry.”

There’s something curling in your chest that you don’t have the words for yet. You can feel it: the ache of being wanted, and the sharp sting of not knowing exactly why.

It’s late afternoon when he brings it up. You haven’t brought up the email, and he hasn’t asked why you went quiet, but you know he noticed. Lando notices everything when it comes to you. He finds you on the balcony just before sunset, staring out at the curve of the harbor. “You saw it, didn’t you?” His voice is low.

“Saw what?”

“The email.”

You don’t answer. Not really a point in lying.

“I was gonna tell you. I just didn’t want it to ruin anything.”

You stay quiet, waiting.

“They’ve been on me since Miami,” he continues, looking down at the tiles. “Didn’t tell you about it, didn’t think it would affect anything. They think you’re making me weird. Like I’m not showing up the way I used to. Like I care too much.” He laughs once, bitter. “Can you imagine? Caring being a problem? They’ve always pegged me as a crybaby, that kind of thing. Don’t know why it changes now.”

“I told them to fuck off,” he says. “I didn’t even open it until today.”

You turn fully now. “But you read it.”

“Yeah. Only because I knew you would. They don’t know you,” he murmurs. “They don’t get it. They think I’m just distracted. But I’m not. I’m clearer than I’ve ever been.”

“You’ve been drinking every night,” you say softly. “You’ve skipped stuff.”

“Because they don’t matter. Only you do.”

Not receiving a response, Lando brushes your cheek with his thumb. “You don’t have to prove anything to me. I know what this is. I’m not going to let them replace you with some model who smiles for photos and goes away when the weekend ends. I’d lose my fucking mind. I already have Magui, you know? Why do they have to fix me with someone new?”

You flinch at that, because you’ve seen what that looks like.

“I don’t want to be a problem for you.”

He tilts your chin up. “You’re not. You’re the only thing that makes sense.” And then, softer: “Please don’t leave again.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Sundays are race days. Today is Friday, the last day before race weekend, and he’s not here. He has a meeting in person.

He comes back scowling. “Lando?” you ask softly.

“I’m going to have to do it.”

You sit up straighter. “Do what?”

“The PR thing. They’re making me.”

You blink. “What do you mean making you? I thought you said—”

“I thought I had a choice. They pulled out numbers. Sponsorship clauses. Told me my Q-rating dropped after Emilia Romagna. Isn’t that bullshit? They’ve never cared that much about my Q-rating before. Said I wasn’t showing up right, too emotional, too impulsive, not focused enough.”

You stand. “That’s bullshit. You’ve been winning.”

“I know,” he snaps.

You reach for him, but he flinches back like your touch might break him. “They said you’re the problem. They showed me photos. You walking into the hotel. Me leaving early. That night I skipped the debrief? They think I was with you.”

“…you were.”

“Exactly.”

He looks at you for a long time. His eyes are glassy. He’s holding something in

“If I don’t agree, I risk my contract. Maybe not officially, but it’s leverage. They’re not going to make it look like a relationship,” he adds bitterly. “Just appearances. Photos. Maybe a dinner or two. Smiling next to a pop girl they can tag in headlines.”

“And me?”

His face crumples. “You stay here. You stay mine. No one touches this. I’ll lie to everyone else if I have to. I just can’t lose you.”

You think. “I don’t want you to lie,” you say.

“Sweetheart, just let me do this so I can keep everything else. So I can keep you.”

He says it like you are the only part of his life worth telling the truth for.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Lando’s wearing a shirt he didn’t choose, sitting at a table he didn’t reserve, waiting for a girl he didn’t ask to meet. She’s late. His manager checks his watch three times in the span of a minute.

When she arrives, it’s obvious why they picked her. She’s radiant, perfectly curated. Every strand of hair in place, nails glossy, lips done in the exact shade the camera likes. Based off the briefings, she’s basically Magui with no scandals. Some kind of television actress-slash-model, too. How coincidental.

“Lando,” she greets, sliding into the seat across from him like they’ve done this a hundred times. “It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

He forces a smile. He can do this, has done this before. “Yeah. You too, uh,” he remembers her name. “Camilla.’

Click. Someone’s taking pictures. Subtle. Just a phone angled from behind a wine glass. Another click. He doesn’t even bother to turn his head. She leans in, conspiratorial. “I think we’re supposed to look like we’re flirting.”

“Aren’t we?”

“Not unless you want to.”

Lando gives her no reply.

She reaches for the menu. “So here’s what I heard. We’re doing one dinner per city, you tag me once a month, and I show up in your team colors at Silverstone.”

“That’s what they told you?” He wanted to take you to Silverstone.

“Yep.” Camilla gives him a look. “Calm down. I’m not trying to ruin your life. I’m just trying to sell a dream. You drive fast cars, I look good in photos. Everyone wins.”

He looks down at the menu, even though he’s not hungry. He doesn’t want food. He wants you, hair wet from the shower, curled up on the couch in his hoodie, scrolling through your busted old laptop even though there are so many other things you could be looking at.

She must catch the change in his face.

“They told me about her, too. She’s not part of the deal, you know,” Camilla says, almost kindly. It startles him.

“I saw the photo,” she explains. “The one they showed you. Don’t think I’m stupid, they put you up to this because they didn’t like her. Or you, when you’re with her. You look different with her.”

Lando swallows. Charming and smart. Fuck.

“Don’t worry,” Camilla says, settling back into her seat, voice returning to breezy indifference. “Your secret’s safe. Just so you know, pretending gets easier. Eventually. I’m sure you already know.”

The hell’s that supposed to mean?

He wants to walk out. But he’s already here, already in it. Damn it. One dinner, one photo, one fake smile at a time. He wonders if you’re still at his apartment. If you’ll still be there when he gets back. What if you’re already back at school? He checks his phone under the table. No messages, but Lando opens your chat anyway. He types something, deletes it, closes the app.

Click. Another photo.

When they come out, people notice he’s not smiling in any of them.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The crowd is loud, even from his balcony. Here, high above it all, you’re watching on TV. Not from the paddock or hospitality, because they thought it was better if you weren’t there.

“We just think,” Lando’s manager had said yesterday; his name is Mark, you think, “that it might be best if you keep a lower profile during race weekends. There’s a lot of media interest, and it’s distracting him, and we need him focused. I’m sure you understand.”

You nodded. You didn’t really mind. Lando had a nice apartment, good food, nice views. On the other hand, Lando had been furious. “It’s my pass,” he’d snapped. “I get to decide who comes.” But then he’d gotten quiet, and you could all but hear what he was trying not to say. They told him it wouldn’t look good, that he’d already raised flags by skipping events and showing up late. That they needed him to toe the line a little.

When the camera cuts to Lando in the garage, your breath catches.

He’s focused. Calm and zoned in, of course, but you can tell he’s tired. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until he crosses the line and the commentators shout P2.

You don’t scream. You just smile and hug the pillow close.

The door unlocks forty—maybe an hour?—later. You stand from the couch instinctively. Lando walks in like he owns the world. His curls are damp with sweat, and he looks exhausted but triumphant.

“Back so soon, baby?” You say, then his arms are around you. “I thought you’d have interviews and all that. Tell Charles congrats for me, yeah?”

“Couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he mumbles into your neck. “Stop talking about Charles.”

“Sure, sure. I watched,” you say. “You were incredible.”

“I would’ve gone faster if you’d been there.”

You pull back. “Don’t say that.”

Lando snaps, “I hate that they’re keeping you away like this. Like I’m some kid who needs managing.”

“You don’t want them pissed before the race.”

“I don’t care,” he says. His mouth is on yours. “You’re not a distraction. You’re the only reason I’m even still here. Y’know that, right, sweetheart?”

You kiss him back, but it makes you a little sad, his words. You don’t want to be the reason he’s spiraling or winning. You just want to be his.

After he’s taken a shower and fallen asleep on your legs, you let yourself open your laptop. Race day is tomorrow and your flight back home is tomorrow, too. You think he’s sleeping. You’re mistaken.

“You working?” Lando asks, the words causing a sensation along your skin.

You coax, “just a little.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know, baby. Just have finals to get through and I’m all your for the summer.”

You feel him frown. “What, now? For how long?”

“A week. Maybe two.”

He shifts, props himself up on his elbows. “So you’re gonna go back?”

“I need to.”

He doesn’t answer right away. You can see it all flicker across his face in real time, how quickly the relaxation falls away.

“You just got here,” he says finally.

“I’m staying ‘til your race is over, okay?”

“I’ll come with you,” he says.

“You can’t. You have Barcelona in a week.”

Lando mutters, “fuck that.”

“Lando.”

He looks at you then. “So what? You just disappear now? I did all this without you in the paddock, without even seeing you all weekend. And now you’re leaving again?”

“I’m not leaving, I’m doing my finals. Like a normal person. like someone who has other things going on.”

That’s what does it. The line stiffens him completely. He says, “I’m not enough, is that it?”

“No—” You shift closer instinctively. “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.”

“No, it’s not. You’re enough. You’re more than enough. But I can’t lose everything I’ve worked for just because I love you.”

His eyes flash at the word. Love. You’ve said it before, but not like this. Frazzled, worn out, spine slightly hunched under the weight of everything you’re trying to balance. Suddenly, Lando straightens and pulls you in for a kiss. When you break apart, he’s quieter.

He says, “I just don’t know how to do this when you’re not around.”

“Then learn,” you say, not unkindly. You mean it.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The café isn’t crowded. You still choose the booth in the corner, where the shadows feel soft and safe. You stir your tea until the milk clouds settle into a forgettable grey, and then Mara slides into the seat across from you.

“You look—” she starts then stops.

“Tired?” you offer.

“I was going to say thin.”

You glance down at your sleeves, tug them a little lower. “Not even a little tan?”

Mara doesn’t push. Just says, “I’m glad you’re back.”

“Only for finals.”

“I know.”

“I miss him,” you say eventually.

She watches you. “I figured.”

“It’s not that he’s bad to me,” you add quickly, because she has that look again, that braced-for-impact stillness. “He’s not. It’s just that he needs me. Like really, really needs me. All the time. It’s like I’m the only thing that keeps him from—” You break off. “He didn’t take it well when I left.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“No.” Your response is immediate. “But he drank a lot. Broke things. I came back and his hotel was a mess. And he was so happy to see me, like I fixed everything just by walking in.”

“That’s a lot to carry, babe. Over-dependency isn’t good.”

You look down into your cup. “I think part of me likes it. Being the only one he wants. The only one he lets close.”

“But?” she presses.

“But I can’t do this forever. I forget who I am when I’m with him too long.” 

Mara doesn’t say anything for a moment. You don’t have to prove your love by breaking yourself to keep him whole.”

“I know.”

Your throat is tight. You do, but you’re not sure Lando does.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Lando feels like an animal in a glass box.

Across from him, Camilla looks like she’d stepped out of a commercial. Her smile is perfect. Always just enough teeth, just enough warmth. She even reached for his hand when the first camera flash went off outside the window. He didn’t take it.

“So,” she says, tilting her head. “Did your team tell you about my Vogue piece? They want a few shots of me by the water. Something soft, romantic.”

Lando took a sip of his wine and didn’t answer.

“You’re in such a mood tonight,” Camilla says.

He doesn’t want to talk. He doesn’t want to be here. Everything about this was wrong. Your voice had sounded small on the phone earlier, when you said you had to study. That you weren’t sure if you’d make it to Barcelona. You’d been quiet all week, and now he’s sitting here with a girl who knows which angle to turn her face toward the lens but doesn’t know shit about him.

“Still no word from your girlfriend?” Camilla asks lightly, swirling her drink.

Lando glances at her. “She’s not—” He stops himself. You are, to him, just not to you, maybe he should talk to you about that sometime. He doesn’t know how to hold onto you anymore.

Camilla leans in. “It’s just…people notice, you know? You haven’t been this moody in years. You were calm after Miami, happier. And now it’s, well.” She gestures vaguely. “The hotel room. The yelling at your engineer. You don’t seem yourself, Lando.”

“You don’t know me,” Lando says flatly.

She blinks once. Smiles again, this time a little too knowingly. “But I do know what they think of you. And how quickly the story shifts when sponsors get nervous.”

I don’t care about the fucking narrative.”

“Sure you do. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

Lando looks away. He wants to throw something. Instead, he reaches for his glass again. Third refill. He doesn’t feel it yet.

“I get it. She’s the one who makes you feel real. Like you’re not just a brand. That must be addictive.”

That catches him off guard.

She leans back in her chair. “It’s okay. You can hate me all you want. I’m not going anywhere.”

He stares at her, something bitter rising in his throat. “You enjoy this, don’t you?”

“I enjoy doing my job well. You should try it sometime.”

Lando scowls at her, about to get up. “Tell them I smiled. Tell them I held your hand. I don’t care. But don’t talk to me like you know what this is.”

“I had a boy like that, too,” she says, and Lando stops in his tracks.

“What?”

“I had a boy like that, too. Worshipped the ground he walked on. You know why he left me?”

He’s confused.

Camilla continues, “left me ‘cause he found someone less suffocating. Who didn’t want me and all the shit out there, too.”

“All the shit out there?” he echoes.

“Press. Money. That kind of thing.”

“Are you saying I’m superficial?”

She points out, “you’re on a PR date with me.”

“She’s going to leave me for someone more real? Like her?”

“No, that’s not what I said. I said that’s what happened to me. Sorry if I’m a little cynical about it all,” Camilla says, not sorry in the slightest.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You had the photo saved. You didn’t want to, obviously, but it was there, at the bottom of your camera roll, right after a screenshot of your calendar and before that blurry video of Mara singing in the kitchen.

Lando. Camilla—that was his new PR girl, he told you; didn’t even tell you the name, you found out by clicking the tagged accounts. Outside the restaurant. Standing close.

He told you. 

And still, when you looked at her, at how easy she looked in her dress and the way her face didn’t flinch under the camera flash, you felt it. That gross, clawing thing in your chest. Jealousy. 

You’d googled her once. Just once. (Okay. Maybe four times.) She’s an actress, breakout role in some Netflix show. Dating history: one boy for the majority of her career, break-up four years ago, coinciding with when her show got popular. You watch Buzzfeeds where she plays with dogs, does lie detectors. 

The interviewer asks, “you’re single, Camilla?”

“Yes.” The lie detector makes no noise.

“What happened to you and long-time boyfriend Jude?”

Camilla, half-smiling, says, “oh, you know Jude. He has a book out now. We’re still friends, but it didn’t work out in the end. I think he wanted someone who didn’t care as much. Not about him, you know, just preferred a quiet life.”

This is a different Camilla, less composed. The wranglers haven’t gotten ahold of her yet. You sense she wouldn’t say these words now. Too revealing. You stare at the subtitles for too long.

Mara walks in with two mugs of tea. “What now?”

You shake your head. “It’s not even the photo. It’s just. Why does he have to do PR?”

“You know why. You told him to go for it, babe.”

“Yeah but juggling is unfair. I hate that he has to be one thing for the world and another with me.”

“You’re not wrong,” Mara said, settling beside you. “But you also knew what this was. Who he is.”

You groan. “I know. I know. But I saw that photo, and she looked like she belonged there. And I don’t know how to not care. I want to be okay with it. I want to be cool. I want to say, ‘it’s PR, it’s part of the job.’ But sometimes I think I’m the problem. That I make him look messy. That I love him wrong.”

“There’s no such thing as loving someone wrong,” Mara says.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

He asks to see her. Not his team, not his friends, but his fake girlfriend. The car’s already waiting when she steps out of her building. When she climbs in, Lando’s quiet. He has sunglasses on even though it’s dusk.

“Thanks for coming,” he mumbles.

Camilla raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t realize it was urgent.”

“It’s not,” he says quickly. “I wanted to talk. About stuff. And this is good for PR, right? We’ll look like we have something going on.”

She waits. 

“About your ex,” he elaborates.

“You’re joking.”

“No.”

She leans back on the nice, plush car seats. “You’ve got PR girls, therapists, a race engineer, assistants, a 12-million-follower fan base, and you’re asking me for relationship advice? Your fake relationship?”

He shrugs. “You said you dated someone who wanted less of you? Or the public shit, whatever it was you said. Who wanted someone that didn’t care so much about everyone else.”

“Yeah,” Camilla admits. “I needed more than he could give.”

Lando nods slowly. “I think I’m doing that to her.”

Camilla stares at him. For a second, she thinks maybe he’s being dramatic. But then she notices his hands: how hard he’s gripping the edge of the seat. How he won’t stop bouncing one leg.

“I’m not trying to. I just, well, when I’m not with her, I lose my fucking mind. And when I am, I don’t know how to calm down.”

She notes how he’s being weirdly earnest.

“She came out of nowhere,” Lando says. “Didn’t care about the sport. Didn’t care about the attention. I liked that. I liked her. Y’know, I tried to pay her and she wouldn’t take the money. Had to show up at her job like a lost dog to get her attention. She hated me, you know? Despised me. Now she’s back home, and I’m here, and I feel, fuck, I don’t know. And I keep dragging her into this PR stuff and she’s probably sick of it, me having this double life.”

Camilla muses. She studies Lando’s face, says, “you’re not like me, you know.”

“I think I am.”

She shakes her head. “As much as that flatters me, I don’t think you care as much as me about the media.”

Lando scoffs. “Still sucks.”

“Yeah,” she agrees.

“You’re alright. Not what I expected.”

“Am I supposed to say thank you?”

“No.”

She says, “okay,” and they leave the conversation at that. So Camilla thinks.

Then Lando says, “but you said he wanted someone less suffocating.”

“What?” Not this again.

“It’s not just the media part. You said he wanted someone who didn’t want him and the media.”

“No, no, no,” Camilla says. “It’s the juggling, I think. You have to pick one. I was trying to do both and he realized before me.”

“What did he realize before you?”

“Doing both wasn’t just hard for me. It was hard for him, too. So he left.”

Lando frowns. “You’re saying I have to pick one. I can’t make her go back and forth while I want to just have her.”

“Oh, young love,” Camilla says.

“Seriously.”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying. My life isn’t your life, Lando. What happened between Jude and me isn’t what’s going to happen between you and your girl. We are not the same people.”

“I’m just looking for examples.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Lando is in Barcelona. Camilla is sitting next to him in the car. They’re talking while the car is parked. Late night conversation. He didn’t tell you about this.

The caption reads: “F1 driver Lando Norris and actress Camilla Young getting serious? Not the first time we’ve spotted them.”

You stare at the image. The angle doesn’t help. They’re leaning toward each other, talking like no one else is in the world. You can’t tell what he’s saying. You just know he’s engaged. He’s looking at her like she’s enough, that she’s answering his problems.

Your mouth is dry. You remind yourself that he told you. He said there’d be PR stuff. Dinners. That it didn’t mean anything. But this isn’t a PR dinner. They’re out at night, for fuck’s sake. You’re not even allowed in the paddock anymore.

mara(malade) babe i know you’re scrolling

mara(malade) stop thinking about it

You just photos i don’t care

You do. And Mara knows you do, because she doesn’t respond with “okay” or “cool.” She sends a voice memo.

“Look, you said this was PR. You know it’s PR. That girl probably got handed a clause and a Chanel bag. You’re the one who knows where he lives. You’re the one who sees him without all that. And he’s the one who broke a goddamn hotel for you, remember? Flew across the country for you? Look, I think he’s clingy but in this case, I think that’s something to reassure you.”

You leave her on read.

What you keep thinking, the thought you can’t get out of your head, is that maybe he likes it better this way. When things are clean. When it’s professional. When the girl across the table doesn’t cry at night or ask for space or say, “you scare me sometimes.” When he knows he’s loved and doesn’t have to fight for it.

You know it’s unfair. You’re the one who asked for time. You’re the one who told him you had a life. Still. It feels a little like juggling. And you’re not winning.

Your phone lights up. You think it’s Mara, again, asking why you’re not responding. It’s Lando, and he’s blowing up your phone. He won’t stop texting. Calling. Double texting. Triple texting. Guilt-tripping you with voice notes that sound like they were recorded half-drunk, half-panicked.

You hate this. You hate that you love him like this. You also hate that you’re starting to feel like you can’t breathe.

He won’t tell you where he’s been. You saw the photos. You know it’s PR. You know it. He told you about it, technically. (He just didn’t mention the part where he spent the whole ride talking about you, asking Camilla how to not be too much. He’s embarrassed. He thinks you’ll leave if you know how desperate he is.)

You press call.

When he picks up, sounding like he sprinted to the phone, breathless, you don’t even let him speak.

You say: “I think we need a break.”

“Just for a little. I need to breathe, Lando. You’re everywhere and I love you but it’s starting to feel like I’m all you have and I can’t be that for you all the time. It’s not healthy. I don’t want you to be not okay if I’m not there.”

Still silence. You check if the line dropped.

Then he laughs. “Fucking knew it. This is what Camilla said happened. He told her the same shit. ‘You’re too attached. It’s not healthy.’ It’s not healthy to love someone that much, is that it?”

“Lando—” You say. What did Camilla tell him? About her ex? What does this have to do with you and Lando? You’re trying to make things make sense.

He cuts in, “no, no, just say it. You don’t want me like this, even if I love you. You don’t want me if I’m not put together and calm and acting like I don’t need you. You want someone who doesn't have a PR girlfriend, too? Look, I want you to be my girlfriend. We haven’t even talked about this.”

Even if I love you.

This is the first time he’s said those words.

“That’s not what I said,” you say, and his tangent is really confusing you. What about being his girlfriend?

“It’s what you meant.”

“I just need a little space. It doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”

Lando: “If you did, you’d be here.”

That one stings. You hang up. You don’t mean to, but your thumb slips and that’s it. Silence.

Lando stares at the “Call Ended” screen. He flings his phone across the kitchen. It hits the marble and clatters. He doesn’t care. It won’t break, fucking case. He presses his palms to the counter and breathes. In. Out. He’s not Camilla. He’s not. Right now, he can’t tell if he’s any better.

He has whatever’s left in the wine bottle on the counter. Red, too warm, acidic. Doesn’t care. It makes his throat burn and that feels like something.

He doesn’t even blame you. You didn’t sign up for this. For the cameras. For the pressure. He wanted you because you saw him inferior, wanted you so no one else could know that side of him. You didn’t want him, not at all. Not for the money, not for…so why did you end up staying? And now, he’s like this—spun out and raw and clinging too tight to someone just because she said I love you and sounded like she meant it. 

He’s scared. He doesn’t know who he is without you, isn’t that fucking crazy? A few months into your life together and he’s nothing without you. Lando grabs a dish towel and wipes at the tears that surprise even him. Tries to pull himself together. He’s better when he’s with you, he thinks. How did you even start liking him? Maybe you liked him when he was suave and just playing cat and mouse.

It’s so pathetic, and he knows that, but he can’t stop thinking:

She said she loves me.

Why doesn’t that feel like enough?

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

mara(malade) u okay??? i saw your location was back at the library so. finals or breakdown?

you it’s both i think i told him i needed space and he flipped like fully lost it i think i broke him

mara(malade) hey no you’re not responsible for his spiral

mara(malade) and if you are then that’s… kind of the problem no?

you yeah i just feel like i made a promise i can’t keep like i said i loved him and now i’m backing out

you but it’s not that it’s that i can’t breathe around him sometimes and he’s scared all the time that i’ll leave

you but him being scared is making me actually want to

mara(malade) that makes sense

mara(malade) that’s what i meant before when i said he’s not all bad but he’s heavy

mara(malade) like intense love is beautiful but not when it burns you alive to keep him warm

you man when you’d get so poetic

mara(malade) when my own life started going good and your life became a soap opera

you fuck off

mara(malade) ❤️

you he talked to Camilla about it

you apparently she had an ex who left her bc he said her love was too much and lando saw himself in her

you and now i feel like i’m just proving him right

mara(malade) babe if he’s projecting that onto you that’s not fair

mara(malade) you’re not her ex. he’s not camilla. you’re YOU. he’s HIM. and if he can’t tell the difference, maybe a break really is the right call

mara(malade) even if it hurts

you he didn’t even tell me they talked that’s the part that’s pissing me off the most

you he didn’t tell me anything he just bottled it and drank and spiraled and then begged me not to leave

you it’s exhausting

mara(malade) i’m so proud of you for saying you needed space

mara(malade) i know that wasn’t easy and i’m here if you need me

you ty

you i think i just need to remember who i was before him for a second like just me

you not someone’s everything

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The sun’s out, annoying as hell. He hasn’t opened the balcony doors. His phone’s dead, face-down on the counter since last night. No new notifications. No new you.

Lando slumps lower on the couch. He hasn’t eaten. There’s a coffee from yesterday he keeps sipping, even though it tastes like shit. All it does is remind him you used to steal the first sip and make a face when it was too bitter. The front door buzzes. He ignores it. Buzzes again. The spare key turns, and Max Fewtrell steps inside like he’s done it a hundred times. Which he has. Just not lately, because Lando’s always with you. He can’t even say your name. 

“You look like shit,” Max says cheerfully, dropping a bag of pastries on the table. The same pastries you used to like. Like, probably, you’re not dead. “I assume that means you’re not dead.”

Lando grunts. His friend kicks his feet up next to Lando’s and starts unpacking the bag. “I brought the fig ones.”

The exact ones you like. Lando doesn’t move. Max says, “you wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

Lando presses the cold rim of the coffee cup to his lip. Finally: “She said she needed space. That we were too attached.”

“Was she wrong?”

He closes his eyes.

No.

Yes.

Maybe.

“She said I scared her, Max. She said I made her feel like she’s all I have. That I don’t know how to be okay without her. I thought I was just loving her. The way she needed.”

Max says, “you did. You do. Sometimes people still drown in that.”

Lando huffs, “that’s what Camilla said. Suffocating.”

“You’re taking relationship advice from your PR cover girl?”

“She’s been through it.”

“Yeah, but she’s also an Oscar-nominated woman who drinks red wine before noon.”

Vaguely defensive, Lando says, “she’s nice. How do you know that?”

“Friends of friends,” Max says, “looks nice, yeah. Half the stuff I hear about her, though.”

Lando looks down at the half-eaten pastry on the plate. “I thought if I was good enough, if I just loved her enough, she’d stay. That she’d choose me, even when it was hard.”

Max says nothing.

“She said I made her happy,” Lando says. “I’m the kid who thought love would be enough.”

“Maybe it still is. But not like this.”

Lando’s hands drop to his lap. He stares ahead, eyes dull.

He doesn’t know how to love you less. He’s not sure he wants to learn.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Someone’s yelling about football, someone’s crying in the toilet, and you’re perched on a sticky barstool with Mara, laughing so hard her cheeks ache. 

“Okay,” Mara says, poking you with a straw. “You’ve been smiling all night and I don’t trust it.”

“I’m done with finals,” you say, shrugging like that explains everything. “Also, I think I flirted with a guy who works in Parliament. On accident. He was like, shockingly boring. But hot.”

Mara snorts. “You’re deranged.”

“I’m fun.”

“You’re healing,” Mara corrects, more gently.

You don't flinch. You just knock back the rest of your drink and make another. You haven’t thought about Lando—really thought about him—in two hours. That’s a record.

When your phone buzzes, you don’t check it. You know who it won’t be. Instead, you fish a crumpled envelope out of your purse and slap it on the bar.

“What’s that?”

“My future, apparently.”

You unfold it with a little dramatic flair, sliding it across the counter. Mara scans the letter and immediately goes wide-eyed.

“Wait. Belgium?”

“Mhm.”

“For six months?”

“Yep.”

“With some freaky academic?”

You say, “little out of my area of expertise, but you know, work’s work!”

“You’re going to become a nun.”

“I’m going to become a scholar,” you say.

The offer is real. Your grad professor sent it over that morning, saying you’re one of the top students they’ve ever had. That a colleague in Amsterdam is running a new deep-dive research team. Your name came up.

You haven’t told anyone else yet.

Not even your mum. Not even Mara until now. You just wanted to sit with the idea. Let it feel like yours. Like something that isn’t about a boy or a breakdown or a stupid Monaco apartment you couldn’t breathe in.

Mara bumps your shoulder. “I’m proud of you, you know.”

“I know.”

“And you’re kind of glowing right now. Are you wearing highlighter or is that just the joy of emotional detachment?”

You kick her. “Shut up.”

“You know what I mean. You’re laughing again. You’re thinking again. You’re living again.”

You swirl your straw through your drink. “It’s weird. I think I loved him. I think maybe I still do. If I see him I don’t know what I’ll do. I think part of me maybe always will.” You pause. “But I don’t think I like who I was with him.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

"You’re sure you have your passport?" Mara says for the fifth time, clutching her chai latte.

You nod, bouncing on your heels. “Yes. And the visa letter. And the housing confirmation. And my reading list for the first three weeks. Mara. I’m not an idiot.”

"You are, though,” Mara says, voice thick with pride. “But a brilliant idiot. A Belgium-bound idiot. A—”

“Please stop.”

Mara does, but only to hug you again, tight and fast. It feels so final, standing there in front of the departure gate with your suitcase, your passport, and a hundred unread chapters in your inbox. Your coat is slung over your arm, your phone is buzzing with a reminder to change your SIM card once she lands, and your cheeks are flushed with the kind of nervous excitement you haven’t felt in years.

“I can’t believe you’re actually doing this,” Mara whispers.

“Me neither.”

They sit down on a bench near the gate, just to wait. Your heart is doing that jittery dance again. You lean back and watch the world pass by. Your future is somewhere over the Channel.

Then you see it.

Him.

Not him, not in the flesh. Him, plastered over a luxury advert. Sharp jaw. That same signature stare. Lando Norris, standing on a balcony like he owns the sun. You can almost smell his cologne.

Your stomach sinks. “I hate airports.”

Mara follows your gaze. “Want me to key the ad?”

“No. It’s okay.” You don’t cry. You haven’t cried in weeks. You just stare for a moment longer, then blink it away.

Your flight’s boarding. Your life’s waiting. And he isn’t part of it anymore.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The door doesn’t open. 

He’d left it unlocked this morning. Not on purpose—he tells himself that, at least—but when he walked back in after his run, he paused by the foyer and waited.

For you.

He keeps using your shampoo.

Not because he wants to, but because it’s just there. It smells like winter, when you first met; like spring, when you warmed to him, like snow thawing; like summer, when you were in love. If he closes his eyes, it almost feels like you’re in the next room.

He sits on the edge of the couch in the hoodie you left behind. He scrolls through his phone, not really reading anything. Sometimes he retypes messages to you and deletes them. Other times he just stares at your contact name.

The cafe you loved, with the fig pastries, closed down last week. He didn’t know until he walked there this morning.

The press says he’s locked in, matured.

What they don’t say is that he doesn’t go out anymore. He hasn’t brought anyone back to this flat in months because the idea of someone else sleeping in that bed, in that indent in the shape of you, makes him sick.

People notice. His friends don’t mention your name anymore. Max does, once, and Lando doesn’t answer.

You’re gone. Left. Disappeared into a world that doesn’t include him, with grad school and espresso and maybe, someday, someone new. He doesn’t want to think about that. He might puke. Lando breathes in the smell of your shampoo, trying to hold it fast. Pathetic.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You sit across from two of the most brilliant people you’ve ever met. It’s warm in the little canal-side restaurant, all amber candles and slow jazz. Samantha—Sam—orders for the table. And Johannes, with his thick-rimmed glasses and absurd vocabulary, keeps asking you questions like your opinions matter.

It’s disorienting.

You tell them about your undergrad thesis, and instead of blinking politely, Sam leans in and goes, “wow, you could expand that. Something publishable.” Just like that. Like it’s a casual thought. Like it’s no big deal. And she likes it. You try not to blush and fail, so you smile anyway.

Johannes, you learn, is only your age. He looks older, has the beard to make up for it. He speaks with a thick accent, tells the funniest jokes with the straightest face. Sam is a little more serious, but only a little more.

Sometime around dessert, her phone buzzes. She checks it and turns the screen toward you. You’re already friends. Oh, you love these people.

“This is my idiot cousin. You’ll probably meet him, he likes hanging around and trying to understand stuff. Don’t let him get into a debate unless you want to lose a full afternoon.”

You glance down. The photo’s grainy, taken outside in harsh sun. A man in a zip-up jacket stands half-turned to the camera. He squints mid-laugh, holding what looks like a massive trophy. Shit. You’ve seen those trophies. He has dimples, you note. You read the contact name aloud, “Max?”

“Unfortunately.”

The name rings a faint bell, like a headline you scrolled past once, or a conversation you half-heard. Something Dutch. Maybe racing? Definitely racing. Lando has the same trophy. Had? You push him out of your mind. Max. You’ve heard it before.

“He thinks he’s very charming,” Sam says. “He’s not. But he is useful. And he’s blunt. Sorry if he scares you off, I promise the rest of my family is normal.”

You smile politely and hand the phone back, already forgetting the photo. Just another face, another cousin.

You, on the other hand, have work to do. You walk home after, cheeks pink from wine and wind and compliments you’re still trying to believe were real. Sam is a big deal in the scholarly world. A big deal. Your flat is tiny, one room and a kitchen nook, but it’s yours. You unpack slow and careful. Books first, then the photos you didn’t think you’d hang but now decide to. Lots of Mara, of your mum, of your uni friends. You check the group chat, send a meme, and turn off your phone.

The reading list is already waiting: annotated articles, an attached PDF from Sam with a note—“welcome to the real world.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Sam’s office is beautiful. You want to live here. She also has great tea, which you poured a mug full of while Johannes argued about a footnote. He lost, so you’re laughing and choking on the hot liquid.

Knock. Knock.

Sam doesn’t look up, just calls, “it’s open!”

The door swings in, as does a tall man. His hoodie sleeves shoved halfway up his forearms, blonde-brown hair a little messy. He doesn’t look like he belongs in an academic office, but he does look like he belongs in a room.

“Sorry,” he says. He sounds like Sam with a stronger Dutch accent. Not exactly, just the same cadences. “Didn’t know you were in a meeting.”

“No meeting, Max. Come in,” Sam says. She gestures to you, “hey, this is my cousin. Max. Max Verstappen.”

Oh, you’ve heard that. Definitely. Max Verstappen, Formula 1 world champion, retired. Lando’s talked about him.

You offer your hand, “hi.”

He shakes it, firm and quick. “Nice to meet you.”

You introduce yourself. His eyes pass over you like you’re just some grad student in a knit sweater and boots. Which, to be fair, you are. 

“I came to borrow the espresso pods,” Max adds, glancing at Sam.

“In the cabinet. Far right.”

He starts rummaging through the drawers. You go back to your notes, trying not to think about the gossip photos, or the phone calls you haven’t answered. Sam is saying something to Max in Dutch, and you’re relieved. You’re not excluded, just invisible. It’s peaceful.

He says bye a minute later, espresso in hand. You glance up once, watch the way he ducks his head when he smiles at Sam.  After he leaves, Sam murmurs, “ignore him. He doesn’t sleep. He also haunts this place because he has no friends.”

You laugh a little. “He seemed normal?”

“He is. Mostly.”

Martine, Sam’s good friend, says, “you’re just annoyed he always takes the good pods.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You’re squinting at the back of a box of cereal, trying to decode the language with your phone translator, when someone brushes your arm.

“Sorry—oh.”

You look up. He’s flushed from running. Max. You hadn’t expected to see him again, let alone here, at this random corner store five minutes from your apartment.

He blinks, equally surprised. “Hey. You’re Sam’s intern, right?”

“Yeah,” you say, setting the cereal down. Hopeless case, your translator. All it told you was the brand’s name. “You’re Max.”

“Didn’t expect to run into anyone I knew.”

You don’t really know him. Still, you nod. “You live here?”

He gestures vaguely behind him. “Just outside the center. Needed air.” Awkward. What else are you going to tell him? “You finished shopping?”

“Almost. Unless you have cereal recommendations.”

“Not really. I buy whatever has the least sugar and looks edible.”

You grin, grab a random box, and fall into step with him outside. Somehow, you’re walking together. You don’t ask where he’s going and he doesn’t ask where you’re heading either. You go along with it, the silence. Not too bad, actually. Neither of you feel like you need to talk.

“How’s the internship?”

“Hm?” you say, startled by the question. “Honestly? I’m kind of loving it. Sam’s great.”

“She’s a menace. Not actually. Sam’s good at that. Letting you find your footing.”

You both cross a street, the sky softening overhead with hints of fall. Bree isn’t big, more quiet than Bristol. You like that nothing demands too much from you here.

“She mentioned you were coming. Didn’t think you’d actually show. She scared the last one off.”

You smile. “Funny, she said you’d be the one to scare me off. Anyway, I almost didn’t. Needed to get away from some things.”

Max looks ahead while he walks. “Yeah. I get that.”

You pass another block in silence. When you reach the turn for your place, you turn your head in that direction. Max nods once. “Good luck with the cereal.”

“Good luck with the running,” you shoot back.

You’re not sure what that was. It felt okay. Max Verstappen is a lot more down-to-Earth than you would’ve expected.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Today’s your day off! You start by taking a long nap, after which you see that dearest Mara has texted you.

mara(malade) soooooooooooooo

mara(malade) up up up!! rise and shine!! wakey wakey!!

You facetime her.

“Someone took their sweet time,” she says snarkily.

“I love you too.”

Mara smiles, “oh, you’re sappy today. What’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing. My DMs are as dry as the Sahara desert.”

With a cackle, she says, “funny, funny. You’d be a wonderful comedian, you know?”

“Sure. How’s Dan?”

“Cut his hair. I’m mourning.”

“Hah.”

“You make any friends?”

“My boss is great. My coworkers are great,” you say.

“Work is going to eat you alive,” Mara scoffs. “I mean actual friends, babe. You go out to drink?”

You make a face. “Surprisingly—I mean surprisingly, I worked at a bar for so long—no.”

“Your life is miserable,” she says, but she doesn’t mean it.

“Actually,” you say, “I think I do have a friend. It’s funny, though. Don’t laugh. I know it’s ironic.”

“Go on,” she says, expecting the worst.

You blow a raspberry. “So, this guy who used to race with, well,” you can’t say Lando’s name, not yet, “he’s my boss’s cousin. And he’s a big deal.”

“Driver?” Mara interrupts, “let me guess which one. Dan’s educated me.”

“Go ahead.”

“No, I need details. Personality? Don’t give too much away.”

You think. “Um. He’s Dutch—”

“—Max Verstappen.”

“What? How’d you get it so fast?”

“It’s that or Nyck de Vries. You said big deal.”

Bewildered, “who?”

Mara rolls her eyes. “Doesn’t matter. That’s crazy. He’s a biiiiiig deal.”

“Thanks, Mara. I didn’t know.”

“Is he nice in real life?”

“Yeah, I’d say. We’re not super close, though.”

“Well,” Mara concludes, “one half-friend is better than none. Miss you.”

“Me too. You visiting me anytime soon?”

“My broke ass? I wish.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The thing about living in Bree is that everything’s walkable, and that’s a bit dangerous when you’re used to structuring your life around needing a car or a schedule or something big to do. Here, your calendar is soft. You have a little structure in the meetings, reading hours, and grocery runs. 

Max keeps showing up on those.

You never plan it. Yet, most Saturdays, when you walk the streets toward the market square, you’ll hear the soft rhythm of footsteps behind you—quicker than yours, like he’s jogging—and there he is. 

“Do you time these, or is it just fate?” you ask him this morning as he falls into step beside you.

“I have a sixth sense for overly ambitious grocery lists,” he says, pretending to peek at your phone. You’ve learned about his sense of humor. You enjoy it. “Tell me you’re not buying three different types of mushrooms again.”

“I like mushrooms.”

“You bought oyster mushrooms last week and forgot them in the fridge.”

You scrunch up your face. “Snitch.”

“Clean your fridge. You’re going to die of something,” Max says, straight-faced.

The walk to the market is short. You both pause by a new flower stall. He eyes the tulips. “Too obvious,” he mutters.

“Excuse me?”

“If I brought someone tulips, they’d think I picked the first thing that came up when I searched ‘romantic flower Belgium.’”

You tease, “You spend a lot of time thinking about being romantic?”

He gives you a look. “I spend a lot of time around Sam. She tries to set me up with her yoga instructor every time I breathe.”

“Is she cute?”

“Very,” Max deadpans, “but she thinks Formula 1 is a type of protein shake.”

You laugh harder than you should. At the produce tent, you hold up a tomato. “Good or bad?”

Max squints, shakes his head. “Looks smug. Pick a different one.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I’m helpful. It’s my only marketable skill.”

“Sure, driver,” you say. You’re halfway through your list when you realize he’s carrying half your items. Max has two apples in his hoodie pocket, a baguette slung under one arm, and a jar of honey that he’s twirling idly in his hand. “You know you don’t have to do this with me.”

“I know,” he says easily.

And he does. He always makes it feel like he’s just passing by, just joining for a bit, just walking you home because it’s on his way. There’s a difference between obligation and presence, and he’s never once made you feel like a chore.

He pauses outside the bakery, staring at the cinnamon buns in the window. “Do I want one or will I regret it?” he asks you.

“You always regret it. But you also always eat it anyway.”

“Sounds like a metaphor.”

You lift a brow, say, “about?”

Max shrugs. “Something Sam said. About people, who we trust, that kind of thing, bad decisions. You know Sam. I think she’d be a psychologist if not…whatever she does.”

You don’t laugh, even though it’s funny. It rings a little too close to home. “Get your cinnamon bun. I’ll go grab the milk.”

When you meet again outside, he’s already taken a bite, cinnamon dusting his fingers. Max tears off a corner and offers it to you, which you accept.

The walk back is quieter. You’ve said enough for now. You know he’ll walk you all the way to your front step. He always does. As you unlock the door, he leans against the wall, still chewing thoughtfully.

“You ever think about staying longer?” he asks suddenly.

“In Bree?”

He shrugs. “Here.”

You don’t answer. You think about tulips and expired mushrooms and his hoodie pocket filled with apples.

“Maybe,” you say.

Nodding, Max responds, “See you Monday.”

“Don’t forget your bun wrapper on the ground this time.”

“Wow. No faith.”

You hear him chuckling down the street long after you close the door. You open your bag of groceries and see another cinnamon bun inside. It makes you smile.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The article William sent you makes your head swim. You need to talk to him about it, not now, he’s never in the office. He’s always running around and finding new papers other people should read. Must be fun assigning work.

Sam walks in with two mugs of tea. Hers always smells like something earthy and medicinal, yours sweeter. She sets one down beside you without comment, then plops into the chair opposite.

“You and Max went shopping again?”

You shrug. “He just shows up. I don’t invite him.”

Sam lifts a brow. “Of course not. He just senses your lack of upper body strength and offers to carry potatoes.”

You grin, half-embarrassed. “That was one time.”

“Mmhmm.” She lifts her mug to her mouth. “You know he doesn’t do that for everyone, right?”

You blink. “Do what?”

“Grocery walk. He likes his solitude. Usually dodges people like they’re reporters.”

“Maybe he’s just bored,” you say, a little too fast. “Or being nice. Or, I don’t know, we live nearby, it’s easy.”

Sam gives you a look. “Max doesn’t do things just because they’re easy. He’s too stubborn for that.”

You glance back down at your article.

“He told me,” she adds, “that you gave him grief about his cinnamon bun habits.”

You groan. “He eats so much, I’m concerned about his health. I know they’re good. That many, though, he’s going to get diabetes.”

“I think he likes that you tell him things no one else does.” You pause, your pen frozen in hand. Sam watches you quietly. “He talks about you, you know. Not much. More than he talks about most people.”

You don’t know what to do with that. 

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” she says gently. “You just seem happier.”

“I’m still me.”

She agrees, “You are. But you’re not looking over your shoulder anymore. Anyway! William has notes for you. Thank me, not him, I requested them.”

Later, after she’s gone and you’re packing up for the evening, you find a folded receipt tucked inside your notebook, from the market bakery. Two cinnamon buns. Scrawled across the top, in Max’s messy handwriting: 

you’re right.

regret but worth it

You stare at it for a while. You don’t throw it away.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

As you said at the very start of this tale, the death of what, exactly? You don’t know. The death of the old Lando. You mourn, sometimes, what could have been. If you had been an artist, maybe you would’ve captured it like this, him the fire, you the tinder. Eventually, you would’ve burnt out. It was a matter of keeping yourself alive. Would you have died for his happiness? Maybe the old you. There, the death of that too.

You see him in the tabloids, less than before. He’s still single, as far as you know. Camilla has a boyfriend, but they seem to remain friends. His career’s going great—this, Max tells you. You trust him on that. You think, good for him. In the end, he didn’t have to choose between loving his sport, his fans, and you. And he seems happy. He smiles on the podium. Smiles everywhere. Not the same smile he used to give you, of course, but he still smiles. That’s better than nothing. Then again, it’s none of your business, not anymore.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The second-hand bookshelf you picked up from a Facebook group is stubborn. You accept the truth: you are going to break it, or yourself, or both. Your toolbox is open. Your patience is waning.

So, somewhat shamefully, you text Max.

you ru busy

you i have a shelf that’s defeating me

You’re not even sure he’ll reply. It’s a Thursday afternoon, and he’s probably on one of his mysterious forest runs, or on his SIM machine again.

Three minutes later, he responds:

maximilian On my way.

maximilian Don’t touch anything. I mean it.

He types like an old man. You always say his name wrong, on purpose. Maximilian, like it’s one word. That’s how you greet him at the front door. 

“Why are there two fucking screwdrivers?” he asks.

“Dunno.”

He snorts, crouches beside the pile. “You have it upside down.”

“Oh.”

You sit on the floor again while he sorts the screws into neat little piles with a strange kind of reverence. You watch him from the side, the way his brows draw together, the precision of his hands.

“Is this what you do for fun?” you ask.

He glances at you. “You invited me.”

“Fair.”

You laugh whenever he swears under his breath in Dutch. He teaches you a few of them, a favor you can’t return because English doesn’t have enough. Godverdomme, you now say instead of goddamn.

At one point, you accidentally knock over one of his carefully balanced structures and you think he’s going to die from exasperation, but instead he says, “you’re lucky you’re cute.”

“What?”

He blinks, unfazed. “I said—”

“No, I heard you.”

“Okay then. Don’t get a big head about it.”

Eventually the shelf stands, slightly uneven but proud. You both sit back against the wall, staring at it like it might collapse just from your gaze.

“Honestly,” you say, “I hate to say this, but I might never put anything on it. Too risky.”

“Probably smart.” His arm is warm beside yours, close but not touching. You look over at him and find him already looking at you.

“What?” you ask, trying to sound casual.

He shakes his head. “You’re different from when I met you.”

“Different how?”

“Less sad.”

You blink. You hadn’t realized how much you’d carried into Bree, how much of it had slowly started to peel off without you noticing. You don’t answer, and he doesn’t push. Instead, Max tilts his head toward the shelf. “Think it’ll hold at least a book?”

“No,” you say honestly. “But maybe plants.”

“Plants are good.”

He gets up, stretches, and offers you a hand. You take it.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Wine, what a glorious thing! Sam had left you both a bottle as a thank-you—something about helping her rearrange boxes in the archive room—and you’d cracked it open after dinner, half as a joke, half because you were too lazy to leave your apartment to get anything else. Max is sitting on your floor again, following your choice.

He asks, “you always sit on the floor?”

“You always ask obvious questions?”

“Fair.”

The wine is good, warm in your chest. Your bookshelf, the one he built, is already half full. He noticed earlier and made a quiet joke about it. Something like, “you didn’t even wait a week to tempt fate, huh?”

The new development is that he brought up Lando a week ago and you went completely still. You knew they were friends, yeah, but not still in touch. Max knows you dated, just didn’t tell you. He knows. What to do with that? He offers, “was he really that bad?”

The ‘he’ needs no clarification. You don’t talk about Lando, not here. Not in Belgium, your new life. But Max’s voice is careful. Just curious in the way of someone who might actually care.

You sigh. “No. I don’t think so. Not at first. It wasn’t supposed to be anything. You know how we met? He was drunk at the bar I worked at. After he lost his mum, yeah. Then he kept coming into my life, wanted me to be his sugar baby, then I guess I was his girlfriend. Then it was everything. And then it was too much.”

The sentence stops there as you watch your wine catch the light.

“He got really intense,” you say, finally. “Jealous, mostly. Not of anyone in particular. He just needed to feel like I needed him.”

Max nods slowly. He looks at the carpet. “That’s a hard kind of person to let go of.”

“He told me he loved me when I said I needed a break.”

“Did it work?”

You shake your head. “I felt bad.”

Then: “He ever hit you?”

You look up sharply. “No. God, no.”

Max breathes out, almost like relief. “Okay.”

“But it still felt like I couldn’t breathe,” you add. “Like I was being watched all the time. And the worst part is, I think he thought he was being romantic. Like, that he was proving something. That he loved me more than anything else in his life.”

“Some people mistake possession for love,” Max says quietly.

You repeat, “he didn’t hit me. But he scared me. A little.”

He nods again. You appreciate that he doesn’t tell you what you should have done. Doesn’t offer advice. Eventually, you nudge his socked foot with yours. “You ever been in love?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened?”

“Thought I loved someone else. Too late when I wanted to turn back.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “Probably for good reason. I didn’t know how to be soft with her until it was too late. Then I just stayed with Kelly. We had a happy family.”

You look at him a long moment. You know Max is divorced, that was a stupid question. But the love he talks about is not his ex-wife. It’s a girl, a woman before her. Love is complicated, hard to understand. Something in your chest folds up quietly into itself. You can understand this much of Max.

You don’t say any of that. Instead, you pour him the last of the wine, and when he bumps your glass with his in a quiet toast, you grin.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Sam might be a terrible cook, but she makes great bread. So the house smells like rosemary, just how she likes it.

Max stands near the edge of the kitchen. His free arm rests loosely against the counter. Familiar voices cloud his senses, people he’s known forever. He watches the doorway.

He doesn’t mean to. He tells himself it’s just curiosity—you said you might come, after all. Said you had to finish a draft for Johannes, but maybe you’d show up later. No promises, just the kind of answer you give when you’re trying not to assume you’re expected.

Then you do show up. At the right moment, when people have stopped glancing at the door, when the first bottle of wine is already gone and Sam is mid-speech with a cookie in her hand. Max sees it before anyone else. You looks around the room, scanning. Max doesn’t think. He just moves.

“Hey,” he says, reaching you before anyone else can.

“Hey.”

“You came.”

“Yeah. Sorry I’m late. I couldn’t figure out what to wear, and then my email crashed, and—”

“You look good.”

You stop, brain short-circuiting. “Oh. Thanks.”

It comes out too fast, too easy. He doesn’t take it back. He watches your shoulders drop a little, relaxed. “You want a drink?” he asks, already stepping toward the kitchen.

Later, you end up on the balcony together.

It’s colder than either of you expected. You wear a thin sweater, shivering slightly, so he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders without asking. You smell like cinnamon, or maybe it’s just the drink you’re nursing.

Inside, someone’s laughing too loudly. Sam, probably. She’s a little drunk. Everyone’s a little drunk.

“Happy birthday,” you’d said earlier, pressing the tiny bag into Sam’s hands. “It’s just a notebook. But it’s handmade. I saw it and thought of you.”

Sam had actually teared up. Max hadn’t even brought a gift. Whoops. He did bring drinks, though, which makes it up a little.

“You’re good at this,” he says now, tilting his glass toward you.

“What, parties?”

“No. Showing up.”

You look over at him, brows drawn slightly. “Is that a compliment or an accusation?”

He shrugs. “Maybe both.”

“You’re weird, Maximilian.”

“You’re not the first person to say that.”

You lean forward on the balcony rail, letting the wind lift your hair slightly. He watches you in profile, the curve of your jaw, the way you press her lips together when you’re thinking.

It hits him then, low and sudden and unannounced. He wants you to stay.

Not just tonight. Not just in Bree, even if you have to leave after these six months are over. He wants you in his routines, in his late grocery runs, in the silence of his mornings. In the spaces he never thought anyone could fill without making noise. You’re not doing anything extraordinary. You’re not even looking at him.

Max thinks about how easily you fit into this evening. How naturally you’ve been showing up in his days, one by one.

Shit.

He knows, now. He knows.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You’re halfway through brushing your teeth when you stop. Just stop, mid-circle, toothpaste foaming, because the way Max looked at you tonight won’t leave your brain. Not in a creepy way, not even necessarily in a romantic way. He noticed something and didn’t rush to define it. You spit and rinse before grabbing your phone.

Mara picks up on the third ring, groggy. “It’s like, two a.m. here.”

“Okay, sorry—”

“No, I’m awake. I’m awake. Are you okay?”

You sit on the edge of your bed, still in Max’s jacket because, yeah, you forgot you were wearing it. “I think I have a crush.”

“Oh my God.”

“Don’t. Don’t say anything yet.”

Mara’s silent. Which is worse than anything, actually.

“I didn’t mean to,” you say, curling your legs under yourself. “We were at Sam’s birthday party, and he gave me his coat, and then we were talking outside, and he made this weird joke about how I ‘show up,’ and like, who says that? But also, it was nice. And I didn’t feel weird. I didn’t feel like I had to try.”

Mara exhales. “Woah. Stop. Max Verstappen?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure he’s not just being polite?”

“No. I mean, well, maybe? But no. I don’t think so. He helps me carry groceries sometimes. And he built my bookshelf. And he remembers how I like my coffee. And it’s not like. I don’t know. It’s not like Lando.”

There it is, his name, the pause it still pulls from you.

Mara catches it too. “You think he’s different?”

“I know he is. It’s not the same thing. Max is so calm. He doesn’t ask for anything. He’s like an old man, you know, he’s retired and has money and just does what he likes. Not a lot, surprisingly. He doesn’t need me to reassure him. He just shows up.”

She hums, “so why do you sound like you’re trying to convince yourself?”

You bite your lip. “I think I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

You look at the ceiling with its yellowing corners. 

“I think I’m scared it won’t last. That I’ll ruin it. That I’ll care and he won’t. Or worse, he’ll care, and I won’t be ready. I don't know if I'm capable of doing this again, Mara. Not after what happened with—”

“Hey.” she cuts you off gently. “You’re not the same person anymore. And he’s not Lando.”

You say, “he stayed on the balcony with me. Didn’t even check his phone once.”

“Then maybe start there,” Mara says. “One small thing at a time. You don’t have to fall in love. You can just let someone care about you.”

You sniff, smile. You didn’t realize you were crying. She adds, “also. If you do fall in love, please tell me before the internet does this time?”

You laugh. “Deal.”

You leave his jacket on when you hang on. You don’t need to decide anything tonight. But Godverdomme, it’s warm.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Your canvas tote is a little heavier than usual, but Max carries most of it without asking. Like always. Like always. You're going to miss this. You're already missing it, and you're not even gone yet.

“You’ve been quiet,” he says, looking at you.

“Just thinking.”

He doesn’t push. Like always.

You say, “I think I don’t want to leave.” You don’t mean it to sound so honest. Still, it comes out that way.

“You’re not going far, are you?”

“No. But it’s not here.” You admit, “I didn’t think I’d like it so much. When I first got here, I didn’t even know what side of the street to walk on. I was scared all the time.”

Max says, “And now?”

You smile, looking up at him. “Now I know which stall has the best tomatoes. And that Sam always brings pastries on Mondays. And that you take the same running route every morning.”

His mouth quirks into a smile. “You’ve been spying?”

“I have eyes.”

He laughs. You walk a little longer, past the bookstore that always has one light still on, even when it’s closed.

“I’m going to miss this,” you say.

He’s quiet. Then Max says, “I’ll miss it too.”

You glance over at him. “Do you ever think about what it’d be like to stop moving?”

“Sometimes. But I’m not very good at standing still.”

“You seem like you are.”

“That’s because I like walking with you.”

You stop walking. He does too, but doesn’t look away. You eye the bread in your hands, and say, “it’s still warm.”

“You want to eat it now?”

“Obviously.”

So you sit on the nearest bench and tear the loaf in half. It’s no cinnamon roll, but it’s good. No promises, you think, just this. You, and Max, and something that might last even if you leave

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

It’s been a long week. Final paperwork, goodbye emails, thank-you cards. Everyone at the institute has been kind. Sam said you’ll always have a place here. William, in his way, offered to write you letters of recommendation for any program you wanted. Johannes gives you a nice pen with your name on it. He says he presents a similar one for each of his good colleagues. 

“Hi,” Max says, on your doorstep.

“Hi.”

You step aside.

“Are you busy?”

You glance at the half-folded t-shirt in your hand. “Nope.”

He nods. You shut the door behind him. He stands in the center of your living room before holding out the bag. “I brought those stroopwafels you like.”

Your brows rise. “From that café near the canal?”

With a grin, Max says, “I bribed the guy. He’s closed Mondays.”

“You didn’t. Max!”

“I did.” He shrugs, smug and sheepish all at once. “I figured if you’re leaving next week…”

You take the bag gently. “Thanks.”

He looks around, sees the half-packed suitcase near the kitchen counter. “So it’s real, huh.”

“Yeah.”

“Feels fake.”

He doesn’t say much. He never has to. You just fell into him, quietly, slowly, like water finding the cracks. “So,” Max asks, “what happens when you go back?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’ll go back to your life. That guy?”

You shake your head quickly. “No. No. That’s done.”

He studies your face. “I think I forgot how it feels. To want someone and not have to perform it. Not for cameras, not for anyone. Just want them.”

You look at him expectantly.

Max says, “you made everything quiet again.”

“Max…” You look at him, look at his eyes. Lando’s were clear and only reflected what you wanted. Max’s are the color of the ocean, more green than blue, resolute in the way he holds himself, knows himself.

“If I kiss you,” he says, “are you gonna pretend it didn’t mean anything?”

“No.”

“Then don’t kiss me unless you mean it.”

You’re already moving. You don’t know who leans in first, just like you don’t know most things with him. It just happens, a breath you’ve been holding in for weeks, maybe longer. His hand cups your face, slow and reverent. He’s asking with his gentleness.

You answer him in how you don’t pull away. In how your hands find the hem of his hoodie.

It deepens. Max exhales into your mouth.  “That okay?” he murmurs.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He drops his hand, pulls you in by the waist for a hug. “Good.”

You sit like that for a while. This is, you think, the aftermath of something that’s been building since your first grocery run. You think, this isn’t complicated.

It really isn’t.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

It ends the fall of ‘29.

Maybe ‘30, if you want to be specific with these things. Somewhere late in ‘29 is when you fall in love with him. ‘30 is when you start dating “officially,” meaning that the rest of the world finds out. It takes a while. It’s never easy, learning a new pattern, a new language that means love; but with him, it’s never difficult. There’s no question of reassurance. But you don’t feel like categorizing everything meticulously. With Max, you take what comes and he’s always full of surprises, so that’s not a problem.

This is where you’re meant to be. This is something real, something that stays even when the autumn leaves fall, when nights get cold and neither of you want to leave the bed’s comfort. He stays, as do you, through all the seasons, all the moods, all the years. 

You gave a part of yourself to Lando, fit it into his heart—saying his name doesn’t hurt; you look back and maybe even smile—and the emptiness no longer bothers you. It’s no longer there.

“Lieverd?” you hear the familiar nickname. Sweetheart, Max calls you, in his own way, in Dutch. Sweetheart, just like how Lando used to. You tell him this and he only laughs.

Same and different, he comments. You mull over his words. Same and different. Same love, different love. You stop thinking about it. Max calls for you again, so you hurry over. Tonight’s dinner is his patat special, your favorite, too.

Max: how do you begin? He is not your life, not all of it; he makes everything that is better. You included.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

a/n: thank you for reading! please let me know any of your thoughts <3 i love hearing them

[ak1chi]

Obsessed with his birdie. Golden Cage.

Warnings: MDNI, fem!reader (afab!reader), yandere behavior, suggestive (a dirty fantasy is mentioned), OOC, the reader is assumed to be an adult (19-20+ years old), age difference, teacher/student, unrequited feelings, english is not my native language. idk how to write warnings :P

I will also insert the introductory part on ao3 (not required reading, but recommended. It was created so that there would be no misunderstandings in the future. There is also an explanation about fanfics.)

—I met her on the milky way

[Song: Dunkelbunt – Cinnamon Girl]

Who she was I could not say

I only knew I wanna stay

Together we spent night and day

We used to fly trough summer trees

The air was full of blossom breeze

Deep inhale this tasty smell

Thoughts of you (thoughts that are far from pure) have haunted him for a long time. They are burning, reaching right to the depths of his soul, tormenting him with unhealthy love. And now, as you step into his office, it does nothing to ease Crowley’s inner turmoil.

How many stories does it tell?

Once again, he has to play his role. He’s tired. Truly. But there is still so much to do before he snaps, like a wild raven catching sight of something shiny.

Crowley is well aware of the mixed feelings his saccharine-sweet smile stirs within you. And he understands why you’ve come to his office for the fourth time this week. Not that he minds—far from it. He enjoys seeing his birdie, especially when that annoying familiar isn’t by your side.

"Prefect, I’ve already told you—I am doing everything in my power to find a way to return you to your world!" Crowley exclaims in his dramatic way, appearing beside you in the blink of an eye. "Ah, so much work has piled up for poor, kind me... If only someone would help me with these documents."

Crowley sighs, ready to shed a tear at being so poor and unhappy. His arm drapes around your shoulders, and you barely notice how swiftly he changes the subject, not giving you a chance to say anything.

"It’s a good thing I have someone like you, Prefect, who can lend a hand to their poor, unfortunate Headmage. You’ll help me, won’t you?"

A question that doesn’t require an answer—he already knows what you’ll say. After all, you’re such a good little bird, aren’t you?

"Um… I guess I will," you reply uncertainly, not even sure why you’re agreeing. Perhaps it has something to do with his hand, the way it strokes your shoulder so gently, his claws somehow avoiding the fabric of your shirt. The touch is soft, almost caring, and it makes you forget the real reason you came here in the first place.

"That's a good girl! I knew you’d say yes!" Crowley’s mood shifts instantly, his smile widening just enough to reveal his fangs. He pulls you into what appears to be a friendly embrace—if one ignores a few telling details and, more importantly, what Crowley himself is feeling. His eyes gleam behind his mask as he leans down to press a kiss to your forehead, leaving behind a faint trace of his lipstick. The beak of his mask brushes against your hair, firm but not painful. If he had his way, he would have kissed you on the lips.

Releasing you, he turns away, heading back to his desk where his cane rests, leaving you standing in the middle of his office, rubbing your forehead with your sleeve.

"You may begin reviewing the teachers' reports, Prefect," he calls out, his voice loud, cheerful... and satisfied.

"Alright…"

Your voice makes him exhale, and for a brief moment, his self-control cracks. If you could see his face, you’d notice the way his lips curl into a grin, the faint flush on his cheeks—but your gaze is fixed on his back. Even the round eyes of his mask seem to glow oddly.

That familiar desire stirs again, the one he has fought so hard to suppress. Vivid images flash before his mind’s eye—you, cheeks flushed, whimpering under his kisses and touch. The way you’d take him like a good girl, tears rolling down your face, dripping onto the wooden desk, staining the documents and everything else beneath you. He swallows hard, fingers tightening around his cane.

But he quickly regains control, settling into his chair to conceal his obvious arousal, acting far too innocent and charming for someone who has just made you do his work for him. For someone who, mere moments ago, indulged in such indecent fantasies about you.

It’s still too soon to show you his true self.

And though Crowley has managed to lock you inside his gilded cage since the moment you arrived—showering you with money, clothes, everything you could possibly need, because really, who else would take care of such a lovely dove if not him—he can’t guarantee you won’t try to escape. Escape from him once you realize what feelings you’ve awakened in him. Once you understand what he truly wants to do to you. No, no—it's too early for you to know that he has forbidden you from searching for a way back on your own, that he has hidden everything related to it in a place no one could ever find. That he has never once intended to send you home.

You are his mate, and if necessary, Crowley is prepared to keep you in a cage until you accept his love and return his feelings. After all, he has already clipped your wings, tying you to him.

—Hey my little honey bee

He’s just in love, after all.

You're far away that´s hurting me

I miss you darling far away

Your warm sweet smile this summerday

[jazzyoranges]

hey. i really like the fic about shapeshitfing!reader x wednesday. i was wondering if u could do thing and reader being absolute besties and playful with each other which makes wednesday annoyed and sorta jealous.

Best friends

Wednesday Addams x fem!shapeshifter!reader

Words: 1.4k

A/n: lowk shapeshifter!r is so fun to write, thanks for all the requests about her :) hopefully you like reading about her a lot because honestly i’m a little obsessed with this universe

Warnings(?): wednesday being wednesday, ooc wednesday, mentions of knives and blood

“Why are you adamant on annoying me.” Wednesday opens her door to you, whose rapidly knocking stops when the look on Wednesday’s face doesn’t give much room for explanation. But you love being defiant so you don’t really care

“Thing and I planned to go on a date today!”

The Addams looks behind her to see the appendage with the tiniest little crocheted messenger bag that was worn on his wrist like a bracelet. You can see Wednesday’s forehead wrinkle when Thing saunters over to your feet for you to put him on your shoulder, just as you’ve seen Wednesday do countless times before

“I asked Thing if he had any rings to wear and he said no, so naturally I’m going to treat him on a day out” The appendage taps excitedly on your shoulder, poking at your face to signal he wants to go

“And when did you plan this?”

“After we played tag, you wanna come with us?” You ask with a turn of your head

“Shopping isn’t my strongest suit. I’d only slow you two down.”

“We’ll be off doing hot girl things. I promise I’ll have him home before curfew, Miss Addams” You treat Wednesday like she’s a disapproving mother, when in reality she looks unfazed and honestly a little annoyed. You and Thing wave goodbye, leaving Wednesday with her own thoughts as her roommate is doing god knows what with her friends

Time alone could be good for Wednesday. She’s been around people far more than she preferred. With maybe an hour on her hands before someone interrupts her, Wednesday sits at her desk to write

Her fingers drum against her desk, a habit she picked up from Thing. The appendage you were taking out on a date. For gods sake, he was a hand! You asked a singular appendage out on a date. Not even a full human. A fucking hand. A hand that didn’t have a voice, yet you were still infatuated with him nonetheless

And maybe Wednesday is smart enough to recognize she’s feeling a little peeved over a hand. Maybe Wednesday is smart enough to know Thing does have a voice; a sassy one at that. Maybe Wednesday is coping with the fact you wanted to take Thing out more than someone you actively sought out and saw every day

And maybe you’re the reason why Wednesday had to buy a slightly bigger trash can for the more recent mistakes she’s been making during her writing time

You were a disease. You forced your way into everyone’s life, but somehow you always came out with more friends and acquaintances than you started with. It was annoying how unforgivably social you were.

Your dumb smile with your pearly white teeth. Wednesday’s tapping on her desk got a little faster

Your need to include everyone whether you knew them or not. It was why you were on a date with Thing in the first place

Your everlasting hunger to be around someone. Wednesday knew you didn’t like to be alone

Your voice that Wednesday knew so well.

…

Fuck.

“Hey, Wens!” Enid makes her presence known with a sing-song tone while placing her jacket on the coat hanger near the door

“Where’s Thing? It’s quiet in here” The blonde immediately notices

“He’s on a date,” There’s a small pause after Wednesday talks “with (Y/n).”

“(Y/n) took Thing on a date?”

“Correct.”

“How’s your writing going?” Enid peers over Wednesday’s shoulder to look at her once again, full trash can. Enid notices that happens a lot when you’re on Wednesday’s mind for some reason. The Addams glares at Enid when she makes another mistake, crumbling up the piece of paper while maintaining eye contact with her roommate

“Great.”

A beat of silence.

“…did you seriously get cucked by a hand?”

“Repeat such degenerate nonsense and I’ll be forced to make sure you never will.”

“I dunno, you’re looking a little jealous over there” Wednesday doesn’t have to turn around to hear the wolfish grin in Enid’s voice

“The urge to push a knife through your skull is an insatiable hunger that cannot be fed by anything that isn’t your blood.”

//-//

“Do you like this one? See look, the dragon is the ring!” You place the ring on Thing’s middle finger. The appendage shows his approval with another few taps

“Yes, it makes you look tough. You want another one?” He nods. Well, at least makes it look like he’s nodding. You grab a silver ring from the display, putting it on his thumb

“Will Enid like the rings?” Thing signs

“Everyone will love them, especially Enid. You running out on lotion?”

“Nope! How can I repay you?”

You pretend to think for a second

“If you delete Enid’s blackmail on me off of all her devices I’ll take you out again, free of charge” The employee at the front is probably wondering why your back is turned to her while you’re whispering into your hands

Thing holds a thumbs-up and you take the two rings off his fingers and put them on the check out counter along with a few other little trinkets you liked and stuff for your friends

A pink and white bracelet with charms you knew Enid would find cute, scale earrings that twinkled in the sun that Bianca would look stunning in, a bee pin that was too perfect for Eugene, and a black snake that curled into itself as ring for Wednesday

You only assumed Thing gave you a blank stare when the cashier said your price was a bit more than a hundred fifty dollars. Your mom would definitely chastise you for your spending issues, but that was a problem for another day. Your current problem was that you had to get Thing home by curfew like you promised

//-//

Thing might not want to take up your invitation on another date anytime soon.

Currently you’re turned into a bird with the appendage hanging on for dear life on your back as you carry the bag of items you bought in your beak. Thing pleaded you just run on the ground like any normal animal, but you promised you’d get him home by curfew. Running would’ve taken too long and your ass would get tired

So instead, you went for the skies without Thing’s approval

He might hate you now, honestly. In your defense, it was too late when he told you he had a fear of falling when you were above tree height

You asked if he wanted to sit in the bill of a pelican instead and you felt him pluck one of your feathers. Lucky for you both, Wednesday and Enid’s room wasn’t too far away

When you land on the balcony of their dorm, Thing hops off your back and apologizes for your now lost feather. You also apologize for not planning correctly and having him on your back with little to no safety

Enid looks a little confused when Thing starts to hug the bird that landed on her balcony, but she eventually figures out it’s you. The blonde looks away for a second and you’re already a cat desperately knocking against their circle window to be let in

You walk in like you own the place, and Wednesday checks the clock if you actually got Thing home by curfew

“With minutes left to spare, too.” Wednesday says. You smile proudly

You jump up onto Enid’s bed, bag still in mouth. You push it over so it’s parallel to the bed, digging your head in until you find what you need. The pink and white bracelet with charms you got from Jericho. Enid makes sure to ruffle your fur so much it starts to stick out until she pats it down. Thing makes sure to tell Enid all about his day

Grabbing your bag, you make your way towards Wednesday, who’s reading a book with a dark cover on her bed

You look through the bag again, but this time with the aforementioned snake ring in your mouth. You keep your tongue away from the ring as much as possible to stop you from getting your saliva on it

Of course you thought about your friends while on a date.

Wednesday reaches out her hand, taking the ring from your mouth. She places it on her left ring finger and it seems to be a snug fit. There’s a wordless thank you in Wednesday’s eyes when she uses the same hand to scratch under your chin, making you purr

The happy expression on your face and the way you lean into her touch makes Wednesday’s heart melt the tiniest bit.

You crawl into Wednesday’s lap as she reads her book. Every now and again you can feel the now cold ring against your skin, sending shivers down your spine

You end up spending the night with Wednesday’s lips against the back of your ear and her hand on your stomach. It wasn’t your fault you were a cuddly cat.

[boy-eclipse]

on @devianta ‘s telepathy sebaciel idea:

seb wanted to be more connected with his master, and, after a short and rather vague discussion about that subject, ciel accepts whatever seb wants to do with very little idea on what that actually means.

once he wakes up the next morning, instead of sebastian’s usual mild greeting, he stares at his butler as a flurry of ideas seem to hit him like a sudden gust of wind. there’s something of a good morning in there, but then there’s numerous little whispers that seem to run over each other trying to get ciel’s attention. something about ciel being beautiful in the morning; the hope that ciel would enjoy his tea; nerves over whether this change — whatever it is — would be allowed to remain, or if ciel would be too uncomfortable or annoyed.

ciel is stunned almost silent, and even then, how could he talk after all this incessant noise? he murmurs, “sebastian… what is that?”

pouring ciel his cup of tea and placing down the teapot, sebastian turns to look at him. “it is not to your liking, my lord?”

ciel furrows his brows. “that is not what i said. answer my question.”

turning to hand ciel his tea, sebastian’s voice comes out quiet. “it is my innermost desires, my lord.”

accepting the cup and saucer from sebastian, ciel looks at him again. although ciel can hear his voice not loud but certainly clear, sebastian’s mouth does not move. ciel hesitates before he takes a sip, possibly more bewildered than before. he sighs, “sebastian. give me a full and complete explanation of what you have done to me with no more tricks or games. that is an order.”

sebastian chuckles. “at once.” he begins to remove his glove, revealing his contract seal. “i’ve altered our agreement slightly so that my contractor — you, my lord — has greater access to my mind. this means you should be hearing my thoughts as if i were speaking them aloud. it’s been some time since ive made some changes to a contract after it was formed, so there may be some… unintended side effects.” as he speaks, sebastian indicates several times to his contract seal, where the tiny, indecipherable letters seems to have changed slightly.

“this is the closeness you wished to form?” ciel finally takes his first sip of tea, instantly feeling relaxed at the taste.

sebastian hesitates to answer. after ciel’s question seb hears a proclamation of ciel’s relief. he’s glad, of course, and laughs again. “it is. and it seems it’s gone both ways, master.”

ciel looks at him surprised. “it has? so you can…?”

“yes, sir.”

“could i control what you hear?” ciel places his cup back down on the saucer.

sebastian strokes his chin. “i suppose so. try concentrating on an idea. it’s likely i’ll hear or see, perhaps.”

ciel stares at sebastian rather intently, and after a silent few seconds, seb hears ciel’s voice mutter, “you’re a fool. this is going to be incredibly inconvenient.”

“i’m afraid i disagree. this way, i can know exactly what you need, my lord. and i will be unable to hide anything from you.”

“you aren’t supposed to hide anything from me anyway.” ciel snaps, “and won’t this make our games utterly dull?”

sebastian shrugs. “perhaps our already existing tricks, yes — i will have to get creative to torment you now.”

it’s rather strange after that; sebastian’s words, usually so grounding, are constantly mixed up in a whirlwind of thoughts that ciel can hear. they are mostly related to what sebastian was talking about, so ciel isn’t incapable of understanding what he’s saying, but it feels all so foreign. he has a guest arriving this evening for dinner, and ciel only hopes sebastian can keep quiet for him to make polite conversation.

to nobody’s surprise, this is not what happens.

sebastian stands at the side of ciel’s chair as he normally does between serving meals and drinks, and the images flowing from his mind to ciel’s are utter filth. most of them are of himself — in an oversized button down, likely sebastian’s, his legs spread and eyes wide and desperate, begging to be fucked. where ciel is holding his fork it scratches his plate, his surprise taking him out of the moment. noticing his glass is only half full, he takes it and holds it out to sebastian, unable or unwilling to look at him. “fill this up and then leave us.” he hisses.

he means to be quiet but the chatter of his guest has ceased, startled by ciel’s sudden demand. sebastian silently does as ciel says, bowing before he leaves the room, and when the door clicks shut behind him ciel feels he can finally breathe again. “my apologies,” sebastian’s mind is quiet, so ciel feels safe to speak. he manages to steer the conversation back on track to something business related that ciel really ought to pay attention to, but alas, his butler has other ideas.

no sooner than a minute after sebastian leaves the room, ciel feels phantom touches down his own torso, akin to when sebastian undresses him at the end of the day. all that comes through from sebastian is an overwhelming need, so strong and unfocused it feels like ciel could drown in it. his own body feels hot when a hand that isn’t there settles over his shorts, palming his cock until he’s hard and blushing. sebastian’s other hand covers his mouth outside, which ciel can feel too.

“that dirty dog,” ciel mumbles, his grip on his cutlery now so strong his knuckles are turning white. his cheeks feel so warm and he’s grinding his teeth as to not moan or otherwise let on to the guest what’s happening, but of course, he has already spoken aloud.

“i’m sorry, my lord? what’s that?” the guest asks, rather confused. “are you coming down with something, perhaps?” they eyed their meal suspiciously, fearing that it was prepared incorrectly.

as ciel opens his mouth to answer, he feels ghost fingers slide across his lips and almost down his throat, making him gag. sebastian didn’t seem to take into account the difference in size of his and ciel’s mouths. ciel falls back in his chair, holding his throat and praying desperately that he won’t throw up. the dinner is already ruined but if he’s sick, there’s no chance of finishing up this game with sebastian. the guest is frightened and calls for the butler, who responds almost too quickly by opening the door he had left from. they hurriedly explain ciel’s sudden onset symptoms, but neither ciel nor sebastian really listen to them.

ciel glares up sebastian as he takes ciel’s cane and his hand and connects them. being helped to his feet, ciel takes the opportunity to beeline out of his dining hall and out into the hallway. sebastian makes pleasantries to the guest, calling for the other servants to show them out. his apology is delivered with a smile that’s more upbeat than polite, but he can’t bring himself to care.

once the two are outside the dining hall, ciel turns and smacks sebastian’s shin with his cane. “you mutt, interrupting me because you couldn’t wait. take me back to my room at once.”

sebastian doesn’t say anything, but a purring comes across to ciel’s mind, and he’s sure if sebastian were more literally a dog, his tail would be smacking against the ground. sebastian seems to laugh at that image, as he collects ciel in his arms and they arrive at his room faster than humanly possible.

sebastian puts ciel down once inside, and ciel crawls onto his bed, discarding his cane onto the floor. sitting back against the pillows, ciel parts his legs slightly and looks at sebastian, who’s obediently awaiting instruction. “well? come on. you’ve ruined my evening, so make it up to me.” ciel barely gets the words out before sebastian is crawling on top of him, thoughts of how glad he is to have made this change to the contract flooding ciel’s mind.

apologies for length, and its a bit messy but i hope this does the idea justice :)

[holmesianlove]

Chapter 4 - Hats

“I look ridiculous!” John cried out.

“John this was the best I could think of, to cover up the green. You know I need you with me on cases.”

“You don’t, though,” he snapped. “You could take that bloody skull from the mantle and set it down on the ground and just yap away to that while you do your deductions, for all the use I am,” John scoffed.

“John Watson,” Sherlock scolded. “If you really think you are no better than a lifeless skull to me, I’d be disappointed. I think I’ve proven otherwise many times. But I can take you back home if it’s what you really desire...” Sherlock knew perfectly well that John was going nowhere but he made the offer and then left the silence to drift between them.

John said nothing, which Sherlock knew was a firm confirmation he was staying. Despite everything. Sherlock knew he was too stubborn to let a skull actually take first place. Or for Sherlock to win this green-bodied stand-off. And besides, John would be just as desperate to see a good crime scene. It had been far too long.

They stood in silence looking in the mirror. “Well in any case, not this one,” John finally said. “And if I’m wearing a stupid hat, so are you.”

“I will follow your lead,” Sherlock said kindly with a gracious bow of his head - a risky move given John’s current mood. But a necessary one.

John wandered the store, picking up options and looking at them, holding them up dramatically to observe the hats at various angles. Sherlock was sure he was milking it on purpose. Finally he settled on one. “This,” he said with the beginnings of a smirk.

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue and thought better of it. He grabbed it from John’s hands and put it on. He mumbled angrily to himself, under his breath. John managed to catch “ear hat,” and “death frisbee” amongst the grumblings but waited, brows raised, giving Sherlock space to get used to the idea.

“That one actually comes with a matching cape,” the shop assistant called out from the side of the room.

“No—“

“We’ll take it,” John said loudly ignoring Sherlock’s pained expression.

“Now me. The cover all makeup is helping but—“

“Wait, I know!” Sherlock rushed over to the counter and had a quiet word with the assistant. They perked up and then disappeared into the shelving and returned with two items.

“Ah it seems this one has an accompanying garment too,” Sherlock said excitedly, as if he didn’t already know.

John simply glared at Sherlock. “You’re really that petty? Because you have a cape to wear?”

“Not at all, John. it’s just a little strange to wear a face covering without any explanation. Unless you want to become the new wife I’ve acquired in the Middle East… I thought that one looked quite fetching on you earlier,” he teased.

John blushed and was once again thankful for the green colouring. “Don’t be ridiculous. Give it here,” he said with great annoyance reaching out for the garment and disappearing into a change room.

Minutes later he surfaced in a full beekeeper’s outfit.

“Oh that’s perfect!” Sherlock cried out excitedly, clapping his hands together. “Do you have a large shotgun?” he asked.

“Shotgun?!” John cried out.

“Not a real one obviously. But yes, if I’m dressed like hunting gentry on the royal estate… and you can be my… beekeeper…” he said, clearly trying to piece together the ensembles and their backstory. “Then I will need a gun.”

“I’m fairly certain that isn’t going to throw them off the scent. I suspect just telling them we were on our way to a costume party will be sufficient Sherlock. We don’t need a backstory,” John reassured him.

Catching a glimpse in the mirror, he could appreciate that, while they did indeed look ridiculous, the skin coloured make up and the mesh from his hat did indeed cover the fact that he was green. And the gloves helped, since his hands had also taken the brunt of the product responsible.

“What kind of party warrants this kind of costuming?” Sherlock asked, fussing with the hat’s position on his curls.

“Oh I can think of five theme options already,” the assistant called out, with no remorse for how invested they were now in this adventure. “You’d be surprised at some of the themes people tell me when they come in. Perhaps “a weekend in the Sussex countryside?” he suggested.

Sherlock smiled. “That would be nice. And these would fit there.”

“Fine,” John said impatiently. “I suppose… if we’re really doing this…?” He lifted the netting and raised a brow at Sherlock, who took one final dismayed look in the mirror and nodded.

They grabbed their belongings and paid to hire the outfits for the day and walked back to the cab which was thankfully still waiting. John did not enjoy the looks they were getting from passers by, though he supposed it would have been much worse if he was green and walking about.

The cabbie had a good laugh as they got in. “Well, I suppose if you both look ridiculous no one will question it,” he said.

“On to the original address,” Sherlock directed, his tone blunt. John was back to silent gazing out the window which Sherlock didn’t particularly like. He much preferred his doctor feisty and communicative. He reached out and put a hand gently on John’s knee, surprising his friend.

“Sorry,” he said gently. “I really am sorry, John.”

John looked down at the hand on his knee, Mrs Hudson’s well meaning, but confusing advice swirling around in his head.

“It’s fine;” he said simple and returned to his window gazing.

——

Thanks for reading. Let me know if you want to be tagged!

@notjustamumj @lisbeth-kk @helloliriels @totallysilvergirl @221beloved @safedistancefrombeingsmart @givemesherbet-blog-blog @naefelldaurk @a-victorian-girl @phoenix27884

[kaqtusm]

As I promised, here's a microfic that's actually the first draft that started it all! Since Moonage Daydream won't be seen too fast ever again you may see it ;))

@indigostation @read-reblog-repeat you have adopted the wrong person.

Suffer.

Moonwater microfic

Word count: 822

TW: angst

Context for the confused one's since my dad @indigostation needed an explanation

Regulus finds a solution to all his problems during the Christmas break. This idea requires changes, a lot of changes. Nonetheless he's ready for them if it means he doesn't have to take the dark mark and can stay with Remus.

But maybe it's not as good of an idea as he thought?

Even as he is wrapped in Remus’ arms, Regulus feels like he is drowning. The warmth surrounding him is a lie - it cannot reach the coldness that has settled deep inside his bones. It cannot fill the gaping hole in his chest, the one that has been festering for months, the one that will never heal.

Remus’ fingers brush against his cheek, gentle, searching. He knows. Of course, he knows. Regulus has been quiet for too long, his silence a crack in the foundation of the world they have built together. He can feel Remus watching him, feel those golden eyes peeling him apart piece by piece, trying to understand.

But Regulus cannot look at him. Because if he does, he will break.

“Starlight?” The whisper is hoarse, rough with concern. A kiss, featherlight, presses against his temple, and his throat tightens so violently it hurts.

He hums in response - because that is all he can do. His body remains frozen against Remus', their bare skin pressed together, their breaths mingling in the dim candlelight. It should be perfect. It should be enough.

But it isn’t.

“Something’s wrong.” It isn’t a question.

Regulus exhales slowly, shakily, pushing himself up onto his elbows. The moment their eyes meet, his stomach twists into knots. Remus is watching him with furrowed brows, his amber gaze soft but sharp, warm but wary. He sees too much.

Regulus swallows. He cannot hesitate. If he does, he will lose his nerve.

“Do you love me?” he whispers.

Remus blinks, then lets out a quiet laugh - like the very idea of not loving him is ridiculous. “What kind of question is that?” He shakes his head and reaches out, tangling his fingers in Regulus’ hair, like he always does when he wants to soothe him.

Regulus’ heart is pounding so hard he thinks he might be sick.

“And would you do anything for me?”

Remus frowns, as if confused by the shift in his tone. But still, his answer comes without hesitation. “Anything.”

It is the answer Regulus knew he would give. And it is the answer that makes this hurt so much worse.

“Then bite me,” he says. “During the next full moon.”

The words drop like stones between them. The weight of them, the sheer wrongness of them, fills the air so thickly that it feels like the walls of the Room of Requirement are caving in.

Remus stares at him. Stares at him.

And then, without a word, he shoves back the blankets and bolts upright, his entire body trembling.

“Remus-” Regulus reaches for him, but Remus is already yanking his trousers from the floor, his movements clumsy, frantic.

“Wait,” Regulus pleads, his voice rising in panic. “Please, listen to me!”

But Remus won’t. He won’t even look at him.

Regulus scrambles after him, grabbing his wrist with both hands, his grip desperate. “Just let me explain-”

Remus rips his arm away so violently that Regulus nearly falls forward.

“How dare you,” he spits. His voice is shaking, but his eyes are burning with something Regulus has never seen before. Something sharp, something furious, something betrayed. “How fucking dare you ask me that.”

Regulus’ stomach twists.

“You don’t understand-”

“I don’t understand?” Remus barks out a laugh, but there is nothing amused about it. “You think I don’t understand?” His hands are trembling as he buttons his shirt, as if he cannot get out of here fast enough. “Do you have any idea what you’re asking me to do?”

Regulus does. He knows. But he doesn’t care.

“I need this,” he whispers. His throat is raw. He reaches for Remus again, and this time, when his fingers brush against his arm, Remus flinches away like he’s been burned.

“You need this?” Remus repeats, his voice cracking. “You need me to - what? Turn you into a monster? You need me to be the one who-” His voice breaks entirely, and he presses his lips together, shaking his head violently.

Regulus grabs at him again, clawing at his hands, his shirt, anything he can reach. “Remus, please-”

But Remus wrenches himself free so hard that Regulus stumbles backward, his knees hitting the mattress as he collapses onto the bed. His chest is heaving. His vision is blurred.

And then, just like that, Remus is walking away.

Regulus is shaking. “Don’t-” His voice is a wrecked whisper. “Don’t leave me.”

But Remus doesn’t turn around. He yanks open the door with a force that rattles the hinges, steps through.

And slams it shut behind him.

The sound echoes through the room like the crack of a whip.

Regulus doesn’t move. He can’t. His entire body feels like it has been torn open, split apart. His breath is coming in sharp, gasping sobs, but he barely hears them over the ringing in his ears.

The bed is cold now. The room is empty.

And Remus left him.

Just like Sirius.

[redflagshipwriter]

Nest Swap 9

masterpost

Having a mission changed everything. 

Tim took full advantage of his new knowledge of the holy manuals. The first rule that he took to heart was that he was meant to be armed. Of course! It made sense.

Unfortunately, he was also not meant to take any weapon onto the field that he hadn’t trained with. Tim thought hard for a while whether or not a suburban house counted as ‘in the field’, but it seemed like he should pay lip service to Batman’s rule. So he got some sharp things that seemed interesting and spent some time throwing them at a target. They kind of looked like Batarangs, but… different. 

“I don’t think bats change shape in the next ten years or so,” Tim muttered. He gave another half hearted throw. The thing dinged off the wall below his target. “So this isn’t meant to be a bat shape. Did Batman rebrand to the Birdman and no one fixed his wiki page yet? Is this a parallel universe and not my actual future?”

It occurred to him that it might be a bird because of Robin. But come on, Robins didn’t use sharp things. Robin was a child. It was irresponsible for children to use blades. 

Tim sent another thingy into the wall. It hit with the pointy end first this time and sank an inch into the wall to the right of the target. He held his breath as it wiggled for a moment. Then it went still without falling.

“Yes!” He punched the air. Thank gosh! He was getting bored with that. It was good to be done with training. It was kind of dull.

Steps one and two were finished. He had a weapon and he had trained with it. Tim went back to his list. The next technical skill set was lock picking. That was super easy and fun! Tim enjoyed the clear diagrams and explanations. There wasn’t anything to practice with, but he thought that he had the concept down handily. He grabbed a set of lockpicks for his khaki pockets. 

He needed to do a little more to understand the patterns of the target, as well as their background. Tim considered asking Jason for any information, but he probably didn’t have any. Maybe he wasn’t very good at googling. So he just did it. The Sausage Guy was more commonly known as Benedict Orange, a name that Tim really liked and mentally stored away to use as an alias when he was a superhero. 

Anyway. Tim figured out how old the guy was, where he’d gone to school, and a bunch of other stuff like the record of his marriage ten years ago. 

“Huh,” Tim said, brows furrowed. “I didn’t find a divorce record. But he’s single now?” Mr. Orange had accounts on a lot of dating sites. He was using his engagement photo for the profile photo, with his wife cut out.

That was weird. He tried to find the wife, but there wasn’t anything more recent than 8 years ago, when she’d announced that she was quitting her job on social media. 

…Tim had kind of a bad feeling about that. 

He put a pin in it for now, but he had a small theory at the back of his mind that started with ‘I think this guy killed his wife.’

Maybe that was how the human sausage thing started. Maybe he’d killed her on impulse and then needed a way to get rid of the body. And then maybe he’d gotten a taste for it.

Tim shuddered. Okay, okay, he was for real done thinking about this! Big yucky.

Benny Orange was an office worker with a title that Tim didn’t really understand. It seemed vague to the point of uselessness, but then again, that was office work. The relevant thing was that he got home around 6 pm, and he left at 8 am.

It was 10 in the morning. Tim could get over there and toss Benny’s home before the end of the workweek if he hurried. The manual said that you should never spend more than an hour investigating an unsecured location. It also said that you should file a report or directly inform someone of where you’d be. 

That part made Tim pause for a moment before he remembered that he’d told Jason. Jason would probably check on him when he woke up, or whatever.

Tim found an equipment belt that he could wrap around his waist twice to buckle on. He put his sharp things in it. Then he untucked his shirt, because he had tucked it in out of habit and that would make it harder to access his weapons. He frowned as he did it. It just felt wrong.

He put on his shoes and got out the door. He didn’t have a lot of time to waste if he wanted to be able to take his time, so Tim hailed a taxi to cross most of the distance this time. He was grateful that Mrs. Henderson was gone and there was no chance of seeing her. Last time had been a little bit of a disaster. Needing civilian help to get into the building was not a winning move.

He had bat-approved lockpicks this time. He went to the front door and did his best. 

It turned out that maybe he should have practiced? Tim started to sweat out in the open. It felt like someone was staring at his back. He looked at the houses around. No one was at their windows or walking outside. He started jumping whenever the tall herbs in Mr. Orange's garden swayed in the breeze. He had a lot of plants.

His hands were shaking. The sweat made his shirt stick to his back. He was going to get caught and in so much trouble.

When the door finally opened, Tim offered up a thanks to Bast, because he assumed the cat goddess was more likely to be pro-breaking and entering than other gods. That logic was just based off of what he knew about Catwoman, honestly. 

The first glimpse into Benedict Orange's home was disappointingly normal. He had vinyl flooring (easy to clean!), leather furniture, and a big flat TV high up on the wall. He didn’t have enough knickknacks and there was no art. There was a wood and glass case that was full of identical, unlabeled bottles with something red in it. Hot sauce? Was he a hot sauce guy?

Tim mentally reclassified Mr. Orange further down the list of ‘people I could talk to at a cocktail party.’

The place had the same layout as Mrs. Henderson’s place, just in reverse. Tim beelined to the kitchen because.. Well.

He just did.

The counter space where Mrs. Henderson had a hot water kettle, a big stand mixer, and a toaster was mostly clear here. Mr. Orange only had one piece of cooking machinery. Tim didn’t know it. He squinted at it. It was a big shiny stainless steel thing. It had a metal tray, a wheel, and like… a nozzle. When he climbed on a chair to look down, he could see there was a little tunnel tube thing where you could put stuff inside the body of the machine.

Weird. Moving on!

He checked inside the fridge. He stared for a moment of aghast silence. There was a stack of takeout containers, a bunch of seasonings in the door, and a stack of tupperware with something red in them. 

Cautiously, Tim dug one out and opened it.

“That’s raw meat,” he said, voice high. He put the box back in and then hesitated. Maybe he should be like, taking it? Or taking a sample? To see what animal it came from?

“I’ll think about it.” Tim shut the fridge a little harder than he needed to and beat feet out of the kitchen. He started checking the other rooms. He found the master bedroom. His nose wrinkled. “I don’t think he’s restyled this since Brenda died,” Tim complained. He looked at the curtains with extreme judgment. They were so outdated it wasn’t even funny, but they also weren’t retro yet!

Oh. Wait. Belatedly, Tim remembered that it was ten years into his future. So, maybe they were retro now. Anyways, Brenda had liked the trend for chickens and roosters. There were chickens and roosters everywhere in the decor, including a cute print of what was obviously intended to be a husband and wife pair snuggling on a sofa.

His heart hurt a little. He looked at it a little too long. 

Tim took a deep breath. Then he went back to looking for evidence. There wasn’t much in the bedroom, so clearly Mr. Orange had a personal office elsewhere. There were two more rooms in the apartment.

Tim opened the next door. The room was mostly a guest bedroom, with the notable exception of a huge chest freezer and a weird long wooden bar across the room.

Tim shut the door.

The last room was the office. There was a desk, a file cabinet, and a lockbox full of women’s drivers licenses.

“Yeah, okay,” Tim said under his breath. “He’s a serial killer.” He took photos and sent them to Jason immediately with the subject line “Yeah he’s a killer!!!”

Then he got down to sorting through the papers to see if there was anything else. Jason was a Robin, Tim supposed, so he’d need the evidence to show the police. It would be helpful if he just went and sorted it out now. He found warranties for the TV, the new freezer, and he presumed that ‘Meat Grinder’ meant the thing in the kitchen.

“I appreciate that he’s so organized, actually,” Tim muttered. He was hunched over digging through the bottom drawer now.

A key went into a door. 

Tim froze stock still. He slowly, silently shut the drawer. He stared at the closed door to the living room. On the other side of it, Mr. Orange unlocked and opened the front door. Tim slowly looked up, saw 12:14 on the clock, and vaguely registered that sometimes people come home on their lunch breaks.

The front door shut. There was a quiet metal sound that Tim thought was probably the chain lock. The chain lock that was too high for him to move without a chair to stand on.

Okay. Uh. He looked around for a place to hide. The best option was under the desk. Tim crawled through the legs of the chair, heart beating furiously.

He weighed his options. Wait it out and hope Mr. Orange didn’t come in?

…Seemed risky. But there was no way he was going to run out past the guy to the front door. At least, the odds that he’d get grabbed were just not good, not when he didn’t know where Mr. Orange was. 

Alright. Tim knew reality. He might not be able to get out of this on his own. At the very least, he should let Jason know what was going on so that they could add his murder to the list of charges. And maybe Jason was close by to help? Wayne Manor was awfully far away, so probably not. But it didn’t hurt to try.

He got his phone back out and was silently very glad that he had it. Jason had responded to his message. Tim didn’t take the time to read it, instead typing up a blank email with the subject line “um might need help asap :( he here”. He sent it. Then he huddled down to wait.

Noises came from the kitchen- the suction as the fridge opened. The beep of the microwave. A man’s voice saying, “What the fuck? Did I leave this here?”

His blood turned ice cold.

‘What did I do?’ Tim desperately tried to remember what he’d touched in the kitchen. Had he really moved something around? He didn’t remember anything! His heart rate went up like crazy.

The door opened. Tim flinched. His whole body started shaking uncontrollably.

Oh. No. It wasn’t this door yet. It was the door to the next room, the spare bedroom. He heard the weird squelch of the chest freezer opening. Then the closet door squeaked open. Something heavy moved around. 

“Well, it wasn’t you,” said Mr. Orange. There was a mean satisfaction in his tone. The heavy thing moved again.

Tim’s brain went a bit blank.

Who was he talking to? Was there someone in the apartment? Hidden behind something heavy?

He opened up another email. Jason hadn’t responded, so there was no way to know if he’d seen. Tim hastily typed up, “I think there’s a living hostage in the house” and sent it as the door to the office opened.

He hugged his arms around his knees and squeezed his eyes shut. Oh gosh. Oh heck. Oh no, oh no. He bit his lower lip and broke skin.

‘No. I can’t be a baby about this.’ 

It was really hard with how stiff his fingers felt. But Tim put the phone in his pocket and wrestled the sharp bird weapon out. He held it clumsily. And he watched Mr. Orange’s feet move around the room. They walked around the room. He saw the curtains move as Mr. Orange pulled them to check no one was hiding there. Then he knew that Mr. Orange was coming to his hiding spot.

Tim swallowed. He waited until Mr. Orange’s feet were in sight. He stabbed his sharp thing down through the top of Mr. Orange’s sock.

Mr. Orange bellowed and fell back against his filing cabinet. 

Tim scrambled out and ran.

He went towards the front door on automatic and nearly got there before he looked up and saw that yes, the chain lock was on. He couldn’t reach it. 

“You little shit!” Mr. Orange bellowed. He lunged at Tim. Tim barely dodged. He jabbed at him again without looking and barreled towards the door to Mrs. Henderson’s apartment. It only had a doorknob lock. He unlatched it, praying that she had not changed her ideas about the open door policy. The door handle turned.

He threw himself into the room and slammed the door shut. He clicked the little button lock.

Mr. Orange hit the door, hard. It shook. He wasn’t saying anything anymore. There was something about that which struck Tim as absolutely terrifying. Didn’t people bellow and yell when they were mad? 

He looked towards Mrs. Henderson’s door. The door shook again as Mr. Orange hit it.

Wood splintered.

If he went out Mrs. Henderson’s front door he could sprint for it. What were the odds he could outrun a grown man? If he did, wouldn’t Mr. Orange just get in his car? Potential witnesses had made Mr. Orange back off before, but he was more invested now in silencing Tim. And there was no one around. Tim had checked. 

The door splintered again. He could see Mr. Orange’s shoulder. Then a socked foot.

‘I don’t think I stabbed his foot well enough,’ some distant part of Tim’s brain catalogued. ‘He’s still moving on it. If I live past this, I’m going to commit to the next stabbing with more enthusiasm.’

He bolted for the stand where Mrs. Henderson kept her mace. He was just out of sight from Mr. Orange’s hole in the door. His heart thudded so loud. His shaking had stopped. The mace didn’t  feel heavy. 

‘If I was taller, i’d aim for the face. I can’t pull that off. I’ll aim for center mass. He may block with an arm, but theoretically his arm will be hurt enough that I’ll be able to pull back and make another swing.’

There was a catastrophic smash from inside Mr. Orange’s apartment. 

Then a “What the fuck-” that got cut off a little early. Mr. Orange sounded mad and confused. 

A thud. Two smaller thuds. A clicking. Tim wanted so badly to know what was going on. 

A hand reached through the hole in the door and unlatched the lock. 

Tim swallowed. He readied a swing. 

The door opened.

Tim took a step forward and swung Mrs. Henderson’s antique mace with maximum strength directly into the armored center mass of a guy who was NOT Mr. Orange.

“Oh my gosh,” Tim said, horrified, at the instant he connected. The guy was looking forward. He looked down too late, just as the mace hit.

There was sort of a bounce. The mace bounced back off the tummy armor without digging in or drawing blood. Half of Tim was relieved, and half was terrified that his plan had failed. 

The guy doubled over and made a sound that was a lot like GURK. He clutched at his torso with one arm and pointed a gun at Tim with the other.

Tim put his hands up.

The guy looked at Tim. Presumably. It was hard to tell through his ugly red motorcycle helmet.

“I really should have known.” 

His mechanical voice was scary.

Bad guy! 

Tim took his chances and another swing before the guy could shoot him. He expected to hear a shot as he smashed his mace again. The guy yelped and jerked backwards to avoid getting hit. Then there was a thud.

Tim peered through the door cautiously. The guy had tripped over Mr. Orange. Mr. Orange was laying on the floor facedown, arms zip tied behind his back. 

“Oh, sorry,” Tim apologized. He took a couple steps over to put the mace back away. He gave Mr. Orange a wide berth.

“I never would have guessed that the Red Hood used kids like this,” Mr. Orange said meanly. He narrowed his eyes at Tim. “Small, even for bait.”

The Red Hood guy pointed his gun at Mr. Orange’s head. Tim shrieked.

The Red guy stopped. He seemed to look at Tim again. He had some really bad words. “Alright.” He got back up to his feet and put the gun away.

Right. He’d probably just been joking or something. Tim belatedly registered the control it must have taken to not accidentally shoot while being attacked and falling over. 

Oh. Wait. It was a huge coincidence that a hero came right now, unless-

‘Is this Jason?’ Tim felt his eyebrows go all the way up. He wanted to ask a million questions. His mouth was firmly glued shut, though. Partly it was infosec. But it was also embarrassment.

[b1mbodoll]

every single word you have ever written? so real pookie!!!

dropping in to say g!pchaewon and g!psakura are truly the realest thing to me, bc who else (me) is going to ride chaewon until she’s passed out and leave sakura dry (also me) while she films with her extensive camera collection? (me me me me)

pairings: miyawaki sakura + kim chaewon x f! reader

warnings: g!p + threesome + creampies + overstimulation + mommy kink + dacryphilia + oral + anal

💌: nonie baby you have the sexiest brain ever im so obsessed with this 😵‍💫 did my own lil spin on this but i hope you still enjoy !

sakura’s not an idiot. she knows about chaewon’s infatuation with her girlfriend and how the younger girl fantasizes about fucking you til she’s sure you’re knocked up.

she informs you of chaewon’s fantasies when she’s ballsdeep in your cunt and the thought of her joining you and kkura in bed makes your pussy clench, warm walls squeezing your girlfriend’s cunt. “oh, you like the sound of that, baby? is my cock not enough for your slutty pussy, hm?” her words cause your eyes to roll and your mouth to fall open in a silent moan, fucking yourself back on her dick.

after pumping you full of cum she pulls out and uses her fingers to spread your pussy open, obsessed with the sight of her semen dripping from your sloppy hole.

sakura tells chaewon that the two of you would be more than happy for her to join this once and she agrees immediately, cock hardening as she imagines how well you’d take her cock. the two of them make their way to your apartment where you’re already waiting, pussy wet and waiting to be fucked.

after they make their way inside, sakura greets you with a soft kiss before you pounce on chaewon, pulling her into bed with you and straddling her. “can’t wait to feel you inside me, chae.” you tell her, hands working on unbuttoning her shorts. she grunts softly at your words, mind hazy because she’s been waiting for this day for so long and now that it’s here she can’t believe it.

your pussy is drenched, making it easy for her length to slide in completely. “fuck you feel good” she sighs. you don’t allow her to get used to the feeling of you walls gripping her cock and start to bounce on her dick immediately. sakura doesn’t say a word, allowing you to use her friend for your pleasure until it’s her turn.

your cunt feels incredible and chaewon nearly blows her load seconds into you riding her. “don’t move.” she pleads, her words are choppy, teeth clenched as her hands grip your waist in an effort to stop your movements. “‘s okay wonnie,” you purr, pussy tightening around her, “cum inside me, sweetheart. want kkura to watch you fill me up.” your words send her over the edge, cock twitching as her cum shoots inside you, thick ropes painting your walls white as you cream around her. one load isn’t enough and you continue grinding against her, overstimulation drawing whimpers from the poor girl as she orgasms again, filling you to the brim, some of it even leaking out and dripping down her balls.

sakura decides to step in when chaewon begins to cry softly, “did you forget about me, princess?” she teases. your girlfriend pats your thigh twice and you know she wants you on your knees at the foot of the bed.

you obey immediately, allowing her to sit on the edge before making your way between her legs, grabbing her impossibly hard cock and slipping it in your mouth. “that’s my girl,” she praises, “always know jus’ what mommy wants, isnt that right?”

desperate moans and mhm’s are your only reply, not wanting to part with her cock and sakura thinks your mouth is heavenly, already close to blowing her load. her hands pull you off, a pout adorning your lips because you weren’t expecting her to deny you a taste.

“don’t pout, princess. wanna cum in your pussy, not your mouth.” her explanation has you scrambling to your feet and seating yourself on her lap, cunt dripping a mixture of yours and chaewon’s cum on sakura’s length.

she slips inside and it makes you moan, her cock is so thick it always stretches your hole so well. you’re insatiable, moaning like a pornstar as she toys with your clit, wanting you to cum first. everything becomes too much and your orgasm hits you without warning, unable to voice it to your girlfriend.

“i know, baby, i know.” her voice is laced with affection, thrusting slowly as she fills you up with cum.

when sakura cleans you up, chaewon watches you with adoration and all she can think about is how you took their cocks like a champ, wanting nothing more than to pound your cunt while kkura fucks your asshole next time.

[loquatsloquatsloquats]

More Incorrect Quotes!

With The Dragons! Again!

With Headcannons Taken Into Account This Time :>

|

Lychee: The ‘how the fucks’ and 'why are you so dumbs’ don’t matter. All that matters is that I have a new gun.

<>

Pitaya: Hey Snapdragon, I’ve got an idea for how to solve this.

Snapdragon, pulling out a shotgun: Yeah?

Pitaya: Wh- No! That’s not the idea, Snapdragon!

<>

Longan: *mixing different alcoholic beverages together*

Lychee: What are you making?

Longan: A mistake.

<>

*The dragons's thoughts on stabbing*

Ananas: Would never stab anyone.

Lotus: Would stab someone in retaliation.

Pitaya: Yells "I won't hesitate, bitch!" first.

Longan: Would stab without warning.

Lychee: Would stab as a warning.

<>

Ananas: Knowledge is knowing that a tomato is a fruit, and wisdom is not putting it in a fruit salad.

Pitaya: That's deep.

Lotus: That means that ketchup is a smoothie.

Pitaya: That's deeper.

Longan: ...You guys are idiots.

<>

Snapdragon: *is visibly upset*

Lotus: Snapdragon, what happened? I haven't seen you like this since you found out candyland wasn't an actual country.

<>

Ananas: Isn’t it a bit dangerous?

Lychee: Ananas, please. We’ve in a lot of unexpected predicaments before and we always escape unhurt.

Ananas: ...

Lychee: Okay, we sometimes escape unhurt.

Ananas: ...

Lychee: Alright, we escaped unhurt once... Then we hurt ourselves on the way home.

<>

Pitaya: If I die, you can have what little I own.

Lychee: Wait. What do you mean "if" you die?

Pitaya: My unending existence is fuelled by pure spite, that of which the painful experiences of life have rendered me full.

Lychee:

Lychee: *Sighs* Let me call your therapist again.

<>

Pitaya: I hope you have an explanation for this.

Lychee: We have three, actually!

Ananas: Pick your favorite.

<>

Ananas: Remember everyone, violence is never the answer.

Pitaya: You're right, Ananas.. Violence can't be the answer.

Ananas: Correct, Pitaya. Now, on to the next lesso-

Pitaya: Violence is the question.

Pitaya: And the answer is yes!

Ananas: Pitaya, no!!

<>

Pitaya: Surgery is basically just stabbing someone to life.

Longan: Please never become a surgeon.

<>

Ananas: It’s beautiful outside this morning!

Lotus: It’s 2AM.

Ananas: It’s beautiful outside!

Pitaya: We’re indoors.

Ananas: It’s beautiful!

Lychee: It’s storming.

Ananas: It’s!

<>

Longan: Pitaya, I swear I didn’t know Snapdragon was coming over. I always ominously clean my assault weapons on the coffee table like that. It had nothing to do with you!

<>

Longan: Between Lotus, Pitaya and Ananas, there are three braincells.

Longan: And Ananas has all three of them.

<>

Longan: While I'm gone, you're in charge Lychee.

Lychee: Yes!

Longan, whispering to Ananas: You're secretly in charge, but I don't want them to feel bad.

Ananas: Obviously.

<>

Lotus: We need a distraction.

Pitaya: Is anyone here good at jumping up and down and making weird noises?

Snapdragon, whispering: My time has come.

<>

Lychee: I won a new phone in a race.

Ananas: Huh? What kind of race lets you win a phone, Lychee?

Lychee: A race between the store owner, the cop, and me.

<>

Pitaya: There’s no “I” in team, but there is one in pizza.

Lotus: So, you’re not going to share?

Pitaya: I’m not going to share.

<>

Ananas: Guys, I have a question.

Lychee: kys <3

Ananas: I love you too.

Longan: Ah, yes. Siblings.

<>

Lotus: You have Crayons?

Ananas: Yes, I have—

Lotus: You're— how old are you?

Ananas: YES I AM AN ADULT AND I HAVE CRAYONS, I HAVE A BOX OF EMERGENCY CRAYONS IN THE CABINET UNDER THE TV BECAUSE EVERYBODY NEEDS CRAYONS SOMETIMES, OKAY? EVERYBODY NEEDS CRAYONS.

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V The Updated Headcannon These Took Into Account V

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[aerixfixoff]

Einen verloren VII

Chapter 7: The Chains of truth

Pairing: Mafia Boss!Mingi x Fem!Reader

Genre: Angst, Yandere, Horror, Slight Humor, Smut, Fluff

Warnings: Cursing, stalking, obsessive behavior, yandere themes, implied violence, kidnapping, and controlling behavior.

Word Count: 1,485

Author’s Note: this story isn’t gonna have a happy ending. Lmao but enjoy this chapter!

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The mansion was quiet. Every passing day felt like glass breaking slightly, but quickly. The trade date had approached. You and Natty had made your plan, but something was uncertain. The man you had trusted this whole time, Choi San, rubbed you wrongly. There was something about the way he moved lately, the silence in his eyes, the shift in his energy that made your skin crawl. Before the day of the trade, you did heavy research obsessively, endlessly as if the answers were hiding just behind your screen.

Clicks echoed through the room. You found yourself on a page dedicated to CȘ the missing ATEEZ member. Who is CȘ? The name looped in your mind like a haunting melody. Who was he? Just as you were about to piece it all together, a knock interrupted the storm in your head.

“Y/n,” Mingi called. His voice was softer than usual, careful. Ever since the argument you two had, you’d been avoiding him like the plague. You hated the way he made you feel

raw, vulnerable, exposed. “Y/n,” he said again, gentler this time. His voice pulled you out of your thoughts, and you stood up to get the door, feeling the weight of everything pressing against your chest.

“Y/n,” Mingi whispered breathlessly when he saw you. His eyes drank you in like a man who had just found his light in the middle of a pitch-black world. You stared back, your gaze searching for something anything that made sense.

The argument still echoed in your memory. The words, the fury, the pain. Everything he had said that night had you questioning your entire plan. He had looked at you with those glassy eyes full of heartbreak and said things no one else dared to. He made you wonder if vengeance was worth the price. Was this the only right way to get back at him? And still, despite everything, he loved you like no other. He would drop the world at your feet in a second no matter what you’d done to him or what you planned to do. He was a constant in a world full of ghosts.

“Y/n,” he said again, stepping closer, his hand cupping your face with trembling fingers. “What’s on your mind, my love?” he cooed. His voice was velvet, but his touch shook.

To be honest, you were in an endless war internally and externally. Your mind screamed at you to drop it all, to run from this chaos. It warned that nothing good would come from continuing this path. But your heart hesitated. It ached with the need for justice for truth. It whispered that justice would be served to those who deserved it, even if it came at a cost.

But the question remained Would you forgive him, or would you destroy him?

He called you his wife with no explanation. It wasn’t just a pet name. He spoke it like a vow, like a truth he held on to. You were trying to accept the harsh reality you had buried deep inside. The first month he found you again, he had proposed. You said yes. You didn’t think much of it at the time figuring it was impulsive, meaningless, something that would fade away. But you were mistaken.

The maids and servants whispered about your upcoming wedding. Mingi had kept it hidden from you. He claimed it was a “surprise,” something beautiful to look forward to. But you dreaded it. Every single day.

“Tell me what’s going on in that little head of yours,” Mingi said again. His voice gently pulled you back from the spiral of your thoughts. Now, you were on his lap, your body instinctively leaning into him, a comfort you weren’t sure you deserved. His hand slithered to your waist, rubbing gentle circles. His voice turned into soft murmurs against your ear sweet nothings, fragments of promises, half-formed confessions. Things you couldn’t quite understand.

Until you did.

Then you felt something sharp in your neck.

The mansion was quiet again. Every passing second felt like glass breaking slightly but quickly. The trade date had approached. You and Natty had made your plan. But something was wrong. No something was wrong. Heavenly wrong.

What the fuck.

You were in a dark room. Cold. Damp. The silence was so loud it was maddening. You were tied up in chains, the metal biting into your skin. Next to you fucking Natty. Beaten. Blood dripping down her forehead. Her breath ragged. You felt a scream building in your throat, but it never came out. Your eyes looked around the room for the man responsible. Of course. It was always going to be him.

You struggled against the chains, every movement sending waves of pain through your limbs. Then, a voice.

“Don’t try to struggle your way out. The chains only get tighter,” someone said. A shadow emerged, sitting to your left. The second you saw him, your blood ran cold.

Wooyoung.

ATEEZ’s notorious. One of the best tricksters and fighters. He was lethal. Charming on the outside, but a storm on the inside. He was known for luring people in soft smiles, playful laughter then ending them before they realized what happened. Every move he made was deliberate, precise.

“You know, Y/n, I never understood the hype about you,” he said, standing slowly, slinking into your view. His eyes gleamed with curiosity. “But oh, now I do. You’re so interesting. So intelligent.” He knelt down, meeting your eyes. There was something dark swimming in his gaze.

“God knows what Mingi’s gonna do to you. But one thing’s for sure your buddy over there isn’t making it out alive.” He tilted his head toward Natty, his lips curling into a smile. But it didn’t reach his eyes.

Then he left. No more words. Just that bone chilling smile.

You were shaking. What were you going to do now? The trade was in five hours. They planned to keep you here until it ended. But now, you realized something else the trade wasn’t just about some document. Natty had told you that. She had tried to warn you. And now, you had to do something.

You spotted something sharp in the corner. Your heart raced. Without thinking, you dragged your chained hands toward it. You began to smash. And smash. And smash until the chains cracked into pieces.

You rushed to Natty. Her body was barely responsive, but her eyes opened slowly.

“Y/n,” she croaked. “I should’ve told you everything.”

“Now you can.”

“Okay, Y/n. Listen carefully,” she said, each word costing her effort. “Choi San isn’t who you think he is. And when I say this, I mean it all. Only one of us is going to walk out of here alive. And it’s not going to be me.” Tears slipped from her eyes.

“Take this map. Go to the star marked on it. You’ll find the document there. It holds everything. Everyone involved in this you can expose them all. Bring justice.”

“This is bigger than you think,” she continued.

She reached into her coat, pulling out a rusted piece of paper.

“When you reach intersection 67, you’ll find a man called Keeho. Give him this for me.” She smiled. A weak, sad smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She handed you an envelope.

Then she looked at you, her gaze holding one final message.

“Go, Y/n. Go.”

Her hand pressed against your heart, and that was it. Tears blurred your vision as you gave her one last hug one filled with desperation and pain.

And then you left.

Chapter 8>

© Aerixfixoff 2025 – All rights reserved. Please don’t copy, edit, repost, or translate my work. Respect goes both ways!

[geothewriter]

Vermillion Seas Cardinal Skies: Chapter 23 - Time for Tea

Aang now has to face his friends after performing the death-defying, incredibly dangerous move of saving one of his biggest enemies. Then he learns a bit more about himself and gains an (old) ally. Meanwhile, Zuko and Katara make final preparations for a trip in a southern direction.

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Good day readers! It's my Birthday! Which makes posting day even better!

That last chapter had quite possibly the most intense scene I've ever written! Oh Aang, why do you gotta be so good? I wonder if there will be long-term consequences for that act.

Now, most importantly, THANK YOU to achillmango for her incredible patience in beta reading/editing my chapters.

Without further adieu, please enjoy a snippet from Chapter 23 - Time for Tea

With shaking hands, Aang stows his glider in the saddle and takes back his seat on Appa’s head. His fingers clench the reins and he can feel his heart pounding relentlessly in his chest. A cacophonous orchestra of drums readying him for what’s to come. The airships haven’t started firing yet, but the men on board look as though they’re waiting for a signal. Then, he's surprised to see them drop their stances. One even nods toward him. He swallows roughly, nods back, and mutters three quiet words to Appa.  Let’s go, buddy.  It was the right thing to do, he tells himself again. He saved Azula. Him. The boy she killed. He could have died. Again. Doomed the rest of the world to fall to the Fire Nation. All because he can’t let go of the idea that he cannot take a life. And he’s going to have to make that impossible choice, for real, and soon. The comet is coming and it isn’t going to wait for him to debate ethics. He cradles his head in his hands and tries to focus on something else - anything else. Sokka’s voice starts softly, but quickly builds in intensity and volume as he speaks. “Aang, I really don’t like swearing around you, but I think this situation calls for it. Just, WHAT THE FUCK  WAS THAT? WHY DID YOU SAVE AZULA?” Not that. “Language Sokka!” Suki scolds. He shakes his head and with a quiver in his voice replies to the older boy. “Not now, Sokka.” He’s still asking himself the same question. Why did he do it? It’s the right thing to do? He can’t handle standing idle anymore? The answer isn’t clear even to him. “Now’s a pretty good time! What could you possibly have been thinking?!” “Sokka–” His voice breaks and he clenches his eyes shut. The world is full of choices we alone must make. His words are caught, struggling between keeping down tears and screaming in anger. Why is everything so difficult? Did he make the right call? Suki’s stern voice interrupts his thoughts and effectively silences the older boy. “Sokka, let it be.” “No.” He forces his voice to sound brave but keeps his gaze forward. “No. No– You all deserve an explanation.”  Keep flying straight, buddy.  He turns to address the grave expressions of his friends. Katara is holding tightly onto Zuko, Sokka is with Suki, and Toph is clinging to her other side. He’s alone up here. Alone. Momo chitters as he climbs into Aang’s lap. At least he’s not totally alone. Their eyes are all on him, waiting for him to speak. “Okay. So. I uh.” A sigh, and a deep breath. “I realized something.” He turns to Katara and Sokka. “Your dad gave me some advice back during the invasion, and I followed it. He told me that I need to do what I need to do, whatever that is. Even if it means making things harder in the short term. And, he said that the world is full of difficult choices that we alone must make. So–” “Dad said that?” Sokka quietly asks. “When?” “When we were flying on Appa toward the battlements. I told him I didn’t know if I could kill Ozai. Sokka, I don’t want to kill anyone. I know it's messed up, but you didn’t grow up the way I did. My people didn’t–”  A biting edge accompanies Katara’s voice as she speaks, “Aang, you didn’t live through what the Fire Nation’s campaign has done to the rest of the world. Not for the past hundred years. You’ve seen what it does now.” Her voice breaks and he can hear the pain in it. “How could you save Azula? She killed you Aang. YOU WEREN’T BREATHING! I spent weeks making sure you could wake up!” 

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