#deciding for YOURSELF if that even matters

[norristrii]

NOSTALGIA.

“Funny thing about nostalgia, didn't show up 'til I lost ya.” — You and Lando were childhood best friends until fate tore you apart in the most painful way. From that moment, you thought you’d never see him again—until you did. And suddenly, the past wasn’t forgotten, and the hurt still lingered.

pairing. Lando Norris x childhood friend! fem! reader.

warnings. angst, 12,8k words, hurt/no comfort, childhood friends to strangers to ??, huge timeskips, young asshole! lando, bitter reader (valid), drinking alcohol, I think that’s it ?

music. Nostalgia by Tate Mcrae.

IT STARTED AS SOMETHING INEVITABLE. You were always around each other, thrown into the same spaces, the same gatherings, the same long afternoons where the adults talked endlessly, leaving you both to entertain yourselves. At first, you hated it—hated the forced proximity, hated that your parents assumed you would automatically get along just because you were close in age. But there was no escaping him, no avoiding the way he always had something to say, always had some ridiculous idea brewing, always found a way to pull you into whatever chaos he was creating.

Lando Norris was too much—too reckless, too restless, too eager to push boundaries just for the thrill of it. He climbed trees that were too tall, ran faster than he could control, and seemed to have an unwavering confidence that made it impossible for him to ever admit when something was a bad idea.

And somehow, despite all of it, despite the way you told yourself over and over that he was annoying, that he was frustrating, that he was the kind of kid who made parents nervous—you started to follow him anyway.

Maybe it was boredom. Maybe it was curiosity. Or maybe—just maybe—it was the fact that, even when he was pushing limits and doing things that should have gotten both of you in trouble, it was fun.

And before you even realized it, he had worked his way in.

You started hanging out even without your parents forcing you together, finding yourselves in each other’s orbit even when it wasn’t required. It was effortless, natural—the kind of friendship that just happened, without needing an explanation. You went to the same school, shared the same classes, sat together at lunch like it was expected, and walked home side by side, barely even questioning how normal it felt. It wasn’t a conscious choice—it was just the way things were.

Before long, there was no separating the two of you. He had become your constant, the person who had always been there, the one who knew you better than anyone else, the one who could read you without you saying a word. He could make you laugh with a single look, could drag you into some wild idea just by saying trust me, could fill the silence with whatever nonsense was swirling in his mind that day.

You never really decided to let him in. But somehow, he became the biggest part of your life anyway.

Life had been effortless for so long—filled with laughter, late-night conversations, and an unspoken understanding that no matter what, you always had each other. Every childhood sleepover, every ridiculous inside joke, every moment spent side by side had only strengthened the bond that had always felt unbreakable.

But then, racing became real.

Lando had always loved it—always talked about it, always dreamed about it—but when he got to F4, it wasn’t just something he loved anymore. It was something he had to commit to, something that took him away more often than not, something that started shifting the rhythm of your friendship into something unfamiliar.

At first, it was subtle—the missed hangouts, the postponed plans, the texts that came hours later than they used to. You understood, of course. This was his dream, and there was no way you’d ever resent him for chasing it. But then, the distance grew—not just physically, but in ways you hadn’t expected.

He was always traveling, always at a racetrack, always so caught up in training, in competition, in the next step that sometimes it felt like you were watching him from the outside, trying to reach through a window that kept getting harder to open.

And maybe that would have been fine—maybe the changes wouldn’t have felt so sharp—if it hadn’t started hurting.

If he hadn’t forgotten things he never used to forget.

─── October 2015

The anticipation had been building all week. A sleepover with Lando—something you hadn’t done in ages, something that felt like returning to the simplicity of childhood, to the nights spent laughing until your stomach hurt, to the effortless comfort of being around someone who had always been there. You had packed light, just the essentials, knowing you wouldn’t need much—just time, just space to breathe, just the familiarity of him.

When you reached his house, the front door swung open almost immediately, revealing Cisca’s familiar, warm presence. “Hey, sweetheart,” she greeted, her voice carrying the ease of years spent knowing you, spent welcoming you into their home like you were just another extension of the family.

You smiled, adjusting the strap of your bag. “Hey, Cisca,” you said, tone easy, comfortable, because it had always been like this—casual, effortless, familiar. “Is Lando home?”

And that’s when you saw it—the shift.

The way her smile faltered just slightly, the hesitation in the way she tilted her head, like she wasn’t sure how to say it without letting you down.

“No, he’s at training,” she said gently, shaking her head like she wished the answer had been different. “Had you something planned?”

Your stomach dipped, something heavy settling inside you before you even had the chance to process it fully. Wow. You hadn’t expected that. Or had you? Maybe part of you had known—had prepared for the possibility that things weren’t as simple as they used to be. Maybe you had just hoped this time would be different.

“Oh.” You exhaled, the weight of disappointment creeping into your voice, despite your best efforts to swallow it down. “We planned a sleepover.”

Cisca’s expression didn’t change—still warm, still understanding—but there was something in the way she sighed, in the way she noticed your disappointment, that made it clear she wished she had a better answer for you.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” she said softly, her voice gentle, the kind that made it clear she knew. She knew how much you had been looking forward to this, how much it had meant to finally have time with Lando like before. “I thought he had told you.”

You swallowed, forcing a small smile, shifting the strap of your bag on your shoulder, suddenly feeling silly. Of course, he hadn’t told you. Not because he didn’t care, but because racing had consumed everything now, because his days revolved around training and competition and an entirely new world that didn’t leave much space for things like sleepovers, for things like you.

“No,” you admitted, the weight of reality settling in deeper than you wanted to acknowledge. “He didn’t.”

Cisca sighed, shaking her head like she wished she could fix this, like she could see exactly what you were thinking. “He’s been caught up in everything lately,” she said, her voice softer now. “It’s not personal.”

You nodded, even though it felt personal.

Because this wasn’t the first time.

It wasn’t the first missed plan, the first forgotten promise, the first moment where you realized that your place in his life wasn’t the same anymore.

Still—you weren’t mad. You weren’t even surprised. Just tired.

Cisca hesitated, watching you carefully. “Want to wait for him?”

You wanted to say yes. Wanted to believe that waiting would change something, that staying would make this sting any less, that he would walk through that door, grin at you like nothing had happened, and make everything feel normal again. But realistically? You weren’t sure how late training would go. And honestly—you weren’t sure how much longer you could keep waiting.

So instead, you forced a smile, shaking your head. “No,” you said, pushing the glass she had offered away gently. “Just tell him I stopped by.”

The world felt different that evening—heavier, quieter, like the weight of everything had finally settled in your chest, making it impossible to ignore. You walked home with your bag slung over your shoulder, footsteps slow, aimless, as if dragging out the journey would somehow soften the disappointment curling deep inside you.

But it didn’t.

Your throat burned, your chest ached, and despite every effort to swallow it down, the tears still came. Silent, unbidden, slipping down your cheeks in a way that felt frustratingly inevitable.

You weren’t angry—not really.

Just hurt. A lot.

─── February 2016

The classroom buzzed faintly with background conversations—the low hum of pencils scratching against paper, the occasional shuffle of chairs, murmured exchanges between classmates—but none of it really registered. It all blurred together, distant and unimportant, as if the world had dimmed along with the gray sky outside. The day felt cold, the kind of dull, overcast afternoon that seeped into your bones, that made everything feel slower, heavier, emptier.

You lay on your desk, arms folded, cheek resting against the cool surface, phone loosely gripped in your fingers. There was no real purpose to your scrolling—just mindless motion, just a way to fill the silence, just something to look at to keep your thoughts from wandering. And yet, they wandered anyway, slipping into the past, into the memories frozen on your screen.

A collection of photos—moments that felt so effortless once, so simple. Lando grinning at the camera, mid-laugh, hair a mess from whatever ridiculous stunt he had just pulled. A blurry photo of the two of you, both smiling wide, caught mid-motion as if time itself had been too slow to capture you properly. A screenshot of a stupid conversation, filled with inside jokes that nobody else would understand.

He was supposed to be sitting next to you right now.

That thought clung to you, dug deep, settled in the pit of your stomach like a weight you couldn't shake off. He should be here—nudging your arm, making some dumb joke just to get you to crack a smile, distracting you from the mind-numbing monotony of the lesson in front of you.

But instead, the seat beside you was empty.

You stared at it—switched your gaze between the photos and the space where he should have been.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment, hesitation pressing heavy against your chest. You knew you shouldn’t—knew that part of you expected silence, knew that this wasn’t the first time you were reaching out to him when it felt like things had already changed.

But still, you couldn’t help yourself.

The weight of the empty seat beside you, the ache of old photos, the way this felt different—it all pushed you forward.

So you typed.

yn sittin in mrs. evans class rn still sooo boring wish you were here i miss u

You regretted it the second you hit send.

The message felt desperate, like grasping at something that had already slipped too far away, like searching for reassurance where you knew there wasn’t any. And yet—you had sent it anyway, had let that flicker of hope push you forward, had let yourself believe, for just a moment, that maybe this time would be different.

But the response came too fast—too short, too simple, too distant.

lando yeah sorry

Silence would’ve been better, wouldn’t it? A clean break, a moment where you knew—without doubt—that things had ended, that you weren’t waiting anymore, weren’t lingering in the space between what you had and what you were slowly losing.

But this? This wasn’t closure.

This was uncertainty— not quite forgotten, not quite remembered, stuck somewhere in between where his absence loomed just enough to hurt, but never enough to make the pain feel worth confronting.

Because this wasn’t him saying goodbye.

This was him drifting, slipping further out of reach, making you question whether you should keep holding on or finally let go.

─── May 2017

The moment should have been perfect.

You had waited for this day for so long— had imagined it over and over, had pictured the ceremony, the walk across the stage, the applause that followed. You should have been smiling, should have been focused on the achievement, should have felt nothing but pride. But despite the celebration surrounding you, despite the cheers and the flashing cameras, your mind couldn’t quite settle, couldn’t quite accept the joy without feeling the emptiness lurking beneath it.

Because your eyes kept drifting—kept searching the crowd, scanning through the rows of chairs, looking for him.

And there it was.

The empty seat.

The one that should have held him, the one that was supposed to be yours together, the space where he had promised he’d be. It stood out among the rows of occupied chairs, a glaring absence in a sea of support, a reminder that no matter how much you tried to ignore it, this day wasn’t the same without him.

But he wasn’t there.

Because school had ended for him long before this day. Because racing had taken priority. Because everything had changed in ways that were impossible to ignore. You had known it, had felt it creeping in for years, had understood why things shifted. But today? Today, more than ever, it was undeniable.

You had asked him if he was coming, had heard the easy promise in his voice, the certainty in the way he had said it—like there was no question, no hesitation, no possibility of him letting you down. And for a fleeting moment, you had believed him. Had let yourself picture the way it was supposed to be—the two of you side by side, laughing at something stupid in the middle of the ceremony, making memories the way you always had.

But still—he didn’t come.

The diploma was clutched tightly in your hands, its edges slightly crumpled from how firmly you had been gripping it. The moment was supposed to be celebratory—loud cheers, flashing cameras, the rush of accomplishment filling your chest. But none of it felt right. None of it matched the image you had held in your mind for years—the picture of this day being yours and his, the two of you together laughing at something dumb during the ceremony, teasing each other over your gowns, making this milestone something shared.

But instead, an empty seat had stared back at you.

So you moved quickly, weaving through the crowds, heart hammering, breath uneven with frustration that had nowhere to go. You weren’t even thinking about where you were headed—you just wanted out, away from the suffocating weight of what should have been. Away from the reality of yet another promise broken. Away from the truth you didn’t want to admit.

Until—you crashed into someone.

The force of it made you stumble, steps faltering as you sucked in a sharp breath, ready to mutter an apology and keep moving. But then, your gaze snapped up—

And you froze.

Lando.

Lando?

Standing right in front of you.

Like he was supposed to. Like he should have been.

But it was too late.

Your anger surged before you could stop it, bubbling up, hot and unforgiving, spilling out before you had a chance to think.

“You’re late,” you said, the words cutting through the space between you like a blade.

He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck, shifting uncomfortably under your glare. “I’m so sorry,” he said quickly, sincerity laced in his voice. “There was traffic.”

You scoffed, shaking your head, gripping the diploma even tighter, frustration burning through you with a sharp, undeniable sting. That was his excuse? Out of everything, that’s what he went with?

“Gosh, stop making these stupid excuses!” you snapped, the words coming faster than you could stop them, sharper than you meant them to be—except, no. You did mean them. You meant every syllable.

“You don’t understand, Y/n!” Lando’s voice came sharp, slicing through the air between you. His frustration crackled like static, his jaw tightening, his hands gesturing wildly as if trying to make you see the chaos he carried. “I have so much going on! I’m busy—constantly! It’s not just racing, it’s training, it’s meetings, it’s travel—it’s everything! If you haven’t figured that out by now, then I don’t know what else to say!”

His words crashed into you, each syllable pushing against the weight already pressing on your chest.

You blinked, your breath uneven, anger curling inside you like a flame that had been waiting too long to ignite. Waiting. That’s all you ever did with him, wasn’t it? Waiting for a moment, waiting for a reply, waiting for him to show up like he said he would. Waiting for him to put you first.

“Yeah?” you shot back, voice loud, unrelenting, carrying months—years—of frustration. “Always racing, racing, racing! That’s your whole damn life, isn’t it? Nothing else matters—no one else matters! Not me, not this, not today!”

Lando scoffed, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe where this conversation had gone, like you were the one making this difficult. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his messy curls, gaze flickering with something unreadable—frustration, guilt, exhaustion—all of it tangled together in a way that made it impossible to decipher.

Then, his next words shattered everything.

“Yeah,” he muttered, voice lower, tighter, more bitter. “That’s why maybe your graduation wasn’t really that important to me.”

The breath slammed out of your lungs.

Like he had taken all the air, all the warmth, all the pieces of hope you had left and crushed them in the palm of his hand.

You stared at him—at this version of him, at the boy who once made promises he kept, at the person who had once made you feel like a priority. But suddenly, he didn’t look like that boy anymore. He looked distant. Unrecognizable. Like someone you had spent years loving and now couldn’t even reach.

Your grip on the diploma tightened, knuckles turning white, heartbeat pounding so loudly in your ears that it drowned out the distant sounds of celebration around you.

God. He had really said it.

You swallowed hard, throat burning, refusing to let the weight of everything sink you down into the ache curling in your chest. But your voice still wavered when you finally spoke, softer, lower, but sharp.

“You know what?” you murmured, the words slipping through your lips like the last breath of something you hadn’t realized was dying. “That’s the first honest thing you’ve said to me in a long time.”

Lando inhaled sharply—so small, so brief, but you saw it. You felt it. Maybe he hadn’t expected you to say that. Maybe he hadn’t expected it to hurt this much. Maybe, for a split second, he realized exactly what he had done.

He had said your graduation wasn’t important—that the moment you had been waiting years for, the milestone that was supposed to be yours, wasn’t worth his time. And the second those words left his mouth, something inside you broke—not suddenly, not all at once, but slowly, like a fracture that had been forming for months, maybe even years.

So neither were his races to you, right? It wasn’t like you ever missed a single one. Every podium, every interview, every late-night live timing session, every pulse-pounding moment when he fought for position—you had been there for it. You had cared. You had celebrated his highs and sympathized with his lows because he mattered to you. You had tracked every result, known every stat, memorized the patterns of his driving like they were second nature to you. And maybe, foolishly, you had assumed that meant something. That even in the chaos of his world, even when the schedules got tighter and the obligations got heavier, you still mattered.

And yet, here he was, saying the worst thing he could have said. The worst part wasn’t just the words themselves. The worst part was that you didn’t even know if he actually cared. You waited—just long enough to see if there would be hesitation, regret, anything that hinted that he wanted to take it back. But there was nothing.

“Look, Y/n,” he muttered, exhaling sharply, shaking his head like you were the one making this difficult. “We’re not fourteen anymore.” Like that was supposed to excuse everything. Like growing up meant growing apart had to be inevitable.

You swallowed hard, forcing the lump in your throat down, refusing to let the frustration and heartbreak choke you. You thought of the years you had spent together—of the stupid inside jokes, the late-night conversations that stretched until sunrise, the times when you truly believed that no matter what, the two of you would always be there for each other. That time and distance wouldn’t change that. That his world of racing and your world of growing up side by side could exist together. But maybe you had been wrong.

“Yeah,” you said, voice lower, rougher, edged with something final. “Maybe not.” Your gaze flickered over him, this version of him, the boy you used to know so well but now felt like a stranger. He looked the same—same messy curls, same sharp, quick movements, same intensity burning behind his eyes. But something fundamental had shifted, something irreversible, something you couldn’t unsee now.

You had promised yourself you wouldn’t cry—not here, not in front of him, not when he had already taken too much from you. But the tears burned anyway, hot against your skin, slipping past the walls you had tried so desperately to keep up.

“Fuck you, Lando!” Your voice cracked, but it didn’t matter—you meant every word. Every syllable was weighted with months of frustration, disappointment, exhaustion. “I don’t wanna ever see you again!”

───

You never saw him again after that day. The moment graduation ended, you packed your things, left the town you had spent years growing up in, and disappeared without a trace—no messages, no explanations, no attempts to soften the goodbye that had already been said. Because why would you? He didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve to know where you were or how you felt or whether you ever thought of him again.

The only ones who did were Adam and Cisca—the two people who had been there, who had sat in the crowd, who had cheered you on when their son hadn’t. They were the only ones who deserved a proper goodbye, the only ones who had earned a place in whatever future you were heading toward.

And so, you left. The world beyond that town opened itself up to you, unfamiliar yet freeing, a fresh start wrapped in the quiet promise of never looking back. You settled into new routines, built a life that didn’t have his shadow lingering in it.

Some days, it was easy to forget—days when the weight of the past didn’t press quite so heavily on your chest, when laughter didn’t carry the bitter taste of memories, when moving forward actually felt like moving forward. And then, there were days when the past curled around you like a ghost, whispering its presence into quiet moments, slipping into your thoughts when you least expected it.

And then—two years later—you heard it. His name flashing across a news headline, appearing in an interview clip, mentioned briefly in a conversation you weren’t even part of. He had made it. Formula One. The dream he had been chasing since the moment he decided racing was the only thing that mattered.

For a split second—just one—you let yourself wonder what he was doing, where he was, how he felt now that he had everything he ever wanted. You wondered if, in the quiet moments between races, between podium celebrations and press conferences, he ever thought about you. If he ever regretted how things had ended. If he ever wished he had said something different, done something more, shown up when it mattered.

But it didn’t matter.

Because no matter how many times nostalgia grabbed hold of you, no matter how many times you found yourself wondering, the reality remained the same—you didn’t care.

You never checked his results. Never searched his name. Never let yourself linger in the world he now belonged to. Because that wasn’t your world. Not anymore.

Every time his face appeared on TV, every time his name was spoken like it was something larger than life, you switched the channel without hesitation. It was second nature now—like shutting a door you had long since walked through.

─── EIGHT YEARS LATER , March 2025

Monaco had been everything you had imagined—the yachts lining the marina like shimmering jewels, the streets humming with the sounds of expensive cars weaving through the winding roads, the very air thick with a sense of wealth and exclusivity. Fashion was everywhere, woven into the fabric of daily life, stitched into the essence of the people who walked past in designer coats and tailored suits. It felt like stepping into another world, one built from dreams and ambition, one you had spent years chasing, and now, finally, it was yours.

The apartment was still a mess. Boxes stacked on top of each other, half-unpacked belongings scattered across the floor, clothes draped over furniture in a way that made it clear you were still in the middle of making this space a home. You and your friend sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by unpacked memories, flipping through items that held pieces of your past. The smell of fresh paint mixed with the lingering scent of cardboard, and the distant hum of city life buzzed from beyond the windows. This was the start of something new—something separate from everything before. And yet, in the middle of the chaos, the past still found a way to crawl back in.

Your friend reached into one of the boxes, pulling out a framed photo. She studied it for a second, curiosity flickering in her expression before she turned it towards you. “Who’s this?” she asked, holding it up for you to see.

The moment your eyes landed on the photo, you felt it—nostalgia slamming into you like a wave, pulling you under so suddenly that you almost forgot how to breathe.

There he was.

Lando, grinning by the sea, sunlight catching in his messy curls, his arm slung around you like it belonged there, like it always had. You were laughing, caught in a moment of ease, the sky a breathtaking shade of blue behind you. The photo was from that family vacation—the trip the Norris’ had taken you on, the one where the days stretched lazily along the coast, filled with late-night talks, stupid jokes, and a kind of simplicity you hadn’t realized you would one day lose.

You blinked, forcing the lump in your throat down. You could tell her everything—about the friendship that had once felt unbreakable, the way he had always been there, the way you had been there for him, the way time had twisted everything into something that no longer resembled what you once knew. You could tell her about the laughter, the inside jokes, the trust that had felt like it could withstand anything. You could tell her about how it ended, about the fights, the disappointment, the realization that sometimes growing up meant growing apart in ways you could never prepare for.

But instead, the words stuck.

Your fingers hovered over the frame for just a second longer before you exhaled, shaking your head slightly, swallowing back everything you wanted to say.

“It’s just,” you started, voice quieter, the weight of the past pressing heavily against your ribs. Then, after a beat, you exhaled again, steadier this time, forcing yourself to move on. “Someone I used to know.”

Your friend raised an eyebrow, clearly sensing that your answer wasn’t the full truth, that there was more beneath the surface. “Really?” she said, flipping the frame in her hands, studying it closer. “You look so happy.”

Why did she keep asking?

You exhaled sharply, shrugging your shoulders in a way that you hoped looked effortless, casual, unaffected. “Really,” you said, forcing out the words, ignoring the way your chest ached. “Just an old friend.”

You knew it was anything but casual. You knew this wasn’t just some old friend. But that didn’t matter anymore.

Without another word, you reached forward, took the frame from her hands, and set it aside, facedown. You didn’t need to look at it. You didn’t need to remember.

And just like that—you moved on.

Or at least, you pretended to.

That night, boredom settled into your chest, heavy and unshakable, the kind that made your thoughts wander places they shouldn’t. There was nothing to distract yourself with—no texts lighting up your phone, no unread messages waiting for a response, no new shows to binge, nothing that could pull you out of the restless grip of your own mind. You paced for a bit, moving from the kitchen to the living room, opening and closing cabinets with no real purpose, sipping on a drink you barely tasted, mind still circling the same thoughts. And then, before you even realized it, your steps carried you toward the box.

It was still sitting there, untouched, exactly where your friend had left it—the lid slightly askew, revealing just a glimpse of its contents, like it was waiting. Waiting for you to give in. Waiting for you to finally sift through the pieces you hadn’t had the courage to throw away. You sank down onto the floor, back pressed against the bed frame, exhaling slowly as you stared at the mess of memories in front of you. Damn. You had a whole box dedicated to him.

Photos—some bent at the corners, some still pristine, all holding pieces of a past you weren’t sure you wanted to remember. You pulled one out, fingertips tracing the familiar image. You had been laughing, caught mid-motion, a blur of sun and saltwater, with Lando standing beside you, his own laughter bright, effortless, easy. It was so easy back then, before everything had changed, before life had twisted in ways that pulled you apart instead of holding you together.

The plushie he had given you sat at the bottom of the box, the soft fabric still familiar beneath your touch. You remembered the night he had handed it to you—some inside joke about always having something to hold onto, something that wouldn’t leave, even when everything else did. The memory made you scoff now. Ironic. But still, you hadn’t left it behind. Hadn’t left any of this behind.

His racing cap, worn and creased from years of use, was tucked neatly beneath the rest, the sight of it forcing a sharp inhale from your lungs. There had been a time when you had worn it all the time—flipping it backward, teasing him about his obsession with racing, pretending you belonged in the world he had immersed himself in. Back when you had cared about every race, every result, back when you had celebrated his wins like they were your own.

And the worst part?

You had taken them all with you.

Why?

If you hated him so much for what he did, if you had truly moved on, why had you packed these things alongside the rest of your life? Why had you carried them with you all the way here?

You sighed, shaking your head, bitterness curling in your chest as you flipped through the photos, fingers ghosting over smiles that didn’t belong to the person you knew anymore.

But shit—you used to be so close.

You pulled out another framed photo. The frame felt heavier in your hands than it should have, like the weight of the memories pressed into the glass, refusing to let go. You traced the edges absentmindedly, fingers skimming over the smooth surface as your mind drifted backward, pulled into a past that still sat quietly in the depths of your chest.

Karting. Your birthday. His laughter ringing out across the track, bright, effortless, teasing. You could still hear it if you closed your eyes, could still picture the way he had grinned at you from his kart, shaking his head as you struggled to control yours, the tires skidding slightly as you oversteered. You had been so bad at it— horrible, actually. But he had made it fun. He had made it feel like it didn’t matter, like failing wasn’t embarrassing, like it was just another thing to laugh about. The way he had looked at you that day—full of amusement, full of something warm—had made you believe it wasn’t about winning, wasn’t about proving anything. It was just about being there, about sharing something that was his, about letting him pull you into his world for a little while.

You exhaled slowly, the memory twisting something deep in your chest, something tangled between nostalgia and regret. It had felt so easy back then, so simple, so natural to believe that forever meant forever, that nothing would change, that no amount of time or distance could erase what you had.

But time had proved you wrong.

Your fingers tightened around the frame, the edges pressing sharply into your skin as you flipped it over, eyes scanning the back without thinking, without expecting anything more than a blank surface.

But there it was.

"Love you 4ever. Lando."

The words slammed into you harder than they should have.

Your breath hitched, a sharp inhale getting caught in your throat, emotions rushing up too fast for you to control, too fast for you to push away. Salty, bittersweet tears burned behind your eyes, threatening to spill, threatening to break past the walls you had spent years reinforcing.

Because back then, you had believed it.

Back then, you had thought forever meant forever, not just until life got too busy, not just until priorities shifted, not just until everything crumbled beneath the weight of not caring enough.

─── March 2025

The remote sat loosely in your grip, your movements slow and idle as you flipped through channels, letting the dull hum of background noise fill the space around you. The apartment finally felt like yours—no more boxes cluttering the corners, no more unpacking to distract you, no more mess making it feel like just another transition instead of a permanent home. Everything had its place now.

The couch was soft beneath you, the room dimly lit, the quiet settling in comfortably around you. For the first time since moving, you let yourself relax. You skipped through channels mindlessly, barely paying attention to the flickering images, letting them blur together without much thought. Nothing caught your interest—nothing held your focus—until something familiar slipped onto the screen.

The Australian Grand Prix. It wasn’t intentional. You hadn’t meant to land on it. But before you could even think about switching away, your gaze lingered. The podium ceremony was already underway, the celebration unfolding in bright lights and flashing cameras, the winner standing tall at the top, drenched in champagne, soaking in the moment of victory. You weren’t really paying attention at first. Not to the commentary, not to the energy radiating from the crowd, not to the excitement buzzing through the broadcast. Until you saw the name.

Lando Norris.

Your breath stilled. And then, slowly, your gaze sharpened, your focus narrowing in on the figure standing at the top of the podium.

It was him. But not the version of him you had last seen. Not the boy you had walked away from, not the friend you had left behind. No—this was someone else entirely. He had grown so much. His features were sharper, more defined, the youthful softness replaced by something stronger, more grown, more changed.

The messy curls had stretched longer, spilling into a mullet that framed his face differently, giving him an edge that hadn’t existed back then. His shoulders had squared, his stance more solid, more certain, the weight of experience shaping the way he held himself. He looked different—older, more weathered by time, by racing, by life itself. But his eyes. The green hadn’t changed. It was the only familiar thing left.

No matter how much you wanted to turn it off, to look away, to pretend like it didn’t matter, you couldn’t. You sat there, frozen, the remote resting in your hand, thumb hovering over the button, the familiar instinct urging you to switch the channel like you always had before. But something stopped you. Something kept your eyes locked on the screen, on the figure standing tall at the top of the podium, drenched in champagne, grinning like he had just conquered the world.

The cameras flashed, the crowd roared, the energy of the moment rippled through every pixel on the screen, making it impossible to ignore. This was his moment—his victory, the thing he had fought for, worked for, sacrificed your friendship for. And now, after years of avoiding everything that had to do with him, years of refusing to acknowledge his existence beyond old memories, you were watching.

─── april 2025

Monaco was made for nights like this—bright lights reflecting off the glistening streets, the hum of expensive cars weaving through the roads, the buzz of laughter spilling out from exclusive lounges. It was the kind of city that begged you to live in the moment, to let the night swallow you whole, to forget about anything that existed beyond the golden glow of luxury. And that was exactly what you and your friend had decided to do. Like any young woman in Monaco, dressing up and heading to the most electrifying party in town felt like the only reasonable choice. Who wouldn’t want that?

The club pulsed with energy, bodies moving in rhythm to the beat, music loud enough to drown out every thought, every worry, every lingering ghost of the past. You were lost in it, fully surrendering yourself to the moment, swinging your hips in time with the music, laughing carelessly between sips of your drink. Drunk, carefree, weightless—that was what tonight was supposed to be. Nothing but excitement, nothing but escape. Until your friend tapped your shoulder.

“Hey,” she said, leaning in closer, voice raised just enough to be heard over the music. “Isn’t this that guy from the photos?”

The words barely registered at first, your mind too fogged by alcohol and the blur of flashing lights to process what she was saying. Confused, you furrowed your brows, turning slightly to follow her gaze, not expecting anything, not preparing for what came next. And then your eyes landed on the DJ stage.

You almost fainted.

Everything around you seemed to slow, the world tilting slightly under the weight of your shock. For a moment, you thought your mind was playing tricks on you, that the alcohol had distorted reality, that there was no way—absolutely no way—this was happening. But as you stared, as you focused, as you took in every detail, you knew. You knew exactly who it was.

Lando?

Lando.

You knew him very well, all too well.

The realization hit hard, stealing the breath from your lungs, sending a wave of emotions crashing into you too fast to control. He looked different—sharper, older, changed—but there was no mistaking him. The same green eyes, the same familiar presence, standing right there when he wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near you. You swallowed hard, pulse thudding loudly in your ears, shaking your head quickly in an attempt to shove the moment away, to deny the reality of it.

“Definitely not,” you said, dismissing the thought, waving her off as if the words would make it true.

But God, it was him.

And no matter how badly you wanted to convince her otherwise, the person you really needed to convince was yourself.

“I may be drunk, but I’m not dumb,” she said, rolling her eyes with exaggerated patience, her hand outstretched expectantly. “Give me your phone.”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face, already regretting handing over your phone. Your friend was relentless—too relentless.

She wasn’t about to let this go, not when she knew damn well that the truth sat right there, in your gallery, in your past. You should have known better. Should have made up a more convincing lie. Should have walked away, pretended like you hadn’t heard her, redirected her focus to something else, anything else. But instead, you hesitated just for a second. And that was enough for her to pounce.

You sighed, already knowing how this was going to end. Begrudgingly, you handed it over, bracing yourself for the inevitable. She wasted no time—her fingers flew across the screen, tapping, scrolling, searching. And then, just as you had dreaded, she found it. The photo. The one you should have deleted years ago but hadn’t. The one that still sat there, preserved in pixels, a reminder of something you had tried so hard to forget.

Your breath hitched as she held it up, comparing the image on the screen to the man on stage, flicking her gaze back and forth between them like she was studying two versions of the same reality, like she was dissecting proof of something that had long been undeniable. Like it wasn’t just some stupid coincidence. Like it meant something. Like it mattered.

“That’s definitely him,” she said, voice firm, confident, staring at you with an expression that made it clear there was no point in arguing.

And you just stood there, frozen, unable to speak, unable to deny it, unable to pretend like seeing him—like knowing he was here, so close, so real—hadn’t completely thrown you off. Because it had. And no matter how much you wanted to push it away, to pretend it didn’t affect you, the truth sat heavy in your chest, refusing to be ignored.

“Let’s go say hi,” she offered, her voice bubbling with excitement, like this was some ordinary encounter, like it wasn’t the exact moment you had spent years avoiding. Absolutely not. The second the words left her mouth, you shook your head, firm and unwavering. No way. No chance. You were not doing that. “Old friends reunion,” she added, grinning, nudging you like this was just some fun little moment that needed to happen. But you weren’t falling for it. Not even a little. Blah blah blah—whatever she wanted to call it. You were not going up there, not seeing him, not acknowledging whatever twisted fate had thrown him into the same room as you after all these years.

She sighed dramatically, clearly exasperated with your refusal, the kind of sigh that told you she wasn’t going to drop this easily. “C’mon, Y/n,” she whined, her fingers tightening around your wrist, tugging on you like she could physically drag you towards him. “He’s hot, at least.”

Yeah. He was. So annoyingly hot.

But also an absolute asshole. At least, that was what he had been when he was eighteen. That was the version of him you knew—the version that had made you walk away, that had made you promise yourself that you would never deal with his bullshit again. And sure, maybe time had passed, maybe things had changed, maybe he wasn’t the same person anymore. But you weren’t someone who judged purely on appearances—except, God, look at him.

White button-up, half undone like he was starring in some careless, effortless, look-at-me-I’m-perfect movie. Backwards cap, messy curls sticking out just enough to add to the whole I don’t care but I look good anyway vibe. Confident stance, lazy smirk, body language screaming that nothing in the world could touch him. Every bit of him exuded the same energy he had back then—like the years hadn’t done much more than make him hotter, like he was still the guy who thought life would always bend in his favor, like he had never needed to grow up at all.

Fuckboy.

Through and through.

And you had zero intention of dealing with that again.

“Y/n, seriously, you have a chance to shoot your shot.” Her voice was teasing, playful, as if she didn’t understand the storm brewing inside you, as if this was just some harmless fun. But shoot your shot? With him? With the boy who had forgotten your graduation, who had ghosted you when you needed him most, who had taken you for granted like you’d always just be there, waiting, unshaken?

Maybe you should tell her the whole story. Maybe you should make her understand that this wasn’t some game, that he didn’t deserve this moment. But before you could even blink, before you could form the words to stop her, you were standing under the stage.

The music pulsed through your chest, the energy of the club drowning out every rational thought, every bit of logic telling you to run. Lando leaned forward slightly, his stance easy, his presence effortless, bending down just enough to hear your friend, completely unaware of the way your body had gone rigid, completely unaware of the way your mind was screaming for an escape. “Hey, can you play this song?” she asked, sweet, casual, unbothered by the fact that she had just dragged you straight into hell.

You hardly listened, your ears ringing with everything except the conversation in front of you, your gaze flickering toward the exit, toward anything that wasn’t him. You tried to act like you didn’t know them. Tried to pretend you were just another person lost in the crowd, just another passerby in a place you didn’t belong. But she was smart. Too smart. And too cruel.

“For Y/n.”

Your stomach dropped. Your pulse stopped.

His reaction was instant. The way his body stiffened, the way his head snapped toward you, the way his mouth parted just slightly in disbelief. His eyes widened, searching, recognizing. “Y/n?” The way he said your name—like he wasn’t sure if he was dreaming, like you weren’t supposed to be standing there, like this wasn’t supposed to be real. Everything came back.

And then, as if the universe wanted to twist the knife deeper, as if your friend wanted to ruin your life entirely, “yea, Y/n L/n,” she confirmed it. Loud. Clear. Unmistakable.

Your whole name. Given to him so easily, so casually, like she hadn’t just shattered the fragile distance you had spent years crafting between you and him. Omg. Why did you friend an idiot like that?

His brows furrowed, confusion flickering across his face even as his eyes locked onto you—wide, searching, unbelieving, like he couldn’t quite piece together how you were standing in front of him. “Y/n? She’s here?” he asked, the words sounding almost stupid the second they left his mouth, carrying just enough disbelief to make it nearly funny. If you weren’t too busy fighting off the urge to scream, maybe you would have laughed.

Because yes, you are here.

And maybe if his eyes weren’t staring right at you, he could have asked that question to someone who wasn’t standing right in front of him. But no—he was looking straight at you, drinking in the sight of you, the reality of you, like his brain just couldn’t quite accept that this was happening.

You didn’t move, didn’t react, just stood there, letting the weight of the moment settle, letting the air between you grow heavier with something unspeakable. Everything felt slower, stretched out, too thick with unspoken words, with the unbearable past forcing its way into the present.

And honestly? He looked so stupid for asking.

“Y/n, don’t act like you don’t know him,” she said, tugging you forward with way too much force, her grip firm, unrelenting, dragging you closer to the one person you wished you never had to see again. You barely had time to process, barely had time to resist, barely had time to breathe before you were suddenly there— closer than you wanted to be, closer than was safe.

And then, as if the universe wasn’t already mocking you enough, Lando spoke.

“What about you guys going up here?” he asked, referring to the stage, his voice casual, like this wasn’t the most surreal, earth-shattering moment imaginable.

Your stomach twisted. Your pulse hammered against your ribs. Your friend lit up beside you, clearly entertained, clearly loving every single second of this disaster.

But all you could do was wish you didn’t know him at all.

You barely had the chance to protest before she cut you off entirely, jumping in with way too much enthusiasm, her grip tightening around your wrist as if she had just won some personal victory.

“Sorry, we need to—” you started, voice tight, desperate for an escape, desperate to pull yourself out of the disaster unfolding in front of you, desperate to disappear entirely before anything got worse.

But she didn’t let you finish.

“That’s a good idea,” she answered instead, flashing a grin, fully committing to the mess she had just created, fully ignoring every ounce of panic rushing through you, fully pushing you into a moment you never signed up for.

You stepped onto the stage, the energy of the club pressing into you from all directions, the flashing lights making everything feel just a little too surreal, like you had just walked into some alternate reality that wasn’t supposed to exist. Your friend wasted no time, seamlessly folding into conversation with Lando’s friend, her body language open, animated, comfortable—like she had belonged here all along, like this was exactly what she had been planning from the second she dragged you into this mess. She was talking, laughing, exchanging words that you barely registered, already adapting to the situation in a way that only she could. It was effortless. It was unfair. It was everything you couldn’t do.

And you, on the other hand, stood there stiffly, caught between the suffocating heat of the room and the overwhelming weight of him, standing way too close, way too present, way too real. The music thumped beneath your feet, the beat vibrating through the soles of your shoes, pulsing through your chest, drowning out everything except the thoughts racing through your mind at a pace you couldn’t control. You could feel the tension settling thick in the air, could feel the invisible force pulling your attention toward him, toward the quiet way his presence still managed to fill every inch of space around you. It was unbearable. It was unavoidable.

And you did what anyone would do in this situation—nothing.

Just stood there, frozen in place, staring down at nothing in particular, refusing to meet his gaze, refusing to acknowledge him, refusing to entertain the idea that this was happening, that you were here, that he was here, that time had twisted itself cruelly enough to bring you back to this moment, back to this person, back to whatever mess had been left unresolved all those years ago. You could feel him there—watching, waiting, probably trying to figure out the words to say, probably wondering if he should say anything at all.

And you?

You were just waiting.

For someone, for something, for anything to save you.

Your chest tightened, pulse hammering beneath your skin as the space between you disappeared far too quickly, dissolving into something suffocating, something unavoidable, something you had spent years ensuring would never happen again.

Oh hell no.

“Y/n?” His voice was cautious, uncertain, dripping with something unspoken, something fragile, something that made your stomach twist violently. He rubbed the back of his neck—a nervous habit, one you hadn’t seen in years, one that somehow still belonged to him, one that made the moment too real. No way. No way was this happening. No way was he standing here, looking at you like that, speaking to you like nothing had happened, like time hadn’t stretched between you like an unfixable wound, like he hadn’t made the choice to let you slip away.

And then, as if things couldn’t possibly get worse, as if the universe truly had no mercy, he added another layer to the disaster unfolding before you.

“You changed since we last saw each other.”

The words hung in the air, soft, hesitant, laced with something just shy of regret—or maybe curiosity. Maybe nostalgia. Maybe something else entirely.

Your stomach twisted again, the weight of it pressing deep into your bones.

Had you? Had you changed? Or had you simply become the version of yourself that no longer had space for him? That no longer had room for the kind of heartbreak he had carelessly handed you all those years ago? That no longer needed the version of him standing in front of you, pretending like this conversation wasn’t drenched in every painful, unresolved moment he had left behind?

And why the hell did he care?

What exactly was he hoping for?

You narrowed your eyes, skepticism laced in your stare, your tone still tangled with the bittersweet remnants of everything that had come before. The years had stretched long, had pulled at the edges of old memories, had tried to reshape the hurt into something manageable, something distant—but it was still there. Lingering. Settled deep beneath the surface. It had never truly disappeared, no matter how much time had passed, no matter how much effort you had put into convincing yourself that it didn’t matter anymore.

“And did you?” you asked, voice steady, yet laced with something just shy of accusation, something that made it impossible to pretend like this was just casual conversation, like it was just two old friends catching up, like it didn’t hold the weight of every unanswered question you had let rest for years. The words slipped past your lips too easily, too naturally, as if they had been waiting for their moment to finally be spoken.

Lando hesitated, the weight of the moment pressing into him, making him pause just slightly before he finally answered. The seconds stretched thin between you, the silence pressing against your ribs, forcing your pulse to quicken. You watched him, studied the way his expression flickered between uncertainty and something else—something unreadable, something you weren’t sure if you wanted to name.

“Pretty much, yes,” he shrugged, his words careless, simple, like they didn’t hold the gravity they should have. Like they didn’t mean as much as they should have. It was an answer, sure, but it wasn’t a real answer. Not the one you wanted. Not the one you needed. It felt hollow, like he had tossed it out into the air just to have something to say, just to fill the space between you before it became too unbearable.

And then—he added it.

“I think.”

Two small words, dangling at the end of his sentence, uncertain, hesitant, a mistake.

Because if he wasn’t sure—then what was the point of saying it at all? What was the point of answering if he didn’t know what he was even saying?

Your pulse spiked.

Had he changed? Had he grown? Had he actually become a different person, or was this just some empty attempt at convincing you that things weren’t as bad as they had seemed? That maybe, just maybe, you weren’t justified in holding onto the bitterness that still lingered in your voice?

─── one hour later

It had taken about an hour—just enough time for the alcohol to settle into your system, just enough for the world to feel a little softer around the edges, just enough for decision-making to become questionable at best.

You weren’t drunk enough to forget things, not enough to completely erase history or drown out the quiet truths that still lurked in the back of your mind. But you were definitely drunk enough to agree to stupid decisions. The kind of choices you wouldn’t have considered under the harsh light of sobriety. The kind of choices that felt too easy when the world was buzzing and blurred, when the weight of the past didn’t seem quite so suffocating.

And that stupid decision?

A late-night walk with Lando. Drunk. Alone.

Something absolutely absurd. Something that didn’t quite fit with the carefully crafted distance you had spent years maintaining between you. But you hadn’t argued. You hadn’t fought against it. And now, somehow, you had ended up here—sitting cross-legged on the ledge of a stone wall, overlooking the vast stretch of the Mediterranean Sea, the moonlight reflecting against the gentle waves below like some impossibly perfect painting. The air was warm, the city behind you humming softly in the distance, the quiet of the night settling against your skin like an old, familiar embrace.

And despite everything—despite the mess of unresolved history, despite the tension still lingering between the moments of silence, despite the sheer ridiculousness of finding yourself in this exact situation—you were sitting there, eating McDonald’s with Lando Norris.

Your childhood best friend.

Lando glanced over at you, a smirk already tugging at the corner of his lips, like he knew exactly what he was about to unleash. “Do you remember how I took you karting?” he asked, voice dripping with amusement, clearly ready to relive your humiliation.

You barely had time to process his words before laughter burst out of you—loud, uncontrollable, instant, like the memory had slammed into you at full speed, just as violently as you had crashed that day.

“Don’t even start,” you gasped between fits of laughter, shaking your head, barely holding yourself together as you tried to take another bite of your hamburger. The second the ridiculousness of it all fully hit, you had to physically fight to avoid spitting it all over yourself.

Lando grinned, his eyes lighting up with amusement as he watched you dissolve into laughter, the memory hitting you full force, crashing back into your mind with all its chaotic, humiliating glory.

“Oh, come on,” he teased, shaking his head as he took a bite of his own burger, smirking like he had been waiting years to bring this up again. “It wasn’t that bad.”

You barely managed to swallow before shooting him a sharp look, still breathless from laughter. “Not that bad?” you scoffed, eyebrows raised, voice coated in disbelief. “I crashed so hard that the guy running the place had to come check if I was still alive, Lando.”

He snickered, clearly enjoying this far too much. “Okay, fine,” he admitted, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Maybe it was a little bad.”

“A little?” You nearly choked on your food, shaking your head as you wiped at your mouth, still struggling to contain the laughter bubbling inside you. “I’m scarred, Norris. Scarred.”

He laughed loudly, the sound unfiltered, genuine, slipping through the easy rhythm of the night like it belonged there—like it had never left.

Lando shook his head, laughter still lingering in his voice as he watched you struggle to compose yourself. The memory was too good, too vivid, too perfectly disastrous for him to let go.

“You were so bad,” he teased, shoving a handful of fries into his mouth like he wasn’t about to single-handedly ruin your night with humiliation.

You groaned dramatically, wiping at your mouth, still trying to stop yourself from choking on your own laughter. “Yeah, well, excuse me for not being a child prodigy in motorsport.” You shot him a look, eyes narrowed, but the smirk he threw back was unbelievable.

“That’s not what I meant,” he insisted, though his grin didn’t falter for a second. “You just had, like, zero concept of turning. It was literally a straight line, and you still managed to crash.”

You gasped, slapping his arm in mock outrage, though the memory did technically support his argument. “It was a complicated turn!” you defended, though the absurdity of the statement was immediate.

“A complicated turn?” He nearly choked on his drink, eyes wide. “Y/n, it wasn’t even a turn. You drove straight into the barriers like the track just disappeared in front of you.”

You huffed, crossing your arms, shaking your head, but the laughter bubbling in your chest was uncontainable. “Yeah, well, maybe I just wanted to give everyone a good show.”

Lando snickered, throwing a fry at you. “Mission accomplished.”

And somehow, in the warmth of the Mediterranean night, with laughter spilling between shared bites of fast food, it felt almost like nothing had changed at all.

You looked at him, really looked at him for the first time that night, and something inside you shifted.

His smile—so easy, so natural, so completely him—pulled at something buried deep in your chest, something you hadn’t let yourself think about in years. It was familiar, painfully so, a reminder of everything that had once made this friendship effortless, everything that had once made him yours.

His humor hadn’t changed—still sharp, still quick, still laced with that dry British edge that made everything just a little bit funnier, a little more ridiculous. And in that moment, between the laughter, the shared food, the warmth of the night curling around you, you remembered.

You remembered why you were friends.

You remembered why you had loved him.

You turned to Lando, the memory slipping through the cracks of the night, resurfacing with all its chaotic, hilarious glory. A smirk tugged at your lips as you nudged him lightly, already knowing he’d try to defend himself. “Do you remember how we got kicked out of Mrs. Evans’ class?” you asked, voice laced with nostalgia, with amusement, with just the slightest hint of accusation. “Because you couldn’t stop making me laugh.”

Lando grinned, his eyes lighting up the way they always did when mischief was involved, when trouble was just a little too tempting to resist. He shrugged, casual, completely unbothered, like he wasn’t single-handedly responsible for one of the most chaotic moments of your academic history. “And what should I have done?” he asked, raising an eyebrow, feigning innocence with absolutely no sincerity. “It was so boring!”

You scoffed, shaking your head, though the laughter bubbling under your breath gave away the fact that you weren’t actually mad—just exasperated. “Boring enough that we almost got detention,” you reminded him, leveling him with a pointed stare, though the ridiculousness of it all made it impossible to sound truly scolding.

Lando only laughed, stretching his legs out in front of him, like he had no regrets. “Key word—almost,” he teased, throwing a playful wink your way, fully basking in the chaos like it was some kind of badge of honor.

The words hung between you, soft yet unavoidable, stretching across the quiet, sinking into the space where the past had been tucked away for too long.

“I’m glad I had you by my side growing up.”

So simple. So soft. So undeniably true.

And yet, something inside you twisted at the sound of it, at the weight of it, at the way it should have felt warm but instead carried a sharp edge—an unspoken ache buried beneath nostalgia. It was honest, sure, but honesty didn’t erase the years, didn’t undo the mistakes, didn’t rewrite the nights you had spent wondering where things had gone wrong. Because he could have had you by his side for more than just childhood. He could have had you always—if he hadn’t been careless, if he hadn’t let things fall apart, if he hadn’t made the choices that had cracked the foundation between you until it was barely holding together. If he hadn’t been such an idiot.’

Your jaw clenched, bitterness surfacing before you could push it back down.

Because the truth was, it wasn’t just about growing up together. It wasn’t just about the laughter, the memories, the late-night conversations that once felt like they’d stretch on forever. It was about everything after—the parts where he wasn’t there, the parts where silence replaced friendship, the parts where the absence was louder than anything he had ever said before.

And yet, despite all of that—despite the anger that still lingered beneath the surface—you couldn’t bring yourself to say what was truly pressing against your ribs, couldn’t let the words spill out, couldn’t tell him that he could’ve had you forever if he had just chosen to keep you.

The words slipped out of his mouth softly, like he had been holding onto them for far too long, like they had been sitting heavy on his chest for years without escape. “I’m sorry for the graduation.”

Simple. Direct. Honest. And yet, the weight of them hit harder than you expected, settling deep into your ribs, pressing into the space where that memory—where that absence—still lingered.

Graduation. The day that should have been filled with celebration, with excitement, with closure that never really arrived. It had been a day of transition, of stepping into something new, of leaving behind childhood and stepping forward into a future that had felt both thrilling and terrifying. And yet, despite all of that, despite the bittersweet nature of endings and new beginnings, he wasn’t there.

You had told yourself it didn’t matter. You had convinced yourself it didn’t change anything. And yet, standing there, waiting for that familiar face to show up, for him to be there—he never came. And suddenly, it had mattered a lot.

Now, years later, with the ocean stretching endlessly in front of you, with the night settling warmly around you, with the past creeping in between bites of fast food and nostalgia, he was apologizing. Your chest tightened, something complicated twisting inside you, something bitter yet soft, something that wanted to hold onto resentment but wasn’t sure if it could anymore.

“You should be,” you murmured, voice steady, not cruel, not sharp—just honest. And Lando just nodded. Slowly. Thoughtfully. He didn’t argue. He didn’t make excuses. He didn’t try to talk his way out of it like he had done in the past, like he had done with so many other things, so many other moments.

Lando exhaled slowly, shifting slightly, gaze fixed on the waves, the silence stretching between you in a way that wasn’t uncomfortable—but was definitely heavy. He had never been the type to sit with things like this, never been the type to let the weight of past mistakes settle into his chest without some quick distraction, some clever deflection. But this time, he didn’t try.

“I should’ve been there,” he said finally, voice lower now, less casual, less teasing. Just honest. “I should’ve shown up.”

You stared at him for a moment, studying the way his fingers drummed lightly against the stone ledge, the way his posture wasn’t as relaxed as it had been earlier, the way his words carried something real—something that felt less like an empty apology and more like remorse.

“Yeah,” you murmured, voice steady, simple. “You should’ve.”

Another beat of silence. The kind that wasn’t awkward. The kind that just existed.

Lando sighed, running a hand through his curls, shaking his head lightly. “I was a bit of an ass, wasn’t I?”

You huffed out a laugh, shaking your head. “A bit?”

He shot you a look, but his grin—small, hesitant, almost self-deprecating—surfaced anyway. “Alright, fine. A lot.”

You smirked, though there wasn’t malice in your expression—just nostalgia, just something soft wrapped in the edges of lingering hurt. It wasn’t like everything could be fixed with a single apology.

It wasn’t like words could erase the years apart, the way things had splintered without resolution, the way wounds had settled so deep you had forgotten what it was like to exist without them. But maybe—just maybe—this was the beginning of something new.

Something better.

The conversation had shifted—still warm, still easy in some ways, but laced with something deeper now. Something that wasn’t just nostalgia, wasn’t just laughter over childhood chaos, wasn’t just revisiting memories like old photographs tucked away in forgotten drawers. This was different. This was real in a way that it hadn’t been for a long time.

“I wanted to reach out,” he admitted suddenly, voice quieter, more careful. Like he wasn’t sure how the words would land. Like he wasn’t sure if he had the right to say them at all. “After graduation. After—everything. But I didn’t know how to fix it.”

You studied him for a moment, the way his expression had shifted from mischievous to contemplative, the way he actually seemed hesitant—like he had spent years thinking about this exact moment, about how he would say these exact words if he ever got the chance.

And part of you knew that if he had tried back then, if he had sent that text, made that call, said something when it mattered—you wouldn’t have ignored it.

You wouldn’t have been able to.

But he hadn’t. And time had stretched between you, pulling everything apart until you weren’t sure if there was anything left to hold onto at all.

“Why didn’t you?” you asked, and it wasn’t bitter, wasn’t sharp—it was just curious. Because after all this time, after all the years spent wondering, you deserved an answer.

Lando’s lips pressed together for a brief second before he exhaled again, shaking his head. “I was scared you wouldn’t want to hear from me,” he admitted, voice raw, honest. “And maybe... I thought I deserved that.”

And for the first time, since the distance had formed, since the resentment had settled, since the laughter had faded—his regret felt real.

Lando’s voice was steady, careful, carrying something unspoken beneath it—something raw, something real, something fragile enough that it almost felt like it didn’t belong in the easy rhythm of the night. “I really want to be your friend again, Y/n,” he said, and for the first time since this conversation had begun, since nostalgia had crept in and laughter had softened the edges of old wounds, you felt the weight of every single moment that had led up to this one.

It wasn’t a lighthearted remark. It wasn’t just words tossed into the sea breeze without meaning. It was something deeper, something intentional. And then, like he realized that saying it once wasn’t enough, like he needed to make sure it landed the way he intended, he added—“and I want you to be my friend again.”

Not just that he wanted to be yours.

But that he wanted you to want it, too. That he wasn’t just asking for forgiveness, wasn’t just trying to smooth over years of absence and missteps and hurt—he was asking for something real, something that required more than just words.

He was asking for a chance. For the possibility that this wasn’t just reminiscing, wasn’t just two people revisiting a past they had lost, but maybe—just maybe—the beginning of something new. And suddenly, after all this time, after all the years apart, you held all the power.

The tear slipped down your cheek, warm against the cool night air, but you didn’t wipe it away. You let it fall, let the weight of emotion settle deep into your chest, let the moment exist without hesitation, without restraint. “I miss you, Lan,” you said, voice raw, uneven, laced with something fragile—something true. “I missed you over the years. Nonstop.”

Lando inhaled sharply, like the words had knocked the breath out of him, like hearing them out loud made them real in a way that thoughts alone never could. His fingers curled slightly against the stone ledge, his posture tense for just a second before he exhaled, slow, measured. When he spoke, there was no hesitation, no uncertainty—just honesty, just everything he had been holding back.

“I miss you too,” he admitted, and it wasn’t rushed, wasn’t just a response for the sake of filling silence. It was real. It was heavy. “I always thought about you. In the car, before sleep.” His voice dipped slightly at the end, quiet but steady, carrying the weight of years, of regret, of something so much bigger than just missing someone. He glanced at you then, expression softer, more exposed than you had seen it in a long time. “And I also thought about how much I fucked up.”

"I can't hate you, Lando," you murmured, the words slipping out before you could stop them, before you could think too hard about what they meant.

Because it was true.

Even after everything.

Even after the hurt, the silence, the years of unspoken apologies—you never could.

Lando’s breath hitched, just slightly, just enough for you to notice. His fingers curled against the stone ledge, his posture rigid for a moment before he exhaled, letting the weight of your words sink into his chest. He nodded once, barely, his gaze flickering toward the waves as if searching for something—some kind of grounding, some kind of steadiness in the moment that was suddenly too real.

“I thought you did,” he admitted, voice quieter now, less controlled, less confident. “For a long time, I thought you hated me.”

You swallowed, lips pressing together, letting the truth sit between you, because maybe—back then—you had tried to. Maybe you had wanted to. Maybe it would’ve been easier if you had.

But you never did.

“I was angry,” you said finally, voice steady but soft. “I was hurt. But I never hated you, Lan.”

He turned toward you then, fully, eyes searching yours with something raw, something desperate—not in a selfish way, not in a way that begged for more than you could give, but in a way that told you this moment meant everything to him.

Your voice was steady, but there was something fragile underneath it—something you hadn’t meant to admit out loud, something that had been sitting in your chest for years, tangled up in old resentment and unspoken frustration.

Lando’s expression flickered, something shifting in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or understanding, or both. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t try to laugh it off, didn’t do anything except wait, letting you say the thing you had never really let yourself process before.

“I wanted to be happy for you,” you continued, inhaling slowly, like the words were harder to say now that they were actually being said. “But every time I saw you winning, every time I saw you smiling on that podium, every time I saw you getting everything you wanted, I just… I was bitter, Lando.”

He swallowed, his fingers curling slightly against his knee, his gaze locked on yours, unwavering. “Because I wasn’t there?” he asked, voice careful, like he didn’t want to assume—but like he already knew.

You nodded, lips pressing together, letting the truth settle between you. “Because you weren’t there,” you echoed. “Because I wanted to be part of it. Because I wanted to be your friend, but instead, I was just—just some person watching it all happen from a distance.”

Lando exhaled, slow, measured, like he was absorbing all of it—like he wasn’t just hearing your words, but feeling them, carrying them in the space between past and present. He shook his head lightly, eyes dipping downward before meeting yours again. “I should’ve reached out,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, less certain, more vulnerable. “I should’ve had you with me. Should’ve made sure you never felt like that.”

And for the first time, since this conversation had started, since the past had resurfaced, since the years of distance had finally been acknowledged—you felt like he understood.

“I didn’t want to feel that way,” you admitted, voice quieter now, more careful. “I wanted to be proud of you, wanted to celebrate with you. But instead, it just felt like proof that—" You inhaled, pressing your lips together for a brief second, steadying yourself before letting the words slip out. "Proof that you didn’t need me anymore.”

Lando’s expression flickered, something deeper shifting behind his eyes—something that looked dangerously close to pain.

“No,” he murmured immediately, shaking his head, his fingers curling into a fist for a brief second before he exhaled, forcing himself to breathe. “It was never that. It was never because I didn’t need you, Y/n.” He looked at you now, really looked at you, like he needed you to understand, like he needed to make sure there was no space for doubt, no space for misinterpretation.

“I was an idiot. A selfish idiot who didn’t know how to deal with everything changing, so I—” He sighed, running a hand through his curls, his voice dipping lower, carrying something raw, something heavy. “I handled it badly. And I let everything slip away, because I was scared to—scared to admit that I couldn’t do any of it without you.”

Lando was quiet, until he broke the silence with one, short question.

“Do you think I deserve a chance?” he asked, voice softer this time, like he was bracing for whatever came next. His fingers drummed lightly against his knee, his posture just a little too rigid, his expression just a little too careful. He wasn’t asking lightly. He wasn’t expecting an easy answer. He was giving you the space to decide.

You inhaled slowly, letting his words settle, letting yourself really think about them. It wasn’t just about whether he deserved it. It was about whether you wanted to give it. About whether you were ready to step into something new, to let go of the bitterness that had clung to the edges of the memories you had tried to hold onto for so long. And maybe, just maybe, you were.

“Yeah, you do.”

© norristrii 2025

babsie radio ! For my dearest @haniette and for all the lovely people reading this !! This is my longest and favorite fic I have ever written. This is literally asking for part 2!! Let me know if u are interested !<3

[tyrantisterror]

Ok one last bit that's been gnawing at me. So, like, the resolution of Lilo and Stitch could be (and probably has been) criticized for presenting an impossibly happy ending to Lilo and Nani's very real problem - the solution to the issue of their family being pulled apart is to have aliens from Outer Space make protecting them a matter of intergalactic peace, forcing the United States government to offer them more support, and also having two aliens (one of which is a mad scientist) stay and help out around the house. Not exactly a workable solution for real people with these issues.

I would argue that this is, in fact, the point of that resolution. I think you're supposed to look at Lilo and Nani's situation, see how cruel and horrible the real world solution of "tear these two sisters away from each other for their own supposed good" is, and then sit there and think, "Well, surely it shouldn't take the miraculous intervention of fictional aliens to solve this issue in real life." Why can't, like, real humans do that work? Why couldn't the U.S. government better fund social workers so they could keep these small families together, why can't communities band together around those who are suffering the way these fictional aliens banded together for Lilo and Nani? Why is the solution presented here, which CAN be done by humans, only feasible to us in a fictional world full of whimsical aliens?

Lilo and Nani's happy ending requiring the intervention of fantastical made up beings isn't a flaw, it's a crucial feature. It's the point.

Because there is no world in which the "solution" that real life would offer - i.e. Nani losing custody of Lilo and, at best, visiting her occasionally - is a happy ending. The movie establishes so, so clearly that the vast majority of Lilo's problems are a result of fear of rejection and abandonment. Her parents are dead, she will never see them again. The kids at school treat her like a rabid dog. Other adults treat her with well-intentioned condescension at best and visible anxiety at worst. Only Nani loves her unconditionally (well, and Stitch too eventually), and in fact Nani is the only one who actively fights to keep Lilo around. You think that kid's behavior is going to improve from having the government step in and say, "Nah, you can't have your sister in your life the way you used to. She has to leave you." Fuck no, dude! Her trauma's just going to get worse, and the bad behaviors she has a result of it are going to get more extreme!

I feel stupid for even having to write that out - the movie cannot make it more plain and obvious how bad of an idea it is to separate Nani and Lilo, how cruel it is, how it does nothing to solve the real problems these girls face, and how it's ignoring what they both need, which is support from their community, not isolation from it. The movie is not subtle about this! It is in fact very, very blunt about the need for a big community - AN OHANA, if you will!

So, again, it'd be REALLY, UNFATHOMABLY STUPID to adapt this story and, say, decide to end it with Nani losing custody of Lilo so she can live on her own! Kind of unthinkably cruel too! Just really bad story telling! I don't know how dumb and inhuman you'd have to be yourself to want to change the story that way!

It'd be a bad idea!

Fuck it, I didn't want to make a post on this but it's bugging the hell out of me so let's exorcize the thought.

Lilo and Stitch is an extremely good children's movie. I've been working at a daycare for over five years now, and out of all the children's movies I've shown to an auidence of twenty or so school-age kids (i.e. between the ages of 5 and 12), the only movie that's held their attention as well as Lilo and Stitch is The Emperor's New Groove, and the only one that's held it better is An American Tail. Of those three, Lilo and Stitch has won the vote of "what movie we will watch" the most. It not only entertains kids, but emotionally captivates them from start to finish, because it very thoroughly understands how to engage children on their level. It's a smart, tightly written children's movie.

The feat of story-telling genius it pulls of lies in its ability to reach both where children's imaginations want to go and where their lived real-world experiences lie - most children's movies focus on one or the other, but Lilo and Stitch dives deep into both. On the imagination side, there's Stitch's whole plotline of being a little alien monster being chased by other weirdo aliens onto earth because they want to stop him from running amok and causing havoc (which, of course, happens anyway in fun cartoony comedy/action spectacle). On the real-world side, you have Lilo's plotline of being a troubled little girl who has an abundance of very real problems that, like an actual child, she struggles to comprehend and deal with, as well as the many adults in her life that care about her to some degree but all struggle to fully understand her. Kids want to be Stitch and run amok and cause cartoony havoc. Kids, even the least-troubled kids, relate to Lilo, because all of them have been in a similar situation as her at least once in their lives.

Balancing these two very different stories, with very different tones and scopes to their respective conflicts, is a hard writing task, but Lilo and Stitch manages to do it in a way that seems effortless with one very powerful trick. The two plots are direct mirrors to each other, complete with the characters involved in each having foils in the respective plot. To break it down:

Stitch, the wild and destructive alien gremlin who everyone has labeled as a crime against existence, is Lilo, the troubled young girl who's viewed as a "problem child" by all the adults in her life. In both plotlines, Stitch and Lilo are facing the threat of being "taken away" from the life they know because they act out, and in both plotlines, we see that this is an unfathomably cruel thing to do to them and will not actually solve the problems they have.

Dr. Jumbaa, the mad scientist who made Stitch because making monsters is what mad scientists do, and who had no intentions of ever being nurturing or parental to anything or anyone in his life, is Nani, Lilo's older sister whose parents died when she was young and now is forced to act as a parental substitute despite not being mentally or emotionally prepared for that responsibility yet. Both Dr. Jumbaa and Nani are trying to get their respective wild children in line with what society wants them to be, and both are struggling hard with it because they in turn have a lot of growing to do before they can actually accomplish that.

Pleakley, the nebbish alien bureaucrat who ends up being assigned to help Dr. Jumbaa despite being mostly uninvolved in creating the whole Stitch situation, is David, the nice but mostly ineffectual guy who's crushing on Nani and wants to help her but doesn't really have much he can provide except emotional support. Ultimately Pleakley and David prove that said emotional support is a lot more helpful than it seems on the surface, as they give Jumbaa and Nani respectively a lot of the pushes they need to become better in their parental roles.

The Grand Councilwoman, who runs the society of aliens that is trying to banish Stitch forever for his crime of existing, is Cobra Bubbles, the Child Protective Services agent who is in charge of deciding whether or not Lilo needs to be taken away from her home forever for, ostensibly, her own good. Both are well-intentioned and stern, with a desire to follow the rules of society and do what procedure says is the most humane thing to do in this situation, but both lack the understanding of Stitch/Lilo's situation to actually help until the end of the movie.

Finally, we have Captain Gantu, the enforcer of the Galactic Council who is a mean, aggressive, sadistic brute but is viewed as a "good guy" by society because he plays by its rules (well, when he knows can't get away with breaking them, anyway), who is the counterpart of Myrtle, the mean, aggressive, sadistic schoolyard bully who is viewed as a "good kid" by other adults because she plays by the rules they established (well, when she knows she can't get away with breaking them, anyway). Both Gantu and Myrtle are, in truth, much nastier in temperament than Stitch and Lilo, but are better at hiding it in front of others and so get away with it, and often make Stitch and Lilo look worse in the eyes of others by provoking them to violence and then playing the victim about it - in fact, both even have the same line, "Does this look infected to you?", which they say after goading their respective wild-child victims into biting them.

The symmetry of these two plotlines allows them to actually feed into each other and build each other up instead of fighting each other for screentime. The fantastical nature of Stitch's plot adds whimsy to the far more realistic problems that Lilo faces so they don't get too heavy for the children in the audience, while the very real struggles of Lilo in her plotline bleed over into Stitch's plot and make both very emotionally poignant. When both plotlines hit their shared climax, they reach children on a emotional level few other movies can match - the terror of Lilo being taken away from her family, and the emotional complexity of that problem (Cobra Bubbles pointing to Lilo's ruined house and shouting at Nani, "IS THIS WHAT LILO NEEDS?" is so starkly real and heart-breaking), is matched and echoed in the visual splendor and mania of the spectacular no-way-this-is-going-to-work chase scene where Stitch, Nani, Jumbaa, and Pleakley all team up to rescue Lilo from Gantu.

The arcs of the characters all more or less line up. Nani confronts her own failures to be a guardian and parent to Lilo and resolves to do better and learn from her mistakes. Jumbaa, who through most of the movie protests to be evil and uncaring, nonetheless comes to not only care for Pleakley, but more importantly for Stitch too, and ends up assuming the role he never wanted but nonetheless forced himself into from the start: he is Stitch's family. Hell, the moment that reveals this is really clever - Stitch goes out into the wilderness to try and re-enact a scene from a storybook of The Ugly Duckling, hoping, in a very childish way, that his family will show up and love him. Jumbaa arrives and, coldly but not particularly cruelly, tells Stitch that he has no family - that Stitch wasn't born, but created in a lab by Jumbaa himself. But in that moment Jumbaa is proving himself wrong - because Stitch's creator, his parent, DID show up, and did exactly what happens in the story by telling Stitch the truth of what he is. It can't be a surprise, then, that later in the movie Jumbaa ends up deciding to side with Stitch, to help him save Lilo, and to stay on Earth with his child.

David and Pleakley go from being pushed away by Nani and Jumbaa respectively to essentially becoming their partners in the family. The Grand Councilwoman and Cobra Bubbles finally see how cruel their initial solution of isolating Stitch and Lilo from their family would be, and bend the rules they are supposed to enforce to protect and support this weird found family instead of breaking it apart. Gantu and Myrtle are recognized for the assholes they are and face comeuppance in the form of comedic slapstick pratfalls. And most importantly, Stitch and Lilo both get the emotional support and understanding they need to thrive and live happy lives as children should be allowed to do. It's like poetry, it rhymes.

It's a very precise, smartly written movie. It's a delicate balancing act of tone and emotions, with a very strong theme about the need for family and understanding that hits children in their hearts and imaginations. It's extremely well structured.

...

So it'd be kind of colossally fucking stupid to remake it and start fucking around with the core structure of it, chopping out pieces and completely altering others, with no real purpose beyond "Well, the executives thought it might be better if we did this."

[bonbonly]

𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚 𝐦𝐚𝐧… 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐨

✶ you didn't make enough money for the night, and your pimp!f1 driver decides to take matters into his own hand... ✶ driver's involved: carlos sainz jr., lewis hamilton, max verstappen, oscar piastri ✶ warning(s): dubcon, p in v, slapping, fingering, cunnilingus, deepthroating/blowjob, slapping, brief threesome (reader not involved) ✶ author's note: the person who wrote this ask, i want you to know you have no idea what you just started 😭😭😭 this is a slightly dark fic so you have been warned!

"how much did you make?" you'd asked a girl in front of you. you were last in line, as you always were told to be. usually, it would excite you and you'd dangle the fruit in front of the other girls, boasting about how you were the favorite of the bunch and spoiled to the max. but this time was different. you stared at the pitiful stash of cash in your hands, eyes narrowing at the way the other girls in front of you seemed to carry a bulk with them, generously paid by whoever they had spent the night with.

"400." the girl in front of you beamed, before her eyes flickered down to your hands. you awkwardly hid your earnings behind your back, a sheepish smile on your face as she snorted, clearly loving the way the tables had turned against you. when the guttural "next!" echoed from the dark office, she let her eyes rake over your body before strutting off with what you could only deem as newfound confidence.

too bad for you, you were practically shaking in fear of having to face your pimp. these past few weeks had been a bit tough and you didn't know necessarily know why. it seemed that your usual spot wasn't being frequented as often considering the underground club had been raided by the police. you knew you should've moved elsewhere but the thought of abandoning a place that used to bring you such good luck irked your poor brain so you stuck it out.

you glanced down at the money in your hands, beginning to count, "5, 10... 20, 30, 35, 55..." you gulped, 55 dollars? was it really that bad for you? that was 20 less than what you even made last week! you sighed, debating if you should walk out at the moment and save yourself from the embarrassment but you knew better than that, he'd always find you, wouldn't he? not when the other girls would rat you out in a second just to snatch your title as his favorite. you turned your back to the door, taking a slow step away when the door creaked open and the girl from earlier stumbled out with a smile,

"he's waiting for you," she said in a way that made your blood boil, a teasing edge with a high pitched squeal that made nails on a chalkboard seem better than this. you sighed, nodding your head as you pushed past her slipping into the dark room, gently placing your earnings onto the table. it looked pitiful next to the stacks around and with the little courage you had left in you, you finally looked up to meet your pimp's eyes...

💋 lewis hamilton

"what the fuck is this?" pimp!lewis asked, leaning back in his chair. he gestured to the money on his table, before his hand came forward to drum against the wood.

"m-my earnings?" you meekly mumbled, awkwardly looking away. you hated the way he scoffed, as if you were pathetic.

"baby, what happened?" he sighed, curling his two fingers towards him as he beckoned you to come around the table. you shrugged, trying to hold back your tears. your feet padded against the cold tiles, bottom lip trembling with those wide eyes that always had any man weak to his knees. as you climbed onto his lap, he leaned forward and inhaled the scent of your hair, petting it softly, "what's wrong? you're usually the one that brings the most to the table, honey."

"i-i don't know!" you squeaked out, burying your face into the crook of his neck. "i... i swear i've been doing everything and it just... i can't leave that spot, you know the other girls won't let me join them."

he pinched the bridge of his nose, an exasperated sigh on his lips as he shook his head, "you've done this before, sweetheart, you just need to... well, here let me show you, yeah?"

he adjusted you onto his lap, your back pressed against his chest, and let his hands wander down to your thigh, tracing soft circles against the flesh. you whimpered, softly, trying to tell him that you weren't really in the mood at the moment considering you felt like a failure for not doing your job properly but he shushed you with his lips pressed against your ear, his fingers sliding up your inner thigh, inching closer and closer to make you squirm uncomfortably against him.

"see baby, this is the problem isn't it?" lewis stressed, "you're too stubborn for your own good-"

"n-no, that's not it!" you cried out, trying to sit up but his free arm shot out and wrapped around your waist, pulling you back down,

"you know better than to do that," he hissed, his tone sharp and you slumped against him, tears forming at the corner of your eyes. his touch softened slightly, his lips pressing a soft kiss to your cheek, "listen, just listen to me, okay? you just need to listen and do as you're told. the other girls have told me all about your attitude problems when a guy you like tries to pick you up, sweetheart."

his fingers slipped under your panties, toying with your clit as you let out a soft gasp, stiffening above him. you could feel the way his lips smirked against your face as he continued, "stop thinking, stop resisting. look at you, you're a perfect little slut aren't you? you're my good girl, are you not?"

"i-i am," you whispered, your mouth falling open as his fingers continued to rub slow, hard circles on your sensitive nub.

"mhm, yes you are," he smiled, "and you know what good girls do? they do as they're told, shut that brain off for me, baby. when you're out there, you put aside that pride, you understand? this isn't about you, sweetheart, this is about the money."

he picked up his pace, his free hand lifting your shirt up to grope at your tits, pinching your nipple and the double stimulation had you throwing your head back, your first orgasm crashing through you. a strangled moan escaped you, and as you gasped for air and started to come down from the high, you could hear him unbuckling his belt, adjusting you so he could slip his throbbing cock into you.

"w-wait," you whined, "g-give me a break, please!"

"what did i just tell you?" lewis scoffed, "tsk, tsk, tsk, sweetheart you're not leaving until i know for sure you can get your brain dumb for any cock, now shut up and take it baby," he clamped his hand over your mouth, notching the tip of his cock into you as he fucked you relentlessly for hours, until he was sure you were just a dumb little slut.

💋 carlos sainz jr.

pimp!carlos was on the phone when you had walked in, his fingers toying with the telephone cord as he leaned back against his chair.

"no, no," he enunciated, "no, i don't want lando for tomorrow. the fuck you mean he's busy? that whore always knows when i want him and how i want him. tell him if he doesn't call me back by next week, i'll fuck his ass so hard, he won't be able to work for the next month. la puta audacia de él..."

carlos paused, a hand covering the microphone as he jerked his head to his table, "vamos, déjalo princesa."

you gulped, watching him turn back to the phone, no doubt planning one of his lavish yacht trips with his colleagues. you'd heard lando's name brought up occasionally at times, but you never dared ask who he was. you just knew that after charles, lando was his favorite. it was a tier list, it was you then charles and then lando. at least charles worked for carlos, all you could remember was that lando had somehow gotten lucky and went off to suck off some other pimp's dick and became much more popular among the elites. you shook your head, not wanting to think too much about it and meekly placed the money onto the table.

carlos' eyes flickered to the money and his jaw dropped for a second, and then he slowly looked up at you in disbelief. his hand tightened around the handset of his telephone and he let out a low growl, "call me back."

he hung up abruptly and spun around in his chair to face you with a large scowl, "the fuck is this, puta?" he grabbed at the money, counting them before recounting them, almost as if he thought he was dreaming. 55 dollars, seriously? he glared at you, storming around the table as he grabbed the back of your neck, bringing you closer,

"is this a charity, mi zorra?" he spat, "the fuck do i do with this money? you know what the other girls bring, don't you?"

"i do, i do!" you squeaked out, tears filling up your eyes, "b-but it's been so hard i don't-"

"hard? you know what's hard?" he barked, "hard is having my bitch fuck other men and be fucking worthless in the end. you're wasting my time, my money, like... do you not see what i'm seeing?"

he pointed at the money, shaking your head roughly by the hair as you whimpered. "cut the water works," he snapped, dragging you around the table. he sat down, tossing you over his lap.

"you're doing this one purpose, i swear, siempre poniéndome de los putos nervios," he fumed, shaking his head. he hiked your skirt up to your waist, roughly kneading your ass before he landed a hard blow to the flesh, watching it jiggle and redden under his touch. you let out a pained gasp, trying to wriggle away and explain to him, but he paid no mind. again and again, he made you count it all out and everytime you missed a number or cried a little too loud, he'd start right back over. he was a furious man, you should've known better than to piss him off like this.

he has you cockwarming him when he's done with you, ignoring your pained whimpered every time your ass pressed down too hard against his body. your cunt's all leaky and wet, squelching at the slightest movement that makes you moan softly. he's on the phone again, desperately trying to speak to lando who was too busy sucking off mr. brown. of course brown had his own policies and every time the old man would start yapping, carlos would clamp a hand over your mouth and start roughly thrusting into you, ignoring your little wails. it wasn't until brown asked what that noise was did carlos let you moan and whine out loud, your noises flooding into the telephone.

"give me lando and..." carlos paused, watching you bounce on his cock despite the way your red, sore ass seemed to be screaming in agony. he hated having to share you, you were his little bitch not some other man's but he figured if he could get you making more money now, he wouldn't have to worry about you later, "and i'll hand her over to you for a night. 500 dollars?"

"300," brown scoffed on the other end, "i'm not payin' that much for a slut i don't even know."

"400 for you and your friends," carlos hissed and when he finally heard the word 'deal' he sighed in relief and hung up before wrapping his arms around your waist, thrusting up to match your bounces. you arched your back, moaning wantonly as he pressed a kiss to your shoulder,

"una chica tan buena, and as soon as you get back, i'll remind you again...and again..." he emphasized his words with harsher thrusts, "who you really belong to, princesa."

💋 max verstappen

pimp!max verstappen snickered as soon as you had walked into the door, he'd heard from the girl before you that you weren't really bringing much in the first place but damn, he hadn't expected that low from you. he took note of the way you were standing before him, nervously fidgeting with your hands, a worried expression on your face.

"how much?" he asked, taking a sip from his glass of gin tonic.

"55," you whimpered, watching his eyes dart to you immediately. he snorted, nearly choking on his drink as he shook his head, laughing darkly. the sound grated your already fried nerves, and you already knew what was about to happen.

"here, do me a favor," max began, throwing your own money back at your face, "take this shit and get the fuck out of my face, you dumb bitch. i gave you one job, yeah? one fucking job and it's too much to ask from you, isn't it?"

you panicked, shaking your head, "no, please! i've been trying my best, please!" you walked around the table, getting on your knees like you'd done for him a countless times, muscle memory. "please, i'll give you the money you want next week, i promise!"

"next week?" max sneered, "there is no next week for you, you worthless cunt. do you even know how much the other girls bring? you're staining my empire, you hear me? you're ruining my fucking reputation, get up and get out."

"maxie, please!" you pleaded, and a sharp crack echoed in the room as his hand connected with your face.

"don't fucking call me that," he hissed, grabbing you by your hair as he shoved your face onto his crotch, "you have no fucking right to call me that. you think i'm gonna be cooing over you, calling you schatje and other sweet names when you haven't been doin' shit?"

he could feel the way your legs wrapped around his feet, slowly grinding your hips against the tip of his shoes as tears streamed down your face. even at a time like this, you knew how to please him. you were a slut, through and through - his slut. "you want to stay?"

you nodded your head, your tears coating his pants and he grabbed hold of your jaw, tilting your head up to meet his eyes, "then prove it. show me that you're actually good for something."

that was all you needed, your hands flying to unbuckle his belt, pulling down the zipper of his pants with your teeth. he couldn't help but chuckle, running his hand through your hair. he was only this hard on you because he knew how good you were, you were just lazy and stubborn some times, just needed a good kick to your rear to get you back in line. his cock sprang out, eagerly calling out to you as it glistened in the dimly lit room with beads of his pre-cum rolling down his tip. your tongue glided over his shaft, eyes focused on him just like he taught you and soon you shoved his length down your throat, gagging slightly. it had been a while since you had given a blow job to a client, since all the ones you'd fucked in recent times only wanted your pussy before leaving. you were being gentle, trying to familiarize yourself with max's girth but the man had very limited patience. he watched you bob your head at an agonizingly slow place, lips wrapped around the tip before you sank back down and then ran them right back up his shaft.

he nearly felt himself softening.

so, considering that he was doing you a favor, he grabbed the back of your head and forcefully shoved you down, your nose touching his pubic bone as you gagged and cried. your hands splayed against his knees, trying to pull up but he held you in place, bucking his hips up at a maddening pace,

"you're too fucking slow," he grumbled, "but it's okay, schatje, you'll learn. you always learn, don't you?"

he fucked your face with wild abandon, ignoring your desperate whines and sobs. he grabbed your hair and yanked your head back slightly to see the mascara streaming down your face, your lipstick smudged as he laughed between a groan of pleasure.

"fuck, look at you," he bit his lip, continuing to thrust into your throat deeper and deeper each time, "you're gonna take my cum down your throat, yeah? swallow every drop, schatje, don't you dare waste any of it."

he bucked his hips against your face a few more times before cumming down your throat, shooting ropes of his seed into your mouth with a soft, low groan. as he took in deep breaths, he held you firmly with both of his hands. your throat seemed to constrict around his length, some of his cum dribbling down your chin before he finally released you from his hold. you coughed and gagged, but you still licked your lips and swiped some of his cum off your face to lick it off. he smirked, before shoving you away as you sprawled out on the floor.

"one week," he exclaimed, raising a finger up, "one week, you make above 200 dollars and i won't kick you out. now go on, get back to work. you don't get a break after bringing in 55 fucking dollars, schatje. go on."

you stumbled out of the room with a dizzy head, the taste of his cum still staining your tongue.

💋 oscar piastri

one look from pimp!oscar was enough to make your knees buckle - out of fear, out of love depended on the scenario itself. today was the first option, and you could tell as soon as you placed the money on the table that he wasn't in a good mood. he blinked a few times, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he fought to rein in his temper. he didn't even have to say a word for you to be crawling up to him, hands folded together as you whined out loud,

"i'm so sorry, im sorry! i'll do anything to make it up, i really will!" you grabbed hold of his arm but he shrugged you off, as if you touching him burned his skin. he snorted, rolling his eyes as he looked away from you.

"sorry," he repeated, a sarcastic smile growing on his face as he rolled his eyes, "huh.. sorry...?"

you gulped, knowing that if he wasn't even looking at you that you most likely buried your own grave. you were his favorite, even if he didn't say anything, he'd always let you on his lap and he'd pepper kisses all over your face. that was the pimp!oscar you loved, the one sitting before you now was the one that you hated but you knew this side the best, because knowing him beneath his mask of indifference was what had you in his good graces all this time. you watched as he poured himself a glass of whiskey, the only sound in the room being your ragged breathing and the clinking of glass with sloshing liquid. he took a sip, sighing loudly before calling out for one of the other girls and as if on cue, three girls emerged into his office with wicked smiles on their faces. you knew them, you hated their souls so much after the way they always seemed to be so jealous of oscar always choosing you.

i guess this was their revenge.

you found yourself tied up with ribbons, gagged with your own panties as he forced you to watch him undress, his eyes only fixed on the other prostitutes that seemed to be basking in the moment. he had his fingers pumping inside one girl, his tongue swirling on another's clit. you cried out loud against the binds, whining as you wanted desperately to be a part of this sinful act. it felt weird not to be next to him, enjoying his attention and praise. this was however your punishment. your eyes remained transfixed, watching the way his thick cock stretched out one of the girls' cunt, his veins bumping against her gummy walls as she threw her head back, nearly screaming at how good he felt. his lips latched onto a nipple, sucking harshly before flicking the peak around with his tongue, his thumb running down to circle her clit.

you watched orgasm after orgasm explode in front of you, your own pussy dripping wet and craving for attention. it was unfair, you wanted to scream and lash out but you knew you deserved this after bringing in that stupid sum of money. these girls had earned their moment with him, no doubt bringing in the highest amount of money after their work. you whined out loud, hips bucking up against the chair you were strapped on. oscar took a small break finally, drinking his glass of whiskey as he approached you, wiping away your tears with a swipe of his thumb. his hand danced down your body, smirking at the way you arched into his touch, desperate for your own pleasure. he cupped your heat, fingers pushing along your folds as he spat out,

"of course, you're fucking wet, you pathetic cunt."

he harshly slapped your clit, your cries music to his ears before he pulled away, returning back to the girls as you sobbed and writhed against the ribbon binds, whining and begging through muffled screams at how you'd do better next time.

but oscar never liked empty words, not until they were fulfilled with meaningful actions. and poor you, you'd have to wait until tomorrow morning before you could start proving yourself to him.

[goldfades]

congrats on 6k it’s well deserved! 💗

paige x reader with: "oh? were you worried? do you really care about me that much?" / "what? no. what gave you that idea?" / "your heart is beating too fast for someone you don't care about."

light angst with fluff, maybe they can be exes playing against each other but when reader gets injured during the game paige’s instinct is still to go towards her. then they realize the breakup is stupid and make up

thank u sm and congrats again 💕

hi baby! thank you so much<3 that means the world to me!!! i hope you enjoy

warnings: light angst w a fluffy ending, knee injury, unresolved tension that gets resolved (yay), paige bueckers being stubborn but in love, reader being stubborn and in love, hurt/comfort but mostly just "you scared me" energy and emotional whiplash in the best way possible

You're not sure who decided this matchup was poetic but if it was the universe, then the universe has a particularly twisted sense of humor.

UConn vs. Stanford, Sweet Sixteen. National stage. Primetime.

You, in cardinal and white. Paige Bueckers, in navy and that sharp, clinical UConn font across her chest. Everything clean. Polished, unbothered.

God, she looks unbothered. You hate that about her.

The truth is, you haven’t spoken in months. Not since the fight though calling it a fight feels too dramatic, too cinematic. There were no slammed doors, no screaming matches. Just a slow unraveling. Miscommunications that turned into missed calls. Jealousy left unsaid. Games played on opposite ends of the country. You told yourself it was inevitable. That you were both too ambitious, too stubborn, too hungry to make it work.

You still told your mom it ended amicably. You still lie to your teammates when they ask what she was like off the court. You say “cool,” like that word means anything like it could possibly contain the way she laughed into your neck or the way she kissed you like you were both running out of time.

But tonight, none of that matters. Not in theory.

It’s just another game. Another opponent, another shot at the Final Four.

Except you can feel her across the court before you even see her. It’s not the kind of presence that sneaks up on you. It hits you square in the chest, like a memory you didn’t ask to revisit. She’s stretching at half court when you walk out of the tunnel. Her head turns, instinctively, like she knows you're there.

Of course she knows.

Your eyes meet for a second too long. Long enough for one of your teammates to nudge your arm and whisper something about “Bueckers being out for blood tonight.”

You don’t answer. You just pop your gum and walk past like your stomach isn’t folding in on itself.

The game is brutal in the way only March Madness can be. Fast, physical, emotional. The crowd is roaring. Your hands sting from every rebound, every dive. You’re neck and neck in the third quarter, trading leads like playground dares. Paige is locked in. Not smiling. Not even smirking. Just clinical. Just cold.

You’re not sure if it makes you want to cry or kiss her.

Because that’s the thing, right? It wasn’t just a breakup. It was a shift in orbit. You used to finish each other’s sentences, read each other’s plays before they were even called and now, you pretend like she’s a stranger. Like you didn’t spend a whole summer living out of each other’s suitcases, driving up and down the coast with no destination but each other.

Now, she’s guarding you. Now, she’s watching you like a hawk, like she knows all your tells, your fakes, the way you hesitate half a second on your left. And she does, of course she does.

The fourth quarter starts. Your legs are burning. You’ve got sweat dripping into your eyes. You wipe it away and glance at the scoreboard. Down by two. Four minutes left.

It happens in a blink and yet, it feels like slow motion.

You’re sprinting down the sideline, cutting across the wing, your defender a half-step behind. The ball is swinging from the top of the key to the corner, your teammate yelling your name, the play unfolding with the kind of precision that only comes when instincts take over. You’re supposed to curl around the screen, flare out, catch and shoot. You’ve done it a thousand times in practice. It’s muscle memory. It’s clockwork.

But in this game, nothing is clean.

Your plant foot lands, except it doesn’t quite land. There’s someone else’s shoe under yours, a split-second misstep, a too-tight space. You don’t see whose. It doesn’t matter. All you register is that your ankle doesn’t have the room it needs. The roll happens so fast, so violently wrong that your body betrays itself before your mind catches up.

There’s a sickening pop, deep and intimate like something fundamental giving way. A violent twist. Your knee folds sideways. The hardwood rushes up to meet you.

You hit the ground hard but the pain has already taken center stage.

It’s not a dull ache, not something you can grit through. No. This is different. This is bright, white-hot. A jagged explosion that radiates up your leg, past your hip, to your ribs, to your throat. You gasp — a sharp, wounded inhale that punches out of your lungs like it was ripped from you. The kind of sound that shuts up a crowd.

The arena falls quiet all at once. That suffocating, eerie hush that only means one thing.

You hear it in waves. Benches rising, sneakers squeaking, a whistle shrieking into the stillness. Coaches yelling, trainers sprinting but all of it feels far away, distant and underwater. Like you’re on a different frequency.

And then — her.

Before you can sit up, before anyone else reaches you, she’s there.

Paige.

You don’t know how she crossed the court so fast. You don’t remember seeing her move. One moment you were writhing on the floor, and the next, she’s kneeling beside you like her gravity pulled her in without asking.

She says your name.

Softly at first. Then again, more urgent. Like maybe if she keeps saying it it’ll undo what just happened, like the syllables can rewrite the moment.

“Hey — hey, hey, hey,” she murmurs, her hand hovering just over your arm but not quite touching it. “You with me? You’re okay. You’re okay.”

You try to speak but nothing comes out. The pain is a live wire pulsing behind your eyes.

You blink hard and catch the way she looks at you. That raw, wild panic swimming behind her pupils. Her mouth is tight, like she’s biting back everything she wants to say. Her hands are trembling. Barely. But enough for you to notice. Enough to know she still cares.

Her knee brushes against yours (not the bad one) and her presence grounds you in a way nothing else does.

There’s shouting now. The trainers are finally at your side, shouldering Paige out of the way with practiced efficiency. They’re asking questions, speaking quickly, trying to figure out the extent of the damage. You know it’s bad. You can see it in their faces when they gently lift your leg and you flinch so hard you nearly black out.

But all you can think about is her.

Paige hasn’t left. She’s crouched a few feet away, watching everything with clenched fists and gritted teeth. Her eyes keep flicking between you and the court, like she doesn’t know where to put her panic.

The game has stopped. The world has stopped.

“I’ve got her,” one of the trainers says. “We need the cart.”

You groan softly and turn your head to the side. Away from the overhead lights, away from the looks but not away from Paige.

She’s still watching. You hate how easily she sees through you.

Your teammates are huddling now, trying to stay warm, trying not to look too shaken but you can feel the energy shift. The rhythm’s been broken. You were up by two. You were in rhythm. You were fine.

And now? You don’t know.

The cart arrives. You hate the sound it makes — loud, clinical, too final. Like a closing chapter.

The trainer helps you sit up, then hooks an arm behind your back to steady you as they transfer you onto the board. Your leg screams in protest. You try not to let your face show it but your body’s betraying you again. You can’t hide the tears pricking your eyes. Not just from the pain, but from everything else.

And then, Paige again.

She’s back at your side, walking alongside the cart like she’s forgotten which team she’s on. Her coach is yelling for her, you hear Geno’s voice, sharp and commanding. She doesn’t even flinch.

“You’re gonna be okay,” she says, low, her hand brushing yours. “You hear me? You’re gonna be okay.”

You don’t answer. You don’t trust yourself to. But you don’t pull away either.

The locker room is sterile and silent.

You’re sitting on the exam table, leg elevated and wrapped in a temporary brace, painkillers finally dulling the sharpest edges of the agony. The trainers are talking in low voices across the room, giving you space. Your phone buzzes on the bench next to you, lighting up with messages you can’t bear to read yet.

You feel dazed. Hollowed out. Like everything happened to someone else.

And then, a knock.

Not from the hallway. From inside the tunnel. Closer, familiar.

You already know it’s her. The door creaks open a few inches. Paige leans in, hoodie pulled up, eyes soft but guarded.

“Can I come in?”

You want to say no. Want to tell her that this is all too much, that she doesn’t get to show up now, after everything. But the words don’t come. And maybe some part of you wants her here. Needs her here.

So you nod.

She closes the door behind her and steps inside, like she’s walking on sacred ground. Her shoulders are tense, hands buried in her sleeves like she’s trying to hold herself back from touching you.

“You scared the hell out of me,” she says, voice barely above a whisper.

You snort, the sound dry and bitter. “Didn’t mean to.”

She looks down, like she’s ashamed to laugh, then leans against the opposite wall, arms crossed.

There’s a long silence. One of those thick ones that says everything neither of you have been brave enough to voice.

And you know, deep in your chest, that the game wasn’t the only thing paused tonight, because something cracked open between you two on that court — something that never fully closed in the first place.

And maybe, just maybe, it’s still not too late.

You don’t speak for a while.

It’s not a tense silence, exactly. More like… an old, comfortable one. The kind you only share with people who have seen you at your worst. Paige isn’t fidgeting anymore but she’s still standing stiffly against the wall like she doesn’t quite trust herself not to rush over.

You break first.

“You’re not gonna get in trouble for being in here?”

She shrugs, a little smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Probably.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s it? Probably?”

“They can fine me. Whatever.” She pushes her hood back, finally. Her hair’s damp with sweat, the wispy ends curling around her ears. “I’m not gonna just sit on the bench and pretend I didn’t see you go down like that.”

You look away. The brace on your leg feels heavier suddenly.

“Did they say what it was?” she asks, quieter now.

You exhale through your nose. “Partial MCL tear, maybe. They’re not sure. They’ll do the MRI tonight. I guess I’m lucky it wasn’t worse.”

Paige makes a sound under her breath, something between a scoff and a sigh.

“Yeah. Lucky,” she mutters, and you hear the bitterness in it. Not toward you. Toward the situation. The moment, the randomness of it all.

And then she crosses the room.

No hesitation this time. No careful slow-motion choreography. She moves toward you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like she belongs next to you, like she remembers.

You brace yourself, but all she does is sit on the bench next to you. Not touching. Just close enough to feel.

There’s another beat of silence.

Then, softly, she says, “You always did land weird on your right foot.”

You glance over. Her eyes are teasing now, the edge of a smile forming. You roll yours.

“Oh, don’t start acting like you’re some biomechanics expert now.”

“I am,” she says, mock serious. “I took one sports med class my freshman year.”

“Ah, of course. That explains the diagnosis you yelled across the court before the trainers even showed up.”

“Which was correct, by the way.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re unbearable.”

“You’re injured,” she retorts. “So technically, I win.”

You shoot her a dry look. “Pretty sure my knee exploding isn’t a win for anyone, Paige.”

She snorts. “Fair.”

Another pause. Softer now.

Then she nudges you gently with her shoulder. “But for real… I’m glad it wasn’t worse. You scared me.”

You tilt your head, lips quirking. “Oh? Were you worried? Do you really care about me that much?”

It’s meant to be light. A joke. A jab. Something to distract from the tight feeling in your chest that hasn't gone away since she first appeared.

But her eyes flick to yours — quick, sharp. Like you caught her off guard.

She recovers fast. Rolls her eyes. Scoffs. Classic Paige Bueckers.

“What? No. What gave you that idea?”

You grin. “I dunno. Maybe the fact that you sprinted halfway across the court like I got hit by a sniper.”

She opens her mouth to reply, then pauses. You catch her hesitating. Just for a second.

You lean in, just a little, voice lower now. “Your heart’s beating too fast for someone you don’t care about.”

That gets her.

She stares at you, lips parted. No quip. No comeback.

You can hear it now, too. Her breathing, a little too shallow. Her pulse visible in her neck. And not from the game, not from the run.

It’s because of you.

She swallows. “That’s not fair.”

You shrug, suddenly feeling bold. “Wasn’t trying to be.”

The air shifts again.

Something unwinds in her posture, all at once. She leans forward, forearms resting on her thighs, fingers twisting together.

“I didn’t know if I should come,” she says eventually. “Like, after it happened. I figured your whole team would hate me on principle. Or like, I’d make things worse. But I just… couldn’t not.”

“You didn’t make anything worse,” you say. “Well. Unless you count the emotional whiplash.”

She huffs a laugh. “You mean the part where we haven’t talked in months and then I show up at your side like it’s 2022 again?”

“Yeah. That part.”

Paige nods. She’s quiet for a beat. Then: “I never wanted to leave it like that. You know that, right?”

You blink. The confession lands like a drop of water on hot concrete—fast, surprising, gone before you can fully process it.

“I thought you were the one who left it,” you say, a little defensively. “I tried, Paige. You were always too busy or too… far. I couldn’t be the only one reaching out.”

“I know.” Her voice is soft now. Honest. “I know you tried. I just didn’t know how to let you in when everything was so... loud. Expectations. Pressure. And I thought if I made space for you, I’d lose track of me.”

That hits.

Because you remember. How she went silent after away games. How she’d fall asleep on FaceTime without saying goodnight. How she’d disappear into film sessions, interviews, charity stuff, endorsement shoots. She was everywhere and nowhere, and you were just… waiting.

“I wasn’t asking you to lose yourself,” you say quietly. “I just wanted you to keep me somewhere in it.”

Paige turns to you. And now she’s looking at you like it hurts not to, like she’s been aching to for longer than she’d admit.

“I know. I messed it up.”

“Yeah,” you agree. “You kinda did.”

She gives you a look. “Wow. You’re not even gonna pretend to let me off the hook?”

“Absolutely not.”

She smiles. That lopsided, smug Paige Bueckers smile that you haven’t seen since the last time you were in her hotel room, pretending to hate watch The Office reruns on her iPad, both of you pretending the season wasn’t ending.

But this one is different, softer. Like maybe she knows she doesn’t deserve forgiveness but hopes for it anyway.

“You’re still mean,” she says.

You bump her shoulder with yours. “You’re still annoying.”

There’s a quiet moment. A warmth settling between you like dust.

Then Paige reaches out and threads her fingers through yours, tentative.

You don’t pull away.

“I missed you,” she says, so quietly you almost don’t hear it.

You squeeze her hand. “I missed you too.”

She looks down at your knee, then frowns. “You’re gonna be out for a while, huh?”

“Probably. Maybe done for the tournament.”

Paige exhales hard through her nose. “That sucks.”

“Yeah.”

Another beat.

Then she tilts her head. “So you’ll have a lot of free time.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What, you want me to come to your Final Four game now?”

“Obviously,” she says. “Someone has to remind me how annoying I am.”

You laugh. It’s real this time. Warm, loose.

And for the first time in months, it doesn’t feel like something’s missing.

You glance down at your joined hands. Her thumb’s brushing lightly against your knuckles now, rhythmic, familiar. It doesn’t feel like a question.

“I’m not saying we just… go back,” Paige says softly. “I know we can’t un-screw-up everything but maybe we don’t have to start from zero either.”

You consider that. Let it sit. Then: “Yeah. I think I’d like that.”

She grins, wide and stupid. “You would.”

“See? Still annoying.”

“Still yours.”

You glance sideways at her, startled.

She blinks. “I mean, unless you’re not-”

You kiss her.

It’s soft. Just a press of lips and familiarity and unfinished things finding a place to land.

When you pull away, her smile is smaller. More private. And you realize something — maybe some things do change, but some things stay. Some things find their way back.

And Paige? She always was the finding kind.

my 6k celly!

[sturniolobliss]

⌗ . . . ❛ 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 ❜ christopher sturniolo.

warnings ◞ ˚˖ ࣪ ex!chris, emotional vulnerability, explicit and suggestive content, mentions of marijuana, oral (f receiving), aftercare . . . etc.

note ◞ ˚˖ ࣪ bow divider by @/bernardsbendystraws · · ୨୧

read part one first!

you didn't call him back the night he left those voicemails. or the next. the ones where he sounded raw, fractured, and more vulnerable than you'd ever heard him be before. you kept replaying his voice in the dark—his apologies, his confessions, the way he whispered your name like a prayer meant to heal something broken.

it hurt. ached deep inside, the part of you that never stopped hoping. but it wasn't enough to push you over the edge right then. not yet.

instead, you sat with your phone in your hand for three days, his voice like a ghost settling in your chest. you tried to convince yourself you were moving on, but when the silence around you felt too loud, you'd play them again—those voicemails where he admitted everything he couldn't say when it mattered.

how he'd shut down every time you tried to get close. how he'd pushed you away instead of letting you in. how much he still wanted you, even if he'd never known how to show it.

and then, late one night, something inside you cracked too. a part of you still needing to hear him—not just his voice, but the broken man behind it.

you dialed his number.

the phone rang once before he answered, voice low and thick, like he'd been waiting, just as breathless as you felt.

"hello?"

"hi," you said, heart pounding so loud you thought he might hear it on the other end.

a silence stretched between you—thick and pulsing—before he finally spoke, his voice trembling.

"y'called."

"yeah," you admitted. "i didn't know if i would. but here i am."

his breath hitched. "i thought i lost you."

you closed your eyes. "you did lose me. maybe for a while. but i'm still here."

"m'sorry," he whispered, and you could feel the weight of those words like a tide pulling you under. "for everything. for shutting down. for not fighting for us the way you deserved."

you wanted to believe him. to say it was okay. but the truth hung heavy.

"i didn't want perfection," you told him softly. "just you. the real you."

his voice cracked with something fierce and aching. "i want to be that for you now."

you swallowed hard. "do you?"

"god, yes."

the space between you dissolved, replaced by something charged, almost electric.

"are you high?" you asked suddenly, heat starting to rise throughout your body.

a rough laugh. "yeah. tried to smoke it away. didn't work."

you swallowed again, the memory of his hands and lips flooding your skin.

"y'sound so good," he murmured. "always worse at night. the things i want to do to you… your voice, your moans, your scent."

heat pooled low in your stomach. "chris... no."

"why not?" his voice was thick, slow, like silk slipping over steel. "y'called me. y'wanted to hear it, didn't you?"

"…maybe."

"honest tonight," he teased. "makes me wonder what else you'd say if you were here. what you'd let me do."

your breath caught. "chris."

"you'd let me touch you. slow. soft. like when you were mad and tired but still begged me to make you cum."

you said nothing, the silence answering everything.

"i'd be good this time," he whispered. "kiss every part i never appreciated. let you use me however you want. make up for all the times i failed."

your chest burned. "i shouldn't be talking to you like this."

"no," he said, voice dropping. "but you are."

you don't remember deciding to go, only the weight of wanting—needing—him too much to stay away. his building loomed familiar and cold as you stepped inside, elevator climbing to the 23rd floor like a countdown to something you weren't sure you wanted.

the door opened before you, and he was there—barefoot, messy curls, eyes red and searching.

he held the door, silent invitation heavy in the air. you stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind you.

he didn't say much as his lips crashed onto yours, desperate and hungry. his hands slid under your shirt, fingers tracing every curve, every inch of skin that had been aching for him.

when his hands found the hem of your underwear, he pulled them down slowly, deliberately, as if savoring the moment of rediscovery.

you felt him kneel between your thighs on the plush couch, breath warm against your skin. his mouth found you, and the world narrowed to the exquisite pressure and taste of him—tongue flicking over you, slow and reverent, coaxing soft sounds from your throat.

"fuck, you're perfect," he whispered against you, voice trembling with need.

you tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer. "chris…"

"let me make you cum,” he begged quietly. "jus' once. i swear i'll be gentle. i want to do this right."

the sensation built, slow and intoxicating. his mouth worshipped you, every movement an apology, a promise. you gasped and moaned, the tension inside you mounting until it broke in a shuddering wave.

when he finally lifted his head, his eyes were dark and wild.

"god, you taste like home."

you reached for him, pulling him up, lips crashing back together in a fierce, needy kiss.

his hands roamed over your body, finally settling with possessive heat between your legs.

"let me take care of you," he murmured, voice husky.

you nodded, breathless.

he lined up with you, slow and careful, sliding inside with a groan. his touch was firm but gentle, every movement measured like he was memorizing you all over again.

the room filled with the sounds of skin against skin, whispered names, and ragged breaths.

"mine, mine, mine," he groaned low, voice thick with need. "no more runnin'. no more hidin'."

you clung to him, every nerve ending alive and screaming.

when you finally came, his name tore from your lips like a prayer.

after, you lay tangled together in the soft glow of city lights streaming through the window. his arms wrapped around you tight, a quiet shield from the world.

"thank you," he murmured, voice gentle now.

"for what?"

"for stayin'. for givin' me another chance to show you how much you mean."

you traced lazy circles on his bare skin, heart still pounding.

"i'm scared," you admitted softly.

he kissed your forehead. "me too. but we'll figure it out. together."

you smiled, leaning into the warmth of him. for the first time in a long time, it felt like maybe, just maybe, you'd both come home.

꒰ 🏷️ ꒱ : @sturniolo-szn2 / @mattscoquette / @sturnsflirt / @tezzzzzzzz / @chrepsi / @adorechris / @zenithsturniolo / @jacsismattswife / @sturnslutz / @devotedlyteenagemusic / @xoxbunni / @bbgirlmatt / @sturniolonationsblog / @sturnl0ve / @fratbrochrisgf / @lovesturni0l0s . . . .ᐟ

comment or message to get added · · ୨୧

a/n ◞ ˚˖ ࣪ i actually hate this, but i hope y'all enjoy it lmao.

[gean-grey-blog]

Idk why you keep talking about bonnets bc that's not something I even mentioned. I'm from the US south. Bonnets are still a thing sometimes even today just bc shade.

It matters that the fashion is closer to the kids' clothes from that period than the adult clothes. I'm an archeologist. Material culture has meaning you can't just divorce yourself from bc you took it to a different context.

Kids had shorter skirts bc they messed them up, and also grew fast. Adult women had long skirts, and that mattered as adults needed to cover and show they had money for lots of fabric, in that era. So yes, I read it as more kid-like.

And I have no idea. You can't separate something from the fact it shares its name with a novel about pedophillia. That was my first understanding of what the word meant. It's gonna color my first understanding of the subculture, even if *you* know it means something else.

That's kind of my point. I'm talking about what it looks like from the outside. You're talking about what it looks like from the inside. Etic vs emic understandings of a subculture will always be different.

But deciding everyone who saw a fashion that draws from children's clothes and is named the same thing as a pedophillia novel, thinks it might be a kink thing because it has bonnets, is frankly missing the point

[salem-s]

03 ── TEMPORARY TRUCE ── RAFE CAMERON (18+)

── SYNOPSIS you absolutely can't stand your roommate's brother, and Rafe can't not take an opportunity to poke fun at you every chance he gets. but when you both accidentally have a jello shot infused with molly, you decide to have a temporary truce and enjoy the night. ── WARNINGS language, drug usage (molly), fondling and over the clothes (smut?). 18+ mdni. ── WORD COUNT 11.7k. my bad. ── NOTES please i am not condoning drug use don't take after these idiots for the love of god. ── SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT PART ── SONG OF THE CHAPTER sugar by brockhampton

"Cameron, what the fuck are we supposed to do now?"

In a meek attempt to listen to all the signs telling you to go home and sleep the effects of the drug off, it doesn't prove very effective when your phone dies before you can even open the Uber app. It gets even better because when Rafe offers to call a cab, his phone is simply not in his pocket, where he says he left it last.

Characteristically, he simply shrugs and waves off the petty theft as if it literally means nothing to him.

"At least I have my wallet," is all he says on the matter.

And now, phone-less and stranded, the two of you loiter in a small park two blocks away from the club you previously got kicked out in order to take a breather and figure out the game plan. The same club where all your friends are inside dancing and drinking and celebrating Sarah, hooting and hollering and having a grand ol' time.

Not you and Rafe, though, since the park has become your new place to stop and think.

Although, it's mainly you trying to brainstorm on top of the fuzziness and airiness in your chest as you pace ferociously in concentration. Rafe, on the other hand, man-spreads on a park bench with his arms crossed in sloth, seemingly having all the time in the world to watch you do your little panicked pacing maneuvers instead of pitching in ideas. Apparently, you're his favorite form of entertainment without even realizing.

"We can try and hail a cab like how they do in movies," you murmur, blinking away the thought of how the grass kinda looks like it's moving. "Or wander to try and find the next subway station. They have maps."

Rafe hums, almost mockingly.

"I mean," you continue, "it can't be that far. There's gotta be signs around."

"Can't get anywhere without signs."

You stop your pacing to look at him incredulously. "Thank you, really." You blink. "For nothing."

"Why are you so worked up right now?"

His relaxed demeanor nearly sends you into psychosis, and you can't fathom his nonchalance in the slightest. Here you both are, high off ecstasy with no phone, no GPS, no way to contact your friends, in a random park late at night (and fucking starving, nonetheless) with absolutely no schedule or idea on the next move.

The uncertainty makes you panic.

You repeatedly curse yourself for your brief moment of desperation in the club, following him out like a sick puppy in fear of dealing with the drug alone. But the longer you think about it, the more you realize you absolutely did not need to do that, as you could've found your friends (not saying it would've been easy, but definitely possible) and clung to them instead of him.

Because he hasn't stopping grinning at you after he saw you clutch his hand as if you'd crumble without him.

Rafe relished in it, in fact, as if you holding his hand had been the most exhilarating thing he's ever experienced. And in some ways, it had been, because you always voiced how many ways you'd murder him if he ever touched you, much less held your hand, for more than five seconds. The threats, of course, always come up empty and fruitless, but your tone of voice never wavers, so you like to make him believe that, one day, you might actually do it.

Him. Rafe Cameron.

Who's smirking so godforsaken arrogant up at you right now that it makes your anger tenfold.

"Why am I so worked up?" You repeat back to him in disbelief, scoffing at his lazy shrug. "Why am I- I'm in a random park in the middle of the night with a dead phone, high off some bullshit JJ made in my apartment bathroom that I don't think is FDA approved, stranded with you, the Prince Prick of all Pricks."

All he does is stare at you.

"That title's endearing."

"Oh my god."

"Star, if I'm being honest, it kinda sounds like you like me."

You scoff, rubbing out a growing migraine to attempt to block him from seeing just how fucking flustered you are. "Cameron, you are the last person I would ever want to be with, and I mean that most sincerely."

"I don't know," he drawls out for the sake of living up his name, "you're the one who followed me."

You hate it. You hate that he's holding it over your head, dangling it on a fish hook to consistently remind you that you chose him. Out of all those people, out of your friends, you ran to him, picked him, clung to him. You'd like to think it's a moment of weakness, but you also hate how certain you were in the moment, how certain you were of him.

"Alright," you hiss, "you are letting one bad moment of mine live rent free in your head."

Rafe laughs boyishly, as if your entire existence is providing him with the comic relief he's been looking for all his life. "You always live rent free in my head."

You really try to ignore the insinuation behind his words, but wordlessly shake it off at the reminder that this is what he loves to do: rile you up, get you stumbling over your words in feeble attempts to defend yourself, and make it seem like he's winning. Whatever the winning entails, you're not so sure. Pride? Ego? Pure enjoyment?

But this is what he does, what he lives for, which is to get under your skin in every possible way, regardless of turn, rhyme, reason.

This teasing is your reminder to ground yourself, to remember that you're simply stuck with him for the night given your mutual agreement to look out for each other. It doesn't mean anything. It's done out of solidarity because he felt bad for you, he feels responsible for you, nothing more. He's under obligation to look after you, because you figure Sarah would viscerally berate her brother if anything bad happened to you.

After your moment in the club, you nearly forget yourself.

But as you stand here, flabbergasted at his audacious grin, you're reminded of why you can't stand him.

"Molly got your tongue?" He even has the gall to add when you've gone silent.

Oh, how badly you want to throttle him. "Rafe, your arrogance literally makes me sick."

"Awe, I'm sorry baby."

"I am absolutely not your baby."

In case the universe needed to humble you a little bit more, your stomach lets out the loudest growl that symbolizes a gluttonous cry for help.

You freeze at the sound and so does he, his mouth agape as he was about to speak and retaliate against your hatred for the nickname, probably about to drone on further and call you something else that will only piss you off further. There's a beat of silence between you two, almost in disbelief, at the noise.

Yet Rafe doesn't miss a beat as his gaze quickly darts from your stomach then back up to your eyes.

"Need a kiss to make it better?"

You look at him as if he's grown three heads, taking a moment to really absorb his words and understand that your mind isn't making it up, that he's actually saying this, blatantly hitting on you as some sort of sick joke. The fact that he is entertained by trying to make a fool out of you makes your hands shake as your fists clench. A part of you feels anger bubble in your chest at his disrespect for you.

Why are you even surprised? You should've known that this sort of mutual respect bullshit thing going on was only temporary.

But that is certainly out the window when he treats you like this, like another one of his girls that'll swoon and cater to all his needs at the charismatic words that come so easy to him, like every girl at his beck and call as he's so used to, like every single person who kisses his ass and allows him to think he's this unattainable hot-shot that people should be thankful he even spares a glance at.

Girls come easy to him, that much is true.

But not you. Never you.

Because it makes you feel stupid. He makes you feel stupid. He makes you feel disposable every time he treats you like one of his girls. He makes you feel bad for whenever you fall for it, whenever you inavertently blush or stutter or fall into his trap. He makes you feel so small, as if he's dangling the possibility of ever being with him on a string in front of you, pulling away every time you even think about getting close.

It's exhausting.

"Look," you say low, ignoring how he tilts his head almost mockingly at your seriousness, "I don't know if you have the wrong impression, but whatever happened in that club doesn't mean anything, and it especially doesn't mean that you get to say these things as if you ever had the right."

Rafe's smirk falters.

"Now, you can sit here and flirt with the ferns for all I care." You wave dismissively, backing up, done with the conversation and of him. "But I'm going home."

Your back is to him before you even know it, heading for the park exit as quickly as your elevated body will let you and figuring you can handle the logistics of getting home once he's out of sight and unable to continue ridiculing you.

Because, no, you're not going to sit here and take his meaningless attempts to flirt knowing he's only doing it to piss you off, to rile you up, to get out to stumble over your words and give him the satisfaction that even you, the girl who never let him get too close, are falling victim to the Rafe Cameron charm. It's mean and targeted and you hate how it makes you feel.

But - of course - Rafe isn't the one to let someone else have the last word.

"Wait! Stop- fuck. Wait up!"

It's only a matter of seconds before a warm hand is curling around your bicep, and another second before Rafe is standing in front of you. His hands iron grip your forearms as if you'll float away if he lets go, the touch shooting electricity through your veins in an unfortunate (yet exhilarating) way. He ducks low enough to meet your eye level, practically forcing you to look at him despite your best efforts to remain stoic and detached.

You writhe against him.

"Let me go, Rafe," you murmur low, hating how his touch ignites a fire against your skin.

"No," he responds, because of course. "I'll let up, okay? Just..."

He takes a long breath, as if the promise of not tormenting you is so achingly difficult.

"Don't take off like that. Ever." His tone is low, desperate. "I'll get you home."

You open your mouth to retort something mean, something that will probably make you look even stupider than before, but your words die in your throat when you look at him, when you really look at him. Because his blue eyes are narrowed to you, brows slightly pinched in worry as his gaze darts to study the expression on your face, frowning at your frown. You reel, because he actually looks serious, which is something you don't see from him often.

Not really, anyway.

The genuine expression on his face makes you blink once, twice up at him, trying to discern if this is a prank or not. But after a moment of coming up short, he remains the same, and you remain silent, almost in awe of the switch-up.

You find it in yourself to roll your eyes and attempt to shrug him off, but his hands are firm around your arms.

He squeezes once in affirmation, a gesture to get you to acknowledge, to understand. "Okay?"

Blinking, you frown at his sudden desire to give a shit about you. But you honestly just want your bed, and this back and forth with him is starting to make you dizzy.

You wave the white flag.

"Whatever, now will you let go? I can walk on my own-"

Another loud grumble from your stomach interrupts you, and you sigh so gutturally deep that it might as well be from your soul. Of fucking course, right?

Rafe takes that as a sign to let a sliver of humor slip through the cracks, as he can't help a small smile from forming at the corners of his mouth.

"C'mon, Star," he muses low, removing his grip from your body and instead slinging one of his lanky (yet muscular) arms around your shoulder. "Let's make a pit stop. My treat."

You should've just eaten at home.

Because at least then you could've been in your pajamas on the couch or in your bed, comforted by the homey silence that your apartment provides when you are alone in solace. Maybe your neighbor's cat, Elfie, could've made another appearance on your fire escape and made refuge in your room as he has so many times before. You even could've resumed that episode of that stupid reality tv show you had been secretly watching without Sarah.

But nope.

You're in a dingy pizza parlor.

With Rafe Cameron.

He looks astronomically out of place in his tall stature and hundred thousand dollar watch, yet doesn't seem to mind it in the slightest as he intently studies the menu as if he's reading ancient scripture, brows furrowed in thought and his thumb and index finger caressing his own chin, emulating The Thinker.

If he wasn't acting so strange, you would've poked fun at his clear emulation of a fish out of water.

Since your little outburst, Rafe refuses to let you go far by keeping a searing hand on the small of your spine or up on the back of your neck. The touch does little to ease your nerves of being out and about in the city whilst high and phone-less, and electrifies your skin every time his fingers even twitch in the slightest. It's nothing short of possessiveness, you gather, but don't have the words to address it.

Frankly, you don't know what to make of it.

Especially since he hasn't jabbed at you once since the park, marking it very uncharacteristic for him.

"What're you thinkin', Star?" Rafe mumbles so low, so sincere. His eyes don't leave the menu, as if this choice is life or death.

You say your order to him, simply opting for a slice to get moving back to the apartment where you can really chef it up with all the ingredients in your pantry. But of course, instead of one slice, he orders a large pizza of it instead and barely bats an eye at your protest, flashing his Amex card without sparing you a glance and blatantly ignoring you cuss up at him.

Soon enough, you secede, and eventually you're both sitting on the curb outside the parlor, balancing a teetering pizza box on your knees as you take turns holding the cardboard so the other can get another slice.

It's surprisingly domestic, only offering a few words in exchange if needed. But all the attention is on how good the food is, how satisfied you actually are at the meal. You're not sure if it's the drug effects or what, but the pizza is actually one of the best you've ever had and try to mask your surprise, since praise does everything for his ego.

Realistically, you're thoroughly surprised at his good behavior.

"See? No reason to high tail it home just yet, hm?"

Well. Relatively good behavior.

You take a gluttonous bite of your slice, but not without a playful eye roll. "I would prefer to be in my pajamas in bed, but I guess this is fine, too."

A beat. "Yeah, I bet your pajamas are real nice."

At the comment, you give him a pointed look that almost resembles a warning.

He throws his hands up in surrender - er - one hand up, as the other holds a precariously floppy piece of pizza. "Sorry, sorry. Working on it."

"It's almost as if being a prick is in your god-given nature," you mumble, taking another bite.

You half mean it, half jest.

But Rafe is quiet, as if contemplating your words and believing them, and your heart skips a beat at the silence, at the uncharacteristic lack of response.

Fuck. Was that an asshole thing to say?

You don't mean to sound like an actual asshole, as this is what the two of you do: he makes a lewd comment, you call him something heinous, he laughs and shrugs it off and continues the obscenities just to watch you squirm. The banter is never taken seriously. It never keeps you up at night. You never second guess your jabs, and you assume he doesn't either.

Yet not now.

You hate the feeling bubbling in your gut, teetering between actual guilt and frustration. He makes you feel so annoyed all the time, so you shouldn't feel bad, right? You should relish in the fact that you finally made him experience what you feel all the time, account for all of the times he's driven you up the wall.

But no. You hate the silence.

You are just about to open your mouth and apologize when he's speaking again.

"Probably is," is all he says, whispered almost in a hushed tone as if it's sin.

You turn your head to look at him, frowning at how certain he sounds about your off-handed comment. Nudging your chin towards him, you attempt to get him to look at you, to flash his million dollar smirk and say something, anything, in Rafe Cameron fashion to get you guys back on the same page again. Yet he refuses to glance your way. Instead, he picks crumbs out of his crust and chucks them onto the street in a he loves me, he loves me not flower petal picking way.

Despite what he portrays himself as, you know he's not all iron and steel. He's fragile. Self-aware of his tendencies. Highly prone to self deprecation.

Not that he'd ever tell you, but because Sarah unintentionally has before.

A random tidbit pops into your mind from a little while ago: you and Sarah sitting shoulder to shoulder on your bedroom fire escape, passing a poorly rolled joint as you gazed out onto the city scape. All the guys were having a boys night, which simply consisted of them holing in the apartment across the hall and playing poker, smoking, and occasionally watching Arrested Development if they needed a background laugh.

A particularly loud laugh echoed out of a cracked window - Rafe's - and the sound made Sarah smile so fondly as she leaned her head on your shoulder.

"What?" You had asked her, almost in teasing.

But the blonde simply hummed happily, closing her eyes at the sound. "'M just happy for him."

"Your brother?"

At this point, you had only really known Rafe for a few months, and were slowly trying to warm up to him despite his two moods: his incessant flirting or his stoic behavior, as you assume he was still trying to discern if you were a threat or not despite being good friends with Sarah all throughout college. It's safe to say you didn't really like him, nor was willing to be open to the idea of being close.

"He's never really had friends," she had said quietly. "Not real ones, anyway."

You remember frowning, confused at how an extroverted guy like him could be lonely. "Seriously?"

Sarah albeit hummed in affirmation. "People stuck around him for the money. Not for him. Never had true friends to trust, to keep him in check, to like him."

Now, you understand her words as you sit next to said person in this given moment.

As Rafe still refuses to meet your gaze, your brain racks its gears for calculated responses, ones that'll reaffirm that he's a good person (that he's a prick but mainly with good intentions), that he is on the road to becoming a better version of himself now that he has people who actually love and care for him surrounding him.

But what actually comes out of your mouth shocks you.

"How often does it work in your favor?"

That makes Rafe pinch his eyebrows in confusion, throwing the last of his broken crust onto the street. Once his hands are free, he's lulling his head to look at your profile, and know you're the one who can't seem to look at him, frankly shocked that you said that out of genuine curiosity.

What the fuck is wrong with you?

Why couldn't you have said something nice? Something that affirms his good stature as a person? Something to get him out of the dumps and shake off your comment like a piece of lint, to resume to the way things were before.

But he takes your question with sincerity, taking a moment to really think about his answer.

"Fifty-fifty," he says after a minute, calculated. "Usually scores with girls."

Despite it all, you snort. You're clearly not in the demographic.

At your noise, Rafe nearly reciprocates it but out of disbelief, staring at you for a moment longer before exhaling a laugh. "Believe it or not, they dig it."

You scrunch your nose. "Dig it? Are we kidding?"

"Not at all," he chuckles lightly, eyes still boring into your profile. Then, quieter, "I’m not used to that...not working."

The air between you feels thicker than before, because now he's transitioned into a topic regarding you, the outlier, the odd one out.

You're the girl who never let him get too close, who always threatened him with death if he even bugged you a little too much on certain days, who never gave into his charm despite how sultry his voice got or how pretty his eyes were, who never thought a guy like him would seriously be trying to get with you, of all people. You two bantered and bickered and had your fun (if that's what you want to call it) but you never took it seriously, never considered his words to be true.

Because why would he be? You're not at all the kind of person he'd go for.

Realistically, you always assumed he treated his flirting as a game, something to keep him entertained as he was looking for his next score. Because, if one thing's for certain, you always keep him on his toes and are quick to quip and jab and give him that form of entertainment that you simply assumed he was looking for in order to pass the time.

But you never thought...

You never conceptualized that he was actually trying.

You reel. Is your brain really that foggy from the molly or was this really his perverted way of attempting to pick you up?

"Wait," you find yourself blurting out, "were you actually trying with me?"

"Are," he corrects amusingly, "and have been for the past year."

Your head whips to look at him incredulously, anticipating the classic lewd comment or innuendo that he'll usually say after a moment of seriousness.

But your search to find any teasing demeanor falls short, as he sends you a small smile that's void of deceit. Instead it's soft, almost amused that it took you so long to notice, as if it had been obvious, as if he's been waiting ages to tell you. Rafe takes in your stare with patience, something he has never been praised for before, blue eyes twinkling with delight at your bewilderment.

He doesn't reach out for you, or go into a giant spiel on his feelings, or give you any indication that he's going to keep speaking, instead letting you come to him, letting you process what he's saying.

And process you do.

It takes you an embarrassingly long time to find your words.

"You-"

You point to him. His eyes follow your gesture.

"-are into me?"

Rafe stifles a grin at your genuine seriousness. "Took you long enough, Star."

You reel, blinking stupidly and now just realizing how close you are to him, shoulders and knees brushing as if the close proximity has meant nothing to him the entire time. Christ's sake, you've been helping him pull slices from the box as if it means nothing, playing and joking around with you about his flirting tendencies as if it means nothing, as if you weren't the one he's been trying to score with the entire time.

Suddenly, you're warped back into the club, flashes of his face under the kaleidoscopes of lights haunting your vision like a dream. The piercing blue eyes weren't looking for its next entertainment, they were smitten. Irrevocably. The fight and excuse that he had found Sarah wasn't out of protection, it was out of jealousy. The permanent grin on his face when you clutched onto his hand like a lifeline wasn't out of teasing, it was out of hope.

"Rafe-" You find yourself saying, unsure of where you're going with it.

Until you hear your name being yelled across the street.

Blinking confusedly, your eyes leave his to follow the voice.

Only to see an old friend from school waving at you as if he's been electrified.

Rafe's gaze follows yours, brows furrowing at the interruption and staring the culprit up and down, his anticipation through the roof at the vulnerability of it all, the tension thick between the close space between you that's riddled with the aftermath of the truth bomb.

Took you long enough, Star.

Long enough? How long is he talking? A week? A month? More? Is he actually being serious?

Your name is shouted again from across the street, mind pin-balling between the confession and the voice. It takes you an embarrassingly long time to register who's calling for you.

It's one of your class friends, Gabriel, who always had your back when you slept too late or needed the last couple of answers on the homework, who you pretended to be his girlfriend for when his all-too-traditional father came to visit campus for parents weekend, who was probably your best class friend you've ever had. Once you all graduated, you hadn't heard from him much as you didn't need answers from him or he didn't need your meticulous study guide.

Now he's here. Waving at you and interrupting arguably one of the most shocking discoveries of your life.

Gabriel says your name again, crossing the street without so much as looking as he runs up to you, beaming with his arms open wide and swaying slightly obvious enough to indicate that he's been drinking a bit.

You stand on wobbly legs, letting out a shaky chuckle as the aftershocks of your previous conversation still ring throughout your body. Embracing your friend in a hug, you see in your peripheral that Rafe also stands, placing the pizza box on the curb and waiting uncharacteristically patient next to you, undoubtedly sizing up your friend to analyze if it's a threat or not (in a multitude of ways, now that you think about it).

"Holy shit," Gabriel sighs contentedly while hugging you, "my daily horoscope said I'd see an old friend today, and I was so fucking scared it was gonna be Melanie."

You can't help but laugh, pulling back from the embrace and finding the gall to smile at your friend. "You'd never hear the end of her France trip."

Gabriel rolls his eyes in grandeur. "Ugh, don't remind me."

He opens his mouth to say something else, then just now notices Rafe standing lean and tall next to you, simply stoic and staring that makes your friend slightly furrow his brows, darting his gaze between the two of you in a mixture of shock and intimidation. Of course, Rafe offers no warm welcome or nothing to introduce himself, most likely seeing your harmless friend as a threat.

Guard dog, you think.

"This is Sarah's brother," you say before your friend can make a lewd comment. "Rafe."

The fear is gone as Gabriel's eyes widen and his gaze softens, no longer feeling intimidated by the presence standing lean next to you. His million dollar smile brightens as he looks to Rafe, who barely twitches at the sudden warmth provided by the stranger and instead stiffens at the casual nature, stiffens at how quick the flip switched when you mentioned his sister.

"Love your sister," is all your friend says, placing a gentle hand on Rafe's wrist for emphasis before turning back to you. "I'm with Brian and his friends from home."

Your gaze switches from Gabriel to the people behind him still across the street, your other friend that you recognize along with a couple of guys and girls you don't know. They laugh with each other and carry suspicious looking paper bags with what resembles to be cans of whatever they're drinking. You notice Brian grinning at one of his friends, clutching her shoulder for emphasis as he says something that you can't really hear from this far.

"We're dating," Gabriel adds in an excited hush, "by the way."

Beaming, you grab his hand. "Really?"

"Yes, and finally," your friend says with an eye roll. "He asked me after New Years. Typical. At least I could've kissed him if he asked before."

You nearly snort when you barely make out Rafe's shoulders releasing tension.

Your friend doesn't notice. "We're heading back to his friend's penthouse a few blocks down," Gabriel adds, gripping your hands fiercely tight that it feels like a hundred pins and needles throughout your body. "You guys should totally come."

Your eyes widen.

Gaping your mouth open like a fish, you're caught in a state of how do I politely decline my friend's invitation because I'm tripping so hard right now that I just need my bed? Oh and also the guy who I never thought I'd have a chance with apparently is into me? and that actually sounds like a blast. Because, frankly, you wouldn't mind going but in hindsight, you know as soon as you get there you're going to wish you went home instead.

And - of course - Rafe uses this moment to finally find his voice.

"We're not busy," he says low and baritone. Then, he gestures to the pizza box on the curb. "Clearly."

You want to frown at the implication.

Actually, the two of you were very busy in the middle of a very important conversation that you'd really like to return to. There are so many questions left unanswered in your head, and you're sure that he wants answers of his own since he's - apparently - been waiting long enough for one. However long it is, you're not sure.

But given his dismissive wave of the hand and eyes that won't find yours, it's clear that Rafe has given up the topic.

For now, you think.

Gabriel glances at Rafe, surprised yet on board nonetheless. Then, your friend looks back to you with a grin. "You heard the man. C'mon, there's a pool and free alcohol. It's actually fucked."

Before you know it, you're following Gabriel, his boyfriend, and a group of people you've never met before down the street, but not without Rafe's hand ghosting - just barely skimming - the small of your back the entire walk, electrifying your skin with every brush of contact.

For once, you don't lean away from his touch.

To say the penthouse is big is an understatement.

Brian's friend, Ventura, inherited the suite for the weekend since her dad is on a business trip, and did not hesitate to coordinate her friends staying and partying here while the space is vacant. You don't bother to learn what her father does for a living, and frankly don't even have the words when you first understand how much money you're currently standing around.

The borderline house is on the rooftop of a ten story building with an audaciously big porch with a rectangle pool adorning the corner. They have their own separate room off the kitchen explicitly for liquor. There is a doorman who monitors the elevator to make sure only a certain set of people who have access to the top floor are guarded. You're sure the wallpaper is more expensive than your rent.

You figure an hour or so wouldn't hurt.

When the group enters the penthouse, Ventura and her cousin head directly to the liquor cabinet (even calling it a cabinet is generous, more like a room) while Gabriel and Brian linger back with you and Rafe, who stand at the door simply gawking at the size of the home that you're standing in, reveling in the various antiques and sleek decor in a way you've only seen advertised in magazine, or seen in futuristic shows.

"You don't get used to it," Brian says after chuckling at your shock. "I swear every time I come here, it's somehow bigger. They even have a VR golf room."

That makes Rafe perk up. "No shit?"

Eagerly nodding, Brian exhales in disbelief. "It's fucked. Wanna see it?"

Almost uncertain, Rafe cautiously darts his gaze from Brian to you with this new sense of softness that you're unsure of where that sprung from. His blue eyes search yours for something you can't decipher, practically the saint of patience as he blinks down at you.

After a beat of silence and staring back at him quizzically, you finally understand that he's waiting for the green light from you.

Waiting for permission.

You try (and fail) to mask your shock, as all you can muster is a small nod to him, brows furrowed at why he feels the need to get your approval in the first place to check out a fucking golf simulator in the other room. You practically reel when he instantly looks back to Brian, nodding cooly as if to say lead the way.

When he's out of sight, you let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding. To make matters worse, Gabriel simply whistles low next to you, and you can already anticipate what he's going to say.

"Walk him like a dog, sis," he muses with a grin.

You nearly choke on your breath. "Shut up. It's not even like that."

Your friend starts walking into the penthouse, beckoning you to follow, which you do immediately. In an instant, you're running into Ventura and her friends, who hand you and Gabriel a drink without so much as a thought before skipping to the porch doors. Like sheep, you follow and nearly sigh at the cool air, the breeze much more tenacious up this high, especially in the night.

Settling on a pool chair, you lay back as Gabriel sits at the end, leaning an elbow on your bent knees.

A little ways away, Ventura and her friends are already sauntering over to the hot tub, kicking off their designer heels and perching on the edge to stick their feet in, not even considering getting their clothes wet. They converse about someone they ran into earlier in the night, going over the story in multiple different perspectives that, after at least a minute, you're already checked out.

You block out their conversation, instead relishing in how refreshing the air feels against your skin, how it amplifies your senses yet relaxes you at the same time. Gaze locked in on the royal blue pool lights that lull into a false sense of a dream, your dazed state becomes more obvious than ever.

"So," Gabriel broaches after a few minutes of comfortable silence, "how long have you been together?"

Your eyebrows pinch together. "Hm?"

"You and Rafe?" He says as if it's obvious. "Super cute, by the way."

Sucking in a harsh breath, you attempt to laugh the comment off but instead it comes out pained, almost offended at the thought of it. Though the wound festers you when you remember the confession he spilled on that curb, how he looked at you when he said it, how sure he looked of himself, of his words, of his intentions.

You shiver, and you can't discern if it's from the breeze or the anecdote.

"We're not together," you manage to whisper.

Gabriel sits up, brows furrowed so serious that you might as well have told him the secrets of the universe. "What?!"

All you can do is shrug and shake your head, not trusting your words. God, you feel your face flush, and whether he can sense your clear embarrassment, he either pays it no mind or can't tell in the darkness, still caught up in the notion that you two are, in fact, not dating.

And he cannot fathom those three words. "You better be kidding."

"Gab-"

"No," he interrupts, sitting up even straighter and practically leaning down on you. "Did you-? Hello? Did you not just see how he looked at you, like, five minutes ago?"

Yes, you did. And you're choosing to ignore it.

"You are totally seeing things that aren't there," you deflect, taking an elongated sip of your drink, nearly wincing how it feels like pin pricks on your tongue.

Gabriel simply peers down at you as if you've grown a third eye, seconds from crashing out over your blatant dismissiveness. He blinks big once, twice, then jerks his head at out as if to say c'mon! as he squeezes your kneecap for emphasis on his next words.

You squirm under his stare. "We're just friends."

If you can even call it that, you want to add, but refrain for obvious reasons.

Another big blink. Another squeeze. A raised brow.

"Stop looking at me like that."

"No."

"Gabriel."

"You are being so stupid right now. Wake up."

Stifling a laugh of disbelief, you shake your head and cautiously cradle your drink, picking absentmindedly at the label to dart your gaze away from your friend's knowing stare. Deep down, you know it's true what he's insinuating, and you really, really do not want to believe him, because that makes opening up a complicated can of worms that you aren't sure you can stomach right now.

Because you are awake. In fact, you're more awake than ever with your feelings dialed to an eleven, your senses tenfold. You're experiencing life more than ever before, experiencing a new sensation on how life surrounds you in ways you never expected, experiencing the pleasantries of the high and the consequences of the low.

You open your mouth to defend yourself again, feeling pressured to fill the silence your friend refuses to break, but the sound of the sliding door opening has you halting, heart thumping up to your ears as you glance over.

Why is the sight of him making you nervous?

Rafe and Brian emerge from the penthouse, both with drinks in their hand, as they approach the pool chair and close out their conversation. You hear the tail end of it, something pertaining to golf that you don't even bother to try and understand as you take another long sip to silence your racing thoughts.

To your dismay, Rafe sits right next to your hip, propping his arm up on your knee that isn't occupied by Gabriel's elbow, as Brian sits down at the open space at the end of the chair, and you nearly roll your eyes at the sight of dozens of open seats surrounding the deck, but of course they all chose to bombard your space.

So much for having a moment of solace, you think bitterly.

Although, your head is growing fuzzy at how close Rafe suddenly is to you, skin burning at the feeling of his arm casually perched on your knee as if it means nothing yet everything at the same time. He's been aching to touch you, you realize, after going long enough without it.

"How was mini golf?" You tease before you can stop yourself.

Rafe's lip twitches. "Very exciting, Star. You missed out."

All you can do is hum in response, letting yourself stare at him for a little too long before directing your gaze on Gabriel, who still has that stupid expression on his face as he darts his eyes between you and the guy he thought you were shacking up with.

Then, there's a twinkle of amusement in his eye that has your heart skipping a beat.

"Bri," Gabriel instigates, faux pouting so obnoxiously obvious that you roll your eyes. "I don't like this flavor."

Brian, being ever so sweet, frowns. "Oh, I'll get you another-"

"I'll come!" Your friend perks up quickly, standing so fast it almost makes you dizzy, not-so-discreetly grabbing his boyfriend's arm like talons and dragging him towards the sliding doors. "Be back in a bit," he says, shooting you a knowing glance (that you know Rafe one hundred percent sees).

The two disappear into the penthouse and you're left to bask in the silence. Well, the silence except for Ventura and her friends still talking about that one person across the giant rooftop porch. But you've blocked that out a long time ago, so you consider this your version of silence. Although your heart thumps so loud it's pounding in your ears.

Your gaze lingers on the sliding doors longer than it should, almost pleadingly as you half wish your friend will come back out and entertain the silence, to delay the inevitable. The other half of you, though, is desperately curious to discover more about the monumental anecdote that he shared earlier.

When you finally find a shroud of bravery to turn your head, Rafe is already staring at you.

A hundred questions rise yet die in your throat, starting with the most generic one: Why?

Why you? The person who never gave him the time of day or any sort of implication that you'd ever be with someone like him. The person who openly jabs at his character and takes no fault in speaking the truth, no matter how brutal it may be. The person who definitely doesn't emulate the type of partner he typically goes for.

You're really trying to discern if this is some sort of elongated prank, something to make your trip that much more confusing and make you overthink to the max. He set this up, right? He's doing some social experiment to see if you'll crack under the pressure. Because there's just simply no way.

No way he likes you.

Right?

All you can do is stupidly blink at him, the words escaping you on how to even approach the topic in the first place. You're even more confused at his delighted expression, as if he's quite amused in watching you internally battle your conscience, knowing exactly what's racing through your mind right now. You hate how he knows, you hate how he can read you like a book, and you hate how nice it is to be close to him.

You swallow thickly, hyperaware of his arm still perched on you, a touch so searing hot that it nearly goes numb. It didn't feel this way when Gabriel was touching you, why doesn't it feel the same? Even with Polo, why was the sensation so much more different than from when-

"Wanna swim?"

Rafe's words startle you, interrupting your stream of overthinking. You nearly thank him for the thought break, yet furrow your brows at the request.

"Wh-? Swim?" You respond meekly.

He nods slowly, his arm retreating so his palm encapsulates your bent joint. You nearly knee-jerk when you feel his thumb rubbing absentminded shapes on your cool skin.

But the touch leaves as soon as it came before Rafe is retreating away, standing and walking backwards slowly towards the water, almost egging you on with a raised brow and his fingers teasing the hem of his shirt. He doesn't let you dwell on it before he's kicking off his sneakers, slipping off his socks, and pulling his shirt over his head.

When his fingers move to undo his belt, you suck in a particularly harsh breath, watching his pants drop to pool on the deck floor, finally only in his boxers as he makes his way tauntingly towards the stairs. He cheshire-cat grins when he sees your gaze solely fixed on his chest, swelling with pride at your flustered expression and how your eyes stare at his muscles.

He's ankle deep on the stairs. "Well?"

You finally snap out of your trance, blinking. "Isn't it dangerous? To swim while we're...you know."

Your voice lowers at the end but he hears you all the same, chuckling boyishly as he stands waist deep now.

"I won't let you drown, Star." Rafe's grin is impossibly wide. "If that's what you're worried about."

Finding the strength to scoff, you subconsciously kick off your shoes at the notion of a challenge.

"I'm a great swimmer, in fact," you snap. "You'd know that because you've tried to drown me at least a hundred times."

Rafe watches you from the water, bending his knees so he can sink down to his neck with a low whistle at the daunting move. His eyes never leave you. "I'm not that guy anymore, baby. I promise."

"Don't call me that." You're standing and shimmying off your skirt.

"Sorry, baby."

"Rafe," you scold. Your tank is added to the pile of discarded clothes.

"Fine, I yield." A pause. "Cute bra."

Your skin is on fire under his gaze as you're (suddenly?) ankle deep. "If you say one more thing about my bra, I'm going to kill you."

Rafe shamelessly looks you up and down as if he has every right, not even trying to hide it as he even tilts his head to the side for another angle.

"Alright." Another pause. "Cute underwear."

Waist deep. "What'd I just say?"

"What?" He laughs incredulously, throwing his arms up in surrender. "You said no more about the bra. Last I checked, bra and underwear are two separate things."

"They're both undergarments," you argue, standing five feet away from him. "They go hand-in-hand."

Rafe hums, unconvinced.

Suddenly, he's right in front of you, both up to your collar bone in the heated water that feels like a warped hug. The proximity makes you reel, as you hadn't noticed you have been subconsciously walking closer and closer to him throughout your entire (meaningless) conversation until you can smell his cologne and see the beauty marks on his face.

The water makes his eyes bluer then ever, and in your bottom peripheral you see how his hands twitch in your direction, as if he's itching to touch you. You can't say that you blame him because here you are: in your bra and underwear standing two feet away from him, and you can't imagine he'd keep his hands away from any girl that could be in your position.

"You know," he muses low after a moment of tension filled silence, "I think you're the first girl to ever reject me."

The confession makes your heart lurch to your throat, but you mask it with a scoff. "Fuck off."

But it only makes him grin. "Scouts honor."

That makes you cross your arms defensively. "I don't recall you ever being a boy's scout. That feels sacrilegious, somehow."

"Semantics," he waves dismissively. "It's true."

You narrow your eyes at him, skeptic of his anecdote. "How is that possible? Everyone's been rejected before."

Rafe just shrugs. "Not me. I shoot my shot. It works. Boom. Fool-proof tactic." He is so nonchalant about it that it makes you reel.

"Yeah," you deadpan, "that's called pretty privilege."

“Pretty privilege?”

“Textbook. It's the concept of getting anything you want because you're what society deems attractive."

Rafe cocks his head to the side, smirking.

“Star, if I didn’t know any better I’d say you were calling me pretty," he says low and teasing.

You roll your eyes so hard he's bound to see the whites of your eyes, pretending not to acknowledge how beautiful he looks in this lighting, how the glassy water reflects a deep blue light over his features, casting an alluring shadow.

Has he always been this handsome?

You push that thought deep, deep, deep down. "That is not what I'm saying at all. I'm saying you're used to getting what you want because you're a six foot something mildly not-so-unfortunately looking person."

The grin on his face makes you want to smack him.

Prick.

You turn your gaze away from him. "Whatever."

Finding your sights on the city scape, you really try to ignore the burning feeling of his eyes boring into your profile as they normally do. But it's intensified, as if he can sense your rapid heartbeat and trembling hands and hear your thoughts. It's almost as if he can see your defense cracking minute by minute the longer you spend time with him, the longer you contemplate his intentions.

"Meant what I said," he adds quietly, "if that counts for anything."

You find the strength to look back at him, only to find his expression indifferent, eyes glossed in something you can only figure are nerves, a look so foreign on his face that it temporarily renders you speechless. You can't remember a time where he's been nervous, unknowing, vulnerable. He is far from teasing, instead staring at you so intently, so ardently, that it knocks the air out of your lungs.

The question comes before you can stop it. "You're serious?"

His nod is immediate, slow and deliberate and not once taking his eyes off of yours.

Your heart pounds. "But you sleep around."

The moment it leaves your mouth, you grimace and curse yourself at the lack of filter, the lack of compassion. The sentence comes out way worse than you intend, and you wince at the insinuation. You instantly recoil and clear your throat in an attempt to correct yourself before he can take offense.

"What I mean," you add quickly, "is, like, you've been suppressing this...feeling? For...me? By being with other people?"

You want to groan at how stupid you sound, at how the words are not wording the way you are trying to...word.

But before you can further embarrass yourself and try to piggyback onto the mess of words, he speaks.

"In a way, yes," Rafe confirms softly yet calculated in a tone so genuine, so serious, it throws you for a loop. "Well, I tried. But learned quickly how difficult it is."

You tilt your head. "Difficult?"

He nods. "Yeah." When you arch a brow at his elusiveness, he adds, "Said your name in bed, once."

Your eyes bulge. What?

"What?"

Rafe shrugs with such eased nonchalance that it makes your head spin. "Wasn't my finest moment."

You try not to dwell on it. You really, really try.

Yet the thought of him in bed has (shamefully) crossed your mind more than once, but more so on the speculation of what kind of lover he is. Is he selfish? Giving? Fast and rough? Slow and deliberate? However, the image of Rafe Cameron fucking someone else and yet only picturing you, saying your name, wishing it was you underneath (or on top? On your side? From behind?) makes you short circuit.

It's as if he knows you're spiraling, because you spend a few moments in deep thought, gathering your brain and picking up the scattered pieces, and he lets you. The silence is tense, for sure, with a thick air settling between you as you truly understand the gravity of his confession, the rawness of his feelings.

He doesn't laugh, or smirk, or tease. He simply waits for you to process.

"Well," you attempt to continue despite the lump in your throat, "you've still been seeing people, yeah?"

He shakes his head and purses his lips.

You reel, blinking stupidly at him as you recount all the times you've seen him locked hip to hip with a new girl at least once a month, sometimes twice. "What about Annalise? Or that ginger from the coffee shop last week?" You could go on and on, as he seemingly meets another notch to the belt every time he leaves the apartment. "Kennedy from your work?"

Another shake of his head, and the simplicity makes you utterly confused.

"No one?"

Rafe says your name most ardently. "I haven't slept with anyone in ten months."

The casual tone in his voice makes you falter as the next question dies in your throat.

What?

Ten months? He hasn't seen anyone in ten months? Because of you?

The timeline startles you. You'd only started living with Sarah a little over a year ago, only meeting him the day you moved in when he helped carry boxes. Is he trying to tell you he's been serious about you, in the most fervor way that he can be, for ten months? Forty three weeks? Three hundred and four days? That long?

"But- But what about all the girls you've met?" You splutter, trying to wrap your brain around the earth-shattering confession. "You've shown interest in them."

"Never slept with any of 'em," he says coolly as if it means nothing. "Sure, served as a nice distraction and all, but no matter how much I tried, it always came back to you."

''Back to me?" You reiterate shyly.

You almost want him to say no, to say sike, because the thought of someone, of him, silently pining over you for that long seems utterly impossible.

But Rafe confirms your worst nightmares by nodding considerably firm, sure of his answers, as if they've never been easier to convey. Meanwhile, it's absolutely shattering your brain.

Stupidly, you can't wrap your head around it.

"You," you start by pointing at him, "have liked me," you point to yourself, "for ten months?"

"Technically eleven," Rafe admits casually as if it doesn't make things worse for your heart. "Thought it was just a little crush. But when it didn't go away, like, at all, I figured I'd hold out."

You blink at him as if he's grown a hundred heads. "Why didn't you say anything?"

The words make him burst out laughing, such a boyishly pleasant sound that it reverberates your skin and makes your stomach do a weird somersault that you can't begin to explain. He even goes as far as tipping his head back to emphasize how ridiculous your simple question is, as if he's the funniest thing you've ever said.

Though you're not laughing. You can't even begin to fathom laughing in a time like this.

"I've only said something everyday since," he muses when he finally finds his breath again. "I was never kidding. Never with you."

You frown, slightly panicked on how you've made this man practically celibate for a year without even knowing.

"How was I supposed to know that?!"

In a daze, your hands come up to cradle your face, brows pinched in worry as you blink at him, still teetering on feeling confused on how he can even fathom liking you and feeling guilty how he's been waiting for you after all this time of you basically verbally berating him for the entirety of it.

Suddenly, he's taking a step closer and lifting his hands out of the water to bring his palms to the back of your hands. Your skin tingles from the water droplets from his hands as he removes them from your face. Instead of dropping them, he laces his fingers through yours and brings them under the water with eased nonchalance that it makes you spiral about how long he's been waiting to do this, to simply touch you.

All you can think about is how close he is, his body nearly a foot away from yours.

"You think I'm kidding?" He teases gently. "Just ask Sarah."

Your eyes widen. "Sarah knows?" Your voice is timid, smaller than you've ever heard yourself before.

Rafe grins. "Everyone knows." A beat. "Everyone but you, apparently."

Gawking at him in disbelief, you watch as he lets out a boyish laugh, and the sound is so endearing that it makes your heart thump out of your ribcage, threatening to leap to your throat. His hands that engulf yours squeeze just a fraction tighter, as if he's relishing in the moment before it vanishes into thin air, before the drug wears off and you're both back to square one.

And he just...stays here.

Rafe waits idly, suddenly the epitome of patience as his eyes gloss over your features, taking in how your face looks from this close and really getting to study the color of your eyes before you get shy enough to turn away.

But you don't.

You hold his gaze, steady and definitely a little breathless at the intensity of it all, putting the pieces together and understanding, truly understanding, the ferocity behind his words. Perhaps you've noticed his feelings before, but you probably shoved them deep, deep, down because it seemed like an impossible thing. Because Rafe seemed so unattainable, because you never thought something like this could be true.

"You don't need to do anything about it," he says gently.

You frown. "Rafe-"

"Just-" He interrupts, sucking in a deep breath. "Just stay like this for a second."

Blinking at him confusedly, you dart your gaze between his pretty eyes to find any sort of tremor or sadness, but all you find is softness that you aren't sure you deserve. He's decidedly content with the time he has with you, even if it's a little too short for his liking.

And yours.

Because suddenly you're moving forward, pressing your lips against his before you can talk yourself out of it.

The immediate pin pricks of electricity that jolt through your body elevate the sensation. You both feel it, the literal spark, that stings your lips at the contact as you can practically visualize the way he taste, hear the way he feels, feel the way he smells. It's intoxicating, unlike something you've ever experienced before, and you have no idea how you've managed life without this, without this rush of adrenaline.

Rafe mmrphs low into your mouth, a noise of surprise, as he's frozen in place for a beat, two, three, before he's kissing you back. His hands leave yours, one skimming your waist gently under the water and the other moving up to your neck, and you nearly shiver at the wetness of his skin against your dryness. It holds your jaw in place, especially when his thumb ghosts your chin, moving up, up, up to tease your bottom lip.

You, unintentionally, let out a quiet sigh that causes him to grip your waist tighter, fingers digging into your skin to pull you impossibly taut to him, chests bumping. At the sudden act, your hands brace on his shoulders, slowly raking your nails from his shoulder blades, to the top of his spine, to splay in his hair that is a tad overgrown on the ends.

Pulling gently at his hair, Rafe groans in your mouth as his hand audaciously skims lower that your waist, shamelessly groping the backs of your thighs to yank you even closer. Under the water, your legs koala wrap around his waist and lock around his back, gasping into his mouth when you feel him pressed up against your leg.

"Oh my fucking god," he rasps against your lips. "You taste so fucking sweet."

Your head is spinning. Your body is floating. Your veins are on fire. All you can think about is Rafe, Rafe, Rafe.

"Even better than I imagined, Star."

All you can do is let out a sigh, especially when his hand leaves your neck to settle on your ass, gripping and fondling you in a messy motion against his length, straining painfully against the confinements of his boxers. One particular movement has his cock rubbing against your clit through your underwear, to which you let out a soft moan at the sensation.

Rafe's grip impossibly tightens at the sound. "Fuck." His voice is strained. "We need- Need to... I can't... Not while we're- fuck."

"Take me home?" You manage to mumble against his lips, almost shyly, as you voice what he was trying to say.

"Yes," he says immediately yet reluctant to pull away with his blue eyes trained solely on your lips. "Gotta go home... Need to leave..."

You nearly chuckle at his dazed expression, and you assume he's probably trying to wrap his head around that this is actually happening after ten months of dreaming about it. There's nothing more you'd want than to get a glimpse inside his head in this very moment. You guess that it's either blank or running a mile a minute.

In your peripheral, you can see Gabriel and Brian standing in the kitchen, noses nearly pressed up against the glass sliding doors and shamelessly watching your little pool-escapade.

Fully turning your head to look at your friend, you feel Rafe's lips on your neck, sucking a spot on the underside of your jaw that instinctively makes your back arch into him, all while managing a sly shake of your head and suppressed grin as Gabriel graphically motions a peace sign in between his tongue.

The gesture makes you roll your eyes. (But you hope he's going to be right.)

Rafe's barely stepping through your apartment door before you're fisting the material of his t-shirt and bringing his lips to yours.

The door slams absentmindedly in the back of your mind as his hands are instantly all over you, mapping over the hills and ridges of your body in such an intense manner that you figure he's making up for all the lost time he spent pining over you, dreaming of this, wishing there was even a sliver of a chance of being with you.

Now, you deem his dreams to come true.

Especially with how passionately you kiss him back.

You barely register when you hop up in his arms, legs hooking around his waist and ankles locking at the base of his back. His hands settled firmly on your ass to keep you taut to him, beelining towards your bedroom. Throwing your arms around his neck and hugging him tight, you nearly snort at the pep in his step, nearly breaking your door with the ferocity at which he punches it open.

The light isn't even flicked on before he's striding towards the bed, knees about to lower to practically throw you on the fresh sheets.

Then you impossibly stiffen, remembering something.

"Wait!"

Rafe stills in his bed, your back inches from the bed as you practically koala cling to him to refrain from touching the comforter. "What?"

The words feel stupid on your tongue, and when you don't answer for a full five seconds, he stands up straight and cranes his neck back to look at you, a gloss of worry coating his features as you stay perched in his arms.

He says your name firmly, an edge to his tone.

You bite your lip, scrunching your face in pain. "We were sitting on a curb."

Furrowing his brows, Rafe slowly nods at your words, unsure of where you're going with this.

"And we went in a pool," you add sheepishly.

"Yes," he drawls out, confused. "We did."

You swallow the embarrassed lump in your throat. "Uhm, I washed my sheets this morning." You blink stupidly. "And the comforter. Like, everything's clean."

Rafe's teasing smirk makes you shrink.

Of course, he doesn't speak so you feel obligated to fill the silence with your usual yapping tendencies.

"I just- Uh- Well, maybe we could, like, I don't know-"

"Could what?" He eggs on lazily, going as far as cocking his head to the side at your babbling.

You groan as he blatantly laughs at you, slapping a backhand on his shoulder. "Shut up. You're actually so insufferable."

"I'm sorry, baby."

"Don't call me that."

"Right, sorry, baby."

Rolling your eyes, you turn your head away from him in an attempt to calm your rapid heartbeat. "I'm gonna kill you. Actually."

Rafe hums, unconvinced. "Wow. You sound pretty serious this time."

"I am serious."

"Well, at least let me shower with you before you kill me, hm?"

The thought makes your heart lurch to your throat, stomach pooling in warmth at the anticipation of the events ahead. Especially with how his blue eyes twinkle in amusement, yet slowly blown dark with lust as if he's thinking the same thing as you, as if he's eager to find out what kind of lover you are, too.

Not trusting your words, you settle for a nod instead, and you nearly pout when his arms gently lower you to the ground, placing an incredibly intimate chaste kiss on your lips before settling his hands on your waist, walking you backwards into the hallway, back bumping into the bathroom door as you both push inside.

Before he can even get the light, you're muscle-memory maneuvering into the bathroom, patting the shower tile to find the faucet and turn on the water.

Your body finds his again, as he turns the light on with lightning speed before his lips are on yours again, kneading and groping the flesh of your ass and pulling your body fully against his, groaning into your mouth at the way you mold into his touch. You arch your back into his body, hands instantly fusing through his hair to tug him closer.

The steam quickly fills the room, clinging to you like an uncomfortable second skin.

But you push the sudden dizziness to the back of your mind, solely focusing on Rafe, Rafe, Rafe as your hands brace on his chest. Your palms slide lower, mapping the hills and ridges of his abdomen and studying the crevices like the topography of a map, edging lower and lower until your fingers dip into the waistband of his pants.

Suddenly, he's wincing against your lips, as if remembering something detrimental.

You pull back, breathless. "What?"

He almost looks pained. "Don't have a condom."

Playfully, you can't help but raise a brow, faux-serious. "You thought you were getting lucky tonight?"

Although, Rafe can't discern your joke from irritation, his blue eyes blinking down at your stupidly, slightly panicked.

"No," he says immediately. Then, "Yes? Is this- Are we going too fast?"

You stifle a laugh, cracking through your resolve. "I'm teasing. Relax."

The steam is a thick fog between you.

Instantly, he lets out a shaky breath. "Don't mess with a guy like that, Star," he muses low.

"Making up for all those times you make me want to kill you."

Rafe rolls his eyes, but the gesture holds no malicious intent given the giant fucking grin on his face, and how his lips gingerly press on your hairline in such a casual way that it makes your head spin. Although you can feel the sweat already starting to bead, the room shifting into a practical sauna at the sudden temperature change. It makes you dizzy.

But truthfully, you can't discern if that's from the steam or the handsome man in front of you.

You can't deny how badly you crave him, how badly you want him. The desire augments especially because you understand how ferociously he wants you, how long he's been thinking about being with you, how he pulls back from your kisses every few minutes to inspect your face so he can internally confirm that this is real, this is happening, he's finally got his chance with you after what felt like an impossible feat.

"John B has them," you say, weary from the heat. "Sarah said in his bedside dresser."

He winces at the mere insinuation of why his roommate has them, more so why his sister's boyfriend has them. "Ew, don't-"

"Rafe," you scold, "I'm telling you where they are."

He shudders at the thought. "Oh." Then widen, blinking stupidly in realization. "Oh. Okay. Yeah. Okay, you stay pretty in here, I'll be right back, yeah?"

You nearly whine when his hands leave yours, relishing in another one of his chaste forehead kisses before he's swinging the door open. A wave of heat makes you lightheaded.

"Don't be long," you say before you can stop it.

Rafe grins boyishly. "I'm grabbing a hundred, by the way."

You roll your eyes, waving him away as he spares no second following your command, disappearing into the hallway with his loud footsteps gradually getting quieter.

"I'm getting in!" You call after him, hearing a vague noise of affirmation as you quickly begin to strip. "Snooze you lose!"

The front door is slamming shut as you step into the - obscenely - hot water, nearly oppressive as the steam engulfs the bathroom.

It's thick as smoke, the heat nearly choking you as it crawls uncomfortably in your throat, latches onto your skin like a too-heavy weighted blanket. The hot water pulses down onto your body as a million pin pricks, searing into your pores and making your legs wobble at the ferocity of it. You brace your arm on the wall, attempting to blink the dizziness away.

"Fuck," you mumble low and to yourself, overcome with nausea as your vision slowly tunnels.

Your movements become sluggish, eyesight blotting and ears slowly starting to ring under the ferocity of your queasiness. What the fuck is happening? You're dying. You surely must be. Right?

Clutching your wall mounted shelf to hold some semblance for your balance, you stumble forward to fidget with the faucet temperature, frowning when the water won't cool fast enough, won't stop feeling like a horrible tidal wave of steam is washing over you, drowning you, entering your skin and expanding and threatening to explode.

It's too hot. It's too fucking hot. You're fading. Fast.

You call out to Rafe. At least you think you call out to him, pawing at the slippery tile of the wall to keep trying to brace your own balance as your senses seem to immediately dull: your ears ring to the point of no return to silence, your eyesight blurs out of focus, your body overheats in a matter of an instant and your chest constricts tight, so tightly that it feels like a giant hand is reaching into your ribcage and squeeeeeezing.

White spots blur your vision, mumbling what you think is a curse before you're out like a light.

© salem-s works please do not copy or replicate work unless given permission. mdni

notes this genuinely has no plotline?

[whateveriwant]

The 141 being freaky in bed

18+ only. GN!Reader.

I’ll be honest, most of the time I headcanon the guys as pretty vanilla in the bedroom, but I do think they have a few instances where they’ll embrace their nasty freak tendencies.

Ghost

This man is such a freak in his day to day life that, comparatively, I don’t think he’s very freaky in the bedroom

That being said, one thing he does really enjoy is degradation. Things like making you hump his boot while he yawns boredly or leaning against the headboard as you ride him, crossing his arms behind his head, tutting as he mocks, “Y’ call that puttin’ your back into it?” (But he never lets you embarrass yourself for too long before he’s flipping you onto your back to show you how to really fuck)

In a similar vein, he loves to talk to your genitals like they’re their own person, e.g. “Is this needy cunt/cock desperate for me? She’s/He’s drippin’ like she/he is. Tsk, poor thing.” Sometimes he pretends like you’re not even in the room with him – that it’s just him and your holes he can’t wait to stuff

He’s also a big fan of spit play. Whether it’s spitting on your groin as he stares you deep in the eyes or spitting in your mouth while he pries your jaw open, letting out a string of cigarette-flavored drool. He uses it almost like a stake of ownership, not unlike when someone licks their food to stop others from stealing a bite

Above all else though, he likes having control. There’s the usual things like deciding the pace, the position, and so on when you fuck, but then there’s other things he also takes upon himself. Things like carrying you to/from the bed, stripping/dressing you like a doll, bathing you, shaving you. Daddy? Sorry. Daddy? Sorry.

Freak-o-meter rating: 3.8/10

Gaz

Don’t let his boy-next-door looks fool you. This man is more than capable of getting down and freaky when he wants to

For example, he’s a deviant for public sex. Doesn’t matter if it’s in the backseat of the car in a packed parking lot, in the bathroom at your family get-together, or even in the stuffy janitor’s closet at base when there’s a meeting happening right next door. For him, the riskier the sex, the better

He also loves to mark you up. Whether it’s a small love bite on your chest or a hand shaped bruise on your ass, he lives for seeing his marks on your skin. But one thing to note – those marks are for his eyes only. Don’t be going around showing them off to everyone. And also, don’t worry about them ever fading. He’ll make sure to apply new ones before the old ones can disappear

Now, some might consider this cheesy, but he really enjoys roleplaying in the bedroom. It can be as subtle as a single word huffed in your ear or it can be as extensive as a stage production – complete with costumes, props, and plot. By far, one of his favorite scenarios to play is the injured soldier being “tended to” by his slutty nurse

Building off that last point, not only is my man a bit of an actor, but he’s also a director because he loves to film you two having sex (Martin Scorsese, eat your heart out). His POV is his preferred angle to film from because it puts him right back in the moment when he watches it again, but really, any angle where he can watch you come apart on his cock is grade-A wank material for him

Freak-o-meter rating: 5.1/10

Price

I think of him almost like a sleeper cell freak. Most of the time he goes about his business very mild and vanilla, but then something will set him off and then all of a sudden he’s going full blown freak

While he is first and foremost a man of obtaining consent, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t enjoy a little free use when you permit. Especially if he’s had a long day at work or if he’s just finished a tough mission, having you ready and willing to take him whenever he wants is precisely what he needs to wind down

Say it with me, folks: creampies, creampies, creampies. To him, there’s nothing better in this world than stuffing a nice tight hole full of cum. He loves to dump multiple loads in you and then have you hold it, before pushing it all out in one thick glob. Bonus points if he shoves it back in with his fingers so you can do it over and over again

One nasty habit he has is taking your cum-stained underwear with him whenever he’s away for work. So when he misses you or needs a reminder of home, he holds it up to his nose (or cock) and remembers what he’s got waiting for him. (By the time he gives them back to you, those drawers are so stiff they can stand on their own)

As you’ve probably already guessed, this man has a big scent kink. When you come home after the gym or after doing a double at work, he loves to bury his face in your chest, pits, crotch, etc. and just inhale. That natural tang of your sweat is an aphrodisiac like no other to him. It very much gives Napoleon telling Josephine not to bathe before he returns from war

Freak-o-meter rating: 6.8/10

Soap

I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again. This man is a capital-F Freeeeeak!

Foot fetish, ‘nuff said. He likes to admire your feet, pamper them, massage them, kiss them, put his cock between them and fuck them, etc etc. Once, when he was really down bad, he had you don a pair of strappy heels and stomp on him (best night of his life if you ask him)

As long as he can remember, he’s liked to play with his food, and the bedroom is no exception to that practice. Whether it’s feeding you sensual staples like strawberries and champagne or drizzling his cock in chocolate syrup and having you suck it off, he’s not one to shy away from mixing food with sex

However, one kink he does get a little nervous about sharing is his interest in pet play – him being the pet, that is. It’s not that he has any real shame in it, but more so he never knows how the other person will react when he brings it up. If that is something that interests you though, he’ll be absolutely thrilled. There’s nothing he’d like more than to be led around on a leash by you. (And might I say, he looks great on his knees)

But by far, without a doubt the number one thing that gets his rocks off is group sex. There’s just something about getting to share in multiple people’s pleasure simultaneously that excites him beyond comparison. So whether it’s cucking, partner swapping, an orgy, etc. he’s down for it. He’s truly the inspiration for the phrase “guys literally only want one thing and it’s fucking disgusting”

Freak-o-meter rating: 9.99999/10

[burins]

I want to be clear I don't think Bruce is ever going to have a big transition/coming out narrative. that's what I meant by not crushing estrogen in Batman's wet food. transitioning (especially late in life) requires an enormous amount of willingness to both think deeply about yourself and to care enough about your future to want to be happy in it. Bruce has the introspection (to a fault) but happiness is a foreign enough emotion that he is just not going to uproot his life to chase it. this man cannot be convinced to rest when he has broken ribs instead of choking down enough painkillers to be semi-functional and going back out to punch people. he's not going to bother trying different pronoun sets! his life is about the mission and gender introspection doesn't serve it. which is why dick's transition I think would be a source of friction between them for a while! because dick has given enough to the mission that she does want to be comfortable in the skin she wears. (she will fight better when she gets to inhabit her body all the way but that isn't the point.)

Batman is how Bruce has erased himself for twenty five years and dick is as much herself as Nightwing as she is when the mask comes off. it's just a fundamentally different approach to identity and vigilantism and I don't think either of them realize they're not doing the same thing so they're just going to talk past each other! okay I'm going to quote my own fanfiction here sorry but from the outside these two approaches probably look pretty similar:

The idea of letting Bruce Wayne be anything more than a role he puts on for an afternoon, an evening, is so off-putting he can barely comprehend it. "Of course," he says. "I play Bruce Wayne for company. Batman is my life's work. But they're both tools, costumes, not people."

"So when you're not either of them?"

"I'm someone else, obviously. I don't worry about it too much. When I'm alone, no one's asking me to explain myself."

"All of those people are me,” Dick says. “There’s not a secret person at the center of the identity labyrinth waiting for you to pass the test, Jason. It’s always me.”

but the internal experience is completely different. you could be forgiven for thinking that dick grayson doesn't exist because she doesn't spend a lot of time building up a separate civilian persona. but that's because she's always dick. with the Titans on the rooftops doing undercover work. she's still dick with a mask on. dick could never pull a murderer/fugitive and decide she's only going to be Nightwing forever because she'd still be dick inside the suit. she's burned her civilian identity before but she was still dick (and also you know. I don't think the lead up to spyral says literally anything about dick's character choices.)

whereas Bruce has spent so long building Bruce Wayne to be different from Batman that they're both personas. the person underneath the mask doesn't matter anymore than you care what a mannequin looks like. his face exists to support the mask. it's why he's so good at them!

this ain't about him but when dick comes out to Bruce I think Bruce has a moment where it just does not compute. obviously he knows what being trans is but for Bruce his hypermasculinity is part of his disguise it just doesn't bother him. so he's kind of like. well yes dick we're all pretending to be men. that's what being a man is

dick putting her head in her hands: okay i'm not letting you derail my coming out but we are putting a pin in that for later.

[angel-writes-skz-here]

Seduction

Prof! Minho x Student! Reader Synopsis: After meeting your new Professor and previous one night stand, you take your game of seduction to a new level, but when jealousy, and feelings that can't be easily explained arise, you take matters into your own hands and consequences soon follow. Warnings: Slight smut, bj in public (no one see's), cursing, cold Minho. A/N: I hope you lovelies enjoy! I'm super excited to write part 3, so if you don't want to miss it, comment below to be added to my tag list. Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Risks

Over the next month and a half, Minho notices his student’s behavior, short skirts, so short they’d almost get her dress coded. Bending down in front of him to give him a show of her cleavage, but he refused to give her a reaction. During a presentation she even bent down just behind the podium, feigning to pick up a pencil, ass in the direction of his desk, just to show him she had on a pair of pretty pink panties, and the smirk she shot him right before she started, oh how he wanted to fuck it off her face. Yet still, gripped the edge of his desk as he looked to the screen and the class went dark, except for the large screen, as her words wrapped around him. During the same presentation, his eyes would flit to her, and if she could feel his eyes, she’d lift her skirt just a little, still concealed by the podium, and he’d get a peak as part of her ass cheeks. Minho only bit his lip and tried to remain focused.

She brought in a water bottle just the other day, spilling some of it, dampening the white shirt she wore, without a bra. She’d constantly chew on the end of her pencil as she gave him those ‘fuck me’ eyes. At first, he thought she was deep in thought, until he went to pass out a sheet of paper the second day he started noticing the pattern and she stared into his soul as he counted the sheets out right in front of her, not caring who seen or knew she had a crush on her professor.

Minho’s patience and resolve was slowly thinning. He knew she’d try something today. He just knew she would.

His class begins to file in and chatter continues, then he spots you, signature short skirt, small top that’s barely passing dress code, and a little lollipop in your hand. Minho internally groans. How much more could he take?

He didn’t know, but it wasn’t much. And that’s what y/n was counting on.

He begins his lesson on the Hawthrone effect. As he begins to talk, he catches sight of his special student, smirking as she bats her lashes and pulls the wrapper off her lollipop. Minho’s jaw ticks, something you catch.

You smirk to yourself, hearing his voice stutter once as he looks out in the crowd of students. Your eyes connect for a moment, your tongue flicking out over the cherry flavored candy.

“So as you can see, the nature of the observed can obstruct true data vs if the observed is unaware that they are being watched. We all do certain things differently when we think we aren’t being watched and vice versa.”

Minho’s eyes are glued to your tongue, despite how quickly his own is moving as he talks and doesn’t miss a beat. He can feel the tightening in his pants, but pushes through. He goes through a few examples, and once you’ve written two or three down in your notes, you’ve finished the lollipop, but with all that licking and sucking your makeup needs touching up, or your lip gloss does at least.

You pull out the compact from your bag along with your lip gloss, opening the tube carefully. Minho glances up at the noise of your zipper and his eyes watch you for a moment, causing a brief unnatural pause in his lesson before clearing his throat and continuing. His eyes to flit you, watching as you apply the sticky sheer coating on your lips, mushing them together and popping them quietly to spread it evenly across them.

Once you can’t apply anymore you put your things away, deciding to pay attention to the last ten minutes of class.

“There will a test on this next week, study your notes thoroughly,” he ends with. You smile to your self as you can see him loosen his tie, and you swear you seen a bulge in his brown slacks. Satisfied with yourself you pack up your things to leave. As you step out of the room you get a naughty idea and smile to yourself as you meet up with Duri to grab a bite to eat.

“You can’t be serious? Professor Lee? Isn’t he like, a hard ass?” You shrug at your friend’s question.

“I don’t know, I think he’s a challenge.” You wink and smirk as you take a bite of your French fry.

“You do know he’d never sleep with you, right?”

“He did once,” you think to yourself as you look down at your food.

“He’s an esteemed professor at this school; there’s no way he’d throw his teaching credentials and whole career out the window for you.”

“We’re both consenting adults.” You reason.

“Y/n, you’re 18,” Duri begins.

“19 in six weeks,” you remind her. She nods. Duri had friends at a fraternity and had convinced them to host a birthday party for you, helping you further socialize and make the most of your time here.

“I’m just saying, I know he’s hot, but I wouldn’t waste my time.”

“Duri, I know it’s not ethical,” you begin.

“It’s completely and totally against the rules,” she adds.

“But,” you cut your eyes at her, “I think if he gave me a chance he’d see I can make him happy. I mean, who knows maybe we’d even date,” you snicker at the idea. Duri gives you a glare, and you chuckle more.

“I’m kidding,” you wave it off.

After the two of you eat, you check your watch and see that it’s almost 5 pm.

“Shoot I gotta go. I’ll see you later though?”

Duri smiles, slightly shaking her head, as you wave to her running off in the direction of Professor Lee’s office. You smooth down your skirt and try to calm your thrumming pulse. You go to knock on Minho’s door, but it’s cracked and you don’t see him in there. You decide to sit down and wait patiently.

5 minutes.

10.

15.

Just as 20 minutes goes by, his office technically closed, you hear his voice. You can’t help the butterflies in your stomach, being alone with him, teasing him, it was all too much fun.

“Come on in, my office is closed, so we’ll be safe,” you hear him say and your eyes grow wide. You check your phone once more.

Thursday. His office is closed on Thursdays.

Fuck.

Fear and anxiety rock you. Would he get pissed you mixed up the days? With all rationale gone, you dive under his desk, praying that he doesn’t go to sit behind it.

The door clicks shut, and you can hear a female giggle. Your heart aches with jealousy. She’s why he won’t pay attention to you in class.

You hear them kiss, “Mm, Minho,” she breathes out. Your mind races at the sound of the familiar voice.

“Hana,” he responds moaning her name. Your eyes grow wide.

Your math teacher?

You shake from the violent storm of emotions. And you see a button up shirt tossed into the chair across from the desk. Your stomach knots as you recognize his shirt.

It’s not long before you hear the sound of skin slapping against skin, moans that you can’t block out and the way he curses, you can only image if he’s holding her like he did you that first night you met.

No he was probably holding her like he cared. He was right, it was frivolous one night stand. But that didn’t stop your jealousy. You’re determined to prove to him you aren’t some frivolous little girl. You’re grown and can make him feel everything she can. And maybe more.

You hear the desk creak as her laugh rings out more, before it starts to move above you. Your face twists in disgust. Not at the action, but that it’s her it’s being done to. You cover your mouth, trying to control and quiet your breathing, despite the fact that her own would drown you out. The afternoon feels as though it’s going to last forever.

Finally, you hear the rustling of clothes being put back on, Minho’s arm reaching on the back of the chair, not coming into view enough to see you. You put your hand over your mouth, feeling a damp spot near the side of it.

Tears.

Tears?

“What the fuck am I crying over?” you ask yourself. Had it really mattered that much to you? All you wanted was for him to admit he wanted you as bad as you wanted him, and to do something about it every now and then.

“I’ll see you tomorrow? Same time?”

“We’ll see, I have my office hours tomorrow. So, I’ll let you know.” He says ambiguously.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go out for dinner? It’s late,” she tries.

“I really have to get some things finished up here, but I’ll call you, ok?” you hear him kiss her goodbye and you notice the chair roll out like he’s going to sit down, but as the door clicks, he pushes the chair up, caging you in under the table. Once he’s confident she’s gone he shuts off the light to his office and leaves the university.

You sit in the dark under his desk, processing it all before, an unfamiliar ache and disappointment feeling in your heart. Then an idea strikes you. Minho had mentioned a meeting in his room tomorrow. Duly noted.

-

The next day you skip your math class, not wanting to see your teacher or answer Duri’s questions about how you meeting went. Instead, you slip into Minho’s classroom; thankful he was gone.

You dip under the desk, the tile cold against your bare legs. Just as you get settled as deep against the wooden desk as you can, you hear voices on the other side of the room.

“I’m sure we’ll be able to figure it out,” you hear an unrecognizable voice say. They all get seated, Minho in his desk chair, completely unaware of your presence.

The meeting begins, and they start droning on about test scores, things to add or take away from the curriculum, and a bunch of other teacher things you aren’t interested in, not until you notice the lights dim down, and the projector turn on. You smirk to yourself knowing this is the perfect time as the sound on the video booms through the speakers.

You place your hands on his lap, gently.

“Whaa!” Minho hollers as he jumps back, earning looks from everyone, the video stopping. He looks totally panicked, until he see’s your eyes under his desk with a cheeky smile plastered on your lips.  His face hardens, chest rising and falling, but you bat your lashes, sure of yourself that you can make him happy.

“Is everything all right, Professor Lee?”

“Yes, my apologies. I thought I saw a large spider on my desk, but it must have been something else. Please, resume with the video.” Everyone looks to one another before focusing their attention back to the projector on the wall beside his desk.

Minho hesitantly sits back down, your hands running up his legs. He grits his teeth, as your hand ghosts over his crotch. He takes a shaky breath as you start to palm him through his pants. You can feel him shift in his seat, you give him the ability to push you away, but you’re met with no resistance. You squeeze him, earning a low growl from him.

You make quirk work of unzipping his pants, and he brings the chair as close to the under neath of the desk as possible.

You pull out his hard cock, licking your lips before spitting on the tip of it, moving your hand languidly up and down. Minho’s body stiffens, eyes close and he holds back a moan as your hand moves. His hips lift in the chair slightly.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, watching the others cattycorner from him, trying to be sure they aren’t paying attention to him.

His fingers bite into the desk when he feels your hot, wet mouth attach to him. His knuckles are white from the sheer strength of his grip. His tongue is between his teeth as he tries to keep himself quiet. His mouth falls open as he feels your moist tongue lick around his head, teasing his slit, causing his hips to involuntarily buck. You aren’t sure how much longer the video has so you pick up the pace, wanting to taste him.

His knuckles stay white as he feels the tension in his stomach build, forcing his eyes to the screen to the side of him, one of his hands slipping under the desk to put a buffer between your head and the top of the table.

Aww, how sweet.

Just as the video plays the ending music, he cums, hard, fast and hot down your throat. Minho can feel the sweat on the back his neck and forehead. You swallow it all, every last drop of him and help him put himself back in his pants, just as the lights flash on his arms are resting on the desk, face slightly flushed.

Their conversation continues on for another few minutes.

“My class will be arriving soon, we can finish this discussion on Monday.” Minho says as he tries to usher the group out of the room. You hear the door shut, and come out from the under the desk.

Minho spins on heel and notices your smirk.

“Thanks for curing my thirst, Professor Lee,” your drips with seduction as he leans next to you to get something off his desk. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t speak to you.

“Wow, not even a thank you,” you say amused, but surprised it hasn’t gotten his attention. Minho’s teeth grind, it wasn’t that he didn’t want it, he’d been thinking about you the same way you’d been thinking about him, that’s why he didn’t push you away, but he knew how risky it was and how this was nothing but a game to you.

A game he wasn’t interested in playing.

“What you aren’t even going to speak to me anymore?” You ask a little infuriated. He stays silent, ruffling through papers.

“Fine,” you huff as you take your seat, staring him down. He can feel it, but class goes on, as if you hadn’t just been under his desk giving him the best blow of his life. You notice he won’t look at you, he won’t call on you even when you raise your hand during class. You grow slightly frustrated.

The next school day it’s the same routine. No eye contact, he won’t call on you. But he does call you out for chewing gum.

“Y/n!” He snaps, causing others to gasp and jump as the bubble blowing from your lips pops.

“No gum! As a matter of fact, no gum, no candy no food or drink, except water. Now go spit it out!” his tone is harsh, scary almost. You look around and all eyes are on you as you slowly get up and stalk over to the trash can. You move your hair with both hands and spit the gum in the trash.

“Now return to your seat and do your work,” he says sternly. You look ahead of you, trying not to hang your head or show that his scolding affected you.

The next weekend goes by quickly, frat parties, drunken college kids, then hungover college kids, and studying being done.

You’re in math class with Duri when she finally asks.

“So, what happened with Professor Lee? You keep brushing it off.”

“It’s a long story.” you whisper.

Your eyes narrow at your teacher at her desk.

“What?” she whispers noticing your eye movements.

“I can’t exactly tell you how I know, but Professor Yung and Professor Lee are sleeping together,” you whisper.

She gasps.

“No way!”

“Shhh,” you whisper.

“Ladies, please make sure to get your work done,” she scolds. You roll your eyes, jealousy once again taking over you.

-

Over the next two and a half weeks Minho doesn’t seem interested in your attention, or your presence for all that matter. You didn’t skip classes but it’s as if you didn’t exist. You turned in great assignments, one’s he took points off of for miniscule, splitting hair, reasons.

 Today you got your grade back on your essay about Freud. You grit your teeth as he hands your paper back, unhappy with the failing grade.

“Professor Lee,” you ask as soon as the bell rings. He walks back to his desk and you take your paper up to him.

“Can you explain to me what’s wrong with my paper please? I worked very hard on this.” You stand in front of his desk.

“You’ll see the annotations on each page.” He says without looking away from his computer. You sigh.

“I would like to hear it from you.” You voice but he doesn’t respond.

“If you’re mad about what happened just say that.”

No response.

You feel anger rise up within you.

You sigh and leave the desk in a huff. You meet Duri after class sitting down with her in the cafeteria.

“Wait why did he fail you?”

“Look at this shit. I put hard work into the psycho sexual stages portion, mind you hours of research, \ and he just marks through it like it’s nothing.”

“Oh my god! Are you fucking… ugh!” you groan. You read his notation.

“Genital age: Sexual urges return, and individuals develop an interest in the othersex. He took off points because I didn’t say opposite sex. I said ‘the other’ sex. It’s the same fucking thing. That’s what he did with most of it. Took off points for the way I worded them when it means the same thing. This is stupid and I want an explanation.” You stand up, marching to his office. You don’t knock, just push the door open, only to be met with your math teacher between his legs before she scrambles.

“Nothing I haven’t seen or felt before lady.” You say to yourself.

“Ms. Y/n what on earth are you doing barging into my office.”

“If you don’t want quickies interrupted you should do it on your off time. Or at least put her under your desk.” You smirk and his eyes burn.

“Young lady,” your math teacher goes to scold.

“I want an explanation to my paper!” you say moving past her, shoving it against his chest. He looks at you, a brow cocked, his demeanor cool and composed.

“It wasn’t good.” He explains.

“If this is about what I did-,”

“Hana, give us a minute please.” Minho interrupts. She sighs but leaves the room.

“That’s what it is, isn’t it? You’re pissed at me, for whatever reason, and now you’re failing me? How the fuck is that fair?”

“No, I failed you because the paper was shit,” he bites.

“I’ve been kind to you and your work due to our tiny amount of shared history, trying to give you an opportunity to see that I see you as just a student but you won’t move on, so I’m not treating you any differently.”

“So that’s why anytime you say my name it’s because I’m in trouble? You’re mad that you liked it?”

“I’m mad that it was inappropriate as hell! You could have gotten me fired! I’m mad that you won’t listen to me!”

“All you had to do was push me off and I would’ve left you alone.” You fire back.

“So if I had asked you to leave three weeks ago when you hid under my desk and heard me fucking your math teacher you would’ve left?” He crosses his arms over his chest and watches as your face goes a deep shade of red.

“W-what I,” you stutter as your bottom lip trembles ever so slightly.

“Wh-wh-wha,” he mocks and rolls his eyes.

“I smelled your fucking perfume.” He bounces himself off the desk pushing past you to sit in his chair.

“Why do you think I threw my t shirt on the chair?” his laugh is sarcastic, cold. Your heart shatters, anger and frustration bubbling up.

“Fuck you,” you say through tear filled eyes. You blink away the tears quickly.

“You already did.” He responds like it’s nothing.

“So you feel nothing for me? You don’t want me at all?” you ask, voice cutting and sharp.

“You know what I feel?” he asks and by his tone you can tell you don’t want the answer.

“Disgusted. I never should have fucking touched you that night. I never should’ve followed you to the dance floor and let your little vixen voice convince me it was a good idea to pull you into that bathroom and use you. Y/n that’s all it was, I used you for my own personal release. Because that’s all you were good for.” His smile is evil as he see’s the words sinking in.

You hang your head at his words. And he clenches his jaw before walking back to his desk.

“And if you ever pull another pull another stunt with me or any other teacher like that again, I will be forced to fail you and report you for sexual harassment and you will be forced to go home.” You look at him horrified.

“Minho, I’m sorry-”

“Professor. Lee.” He seethes through clenched teeth. You sigh frustrated.

“Professor Lee I’m sorry.” You whine, attempting to move around his desk, apology sincere, but the daggers he shoots you with his eyes warn you not to move.

“Leave my office.” He speaks.

“Now.”

Tags: @breakmeoff @thatonegirlonhere @thelovelybireader @channieehrtz @voicesinmyhead-rc

Do not repost my work

Love notes and comments are greatly appreciated!

[httpuckdrop]

ashes – day 157

it all happened so fast.

from the moment he injured jack shoulder, it only took a day before he was sent off to get it checked out and diagnosed by the professionals. and once they were sure what was wrong, it didn't even take two more days until it was time for him to go through with surgery.

that's how it goes if you're a rich hockey player with a good contract, you suppose.

it wasn't an easy choice for jack. he talked the different scenarios through with his team doctors and his brothers, and spent countless hours on the phone with his parents. he asked for your opinion, too, but you didn't even find yourself too helpful – the only thing you told him was that you'd be there for him and support him through whatever choice he made. although it didn't help his decision-making, it made him feel much safer; to know that he'd still have the security of you, no matter what he decided to do, meant the world to him.

his parents couldn't find an earlier flight, so they arrived at the newark airport on wednesday afternoon after jack was already done with surgery. there was a lot of traffic on the way, so they came over much later than expected – but thankfully, jack had you by his side all day.

it took several hours for jack to finally wake up, eyes fluttering open and then squinting in the harsh light of his private hospital room. it took him a long while to finally adjust and figure out where he was, including who was holding his hand.

"oh, hi," he eventually said, eyes locking on your face. "when did you get here?"

you couldn't help but chuckle. "i've been here all day. i drove you here, remember?"

he paused, seemingly trying very hard to search his brain for any memories, before shaking his head. "i don't…" he said, looking almost guilty. "i'm sorry."

it wasn't his fault, and you knew it; his mind was probably still all mushy from the medication and the anesthesia. "that's alright, don't worry about it."

he chuckled, too, gazing up at the ceiling. "it's not personal. i don't even remember what i had for breakfast this morning."

you almost cooed out loud. "you didn't have any breakfast," you reminded him. "you were fasting."

"oh, that's why…" he dragged a hand down his face. "it all makes so much sense now."

you held back a laugh, instead shaking your head. you'd never seen jack quite like this before. sure, there was a peaceful light over him when he was asleep; and when he came to your apartment drunk after a night out, he would be groggy and fuzzy. but here and now, he was… giddy, almost childlike. his boyish charm was extended by a mile, making you question if the man in front of you was indeed 23 years old and not 13.

his thumb absentmindedly rubbed against your knuckles, and he let out a hum. "did i do well?" the question came out like a whisper, fragile and unsure, and your heart ached at the vulnerability.

"you did amazing. they said you were such a good boy." he nodded slowly at this. "everything went perfectly, so they're expecting a full recovery."

"that's good," he mumbled, mostly to himself, pulling your hand up to his lips and pressing a kiss to the back of it. "thank god…"

just a little while later, there was a knock on the door, and in stepped none other than his parents. his mother carried a bouquet of red roses, while his dad held a bag in his hand, likely filled with snacks and other things to take jack's mind off the pain. ellen only took one look at her son before gasping. "oh, darling…"

jack felt a familiar twinge of guilt at the sight of his parents' worried expressions. "i'm okay, mom," he said with a weak smile. "seriously."

she moved to the opposite side of him from you, sitting down on a chair by his bad shoulder, and reached out to cup his cheek ever so gently. "are you in a lot of pain?" she asked, gaze flickering down to his fresh bandages.

her son shook his head, expression softening at his mother's tender touch. "a little sore, maybe. my arm feels really heavy. but they've got me on some good pain meds."

jim placed his bag by the door before joining ellen on her side of the bed. "what did the doctors say?"

jack looked over at you the moment he remembered that he hadn't in fact talked to any of the doctors yet. you cleared your throat. "everything went according to plan," you told them, and you swore you could see some weight lifting from jim and ellen's shoulders. "the shoulder looked the way they had expected from the scans, and there were no complications with fixing the issue."

"that's a relief," ellen said, a gentle sigh leaving her lips.

"good thing i have you here to keep track," jack teased you, intertwining his fingers with yours and giving them a gentle squeeze. ellen watched you two with fond eyes before glancing at jim, a little smile on her lips.

"in fact, you're very lucky to have her," jim added. "she's not bad to have around."

"understatement of the century," jack responded, eyes almost twinkling as they remained on you. he could feel his parents' gazes on you two, and his cheeks began reddening at the attention. "you can stop staring now, you're going to make me all shy or something."

ellen laughed softly, nudging her husband playfully. "oh, look at him. all tough and macho when he's out on the ice, but one glance from his girl and he’s a goner."

he didn't even bother denying it – it was alright, because you felt the exact same way.

"i don't mean to be all boring when you've come all the way here to see me, but," jack blinked over at his parents, eyes droopy and voice soft, "can i rest some more? i'm pretty tired."

"i think that's a great idea, sweetheart," his mother answered, giving his side a gentle rub.

"will you all still be here when i wake up?" he was fighting to keep his eyes open, a battle he was quickly losing.

your free hand brushed away a few strands of hair from his forehead. "there's nowhere we'd rather be," you said, and the soothing sound of your voice was the only thing he needed to allow himself to doze off.

the room remained still for a few moments while you all confirmed that he had in fact fallen asleep. then, ellen turned to look over at you. "we just wanted to thank you so much for taking care of our dear son," she said once she spoke up, the genuine appreciation in her gaze sending a warmth through you. "we know you're probably skipping out on work or school to be here for him, and… we're deeply grateful."

you merely nodded at the words since you didn't trust your voice at this point, scared that it would say something more than you knew – because really, how would you have been able to describe what you were feeling? i have such strong feelings for your son, so strong that i'd put my own life on hold for days just to take care of him, but at the same time i'm so scared of my feelings and scared that he doesn't actually feel the same way as i do, and what if i embarrass myself because i assume things or imagine them and-

"can i give you a hug?" ellen interrupted your train of thought, and your breath hitched in your throat – but of course, you nodded again. she made her way around the bed, so you stood up and leaned into her as she embraced you. it felt so warm, so right in a definitely scary way, and you swore you could see the tears forming in her eyes as she pulled away.

was this what it was like to be loved?

[dammit-tazmuir]

The other things no one seems to acknowledge or respect about Paul are:

1. The is a difference between ego death and true full death. Paul is not Palamedes but Paul WAS Palamedes. Paul is not Camilla but Paul WAS Camilla. Paul wasn't just born from them, they ARE Paul's past. This isn't even Rose Quartz dying to create Steven and then Steven having some of her core traits. They're a Garnet who can't unfuse. Or, hell, we don't actually know even that, as likely as the rules of reality are to get rewritten soon. They're a Garnet who PROBABLY can't unfuse and DON'T WANT TO but if something happened to change both of those things they'd just never be the same, and that's okay.

Because a version of this happens at a slower rate in real life to EVERY PERSON WHO HAS EVER LIVED LONG ENOUGH TO CHANGE. Kiriona is not exactly who page 1 Gideon was. Hell, Camilla by the time she said "life is too short and love is too long" wasn't the same person who said "inexplicably, Warden", and certainly not the same person who solved the mystery of Doctor Sex. Palamedes who Nona recognized by his stillness is not identical to the creature of sudden movements and twitchy fingers Gideon knew. I am not the person I was five years ago. You are not the person you were five years ago. Ten years, fifteen. Neither are any of your friends or family. John, of all people, is not the man who started the cryo project, or even the God who first performed the resurrection, but he's changed exponentially LESS over time than anyone else AND THAT'S EXPLICITLY A BAD THING.

Literally a theme of the series is that death is natural, change is natural, things happen often that will change you forever, and no matter how much you suffer or hurt others you can't make them like they were. Even Harrow saying "No" comes at immense constant cost, and it's not trying to make things the same as they were. It's trying to get Gideon back to form something new and better than they had before.

So no, Cam and Pal speedrunning becoming someone new and deciding their own unique way to do it in a way that brought them closure and the maximum possible control over who they became and what they can do is not the same as Camilla committing suicide. Or rather, if Cam committed suicide, so did Harrow. Paul is EXACTLY as much Palamedes and as much Camilla as post-lobotomy Harrow was pre-lobotomy Harrow, "now dead." Also wild that people don't criticize Pal's death on his own terms and that controlled his circumstances afterward nearly as much as they do Camilla's??

2. There comes a point I have to wonder how supportive some folks would actually be if a friend disappeared for a while and showed up unrecognizably transitioned. As common as trans headcanons are, if you guys hadn't seen Camilla since the end of book 1 and the near the end of book 3 a more masculine person showed up with they/them pronouns and a different name, and they had some of Cam's features but looked more like a relative than Cam herself, and their speech and behavior had changed a lot too, and they talked about Camilla as the girl they used to be but weren't anymore, would you guys be happy for the rep or lamenting that they replaced your queen with this weirdo who didn't even pick a cool name?

If your answer is "of course not, that's different," ask yourself how different it really is and how it might look to the nonbinary readers who were so happy to get one important they/them character. If your answer is "of course I'd hate it in fiction because I preferred Camilla as a character and this is soul fusion shit, but I'd support my friends irl" are you sure? And if a friend who finds Paul inspiring sees you shitting on them, will they get that?

I'm not saying you have to celebrate or like it. I'm saying that you could at least TRY to bite your tongue and not be so vocal or openly critical. Because "but people needing to die for a cause is bad" is something literally everyone knows, you aren't adding anything to the conversation by shouting it louder. But "it's okay if you're no longer the person I used to know and I still love you" is something a LOT of people could DEEPLY benefit from hearing. If you can't bring yourself to say it, at least don't shout over the people who do.

3. 🗣📣 Posts expressing love and appreciation for a character are not the place to spout how much you hate them actually! Especially not when the vast majority of discussion around them is already critical! You can just keep scrolling and let the 20 people who actually like the character have a nice positive post once in a blue moon! (I will probably turn reblogs off for this soon but yeah. Anyway.)

Something I think people don't acknowledge or appreciate enough about Paul is that they existed before their full official birth. They were test run temporarily. In (chapter) 9, in the beach flashback, Camilla becomes Camilla-and-Palamedes, not quite with Paul's eyes but with one of Cam's and one of Pal's, and Nona recognizes them as a new person who smiles at her with a new person's smile.

Afterward, Camilla-and-Palamedes return to being Camilla separated from Palamedes. This happened at least once, but despite the horrific toll it takes on Camilla's body after the fact, the way Pyrrha yells at them at times also implies this happened a more than once.

Now please consider that alongside Camilla crying with absolute relief. Camilla who knows what it feels like to be Paul, or at least a proto version of Paul, and so deeply enthusiastically proclaims, "Palamedes, yes. My whole life, yes. Yes, forever, yes. Life is too short and love is too long." Camilla who has addressed him by name on-screen exactly once before this moment (as a child in Doctor Sex, when they finally dropped all professional airs and let themselves be stupid kids laughing until it hurt) breaking that out here of all places. Palamedes who has suffered so much guilt about the burden she's taken on in his name, knowing full well she wouldn't stop even if he begged her to, who also knows what if feels like to be Paul and how much they can do when they're like that. Camilla and Palamedes who understand that accessing that power in half measures will also kill them both, but in a way that makes them useless to everyone else they love, and without doing so at all they can be of very little use, but going all in will make them a nearly unstoppable asset.

Would you truly tell me you would have rather had them suffer being forever divided by a matter of seconds? "Love and freedom don't coexist" but Paul is the closest thing they will ever have to it. Is your attachment to who they were worth hating who they've become, even knowing that they made this decision fully informed, having tested it and decided together it's what they both wanted more than anything in the world?

You can miss them and still be happy for them. You can be sad that they're no longer the same and still recognize the beauty and triumph in what they've become. If you loved Camilla and you loved Palamedes, how can you not love Paul? Would you really look at them of all characters and proclaim without irony that you're taking your love away?

[yourkidinthedark]

Happy Belated Birthday

Pairings: Bucky x y/n x platonic!thunderbolts

Warnings: alcohol consumption, reader is drunk, sexual jokes, swearing

Notes: This is my first fanfic let me know some constructive criticism! Also, please note I struggle with learning disabilities therefore this was grammar checked by the site ‘Goblin Tools’.

—————————————————————————————

You made it another year. In your line of work, this was more of a milestone than for the average civilian. You knew when you took on the role of a “New Avenger” that it wouldn't be easy, but Christ, what a year.

Checking your outfit diligently in the mirror, you smoothed down the black satin of your dress, which rested dangerously high on your thighs. Tonight, your friends were taking you to a new bar that had opened down the road. You had always wanted to go there, and what better way to celebrate your birthday, right? You tried hard not to mix work with your personal life, so you kept both completely separate. Your friends didn't know about your job as an Avenger, and the team didn't know about your small, rundown apartment and close circle of friends. You made it your personal mission to keep it that way, but a certain super soldier was making it increasingly hard.

Finishing up your makeup and spraying a generous amount of perfume, you couldn't help but let your mind wander to Bucky. You’ve had a crush on him for as long as you’ve known him. If he were here, would he notice the way the black stain hugged your body like a second skin? Would he carefully trace the seam down the side with feather-light fingers? Would his breath become uneven, fanning your neck as he unzipped your dress, letting it fall to the floor? Hands roaming every inch of exposed skin like a drunken person at a vineyard. Drinking in your touch and savoring the taste.

You felt guilty for even thinking about him in that way. Sure, you’ve had a long history together. Even before the Avengers, wherever you found yourself on a mission, he’d be there too on one of his own. But now, he was technically your superior—the leader of the New Avengers and the head protector of the city. Despite that, you were certain that he might have felt something towards you as well, but you couldn't be sure that he would ever act on it. You weren't oblivious to the way his eyes would linger on you for a bit longer than necessary or the way he used a softer tone of voice reserved just for you. Despite him being in a position of power, there was an immeasurable amount of chemistry between the two of you.

When you first joined the team, he treated you just like everyone else. He was cold and kept to himself most of the time, only ever really speaking when he had information to share. It started one night after a long and rough mission. You decided to crash at the Watchtower considering how exhausted you were. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn't rest. The images from the mission haunted you as soon as you closed your eyes. You could hear the frantic screams of nearby civilians and Bucky barking orders through your comms. It was driving you mad. Quietly, you walked to the kitchen. You remembered Yelena had said the best way to occupy your mind was to have a snack. You were certain you could snag a protein bar from somewhere, and maybe the hunt would keep your mind occupied.

Sat at the kitchen counter, focused on an important-looking file; it was Bucky. Your heart caught in your throat seeing him wear a white tank top, his sculpted body visible through the fabric. The glint of his metal arm reflected the light like the sun on water. He looked up from his paperwork, and his eyes fell on you.

“Sorry to disturb you, I was just grabbing a snack,” you said sheepishly, opening random cupboards until you found one with food. You felt his eyes following your every move, as if they were locked on a target.

“Can't sleep?" he said after a moment, voice low and cautious. You sigh.

“No, not really. Yelena said a snack helps her, so I figured I'd give it a shot before I completely lose my mind.” You turned back to the cupboards and suddenly became very aware of your attire: a tight-fitting pair of workout shorts and a black tank top, both borrowed from Yelena. He eyed you behind his stack of mission reports, his gaze trailing over your figure subtly. You could see the hesitation in his stare before he eventually turned back to the papers.

“A cup of tea helps me,” he motioned to a black mug sporting a big silver “A” on the front. “Something my mom used to give me when I was a kid and had a nightmare. Guess the tradition stuck,” he said, his face softening at the mention of his mother.

You were surprised; you didn't think he ever shared anything personal about his life, at least not with you. You felt grateful that he was willing to open up a little. Little did you know that was the wave that broke the dam of silence.

“Well, do you mind if I join you, Barnes?” you asked as you grabbed a mug and a chamomile tea bag from the cupboard.

“Please,” he said, motioning to the empty breakfast bar stool beside him. You set your mug next to his and poured the water in. Sitting down, you toyed with the tea bag hanging from the side of the cup.

“So, you must have had a nightmare too?” you said cautiously, afraid that the sudden dive into a personal topic would scare him off.

“Every night,” he said, his gaze averting from the packet of papers.

You whistled. “Must go through a lot of tea then.”

He laughed. You studied the way his eyes crinkled slightly and the gentle bob of his throat. He looked so much like himself—not a trained assassin or the leader of the New Avengers, but just Bucky. Just a man whom you were rapidly developing a crush on.

He looked at you, his eyes carrying a lighter emotion. “Wanna talk about it?” he asked.

“There’s not really much to say. Just the typical stuff: loss,

Bucky dropped the packet onto the table with a small thud. Hesitantly, he placed his flesh hand over yours. You looked into his cold blue eyes.

“You can always ask yourself the ‘what if’ questions. But dwelling on what you could have done differently will destroy you. Believe me; I've lived it. We do what we can on a mission, but there will always be some that don't go the way we plan.” He paused, as if he were holding back. “We wouldn’t have made it as far as we did today without you.”

You felt the blood rush to your cheeks, and you were certain he could see it, too. You squeezed his hand with trembling fingers.

“I guess you did learn a thing or two from those speechwriters back in Congress,” you laughed. “But seriously, thank you; I needed to hear that.” You offered him a gentle smile, which he returned, his thumb grazing over the back of your hand as he pulled away.

Every time since that night, whenever you both found yourselves at the tower, you shared a cup of tea, talking about everything under the sun: your fears, hopes, dreams, and aspirations. It was what you looked forward to the most when you were at the Watchtower. You even caught yourself spending more time there than at your apartment a few blocks over. After a few of these exchanges, you both began texting. At first, it was just simple messages, usually letting the other know if they would be around the tower after hours, but somewhere along the line, his name became the first thing you saw on your phone in the mornings. Whenever you were apart, you found yourself smiling at your phone. You grew fond of the way he wrote text messages like little letters, always signing his name at the end of each one.

Your friends became suspicious. They noticed how your schedule became more packed with “work events” and how you were giddy whenever the contact “Sgt. Barnes” popped up on your phone. They asked you about this mystery man on multiple occasions, but all you told them was, “he's just a guy from work.” You didn't know how they would react to your mystery man being the former Winter Soldier, and you were positive Bucky did not want a million questions thrown at him by your friends.

So, though it was your birthday and you picked out your dress with Bucky in mind, you didn't tell him it was your birthday. You were determined to keep work and life separate. Still, you couldn't help but wish he would be there tonight to celebrate your birthday with you. You let your mind daydream about him, wondering how he would wake you up on your birthday, if he would bring you breakfast in bed, or take you to the café down the street. Would he take you out on a special date or keep you all to himself behind closed doors? Would he give you a gift of jewelry or the gift of intimacy so pure and full of love it was next to worship?

With a sigh, you tugged on your boots, slung your purse over your shoulder, and left your apartment. The walk to the bar was pretty uneventful. Though your outfit was quite relieving, you weren't scared of walking at night alone. You had killed enough assassins and “bad guys” to know some random guy off the street wouldn’t be successful at harming you. If anything, they should be afraid of you walking the streets of New York. With the sound of loud bass booming in a crescendo, you walked into the bar and were mauled by your friends.

The night was a blur. You weren't sure how many shots deep you were, but God, were you ever drunk. You spent the night dancing and singing god-awful karaoke with your friends, dancing on tables with both hands occupied by random cocktails your friends kept shoving into your hands. The music was so loud you almost missed the alarm on your phone.

Setting the cocktails down, you grabbed your phone from your clutch. Your eyes, taking a moment to adjust to the text on your screen, widened in horror.

EMERGENCY DEBRIEF ALL ATTENDANCE REQUIRED

Shit. In a drunken haze, you shoved your phone back into your bag, searching for your friends. You gave them some half-hearted excuse about how you had to go and called an Uber to take you to the tower. You bid your goodbyes and stumbled into your ride. The driver gave you a funny look when you slurred out that you wanted to go to the Avengers Watchtower, but he obliged. Almost falling out of the car, you made your way to your second home.

The elevator opening startled you from almost drifting off. Before you, Yelena was grabbing a cup of coffee through half-closed eyes.

“So, you were summoned—Holy, I think you should wear that all the time.” Yelena wolf-whistled as you did a slight twirl, tripping at the end.

“S’special dress for someone special,” you slurred happily. Yelena raised her brow.

“Have you been drinking, little one?” she asked as you frowned at the nickname.

“S’hearsay, your honor, innocent until proven guilty.”

Yelena was quick to pick up on your crush on Bucky. She always noticed the small things, like the stolen glances and touches that lingered just a bit longer than normal. You remembered the day she cornered you in the training room about it. You were stretching, waking your muscles up before you were about to take out your emotions on a poor punching bag when you heard her voice in the shadows.

“How long did you think you could keep your little crush from me?”

“Jesus fuck, Yelena!” you yelled as the blonde emerged from the darkened corner of the room. “Are you trying to kill me? You can just ask me, you know; you don't have to wait in the shadows like a creep!” You yelled, and she looked sheepish.

“I’m sorry; I don't really know how to do the friend thing. I’m kind of working on it, but the question still stands.” Now it was your turn to play into the interrogation.

“I don't know what you’re talking about,” you said, feigning aloofness.

“No, don’t even try with me, Y/N. I've seen it all: the touching, the smiling at your phone, the little heart eyes. All you need is a naked baby to shoot you in the heart with an arrow. It’s disgusting, really. Why you want to date a super soldier is beyond me, but I’ve made it my mission to set you two up because I cannot sit and watch this puppy dog love anymore.” She said, amping up the dramatics.

“I could care less if Bucky is a super soldier, and I do not look at him with heart eyes!” you yelled, your cheeks turning an impossible shade of red. “I just find him…interesting.”

“You did not just say that you find him interesting,” Yelena rolled her eyes. “You look at him like he hung the moon. And not to mention the way he looks at you; he gets all soft looking and hangs onto every word you say like it’s gospel.”

You smiled softly. “Does he really?”

“Oh my God, yes! You are impossible. You have to do something about it. Tell him. Make him tell you; I don't really care, but you two need to get together so that I don't have to keep watching this,” Yelena said, pointing her finger at you.

“I can't tell him! Are you insane? He’s technically our boss, and I’d have to be absolutely hammered in order to work up the courage to even get close to confessing anything!” You let out a frustrated sigh. Yelena put her hand on her hip.

“This is not over. I will find a way to make you confess to him or him to you. You guys are my mission,” she said, heading for the door. You ran a frustrated hand through your hair and began training for what turned out to be a long night.

Currently, at the Watchtower, Yelena’s eyes were watching you as if calculating your moves. Realizing something, she grabbed you by your arm.

“Let’s not stand here all day; let’s get you into the briefing room. Come on, you saw the message. It's an emergency or something.”

Guiding you to the briefing room, she gave you a pat on the arm and opened the door. There, you found the rest of the Avengers gathered around the table. Tucked in the corner near the front of the room was Bucky, his hair tousled with frustration and exhaustion. Somehow, even in exhaustion, he still looked like a Greek god. With every ounce of your being, you tried to evade Bucky’s stare, but the pull was too strong. You glanced at him just as his eyes fell over the hem of your dress, lingering on your thighs. Your cheeks heated up, and you turned away as you heard Yelena chuckle under her breath.

“What strip joint did you just walk out of?” John asked, his leg propped up on the vacant chair beside him. He held that same smugness that one day you were going to wipe the floor with. Bucky cleared his throat, his eyes shooting murderous intent at John.

“Wouldn't you like to know?” you said, finishing the sentence with a small hiccup, which made you giggle.

“Jesus Christ, are you drunk?” John stared at you in disbelief.

“S’so what? I’m allowed to drink on my birthday.” You mumbled, pushing his feet off the chair with more force than you intended and sat down.

“You say birthday?!” Alexei boomed across the table. “Birthday, and we don't have cake or music? Why have you kept it to yourself?! We should sing!” His Russian accent was thick. Even in the middle of the night, he still looked excited to be here.

“If anyone starts singing, I will put a bullet in my brain,” you mumbled.

“It’s your birthday? Why didn't you tell me?” Yelena said, swatting your hand.

“S’just another day. My friends from home took me out to this new bar, though; you should have seen it.” You said, smiling at what little you could remember.

Bucky’s gaze pierced your skin like a dagger. It occurred to you that this was likely the first time he had seen you in this state and dressed for the bars. You couldn't tell if he was staring because he was going to fire you or for another reason—a more selfish, primal reason—and God, you hoped it was the latter.

The debrief was important; you would give them that. The details made you sober up a bit more, but you were definitely still tipsy. Mentions of bioterrorism had been whispered from an ex-OXE employee who had been reported by one of their spies. The team formed a quick plan that would need to be fine-tuned tomorrow before you left, which was lucky for you because you would likely forget everything in the morning.

As the meeting was coming to a close, you were jolted out of your sleepy state by Yelena slamming the table and standing up quickly.

“Well, this has been great, really, but I think it's time for all of us to go. Namely John and Alexei; gotta make sure you’re both rested for tomorrow. Sounds like a pretty serious mission, if you ask me.” She grabbed their arms and began dragging them to the door. She called over her shoulder, “Bucky, you should make sure Y/N doesn't eat shit or something.” And with that, she and the rest of the team were gone. You internally groaned. Right, we’re her mission, you thought. You stood up a little too fast, wobbling slightly, and you felt a metal hand grab your wrist, causing you to stumble over your own feet.

“Whoa, easy,” Bucky said as he helped you catch your balance, his flesh and metal hand holding you by the elbows.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have drank so much. In case, you know, you needed me.” You said, doe eyes finding his. His cheeks tinged pink, and he looked down.

“Is it really your birthday?” he asked, as if he were discussing a government secret. You gave him a shy nod. “I wish you would have told me; I would have gotten you something.” You blushed an impossible shade of red.

“S’just another day, and besides, just having you this close is a gift in itself,” you hummed. The soldier froze. Did he hear that right? She’s just drunk, he thought, still he couldn't help but relish in the words. He drank them in like lemonade on a hot day, intoxicated by the sweetness of you.

Slowly, you wrapped your arms around his neck. He went rigid, as if he were replaced by a Roman statue, carefully chiseled to perfection.

“No, you’re drunk. This isn’t—”

“Relax, Soldier. Just shut up and dance with me.” Softly, you began to sway side to side, rocking back and forth on the balls of your feet. Bucky laughed softly, ridding his body of the tension. His hands fell perfectly into the dips of your waist. You were sure you looked like a couple of kids sharing their first dance, but you didn't care.

Gaining a bit more confidence, Bucky grabbed one of your hands from his neck; the other stayed grounded at your waist. Still swaying, he pulled you out slowly and carefully spun you so your back was flush against his chest. Melting into the warmth, you sighed, your head falling back against the crook of his neck.

“I don't think I’ve danced like this since the ’40s, surely not with a girl this pretty either,” Bucky whispered, his breath hot against your ear. His words left goosebumps on your skin, and butterflies spread throughout your body. A permanent blush clung to your skin as you sank into his words.

“Keep saying stuff like that, and dancing is not the only thing we’ll be doing.” Bucky coughed, startled by your comment and your liquor-induced boldness. “What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?”

You slipped out of his hold to face him, your noses brushing. You didn't think; you rose to your tiptoes and kissed him.

Bucky froze. On instinct, he kissed you back. His metal hand rested on your upper back, and his flesh one brushed a few pieces of hair from your face. You tilted your head to the side, sighing into the kiss, hungrily nipping at his bottom lip. Gently, you felt his thumb brush over your lip. He broke the kiss, cupping your face.

“We can’t,” he said as if it physically pained him. “You’ve been drinking; it's not right. It’s not how I imagine kissing you.” You felt your cheeks heat in embarrassment at the slight rejection.

“I promise you, Bucky, I want this. I’ve just never had the courage to do it sober,” you said, your head falling against his chest at the confession. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a hug as his chin rested on top of your head.

“And you know that I want this too, but not when you may not remember it. Not when you might forget how good I’ll make you feel.”

If he couldn't hear your heartbeat before, he sure as hell could now. Your breath hitched, and you leaned back from his chest, your bodies still flush.

“What’s wrong?” he said, a smirk playing on his lips. “Cat got your tongue?”

You laughed breathlessly, looking at him through thick eyelashes. “Damn cat.”

“Will you let me make it up to you for missing your birthday?” His hand left your waist to cup your cheek.

“I think we could think of something to get up to,” you flashed him a grin.

You caught a glance at the time on the wall clock behind Bucky. “As much as I hate to say it, I should get going. If we're going to have a mission tomorrow, we will both need rest. After I just kissed you, I'm not willing to lose you to a mistake that could have been prevented by a little sleep,” you mumbled. You didn't want to leave him, but you knew it was for the best.

“You can't get rid of me that easily. Not when you kissed me while wearing a dress that I'm going to see every time I close my eyes,” he mused. “You’re staying at the tower, I hope?”

“Play your cards right, and maybe one day you can help me take it off,” you smirked, catching how his breath hitched over your words. “I’ll probably head home so I can grab a few things for the mission.” You said gently, pulling away from him.

“Then I'll walk you home.”

“I’ll be fine, Bucky, really—I’ve taken down multiple assassins at once,” you said, laughing and swatting his arm. “You need rest too, my dear.”

“I am not letting my girl walk alone in downtown New York, drunk in the middle of the night. I don’t care how many assassins you’ve taken down,” he said, grabbing his leather coat off the back of the discarded meeting chair.

Your knees threatened to give out at his words, the possessiveness behind them sending a blush across your skin.

“Your girl?” you repeated, liking the way the words tasted on your tongue. He smirked, guiding his hand to your lower back.

“Well, I'll submit a formal application once I take you on a proper date,” he said, guiding you through the meeting room doors.

In the elevator, you leaned against Bucky’s shoulder. His hand was securely around your waist, making sure you were upright.

“Mmm, you’re cozy,” you slurred from exhaustion, nuzzling into his left arm. Bucky gazed down at you with a lazy smile across his face.

“I’ll ask Wakanda if they will make you a pillow out of vibranium,” he joked.

The walk back to your apartment was shorter than you wished. In true gentleman fashion, somewhere along the trip, Bucky had slipped his leather jacket across your shoulders, protecting you from the bite of the late-night air. You both talked about the mission you had planned for tomorrow and discussed some strategies that might help it succeed. Before you knew it, you were standing at your apartment door.

“Well, this is my place,” you said, a bit embarrassed by the weather-worn exterior of the building.

“It’s charming,” Bucky said, flashing you a grin. “I always expected you lived around the Watchtower, but I never knew you were this close.”

“Yeah, I generally try to keep my personal life and work life separate. You’re the only one who's been here, apart from my friends.”

“I’m honored,” Bucky said, taking your hands in his.

“You're sure I can't ask you in?” you smiled, tilting your head toward the door. “I could make you a mean cup of tea.”

“As much as I’d love to, I should get going. But when we get back from that mission, I'll take you up on that offer,” Bucky said lowly. He raised your hand to his mouth and kissed your knuckles, sending goosebumps down your body.

“So, see you tomorrow?”

“See you tomorrow, my love.”

The next day, you woke up to the sunlight peeking in from behind your curtains. A headache sat between your eyes like a bullet lodged in your brain. Begrudgingly, you shuffled out of bed and to the medicine cabinet in search of Tylenol. Facing yourself in the mirror, the memories from the night before rushed in like a tidal wave—the bar, the meeting, Bucky—all of it. Heat rose up your body as you hid your face in your palms.

Softly, a knock echoed through your apartment. You cautiously made your way to your front door and slowly turned the knob. The sight that greeted you was nothing short of holy. Bucky Barnes was standing outside your door, wearing a fitted black tee and sunglasses, holding a bouquet of assorted flowers in one hand and a tray of coffee in the other.

“Happy belated birthday, beautiful.”

—————————————————————————————

Part 2?

[rose24207]

You think pain makes you strong

Summary: You finally break on Suho for constantly getting into fights and shutting you out, and you walk away, fed up with his self-destructive ways.

ahn suho x reader

angst, arguing, hurt no comfort

Navigation

“You’re bleeding again.”

You hadn’t meant to say it like that—like you gave a damn right now. But there he was, leaning against the brick wall like some tragic hero, knuckles scraped, lip split, hoodie damp with sweat and blood that wasn’t all his.

Again.

“I’m fine,” Suho muttered, not even looking at you.

Your jaw clenched. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

“Oh, fuck off, Suho.” Your voice snapped like a whip. “You’re not fine. You’re never fine. You just think if you say it enough, everyone else will shut up and let you spiral in peace.”

He turned to you slowly, jaw tightening, the usual calm in his eyes flickering. “What’s your problem tonight?”

“My problem?” You laughed, but there was nothing funny about it. “My problem is that you’re acting like an impulsive idiot, and you think I’m just gonna stand here and watch.”

“I’m not acting on impulse. He deserved it.”

“There it is,” you hissed. “That holier-than-thou logic you carry like a badge. ‘He deserved it.’ So what? That gives you the right to beat the sh*t out of him? To nearly get yourself killed?”

“I handled it.”

“You survived it,” you corrected. “Barely. And for what? Some twisted version of justice you decided was yours to dish out?”

Suho stepped toward you, irritation flashing in his eyes. “You weren’t there. You don’t get to judge how I handle things.”

“No, you’re right. I wasn’t there,” you snapped. “Because you didn’t tell me. You never tell me until it’s too late. I hear about it from other people—again. You leave me out like I’m just some clueless extra in your hero story.”

“It wasn’t about you—”

“It never is, Suho!” you shouted. “It’s never about me. Or anyone else who gives a damn about you. You storm off, pick fights, bleed all over the pavement like it’s a Tuesday, and then expect us to smile and say, ‘Thanks for protecting us, Suho. Thanks for carrying the whole damn world on your back like a martyr.’”

“I didn’t ask for a thank you.”

“No,” you spat. “You don’t ask for anything. Not help. Not support. Not perspective. You don’t trust anyone, and I’m sick of pretending like that’s noble instead of just selfish.”

He scoffed, folding his arms. “I’m selfish?”

“Yes!” you barked. “You think being quiet and strong and brooding means you’re doing this selfless thing. But you know what it really is? Arrogant. You don’t think anyone can do it like you. That no one else can handle the weight. So instead of letting people in, you burn yourself out, crash into every wall you see, and then act shocked when we’re mad.”

Suho looked away, but you weren’t finished. Not even close.

“You walk around like you’re the only one who’s allowed to be angry, the only one who’s allowed to hurt. But I’m pissed too, Suho. I’ve been pissed for weeks.”

His voice was quiet but sharp. “Then why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because you don’t listen!” You stepped into his space, finger jabbing into his chest. “You pick and choose what matters. If it doesn’t fit your idea of ‘the right thing to do,’ you dismiss it. You dismiss me. Every time I try to get through to you, you shut down. You look past me. Like I’m talking to a damn wall.”

“I never dismissed you,” he bit back.

“Bullshit. You always do. You listen to Sieun, to Beom-seok—even when they fcked up royally. But me? I say one thing you don’t like, and suddenly I’m overreacting or ‘don’t understand.’”

“You don’t always understand!”

“And maybe that’s because you never let me in!” you roared. “You only show me the pieces you want me to see. You keep the rest locked up like your pain is some kind of secret weapon.”

Silence. Just the sound of cars and your heaving breath.

Suho’s hands were clenched. “You think this is easy for me?”

“I don’t give a shit if it’s easy,” you snapped. “I want you to be honest. Vulnerable. Human. But you’re too busy playing the unbreakable knight to realize you’re bleeding out in front of everyone who cares.”

His jaw was tight, eyes cold now. “So what? You want me to just lie down and take it when people hurt the people I care about?”

“No. I want you to stop using violence as a crutch for everything you don’t want to feel.”

“I feel everything,” he growled.

“Then act like it. Stop hiding behind fists and fights. Grow the hell up, Suho. You’re not seventeen forever.”

He took a step back, like your words hit harder than any punch he’d taken tonight.

You stared him down, pulse racing. “I’m done tiptoeing around your trauma. I’m done pretending like I’m okay watching you destroy yourself over and over because you think pain makes you strong.”

You turned, heading for the streetlight at the edge of the alley.

And just before you walked away, you threw one last truth over your shoulder.

“I loved you enough to want to stay. But you? You love your war more than peace.”

A/N: had an argument and now I’m pissed. So there you go.

Taglist: @ipushhimback, @ladyoflynx, @lewishamiltonismybf, @cmleitora, @same1995, @amatswimming, @llando4norris, @dr3wstarkey, @hurtblossom, @ernegren, @esposamultifandom, @darleneslane

[c-monthecob]

Mitsuya & You Headcanons!

I've been having so much trouble getting motivation to get creative. I can feel myself getting over it, though, so I decided to stop letting this rot in my drafts and finish it. (Not proofread.)

💮As a teen, you helped out in your mom's daycare. Helping out with the kids and cleaning. That's how you met him—he came in to pick up his sisters an hour and a half late.

💮The way his face fell when you mentioned a late fee made you feel like a villain, so you just brushed it off. After that, the two of you just started talking. From short greetings to awkward hellos to long conversations in the lobby, and him helping you and your mother close up for the day.

💮Then, he surprised you by taking you to the botanical gardens you've been dying to see. And on a hill surrounded by your favorite flowers, he asked you to be his girlfriend.

💮Cooking together always becomes a competition. Neither of you can help the urge to one-up the other. Mana and Luna milk the hell outta this whenever they get the chance. They'll say "Y/n makes it better," and "Mitsuya's tastes better."

💮Sewing isn't your strong suit, but your talent lies with crochet. You made his sister's toys and hats, gave his mother a cardigan, and gave him a sweater. He's so happy he found someone who enjoys making stuff by hand as much as he does

💮He made your wedding dress based on a description you gave him when you were younger. You didn't think he'd remember, but he did. (Cuz he's been plotting from the start)

💮If your favorite song comes on, he'll stop what he's doing and make you dance with him no matter where you are or what you're doing. Driving? He'll pull over. Cooking? Who cares if the food gets a little burnt?

💮You went to his band practice once, and when he was singing, his voice cracked super loudly. He was embarrassed for weeks and couldn't look you in the eye without cringing.

💮Every Saturday, you take his sisters off his and his mom's hands for the day for a Girl's Day Out.

💮You don't remember when she started doing it, but his mother started to put out a plate for you at breakfast. Even if you don't stay the night.

💮He has a habit of fixing your clothes outta nowhere. You could be convo and he'd just start fixing your collar.

💮You find yourself helping with chores whenever you come over. No one asks you to, it's just second nature.

💮It took Hakkai a very long time to warm up to you. For the longest time, you thought he didn't like you.

💮He was the bridezilla. Not the kind that goes on a rampage. His anger and frustration were silent and passive-aggressive.

💮Best believe when it comes to Halloween he shows out. Whether you like it or not, he signs the two of you up for a costume competition. He says he doesn't care if he wins or not, but the face he makes when a dog in a Chucky costume wins over your matching outfits, says otherwise.

💮Anytime you cuddle on the couch, Mana and Luna wedge themselves between you. Neither of you mind at all unless you're watching a rated r movie.

💮To get them to behave Mitsuya will threaten to kiss you in front of them. It works like a charm every time.

💮He treats you like you're on your deathbed when you're sick, but he'll fight you tooth and nail if you try to take care of him when he's sick. He has severe sickness denial. It's almost like the mention of it alone offends him on a personal level.

💮He doesn't get jealous, just annoyed. It's not you that he doesn't trust. It's them. He'll make his presence known, subtly. Holding your hand, leaning in closer to you, and a hand on your lower back.

💮You take ballroom dance classes together. It's just an excuse to dress up fancy and hold each other close.

💮Sometimes he'll just stare at you, admiring you just 'cause he can. But you'll think he's staring at the pimple growing by your nose

💮At one of Hakkai's photoshoots, you made a joke that he should model his own clothes too. A few days later he comes home and shows you an album worth of pictures from a photoshoot. Then he spent an hour trying to convince you to model his clothes with him too.

💮He made you a subtle Toman hoodie. Embroidered with his division number and his name. Nothing too bold in case someone tries to press you about it when he isn't around, but enough for someone who knows better to leave you alone.

💮If you're stressed he'll make you organize mixed accessories. Beads, charms, and buttons. He says "Bringing order to something physically can help bring order to your mind."

💮He wears the scarf you made every winter. Even if it doesn't match with his outfit. Even if it's coming apart from wear and tear.

💮Sometimes you'll wake up in the middle of the night and find him drawing a design for a new outfit. He says if an idea comes to him in a dream, it's a warning that another artist will get the same idea soon

💮Matching outfits almost daily. It's not just a copy-and-paste kinda thing, he makes sure your outfits coordinate and that the style will compliment both of you while keeping you in your comfort zone.

💮When he asked if he could paint your nails, you were genuinely surprised at how good he did. The tiny designs he did were so detailed and intricate. He's a designer, he's got steady hands. (He's your new nail tech)

💮He never raises his voice during arguments, he's calm and collected. It makes you feel like an immature child. But he never rubs salt in the wound. He lets you have a moment alone, then he comes back to talk to you as a mature individual.

💮You had to learn the hard way how bad he is with technology. You rented a cabin for the week. It was supposed to be a romantic getaway, just the two of you and nature. But when you got there, you were met with a shabby, old, run-down, cabin that was barely the size of a toolshed.

💮He swore up and down that it didn't look like this in the pictures, so you asked to see what he thought he rented.

💮It was an AI image of a cabin. A very obvious AI image. The trees were merging, the windows were half-rendered, and to top it all off, the lake in the background was pink. He said that the owner said that the pink lake was a very rare natural occurrence, hence the ridiculous price. From now on, you take care of the traveling plans.

[prettycalla]

|| lumine ||

Pairing: Caracalla/Reader

Summary: The gloom of winter follows you like a shadow. Caracalla is determined to ease your pain. (Prompt fill)

Word count: 1.8k

Tags and warnings: Fluff, slight angst with a happy ending, Caracalla adores his wife, reader is referred to as 'wife' and has seasonal depression, no use of Y/N.

(The amount of research I had to do for such a little idea! Please forgive the historical inaccuracies, I had to take a few artistic liberties, but truly I tried.)

Caracalla Masterlist || Fic Masterlist || Taglist

Every year, it is the same. The sun's ascent grows lower and lower with each passing day, and your joy disappears along with it.

You have no name for what ails you so. There is no medicine, no tincture, no salve for such an affliction. It cannot be cured by the hands of a medicus.

It cannot be cured at all, it seems.

Your winter gloom, Caracalla calls it.

You have become little more than a shadow, a phantom that wanders the long and lonely halls of the Imperial Palace, impatiently awaiting the return of Proserpina, and with her, the reawakening of the earth.

It is not a sadness that envelops you; there is no urge within you to cry. Rather, it is an all-encompassing numbness, a listless feeling that swallows you up and drains the joy from your heart. Pluto, in his godly wrath, has pointed a deathly finger at the earth, and you along with it.

You withdraw into the very depths of yourself, much like your beloved garden, until Apollo returns in all of his glory once more.

With each winter that passes, Caracalla grows more incensed - not with you; he could never view you as anything less than his most adored wife. But it pains him so to see you, the beautiful, vibrant creature that you are, reduced to little more than a husk.

He is determined to ease this affliction of yours.

You sit in your usual spot of an afternoon, bundled up in a blanket by the window, desperately trying to soak up what little light is still left in the sky. Where you are, you have a full view of the garden below, and how it hurts your heart to see it as wretched as it is now. Tall trees, once teeming with tiny green leaves, now stand bare; their branches exposed to the harsh elements. The rose bushes you insist upon taking care of yourself lie barren, and the oleander and irises have fallen asleep once more.

You let out a long sigh, your breath visible in the cold air.

Caracalla stands a little ways behind you, his fists clenching and unclenching by his sides. How he curses the Gods themselves for the pain they have pressed upon you.

He knows that no matter what he tries, there is no lifting this melancholy from your shoulders. And so, he realises, he must think anew. There must be something that he has missed.

For days on end, he thinks. And thinks. And thinks. Until he is quite certain that he will spiral quickly into the pits of despair if he should think any more.

And then, at last - an idea strikes.

He is so beside himself with glee that it takes everything in his power to keep himself from divulging to you. You are always his first port of call in every matter - from the most fleeting thought to the very depths of his soul, and so keeping a secret from you does not prove an easy task for him.

But he must try.

For you.

In spite of your lethargy, it is difficult not to notice that Caracalla is most certainly up to something. Rarely is he ever as quiet as he is now - even when he sleeps, he is livelier than most. Try as you might, you cannot pry even the tiniest detail from him.

"There is nothing to tell you, carissima," he insists.

It is almost impossible for you to miss the the small shadow of a smile on his face each time you ask.

It is one that you are very well-acquainted with - he knows something.

He is most assuredly hiding something from you.

Even so, he is but a man, and while he is certainly not one for keeping his thoughts locked away from you, you suppose that he is entitled to his secrets, and decide against prying any further.

It is another week or so before this little mystery is at last resolved.

You sit alone in your chambers, the biting wind having caused you to retreat from your usual spot by the window earlier than you would have liked. A roaring fire has been lit in the large ornate hearth, and you have cosied yourself up as close to it as you dare, your hands spread out in front of you to chase the chill from them.

The fire dances and crackles merrily across the wooden logs, and you find yourself growing increasingly mesmerised by it. So much so, in fact, that you do not notice Caracalla in his uncharacteristically quiet approach.

He clears his throat, swiftly making his presence known. You jump in surprise, quickly turning your attention to the offending sound.

"Caracalla," you say, quite breathlessly. "You startled me."

He offers no apology, and instead smiles widely in reply - indeed, he is the very picture of Dolus as he stands before you now. Even you, his beloved, are not spared from his impish tendencies.

You are rather quick to note that he still remains standing. Caracalla is never one for staying far from your side longer than he absolutely must. You notice that his hands are behind his back - a stance more commonly adopted by his brother. Caracalla, by contrast, does not like to keep still.

He is hiding something, of that you are certain.

"Will you sit with me?" you ask, softly patting the space on the blankets that cushion you from the hard floor.

Caracalla looks off to one side, deliberately unable to look you in the eye. His smile has returned, wider now, and you cannot help yourself from smiling in return.

Even in your melancholy, his warmth is contagious.

"I have a gift for you," he replies, finally meeting your gaze.

You tilt your head to one side with a curious expression.

"Oh?" you prompt. "You do look as though you have been up to something."

He laughs then, a beautiful, melodic sound that fills the quiet room with life.

"Perhaps," he replies coyly.

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and you know from experience that he grows impatient.

"May I see what it is?" you ask.

At your words, Caracalla drops to his knees, childishly shuffling close to you with his hands still hidden behind his back. You laugh softly to yourself.

"How I have missed that sound," he murmurs, his gaze dropping to your lips.

Warmth blooms across your face, and you know that it has little to do with the fire still dancing in the hearth.

"Close your eyes," Caracalla says haughtily, his chin jutting out as he attempts to wield some of his imperial power over you.

You shake your head with a small smile, but do as he commands, closing your eyes in wait.

You feel a light pressure in your lap then, and your hands tentatively begin to wander across whatever it is that has been presented to you. It feels square in shape, with some sort of ribbon tied around it. Already, you can sense Caracalla fidgeting next to you.

"May I open my eyes now?" you ask.

"Yes! Yes, please do," he responds excitedly, his head now resting on your shoulder.

If you are not careful, you will very likely end up with a lapful of him soon. You would certainly not complain, however.

You open your eyes, to find that whatever it is is indeed square, wrapped in a beautiful piece of cloth, and secured tightly with a piece of ribbon tied haphazardly into a bow. Caracalla's doing, of course, you think to yourself as your fingers touch the already unravelling knot.

"Open it," he insists, his arms winding around your waist to help you with the task.

You lightly tap his hands in admonishment, and he withdraws with a huff, his hands coming to rest on your hips instead.

You tug at the tails of the ribbon, and it falls away easily. Caracalla pulls it out of the way, and you gently tug at the fabric covering to reveal a book.

When you open it, your eyes widen.

The book is filled with drawings of flowers of every kind. Lavender, lilies, carnations, to name but a few.

Tears begin to well in your eyes as you carefully turn the pages. Each page is filled with such vivid detail. You take care not to rush through, giving each sketch the time it deserves.

Caracalla seems to think you have been silent for quite enough time now, and he squeezes at your hips impatiently.

"Well?" he prompts. "Do you like it? I made sure to seek out only the very best artists.”

A little breath escapes you, as you try to compose yourself to speak. It is of little use, and you can only nod instead. Your fingertips trace lightly across the pages, reverent in their touch.

"I know how this time of year torments you so," he murmurs. "And it pains me that there is little I can do. I hope that this will ease your sorrow in some small way."

You turn to him then. His bright gaze is fixed so intensely on you. It is no secret how he adores you.

Caracalla can quite often be something of a wild creature, and yet, there are moments, such as now, where you can clearly see the leader that he was born to be.

He is insightful in ways that others often miss, but you have learned to look further than the surface. To the wonderful man that lies beneath.

“Look at the last page,” he says, tapping his finger lightly against your hand.

You turn your attention back to the book, carefully turning to the last page as instructed.

You could not help the smile that spreads across your face even if you wanted to. On the last page, you find another drawing, albeit one that is very different from the others; as if this particular artist is not really an artist at all.

The page is filled with your beloved roses, and though it lacks the skill of the others before it, such love has been poured into every line that you cannot help the quiet sob that escapes you.

“It is perfect,” you manage to whisper, your voice small and trembling. “Thank you.”

Caracalla pulls you closer to him, his arms tight around your waist. You allow him to arrange you as he likes, meeting him with little resistance as you clutch the book tightly to your chest.

The winter gloom will still remain with you until the first blossoms of spring make their arrival once more, but now, in this very moment, as you lay in your beloved husband's arms, you feel as though you are in the midst of the most beautiful summer.

Taglist: @lover-rep-fanfic @punkrockmlchael @x-vadon @dubiousmetamorphosis @iitsmandii @medievalharlot @glassbxttless @getaapologist @fandom-princess-forevermore @robinbuckleywife

(You can join the taglist here! If you wish to be removed, please let me know!)