#i just need to finish this stupid script!!

[candy-induced-vertigo]

I decided to make a wordgirl fancomic, and this is how it's beginning! Well, not really, since I'm still working on issue one, but this was a practice thing I made a while ago and I liked how it turned out, so I figured why not post it here? It's not exactly canon to the story but it's something that's plausible.

I'm proud of the flow (even tho when gunner and tobey talk at the end it kind of disrupts it) and the fact that I succeeded at making a good background. I'll have to keep practicing them, since this took me too long to be sustainable for a comic. But I'm sure I can do it.

[end-orfino]

ahhhhhh i remember why i dont read comics & books and watch movies as much as I should. Because they make me lose it

[watery-melon-baller]

on the one hand, i really like working on the script for this video essay. on the other hand, it feels like im just being super negative and and a hater towards the entire toh fandom because they like making their dolls kiss

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Thirty-Five

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, pregnancy, emetophobia warning, domestic fluff.

Notes — We're closing out the 2023 season!! Double update for the day!

2023 (Abu Dhabi)

The filming studio was chaos. Bright lights, Nerf guns, a beanbag chair someone had exploded accidentally, and Max F was in the corner trying to tape a foam sword back together.

Lando stood off to the side, hoodie hood up, sipping a smoothie and pretending to review a script while actually just taking a breather from the all-day mess.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

He fished it out lazily, thumbed it open.

iMessage — 12:03pm

Amelia (Wifey 4 lifey)

My period is 3 weeks late.

—

He stared.

Then blinked. Read the words again.

And stood there frozen in the middle of the mess, smoothie halfway to his mouth.

“…What the f—”

“Bro, you good?” Aarav called from across the room, eyebrow raised.

Lando didn’t answer. He was busy rereading the message for a third time. Then a fourth. Slowly lowering the smoothie.

Missed period.

3 weeks.

Missed period for 3 weeks.

Period 3 weeks missed.

He let out a stunned, breathy laugh. “Oh fucking hell. Of course she’d just message me about it like it’s no big deal. Of course she did.”

The rest of the guys were still messing around in the background, arguing about whether they could build a kart ramp out of beanbags, and Lando just… walked backwards into a couch and sat down before his legs gave up on him.

Well, clearly she wasn’t freaking out. So that meant he wasn’t supposed to freak out. Cool. No problem. Cool, cool, super cool.

Except, he ran a hand through his hair. It was Amelia. If she was freaking out, she still probably wouldn’t say it. She’d just power through it all and not mention anything had even happened and then be like, “Oh yeah, by the way, our kid is three now.”

He shook his head.

iMessage — 12:05pm

Lando (Husband)

Ok. I’m not freaking out. Kind of want to throw up a bit tho. Love u x

He stared at the screen. Chewed the side of his thumb. Sent another.

Lando (Husband)

Did u like… pee on a stick yet????

Also should i come home. Or stay and keep filming the stupid cart bit. Idk what to do bby xxxx

Amelia (Wifey 4 lifey)

No, I have not peed on a stick. No, you do not need to come home. Finish filming. I will just see you when you come home x

—

He barely had time to process it before Max shouted, “Lando! You’re up!”

Lando slowly stood, still blinking, feeling kind of like he was buffering in real time.

“Mate, you look like you just saw a ghost,” Max added. “You alright, bro?”

Lando just looked at him, dazed. “No. I think I’m gonna be someone’s dad.”

Max’s eyes went fucking massive. “Woah, woah. Hold on. What—”

“Later. Can’t explain. Gotta pretend to joust on a kids scooter first.”

And off he went, hoodie flapping, brain somewhere over the Alps, while back in Monaco, his wife was casually engineering a race car and possibly incubating a human life like it was no big deal.

—

Amelia chewed on her bottom lip as she pulled up Pietra’s contact.

The screen blinked to life and there she was, chin propped on her hand, eating a bowl of cereal. Her blonde hair was pulled up in a lopsided bun, and she had one AirPod in, the other probably misplaced somewhere nearby. Her face lit up when she saw Amelia.

“Hello, gorgeous—wait, are you okay?" She asked, narrowing her eyes. “What’s wrong? You look off.”

Amelia didn’t say hello. She just held up her phone so the camera framed her blank expression and said, deadpan, “I am having déjà vu.”

Pietra blinked. Then squinted harder. “Wait… about what?”

“This call.” She said. “I think I’m pregnant.”

Pietra blinked again, cereal halfway to her mouth. “Você tá brincando.”

“I would never joke about this kind of thing.” Amelia said.

“Meu Deus.” Pietra gasped, dropping her spoon into the bowl with a dramatic clatter. “How? I mean—well, how is obvious, but—how do you know?”

Amelia turned her phone around, flashed her calendar at the screen. One day highlighted in red. Three weeks past due. “Calendar told on me.”

Pietra’s eyebrows shot up. “Three weeks? Amelia!”

Amelia sighed. “I know. But I’ve been so preoccupied with Vegas prep, travel, lobby meltdowns.”

“Oh my god.” Pietra was practically whispering now. “But… how likely is it?”

“Very. We haven’t been, like, trying,” Amelia said, voice clipped, efficient. “But we also haven’t been not trying. No protection for the last… few months. Ish.”

Pietra dragged her hand down her face. “Ameliaaaa. You can’t just drop a possible baby on me while I’m eating cornflakes!”

“I can and did.” Amelia adjusted the camera so it faced the ceiling, then sat cross-legged on the couch, phone balanced on her chest. This was their usual routine. She could write strategy notes with Pietra on FaceTime, no problem. Sometimes Pietra filled the air with stories, or whatever drama was happening in one of her many group chats. Sometimes she was just quiet, scrolling TikTok beside her. It was easy. Safe.

“Have you taken a test yet?” Pietra asked, after a beat.

“No.” Amelia’s voice was flat. “I don’t want to look at a little window. The little window makes things real.”

Pietra groaned. “It’s the only way to know!”

“I don’t want to know yet,” Amelia pointed out.

“I don’t trust you not to emotionally suppress this entire event and pretend it never happened.”

“Unfortunately not possible with this,” Amelia returned.

Pietra reached for the cereal again, shaking her head. “Have you told Lando?”

“I texted him. He’s in London filming Quadrant stuff, obviously. He freaked out a bit but, like, he was fine I think.”

Pietra cackled. “What did you even say?”

Amelia lifted her phone and scrolled briefly. “‘My period is three weeks late.’”

“Oh my god,” Pietra said. “You’ve probably given him a heart attack.”

“I’m nothing if not efficient.”

“He’s probably already told my Max, then. Are you telling anyone else?”

“No,” Amelia said, immediately and firmly. “I haven’t even processed it yet. And it might not even be something to process. It’d be like… trying to run a live feed before the camera boots.”

“Got it.” Pietra nodded. “Just us, then.”

“Just us,” Amelia echoed. She returned her focus to the spreadsheet open on her laptop. Sector delta charts glowed on the screen, comfortingly quantifiable.

Pietra softened. “But like—how are you?”

“I’m fine.” Amelia blinked slowly, as if running an internal diagnostic. “Not panicked. Not excited. Just... fine. Although thinking about it, I have been feeling nauseous a lot more frequently lately. I just kept putting it down to nerves you know?”

“Yes, I know. It’s been a long few weeks.” Pietra agreed. Eventually, she asked, “So. Plan?”

Amelia shrugged. “Go to the bakery and the pharmacy. Buy a bunch of pastries and three pregnancy tests.”

“And then?”

“And then I’m waiting for Lando. I’m not testing until he’s back.”

Pietra smiled, biting back something fond. “Of course not.”

They hung up not long after.

Amelia finished annotating a slide for Oscar’s sector exits in medium-speed corners, then shut her laptop with a soft click. She stood, pulled on one of Lando’s oversized hoodies, and grabbed her bag.

As she stepped out into the sunshine, she ran through her mental checklist:

Bakery

Pharmacy

Groceries

Don’t forget oat milk

Do not freak out

Business as usual.

—

The pharmacy was quiet, the sort of quiet that made every footstep sound louder than it should. Fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead, and faint French pop music played from an old radio behind the counter.

Amelia moved with purpose, hoodie sleeves pulled halfway over her hands, the corners of her to-do list folded neatly in her pocket. She headed straight for the aisle where the pregnancy tests were shelved, eyes flicking over the boxes clinically. Brands didn’t matter. She just picked three, different ones, out of mild uncertainty more than logic, and turned on her heel toward the checkout.

Behind the counter sat Madame Duval, a tiny, silver-haired woman with thick glasses, a warm smile, and a knit cardigan that didn’t match her blouse but somehow made her look even more maternal.

“Bonjour, Amelia,” she said, her voice like soft wool. “C’est bon de vous voir.”

Amelia blinked. “Hi.”

She placed the boxes down without flinching. Madame Duval looked down, eyebrows twitching faintly. Then she smiled again, smaller this time. “Ah. I see.”

Amelia didn’t say anything. Just offered a shrug and a half-nod. She wasn’t embarrassed, exactly. It just felt… complicated.

“Would you like a bag?” Madame Duval asked gently. “One that is not see-through?”

“Yes please.”

She packed the boxes neatly, moving with the patience of someone who had known Amelia since she had first moved to Monaco. The first time she had come in for antihistamines, she’d asked in English and apologised for not speaking very clear French. Madame Duval had tutted at her gently and waved it off — “You’re young. You learn.”

She hadn’t expected Amelia to remember all of their conversations. But Amelia did. Down to which shelf the chamomile tea had been on that one rainy day when she came in, red-eyed and overstimulated, asking for something that “made bodies quiet.”

Now, only a couple of years later, the girl she’d watched grow into a woman, all sharp focus and clinical precision, stood with three pregnancy tests in her hand and a face like a still pond. Flat on the surface. Rippling just underneath.

Madame Duval placed a single wrapped chocolate on top of the box in the bag. The fancy kind they kept near the till. “For after. Whatever the result.”

Amelia blinked. “I didn’t—”

“Don’t argue,” Madame Duval said simply. “I know you very well, Amelia. You will enjoy your sweet treat.”

She accepted the bag and nodded, a single sharp dip of her head. “Merci.”

Madame Duval smiled again, knowing, warm. “Bonne chance, ma fille.”

Amelia didn’t translate the words in her head. She didn’t need to. They sank into her like the warmth of a blanket after a cold morning walk.

She left the pharmacy with the bag looped tightly around her wrist and walked the short distance back up the hill toward the apartment. The sea was visible between buildings, a thin slice of blue horizon. Everything smelled faintly of croissants and sunshine and exhaust fumes.

She checked her mental list:

Got the tests.

Got the pastries.

Got the groceries.

Back home, she set the bag down on the kitchen counter and grabbed her laptop.

The tests could wait until Lando was back.

For now, it was just another variable. Logged.

Pending analysis.

—

The door clicked softly behind Lando as he stepped into their Monaco apartment, duffle bag forgotten somewhere between the entrance and the bedroom.

The light was low, just the soft stretch of sunrise brushing over the walls, and Amelia was curled up on their bed in one of his hoodies, half-asleep, laptop still warm next to her leg.

She opened one eye when he crouched beside her. “Hi,” she murmured, voice heavy with sleep.

He didn’t answer right away. Just tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and held up a small paper bag like he’d just won a prize. “Get up, baby,” he said, gently.

Amelia blinked. “Seriously?”

He kissed her temple. “Come on. I need to know if my wife is growing a person.”

She groaned, dragging her hand over her face — but didn’t argue. Not really. She let him pull her upright with a sleepy grumble, let him tug her by the hand toward the bathroom, let him press the test into her hand.

They paused there for a second. Fingers brushing. Her gaze flicked up to meet his.

“You okay?” He asked, voice low now, a little more cautious.

“I’m fine,” she said. Then, with a characteristic deadpan mutter, “I’m tired.”

Lando gave her that crooked little grin, the one that always cracked something open in her. “Right. Go pee on it.”

She rolled her eyes and shut the door.

He sat cross-legged outside, back against the wall. Same way he had the first time she’d let him into her quieter corners; back when they were barely even dating and she couldn’t handle knocks on doors, loud voices, or sudden touches. Back when he learned to ask first and sit with her in the silence.

He waited now, quiet, patient, fingers tapping his knee.

The door creaked open.

She didn’t speak at first. Just stood there holding the test, staring at it.

Lando scrambled to his feet. “Amelia?”

She looked up at him. “It’s positive,” she said, voice soft. Like she wasn’t sure the words could be able to come out of her mouth properly.

Silence fell between them — not tense, not panicked. Just heavy.

She looked back down at the test. Then back at him. Her expression was unreadable for a second, and then… it cracked. Not big. Not loud. Just a subtle unraveling. A tremble in her mouth. Her eyes too bright, but dry.

“I thought I’d feel more in control,” she said quietly. “Like it would just slot into the system. Checklist. Contingency. Risk management.” She held up the test, eyes never leaving it. “But it’s not like that. It’s not a flowchart. It’s not a decision tree. It’s just… me. And you. And this. And I can’t logic my way through it.”

Lando took a slow step forward, voice hushed. “Is it a bad feeling?”

She shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “It’s just… big.”

And then it happened — not a meltdown, not a scene, just her body folding into his with no warning. A silent collapse.

Hands clinging to the front of his hoodie, face buried against his chest, a single shuddering breath breaking out of her like she’d been holding it in for hours. No sobbing. No hysteria. Just quiet overwhelm — the kind that sneaks up and knocks the wind out of you.

Lando wrapped his arms around her instantly, no hesitation.

“Whoa, hey,” he murmured, steady as ever, his hand in her hair. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, love. You’re okay. We’re okay. We’re going to be okay.”

She didn’t answer, just breathed — deep and shaky. Her fingers still clutched the test like a lifeline. Her knuckles were white.

“I’m scared,” she said after a long pause. The words were barely there. “What if I mess it up? What if I do something wrong? What if I’m not good enough to do this?”

Lando pulled back, just enough to look at her. His hands stayed on her waist, grounding her. “Hey,” he said gently, brushing his thumb over her cheekbone. “Don’t do that. Don’t start doubting yourself now.”

Her eyes flicked away. “I’m not soft. I’m not warm. I don’t… glow. I forget social niceties, I spiral over things like flight plans and tyre temps and socks that don’t feel right. That’s not the kind of person who’s supposed to—” She swallowed. “I don’t know if I’m made for this.”

“Baby. You’re made for anything,” he said, firm now. “You’re made for me. And if our baby ends up anything like you, blunt, brilliant, weird in the best possible way, they’re going to be so lucky. And so am I.”

She let out a sound that was halfway between a breath and a laugh. Her shoulders sagged just a little. “We don’t even know if I’m actually pregnant yet,” she muttered.

He glanced down at the test still in her hand. “Kinda looks like we do.”

Another breath.

She let him take the test and set it gently on the counter, his touch reverent, like it was something fragile and sacred. Then, without a word, he slid his hand into hers and led her back into the bedroom.

She didn’t resist. Didn’t speak. Just let herself be tugged along like driftwood in a current.

Lando climbed into bed first and pulled her down with him, settling them in the tangle of covers she’d only half-kicked off earlier. His arms came around her automatically, looping over her waist and up across her back. He tucked her in close, chin resting against the top of her head, one leg hooked loosely over hers.

Wrapped around her like a blanket. Safe. Heavy in the best way.

They lay like that for a long time. Breathing in sync. No words needed.

Eventually, Amelia spoke. Her voice was quiet — raw around the edges, like she'd surprised even herself with the crack earlier. “I didn’t think I’d cry,” she murmured.

Lando smiled, lips brushing her temple. “I’m glad you did.”

She blinked against his hoodie. “Why?”

He huffed a soft laugh, barely more than a breath. “Because it made it less pathetic that I was crying for a second too.”

Her head tipped back just enough to look up at him. “You were crying?”

“Only a little bit,” he said, mock-defensive. “Like, blinked-a-lot-and-hoped-you-wouldn’t-notice crying. I’m British. I’m subtle.”

“You’re not subtle,” she said flatly.

“No,” he agreed, grin tugging at his mouth. “But I am dramatic, and I’ve been alone for two days imagining every possible outcome and Googling ‘is surprise pregnancy good news if you’re in love and mostly financially stable.’”

Amelia blinked slowly. “You Googled that exact phrase?”

“Yes.”

She snorted. A small, involuntary noise that made his heart squeeze. “What did it say?”

“That the internet is deeply unhelpful,” he said. “And Reddit is a lawless place.”

There was another long pause.

Then she whispered, “I was scared it wouldn’t feel real. That I’d just… log it as data and move on. Like it was just another variable.”

Lando tightened his arms around her. “But it does feel real?”

“Yeah,” she whispered. “The second I said it out loud.”

He kissed her forehead. “Good. I don’t think I could’ve handled being more emotional than you about this.”

“You’re always more emotional than me.”

“True. I tried at Bake Off the other day.”

“I know,” she said, and even through the haze of anxiety and confusion and quiet overwhelm, she smiled. “That’s why I married you.”

Lando rested his cheek against her hair, and for a few long seconds, the world outside the blanket of their bed ceased to exist.

“Should we sleep a bit more?” She asked eventually, already halfway there.

He nodded against her. “Yeah. Big day of parenting ahead. Gotta start practicing how to Google more useful things.”

She hummed. “Start with ‘how to tell if your wife is actually going to let herself feel things this time.’”

Lando squeezed her a little tighter. “Already figured it out. Just gotta love her loud enough that she forgets to be afraid.”

She didn’t respond.

But she didn’t pull away either.

—

The clinic’s sliding door whispered closed behind them as Amelia and Lando stepped into the small, clinical room. The nurse smiled warmly, gesturing toward the chair.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” she said, setting out the necessary equipment.

Amelia sat down slowly, her fingers lacing in her lap. Lando stood quietly by her side, watching her with closeness.

“You doing alright, baby?” He asked quietly, voice low enough only for her.

She shrugged, eyes steady. “As alright as I can be.”

Lando reached out and took her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. She held on tight.

The nurse prepped the needle, talking her through it as she did. Amelia kept her gaze fixed on the ceiling, her jaw clenched just enough to show her focus.

When the needle slid in, Lando’s hand moved up to brush a strand of hair behind her ear.

“There,” he whispered. “Done.”

Amelia exhaled, releasing some of the tension she hadn’t even realised she was holding.

—

Amelia and Lando sat quietly in the small waiting area just outside the testing rooms, the sterile white walls feeling colder than usual. Amelia scrolled absently through her phone while Lando rested his arm around her shoulders, both wrapped in a low hum of nervous energy.

The nurse appeared after what felt like an eternity but was realistically just under an hour. She held a folder in her hand, her expression calm and professional. “Amelia Norris?” She called.

Amelia stood immediately, Lando rising just a half-step behind her, his hand brushing lightly against the small of her back in quiet support.

The nurse, a kind-looking woman in her fifties with kind eyes and soft lines around her mouth, smiled gently as she approached, holding a slim folder in her hands. “Amelia, Lando,” She said warmly. “Your blood test results are back.”

Amelia held herself very still, as if bracing for impact.

The nurse opened the folder and glanced down. “Everything looks healthy, and we did manage to confirm your pregnancy, Amelia.”

For a second, neither of them spoke. Amelia’s breath caught in her throat, her eyes fixed on the nurse but unfocused, as though the words had landed somewhere just behind her.

She blinked once. Twice. “Okay,” she said softly. Just one word, but it sounded like it had taken effort to get it out.

Lando, ever the contrast, let out a breathy laugh; short, quiet, almost disbelieving, and slid his arm around her waist. He gave her a gentle squeeze, grounding them both. “Well,” he murmured, leaning in close, “that’s the official verdict then.”

She didn’t answer right away, just nodded, lips pressing into a line. Her fingers twitched at her side, stimming without even thinking.

The nurse, unfazed by the silence, handed Amelia a printout of the blood-work results. “Everything looks perfectly normal for where you’re at. If you have questions or want to talk about next steps, you’re always welcome to call. We’ll book your first ultrasound soon.”

Amelia’s eyes scanned the paper, already filtering the information into categories in her head — normal levels, nothing flagged, timeline confirmed. Just data. But even with all the logic in the world, she felt the subtle shift in the air. It was real now.

“I can fly to Abu Dhabi?” She asked, sharp and direct.

The nurse nodded. “Yes, you can. You’re still very early. Travel is fine, just make sure you stay hydrated and try to keep your stress levels to a minimum.”

Amelia scoffed out a single breath. “Right. Sure.”

Lando gave the nurse an apologetic smile, stepping in smoothly. “We’ll make sure of it. Water, snacks, earplugs, noise-cancelling headphones, the works.”

The nurse’s smile deepened. “Good man. Just listen to your body, Amelia. That’ll be the trickiest part for you, I think.”

Amelia met her gaze, brows furrowed. “Why? Because I’m autistic?”

“Because you’re used to ignoring and pushing aside your discomfort,” the nurse said kindly. “But yes, that too.”

Amelia blinked, visibly filing that away.

The nurse handed her a card. “Call and make your next appointment as soon as you’re back. That’ll be for your first scan — around gestation week seven. You can ask for me by name if you’d like.”

Amelia took the card, examined the name — “Colette” — and gave the barest nod of approval. “Okay. I will.”

Colette gave them both a final smile. “Take care of each other. And congratulations.”

“Thanks,” Lando said quietly, while Amelia murmured something that might’ve been a “you too” out of sheer social obligation.

As they stepped out of the clinic and into the soft Monaco sunlight, Lando reached over and laced their fingers together. Amelia let him. Didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. Just walked beside him, her expression unreadable — but her grip on his hand was firm.

He glanced at her as they waited for the elevator. “So.”

She glanced up.

“You’re gonna have to let me look at that report later,” he said. “Just to double-check you’re not secretly growing twins or something.”

Amelia huffed. “I’d know if I were.”

He grinned. “Sure you would.”

—

The private jet hummed softly beneath them, the kind of quiet that came with luxury and familiarity. Amelia had curled up beside the window, iPad balanced on her lap, headphones hanging loosely around her neck. Next to her, Lando was dozing — hoodie pulled up, mouth slightly open, dead to the world.

Across the aisle, Max sat with a protein bar and a very serious frown as he scrolled through Instagram. For all the years they’d known each other, Amelia had rarely seen him sit still this long.

She, however, was very much not still.

Her finger tapped quickly across her iPad screen, eyes scanning an article titled “What To Expect in Your First Trimester.” She had three tabs open; one medical, one forum-based, and one purely dedicated to nutrition. Her nose wrinkled as she read the phrase “morning sickness may begin as early as week six.” She was almost six weeks, according to the timeline Colette had scribbled down.

“Oh, screw that,” she muttered under her breath.

Max leaned slightly toward the aisle and blinked at her screen. “What’re you reading?”

Amelia startled slightly and tilted the iPad instinctively away from him. “Nothing.”

Max tilted his head. “No, I definitely saw the word ‘placenta’ just now.”

Amelia pursed her lips. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

He blinked. Then his eyes went wide. “You’re pregnant.”

“What? No. Don’t be absurd.” Amelia spluttered.

“Your ears are red!” Max pointed out.

“Lots of people have red ears,” she lied boldly.

“Name two people.”

“Um.” She looked around desperately. “Um.”

Max raised a brow.

“Okay, whatever, fine.” She sighed.

He choked on his protein bar, coughing into his sleeve. “So you are pregnant.”

Amelia groaned, setting the iPad facedown on her lap. “You can’t know! I’m not even supposed to know, I don’t think. Google says no one is allowed to know until the second trimester.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I know!” She whispered-shouted, flinging her hands up in frustration. “Apparently there's this whole unwritten rule that you’re meant to keep it secret until like week twelve in case things go wrong but also I can’t stop Googling everything because what the hell is a mucus plug and why is it in my body?”

Max looked vaguely alarmed. “Oh, god. That sounds disgusting.”

“Exactly!”

Lando stirred at the noise, cracked one eye open, and muttered, “Did you tell Max?”

“No,” Amelia said at the exact same time Max said, “Absolutely.”

Lando sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face, clearly too tired to argue.

Amelia shifted slightly in her seat, frowning. “Is it weird I don’t feel different yet? Like I thought I’d… know. That there’d be this, I don’t know, gut feeling. Like how I know when it’s going to rain or when Oscar’s about to spin out of a corner.”

Max softened a bit, leaning over the aisle. “Everyone’s different, I think.”

“Yeah, but I already feel behind.” She nudged her iPad back into her lap. “There are apps and charts and... symbiotic uterine developments. It’s like a project I didn’t plan for. And you know how I feel about unplanned variables.”

Lando reached over sleepily and squeezed her hand. “You’re doing fine.”

Max nodded. “Plus, your kid’s gonna have, like, the two most ridiculous godparents in the paddock.”

She blinked at him. “I never said anything about godparents.”

“You will.”

“I might not.”

“You will.”

She rolled her eyes, but a small smile tugged at her mouth.

Then, after a pause, she muttered, “The mucus plug thing is still on my mind.”

Max gagged theatrically, Lando groaned, and Amelia opened another article, determined to understand the entire gestational timeline before they landed.

—

The Abu Dhabi sun was already unbearable by the time they stepped onto the tarmac, the heat pressing down like a hand on the back of her neck. Amelia barely blinked at it. She was too busy focusing on not gagging.

It wasn’t morning sickness. It wasn’t anything that dramatic. There’d been no dramatic sprint to a toilet. Just this constant, low-level nausea that clung to her throat like the aftermath of turbulence. Cloying. Lingering. Like the scent of someone else’s perfume in a closed room.

She clutched her water bottle a little tighter as they walked toward the paddock entrance, sunglasses on, headphones around her neck, McLaren lanyard tucked into the front of her shirt. She wasn’t on duty yet — they were just arriving — but already, her brain was buzzing with briefings and timing windows and tyre strategy for FP1.

Lando walked beside her, one hand on the small of her back, close but casual. He wasn’t smothering her, he never did, but his body was attuned to her like a second radar system. When she slowed for a moment, swallowing hard, he adjusted his pace instantly.

“Still feeling off?” He murmured, quiet so no one around them would hear.

She nodded once, not breaking stride. “Feels like... I’ve had warm milk out of a shoe.”

“That’s a disgusting analogy.” He said, nose twitching.

“I feel disgusting.” She moaned.

Lando gave a small, sympathetic laugh and handed her a peppermint from the stash he’d brought specifically for this. “Want to skip the garage for now? Go to hospitality. Sit down.”

“I’ll be fine,” she said quickly, bluntly. “We land, we go to the garage. That’s the routine.”

He didn’t argue, not really. He just looked at her for a beat longer than usual and nodded. “Okay.”

Max had peeled off earlier, some Red Bull meeting already dragging him into another PR vortex, so it was just the two of them when they reached the McLaren motorhome. Amelia paused for a moment outside the hospitality entrance, letting the air-conditioned breeze spill over her as the door opened and closed in waves.

She stared forward, expression flat.

Then, without looking at him, she muttered, “If I throw up in front of Oscar, I’ll lie and say it’s food poisoning.”

Lando grinned. “You’d lie to Oscar?”

“I lie to Oscar all the time. I tell him the car has good rear grip when I know it doesn’t. I tell him his haircut’s not weird.”

“He knows it’s weird.”

“Then I’m not doing my job properly.”

He kissed the side of her head and ushered her inside.

The nausea didn’t leave; it didn’t even lessen. But she filed it away somewhere behind tyre allocation updates and garage temperature readings. Pushed it back. Compartmentalised.

She had a job to do.

Even if her body, her whole world, had quietly started to change.

—

The garage was its usual symphony of motion, tyre blankets, torque wrenches, low chatter on radios. Amelia stood just behind Oscar’s car, one hand resting on the side-pod, her iPad in the other, watching the data scroll. Her other hand was shoved in her pocket, fingers twisting the small piece of fabric — an old tag from one of Lando’s fireproof undershirts. Grounding. Textural. Familiar.

Oscar was climbing out of the cockpit, unzipping his suit halfway and tugging off his gloves. “How’s it looking?” He asked, pushing a hand through his hair.

“Like you are still lifting off too early into Turn 14,” Amelia replied, not looking up.

Oscar squinted at her. “Nice to see you too.”

She handed him the tablet. “Look at the overlays. You’re lifting fractionally earlier than yesterday.”

“I don’t feel like I am.”

“That’s the thing about data,” she said flatly. “It doesn’t care how you feel.”

Oscar made a face but didn’t argue. He took the tablet and perched on the edge of the front wing as he scrolled. Amelia leaned on the pit gantry behind him, eyes tracking the mechanics, her brain juggling three different timelines.

Tyre test. Race sim. Media obligations.

And nausea. Always the nausea. A thin layer of wrongness settled at the base of her throat.

“You look pale,” Oscar said suddenly.

She flicked her eyes up. “Thanks.”

“I mean it. You good?”

“I’m always good.”

He gave her a suspicious side-eye. “You’ve said that to me before. Usually when you’ve gone two days without sleep.”

She took the iPad back from him. “I’m eating. I’ve slept. I’m hydrated. I’ve had breakfast. What more do you want?”

“Some forgiveness if I don’t get the lift right on the next run?”

Amelia’s lip twitched, barely. “Not happening.”

Oscar didn’t push, but he watched her as she turned back toward the screens. She knew it. Felt his gaze linger.

But she didn’t offer anything more. Not yet. Not when the garage was full of people, and cameras, and microphones always somewhere nearby.

She just reached for her earpiece, shoved it into place, and keyed into the radio with a sharp, clean voice. “Oscar’s ready for the next run. Let’s do race trim, full fuel, softs.”

The engineer on the other end acknowledged her. The crew got moving.

And the nausea, ever present, curled a little tighter in her gut.

Still. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t step back.

Amelia Norris stayed exactly where she was — sharp, unfazed, in control.

—

The air conditioning hummed steadily overhead, and Amelia sat cross-legged in one of the lower chairs, stylus tapping as Oscar muttered something about corner exit balance. She wasn’t entirely listening. Or rather — she was, but her body was staging a full-scale rebellion against her.

The nausea had been background static all day, but now it was cresting into a full wave. Her fingers tightened slightly around the stylus. She blinked twice, tried breathing through her nose. No improvement.

She could hear Lando in the corner, chatting with one of the engineers, blissfully unaware that his wife was currently sweating through her team polo in slow motion.

Oscar nudged her shin with the toe of his socked foot. “You’re quiet. Am I saying something stupid?”

Amelia opened her mouth to answer, but—

Her stomach twisted violently. She slapped the tablet onto the low table and stood up in one movement, but it was too fast, too late.

Her hand flew to her mouth, eyes wide.

And then she doubled over and vomited squarely into the only available container-like object at ground level.

Oscar’s race boots.

The room fell silent.

Oscar blinked once. Then looked down. Then back up at her.

“Well,” he said, with a perfectly dry inflection. “That’s one way to critique my driving.”

Amelia groaned, wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her hoodie. “I’m so sorry,” she managed, breathless. “I— I tried to make it.”

Lando was already at her side, hand on her back, concern etching itself into his features. “Jesus, baby—are you okay? You need to sit down?”

Oscar, meanwhile, remained seated, staring down at the shoes like they might attack him. “Those were custom-moulded.”

“Yeah,” Amelia said weakly, dropping back into the chair. “They’re custom-moulded to hold the exact volume of my stomach contents, apparently.”

“I’m never putting my foot in those again.”

“I’ll get you new ones.”

“You’ll buy me a new digestive system, because I’m never forgetting this.” He frowned.

Amelia finally laughed; a little breathy, a little unhinged. “I hate this,” she muttered, head in her hands.

Lando crouched in front of her, gently brushing her hair back from her face. “You’ve done three days of data crunching and garage shifts while apparently fighting the urge to puke in various footwear,” he said quietly. “Come on, let’s go clean you up.”

Oscar stood up finally, crossing to the corner where someone had mercifully placed paper towels and a bin bag. “Can we agree to never tell anyone about this.”

“Yes,” Amelia agreed.

Lando snorted. “Too late. I already texted Max.”

“You what—?”

“I’m kidding,” he grinned. “But I’m tempted. He’d find this absolutely hilarious.”

—

Amelia was curled up on the end of a low sofa, sipping flat Sprite from a paper cup. The AC was finally hitting just right, and she'd gotten through the rest of the afternoon without projectile vomiting on any more personal items. Progress.

Oscar wandered in, a granola bar half-unwrapped in one hand, still in his race suit tied off at the waist.

He flopped into the chair opposite her, stretched his legs out, and with no preamble at all, said, “Happy pregnancy, by the way.”

Amelia blinked. “Oh,” she said flatly. “So it’s obvious, then.”

Oscar shrugged. “To me? Yeah. You’ve been chewing your pen caps like you’re trying to murder them, you haven’t had coffee in three days, and you were sick in my race boots, so.”

She tilted her head. “That’s a lot of observation for someone who thinks toothpaste is spicy.”

He laughed. “I’m very detail-oriented. And still peeved about my boots.”

She groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he said, far too magnanimous. “They were hideous anyway.” There was a pause. Then he added, “Honestly, everyone else just assumed it was heat stroke.”

Amelia lifted a brow. “And you didn’t?”

“Nope.” He took a bite of the granola bar. “You go green when you have heat stroke. You went green this time, so I knew it was different.”

She barked a short laugh. “That’s horrifying.”

“And accurate,” he said, chewing. “So… Lando knows, obviously?”

“Yeah. He made me pee on a stick at six in the morning. Then I had to go and get blood drawn to confirm it.”

Oscar winced. “Disgusting. Anyway—congrats, I guess.”

“Thanks. And sorry again about the shoes.”

Oscar leaned back in the chair, arms behind his head like he hadn’t been personally victimised. “Eh. If the kid turns out to be a world champion, I’ll tell this story in the Netflix documentary.”

“Can’t wait,” she deadpanned.

They sat in silence for a moment. Then, with a smirk that was all mischief and no sympathy, Oscar added, “Next time, at least aim for Lando’s sneakers. His fans would pay for them.”

Amelia snorted into her Sprite. “God, you’re vile.”

“I know. And yet you can’t get rid of me,” he said, and stood up, already texting someone; probably Lando.

She groaned again. Loudly.

—

The Yas Marina Circuit always felt like the end of something.

By the time the sun dipped beneath the glowing skyline and the lights snapped on around the track, the paddock was buzzing with the familiar edge of finality. Mechanics moved with that distinct rhythm—half instinct, half exhaustion. Cameras flashed. Engines roared. And on the McLaren pit wall, Amelia sat completely still, headset pressed tight, her eyes fixed on Oscar’s live telemetry.

No one would’ve known she was pregnant. No one would’ve guessed she’d thrown up in her colleague’s race boots less than 24 hours earlier. No one would’ve known that she’d spent the flight to Abu Dhabi Googling “why does pregnancy make you feel like your body is a hostile foreign nation” or that she’d quietly rested her head on Lando’s shoulder for the last twenty minutes of final practice, just to stay upright.

But now? Now she was fine. More than fine. Because when it came to the race, Oscar’s race, she was always prepared to lock in.

Oscar had qualified well. Not perfect, but decent. Enough to put him in the fight.

Lando, meanwhile, had his own race to run, starting P5. Amelia didn’t let herself think about his car in the first ten laps. She’d gotten very good at compartmentalising again. Still, every now and then, she could feel his presence, could hear his voice from earlier:

“One more race. Then we get a break. Then we breathe.”

God, how she wanted to breathe.

The race itself was tense. Ferrari and Mercedes were locked in their Constructors’ battle, chaos unfolding all across the midfield. Amelia kept her voice calm on Oscar’s radio.

“Strat 7, we’re going to offset slightly from Gasly ahead.”

“Understood.”

“Clean exit turn 3. Good traction now. Let’s build.”

He listened. He always listened.

Mid-race, Oscar made an aggressive but beautifully timed overtake, and Amelia let herself smile—just a little.

Lando, a few positions ahead, was holding ground. Quietly, steadily. Nothing dramatic. Amelia could handle steady. Steady felt manageable.

The final laps bled together like watercolour under pressure. Amelia felt her stomach twist, nausea creeping up again. She ignored it. She had work to do.

In the end?

Oscar crossed the line P6.

Lando, P4.

Respectable. Solid. A good end to a hard-fought season.

When Oscar pulled in and killed the engine, Amelia finally took a long breath and peeled off her headset. Her hands were trembling. Whether it was adrenaline, hormones, or just sheer relief, she couldn’t tell.

Lando found her on the pit wall not long after, hair sweaty, fireproofs unzipped halfway.

“Hey,” he said, brushing her shoulder lightly. “You okay?”

She looked at him for a long moment, the smile tugging at her lips slow and almost reluctant.

“I am now.”

He grinned. “We did it.”

She snorted. “You did it. I just puked in Oscar’s boots and managed his brake maps.”

Lando bent down and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “You did both with tremendous style.”

Somewhere nearby, champagne exploded. But for Amelia, the noise faded into the background. The season was over. They were having a baby. They’d finished best of the rest.

And the MCL38-AN was going to be an absolute masterpiece. 

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

Please I am obsessed with your loaded roommate max post, hear me about what about loaded boss!Mac and his assistant reader who has to come up with all sorts of convincing ways to get him to do PR??

Anon, I'm obsessed with THIS. Did a little combo of the two, hope you like it

Bring your ?????? to work - Max Verstappen x reader

Whoever said that you shouldn't mix business and pleasure hadn't met or worked with Max Verstappen. You didn't mean to, really. You already lived with him, the two of you having some weird psychosexual back and forth due to the forced proximity. But now the Monaco Grand Prix was nearing, and the Redbull social media team was missing some members, something about Imola airport and strikes. Max was overjoyed on Monday when they told him, visualizing a week without filming stupid TikToks. But you pounced on the opportunity to help out. Taking over would do wonders for your online presence, your freelance portfolio, and your wallet. Everyone would give an arm and a leg to "cook in Redbull's kitchen." Step one was to make a nice presentation of the things you needed to film, scripts, storyboards, and shot lists. You pulled an all-nighter, fueled by manic determination and energy drinks. When you're satisfied, you move on to the next one - getting it somewhere. Max is sloppy with closing his door, still sleeping. You neatly move the covers and grin at the morning wood. You pinch his thigh, hard, and he jolts a Dutch word beginning with K on the tip of his tongue.

"Can I?" You ask, motioning to his hard cock. Max is honestly happy to be alive right now. He needs a peaceful start to the morning. Usually, he'd settle for a coffee, but your mouth would do, he supposed. You want something. He can tell, by your slow kisses to his shaft, the way you're teasing his tip. Max can feel your eyes burning into his shut eyelids. When he looks at you, you moan for him, letting the sound please him. You fucking cup his balls and he's gone. Not coming yet, but on full autopilot. He doesn't seem to be careful anymore, he wants to cum into your mouth. Wants to watch you take him to the base, no matter how. It fucking ruins him to see you gag just a little. He slows down, but you're gripping his thighs, desperate for more. Truth be told, you're enjoying this more than you thought you would. His strong hands holding your hair in a ponytail. His gorgeous blue eyes looking at you in awe. His fucking taste, somehow so fucking good. Whatever his nutritionist is doing, they deserve a gold medal. Of course your thoughts are quickly pulled back to Max when he notices you're spacing out.

"Don't get distracted, darling. Be good and finish what you started." He says, voice still scratchy. You intend to, so you hollow your cheeks and let him move his hips again. Max cums and watches you swallow it. He's barely out to door to clean himself when you ask him about the presentation. Post-nut clarity works in your favor.

Max marks his email as urgent, wetransfer link intact, and not even an hour later, you get the notification that it's opened.You're nervous and you've got half a mind to keep sucking off Max until there is any notification back. Franco might have been onto something with that one out of pocket interview about the sex right before the race. If you simply blew your roommate until he was shooting blanks, that would help him, surely? But before you can test that out, you get a reply back. You're in. They like your ideas, and you're gonna start filming on Thursday with Yuki and the VCARB boys, too. Max would be saved for as little socials as possible. But that simply wouldn't do. You needed him. You knew that people would stop scrolling for Max. The silly audios you've prepped wouldn't pack as much as a punch without him. So you had to resort to some more unconventional methods of convincing him. So be it.

Max didn't plan on being on his yacht 2 days before the Free Practice session. He didn't need the attention, especially now when the fans were crawling around Monaco like cockroaches. But you insisted on it for "training purposes." He didn't want Yuki to complain about "the new admin losing her lunch" in the crystalline waters of the harbor.

"Can't believe you've lived here for months, and this is about to be your first time on a boat." Max says. You hum, busy taking it all in.

You weren't a materialist, but Unleash the Lion was impressive. You want to make a biting comment about the cost of the yacht, and how he still insists that you split grocery bills. But you need to be on your best behavior for your plan to work. "You know, you're partially my landlord, on Thursday and the weekend you'll be my boss and here you're the captain. I sure do have a knack for a good power imbalance, don't I?" You say, teasing him.

"If you're about to reveal a weird kink you have, don't bother. I think I'm already very familiar with what you like." He quips back, already aware of your more submissive nature. "Not all of it. There's the exhibitionism." You reply, with the subtlety of a bull in a china shop. Maybe innuendos weren't your strong suit. But getting Max's attention certainly was. "And it's time to steer this fast enough to a place where we can dock this." He says, making the boat go as fast as the 2023 Redbull car. You try to enjoy the ride, and all but you're also thinking of the ride that you wanna give Max. You strip down to the tiny, barely there bikini that you picked just for this "cruise". Slip the box of condoms around the strings, ask the driver to spread sunscreen on your back. The whole shebang.

As soon as the yacht docks, Max is on you, fingertips hovering above your bikini strings. A "Please, I need you" is all it takes for him to melt for you. He makes you suck his fingers in your mouth, before he slides them down your bikini bottoms against your clit. You rut against him, desperate for him to be inside you already, to give you everything you need. Max enjoys the scenery instead. The sun, the sea, the soft moans you're letting out. If he could, he'd stay here forever savoring life. But time's arrow marches only forward, and with your ass rubbing against him, he has no choice but to get on with it. So he gets out of your jeans, takes off your bottoms and takes out the condom, tearing open the package with surgical precision. He lines up behind you, pausing to grip and knead your ass. Sex standing up was clearly new for you. You're a bit awkward, not knowing where exactly to put your hands. That's why Max leads you to the railing, making you grip it. He wraps his hand against your waist and pulls you towards him. He's deep inside of you, the angle doing wonders for you both. Max mutters something about the motion of the ocean as he fucks you. He wants to remember this, how you're christening the yacht, no need for champagne bottles smashed. He'd much rather have the visuals of you squirming against him, ass bouncing. He's a fucking nerd, scolding you about "scaring the fishes" with your sounds, to which you roll your eyes. He thrusts faster, making your legs shake as you come. He fucks you through it, chasing his own orgasm. Under the Monaco sun, he gets it. When you've cleaned yourselves up, as good as you could with the wet wipes you brought, you sit half-dressed. You break down what you'll need to him filming wise, and he groans.

"I want you to remember what we just did the entire time we're shooting. When I'm playing at creative director, only you and I will know that I was moaning your name like I'll call it." You ask and hope that it will be enough. Of course, you know you'll sweeten the deal . You'll brush up against him when no one is watching. You'll make innuendos in Dutch, and of course, promises of what's to come when the cameras are off. After all, you hadn't told him about the other 2 Tiktoks in the planning.

[darlingbabyboo]

I've been thinking for a while about a particular one shot request and I read it last night on another fandom, so now I kinda wanna see it with TR.

So here it is : How would some of the guys react to us doodling on their hand during some boring class? (Mikey, Draken, Takemichi, Mitsuya, Haitani brothers and the Kawata twins)

Sorry if it's too much! It doesn't have to be anything big, just a small reaction would be more than perfect, since I love your writing so much. 🥹

Baby, What Are You Doing...

Summary: the guys react to you doodling on their arms

Notes: some small blurbs about the guys. These vary in length and I was lowkey running out of ideas while I was writing but I tried my best to stay original! Also, not edited bcs I don't got time for that, you see a mistake, no you didn't <333

Mikey is kinda out there so he probably wouldn't even notice you were writing on his hand, but when he does he eats that shit up. He's lazy so he doesn't like going to get tats but he loves some ink. He will praise you and start requesting things like you're a professional artist. 'Please babe, I want a dorayaki on my forearm.' You bite your lip to hide your blossoming smile, 'you know I'm not a professional artist, right?' Your boyfriend shrugs and smacks a kiss to your cheek, 'you are to me babe!'

Draken notices right away what you're doing and is probably a bit confused at first. Like, do you want him to get another tattoo??? He'll do it hun, just ask. You two are relaxing in his bed, just enjoying each other's presence. He's surprised when you pull out a Sharpie and start doodling your name on his arm. 'Honey, what're you doing?' You give a sheepish grin, 'sorry, is it a problem.' He looks at the doodle, and you start to relax when you spot no disgust in his eyes. 'No problem hun,' he turns to you, 'think I should get this my next visit?' You squeal and wrap your arms around his neck as he looks at the doodle in wonder, more love sprouting in his heart.

Takemichi is a loser (affectionate) and he would never get a tattoo because he can't stand that pain, so he will take take that doodle and he will hold it with pride. 'Sweetie, I love it so much!' He wraps his arms around your waist and you can feel his smile against your stomach. You giggle at his wonder at some shitty stick figures along his arms. 'It's really no big deal' You say, running your hands through his hair, 'you don't need to be so happy.' He shakes his head, 'it is a big deal,' He insists, 'I've never seen anything better!'

Mitsuya my love, my heart, my will to live. He will be gassing up so much that you'll probably start believing that you're the best artist in the world. He's just such a supportive cutie pie <3 'Darling, this is one of the greatest things I've ever seen,' You laugh at the amazement in his eyes as you scribble your name in mock script on his arms. It's barley legible, but Takashi doesn't seem to care, 'you sure about that?' The smile doesn't drop from his face as he looks at you with hearts in his eyes, 'I think it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.'

I'm sorry but Smiley is probably the biggest asshole when he catches you doing this. He loves it, I promise, but he's a jerk 100% of the time, it's hard for him to turn it off. He raises an eyebrow when he sees you uncap your sharpie and start to draw something on his hand. 'What the fuck is that supposed to be?' He mutters. You laugh awkwardly at his harsh tone and drop your Sharpie, 'sorry, I just saw some cute videos about people putting their initials on their boyfriends wrists and I thought-it's stupid sorry-I don't know why I did that.' You duck your head down, burying your face into his chest, feeling that your body's on fire. Smiley looks at the half-finished doodle on his wrist. 'Don't stop baby, shit's pretty cute.' He presses a kiss to the crown of your head, 'I might get it tatted up.'

Angry is so flustered when he sees you doing this and he loves it so much okay. He feels like wearing it is a testament of how strong your love is. He will ask you (nervously) to do it every day because he doesn't want it to fade. 'Oh my gosh! Souya, you scared me, what're you doing there?' He stands awkwardly in the corner of your room, playing with the ends of his sleeves. 'Sorry... I didn't want to scare you... I just...' He pulls up his sleeve and he sees the fading bunny on his arm. 'I don't wanna bother you, I just-' 'Don't worry baby, I get it.' You cut him off, cupping his cheek and placing a kiss on his cheek. You pull him towards the bed and tell him to wait, 'I just need to get my Sharpies!'

Ran won't notice I'm sorry. He sleeps most of the day and he already has so much ink that some doodles won't pop out to him too much. It's only until he notices you doodling on a piece of paper one day and compares it to what's all over his arms that he starts tweakin'. 'Angel have you been inkin' me up?' He raises an eyebrow at you, confused. You hide your smile, 'of course not, I have no idea what you're talking about.' He narrows his eyes, '...okay.' Not completely believing you, but too sleepy to question things. 'Wanna take a nap?' You feel the Sharpie in your pocket and bite the inside of your cheeks, 'I'd love to!'

Rindou will eat that shit up, oh my gosh he loves it so much. He's like the extreme version of Angry and Mikey. He wants it obvious, and he wants it bold. 'C'mon princess, your name on my collarbone, I need it.' You raise an eyebrow as you straddle him, 'in red though, that's a bit... much.' He shakes his head, 'no, no, it'll be perfect.' You shake your head in exasperation, your boyfriend is a big dummy, but he loves you with every part of himself.

[mirandabeach]

drowning under the weight of mid semester assignments so have more absolutely ridiculous looking horseys

my friend sent me a post that said knights were the most beautiful pieces and respectfully No. so i will be posting a weird knight pic every time i need to dump feels in the tags from now on lol

[siilent-wanderer]

The Lines We Cross

Pairing: actress!aespa x actress!reader

aespa as classic k-drama tropes

masterlist | ive version

Jimin

Defending her from her ex

you and Jimin are best friends in the drama

but her character’s ex keeps trying to win her back (it’s annoying)

the script only called for you to step in and pull her away

but the moment the ex gets pushy, you blurt out the first thing in your mind

“She’s with me now.”

"Seriously? You're choosing her over me? Come on, babe."

"Don't call her that. You lost that privilege a long time ago."

Jimin freezes

this wasn’t in the script

her eyes widen as she glances at you, lips slightly parted in shock

the director doesn’t yell cut, so obviously you keep going

you slip your arm around her waist, pulling her closer

“She doesn’t need to deal with someone who didn’t appreciate her when they had the chance"

Jimin’s cheeks are turning pink

the cameras aren’t even focused on her anymore

BUT she’s still looking at you like you just flipped her entire world upside down

after the director yells "cut", she’s still staring

“You— uh, that was… unexpected.”

“Didn’t like it?”

she huffs, crossing her arms but failing to hide her flustered smile

“I didn’t say that. You actually looked so hot back there. Almost made me believe you were actually jealous.”

you roll your eyes, “Maybe I was. Who knows?”

"Hmm, I wouldn't mind if you were."

Aeri

Falling asleep on her shoulder

you just finished filming at a set away from the city, so it was a long ride back to the hotel

you’re exhausted, eyelids drooping despite your best efforts

Aeri is scrolling through her phone when she suddenly feels a weight on her shoulder

she glances down and finds you fast asleep against her

she stifles a chuckle, adjusting her posture slightly so you’re more comfortable

the van hits a small bump, and you instinctively nuzzle closer

EVEN murmuring her name in your sleep ???

Aeri freezes

her heart does this stupid little flip and she has to bite her lip to stop herself from smiling too much

the other cast members notice and start teasing her, making little kissy noises

“Shut up”

but she doesn’t move away

she rests her head lightly against yours, letting herself enjoy the moment

when the van finally stops, you slowly wake up, finding yourself nestled against Aeri

“I'm sorry, did I-”

“Yeah. For a while. Drooled on my shoulder, too,” Aeri smirks

your eyes widen, “I did not—”

she laughs at your horrified expression, then leans in slightly

“Kidding. But since you used me as your personal pillow, I think you owe me something.”

“Yeah? And what would that be?”

Aeri grins, her voice dropping to a teasing murmur

“Dinner. You know, as compensation.”

you scoff, but there’s a small smile playing on your lips

“Fine. My treat.”

“Actually… I think I deserve dessert, too.”

“Push your luck, and you’ll be paying."

“Worth it.”

Minjeong

Confession in the rain

your characters have been dancing around their feelings for so long

and for some stupid reason, you decide to confront them in the middle of a damn storm

rain is pouring, soaking both of you

Minjeong is glaring at you, breathless from arguing

she never screamed at you before. well, not until now

“Why do you care so much?” she yells over the downpour, eyes searching yours

you step forward, grabbing her wrist before she can turn away

“Because it’s you!” you confess, voice raw and filled with emotion. “It’s always been you!”

Minjeong’s expression softens for half a second

AND THEN she grabs your collar and pulls you in for a desperate kiss

the rain blurs everything, but all you can focus on is her — her warmth, her hands gripping you like she’s afraid to let go

"CUT!"

you expect her to pull away immediately, but she doesn’t

she lingers, her forehead resting against yours

“That was… really good acting,” she mutters, though her breathless voice betrays her

“Yeah? Want to practice some more?”

she shoves you playfully, but you catch the small, shy smile she’s trying to hide

"But you know kissing me wasn't in the script, right?"

her eyes widen, "Huh? What do you mean?"

you just smirk and walk away, leaving her confused and flustered

Yizhuo

Carrying her home drunk

Yizhuo's character gets drunk after a breakup

and unfortunately for you, as her closest friend, have no choice but to carry her home

“You’re heavy,” you groan, adjusting her on your back

Yizhuo giggles, arms lazily draped over your shoulders

“I’m not heavy. You’re just weak.”

“I should just leave you here,” you tease, pretending to drop her

she tightens her hold around your neck immediately

“Yah! You wouldn’t dare!”

you laugh, feeling the warmth of her cheek against your shoulder

in the script, it said you have to gently set her down once you reach her apartment

but Yizhuo, still in playful character mode, doesn’t let go

“You’re always so nice to me… Why can’t everyone be like you?”**

your stupid heart stutters

“Because they’d all be too annoying to handle.”

she's looking at you like she doesn't even care that you just teased her

she's smiling like she's about to laugh BUT HER EYES

they're looking at you lovingly

which flusters you, so you stop talking

"CUT!"

she doesn’t move right away. she's STILL clinging to you, smirking

“I like being carried. Might have to get drunk more often.”

you roll your eyes, “Or you could just ask next time.”

she hums in amusement. “Where’s the fun in that?”

A/N: hello, I'm back from the dead

[wilwheaton]

His act is way tired. It’s now nine years of “Fake news” and “You won’t have a country anymore” and all the rest. In 2015, all those Trumpisms were stupid and disgusting; but at least they were new. I actually laughed when he described Jeb Bush as a “low-energy person.” He was! I could imagine then how, for voters who didn’t hate him, he was interesting and possibly amusing as a species that American politics rarely produces: someone who threw the script in the air and said whatever the hell popped into his mind. That was bound to be something people wanted to watch, for a while. And it was just as bound to be something that became less compelling over time. It’s an act. And this is a key difference between politics and show business that Trump can’t see. In showbiz, and on TV, it’s all about whether the production values can sell the act. In politics, it turns out, the act needs more than slick production. It still needs to show some connection to people’s lives and concerns. Harris is better at that than Trump is. And her act is a lot fresher, too. And Walz’s act versus Vance’s? Not remotely close. Yes—Walz is so compelling, and Vance so repelling, that this is one election where the veep choices may actually make two points’ worth of difference. None of this means Trump is finished. Happy Days lasted several seasons after it literally jumped the shark. But the ratings did start to fall soon enough. No one ever hated Fonzie, like many do Trump. But even fans of the show became a lot less invested in it. My old friend reminded me of the quote by Elie Wiesel: “The opposite of love is not hate. It’s indifference.”

Donald Trump Has Totally Jumped the Shark

[bloodchapell]

hiii if its not too much work could I request what’s it like to be high school sweethearts with stanley?

Also side note I LOVE your writing sm especially since there is barely any one that writes for dr stone now these days 😔

highschool lover — stanley s. SIDE A

what to expect: suggestive, so cuteee

your sword's note: thankyu for the request dear anon! i actually have two posts for this request, i will link it here so check it out too (SIDE B). more on my mistresslist

i have two ideas, either you are a goody two shoes or sheer evil, but for this one lets go with the angel on earth, i will do the menace on the side B

you have english together, he hates the teacher but always sees you participating and it kinda pisses him off but he lets it slide because you are so beautiful that he can't even skip the class because he needs to see you there

the teacher asks you to tutor him, so after school you go to your house and you sit in the dining table with the book assigned for class. you sit reading out loud the first part, then you stop and talk with him about it, initially he doesn't get the symbolism or the metaphors, and he is ready to feel embarrassed and stupid, but you help him right away. he feels his heart skip a beat at the tenderness of your voice, he has never been treated so softly

every day after school, you hang out. you tell him that you love books. he can't talk about books with you, so he asks what your favorite is and at your house you lend it to him

once he is home, he opens it. there is a pressed flower in between, and the paper smells like you, page after page he sees annotations on the text with your beautiful script. he reads the book in one sitting.

"i finished the book dolly, let's talk about it." he asks. he loved the book, it changed his whole perception of things. in recess, you sit together and you discuss the book

his grades in english class improve so much that he doesn't need you to tutor him anymore. you catch him purposefully messing up the response of his homework just so he has an excuse to spend time with you. "stan you know the right answers." you tilt your head and so he erases the wrongdoings and writes the correct ones

he is constantly telling xeno about you. he asks stanley if he likes you and he can't even lie. "no, i don't like her, i am in love with her."

one afternoon while you both read in your house, he asks hesitantly. "dolly, this might be odd, but i would like to take you on a date." you agree so fast that it actually makes him laugh

he takes you on a picnic and then to a drive-through movie theater. initially he doesn't know how to act but you remain kind and understanding as always that he simply acts like usual

by the end of the date, when he drives you back to your house, he opens the door for you and walks you to your doorstep, and you give him a kiss on the lips

the next day, he comes by your house. when you hear the doorbell you open the door and find him with a bouquet of flowers and chocolates. you hug him and let him in. despite his meh handwriting, he gives you a letter. since i met you, my life has become like a dream, my poor vocabulary can't even express it, so i will read all the books i have to until i can tell you. xeno helped him redact that. he is not easily vulnerable, but given the type of person he fell in love with, he feels it is only just. if he has to learn, no problem, he can do it.

"be my girlfriend dolly." he asks playing with your hair, you nod immediately and hug him

he is late to all his classes because he insists on carrying your bag for you and dropping you off to every class

you introduce him to your parents on your first month together, and even years later, having been in the military and in special missions that are real danger, he has never been as scared

he has kissed before, but not like he kisses you. of course later on you two star experimenting and kissing gets heated, but on the regular your kisses are tender and full of love, and he is addicted to them

he heard a girl call you a nerd once in the hallway, but since he couldn't beat her up, he put a rat in her locker

stanley introduces you to xeno and he approves of you👍🏻

he thinks you are an innocent sweet pea but while looking through the collection of books in your room he finds the most down bad novellas, he is shocked

people are always saying "no wayyy" to him when he says that you are his girlfriend, what cliche is going on here!?

all the teachers keep joking that you are going to finally fix him. "there is nothing to fix, he is perfect like this, be more respectful." you say. he doesn't know if to laugh at them or cry at your sweet words

he takes you to alongside him to his hangout with xeno at the paintball arena. he teaches you how to shoot the gun and you seem clueless at first but end up winning. it seems feasible defeating xeno, but even before training stanley was already good at guns

he would never attend school dances, but after he started dating you he does, not only because you thought it might be cute but because he wants to show you off and laugh in the faces of his enemies (whatever that means)

he is oddly shy to get handsy at first, even knowing what you would be reading, but after a particularly heated make out session you pull his hands towards your body and he can't help but give in

"are you sure in the car is fine dolly? wouldn't you want something more romantic?" he pants holding your waist in the backseat of his car. "who ever said that?" you play with the hem of his shirt. nonetheless it was on. clothes removed and bruises on his neck, he had imagined that your first time together would be different, but it is just fine to have you ride him in his car. looks like one can learn a lot from reading —stanley's thoughts—

you are king and queen of prom hell yeah !

better believe you guys are lasting forevah

when stanley goes to training it hits you very hard. you send him so many letters that everyone is jealous

in the class reunion, god knows how many years after, people are gossiping about the highschool days. when they see you walking together they sigh, "of fucking course"

[notiddygothgf]

II

★ pairings: aki hayakawa x fem reader

★❝ I got you, Angel. ❞

★ c.w.: so much yearning, smut, nipple play (f!receiving), riding, nasty depraved car sex, unsafe sex lol, infidelity, angst, did i mention yearning? lmfao, obsessive!aki. god hes so nasty in this chap lol. not beta'd

★ a/n: okay so when i said i was back... apparently i lied lol. i started a summer chem course and its accelerated so when i tell you this shit has been whooping my asssssss! anyway! i wanted to finish this one before updating my other stories, but it wound up being so long that im going to have to add one third and final chapter after this anyway LMFAOAO! so!! i hope you all enjoy this chapter as much as i enjoyed watching it come to fruition. If this ff seems like its moving fast, thats cus it is. It's a short story (and also theyre obsessed w eachother lol). keep those comments coming -- i just might update sooner lollll.

★ w.c: 15.4k

for your love ; chapter index

AKI WAS GOING INSANE. Sitting across from you at the long banquet table, surrounded by the hum of forced laughter and clinking glasses, he could barely hear a thing over the sound of his own heartbeat.

You were breathtaking, as per usual, simply breathtaking. The dress accentuated you in ways that made it impossible for him to focus on anything else, and every time your eyes flicked up to meet his, fleeting and full of affection, it only made it worse. He felt like he was unraveling by the second.

God, you were driving him insane.

Your husband was standing nearby, glass in hand, laying on the charm for a cluster of higher-ups. Aki watched him talk, laugh, gesture – all too comfortably. The man was admittedly charismatic, and seemingly oblivious to the tension boiling between you and his superior.

Aki's fingers itched. He needed to do something. Anything. He was going to lose his fucking mind.

On the table sat a pen – a sleek, branded thing meant for guests to write down well-wishes or advice to new recruits on the little cards provided. Some cute Public Safety tradition he really couldn't give less of a shit about. He picked it up, eyes still locked on you, and dragged a cocktail napkin toward him.

His handwriting was sharp and quick.

I want to see you outside.

He folded the napkin once, casually, like it was nothing. But his hand trembled just slightly as he leaned forward and slid it toward you across the white tablecloth, the edge of the note stopping just near your fingertips.

You looked down. A beat passed.

Then your fingers closed over the napkin like you already knew exactly what it said. You unfolded the tiny paper square, pretty eyes drooping to scan the letters on its surface. He watched them widen before you slid the note beneath the table, cradling it to your lap so your husband wouldn't see it.

You scribbled something down, and Aki felt his heart race.

A moment later, checking to make sure your husband wasn't looking, you slid the napkin back to him. Your fingers brushed in the middle – a small, tiny movement, but it sent jolts of electricity up his arm. He fumbled the tiny thing, damn near dropping it before he was able to pry it open and read it.

Not here. Someone will notice.

His mind was already spiraling. It wasn't rejection. It was restraint. Fear. Desire wound tight and hidden beneath a composed exterior.

It's not a no.

His hand shook as he reached for the pen. It felt too small in his grip, his fingers too stiff.

He wrote fast, pressing the tip of the pen harder than necessary.

Then when?

The words looked desperate, he knew that. Not his usual stoic script. His hand hovered above the napkin for a moment afterward, as if he was thinking of adding more, but stopped himself. He folded it in half again, heart pounding, and pushed it back across the table. When no one else could see it.

It was risky – stupid as hell, he fucking knew that, but he couldn't help it.

Your eyes flicked down again, and this time you didn't wait. You opened it right there in front of your plate, using the edge of your hand to shield it from sight. You didn't look surprised. You just picked up the pen again and wrote, then slid the napkin back to him one final time.

I'll be at the 9 o'clock mass this Sunday while my husband is out.

The handwriting was delicate. Pretty, even. Fitting for someone like you.

Aki's throat tightened as he read it. He stared at the napkin for a few long seconds, barely breathing.

You wanted to see him.

And not in a hallway or behind some locked door at HQ. A church. Sunday. You were giving him time. 

Someone called his name. "Hayakawa!"

He blinked.

Laughter echoed down the table. He looked up, someone gesturing at him with a toast, waiting for a response.

He nodded, distracted, forcing something like a smile. Then, before he could second guess it, he grabbed the napkin, folded it with trembling fingers, and wiped the corner of his mouth with it. A single motion, casual. Inconspicuous.

Then he stuffed it into the bottom of his empty glass like it was just trash.

But his hands were still shaking. His jaw was tight.

And, fuck, his mind was already on Sunday.

As Aki sat in the driver's seat of his car, his heart was practically beating right out of his chest. Behind him, the jacket of his Public Safety uniform was draped over the backseat, leaving him in a button down that felt far too hot, no tie – he'd had to stop by HQ for some paperwork. In front of him, the church stood tall, its white walls reflecting the morning sunlight. It was a sanctuary, a promise of purity.

But there was nothing pure about what Aki had come here for.

Nervous was a vast understatement. He sat anxiously in the driver's seat, wringing his hands in his lap, bouncing his leg up and down, eyes darting over to the red double doors of the church's entrance. Outside, it was raining – not too much, but just enough for him to hear the pitter-patter as the droplets met his windshield. 

God, he thought, I could really use a cigarette. 

The little pack felt heavy in his pants pocket. His fingers itched for another, but then he would have blown through three cigarettes in one morning, which was ridiculous, even for him. 

Was this even the right church? He'd double-checked the address twice, triple-checked the time you'd given him. But now, sitting here, he wasn't so sure. What if you'd meant the nine o'clock evening mass? What if it wasn't today at all? What if you changed your mind and just didn't want to tell him? He certainly wouldn't have blamed you.

You're spiraling, he told himself. Breathe.

But the silence around him felt oppressive, like even the birds had the decency to quiet down for the awkwardness of the moment. His mind wouldn't stop running. Did he look too tense? Too eager? Should he have worn something else? His shirt felt too stiff, his palms too clammy. 

What the hell was he doing here?

And then, as if on cue, the doors opened, releasing a flood of churchgoers onto the sidewalk and street – all of them dressed in their Sunday best. Among them, nearly smothered by smiling faces, there you were, wearing a pretty white dress of your own. You had a flower pinned to your hair.

You stepped out.

A sundress, soft and summery, one that flowed out around your waist. Matching heels clicking softly against the pavement. Hair done, makeup subtle, like you hadn't tried too hard but still managed to look... stunning. 

Of fucking course you did.

His heart did something strange in his chest. His thoughts slowed for a second – not gone, just momentarily stunned into silence by your beauty.

You didn't hesitate. No wave, no smile. Just a glance, and then you crossed the lot and pulled open the passenger side door like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

You got in without saying a word.

And suddenly, the air in the car felt thick.

Aki cleared his throat, moving to break the silence, but you did it before he could. 

"Drive to the woods," You told him, gaze curtly avoiding his. "Near the outskirts of the city."

"Why the woods?" he asked.

"I don't want anyone seeing us together," you admitted, your voice low, like you weren't sure if you should've said it out loud.

He nodded, jaw clenched. His fingers twitched as he shifted the car into gear. He was trembling just slightly, just enough for him to feel it. He felt as if he had never been this close to you before, not for this long. Not in such a small space, not with so much left unsaid between you.

The drive took twenty minutes. It passed in complete silence.

He kept his eyes on the road, but he was writhing beneath the tension – beneath his hyper awareness of your every move. At every stoplight, his fingers would tighten against the steering wheel.

There was so much to say.

You didn't speak. Neither did he. The silence between you was heavy, but not empty.

When he finally pulled off the main road and into the clearing, trees crowding in on either side, he parked the car and killed the engine.

And then... nothing.

He didn't look at you. Just sat there, staring ahead, his hands still gripping the wheel like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. 

Taking a deep breath, you finally spoke up, "I'm so confused. I keep telling myself this is wrong– that I'm not supposed to feel like this. I made a vow, but..." She trailed off, breath catching. "Every time I see you, my chest gets tight, and I can't breathe, and– God, Aki– my heart feels like it's going to burst out of my chest."

I feel that way too.

"If I'm–" You turned your head to the side, but you didn't quite meet his eyes, "If I'm imagining this–"

"You're not imagining it," Was his rushed response. He whipped his head around to look at you – really look at you, your hair, your eyes as they turned to meet his gaze. Subconsciously, perhaps, his eyes dropped down to the pink, pretty arch of your lips. He wasn't a fan of how hoarse his voice sounded when he added, "I can't stop thinking about you either."

An admission. A guilty one. Truthfully, you had been the only thing on his mind in recent days – especially since you'd gone and kissed him in the bathroom at the party. Fuck, you were driving him up the wall.

And now, you sat before him, the picture of beauty. Your hands were neatly folded in your lap, fingernails freshly painted with a french tip. Your lips trembled ever-so-slightly. Your eyes peered up into his like you were searching for an answer he didn't have. 

"I think about you all the time," You admitted, glancing out the windshield, as if the words filled you with shame. Aki felt like the wind had been knocked right out of him. "At the store, when I'm with him... even when I don't want to, and I hate that I feel– I don't... I don't know what it means."

You exhaled, then. A shuddering, trembling breath that materialized in the cold air between the two of you. You were so close to him, eyes lined with a shade that flattered them, lips begging to be kissed. He could smell your perfume – hints of lavender, something floral mixed together with the smell of freshly fallen rain – and it was driving him insane.

Your eyes began to water. "Every time I'm in bed with him, I wish it was you."

The words hit him like a punch to the fucking ribs.

His breath stalled completely., heart stumbling over itself. His hands flexed uselessly against his thighs. He didn't move, didn't dare look directly at you—not when he felt like something inside him had just cracked open.

He'd imagined this. He'd fantasized about you saying something just like that, in a hundred different ways, on a hundred different sleepless nights, but hearing it, really hearing it with your voice so soft and raw and full of everything you'd been holding back wrecked him.

She thinks about me.

She thinks about being in bed with me.

She wants me, too.

Something wild and possessive surged in his chest, something he wasn't proud of. He tried to shove it down, tried to stay rational, but it was like trying to hold back a tide with bare hands.

God, I am not your strongest soldier.

Every time I'm in bed with him, I wish it was you.

"Don't say that," He exhaled sharply, turning his head to the side. He couldn't bear to look at you anymore, not when you were sitting there looking so perfect, so delectable that his fingers twitched with the urge to reach out and hold you, touch you.

"I wanna know what it's like to kiss you, how you feel," You breathed out, and the words came flowing like water, like you were trying to ruin him. You inched a little closer, and he turned around to face you head on. Closer, still, and he could feel your breath as it fanned across his chin. "I know it's wrong but I can't– I can't take it anymore. I want you, Aki."

I want you.

And he thought, Fuck, I want you too. So much that it hurts.

He could easily lie to himself. He could sit and say that he was an honorable man, that he had no intentions of pursuing a married woman, but he would be convincing no one – including himself. No, at the end of the day, he had come here to meet you with one intention in mind.

Instead, all that came out was a sigh, "You don't know what you're asking."

"I do– I..." You broke off, voice trembling. "I need you, Aki."

Fuck, say my name like that again.

His breath left him in a sharp exhale. Every nerve in his body lit up, blood rushing hot and fast to all of the wrong places.

He felt like an animal. Like something primal had been caged in his chest and was now clawing its way out.

You moved closer. Not much, just a few inches, but it was enough. Enough to make him lose whatever thread of composure he was holding onto. You were right there. Practically nose to nose.

He could see the shimmer of tears in your eyes. The slight part of your lips. Your breath mingled with his, warm, unsteady. You looked up at him, and he looked down at you, and for a moment neither of you moved.

But everything inside him did.

Your voice broke through the stillness, barely above a whisper. "Say something, please."

He let out a low, helpless sound – half laugh, half groan – and shook his head like he was scolding himself, like he couldn't believe what he was about to do.

Fuck it.

"You have no fucking idea what you do to me," he said, voice rough.

And then he was leaning down – finally, finally – and kissing you. Fuck, you tasted like heaven, melting on his tongue like a decadent chocolate. His arms wrapped around you without so much as a second thought, tugging at your shoulders, pulling you ever closer to him. He couldn't get enough.

There was nothing hesitant about it. No cautious testing of boundaries. No slow burn. Just heat. Immediate, consuming. Like striking a match to dry leaves.

Your lips were soft, warmer than he imagined, parting under his like they belonged there. He groaned low in his throat when you kissed him back, mouth opening, breath mingling with his as your tongues met – tentative at first, then deeper, hungrier.

Sweet and sharp, like whatever gloss you wore mixed with the ghost of coffee and something that was just you. It went straight to his head, dizzying. Addictive.

He tilted his head, kissing you harder. Lips pressing, dragging, catching slightly before sealing again, wetter now, messier. Your breath hitched against his mouth, and it nearly fucking undid him. 

Quickly, desperately, you climbed into his seat.

You were in his lap now, knees bracketing his thighs, your body warm and solid against his as you pressed closer. His hands found your hips, steadying you, pulling you against him with a desperation he couldn't hide.

Your hands were everywhere, gripping his shoulders, threading into his hair, tugging just hard enough to make his stomach twist, to make his ponytail come loose. He could feel the shape of your thighs around him, the press of your chest against his, the soft whimper you tried to swallow when he nipped at your lower lip. The way you arched up into him while your hands tangled into his hair.

"God," he muttered into your mouth, panting, "You're driving me insane."

You pulled him back in instead of answering, and he let you. Let himself get lost in it. 

He reached down and shoved the seat back with one hand, the click of the lever sharp in the quiet. The seat slid, giving you both just enough room, but not nearly enough distance.

Not that either of you wanted space.

He kissed you like he was starved for it. Like this was the only time he'd ever get to. His tongue slid against yours again, slow at first, then deeper, hungrier. He caught your lip between his teeth and you gasped, and it sent fire straight down his spine.

His hands were roaming now – your back, your waist, fingertips grazing under the hem of your dress like they couldn't help themselves. Fuck, like he couldn't help himself (he couldn't.)

Your lips were going to be the death of him. He didn't even care that the two of you were making out in the driver's seat of his car like a bunch of horny highschoolers. No, the only thing that mattered was you – your scent, your hands on his shoulder, in his hair, your lips sliding up against his like two puzzle pieces, finally joined together. All that mattered was the way you felt pressed right up against him – all soft curves where he had sharp angles, so warm between the thighs that he could hardly wrap his head around it.

Fuck, he would give the world just to have a taste of you.

I cannot believe I'm actually about to do this.

His kisses strayed from your lips – though he couldn't stand the thought of not being liplocked with you for even a moment – to trail down the valley of your jaw, your neck. He lavished the area with love – nipping, licking, sucking the skin there like brush strokes over a blank canvas. You whined, tossing your head back, hair falling out of your face, rolling your hips down into his lap, and, fuck, he was so hard, it was becoming difficult to think straight.

And then your hands were on him, pulling him closer, fiddling with the buttons of his white dress shirt. You undid the first while Aki's lips dropped lower, peppering hot, open-mouthed kisses to your collarbone. 

"Marks–" You gasped once you were finished undoing the buttons, pushing his shirt open and revealing his chest, his toned stomach. "Don't leave marks."

Wouldn't dream of it. No, he knew exactly how hard to bite. Not enough to leave a trace, but just enough to have you arching up into his touch so prettily. He had always prided himself on being a quick learner, and this was no different. Your body was an open book, and he yearned to gloss his hands through the pages, lose himself in them. As his fingertip grazed over stretch marks and curves, he couldn't help but be starstruck by you.

Never in his life had he ever seen a woman so beautiful.

Your hands roamed over his chest like those of a sculptor, mapping out the planes of his pecs, revering his body like you were amazed. He wasn't proud of the shaky moan that left his lips when your fingers grazed his abs. 

What? He was pent up.

And, judging by the way his hands gravitated towards your breasts to respond in kind, he was lost beyond retrieval. The mounds were warm through the fabric, soft in his hands. He kneaded the tender flesh more gently than he'd ever held anything before. It was then that he realized something that made his slacks grow ever tighter.

You weren't wearing a fucking bra.

Good lord, He thought, pausing to collect himself before he creamed his pants like an idiot. You had gone to church without a bra on... for him? 

That's just downright sinful. 

The way you were grinding yourself down on him had him losing his grip on reality. 

Your fingers stayed tangled in his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp as you tugged and rolled your hips, just enough to draw a guttural sound from his throat. His mouth hung open beneath yours, breath ragged, hips twitching up to meet yours with a helplessness he couldn't hide.

He moved his hand. Slid it down from your chest with a kind of reverence, fingertips trailing over your ribs, the soft tremble of your stomach, until he reached your hip and gripped it like it was the only thing keeping him tethered.

Your noses bumped. Foreheads pressed together. You didn't kiss him.

You just gasped into each other's mouths, barely touching, the heat of your breath mingling in the space where your lips should have met. Every sound he made rattled through you. Every exhale felt like it could tip you over.

Still, he didn't dare to move any further, out of fear of scaring you off. That is, of course, until you spoke up.

"Touch me," you whispered, like it was a prayer, "Please..."

The words set his heart ablaze.

His thumb brushed against your hip bone like he was memorizing the shape of you. Then, slowly – shakily – his hand dipped a little lower, gracing the hem of your pretty little sundress, slipping just below. The moment his hand made contact with the warm skin of your thigh, he couldn't resist the urge to squeeze the delicate flesh. He was gentle, of course. No, he didn't want to break you.

Though, honestly, he would if you asked him to with that pretty lilt in your voice. The one that drove him mad.

Suddenly feeling a whole lot less experienced than he actually was, his fingers grazed your inner thighs, moving up, up, until they met with the warm fabric between your legs. You made the prettiest little sound into his mouth, shifting your hips down a little harder, and that was all it fucking took to have him hooking a finger beneath the crotch of your panties, pulling it to the side.

He dipped a digit experimentally into the aching warmth between your plush thighs, and, fuck, you were dripping for him. Tracing up and down, up and down, he leaned forward and captured your lips again, reeling from how fucking wet you were.

He should have looked away. Should've closed his eyes, buried his face in your neck, done anything but watch you like this – hips grinding against his hand in slow, sinful circles, breath shaky, fingers tangled in his hair like you were holding him in place on purpose.

But, shit, you looked too good like this. Ruined and trying not to fall apart all over him.

His hand was still slick from touching you – he could feel it in the space between your skin and his, warm and wet, proof of how badly you wanted him. And he couldn't stop himself. He brought his hand up slowly, deliberately, and met your gaze like a challenge.

You didn't look away.

You watched him, wide-eyed, lips parted, as he dragged his tongue across his fingers, tasting the heat you'd left behind. His breath hitched at the way your expression shifted from disbelief to something far hungrier, but he never once dared to break eye contact.

His tongue moved with purpose, tasting you off his own hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. It was salty, sweet, just the slightest tang, and he groaned at the taste of you.

I'm gonna lose my mind.

He only wished the two of you had more time together. Maybe then, he would be able to lay you down in the backseat, feel you fall apart against his mouth.

Then, his fingers were exploring your pleasure again, inching towards your core, parting the wet folds and teasing you gently, slowly. With his index and middle finger, he traced a line down to your entrance, petting it gently. With his thumb, he searched for your puffy clit – and once he found it, he zeroed in on it, using the pad of his finger to rub tiny circles around it. 

"Aki..." You breathed out, breath fogging up the driver side window. You ground your wet pussy right into his hand, practically begging him to dip a finger inside. 

Who was he to deny you such a pleasure? Keeping your foreheads pressed together – and his thumb on your clit – he teased a finger over your hole, slipping it inside of you with no resistance. You felt even warmer on the inside, gummy walls clinging to his digit like you didn't want to let it go. Then, when you moaned his name again – and he decided that he would do anything just to hear you say it like that again – he added another, just because you took them so fucking well.

"I got you, pretty baby," He crooned softly, just faintly enough for you to hear.

You felt unreal, and the thought that you (potentially) wanted him and his dick anywhere near the oasis between your legs was enough to have him feeling dizzy. You hugged his fingers like they fucking belonged there. He couldn't help but do everything he could to stretch you open, to hear those pretty noises of yours. Scissoring them, curling them, using them to feel around until–

"Oh– Right there!" You gasped out rather suddenly, grip tightening around his hair.

Found it.

It felt only slightly different from the surrounding area. A little spongier, tucked just out of the way, a few knuckles deep. Once he'd succeeded at finding it, he began to press the tips of his fingers into it, massaging the area slowly, like he had all day.

He nuzzled your nose with the end of his, bringing your lips together for a chaste kiss. "Right there, Angel?"

"Mhm," You replied – so perfectly, like something straight out of a wet dream. 

You were so fucking wet. Practically dripping down his palm, his wrist. Even though his arm ached from the angle, he would be damned if he stopped now. He wanted– no, fuck, he needed to make you feel good.

His thumb worked a little harder on your clit, eagerly rolling over the needy bud in circles, side to side – more desperation than real finesse, but judging by the way you were rutting against his palm, he was doing just fine.

Back arched, hands running slow and lazy over your own body like you needed to feel something, anything – your fingers grazing your sides, slipping up to your chest, catching slightly on the fabric of your dress. Like something straight out of one of the damn porno magazines Denji had left on the kitchen table, you squeezed your chest through the dress, hands doing everything they could to get the edge off. 

Your breaths were shallow, uneven, lips parted as you looked up at him through half-lidded eyes that shimmered with heat and something else he didn't want to name, all while groping yourself like you wanted him to do it instead.

It killed him.

You looked untouchable like this. Barely holding yourself together. And yet you were right there in front of him, moving like you belonged to him, like you wanted him to see every inch of you come undone.

He didn't mean to reach for you. Not really.

But his fingers lifted anyway – slow and trembling, like a fucking virgin – and he let them skim over the soft fabric of your dress, hovering at the low neckline. His breath hitched as he touched it. Not your skin. Not yet... just the barrier. 

Then, while continuing to fuck you open on his long fingers, he used his spare hand to slip the strap of your dress off of your shoulder, then the other. The moment you caught onto what he was trying to do, your eyes darkened. Then, slowly, agonizingly, you reached for the top of your dress and rolled it down.

Finally free of their confines, the mounds on your chest fell free, and, fuck, he felt like an animal. They were by far the prettiest he'd ever seen – though, honestly, anything that was attached to you could easily have achieved the same title – plump, plush, with pretty nipples hardened into stiff little peaks. 

He was practically drooling at the sight. 

His blue eyes – uncertain, but filled to the brim with adoration – drank in the sight of you like this. Hair messy (with that pretty little flower still clipped into it), lips glossy with spit, eyes blown wide with pleasure. It killed him to know that he was the reason for that.

Then you fucking smiled at him, breathless and debauched while you brought his free hand up to cup one of your tits. He felt unworthy. Still, that didn't stop him from wrapping his fingers around it and rolling the soft skin around in his palm, from crooking his fingers back up into that place deep inside of you that had you breathing out his name.

"Aki."

Fuck, he didn't think he would ever be able to get it out of his head. 

Peering up at you once more to make sure that you were okay for him to continue, he leaned forward, bringing his face up to the plush of your chest and practically burying it between your tits. He was overwhelmed with desire, with the need to kiss whatever skin he could touch. Your sternum, the inside of your breast. By the time his lips finally wrapped around your nipple, you were tangling your fingers into the back of his head, into his hair.

The skin was warm, slightly pebbled as he rolled his tongue over the bud in a few expert strokes. He rolled it between his teeth next – not enough to hurt, but enough to make you grip him a little harder. He sucked like he was on a mission to brand you with his tongue, his eager lips.

You gasped, turned, arched up into him. In all honesty, managing to fingerfuck you while keeping one of your tits in his mouth proved to be much easier said than done, but he could die happy like this. 

Slowly, your hand slid down between your body and his, glossing over his abs, his navel, until you were tugging at his belt. 

Fuck.

At first, he wasn't certain about continuing – maybe it was a mistake?

But, then, your hand dipped a little lower. It caressed his thigh, his crotch, then gripped him tightly through his slacks. He fucking gasped – his dick was throbbing so hard that he wouldn't have been surprised if he exploded.

Okay, definitely not a mistake.

You gripped him harder, tighter, and his words came out as a shuddering gasp against your lips. "I don't... have protection."

Fucking idiot.

You have one chance to spend time alone with the girl of your dreams, and you forget to bring a fucking condom?

Then again, he hadn't been bold enough to assume even for a minute that you would want him the way he wanted you.

Still, you shook your pretty little head, hair shifting from side to side as you did so, and answered, "Don't care, please... I'm clean, I just– I need you."

I don't want to take any chances, he thought. It was bad enough that he had even thought about fucking a married woman. The last thing he needed was for you to get knocked up.

But, fuck, he felt like he would die if he didn't get inside of you.

"That's too risky," He decided to do the right thing. He swallowed, the apple of his throat bobbing beneath the heady weight of your ravenous gaze – locked onto him like you already owned him. "What if we–"

"I'm on birth control," You grinned. 

He stared at you.

His heart lurched so hard it nearly knocked the breath out of his lungs.

Fuck.

It echoed in his head, loud and helpless. His control fractured. Every reason he had for holding back – duty, caution, fear – melted beneath the heat of your grin and the way your hand slid down his stomach, undid his belt buckle like you wanted him to break.

"It's okay, Aki," you said again, softer this time, like a promise. Or a dare.

He took a sharp breath, chest rising beneath you, and exhaled like it physically hurt to hold himself back. His hands gripped your hips tighter, fingertips digging into your skin like he needed something to tether himself to before he fucking melted into the seat.

You were going to be the death of him. 

Fuck me, he thought, not sure if it was a curse or a prayer. 

"Fuck, you're gonna be the death of me," he said aloud this time, his lips brushing against your jaw, his forehead pressing to yours like he needed to steady himself. But he was already gone.

And you – smiling like you'd just undone him – simply finished undoing his belt. Then, once you were satisfied with that,you tugged at the waistband of his black slacks.

Instead of stopping you, instead of putting an end to this like he most definitely should have done, he helped you. He withdrew his fingers from your heat, using both hands to wiggle his slacks and boxers down to his thighs. Just enough to finally free his aching cock from its restraints. 

He felt nervous – more nervous than he had any reason to be. But, fucking hell, when your eyes dropped down to his lap, widening at the size of him, it was hard to not let it get to his head. 

You didn't take long to make up your mind, though, lowering yourself right down onto it and rocking your hips back.

And then you started to move.

A steady, languid rhythm, rocking your hips back and forth, sliding against him in a way that made it hard to breathe, let alone think. His hands hovered at your waist, unsure whether to grip you tighter or just let you have him however you fucking wanted. He watched you like he was dreaming – eyes dark and hungry, mouth slightly open, utterly helpless.

You were the picture of pornographic beauty.

Head thrown back, throat exposed, mouth parted on a soft, broken sigh as your body moved with instinct and intention. Your back arched so beautifully while the window cast fragments of sunlight onto your tits, like something out of a painting, the curve of your spine drawing his eyes down your body, and he swore he'd never forget the way you looked right now. Lit only by the low light and the haze of shared heat, riding the edge of your own desire right there in his goddamn lap.

You were using him to take the edge off, and it was driving him insane.

Because you weren't even looking at him – and still, you had him. Entirely. Mind, body, every last shred of restraint. You didn't need to try. Just the way you moved – like you knew you were being worshipped, like a serpent – was enough to ruin him.

"Fuck," he breathed out, "Use me, baby, just like that."

You moaned in response, rutting your hips down a little harder, a little faster. He could feel you – too much and not enough at the same time – warm, wet, tempting.

His eyes dragged up the line of your body again, and he felt his chest tighten. Not just with need, but something deeper. Something more dangerous. He was enamored by you, completely.

Slowly, not wanting to disrupt you (but needing to feel you a little deeper), he reached between your body and his. Then, he grabbed his dick and held it up, sliding it back and forth until it caught on your entrance and, fuck, you sank down like it was nothing.

Well, not nothing. Though your body practically sucked him in, your eyes were squeezed shut, brows furrowed with concentration. Your thighs were shaking, too, telltale signs that it hurt a little more than you wanted to let on.

"You got it, pretty," He breathed out words of encouragement. "Just like that."

Once the tip was in, Aki pressed a kiss to your chin – the only place he could reach. It seemed to spur you on, because only a moment later, you were pushing your hips the rest of the way down, down down.

His head dropped back against the seat with a dull thud, a sharp exhale tearing from his throat as your warmth took him in, inch by inch.

She takes me so well.

Then, he bottomed out inside of you. It was fucking perfect – so warm, so wet, hugging him just tight enough to make his head spin. You were perfect and, fuck, the two of you let out the most synchronized moan the moment your ass met his lap.

You started fucking him like your life depended on it, picking a slow riding pace while you grew accustomed to the feeling of him so deep inside of you, but it changed to a faster one rather quickly. 

Up. Down. Up. Down. You bounced on his lap, desperately chasing the promise of pleasure, and it was driving him fucking crazy. Subconsciously, his hands reached for your hips, guiding their motions while you undid him at the seams.

"Oh my God–" You gasped out. Your hand shot out to the side, grasping the window, then his chest for support. All of the heat was beginning to fog the windows up, so much so that he couldn't see a damn thing outside. Eyes squeezed shut, mouth gaped open, you cried again, "Oh my God–" 

The sound that tore from his throat wasn't planned, wasn't controlled – it was a choked-off moan that escaped before he could catch it. His eyes rolled back as your pussy dragged against up and down his shaft, body melting into his like it was second nature, like you were made to move like this on top of him.

"F-fuck," he gasped, his grip tightening on your waist, but it didn't stop you. If anything, you only rocked harder, back and forth, pressing down on him with a slow, teasing rhythm that made it impossible to breathe.

What? It had been a while for him.

You were fucking him with intent, like you wanted to see him fall apart one gasp at a time. 

And, God, it was working. 

He could feel every curve of your body rolling into his, the heat, the slick friction, the pretty noises you made every time your hips met.

His head fell back against the seat again, jaw slack, eyes fluttering shut as he moved with you, utterly helpless. It felt like he was fucking melting. Like you were dragging him under with nothing more than the way your body moved on top of his.

Your hands roamed up his chest like you were studying him, measuring his reactions, learning what made his breath catch and his muscles lock. You leaned in when he moaned. Smiled when he cursed. You were doing this on purpose – drawing him out, winding him up, making him lose his grip.

And suddenly he was looking at you again. Really looking.

Your hair had fallen into your face, strands clinging to sweat-damp skin, and he reached up – slow, gently – and tucked it gently behind your ear. His fingers lingered there, brushing the shell of it, soft and barely-there, and you fucking smiled at him.

God, you were breathtaking.

His gaze dropped down to his lap, to the junction between your body and his. He could feel your clit bumping his navel when you leaned forward, changing the angle. He could see the sweat dripping down your neck, down his abdomen. Above all else, he could see you– all of you.

"You– Ha," He gasped out, voice breaking on a whimper, "You feel so fuckin' good, Angel."

You were an angel. Ethereal, calm, kind, fucking perfect. (Not to mention that the pussy was out of this world).

You felt better than fucking nicotine – like he'd gone his whole life without taking a desperately needed hit and then, suddenly, you were there... invading his lungs, filling his chest and making him feel so warm.

"S'big," You groaned back in response, "So fucking big, fuck."

Your hand was back on the foggy window, gripping at nothing in particular, and he didn't even care about leaving fingerprints. You felt like heaven wrapped around him. It was insane, he thought, how quickly you had been able to tear him apart.

I'm not gonna last very long at this rate, he noted.

But, shit, one look at you, and he knew he wouldn't be the only one. You were practically starstruck – eyes glazed over with pleasure, lips full of praise, of cries of his name. 

"Aki," You breathed.

Aki. Aki. Aki. 

Fuck, he thought, Say it again.

You were beginning to lose momentum. Your hips began to falter, thighs tense and undoubtedly sore from holding yourself up. So, deciding that that was his cue to take the reins, he planted his feet firmly on the floor, hands gripping your hips like a vice. 

My turn, he thought.

Then, he lifted his his up off of the seat, thrusting into you from a new angle that had you nearly screaming for him. He could feel himself slide that much deeper, hit spots harder than you were able to hit by your own ministrations. Your pussy clenched down on him like it was your fucking job – every time his hips were flush up against your ass, you rocked your hips back and forth in tandem.

"Yes, Aki, fuck me!" The words were ripped out of your chest, and they only spurred him on. "Harder, fuck, just like that–"

God, it was perfect.

Eventually, he figured out what made you tick, which angles made you scream, which ones made you arch your back. He built up a rhythm, hips snapping up against your ass, sensitive tip of his dick hitting your walls every single goddamn time. Your body was a maze, and he was lost in its intricate twists and turns.

His grip tightened around your hips, calloused pads of his fingers sinking into your soft skin like he was trying to fucking brand himself there, to mark you – to make sure you felt him long after this was over.

The possessiveness washed over him in waves. He watched you from beneath dark lashes, half lidded eyes, shuddering groans practically torn from his chest – your wide-blown pupils, that damn pink flush across your face and body that drove him half mad. You were unraveling – Fuck, you were so pretty like this, and you didn't even know it. Your lips were parted. Your voice caught on the edge of every moan like a fucking prayer to him and him alone.

And he thought, with a heat so sharp it nearly burnt a whole through his damn chest – He doesn't deserve you.

No, he didn't. 

Not the man you wore that damn ring for. Not the one who sat across from you at the table every night and criticized your cooking like it was nothing. Aki would bet that he didn't even know what you sounded like when you fell apart like this, how you looked.

So he leaned up, breath ragged against your neck, and the words slipped out before he could even stop them, "You ever been fucked like this, Angel?"

His angel. He didn't care how delusional it sounded. No, right now, you were his.

Your response was instant, shattered, "No– never," You gasped out. "He could never fuck me like you."

Fuck.

Aki shuddered, eyes squeezed shut for a second while he tried to hold it together, tried to keep fucking up into you without falter, but he couldn't. He was already fucking gone. The words had already sunken their claws into his brain, looping around on repeat, echoing louder than the heavenly sounds you were making.

"Yeah?" He asked, voice rougher than he intended, cracking on the edge of a growl, "Say it again."

And your nails dug into his shoulders like you needed to cling to something, like you would fall apart if you didn't. Your head dropped down to his neck, letting him take over, lips brushing against hot skin while you licked a stripe up his neck.

"Only you."

Your teeth grazed his jaw, his neck – when you bit down on the skin like you wanted to mark him, he died a little inside.

"Haah–" His breath caught in his chest before he fucking broke.

He pounded up into you, sharp – more possessive than he had any right being, like he wanted to drive the point home, bury it deep enough that you never forgot it. You jolted against him, eyes flying wide, and he watched hungrily – watched as you trembled, watched as your pretty eyes rolled right back into your eyelids.

"Don't stop–" You cried out. "Oh, God, don't stop!"

Then you leaned back, and it was the prettiest fucking thing. Your dress slipped a little lower, pooling around your waist, exposing you before his ravenous gaze. The full swell of your breasts bounced every time the two of you met in the middle. From here, he could see where your cunt greedily sucked him in, and it was mesmerizing.

"I got you, Angel," He groaned, hand sneaking down between your body and his, finding your clit and pinching it gently between two digits. Then, he rolled it around in tiny circles. It was small, almost imperceptible, but it was enough to have you bouncing harder, pulling him deeper. He was babbling, and he didn't care, "M'g'nna take care of you. Promise."

He threw his head back against the headrest, trying to hold on, trying not to cum, but you felt like fucking paradise.Focus, dammit.

He couldn't. Not when you were making such debauched sounds while you met his thrusts in the middle, and certainly not when you reached down and grabbed him by the necklace, tugging until he was sitting up high enough for you to crash your lips against his. It was more desperate than anything, open mouthed and full of tongue. It was heated, it was filthy, but, fuck, he didn't give a damn.

Head thumping against the headrest, he let you brace your hands on his chest, pushing him down against it. Then, you brought your feet up onto the seat, and you fucked him even harder.

"Aki–i–" You whined, "I'm close–"

Aki's lashes fluttered shut, eyes threatening to roll all the way back. Oh my, God.

You rose and fell on his dick like you were chasing something, like you were on a mission, and he fucking let you. No, more than that – he met you in the middle, slamming up into you with such force that the car bounced.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," You pleaded with him.

Your nails scraped his chest until the skin turned pink beneath your fingertips, dragging across flushed skin that was slick with sweat. He moaned, head tipping back for a second while he savored the feeling of you – he could feel your walls pulsing, feel your pussy squeezing him. His hair clung to his forehead, damp and disheveled, and he slicked it back with one hand so he could see you better. So he could see what he was fucking doing to you.

No, he didn't even want to blink, lest he miss a moment of this – Your head tossed all the way back, flower tangled in your messy hair, face flushed with a pretty pink hue.

"Look at you," He growled, licking his bottom lip slowly – filthy, "You're fucking perfect– You like this, Angel? Like–" A gasp, "Like being fucked dumb?"

You cried out like he'd hit a nerve, head thrown back so far your throat arched for him, exposed and trembling. He watched a bead of sweat drip down the column, down your collarbones. The sight wrecked him – how open you were, how shameless, like you wanted him to see every inch of you come undone.

"I can feel you, pretty," he rasped, digging his fingers harder into your hips, rutting up into you. "You're fuckin' soaked. You always this wet, or am I just special?"

You whined, leaned forward like gravity didn't matter, like the only thing tethering you to this earth was him. Your mouth caught his in a hot, sloppy kiss, all tongue and moans and teeth, and you moaned into him, into his mouth like you were giving him that sound to keep.

He swallowed it down, groaning into your mouth. "That's it. That's it, baby. Give it to me. Let 'em hear you– You gonna cum?"

"Oh– God, I think I am," You gasped, "I've never– I don't–"

But, then, your body spoke for you, arching up into his touch. Every time your hips met his ass, he could hear that pussy making a mess out of him. His fingers kept on rubbing your puffy clit, bringing you that much closer to the edge.

He needed to see you fall apart.

Your pace stuttered, your thighs trembling, overwhelmed, wrecked – and his hands roamed your back, your ass, your ribs, grounding you in place as he met every grind with a sharp, punishing thrust.

"This pussy was made for me," he growled against your mouth. "Only me, right?"

You gasped, nodding frantically, lips brushing his as you breathed it out, breaking for him completely.

"I'm yours, Aki– fuck, I'm yours."

And then you shattered.

Your whole body tensed, spine arching like a bowstring pulled taut, and you cried out – his fucking name, over and over – into his mouth, into his skin, wherever your lips could land as the pleasure ripped through you, wave after fucking wave. He could feel you, feel your walls spasming wildly around his dick while you fell apart.

Your thighs shook around him, locking up, trying to hold onto something, anything, as your release crashed through you so violently it nearly stole the breath from your lungs.

He caught you when you came down, his arms around your waist, holding you firm, grounding you as you fell apart in his lap. His name spilled from your mouth like a prayer, like a confession, broken and reverent, and he watched you, eyes wild, jaw clenched, as you rode it out.

Holy fucking shit.

"That's it," he rasped, voice thick with awe and lust and something darker,. "Just like that. God, baby, look at you. So fuckin' perfect when you cum for me."

You trembled against him, still grinding, desperate and raw, not ready to stop, even when your body was. There was a puddle in his lap, undoubtedly some mixture of your juices and his that he knew he would have to clean up after this.

"I'm so fucking close," he groaned, licking his lips as his hands slid down your back, rough and greedy. "You meant that, didn't you?"

You barely had the strength to nod, still gasping for air.

He pulled you in, mouth brushing your ear, voice wrecked and low and so uncharacteristically possessive.

"You're mine, right?" he growled. "Say it again."

And even now, still pulsing from the aftershock, you gave him what he wanted – because it was the truth.

"I'm yours," you whispered, voice trembling like you fucking meant it. Then, your hands slid up to his jaw, craning his head towards you, making him look at you. "I need you to cum inside of me."

Perhaps a more reasonable, less debauched version of Aki would have put the breaks on this whole ordeal – would have pulled out and saved the risk. But the Aki that was currently buried balls deep in a warmth so wet it made the whole world spin couldn't hold on a moment longer, sitting up to bury his face in your neck, to kiss at the skin between your jaw and your chest.

"Cum for me, Aki," You begged, pressing a kiss to his forehead, cradling the back of his head. 

You were still trembling when he grabbed your hips tighter, the way a drowning man might cling to the last breath in his lungs. You didn't even need to move anymore – he took over, rutting up into you with sharp, desperate thrusts, like your words had broken the last thread of his control.

"Fuck," he panted, burying his face in your neck. "You feel me? Shit–"

You clenched around him, body still sensitive and twitching, and that's what did it. He groaned – loud, low, feral – and he stiffened beneath you, hips slamming up one last time as he came hard, breath torn from his lungs.

"Ah– fuck, Angel–" His voice cracked, jaw slack as he spilled into you, holding you down like he was scared you'd vanish if he let go. His whole body trembled through it, sweat dripping from his temple as he rode it out, buried deep, gasping like the air was too thick to fucking breathe.

You both went still, bodies pressed together, skin sticking with sweat and the heat of what you'd just done. Your heart thundered against your ribs like it wanted to break free.

For a moment, neither of you said anything.

You stayed like that, chests rising and falling, his arms still wrapped around your waist, your fingers knotted in the mess of his hair.

Silence settled between you, broken only by the sound of your harsh, uneven breaths. Then... reality crept back in.

You lifted your head from his shoulder and looked at him. His hair was a mess, his face flushed, his lips parted as he tried to catch his breath. He looked as stunned as he felt.

Your eyes met. And it hit you both at the same time.

Suddenly, he didn't care about the ring. He was content to have you like this.

You buried your face in his chest, shuddering breath muffled against his skin, and he wrapped an arm around you again, still holding you close.

Fuck, he was so screwed.

Aki didn't say very much during the ride back to your house. Truthfully, he didn't trust his own voice – not when his hands still smelled like you, not when your thighs were pressed tight together like you were reliving the moment. Both of you remained still, as if the slightest movement would shatter the moment.

He'd rolled the windows down to clear up some of the fog. Your lipstick was still faintly smudged, even though you'd fixed it (and wiped the remnants off of his own lips), but not enough for it to be noticeable. No, in fact, if you weren't anxiously drinking in every molecule of your appearance (like Aki was), you wouldn't have noticed it at all.

And he felt the weight of what he'd just done at every fucking red light.

It wasn't regret – No, he would do it again if you asked, in fact. It was something far worse; affection.

His heart hadn't stopped racing since you climbed back into the seat – since he shifted the car back into drive and pulled out onto the main road like nothing had happened. And now, as he parked up the street from your house, it felt like it was about to beat straight out of his chest. 

It's safer this way, he thought. No one will see us.

Honestly, he didn't give a damn if anyone saw. Your lips were fucking branded onto his, like a memory he wouldn't ever be able to shake. No, he was already gone.

You didn't move to open the door right away. In fact, you didn't move to open it at all, and even though he was staring straight ahead, pretending like he was focused on the dashboard, he could feel the weight of your gaze on him.

Then, releasing a shuddering sigh, you broke the silence. Quietly, like you didn't want him to hear.

"I don't think we can see each other again after this."

The words cut a little deeper than he expected. Still, he'd anticipated them. He nodded slowly, not because he wanted to, but because he had to. He hadn't been dense enough to think – even for a second – that this could have been anything more than a one-time-thing.

Still, that didn't make it hurt any less.

Of course you'd say that. He swallowed hard.

You were still looking up at him – through eyes smudged with black at the corners – and it was killing him a little more with each passing second. That fucking expression on your face was going to drive him crazy. Regret, maybe, or something else entirely – something he could almost have mistaken for longing if he let himself be stupid about it.

The words, You don't want that, do you? Were on the tip of his tongue. He didn't say them.

No, he knew that you belonged to someone else.

So, instead, he watched you take his lack of an answer for acceptance, stepping out of the car. Watched as your fingers tightened around the door ever-so-slightly, watched as the wind caught in your hair. 

"Goodbye, Captain Hayakawa," You addressed him with a formality he absolutely despised.

Then, he watched you walk away without turning back. He waited, of course – like the stupid dog he was, like he would have waited an entire lifetime for you (and it felt like he had) – until the door to your place shut softly behind you.

He sat there, engine running, hands still on the wheel.

Waiting. Just in case.

A week of radio silence had Aki's head in the fucking gutter

The silence was deafening – it spread slowly, day by day, rooted itself into the deepest corners of his life and hollowed him out from the inside. Not a moment went by that you weren't on his mind. Aki wasn't the clingy type – at least, he thought he wasn't – but, apparently, one mistake was enough to change everything he thought he knew about himself.

The silence stretched, stayed, hardened, and he couldn't fucking stop thinking about you.

He kept telling himself that he should've expected this. Getting involved with a married woman was ballsy, even for him. Plus, you'd made it clear as day that you didn't want it to be anything more than what it already had been – "I don't think we can see each other again after this."

But, fuck – that didn't stop the replay.

It was constant. You, flushed and breathless, straddling him in the dark. The windows of his car steamed up, his hands dragging over bare skin, your voice breaking on a cry of his name. It haunted him in the shower, in his sleep, fucking everywhere.

He sat on the porch at night more often than he'd admit, staring at nothing in particular. He'd burned through a pack of cigarettes, already. That was bad, even for him. Himeno would have been pissed if she saw the mess he'd been reduced to in the span of a week. He was barely eating anymore, let alone sleeping.

Though you had never set foot in his house, each room felt haunted by the ghost of you. Somehow, he would imagine you there anyway – a dangerous train of thought, considering that you were married. He would imagine your purse on his chair, your heels kicked off at the door. The way you would practically purr when he pulled you into his lap, pressed kisses to your sensitive neck, hiked your dress up around your hips, touched you just the way you liked.

And, God, the sounds. It felt as if they'd been etched into a little record in his brain, spinning round and round on repeat.They crept in while he was in the shower, hand braced against the tile while he imagined how you'd feel from behind. When he was dressing for work, and his fingers burned like they'd just slipped beneath the hem of your dress. When he was in bed, and he imagined how you'd taste, fuck.

The scent of your perfume still clung to the shirt he'd worn on Sunday. It had been in the same spot since he came home, tossed haphazardly on his dresser so he could treat the stains (if there were any, he hadn't even checked yet). 

Experimentally, he held it up to his nose one day before work, just to see if it still smelled like you. It did. He should have thrown it in the wash.

He didn't.

He was down bad.

On missions, it was no better. He was quieter than usual – not that anyone noticed. He was always quiet. But now, he was distracted. Off-balance.

He'd catch himself turning toward shadows that didn't move, clearing corners too fast or too slow. He was still functional – he was always fucking functional, he had to be – but his edge was gone. That hard, clean instinct that had once kept him sharp was now dulled by distraction. By memories of pretty eyes and soft hands.

You, in the passenger seat, undoing your seatbelt with shaky hands. You, riding him. Your fingers in his hair, your mouth trailing down his throat. The way your voice caught when you moaned his name – like you needed him (and it had been quite a long time since he'd last felt needed).

It replayed constantly. Even when he didn't want it to.

Now he sat in the meeting room, back stiff, palms flat on the table. The overhead lights were bright and clinical, buzzing faintly above his head. The projector clicked through a slide deck slowly – maps, timelines, entry points. Strategic chatter filled the air. 

It was a typical Friday at Public Safety.

And standing at the front of the room, running the entire brief, was him.

Your fucking husband.

Aki's eyes were on the screen. On the lines and bullet points. He even nodded now and then, just to sell the illusion. But his mind?

Elsewhere. On you, pressed against the fogged-up window. The windshield dripping with condensation. His hands under your dress, dragging it up. The way you gasped – not in shock, but in relief. That low, shaking moan, the way you choked out his name when you rode out the apex of your pleasure all over him – it haunted him, every damn night. Worse than any nightmare.

And right now, while your husband droned on about terrain and extraction windows, Aki's memory had decided to rerun it in full-color detail – The way you clenched around him. How hot you'd felt, how tightly you held onto him, like you couldn't bear to let go.

"Oh, God, don't stop!"

"I got you, Angel."

He kept his gaze fixed on the map, jaw tight, but his mind was far from tactics and floor plans. You were flooding back again – the grip of your thighs, the scrape of your nails across his ribs. The sounds you made. That soft gasp when he first pushed inside, how you buried your face in his shoulder like you couldn't believe you'd gone through with it.

He shifted in his seat, jaw tight. This was ludicrous. He needed to pull himself the fuck together. He needed–

Your husband turned, mid-sentence, gesturing to the map – and his eyes landed squarely on Aki. They locked for a second too long. Something jolted in Aki's chest. A moment of pure, skin-prickling dread.

He kept his face flat, unreadable. He was good at that. Had years of practice. But his heart thudded like he'd just been caught doing something vile.

Does he know?

That look – it wasn't angry. Not suspicious. But something in it lingered, like the man was trying to see through him. Like he was reaching into Aki's head and pulling something out.

Or maybe he was just imagining it.

You fucked his wife.

You fucked his wife and now you're sitting here, listening to him talk like nothing ever happened.

It made his stomach twist.

"He could never fuck me like you."

"Do you think we should invade from the front or back entrance?" Your husband's voice cut through his thoughts.

Aki barely picked his head up when he answered, not quite meeting his eyes, "The back."

Though, truthfully, he had no idea what the fuck they were talking about.

Aki stood in the hallway after the meeting concluded with his back pressed up against the wall, phone receiver pressed to his ear. Idly, his thumb brushed the dial buttons on the wall. A few of the numbers were more worn out than others, obviously from repeated wear and tear.

Makima was talking on the other end of the line. He was only half-listening.

"Kyoto's undermanned. Three agents have been hospitalized," She sighed, voice as robotic as it always was. "Their division can't handle the incoming assignments on their own. I was thinking about sending someone from Tokyo HQ."

The mission would take a week. Maybe more.

Aki's eyes flicked towards the end of the hallway, towards nothing in particular, really, but his mind saw your husband again – that condescending smile he always wore, like he'd already won some bullshit game Aki wasn't a part of.

He was beginning to hate that man. Not for any respectable reason, and certainly not out loud. In his eyes, the man was an obstacle – he knew that was a horrible way to think about it, but you struck up a sort of possessiveness in him that he'd never felt before. Truthfully, he didn't know what to do with it. 

Maybe it was irrational. Maybe it was bitter, but Aki couldn't forget the last time he saw you. He'd been trapped in the memory ever since, actually – doomed to replay the image of you closing the door, of you telling him that you couldn't see him again – and it was all his fault.

Then, he thought of the party – of how shamelessly your husband handed you off to one of his superiors. The way you'd simply smiled, like you were used to being sold out. Like it was normal.

It made Aki feel like something was rotting inside of him.

No, that was the thing. You didn't look happy. Not miserable, either. Just... dulled. As if all of the warmth left in you had been tucked into some box deep inside, locked away.

The idea wasn't sudden. Not in the slightest. It was more like a steady drip. A week..

It wasn't much time, but it was something. Before he knew it, Aki was about to make the most selfish decision he'd ever made in his entire life.

"Why don't you send that rookie, Nakamura?" He said smoothly, hoping his ulterior motives didn't translate. "He's capable."

The briefest silence fell over the line, then Makima replied, as level as ever, "I'll make the arrangements."

A week without him.

The words echoed in his mind after he put the receiver back on its hook and pushed himself off the wall. As he trekked down the hallway, he took slow, measured footsteps. Inside his head, though, he was buzzing with thoughts about what a week without your husband would entail.

He could go see you.

Yeah, just once. Nothing crazy, nothing grand – he wasn't stupid enough to do that. He could just... check in. Stop by under the pretense of neighborly concern. Maybe you'd even smile when you saw him.

The thought sent a dull, stupid throb through his chest.

He pictured you opening the door, looking up at him through those pretty lashes. Maybe your hair would be messy, like it was the first time he met you. He'd say he was going for a walk. Maybe you would ask to join him.

Or, worse. Maybe, you'd invite him in. Offer tea. Maybe the two of you would talk.

Or maybe– just maybe – you could go out with him. Somewhere neutral, casual, just to get some fresh air. 

Again, he'd be content just to talk to you.

It was a fucking ridiculous thought. Somewhere deep in the back of his deluded mind, he knew that. You were married.That ring on your damn finger wasn't theoretical. Your life was structured around someone else – someone who treated you very poorly, admitted, but someone you were bound to.

He could tell himself he wasn't delusional, but it would be a lie.

Still, once the idea had been formed, it lodged itself right between his ribs. It wasn't that he expected anything from you. Admittedly, that would be easier to process, but no. All he wanted was to see you. 

The truth was a whole lot uglier than he wanted to admit. He missed you. 

Aki sighed, dragging his hand through his hair while he rounded the corner into the stairwell. He swore he wouldn't do anything stupid.

But maybe – again, just maybe – he would knock at your door, stupidity be damned.

The fluorescent lights in the supermarket buzzed faintly overhead as Aki reached for a bottle of shampoo, scanning the label with the practiced indifference of someone who had better things to be doing. Denji was somewhere behind him, loud and half-helpful as usual, and Power...

"This smells like strawberries," Power declared proudly from halfway down the aisle, uncapping a bottle of shampoo and bringing it straight to her mouth.

"Don't you dare," Aki snapped, not even turning to look. "It's not edible."

"Why not? It has strawberries right on the packaging." she called back indignantly.

Dear God, He exhaled sharply through his nose and rubbed at his temple.

Then he saw them, tucked between cheap bath bombs and seasonal clearance junk. 

A small stand of fresh bouquets, shoved in a plastic tub of water like an afterthought. Most of them were a little wilted, but one caught his eye – pink tulips. Simple. Elegant. Pretty in a quiet kind of way.

Just like you.

His hand hovered near the edge of the bouquet, not quite touching. Something in his chest pinched. It wouldn't have been the first time he bought you flowers (and certainly not the first time he'd thought about it, but now the idea felt stupid. He didn't even know if you'd want to see him after what he – after what the both of you – did.

"You like someone."

Aki glanced over his shoulder.

Denji was watching him with that all-knowing grin of his. For a moment, Aki weighed the pros and cons of knocking it right off his face in front of everyone.

"What?"

"You like someone," Denji repeated, grinning harder ow. "You've been staring at those flowers like they're gonna tell you your future. Someone has a crush."

"I don't–" Aki paused, groaned, and turned back toward the shelf. "Shut up."

"Oh my god," Denji said, delighted, following him. "It is true. I knew it. No wonder you've been pacing around the house like the side dude in a romance manga. Who is it? Wait– do I know her? Is it Miss Makima?"

Aki let out a long, tired sigh, the kind that came from knowing resistance was futile.

"It's not Makima, I'll tell you that," he finally admitted (though he wasn't entirely sure why), voice low. 

Denji cackled. "Damn. Never thought I'd see hardass Hayakawa wrapped around a girl's finger. No wonder you've been so quiet lately."

I hate that he's right?

"Shut up," Aki muttered again, dragging a hand through his hair. "I fucked up. I'm trying to make amends. That's all."

"Yeah? If you wanna win a girl over, forget the flowers," Denji said with a lazy shrug. "Just show up at her house. Girls love that shit."

Aki shot him a flat look. "And how would you know what girls like?"

Denji wasn't getting any action from anything other than his right hand any time soon.

"I'm telling you, man," Denji continued, completely unbothered. "I saw it in a soap opera once. Dude showed up at her place after they had a fight, and she practically tackled him into bed. Tore his clothes off. Total win."

Aki sighed, then glanced back at the bouquet. The color of those tulips reminded him of you, of the shade of your lips right after he kissed you. The soft look on your face just before you asked him – begged him – to push you a little further.

Aki dropped the bouquet into the cart like it had personally offended him. The flowers landed with a soft rustle, crushed a little against the metal. "No. I'm not doing that," he muttered, pushing the cart forward. "She told me not to come by. I'm not just going to show up like some creep."

Behind him, Denji trailed close, his grin still plastered on like it had been superglued there. "Don't be ridiculous," Aki added, glancing over. "That stuff doesn't happen in real life. You know soap operas are fake, right?"

Denji gave the aisle a quick glance, then leaned in like he was about to share state secrets. "So girls don't, like..." he whispered, "...orgasm?"

Aki stopped walking and smacked him upside the head, flat-palmed and hard enough to make a dull thwack. "Keep your voice down, dumbass."

Denji stumbled a step, rubbing his skull. 

"Real life's nothing like the pornos. Once you figure that out, maybe you'll actually get laid," He added.

Denji narrowed his eyes. "Oh yeah? And how would you know, topknot?"

Aki should've ignored him. Should've walked away, found a new aisle to disappear into.

But then, incriminatingly enough, his mind thought of you.

Thought of the way your lashes fluttered when you came undone atop him, the way your breath hitched when his canines grazed your neck, the way your fingers trembled when you reached for him after. His jaw clenched.

Denji's eyes lit up, like he could follow the entire trajectory of that thought. "No way," he gasped. "No way."

Aki blinked. "What."

"You're not a virgin?" Denji looked like he'd just discovered aliens.

Aki sighed. "I'm twenty-two."

"That doesn't mean anything!"

"We're not having the birds and the bees talk in the middle of the store," he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. "I need a fucking cigarette."

"How many?" Denji asked, as if he were polling for science.

"Probably a few," Aki replied dryly. "You're aging me prematurely. I think I'm getting gray hairs because of you."

"No, how many girls have you banged?" Denji pressed. Then, glancing around the aisle, he leaned closer, cupping his hand around his mouth so no one else could hear him. "And do you know how to make them–?"

"That's none of your fucking business," Aki snapped, shooting him a look sharp enough to silence him for exactly two seconds. Across the aisle, an old woman furrowed her brows. Aki shot her an apologetic expression.

"Go be useful. Help Power pick out a bar of soap or something. She needs it. Badly," He sighed.

Seemingly undeterred by Aki's command, Denji pressed his luck, grin widening, "You're deflecting."

Aki paused, narrowing his eyes at the little twat. "Where the fuck did you learn that word?"

"TV," Denji shrugged, like that should have been obvious.

"Oh my fucking God," Aki reached up to pinch his temple. There was a migraine coming, he was sure of it. He alwayshad one when Denji was around. "I knew I should have hidden that damn remote."

That was the problem. He let Denji have the TV for thirty minutes each night. Thirty fucking minutes while he stepped out for a smoke, and suddenly the kid was a licensed therapist.

"This girl you like..." Denji asked again, like he didn't give a damn who might have been listening. "Did you do her, too?"

Aki looked around, like you might have been lurking just around the corner. Then, he reached into the cart, rolling up the promotional flyer and promptly smacking Denji over the head with it.

"Do you want to get your ass kicked?" Aki returned the question. He was deflecting. He hated how right Denji was.

"You're not denying it!" Denji shouted out, shoving a finger in Aki's face like he'd cracked a fucking murder case. "Hayakawa, you dog!"

That's so rich coming from this little perv.

Power spoke up at the end of the aisle (as if this whole situation couldn't have gotten any worse). "He's not a dog, you moron. He's a human. Everyone knows that."

There is no God, Aki thought.

Denji ignored her. "Why is everyone but me getting laid?" He groaned with a dramatic toss of his hands up into the air. Then, as if struck by some source of fucking inspiration, he added, "Hey... does she have a younger sister?"

Aki stopped in his tracks at that. Then, he turned slowly, bearing a look on his face that could have withered a fucking plant.

Finally, Denji caved. "Okay. Geez. Nevermind," he muttered. "I hope you get gonorrhea. Bitch."

"Eat shit," Aki retorted flatly, pushing the cart again. "Maybe if you spent less time pissing me off and more time talking to real women, you wouldn't have anything to complain about."

"Why? So I can end up all stressed and broody over some chick, like you?" Denji laughed, clapping an unwelcome hand on Aki's back. "Yeah, I'm good."

"Beats dying a virgin," Aki taunted him, shrugging him off. He knew it was low hanging fruit. He didn't give a shit about being the bigger person, not anymore. 

And definitely not when Denji frowned.

Aki told himself he wouldn't bother you – that he couldn't see you again. You wanted to be good.

And, apparently, he didn't. There he was, standing outside of your church holding the bouquet of flowers he'd picked up the day before at the supermarket – only one day after your husband left for Kyoto. He knew it was deplorable, fuck, he knew he was out of line, but he felt like he would have died if he didn't at least try to make ammends with you.

He watched the doors like some shameful apparition, far too scared to actually go in, bouquet of tulips clenched in one hand. He'd meant to throw them out, he really did. He came close – three times, actually. But he couldn't.

So, he brought them. He wasn't entirely sure how this whole stupid idea of his would actually go. The fact that he was even here, waiting outside such a sacred place knowing he'd already tasted the forbidden fruit, was crazy.

He shouldn't have come.

In fact, he was about to turn and go right back to the car, but those damned doors creaked open, and he watched as the churchgoers came pouring out. Among them, you – sun reflecting off of the side of your face, making the curve of your cheek glow soft and gold. 

And, your eyes–

They fucking softened when they found him. Not in anger, no... in recognition. Like some part of you had wanted him to come.

You wandered over to where he was standing – fearlessly, too. Gently, you peered at the tulips in his hand and took them without hesitation. 

"They're beautiful," was the first thing you said to him.

The words were enough to kick his heartbeat up a few notches. He did his best to ignore the feeling he got as your fingers brushed his. He didn't trust himself to speak, but the words, "Do you have a minute?" were out before he could stop them.

He nodded towards his car, hoping that you didn't misinterpret what he was saying and assumed he wanted to repeat past mistakes (he did, just not today). You followed without question, heels tapping against concrete as you made your way to the passenger seat. He followed suit – but only after holding the door open for you.

Once the two of you were in the car again, Aki swallowed, clearing his throat. 

"I wanted to apologize," He finally began, voice hoarse. "For my actions last week. It was... unprofessional of me."

He paused after the words he'd rehearsed were out in the open. Every line of restraint, every intricately chosen phrase slipped right through his fucking fingers the moment he laid eyes on you.

"There's nothing to apologize for," You breathed out. Your voice was soft – too damn soft. "I don't regret what we did."

Aki's breath stilled entirely, like he would create a hairline fracture in the moment by releasing it. You weren't looking at him, not directly – your gaze was hovering somewhere past his shoulders, like you, too, felt as if eye contact would unravel you. You were sad – he could tell, and it killed him to think that he might have been the cause of that.

Is it because I sent her husband away? He thought.

"Why did you come here, Aki?" You asked, finally addressing him by name. It looked like you knew the answer and just didn't want to hear it. "What do you want?"

The words cut a whole lot deeper than he expected, but he figured it was the least he deserved for complicating your life. So, instead, he glanced away, jaw flexing.

"Do you want me to tell you what I wanted to tell you?" He asked you. "Or do you want the honest answer?"

It was raw – uncharacteristically so, even for him. He simply couldn't bear to beat around the bush any longer.

You blinked up at him, like you hadn't expected him to be so candid with you, but nodded anyway. "Be honest."

Here goes nothing, I guess.

Aki's shoulders sank, feeling the weight melt away from his shoulders. 

"I want you," He admitted quietly. "I want... I want us to stop pretending this didn't happen. I want us to stop ignoring each other. I want you to get out of my head – to stop haunting me every time I light up a fucking cigarette."

He swallowed, voice dropping another notch, like he was ashamed. "I... want to be with you."

That was it. The words were out, now, and he couldn't take them back. His heart felt like it was about to beat right out of his chest. Slowly, he turned to look at you, frightened by what you might say.

You didn't speak. You sat there, looking at nothing in particular, eyes shimmering with unfallen tears. You reached up to wipe them quickly, like you didn't want him to see it.

"I know you sent my husband away to Kyoto," You spoke up, tone unreadable in a way that had him overthinking it. "I'm glad you did, honestly. I haven't been able to look him in the eye since..."

You trailed off, sentence unfinished. "I don't know what to do, Aki. I'm so confused, I feel like my head's about to burst."

He sighed, quietly resigned to his own fate. "I know I... I know I shouldn't be here. I know it's not fair to ask you for anything else given that I've already put you in a horrible position."

His gaze fell over the street, like maybe the answer was out there instead of in the car with you. "But, I can't–"

He faltered.

"I feel like I'm losing my mind," He exhaled. "I swear, I'll forget about what happened between us, if that's what you need– if it means I can keep seeing you, even just like this."

But, the moment the words left his mouth, he knew he was full of shit. He could never forget you, even if he wanted to.He couldn't even pretend that your touch hadn't burned a hole straight through his skin, like kissing you hadn't scarred his memory. 

You started to cry, then, effectively cracking his heart open in his chest.

He wasn't being fair to you.

"I'm sorry," He whispered, reaching out to wipe a tear from your eye. "I shouldn't have said that."

"That's the thing," You answered back, eyes glassy as you looked into his. "I do– I do want to see you again. I wanna make the same mistake again. I want..." 

You trailed off again, and it made Aki want to rip his own hair out, before you went back on what you sai, "You shouldn't be here, Aki. Someone will see you."

"Let them see," He rushed out. He didn't care how desperate he seemed. No, he would have regretted it for the rest of his life, if he didn't tell you how he felt. "Are you happy?"

The words felt foreign, uncanny.

"What?" You asked.

"With your husband," He swallowed. "With your life. Are you happy? If you are, then tell me, and..." He damn near choked on his next words, "I won't bother you again. I'll go, I swear, I'll understand. I won't bother you anymore."

He meant it. He swore he did, even if the thought of never seeing you again felt like resigning himself to death.

You looked up. Opened your mouth, like you wanted to say yes, like you wanted to tell him your life had been perfect before he'd come along and homewrecked it. But nothing came out, and you sealed your lips a moment later.

Reaching into the pocket of your pants, you pulled out a small object – his lighter. You took your hand and pressed it into his palm, gently curling his fingers around it like a goodbye you couldn't even say out loud.

Then, before he could stop you, you were opening the car door and stepping out without a word. Gently closing the door. Walking down the street with the morning sun shining off of your silhouette.

His hand tightened around the little lighter like it might have kept the moment – might have kept you from slipping out of his grasp. Helplessly, his eyes trailed you as you continued right on down the road – down your back, down to the curve of your hips, the way they swayed as you walked away.

Even devastated, he still couldn't fucking help himself.

"Fuck," He muttered beneath his breath, covering his eyes with his hands and laying his head back against the seat. 

The rain was coming down heavily – it had been falling for hours, the kind of rain that soaked deep into the concrete, the wood of the porch, made everything smell like earth. Aki sat slouched on the steps, elbows braced up on his knees. A half-burnt cigarette was pinched between two fingers.

His skin was still tingling from how cold he'd let the water run during his shower only half an hour ago. It was a vain effort to get you out of his head, a last ditch attempt, and it obviously didn't work.

Tonight, there had been a celebration of his birthday. Nothing too big. A few of the division leaders had organized a little get together at a nearby izakaya in his honor. His chest was still warm, skin buzzing from the few beers in his system. It had been a pleasant distraction. Hayakawa's birthday. Another year older, another year spent above ground. 

He wasn't drunk anymore, though, and now his fingers were trembling as he lifted the cigarette butt to his lips. They hadn't done that in a long time – not since Himeno had passed. Not since those nights when he would sit out on the porch just like this, too drained to even stand, chain smoking in complete silence to quell the emptiness in his chest. The tip of the cigarette glowed orange as his hand shook. He pretended he didn't notice either.

Because he was a glutton for punishment, apparently, his eyes drifted across the street. The outline of your house was familiar, even in the rain. A light was on upstairs. 

Were you up there? Reading? Crying? Lying awake, staring at the ceiling, just as he had been doing?

Were you thinking about him?

God, he could only hope you were.

Aki let the warmth flow into his chest before he exhaled slowly, smoke curling around his jaw, bleeding into the rain. The water ran in rivulets from the porch roof, a steady dripping sound.

It was your birthday, too. You were probably spending it alone. Your husband was in Kyoto, after all. It was unfortunate timing, honestly (he knew he was selfish).

He closed his eyes. Inhaled again, and the smoke caught a little in his chest.

Suddenly, Aki remembered why he didn't do relationships. This was why.

It ran deeper than grief. It was hollow – it was loneliness, sharpened into a blade that cut him deep. He didn't want to go back inside of the house. It felt too damn empty. 

He dragged another inhale and looked over at your house. 

Are you thinking about me?

A part of him wanted to walk across the street and knock. See your face, even if only for a moment – even if you only told him to leave, even if you didn't say anything at all.

Fuck, he needed to hear your voice. To see you again. Anything was better than this fucking silence.

Outside of the porch, the rain kept on falling. He pulled another drag, slow and savory, craning his neck back to breathe it out. His eyes remained glued onto the light in your window like it might have given him an answer – remind him that he wasn't alone.

It didn't, of course, because he was alone.

He missed you.

He missed you like his body missed oxygen. Like he missed the feeling of that first smoke. Like thirst, like obsession.

You had her, and you let her go.

Shit, if he left right then, he could have been standing at your front door within a few minutes. Less, maybe. That's all it would take – just a few steps.

I feel lost without her.

The thought came hard and fast; Don't go over there.

You'll only make things worse.

A more reasonable version of Aki Hayakawa would have made peace with that fact already, but he wasn't himself. Instead, he leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, watching the rain wash the world in silver.

His eyes found your porch again before he could stop them.

But what if she's thinking about me, too?

It was so fucking stupid. He knew that, but the ache wouldn't leave.

Stay, he thought. You would hate him if he showed up again. You had every right to.

Go, said the more depraved half of him.

Aki soothed a hand over his face, trying to talk himself down from the ledge. Be sensible. 

But you were in his mind again, like a fucking symbiotic organism that had crawled its way inside and sunken its teeth into his brain. 

Denji's words from the supermarket were a cruel, broken record.

"Just show up. Girls love that shit."

Aki squeezed his eyes shut. There's no way I'm about to take advice from shit-for-brains.

Oh, but he was.

"Fucking idiot," He sighed aloud – to Denji or himself, though, he wasn't entirely sure. His cigarette was down to the filter now, burning just a little too close to his fingertips. After a long moment – watching the burn climb higher and higher – he flicked it out into the street. The ember spun, hissed as it made contact with a puddle and went out.

Fuck this, he thought. Then, he stood, stomach turning the moment he did. 

Before he could stop himself, he was already stepping out into the rain, letting it drip down his damp hair, letting it seep through his sweater. He moved through anyway, driven by nothing more than pure, stupid obsession.

His sweatpants were damp by the time he reached the sidewalk. It reminded him that this was really happening – that he was really alive. As each step brought him closer and closer to your house, his heart wouldn't stop pounding in his chest. The porch was steeped in warm light. From here, he could hear the birds chirping outside of your place.

His hands stayed in his pocket the whole time, fingers curled tight. It was pathetic enough that he had come over in the first place, but to trudge through the rain like some lovesick asshole in a drama was low, even for him.

But something in his chest refused to give.

You'll regret it if you don't. You'll regret it for the rest of your fucking life.

He hadn't felt this nervous in years. He knew better, and he was doing it anyway.

Go home. Be a fucking adult for once in your life.

His feet met the base step of your porch. He hesitated. He was cold to the bone, and he couldn't bring himself to care.

Then, after a lengthy pause, he knocked three times. Then, he waited, heart in his throat, lungs tight in his chest, until the door opened.

You appeared, like something out of a dream, wrapped in light and the comfiest-looking nightgown he'd ever seen, brows furrowed in disbelief. He swore the oxygen left his lungs entirely.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The scent of dinner drifted out from behind you – you were cooking. Oddly enough, the smell was reminiscent of a childhood he'd nearly forgotten. Of a warm bowl of soup after school, of his mother's arms.

You smelled like home.

"You'll catch a cold out there," You breathed out softly, glancing behind him to make sure no one was watching before ushering him inside, "Come inside."

Aki nodded. Again, he didn't really trust his own voice to convey what he wanted to say – hell, what did he want to say? 

Either way, he kicked off his shoes when he stepped inside and reached back to shut the door behind him – and lock it, sealing his fate.

He hadn't meant to stay, of course, but the second that door was closed behind him, he knew he wasn't going anywhere.

a/n: i know. im getting so bad w the cliffhangers though, buttttt its so late over here rn so i wanted to drop a lil sum sum before going back to publishing my other two (the dante ff and pornstar, duh). im so behind. wish me luck as i catch up!!! x oh, and as always, yall better lmk what you thought in the comments ;)))

credits: I obviously do not own csm or anything related to it. please do not reproduce, copy, or translate my works anywhere. dont fk w me im a bruja.

also: come find me on my wattpad if u wanna interact more!

taglist: @mitsuyeahhh , @sleepysnk , @enneadec , @noaabean , @em1e , @drakensdarling , @bertholdts--butt , @satanlovesusall666 , @mitsuwuyaa , @noctifule , @scaraphobia , @ask-the-insect-hashira , @lovingranchturkeyweasel , @bontensbabygirl , @slvdsjjk , @novacrystalli , @hanmastattoos , @kodzuksn , @hqtiny , @ohmaiscool15 , @redlittlequeen , @leivane , @goldeneagles-posts , @yeahblahlame , @no-oneelsebutnsu , @cookiesandcreammy , @cawwn , @the-haitani-baton , @littlelovebug98 , @armani78 , @mindurownbussines , @kokos-property , @violetmatcha , @hp-simp505 , @acethebrave , @mitsuyeahhh , @sleepysnk , @enneadec , @noaabean , @em1e , @drakensdarling , @bertholdts--butt , @satanlovesusall666 , @mitsuwuyaa , @noctifule , @scaraphobia , @ask-the-insect-hashira , @lovingranchturkeyweasel , @bontensbabygirl , @slvdsjjk , @novacrystalli , @hanmastattoos , @kodzuksn , @hqtiny , @ohmaiscool15 , @redlittlequeen , @leivane , @goldeneagles-posts , @yeahblahlame , @no-oneelsebutnsu , @cookiesandcreammy , @cawwn , @the-haitani-baton , @littlelovebug98 , @armani78 , @mindurownbussines , @kokos-property , @violetmatcha , @hp-simp505 , @mrshayakawaa , @xxpr3ttyk173rxx

wanna join the taglist? | for your love ; chapter index

[harfanfare]

Idia drabble, fluff, lots of couple banter

Your wishlist containing released games is empty.

In the next several minutes after saving a title to one, you can expect a notification that the game is getting downloaded, and a mere seconds after that—several messages from your boyfriend.

“thought u would never play it lol”

“weren't you supposed to be studying??”

He sends a meme degrading your hierarchy of values as if he were any better. It is followed by a request.

“stream it to me when you play it”

And you do, after thanking him yet chiding him for wasting too much money on you without a second thought. His reply was a string of emojis and guarantee that he is doing it all for himself, because “educating you on the topic of latest games is his duty” and he cares about “the boyfriend points”.

“I hope my love’o’meter for u was broken by all that pampering lmao”

“waiting for my cg to load up…”

[NAME]: “not enough affection points”

“damn”

“i need a walkthroughyt to this route”

Idia has you join a voice channel, with you sharing your screen. Playing a game in a separate dorm is a whole different experience than having him beside you, with his hands almost trembling to grab your controller if you couldn’t get past a certain level.

He would always wait for you to ask him for help, though. Then he could let the feeling of self-satisfaction sink in as he easily guided your character to another enemy to slash.

If he only has you on the voice chat, you might be able to finish the game almost fully by yourself.

You can hear the soft sound of his keyboard as he plays something as well. He divides his attention between you and his entertainment, and he throws in commentary to your playthrough, teasing you when you can’t find a secret key to the special gate, bullying you when you find the puzzles too hard, or when you pick the wrong dialogue option.

At some point, you might try to (playfully) mute his microphone, but you can only have eight seconds of silence before he hacks into the options.

“No need to be jealous of my gaming knowledge,” he exclaims, and you know he has that big stupid grin on his face. You huff, and he hums. “But if you want me to help, all you need to do is just ask.”

“I want to go through this game myself!”

“Okay, sure. But you know you have already missed the opportunity for the best ending, no?” He laughs. “That’s what you get for muting me, kitten.”

No need to spoil the ending just to get back at me, you’d love to say, but you learned that the shy boy who couldn’t hold your gaze several months ago is actually a big tease. You must’ve grown too much on him, as he would have continued the bickering even if you showed up in his room. No social anxiety towards you—that’s a bit of a shame, he was cute when you first started dating.

…Well, Idia you know now is a cutie as well, even if he can be very annoying sometimes.

“Enough. I’m going to play my otome games, bye.”

You log out, and shut the stream, chuckling all the time. A funny feeling tingled your heart, like always when you won (or have you?) in banter in Idia: your heart is warm enough to probably melt through the ribcage, but a subtle alarm rings in your head. Idia will probably take revenge for this.

He must already be in distress. He doesn’t like you playing otome games alone, as if you could have ever preferred a 2D boy over Idia. The thought makes you laugh.

You plop on your bed, unlocking your phone and tapping an icon of the name game you’ve installed. Although playing it with Idia would have been funnier, you are going to play him just out of spite.

…And after that, you will send him a wall of text about those handsome characters, because he needs to be updated on your current obsessions.

The title screen appears before everything crashes and the screen goes black. Several messages in neon-blue futuristic font colour appear one by one.

An error has occurred.

Caught exception:

Traceback (most recent call last):

File “characters”, line 46, in script

File “stats”, line 153, in script

File “story”, line 665, in script

File “achievements”, line 411, in log.1

File “backup_data”, line 139, in log

To continue:

“[Name]-san. Please come to our dorm. My brother is moping (so he won’t be finishing his project anytime soon, which is, really bad) and I would appreciate you having mercy on him.

Once you come, I will restore your data! It’s a promise :>

— ORTHO”

…Damn those Shrouds.

[obixwan]

craving your calls like a soldiers wife

pairings: f reader x rex

blurb: exactly what it says on the tin.

word count: 740 ish, short and sweet

warnings: loneliness i guess, war. sad thoughts.

notes: personally i hate this and will probably delete this to rewrite it. but i haven’t posted a fic in a while and want to get back into the groove.

masterlist | ao3

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

The comm sits on your nightstand, dark and silent. You stare at it anyway, because sometimes, sometimes it blinks. Sometimes there’s a message. Sometimes there’s a crackling, a worn voice saying your name like a prayer.

Some nights, you think you can will it to blink, to crackle with life. You think if you just wish hard enough, maybe he’ll find a way through the static, through the chaos, through everything that keeps you apart.

But it doesn’t seem like tonight is the night.

You curl tighter into your blankets, trying to make the silence less heavy. The sheets have almost lost his smell— blaster oil, leather, the rough issued soap he uses down at the barracks. You bury your face into them anyway.

You breathe in, long and deep, trying your best to keep your mind from coming up with unwelcome, unpleasant thoughts.

Maybe he’s busy. Maybe he’s hurt. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

War isn’t kind to dreamers. It keeps you waiting with a clenched fist, teeth gritted, hope wrapping itself around your heart in painful tugs. And still, you wait anyway.

You check the comm again. Still nothing.

You laugh under your breath, bitter and aching. It’s stupid, this waiting. This craving. You knew what he was when you fell for him. A soldier. A commander. Someone who belonged more to the war than to you. You read the fine print when you met Rex.

And yet every night you find yourself here anyway.

The comm stays dark. You wonder where he is. As the war draws on, more and more of the missions are becoming unpredictable. Rex himself hardly knows where he’s going until he’s on the ship. You wonder if he’s thinking of you, if he’s already got a script in his head.

When the comm finally lights up, a tiny blue flare in the dark, you nearly drop it scrambling to answer.

“Mesh’la,” comes the voice. Rough. Tired. Beautiful. “I don’t have long.”

Rex sounds worn down to the bone. But there’s something in his voice — something soft, something breaking.

Your eyes squeeze shut. You want to tell him a thousand times over how much you miss him, how you wish he was here, safe with you. How scared you are. “I just needed to hear you,” you whisper.

There’s a crackle of static.

Then his sigh, low and shaky through the line. “You’re the only thing keeping me together out here.”

The words splinter something inside you. You clutch the comm tighter, as you’re holding him.

“Please just make it home to me.” you say, voice cracking.

Another long pause. You can almost picture him there, hamlet off, brow frowning, teeth gritted to keep everything he can’t say inside.

“I will.” His promise is soft, fierce. “No matter how long it takes.”

The comm flickers… and then goes dark again.

Gone.

The days blend into each other. Your work keeps you occupied for most of the hours of the day. Distracted enough to keep your thoughts away from Rex. The comm stays silent.

You check it every morning you wake up and every night you come home. You leave it charged, sitting by the window like a candle. But it’s hopeless, because weeks pass and nothing comes through.

At first, you tell yourself it’s normal. He’s busy. He can’t always get through. But as the week stretches out, the thoughts start to get worse.

Maybe he can’t call. Maybe he’s hurt. Maybe he’s been captured. Maybe he’s—

You choke on the thought before it can even finish itself. You know it’s foolish thinking. It’s just loneliness getting the best of you. You fill the empty spaces with restless sleeping and endless pacing.

One night, in the middle of your take out dinner, the comm flashes. You abandon your food on the couch, lounging for the comm.

At first it’s just static, a connection trying to come through. And then, a simple “Hey,” comes through. It’s home, voice heavier than before.

Tears blur in your eyes instantly. “Rex!” You gasp. “Where have you been, I thought—“

He cuts in, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, mesh’la. Couldn’t get through, I tried everyday but the seppie’s had our comms blocked.”

You let out a shaky breath. “Please tell me you’re coming home.”

“I am. I’m alive, and I love you,” The words tumble out of him, urgent, like he knows the comm can’t hold the signal. “and we’re shipping out of here at first light. I’m coming home.”

The signal cuts but you don’t care. He’s alive and he’s coming home.

[kadisiyuswyrd]

MCR GAYLIST MASTERPOST

Hello, gays. I'm in the process of making a video & I'd like some input.

(I blame @cordspaghetti for keeping Alpharetta Gerard in my mind)

As the title implies, the video will rank every MCR song based on how gay it is in chronological order (more or less). Hopefully, it'll be released the first day of the new Black Parade tour (July 11, 2025). No promises, though.

At this point in the writing process (just finished Bullets this morning) I think Everyone Hates the Eagles is their gayest song. Prison, Mama, & To the End are up there, though ("he's not around he's always looking at men," I mean...c'mon).

I'm not too good at lyrical analysis, though, nor is my knowledge of MCR as robust as I'd like, so I'm interested to hear different queer readings of their songs.

As unserious as this video concept is, I actually want to approach it from a really earnest lens. Tier lists are already so subjective; gayness is such an arbitrary, amorphous label. I want to play around with the inherent stupidity of this.

There are some fundamental questions that I still haven't really answered but would love to explore:

What does it mean for something to be queer / gay (weird)?

What does it mean for something to be straight (normal)?

I really have no conception of what normality is anymore. I find strange things normal, normal things strange; when I act normally I feel strange, but am called strange when I think I'm acting normally...

3. How does rock music manage to attract both extremely gay and extremely straight fanbases (e.g. Nirvana, Queen, Misfits)?

Nirvana's fanbase always surprises me because the band was so left-leaning and anti-machismo, but because they sounded rough and masculine they attract these really weird, pretentious assholes. The way that rock music oscillates between hypermasculine presentation (leather jackets, jeans, shirtless, hairy) and queer theatricality (David Bowie, early Queen) is really interesting to me in general. It's a genre that's been sexist and feminist, homophobic and relentlessly queer in the same decade.

4. Is there value in deliberately ambiguous queer representation?

This question makes me think of iLLi. She emerged from ambiguity and I think that's part of her appeal. Fanfiction is grasping at straws to make something beautiful and whole. Isn't the ambiguity sometimes preferrable—to allow unique fan interpretation?

Not all of these questions need to be answered in the video, but I want them on my mind while writing. Part of me wants to make a normal tier list video, another part wants to kind of deconstruct it...but. this video is shaping up to be a behemoth as is, so maybe I should avoid scope creep and keep my ambitiousness in check.

We'll see how it goes. I'd love to hear from y'all.

(Also, big shoutout to @angstics who is, by my estimation, the seminal queer MCR scholar. I've been referring to a lot of their writing during the research process.)

Below is a list of the sources I'll be referring to during the script writing process. This is a living document, so expect this list to expand in the coming weeks. Cheers.

—Kay

Research w/Notes:

This article is a fun look at the early days of the band. It features a fun story about a sickly Gerard getting punched by record exec to give him energy to record his vocals. It worked.

Blistein, Jon. (2021). How a Sucker Punch Fueled the Rise of My Chemical Romance. Rolling Stone. https://www.rollingstone.com/music/music-news/my-chemical-romance-rise-book-excerpt-sellout-dan-ozzi-1247331/   

One of Gerard's answers during his famous 2014 Reddit AMA. Mainly focused on his answer to question 5 about Drowning Lessons and its status as MCR's "cursed song."

Way, Gerard. (2014). Reddit AMA https://www.reddit.com/r/IAmA/comments/2i1840/comment/ckxylaq/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button 

A really thorough video about queer (sub)text in You Know What They Do to Guys Like Us in Prison. A helpful resource. souryogurtgirl. (2024). My Chemical Romance's Gay Anthem? YouTube. https://youtu.be/jDP5_Kl36ms

A TRACK BY TRACK BREAKDOWN OF TBP. Hell yeah.

Great MCR essays. The essay SEX & VIOLENCE is the most interesting to me, at least in relation to this video. Love & suffering is such a deeply queer idea. The "queering of violence" is so central to MCR's lyricism. Love how the essay points out the importance of Gerard's delivery, that's something I want to highlight in my own analysis.

"Honey This Podcast Isn't Big Enough for The Both of Us" is not only a great resource for MCR fan discourse, it is just really entertaining podcasting. Maren & EJ are playful, yet insightful. Their episode on the demo lovers has been helpful to try to parse the storytelling of Bullets and Revenge.

Slowly diving a bit more into queer theory for this project. It's daunting, but interesting! I feel like queer time—the idea (to my understanding) that queer people's life trajectories are distinctly different and possibly even incompatible with the traditional straight narrative of getting married, having a kid, entering the job market, etc.—may prove a helpful concept, especially in relation to TBP.

Writer Kathryn Bond Stockton literally describes queer children as "ghosts" because many of them cannot yet verbalize their queerness and are they given a roadmap for what adult queer life will look like. I mean...that's very Black Parade coded.

Haven't read this read this yet, keeping it here to get back to it! I really want to understand the link between queerness and theater, there's gotta be some historical context that explains that a bit more clearly for me.

https://newprairiepress.org/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=4185&context=aerc

[zutarawasrobbed]

ALTA Live Action Season 1 Initial Thoughts (Spoilers)

I just finished the season, and holy shit!

Quick things that need to be addressed/debunked:

“Sokka is no longer sexist”

I dont know what people were talking about when they talked about Sokka’s “sexism” being removed. It’s still there! But not in the overly exaggerated comical way it was in the original.

In fact, it’s more in line with ancient practices of indigenous tribes where men are seen as protectors and providers while women are expected to nurture. It’s not the same “boys are better than girls” narrative in the original.

Additionally, Suki still beats the fuck out of Sokka and humbled him really quick. They’re super cute by the way. And I love Suki’s “I like my men a little stupid” vibe. She’s great.

“Aang doesn’t run away like the original!”

That is not true. He does run away, but not because he’s trying to get away from the temple but instead to get some air because he feels overwhelmed. He’s more like taking a quick break and planning to come back. It’s not exactly the same, but almost. It also is done in a way where his guilt feels more justified.

“Katara doesn’t talk about her mom anymore like the original”

This is true… BECAUSE THEY SHOW INSTEAD OF TELL. I was honestly not prepared to see the death Kya in such graphic detail and how Katara was in the room hiding when it happened. It’s honestly really sad and more heartbreaking.

Plot:

The timeline seems to be ambiguous compared to the original series where it was “end of current year.” In fact, they repeat “three years” a few times, which makes me think if the series get greenlit for more seasons, it would be over a three year period.

Jet is still villainized but given more nuance and not a simple "good v bad" way like the original.

Zuko’s story about how he got his scar has additional lore that makes him come across as even more selfless and compassionate. The additional context of the platoon he advocated for in the war meeting, becoming his current crew, really added to the story.

Eradicated the nepotism baby plot point with Pakku only training Katara when he finds out he used to date her grandma. Instead, Katara proves herself and ends up teaching the other male fighters the techniques she learned from watching other benders use their elements and mimics them.

This season doesn’t have Aang learning any waterbending, but rather facing his trauma and the consequences of his actions. He get roasted by all his past lives. Which is an interesting choice, but I think it works well in how they executed it.

This season seems to actually be Katara focused and her journey of learning waterbending which I honestly loved because it really hits home the element of “water” being the story of an untrained waterbender learning her element. But, I do think Aang could’ve learned a little bending. It felt a little off.

Katara ends up advocating for all waterbending women and ends up leading an army of both men and women during the siege. She’s really bad ass and is given the title of master without being formally trained by Pakku. She made herself a master.

I think the timeline is a little wonky because of how much they had to fit in with the limited episodes they had.

Kuruk is given respect! I loved that.

June actually seems into Iroh which I thought was a funny but cool way to flip the script from the original.

The relationship between Zuko and Iroh is really beautifully executed. I love the depth they added with flashback scenes and their bond prior to the Agni Kai. It also wasn’t as frustrating watching Iroh and Zuko’s dynamic because Iroh communicated with Zuko in a way he could understand with straight answers rather than seeming to actively sabotage him with cryptic puns and shenanigans like the original.

They changed the love triangle with Yue Hahn and Sokka to be very healthy. They gave Yue autonomy and a choice in her relationship- which- again- is much more in line with indigenous cultures. Also, Hahn and Sokka’s relationship is really supportive and full of respect and no ill will.

They way they handled grief and the realities of war with the loss of life was very well done and really drove home the point that this is a war and these are child soldiers.

There’s a lot more but these are my initial thoughts. Will probably post more later.

Shipping:

Kataang is all but removed. Literally DOA. There is no indication of a crust on either side. It’s painted like a sibling relationship, which is like the original, but this time everyone seems to be on the same page. But, I swear the writers had to have read ZK fics because damn.

They canonized a popular Zutara theory/hc about the cave of two lovers and how the crystals would light up once it went completely dark instead of a “kiss” activating the crystal glow.

Speaking of the Cave of two lovers. They keep the Oma and Shu story with red and blue coloring. Making it come across more as foreshadowing than a direct link to the present tunnel story.

Sokka is put in Aang’s place with Katara in the tunnels and turned it into a story about the love of family and sibling bonds. Aang wasn’t even present.

Zuko and Katara share a meaningful look when they first see each other and continue to have a Katara centric scene followed by a Zuko centric scene and vice versa.

The scarf scene. I will not be elaborating further. If you know, you know.

Zuko and Katara fight scene in the North is epic. He still taunts her with almost the exact same dialogue but it’s so sassy- I love the banter.

Suki and Sokka were really cute and the actors had great chemistry. I think Yue and Sokka was really rushed and didn’t really feel anything about them, honestly. But I attribute that to lack of episodes to develop all that plot.

[auchrauch]

A (not so) detailed post about the current project I'm working on

Bringing here a slightly more extended version of my post from bluesky.

Please be nice because I might have one more thing to share with TGCF fandom.

I want to make a short visual novel featuring hualian in post-canon. Emphasis on "want to" because with a project of this scale I can't guarantee that it'll end up as a fully finished thing.

The original idea behind me starting this was simply "hualian having a wholesome day", though the mood slightly shifted towards something a bit more melancholic after I picked up a poem after which I named the game. (The poem's "Spring morning" by Meng Haoran). There is no continious heavy plot, just various SFW and NSFW routes which aren't connected between themselves (or are they?)

I tried to include different dynamics, so you can expect to see the classics (Top HC/Bottom XL) as well as versatile hualian (these routes can be hidden if someone doesn't fancy it). I also should mention that my understanding of characters and their dynamic can differ from what's considered the "norm" in the fandom, but I refuse to slap OOC label on my work because that's how I perceived these characters while reading the book and I'll be sticking to it. Oh, and I'm also following the revised version so there could be offhand mentions of events from the new extra or other small details like that.

I'm planning to release the final SFW version of the game for free (if it'll be finished at all), though I'm still not sure if I should hide NSFW version behind a paywall. Maybe I'll make one-time purchase posts for intermediate beta-builds too, so people can have a glimpse of what is in the works. Ideally I'd like to have at least some monetary support while working on this project, but providing consistent updates and materials in the patreon format wouldn't work for me, since, aside from commissions to pay my rent, the other project I'm involved with as an artist already takes a lot of my time.

So I can't give any dates and promises and will be simply working on this at my own pace.

So far, I have a complete (not proofread and not fully edited) script for all the routes as well as a working base for the game in renpy. I'm also almost done with UI and I made a couple of backgrounds, but that's nothing compared to how many more of them I still need. (You'll be subjected to looking at the picture attached to the post over and over again at the every start of the game).

For the next step, I'll probably focus on one route at a time and start filling them with visual assets.

I also can't decide whether I should stick to British or American English because:

1) This stupid gaijin can't differentiate between the two anyway.

2) I already started using "arse" yet I lost all the "u"s from my "ou"s and now I don't know which to change.

I'd like to hear which one people prefer more.

If you want to help in some way—I'm having trouble with sound design part as I'm locked out of purchasing anything from international sites/commissioning someone from overseas, and I don't want to risk commissioning assets for a NSFW lgbt game from anyone local since it' simply not a safe move. If you know any good resources that distribute sfx/sounds/music under a free flexible license please share! I'm using GDC royalty free archives but this obviously doesn't cover all my needs.

Idk what else to say here. Send help? Prayers for my sanity? Donations so I can pay my rent??? God, what am I even doing.

Here's the assortment of some early wips I already shared elsewhere: