#like using a flashlight to read is so hard

[cherry-rose-sunset]

rip ponyboy curtis you would have loved my reading light:

[tqlepatia]

— I'LL BE YOUR PROTECTOR.

MOM! SEVIKA × MOM! READER. —

Notes: pure fluff! Sevika and you being the best mother possible to your little boy ᵎᵎ, decided to write it since I never read one with sevika being a boy mom ( I know she's totally girl mom!)

𓂃۶ৎ ● The first time you hold him, you forget every pain that brought you here. His fingers curl around yours like they’ve always known the shape of you. Sevika’s breath catches in her throat as she leans over your shoulder, silent, reverent.

𓂃۶ৎ ● You sit in the nursery late at night with the baby sleeping on your chest, while Sevika leans against the doorway, quietly protective. She doesn’t say much but you feel her watching over you both like a sentry.

𓂃۶ৎ ● You and Sevika take turns at the midnight feedings. On her nights, you wake up to soft murmurs through the baby monitor and lullabies in a language that you don't understand one word.

𓂃۶ৎ ● Your boy refuses to nap unless he’s pressed against one of you. You joke that he was born clingy, Sevika calls it loyalty. Either way, he sleeps best wrapped in your arms.

𓂃۶ৎ ● Bath time is chaos. You hold him steady while Sevika gently washes his hair. He splashes water everywhere, and she grumbles, but never once stops smiling. You both end up soaked and laughing.

𓂃۶ৎ ● When he’s teething, he cries endlessly. You pace the floor with him pressed to your shoulder, humming lullabies you didn’t know you remembered. Sevika slips into the room with warm bottles and sits beside you until he settles.

𓂃۶ৎ ● You cry on his first birthday—not because of the cake or the photos, but because of how far you've come. Sevika wraps her arm around your waist and tells you, quietly, that she’s never been prouder of anyone in her life.

𓂃۶ৎ ● You both fall asleep on the couch, the baby nestled between you. He snores softly, one hand on your chest, the other holding onto Sevika’s shirt. It’s the most peaceful moment of your life.

𓂃۶ৎ ● He throws a tantrum at the grocery store. You kneel down, matching your voice to his volume, coaxing him to breathe. Sevika stands behind you, arms crossed, but lets you take the lead—knowing he needs your calm more than her fire.

𓂃۶ৎ ● One morning, he asks you why he doesn’t have a dad. You look at Sevika, who nods softly. You crouch beside him and say, “Because you have two moms who love you more than anything. That’s better than just one dad” He shrugs and goes back to coloring.

𓂃۶ৎ ● He wants to look like a superhero and cries when his hair won’t sit the same. You try to explain it gently, brushing it as best you can. Sevika steps in runs a comb through with a teasing grin, and suddenly he declares he looks perfect.

𓂃۶ৎ ● He starts drawing stick figure families, always with two tall moms and one smiley kid. You put them on the fridge. Sevika secretly keeps one folded in her wallet.

𓂃۶ৎ ● You bake cookies with him on Sundays. He makes a mess, flour everywhere. Sevika walks in, sighs, and wordlessly joins in. Three hours later, the kitchen’s a disaster.

𓂃۶ৎ ● He starts sleeping with the lights off, but only if you’re the one to tuck him in. Sevika reads the bedtime story, but he reaches for your hand as he drifts off.

𓂃۶ৎ ● He paints your face with finger paint. Sevika laughs so hard she chokes on her drink. You chase him around the living room while Sevika captures it all on an old camera you didn’t know she knew how to use.

𓂃۶ৎ ● The three of you lie under a blanket fort one stormy night. Rain on the windows, his tiny body between you, flashlight stories casting shadows on the walls. He says, “This is my favorite place ! ”

𓂃۶ৎ ● He loses his first tooth at the breakfast table. You panic a little; Sevika just grins and wraps it in a napkin. That night, you both sneak a little coin under his pillow.

𓂃۶ৎ ● He builds a pillow fort so big it takes up half the living room. You both crawl in with him, bring snacks, and let the day pass in soft laughter and pretend adventures.

𓂃۶ৎ ● He wants to dress like his favorite cartoon character. You help him piece together a DIY costume. Sevika adds a cape. He beams at both of you like you’ve given him superpowers.

𓂃۶ৎ ● On nights when he’s sick, you stay up rubbing his back while Sevika heats soup and brings towels. You don’t sleep much, but he calls you both his heroes the next day.

𓂃۶ৎ ● He starts locking his bedroom door. You knock gently. Sevika knocks harder. But eventually, he lets you in and sits between you both to talk about how weird it feels to grow up.

𓂃۶ৎ ● He surprises you with breakfast on your birthday. Sevika helped, but he did the pancakes himself. They’re slightly burnt. You eat them with a full heart.

𓂃۶ৎ ● You and Sevika both attend his school play. He keeps looking at you from the stage. Afterward, he only cares if you liked it. You both hug him like he just won an award.

𓂃۶ৎ ● He starts helping with dinner. You show him how to chop vegetables. Sevika shows him how not to burn steak. Together, you build little rituals of home.

𓂃۶ৎ ● When he first came out to you, it was simple he said, “Mom, I’m gay.” You just nodded calmly and asked, “Okay, what kind of lasagna do you want for dinner tonight?".

𓂃۶ৎ ● Sevika already knew. She’d seen him once in your bedroom, dressing up like you—your clothes, your scent. She’d laughed softly but kept it quiet, letting him come out in his own time.

𓂃۶ৎ ● You and Sevika felt it that morning, deep in your bones. The weight of time resting heavy in your lungs, the stillness in your chest. A quiet knowing. Today would be the last.

𓂃۶ৎ ● You took a warm bath together, the water gentler on your aching bodies than it had ever been. She helped you into that old dress—the one she loved most. The one she said made her feel like the luckiest bastard

𓂃۶ৎ ● With the help of medicine, and a whisper of strength left in you both, you made love that night. Slow. Reverent. Like a prayer. You wore the black silk slip Sevika always said made her heart stop. She smiled when she saw you, even through the ache in her chest.

𓂃۶ৎ ● The sunset poured through the curtains in gold and soft lavender. You both laid side by side in bed, holding hands, faces turned to each other. No machines, no fear—just shared breath and hearts that had beat together for decades.

𓂃۶ৎ ● Your son sat between you, now a man, brushing Sevika’s hair with shaking fingers and holding your wrist like a tether. You smiled at him, weak but still his mother. “You made our lives beautiful,” you whispered.

𓂃۶ৎ ● Sevika coughed out a breath of a laugh. “If it’s possible… put us in the same fucking coffin,” she rasped. “We fucked last night. Just to haunt you one last time.”

𓂃۶ৎ ● He laughed through the tears, head bowed to your entwined hands. “You two are impossible,” he sobbed. “I love you. I love you so much.”

𓂃۶ৎ ● Your final words, shared in near unison, were just, “We love you too. Always.” And then… peace.

Sevika felt it instantly. The weight of your body against hers shifted—no rise, no fall of your breath. Just a hush that cut through everything. Too still. Too quiet. Her hand shook where it rested on your chest. “No,” she whispered, voice cracking like a branch in winter. “No, Dearest, c’mon…”

She pressed her forehead to yours, trying to feel you again, even for a second.

Then, with a trembling laugh breaking through the sob in her throat, she muttered, “Rude. I always said I’d go first.” Her eyes stung, nose running, mouth tugging into a crooked smile as she wiped her face on the blanket between you. “Didn’t even let me win that one, huh?”

She held you tighter, lips to your hair. “Alright, alright. I’m comin’.” A pause, then dryly, “You’d just haunt my ass if I didn’t.”

𓂃۶ৎ ● You both slipped away within minutes of each other. Faces soft. Hands still clasped. Mouths tilted toward a final kiss that death couldn’t quite steal.

𓂃۶ৎ ● Your funeral was quiet. Flowers bloomed over your shared grave, just like the ones you planted on the balcony every spring. Your son brought the same kind—lavender, soft pinks, deep reds. He cried. He smiled. He stood tall.

𓂃۶ৎ ● Years later, he adopted a daughter with his husband. A bright-eyed baby girl with your warmth and Sevika’s intensity in her gaze.

𓂃۶ৎ ● They named her a tender mix of both your names. A name that meant legacy and love and strength.

𓂃۶ৎ ● Every year, they visited your grave. He’d talk to you both like you were still around. Sometimes, he left lasagna. Sometimes, whiskey. The baby, now a child, would place tiny flowers in the stone cracks.

𓂃۶ৎ ● She’d say, “Hi, Grandma. Hi, Grandma Vika.” And laugh as if you were just behind the tree, waiting to scoop her up.

𓂃۶ৎ ● And somehow… in the rustling of the wind, in the golden light that touched her curls—you always were.

౨ৎ - 𝐓aglist ; @prettyinpink69 , @abbysdollie , @marieeeluvsyou , @littlelovelunette , @madzorwhatever , @zvmbitegirl , @salsalsusu , @katarandaa , @starrycherie , @moonshimegf , @watermelonshine , @zombieeepup .

[whispers-whump]

Some writing advice

that I like to use when I write. None of this is meant to be taken as hard and fast rules, they’re just things I like to do/keep in mind when I’m writing and I thought maybe other people would enjoy! <3

Never say what you mean

This is an offshoot of the very common “show don’t tell” advice, which I think can be confusing in application and unhelpful for scenes where telling is actually the right move. Instead, I keep the advice to never say exactly what I mean in stories.

By using a combination of showing and telling to hint at what you really mean, you force your reader to think and figure it out on their own, which makes for a more satisfying reading experience.

You might show a character getting angry and defensive in response to genuine care and concern. You could tell the audience that the character doesn’t see/talk to their parents often. But never outright give the real meaning that the character feels unlovable because of their strained relationship with their parents and as a result they don’t know how to react to being cared for.

Your readers are smart, you don’t need to spoon feed them.

Be sparse with the important things

You know how in a lot of movies there’s that tense scene where a character is hiding from something/someone and you can only just see this person/thing chasing them through a crack in the door? You get a very small glimpse of whatever’s after the character, sometimes only shadows being visible.

Do that in your writing. Obscure the important things in scenes by overdescribing the unimportant and underdescribing the important.

You might describe the smell of a space, the type of wood the floor is made of, the sound of work boots moving slowly across the room, a flashlight in the character’s hand. And there’s a dead body, laying in a pool of blood in the far corner of the room, red soaking into the rug. Then move on, what kind of rug is it? What is the color, patterns, and type of fabric of the rug?

Don’t linger on the details of the body, give your reader’s imagination some room to work while they digest the mundane you give them.

Dialogue is there to tell your story too

There’s a lot of advice out there about how to make dialogue more realistic, which is absolutely great: read aloud to yourself, put breaks where you feel yourself take a breath, reword if you’re stuttering over your written dialogue. But sometimes, in trying to make dialogue sound more realistic, a little bit of its function is lost.

Dialogue is more than just what your characters say, dialogue should serve a purpose. It’s a part of storytelling, and it can even be a bridging part of your narration.

If you have a scene with a lot of internal conflict that is very narration-heavy, breaking it up with some spoken dialogue can be a way to give some variety to those paragraphs without moving onto a new idea yet; people talk to themselves out loud all of the time.

Dialogue is also about what your characters don’t say. This can mean the character literally doesn’t say anything, they give half-truths, give an expected answer rather than the truth (“I’m fine”), omit important information, or outright lie.

Play with syntax and sentence structure

You’ve heard this advice before probably. Short, choppy sentences and a little onomatopoeia work great for fast-paced action scenes, and longer sentences with more description help slow your pacing back down.

That’s solid advice, but what else can you play with? Syntax and sentence structure are more than just the length of a sentence.

Think about things like: repetition of words or ideas, sentence fragments, stream of consciousness writing, breaking syntax conventions, and the like. Done well, breaking some of those rules we were taught about language can be a more compelling way to deliver an emotion, theme, or idea that words just can’t convey.

Would love to hear any other tips and tricks other people like to use, so feel free to share!!!

[requiemforthepoets]

you’re the only friend i need ⟢ OP81

PAIRINGS: oscar piastri x female!reader

SUMMARY: you and oscar were always two peas on a pod. people would often wonder how you, a troublesome kid in brighton, had managed to befriend the calm and reserve boy, oscar piastri. it was truly a wonder.

REMINDERS: this is purely fiction, the way how the character is portrayed in my story does not reflect the person that is portraying my character in real life. always separate fiction from reality, and do not repost or copy my work in any way.

WARNINGS: no use of y/n, angst, heavy feeling fic, implied main character death (mcd), unsaid feelings, mentions of disease (leukemia), mentions of wound and bleeding, googled medical stuff, medical inaccuracies, inaccurate info, reader is a bit of a troublemaker, fast paced-ish, there are unrealistic medical stuff, and minor typographical errors.

WORD COUNT: 12.3k

AUTHOR’S NOTE: this fic is pure angst, there is no happy ending for this one. so if this is not your cup of tea, it’s better you stop reading from here on out. there will be no other part of this fic, bc i’m don’t really know how to pen the rest of the fic (sorry ><), i’m satisfied with the ending of this one. this fic is a love child of me loving childhood nostalgia and coming-of-age genre, and it was also the vibe the i get whenever i hear ‘ribs’ by lorde, bc i SWEAR that song never fails to make me feel stuff +++ the childhood drink, i only had googled it, so if i have any australian reader here, pls feel free to correct me. your comments/reblogs is always appreciated, i hope that you’ll like this one! :)

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You and Oscar Piastri had always been inseparable, practically joined at the hip since the moment your parents introduced you as toddlers. Living right next door to each other in a quiet suburban neighborhood in Brighton, meant that your lives intertwined in a way that felt natural, as if you had always been destined to be a part of one another’s stories. Your parents, close friends long before either of you were born, often joked that it was inevitable that you two would end up being close. Whether it was playdates during the day or sleepovers at night, there was rarely a time when you and Oscar weren’t together.

Sleepovers were always your favorite. Your parents would bring you to Oscar's house with a hastily packed bag, and Nicole and Chris would always welcome you as if you were one of their own. Nicole always had snacks ready—popcorn, biscuits, and sometimes her famous chocolate cake, and how Chris would sometimes tease you both about staying up too late. You and Oscar never really did listen to him, though.

Once the lights were out and the world outside went quiet, you and Oscar would sneak flashlights under the covers, building forts out of blankets and couch cushions. Inside your makeshift castles, you would whisper to each other in the dark, sharing stories that veeted from spine-tingling ghost tales to ridiculous made-up adventures that had you both doubled over with laughter. It was not uncommon for you to laugh so hard your ribs hurt, clutching your sides as Oscar tried, and failed, to stifle his giggles so you would not wake his parents up.

Oscar, even as a kid, was calm and easygoing, which is a perfect counterbalance to your boundless energy and knack for trouble. He was steady, level-headed, and rarely got into trouble, whilst you had a knack for finding mischief, dragging Oscar along for the ride more than not—daring him to climb trees or riding bikes faster than you should’ve, to name a few.

Your parents, on more occasions than they could count, ended up at their wits end because of your antics. From sneaking out past curfew to explore the neighborhood to accidentally setting off store alarms because you thought it would be funny to hide in a display, you always found a way to test the limits of patience. More often than not, you did get caught—whether it was by a passing neighbor, security, or the occasional local police officer, you somehow always managed to land yourself in trouble—but never anything too serious.

It was usually enough to warrant a lecture from your own parents and a lot of head-shaking from Oscar’s. Despite it all, Nicole and Chris never seemed to hold it against you. They’re just kids, Nicole would say, a soft smile on her face. As long as you’re not doing anything dangerous, it’s fine. Chris would usually chime in on the conversation with a mock-serious, just don’t do drugs, alright? his tone was always lighthearted, but you knew they meant it. You would just laugh it off, promising to behave, even though everyone knew that promise would be short-lived.

Your bond with Oscar extended to his entire family. His younger sister—Hattie, Edie, and Mae, all adored you, looking up to you like the cool older sibling they didn’t have. You would play dress-up with them, let them braid your hair, and sometimes even join them for impromptu tea parties. They would giggle uncomfortably at your dramatic impressions of princesses and villains, their laughter echoing through the house. Nicole often remarked how good you were with them, and Chris would joke that you were training to be a babysitter.

Your home as well was equally a second home for Oscar. Your parents trusted him implicitly, often leaving him in charge when they needed someone to keep you grounded. He had this knack for calming you down whenever you’re in one of your hyperactive moods, his steady demeanor a much-needed anchor to your whirlwind of personality. Oscar often got praised by your parents, calling him the voice of reason in your friendship dynamic. But even they couldn’t stay mad for long when Oscar ended up being roped into your schemes. They would shake their heads and sigh, but deep down, they were glad you had someone like Oscar in your life—someone who did not just tolerate your chaos, but embraced it in his own quiet way.

Growing up with Oscar was more than just having a best friend, it was having a partner in every memory worth keeping. From lazy afternoons spent sprawled out on the grass, staring at the clouds, to winter nights curled up on the couch watching movies, every moment with Oscar felt like an adventure.

You had suddenly remembered that one time—it was the kind of night that felt alive, the air cool but not biting, sky’s a velvet canvas scattered with stars. You had been sitting on the edge of your bed, staring aimlessly at the analog clog, when the idea hit you—a reckless, wild idea that made your heart race with excitement. Sneaking out was not new to you, but this time, you wanted company. Specifically, you wanted Oscar.

Convincing him was not really easy. You had climbed through his bedroom window—something you had done far more time than you could count, and found him already half-asleep, wrapped in his favorite blanket with his hair sticking up at odd angles.

“What are you doing?” he mumbled groggily, squinting at you.

“Come on, we’re going out,” you whispered, a grin spreading across your face.

“Out where?” he asked, rubbing his eyes, though you could hear the reluctance in his voice. “It’s already late at night.”

“Just get dressed. Trust me, you’ll love it.” you smiled.

Oscar groaned, muttering something about how this was a terrible idea, but eventually, he swung his legs out of his bed and grabbed a hoodie. You knew that he would come around, he always did. By the time you reached the abandoned public pool, the chain-linked fence loomed in front of you, its weathered surface dotted with a big faded NO TRESPASSING sign.

He stopped in his tracks, crossing his arms. “You dragged me out of bed for this? We’re not getting in.”

“Oh have a little faith, would you,” you said, as you pull out a pair of heavy-duty bolt cutters.

He stared at you, blinking slowly. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” you replied, popping the p.

“You stole those, didn’t you?” Oscar questioned.

“Borrowed,” you corrected, grinning mischievously as you hefted the tool.

Oscar sighed, the kind of exasperated sigh he seemed to reserve exclusively for you. “You’re insane.”

“And you love it,” you teased, motioning for him to follow you.

You led him to the back of the pool area, where the bushes grew thick and wild, partially hiding the fence. Kneeling down, you positioned the bolt cutters against the rusted metal links and started to work. The snap of metal breaking was surprisingly loud in the quiet night, but you pressed on, ignoring Oscar’s whispered protest.

“This is such a bad idea,” he muttered, glancing over his shoulder as if expecting someone to appear. “If we get caught—”

“We won’t get caught,” you interrupted, voice calm but firm. “Relax, Osc. I’ve done this before.”

“That’s not exactly comforting,” he said, but voice softened when he saw the concentration on your face. “You’re weirdly good at that,” he admitted after a moment, watching as you expertly cut a hole big enough for the two of you to crawl through.

“Why thank you, my good sir,” you said, brushing the dirt off your hands as you stepped back to admire your work. “Now come on, ladies first.” you teased, to which he just rolled his eyes at you.

Oscar followed you through the gap in the fence, grumbling under his breath but too curious to stop. The pool stretched out in front of you, its surface shimmering faintly under the moonlight. Despite the place being abandoned, the water was crystal clear, a testament to whoever was still maintaining it.

“So this is your idea of fun in the middle of the night?” he asked, tone caught between disbelief and amusement.

“Yep.” you smiled.

Shaking his head, he trailed after you to one of the old sunbeds. You plopped down first, stretching out and tilting your head back to gaze at the stars. After a moment, he sat down beside you, arms resting on his knees. For a while, neither of you spoke. The night was so still that the faint rustle of leaves and the distant hum of crickets felt almost amplified. It was peaceful in a way that made the world beyond the fence feel far away and unimportant.

“You really come here a lot?” Oscar finally asked, breaking the silence.

“Yeah, but somehow, they found where I would sneak in and boarded it off.” you said softly. “It’s kind of my spot. No one bothers me here, and I can think peacefully.”

He glanced over at you, expression unreadable. “It’s nice,” he admitted, voice low.

“Told you,” you said with a small smirk, nudging him with your shoulder.

Oscar chuckled, shaking his head. “I still think you’re insane. But thanks for bringing me here.”

“See? You love it!” you teased again, but this time, your tone was gentle.

He didn’t argue back, just leaned back on his elbows and looked up at the stars. For all his initial protests, you could tell he was enjoying himself.

The quiet stillness of the night surrounded you as you sat on the sunbeds, gazing up at the sky. The stars seemed to shimmer more brightly than usual, scattered across the inky darkness like tiny diamonds. The gentle hum of crickets filled the silence, a soothing backdrop to your thoughts. You turned your head slightly, glancing at Oscar, who was leaning back, arms folded behind his head, and face relaxed but thoughtful.

“So,” you started this time, breaking the silence. “How’s karting going for you?”

Oscar turned his head towards you, brow lifting slightly. “It’s going good,” he said, tone casual, but there was a spark in his eyes as he spoke. “I’ve got another competition coming up soon. You’d know all about it if you actually came to one for once.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling a little. “You know that karting isn’t my thing.”

“Not your thing,” he repeated, almost scoffing, though there was no malice in it. “You’ve been saying that for years. You’ve never even given it a chance.”

“I cheer for you in spirit,” you said, leaning back against the sunbed with a grin. “That counts, right?”

Oscar let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “You’re impossible. But seriously, you should come sometime. It’s not just about the racing—you’d see what it’s all about. Besides, my family would love to have you there.”

“I know,” you said quietly, gaze drifting back to the stars. “But I don’t need to be there to know you’re amazing. I’m always proud of you, you know that.”

He smiled softened at your words, and for a moment, neither of you said anything. Then, as if something had been weighing on him, he spoke again.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you,” he began, voice a little hesitant, “I’m probably moving to the UK soon. There’s more opportunity there for racing. Better teams, better chances to make it in F1.”

The words hung in the air between you, and for a brief moment, you didn’t know to respond to Oscar. You felt a slight pinch in your chest, a dull ache you could not quite place. But as always, you pushed it aside, refusing to let it show.

“Oh, wow,” you said, turning to him with a smile that you hoped didn’t look forced. “So, you’re leaving me, huh?”

Oscar gave you a look—half amused, half exasperated. “I’m not leaving you,” he said firmly. “It’s just something I need to do.”

“Sure, sure,” you teased, poking his arm lightly. “Just don’t forget me when you’re already a big shot in F1, okay? Don’t pretend you don’t know me when I show up at one of your races, like, hey, remember me? The one dragged you into all her bad ideas?”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Like I could ever forget you. You’d probably try and break into the paddock if I didn’t let you in.”

“Exactly,” you said with a grin, though your chest still felt tight.

Oscar tilted his head, looking at you more seriously now. “What about you?” he asked. “What do you want to do? Where do you see yourself in a few years?”

You hesitated, staring back up at the sky as if the stars might have an answer for you. The truth was, you did not know at all. You never had. The thought of planning your life out like that felt daunting, like trying to catch smoke in your hands.

“Honestly, I don’t know,” you admitted finally, voice soft. “As cliché as it sounds, I guess I’ll just…go with the flow. See where life takes me.”

Oscar studied your face for a moment, gaze thoughtful. “That’s not a bad thing, you know,” he said. “Some people tend to spend their whole lives planning and never stop to actually live.”

You turned your head to him, surprised by his words. You know that Oscar was philosophical in some type of way, and it always surprises you, but there was something reassuring in the way he said it.

“Yeah,” you murmured, offering him a smile. “Maybe.”

You reached inside of your jacket and pulled out two juice boxes of sunshine punch. You tossed one to Oscar, who caught it with a raised eyebrow.

“Sunshine punch? Really?” he asked, tone teasing as he turned the box over in his hands.

“I know, I’m the best, aren’t I?” you replied, already poking the straw into yours and taking a sip.

Oscar gave you a small shake of his head but didn’t argue. He was not a fan of the drink, you both knew that early on, but he appreciated the gesture. He poked the straw in, took a small sip, and scrunched his nose lightly. You just laughed quietly to yourself, looking out at the pool.

The water glistened under the moonlight, a perfect reflection of the pale orb in the sky. Silence between you was comfortable, just the two of you simply drinking your juice boxes, watching the faint ripple of water and the shadows cast by the surrounding bushes. But then, a sharp flash of light broke through the calm, your heart jumped as the beam of a flashlight swept across the area. You then froze, juice box in hand, while Oscar turned to look at you, confused.

“Finish your juice box,” you whispered urgently, quickly sipping the last of your drink and tossing the empty juice box into a trash bin.

“What “ Oscar whispered back, voice incredulous. “Why?”

“Just do it!” you urged, voice tight as your eyes scanned the area for a hiding spot.

Lscar grumbled, not really happy that you were hurrying him with his juice box, but he drank it quickly. You were already moving, searching desperately for somewhere you and Oscar could hide, but there was nothing. No bushes dense enough, no shadows deep enough. The pool shimmered ominously in your peripheral vision as the flashlight beam drew closer.

“Hold your breath,” you whispered sharply, grabbing Oscar’s wrist.

“Wait, what—” he started, but you didn’t give Oscar the chance to finish.

You yanked him forward, making him drop the juice box to the ground, and without a second thought, you pushed him into the pool. The water was shockingly cold against your skin as you followed him in, the splash louder than you had hoped. You gestured quickly at Oscar, motioning for him to stay under and not make any movement. His expression was a mixture of disbelief and panic, but he nodded, holding his breath as the two of you sank just beneath the surface.

The water muffled everything—whistle of the night, rustle of leaves, even your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. Above you, the flashlight beam danced across the pool’s surface, light refracting and breaking into shimmering fragments underwater. You held your breath as tightly as you held onto the pool ladder near you, praying you wouldn’t need to come up too soon.

Bright light lingered near the spot where you and Oscar were submerged. You could feel the tension radiating off of Oscar, his body still beside yours. The seconds stretched into what felt like an eternity, every muscle in your body tensed. Finally, the light shifted, moving away from your side of the pool. You waited until the beam disappeared entirely before you tapped Oscar’s arm and motioned upward.

Breaking the surface as quietly as you could, you took in a deep gulp of air. The guard’s faint muttering was distant now, but there was no time to relax. Grabbing Oscar’s wrist again, you pulled him towards the swimming pool ladder, the two of you moving quickly but silently. Once out of the pool, you didn’t even wait to catch your breath.

“Run!” you hissed, tugging him along.

The security had heard the faint splashing as you climbed out and turned, his whistle piercing through the night. “Hey! Stop right there!”

You didn’t look back. Your feet pounded against the concrete as you made a dash for the gap in the fence, snatching up the bolt cutters on the way out. You could not risk leaving it behind, your father would definitely notice that they were missing. Oscar groaned behind you, clearly annoyed but following without hesitation. He was the last one through the gap, and just as you turned to grab his arm and pull him forward, the security’s shouts grew louder.

“Go, go, go!” you urged, practically dragging him by his hand as you sprinted down the street.

The sound of your shoes hitting the pavement echoed in the quiet street of your neighborhood, both your breathing still heavy from running, then noticed the way his right sleeve moved awkwardly against his arm. In the faint glow of a nearby streetlamp, you caught sight of a tear in his hoodie, a dark streak seeping through the fabric. Without thinking, you reached out and gently grabbed his arm, stopping him in his tracks.

“Wait, Osc, hold on,” you said, pulling his arm closer to inspect it.

Oscar blinked down at you in surprise. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“You’re bleeding,” you murmured, tugging the torn fabric back slightly to reveal a shallow but angry scratch on his skin. The blood was fresh, glinting under the light.

He tilted his head at the sight of it, his expression calm. “Huh? I didn’t even notice.”

“I’m so sorry, Osc!” you blurted out, guilt immediately rising in your chest. “It must’ve happened when we were going through the fence. I didn’t—”

“Hey, stop it,” he interrupted, tone firm but soft. “It’s not a big deal. Seriously.”

You hesitated, still holding his arm as if that would somehow make it better. Oscar shook his head, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t apologize. It’s fine.”

Even though his words were reassuring, the sight of the wound made you feel uneasy. You let go of his arm reluctantly, murmuring a quiet apology one last time. Oscar just rolled his eyes, though there was no annoyance behind it.

“Come on, let’s get home before we freeze.” he smiled.

The two of you made your way to his house, the familiar sight of the front porch of his house coming into view. You slowed your steps as you approached, realizing that sneaking back inside was not going to work. Oscar’s soaked clothes clung to him, dripping water onto the pavement, and your own shoes squelched with each step. There was no hiding this from anyone.

Oscar gave you a pointed look. “You’re ringing the doorbell.”

You sighed but didn’t argue, stepping up to the door and pressing the doorbell. It wasn’t long before you heard soft footsteps from inside. The door creaked open, and Nicole stood there, face shifting from sleepy confusion to startled concern the moment she saw both you and Oscar.

“What on earth…?” she muttered, eyes scanning your drenched forms. She glanced behind you at the perfectly dry pavement and then back at you both, brow furrowing. “It didn’t rain tonight, what happened?”

You opened your mouth to explain, but she quickly ushered you both inside. “Come in, come in. You’re going to catch a cold standing out there like that.”

Once you were in the warmth of the house, she left for a moment and returned with two towels, handing one to you and the other to Oscar. You wrapped the towel around yourself, the fabric soaking up the cold water clinging to your skin.

“I’m so sorry,” you began, clutching the towel tightly. “It wasn’t my intention to get Oscar dragged into this.”

Nicole raised an eyebrow but didn’t interrupt, so you took it as a sign to continue. “We were just hanging out at the public pool, and when the security showed up, we didn’t have anywhere to hide, so we, uh, hid in the pool.”

At that, Nicole’s lips twitched, and then she laughed, a soft, warm sound that immediately eased the tension in your chest. “You two are really something else,” she said, shaking her head.

You blinked at her, surprised by her reaction. “You’re not mad?”

She smiled at you, expression fond. “No, of course I’m not mad. It’s just water. But next time, maybe pick a place where you won’t need to dive into a pool to avoid getting caught, hm?”

You nodded quickly, relieved. “I promise! And please don’t tell my parents.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t,” Nicole smiled again, waving a hand dismissively. “Dry yourselves off, and Oscar, make sure you clean that scratch on your arm before you head to bed.”

Oscar glanced at the tear in his hoodie and nodded. “Yeah, I got it mum.”

Nicole turned to head back upstairs, but she paused, looking over her shoulder. “Oh, and you can stay the night if you want,” she said to you. “It’s so late, and you’re already here.”

You shook your head politely. “Thank you, but I’ll head home.”

She nodded in understanding, giving you both one last look. “Alright then. Oscar, don’t forget to lock the front door and turn off the lights before you head to bed.”

With that, Nicole headed back upstairs, her footsteps soft on the carpeted stairs. You and Oscar were left standing in the entryway, still damp but no longer worried about the consequences.

Oscar glanced at you, lips twitching as if he were about to laugh. “Well, that went better than expected,” he said, running a hand through his wet hair.

“Yeah,” you said, tugging the towel tighter around your shoulders. “Your mum’s the best.”

As a compensation for the troubles you had caused Oscar and waking up his mother, you decided to patch up his wound. You know exactly where their first aid kit was kept, so you wasted no time in retrieving it from the cabinet under the sink. The house was quiet now, save for the faint creaks of the floorboards beneath your wet shoes as you moved. With the kit in hand, you motioned for Oscar to sit at the kitchen counter.

“Come and sit, take off your hoodie. I’ll patch up your wound, it’s the least I can do for causing troubles,” you said softly, gesturing to the torn and bloodstained fabric.

Oscar hesitated for a moment but eventually tugged the hoodie over the head, wincing slightly when his arm brushed against the sleeve. He tossed the hoodie onto the back of a chair and sat down, resting his injured arm on the counter.

You opened the first aid kit and pulled out a bottle of antiseptic, some cotton pads, and a bandage. Setting everything down neatly, you grabbed a damp cloth first to clean the dried blood off of his skin. The scratch was not deep, but it stretched across his arm in a jagged line, red and raw.

“Alright, this might sting a little,” you warned, soaking a cotton pad with antiseptic and dabbing it gently onto the wound.

Oscar sucked in a sharp breath, face scrunching up. “A little?” he muttered through gritted teeth. “Feels like you’re pouring fire on it.”

You couldn’t help but grin slightly at his reaction, though you kept your focus on his arm. Stop being dramatic, it’s not that bad.”

“Says the person not being burned alive right now,” he shot back, though his tone was light.

You rolled your eyes, pressing the cotton pad a little more carefully against the scratch. “If you keep moving, it’s going to take longer. Hold still.”

Oscar sighed and complied, sitting as still as he could while you worked. Once the wound was clean, you grabbed the fresh bandage and carefully wrapped it around his arm, making sure it was snug but not too tight.

“There,” you said, trying off the bandage and stepping back to inspect your handiwork. “All patched up!”

He glanced down at his arm and flexed it slightly, wincing a little. “Thanks, Doc,” he said with a small smile.

You began gathering the used cotton pads and other supplies, discarding them into the trash and returning the first aid kit to its usual spot. As you wiped your hands on the towel draped over your shoulders, Oscar leaned back in his chair, eyeing the fresh bandage.

“Think it’s gonna leave a scar?” he asked casually.

You paused for a moment, glancing at the scratch before shrugging. “Probably. But at least it’ll be a cool story.”

Oscar snorted. “Yeah, breaking into an abandoned pool and almost getting caught by security. Real cool.”

You smirked, folding the towel neatly and setting it aside. “You’ll thank me when you’re older and tell this to your kids. Your crazy aunt gave me this scar.’”

He laughed quietly, shaking his head. “Guess I’ll have to keep you around just for the stories, huh?”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress the small smile on your face. “Anyway, it’s late, or early, I guess. I should head home.”

Oscar stood up as you grabbed your jacket, which was still damp but less soaked than before. “I’ll walk you to the front door,” he offered.

The two of you made your way to the front door, house completely silent except for your footsteps. Oscar unlocked the door and held it open for you, the cool night air rushing in.

“Goodnight,” you said softly, stepping out onto the porch.

“Night,” Oscar replied, lingering in the doorway as you walked down the steps.

The streets were quiet as you made your way home, slipping into your yard and heading straight for the tool shed. You carefully returned the bolt cutter to its original place, making sure everything looked untouched. With that done, you grabbed the ladder that was leaning against the side of the house and quietly climbed up to your bedroom window. Halfway up, you paused and turned your head, glancing across to Oscar’s house, his bedroom window was lit dimly from the inside, and there he was, standing jusy behind the glass. Oscar noticed you looking and mouthed a goodnight, with a smile.

You smiled back and gave him a slight wave in return before turning back to your task. Pulling yourself through the open window, you landed softly on your bedroom floor, finally letting out a breath you had not realized that you were holding.

Years had passed since that night at the pool. Life, as it always did, moved forward, and the close bond you and Oscar had once shared slowly faded into memory. When Oscar left for the UK to pursue his racing career, you couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sadness, even as you supported him wholeheartedly. It was a bittersweet goodbye without an actual farewell—you didn’t get to see him before he left. Instead, you relied on Nicole to pass along your best wishes, trusting that she would tell him everything you could not.

Not long after Oscar’s departure, your own life took a drastic turn. Your parents had finally decided to move to Sydney for better work opportunities, a decision that uprooted you from the neighborhood you had ever called home. The weeks leading up to the move were a whirlwind of packing boxes, sorting through childhood memorabilia, and saying goodbyes to the people who had been part of your life for so long—the Piastris were among the hardest to leave behind. Nicole hugged you tightly, and Chris offered his usual kind words, and Oscar’s sisters promised to write, though you all knew how unlikely that was to happen.

When the moving day came, you left quietly. There wasn’t much time for sentimentality—just final glance at the house you grew up in before climbing into the car. Sydney will be a fresh start for your family—as how your parents had put it, but you could not shake the feeling that you were leaving a piece of you behind.

The transition to Sydney was not easy, but somehow, you managed. The city was bigger, busier, and an unfamiliar territory, yet you adapted, throwing yourself into a routine that kept your mind occupied. You rarely thought about the past, though every now and then, something would remind you of Oscar—a fleeting mention of his name in news and online articles, or a memory that surfaced at the most unexpected times.

Nine months after moving to Sydney, something changed yet again. What started as fatigue and unexplained bruises turned into something far more serious. One day, your parents rushed you to the hospital after you fainted at home. Series of tests were run, questions were asked, and finally, a doctor say you down with an expression that left no room for doubt.

Stage two leukemia.

The words hung in the air, heavy and unyielding. You felt entirely detached, as though they were speaking to someone else. Your parents’ reactions were immediate—your mother bursting into tears and your father was gripping your hand tightly. But you were just sitting there, silent and still. You didn’t cry. You didn’t scream. You didn’t ask why this was happening to you. Instead, you felt a strange sense of calmness wash over you, a quiet acceptance that settled over you like a blanket. Maybe it was shock, or maybe it was the realization that no amount of questioning or anger would change what was already done.

Later that night, after the initial flurry of doctors and paperwork, you sat with your parents in the sterile quiet of your hospital room. The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead, casting a pale glow on their worried faces. You looked at your parents, both were still trying to process what they had been told, and made a request.

“I don’t want anyone else to know,” you said firmly.

Your father frowned, forehead creasing deeply. “What do you mean? People will want to support you—”

“I mean it, dad,” you interrupted gently but resolutely. “Let’s keep this to ourselves. I don’t want anyone worrying about me.”

Your mother hesitated, voice breaking. “What about Nicole and Chris? They’re family to us—they’d want to know.”

You shook your head, your gaze steady. “No. Please. If they find out, they’ll tell Oscar, and I just don’t want him to worry. He’s got enough on his plate, he doesn’t need to hear about this.”

There was a long pause. Your parents exchanged a glance, the kind of silent conversation that only comes with years of partnership. Finally, your father sighed and nodded.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “If that’s what you want, we’ll respect it.”

“Thank you,” you murmured, leaning back against the pillows.

Just like that, the secret was sealed. Life shifted into a strange new rhythm—hospital visits, treatments, moments of hope, and days of despair. Through it all, you kept your diagnosis close to your chest, unwilling to burden anyone else with the weight of it.

It had been nearly a year of chemotherapy—long days of sitting in cold hospital rooms in silence, hooked up to IVs that dripped chemicals into your veins. Each session left you feeling more drained than the last, your body growing weaker as the fight dragged on. Still, you clung to the silver of hope that the treatments were doing something, anything, to slow down the disease. But hope has a way of unraveling.

Your latest round of tests came back, and the news was worse than you could have imagined. The chemotherapy was not working. Instead of improving, your condition had worsened, and now the doctors were delivering the words you had dreaded since the beginning.

Stage four.

You sat still inside the small consultation room, the sterile white walls closing in around you as the doctor explained your options. Words such as aggressive treatment and clinical trials floated in the air, but you were not really listening to what the doctor was saying. Your parents were, though—you could see the desperation in their faces as they clung to every word, searching for something to hold onto.

Later that night, at home, you lay in bed staring blankly at the ceiling with the weight of the diagnosis pressing down on your chest. You thought about the past years, about how much you had endured and how little had come from it. The endless cycle of nausea, fatigue, and pain had left you feeling like a shadow of yourself. What was the point of continuing if it wasn't even making you better?

The next morning, you asked your parents to sit down with you in the living room. They looked at you with concern, sensing that this conversation was different. You took a deep breath, steadying yourself before speaking.

“I want to stop the chemotherapy,” you said quietly but firmly.

Your mother’s eyes widened, a hand flying to her mouth. “What? No—you can’t mean that, honey. We’re fighting this, remember? You’ve been so strong—”

“I’ve been strong,” you whispered gently, meeting her gaze. “But I’m tired, mum. I’m so fucking tired. This treatment is no longer working on me. We all know damn well that it’s not working.”

Your father’s face was tense, his hands gripping the armrest of his chair. “The doctors said there are other options. Experimental treatments, new drugs—sweetheart, they haven’t given up on you, and neither should you.”

You sighed, trying to find the right words to make them understand. “I know you want me to keep fighting, and I love you for that. But this isn’t living anymore, every single day feels like a battle that I’m losing. I don’t want to spend whatever time I have left feeling like this.”

Tears welled up in your mother’s eyes as she reached for your hand. “There has to be something else that we can do. We can’t just stop.”

“I’m not giving up,” you said softly, squeezing her hand. “I’m just choosing a different path. The doctors mentioned alternatives, things that might help me feel better without the chemo. I want to try those instead, I want to focus on quality of life, not quantity.”

There was a long silence as your parents absorbed your words. Your father looked down at the floor, his jaw clenched, while your mother wiped at her tears. Finally, he spoke, voice low and strained.

“If this is what you want, okay, we’ll support you. But it’s not easy for us to accept.”

“I know,” you whispered, voice breaking. “I know it’s not easy. But this is what feels right for me.”

Your mother nodded through her tears, her grip on your hand tightening. “We’ll talk to the doctors tomorrow. We’ll figure out the alternatives.”

You leaned into your mother’s embrace, feeling a mix of relief and sorrow. It was not an easy decision, but it was yours, and for the first time in a long time, you felt like you could breathe.

You never thought that you would be back to where it all started. The sun was warm on your back as you stood in front of the old house, taking in the neighborhood that had once been so familiar. Everything seemed different now—houses, gardens, and even the way the air smelled, but the tree with the tyre swing still stood proudly in the front yard. The sight of it tugged at your chest, stirring a mix of nostalgia and longing. You remembered how you and Oscar used to spend hours climbing its sturdy branches, swinging so high on the tyre that your parents would often scold you to be careful.

You took a tentative step toward the tree, wondering if the names you and Oscar had carved into the bark were still there. You hadn’t really thought about that in years, but the memory was vivid of how the two of you had sat side by side, each clutching a small pocket knife that you were not supposed to have, giggling as you carefully etched your initials into the wood. Before you could reach the tree, a voice called out your name.

You turned around quickly, heart skipping a beat as you saw her—Nicole. Nicole just stood there, just as warm and welcoming as you remembered. Her face lit up in recognition, and before you could say anything, she crossed the distance between you and pulled you into a tight hug.

“Oh my goodness!” she exclaimed, arms wrapping around you with a familiar kind of affection that nearly brought tears to your eyes. “It’s been so long! Look at you—you’ve grown up so much.”

You smiled nervously as she pulled back, her hands still resting on your shoulders. “Hi, Mrs. P. It’s been a while.”

“Too long, my dear,” she said, voice tinged with both happiness and surprise. “I heard your family was back in town, but I didn’t think I’d run into you so soon! How are you? How are your parents?”

“They’re good,” you replied, voice steady despite the sudden nervousness creeping into your chest. “They’re inside, actually, talking to the realtor.”

Nicole nodded, eyes scanning your face with that same maternal kindness you remembered from your childhood. “And how are you, sweetheart? It’s been ages since I last saw you.”

Your throat tightened for a moment. She did not know. No one ever did, except your parents. You forced a small smile and nodded. “I’m doing okay. Just taking it one day at a time, you know?”

She smiled warmly, completely unaware of the weight behind your words. “That’s good to hear. It’s so nice to see you back, Brighton hasn’t been the same without you.”

You shifted slightly, glancing around the neighborhood before returning your gaze to her. “How’s everyone by the way? The whole family, especially the girls.”

“Oh they’re all doing great,” Nicole said brightly. “The girls are growing up so fast—you wouldn’t even recognize them! Then Oscar…”

At the mention of his name, your heart seemed to skip. You hadn’t thought about him in a very long time, and now, hearing his name felt both comforting and surreal.

“How’s Oscar?” you asked, trying to sound casual despite the flutter in your chest.

Nicole’s face lit up with pride. “Oh, he’s doing wonderfully! You wouldn’t believe it—he’s made it to F1! He was signed with McLaren.”

The words hit you like a burst of sunlight, flooding you with an overwhelming sense of happiness that you could not even describe. Your lips parted in surprise, and you felt your chest swell with pride.

“He did it?” you asked softly, almost in disbelief.

Nicole nodded, smile widening. “He did! It’s been such a journey for him, but he’s finally there. All those years of hard work have paid off.”

You felt tears prick at the corners of your eyes, but you quickly blinked them away, a wide grin spreading across your face. “I always knew he would make it. I never doubted it for a second.”

Nicole chuckled, her hand resting lightly on your arm. “He worked so hard for this, and I know he would love to see you. Oscar’s been so busy, especially with the races, but I’m sure that he’d be thrilled to know you’re back.”

You hesitated for a moment, the thought of seeing him again stirring a mix of emotions you were not quite ready to unpack. “That’s amazing,” you said finally, voice filled with genuine admiration. “I’m so proud of him.”

Nicole smiled knowingly, as if she could see just how much you meant it. “You should tell him that yourself sometime. I know that he’d love to hear it.”

You nodded, though you were not sure if you would.

You and your family are back yet again in Brighton. The day was unusually quiet, the kind of silence that made you feel every sound—rustle of leaves in the breeze, distant hum of cars passing by, faint creak of the porch beneath your weight. You were sitting there, knees pulled to your chest, gazing out at the familiar neighborhood that had shaped so many of your memories. It was strange to think that after today, this house, street, and view would no longer be yours.

Your parents were just inside the house, tying up loose ends with the realtor, discussing the final details of the sale. You had excused yourself, not wanting to be a part of it. The mere thought of walking through the now-empty rooms, stripped off the warmth and life they once held, felt too heavy. So you stayed outside, perched on the porch steps, letting the sights and sounds of Brighton seep into you one last time.

The air carried an unusual faint chill, and you hugged your arms around yourself as you scanned the street. It was still the same in many ways—neatly trimmed lawns, rows of houses with their uniform yet distinct façade. But it also felt different, as if time had moved on without you, leaving you as an observer rather than a participant. As your eyes wandered, something, or rather, someone had caught your attention. You straightened slightly, squinting to make sure that you were not imagining things. Walking down the sidewalk, with an easy familiar stride, was Oscar.

For a moment, you were struck by how much he had changed. He carried himself differently now, more confident, assured, as if the years away had molded him into someone who fully belonged in the world he had always dreamed of. But that was not what held your attention. Beside Oscar, her arm lightly brushing against his, was a girl. She was gorgeous in an effortless way that made it impossible to look away. Her hair shimmered in the sunlight, her laughter rang out softly as she spoke to Oscar, and her smile was the kind that lit up her whole face.

You felt it then—a sharp, unbidden pang in your chest. It was not jealousy, not exactly. It was something deeper, aching. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from them, from the way they walked together, so perfectly in sync, so natural. They looked so good together, like a pair that had been meant to find each other. And you? You just sat there, still and silent, feeling like an intruder on a moment that was not meant for you to see.

You hated the way how your mind began to spiral, unearthing old, buried feelings that you had tried so hard to forget and ignore. You thought you had moved past it, but now, sitting there, it was undeniable. You had loved Oscar, or at least something close to it. You never admitted it to anyone, not even to yourself. But it had always been there, in the way your heart quickened when he smiled at you, in a way you always wanted to make him laugh, in the way you looked for him in every crowded room.

But you never told him. How could you? He was Oscar—steady, kind, driven, and you were you. A troublemaker. Reckless. Always saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. You had convinced yourself a long time ago that someone like him could never feel the same way about you, that you were not the kind of person he would ever want.

But now, watching him with her, it only proved what you had always known deep down. They looked perfect together, in a way you could never imagine yourself fitting into his life. She had the kind of refinement and grace that seemed effortless, while you were rough around the edges and acting on impulsive decisions.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to look away, but it was already too late. The image of them, of Oscar, was already etched into your mind, and as you sat there, you chest heavy with an ache you couldn’t shake, you knew that saying goodbye to this house and street was not the hardest part of leaving Brighton.

The hardest part was letting go of something you never truly had.

You were standing by your family car, hands crossed to your chest, waiting for your parents to finish up inside when you heard someone call your name. Turning, you saw Nicole walking briskly towards you, face lighting up as she reached you. Before you could even say anything, she had already extended an invitation for you and your family to come over to their house for the afternoon.

You hesitated, glancing towards your parents who were just stepping out of the house. A quiet panic bubbled inside you, this was not what you were expecting, and you certainly were not in the mood to socialize. But you did not want to be rude, especially to Nicole who had always been warm and kind. So, with a quiet nod, you agreed.

The Piastri house hadn’t changed that much. The familiar scent of home cooking and the subtle hum of conversation greeted you the moment you stepped through the door. Your parents were warmly embraced by Nicole, their chatter filling up the air as if no time had passed since your last visit. You lingered near the entryway, unsure of where to place yourself, when you heard excited voices. Hattie, Edie, and Mae appeared out of nowhere, voices high-pitched with excitement as they spotted you.

Before you could even say a word, they wrapped you in a tight group hig, their arms squeezing you with an intensity that left you breathless. You tried to laugh it off, but it came out as a wheeze, your words muffled by the weight of their embrace.

“Alright, let her breathe!” Oscar’s voice cut through the chaos.

The three of them reluctantly stepped back, each of their faces flushed with excitement. You caught your breath, offering a weak smile as they began firing a series of questions at you in rapid succession.

“How have you been?”

“What are you up to these days?”

“How are you finding Sydney?”

The questions came at you like a tidal wave, and you barely managed to mumble a response before another question followed. It was overwhelming, too much all at once, and just when you felt yourself starting to falter, Oscar intervened again.

“Okay, that’s enough interrogation,” he said, tone light but firm as he stepped between you and his sisters. “Give her a minute to breathe, yeah?”

Relief washed over you, but it was short-lived. Now, it was just you and Oscar, and the silence between you felt louder than anything his sisters had said. You looked at him, unsure of what to really say or where to start, and in the end, you settled for the safest and simplest thing you could ever think of.

“Congratulations by the way,” you said, voice quieter than you intended. “On making it to F1.”

His lips curved into a smile, soft and genuine. “Thanks. It’s been a crazy few years.”

You nodded, really unsure of how to respond, and the silence threatened to stretch on uncomfortably. But then he added, “I’m back in Australia for the Grand Prix.”

“Oh, that’s amazing,” you said, meaning it. “I’m proud of you, Osc. Really.”

Oscar tilted his head slightly, a smile turning into a more playful one. “You still don’t watch the races, though, do you?”

You laughed softly, the sound surprising even you. “No. It’s still not my thing.”

“Figures,” he said, laughing along with you.

The moment felt almost normal, a small glimpse of the easy connection you used to share. But it was fleeting. Oscar shifted slightly, his expression changing as he turned towards the doorway.

“Oh, by the way,” he said, tone casual. “I want you to meet Lily, my girlfriend.”

Girlfriend.

Lily. There she was. She stepped into view, her presence effortless and magnetic. Up close, she was even more stunning than you had realized, her features flawless and her demeanor warm. She smiled at you, and it was not forced or polite, it was kind, genuine, disarmingly sweet, and most of all, welcoming.

“It’s so nice to finally meet you,” she said, extending a hand. Her voice was soft, yet it carried an ease that made you feel immediately out of place. “Oscar had told me so much about you.”

“All good things, I hope,” you shook her hand, offering a small smile in return. “It’s nice to meet you too.”

As she spoke, her kindness and charm were really undeniable, and you found yourself unable to summon any ill will towards her—it even made you feel bad for even thinking about something badly about Lily. She was lovely, perfect even, and though you wanted to find a reason to dislike her, you couldn’t. Lily was everything you were not—poised, polished, radiant.

The three of you stood there, exchanging conversations. You couldn’t help but take in the way Oscar looked at Lily—the softness in his eyes, the way his smile lingered when he spoke to her. It was clear how much she meant to him, and as much as it stung. You felt a lump rise in your throat, but you swallowed it down, forcing yourself to smile and nod along to the conversation.

It was going to be a very long day, and you just have to get through it. You reminded yourself that this was not about you—it never had been.

The Piastri household was buzzing with life as the afternoon was painted with golden hues. Inside, everyone seemed immersed in their own words. Your parents were deep in conversation with Nicole, their laughter and voices carrying through the air as they caught up on years of life. Hattie, Edie, and Mae were busy entertaining themselves, their giggles occasionally echoing from another room. Oscar and Lily sar close together, their connection evident in the way they talked and laughed, though they were kind enough to include you in the occasional exchange.

Observing what was happening around you, you can’t help but feel out of place, as though you were floating on the edges of a scene that didn’t belong to you anymore. You forced a polite smile, and excused yourself with a mumbled explanation about needing to grab something from the car. No one seemed to question it, and you slipped out of the house unnoticed.

As you closed the door behind you, you let out a breath that you hadn’t realized you had been holding. The tension that had coiled tight in your chest while you were inside slowly began to unwind. You stuffed your hand into your black leather jacket pockets and started down the quiet street, letting your feet guide you without much thought.

The familiar streets brought a wave of nostalgia, and as you walked, your mind wandered back to simpler days. Eventually, you found yourself wondering if that small family-owned store—one where you and Oscar used to visit after his karting victories, was still there. It felt like eons ago, but the memory was sharp and vivid—you and Oscar bursting through the shop’s door, with Oscar still giddy from the races, and celebrating his win with an ice cream as though it were the most important ritual in the world.

When you turned the corner, there it was. The modest storefront stood just as it had all those years ago, the paint already slightly faded but otherwise unchanged. The familiar bell above the door chimes as you step inside, and the scent of sweet, aged wood mixed with the faint aroma of candy hits you instantly. The store looked exactly the same. Shelves lined with old fashioned sweets, rows of snacks, and that unmistakable freezer filled with ice cream in the corner. Your eyes scanned the small shop, and behind the counter stood great old Uncle Roger, his face lighting up with recognition as he spotted you.

“Well, well,” he said, settling down a box he had been unpacking. “If it isn’t trouble itself!”

A wide grin spread across your face. “Hey Uncle Roger,” you greeted warmly. “You still remember me?”

He chuckled, stepping around the counter to stand in front of you. “Of course, I do! How could I forget the little rascal who used to hide in my back room to hide from the chaos she caused and would sometimes scare my customers away?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I wasn’t that bad.”

“Oh, really?” he shot back, raising an eyebrow. “Need I remind you of the time you pulled that prank with the balloons and the flour? Or the time you locked that bou Tommy out of the store and wouldn’t let him back in?”

You laughed again. “Okay, maybe a little chaos.”

“And poor Oscar,” he continued, tone light. “You used to drag him into all your mischief. That boy was too patient for his own good.”

You softly chucked as you nodded. “Guilty as charged,” you admitted. “Though, to be fair, Oscar was a willing accomplice most of the time.”

Uncle Roger let out a hearty laugh, the sound filling the small shop. “That he was. Good kid, though, and look at him now—a big shot race. His folks must be over the moon.”

“They are,” you said, smiling faintly.

“And what about you?” Uncle Roger asked, rone softening as he studied you. “What have you been up to all these years? You look different. Grown up.”

You hesitated, not wanting to delve too deeply into everything. “Life has been…pretty interesting,” you replied vaguely. “Moved to Sydney, tried to figure things out. It’s been a ride, that’s for sure.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly sensing there was more to the story, but he did not push. “Well, you’ve always been a fighter,” Uncle Roger said kindly. “I’m sure whatever it is, you’re handling it like a champ.”

You smiled at his words, though a part of you felt the weight of them in a way he could not even understand. “Thanks, Uncle Roger,” you said softly.

He grinned again, stepping back towards the counter. “Now, I assume you didn’t just come in here to reminisce. Let me guess—you’re here for the ice cream, aren’t you? Same flavor as always?”

You laughed, a genuine sound this time, and nodded. “It wouldn’t feel right to leave without it.”

“Coming right up,” he said, already moving to the freezer. “Some things never really change, do they?”

The hours slipped by without you even realizing it. Time seemed to pause within the walls of Uncle Roger’s store, the air filled with the nostalgic hum of its old ceiling fan and the occasional chime of the doorbell. You had taken it upon yourself to help behind the counter, ringing up purchases and chatting with customers as though you had been working at the store for years. It wasn’t part of the plan, but when Uncle Roger had laughed and handed you an apron, you could not resist.

“I’ve always wanted to work at a place like this,” you had told him earlier with a grin, and he’d chuckled.

“Well, here’s your chance to experience it. Just don’t scare off the customers,” he’d teased before heading to the back to work on inventory.

Now, perched on a stool behind the counter, you twirled a lollipop between your fingers, its sugary sweetness lingering on your tongue. The small television mounted by the corner played a rerun of an old sitcom, the laughter track punctuating the quietness of the store. You glanced at the clock, realizing just how much time had passed since you had walked through the door, but you didn’t mind.

The familiar chime of the doorbell pulled your attention back to the counter, and you straightened instinctively. “Hello, welcome to Uncle Roger’s!” you greeted brightly, a practiced smile already in place.

When your eyes landed on the customer, your heart skipped. It was Oscar.

Oscar’s smile was warm and slightly amused as he approached the counter. “I had a feeling that you would be here,” he said, leaning casually against the edge of the counter, eyes flicking to the apron you wore, and his smile widened. “But I didn’t expect to find you working.”

You shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Well, it’s not everyday you get to live out a childhood dream. I figured, why not?”

He chuckled, shaking his head lightly. “Of course you would.”

He made his way to the drinks section, scanning the shelves before grabbing a couple of items. When he returned, he placed the drinks on the counter in front of you. You glanced at them as you reached for the scanner, hands immediately pausing when you recognized the brightly colored packaging.

It was a sunshine punch. Two juice boxes.

Your eyes flickered to Oscar briefly. “Sunshine punch, really?” you asked casually, though you couldn’t hide the slight surprise in your tone. “I thought you hated this stuff.”

He shrugged, expression unreadable. “Maybe my taste has changed,” he said simply.

You just hummed un acknowledgement, though you couldn’t help but wonder. From what you had remembered, he could barely stand the smell of it, let alone drink it. Then you wondered, maybe it was for Lily and him, you thought silently, and the thought of it tugged at something in your chest.

As you rang up the items, you kept your tone professional, if not, a bit playful. “Would you like to bag these?” you asked.

Oscar shook his head, a small grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “No bag, thanks. Gotta save the turtles, right?”

You laughed softly at that, handing him the total. “Fair point,” you said, watching as he counted out the cash. You handed him his change, slipping into a mockingly formal tone. “Thank you for shopping at Uncle Roger’s, please come again!”

The two of you burst into laughter at how silly you sounded, with your laughter filling the quiet store. It felt easy, natural—like stepping back into a moment frozen in time. But as the laughter faded, a sigh escaped your lips, unbidden.

Oscar laughed outright at that, shaking his head as he pocketed his change. “You sound way too serious. Are you sure you haven’t secretly been doing this for years?”

You chuckled, leaning your arms on the counter. “Hey, I’m just trying to be professional. Gotta make a good impression on the boss.”

“How about we go to that public pool that we used to go to as kids?” Oscar said as he lingered near the counter while you glanced back at him, processing his unexpected suggestion.

“The abandoned pool?” you repeated softly, a mix of surprise and curiosity in your voice.

It had been years since you had even thought about that place, let alone considered even going back there. The idea felt surreal.

“Yeah, it’s still around,” he said with a small shrug, tone casual, though there was a glint of something, maybe akin to nostalgia, in his eyes.

You hesitated for only a moment before nodding. “Yeah, sure. Alright, let’s go,” you agreed.

You head towards the back of the store, pushing open the swinging door to find Uncle Roger hunched over his clipboard, meticulously counting boxes.

“Hey Uncle Roger,” you called gently, not wanting to startle him.

He looked up from his work, expression softening when he saw you. “Finished already?”

You gave him an apologetic smile. “I think I’m going to clock out for the day. Oscar and I are heading out for a bit.”

Uncle Roger’s gaze flickered to the counter, where Oscar was waiting patiently. A wide grin spread across his face as he stepped out from behind the storage shelves.

“Well, now. Look who decided to stick around,” he said, tone warm and teasing. “And in my shop, no less. Oscar Piastri, the Formula 1 driver!”

Oscar laughed lightly, hands tucked into his pockets. “You make it sound way more impressive than it is, Uncle Roger,” he replied modestly.

“Nonsense,” Uncle Roger said with a wave of his hand. “I always knew you were destined for greatness the moment you sat in that kart. It’s good to see you, son.”

Oscar smiled, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. “It’s good to see you too.”

Uncle Roger’s attention turned back to you, eyes twinkling. “Having you two here today, it’s just like the old times,” he said with a wistful sigh. “You, running around causing trouble, and Oscar, trying to keep up.”

You chuckled, feeling a wave of warmth at his words. “Well, as you said, some things never really change,” you said lightly.

Uncle Roger patted your shoulder. “You’ve been a big help today, my dear. I’ve been meaning to start on that inventory for weeks, but I couldn’t leave the counter. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”

“Anytime,” you said earnestly. “I’ll visit whenever I’m back in Brighton, I promise.”

He nodded, expression softening even further. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Before leaving, you stepped forward to give him a hug, the kind of hug that lingered just long enough to let him know how much his kindness meant to you. You removed the apron and switched it for your black leather jacket. Oscar chimed in with a quick ‘take care, Uncle Roger,’ and you both made your way out of the store, the bell chiming softly behind you.

Relief mingled with a touch of surprise as you nodded your head. “Alright then.”

When you arrived at the abandoned public pool, it was like stepping back in time—a time capsule. The cool air carried a faint scent of earth and old concrete, and the quiet hum of the town surrounded you. You immediately made your way to the part of the chain-link fence that you had cut through all those years ago. A crude, jagged hole that had somehow withstood the test of time. You crouched down to inspect it, your fingers brushing the edges of the worn out metal.

“I can’t believe that it’s still here,” you said softly, more to yourself than Oscar.

The faintest smile tugged at your lips when you noticed the hole had clearly become a regular entrance for others. “Looks like I set the blueprint for sneaking in, huh?”

Oscar chuckled behind you, voice warm. “Yeah, you’re a trendsetter,” he teased.

You ducked through the opening in the fence, Oscar following close behind. The pool area was almost unrecognizable, yet unmistakably the same. The once-pristine tiles were faded and cracked, the pool itself empty and hollow, walls were now layered with colorful graffiti—messages, drawings, and names scrawled over one another in a chaotic tapestry. Though the old sunbeds still lined the deck, many were now broken and rusted. The whole place felt frozen in time, yet irrevocably changed.

Your gaze landed on one particular sunbed, its white paint chipped and the straps slightly frayed. “Oh, that’s the one,” you murmured, walking over to it.

Dusting it off with your hands, you lowered yourself onto the sunbed, letting the weight of the moment settle over you. Above, the stars were scattered across the vast expanse of the night sky, their light faint but steady. The air was still, and for a while, it felt like the world beyond the place didn’t exist. Oscar settled down on the sunbed beside you, legs stretched out, and arms resting on his knees. Like you, his gaze was fixed on the sky. For a long time, neither of you spoke, the silence between you comfortable—familiar.

You were so lost in your thoughts, mind drifting through memories of this place, that you didn’t notice Oscar moving until you felt something brush against your hand. Turning your head, you saw him holding out a juice box of sunshine punch. The drink you thought that Oscar bought a shop were for someone else, turns out that it was for the two of you.

Your breath hitched slightly as your eyes darted from the juice box to his face. “You bought this for me?”

Oscar smiled, a little sheepishly. “For us,” he corrected. “Figured it’d be fitting.”

A soft laugh escaped you as you took the juice box from his hand, the cool surface pressing against your palm. “Thanks, Osc,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

You popped the straw into the box, taking a slow sip. The familiar tangy-sweet flavor hit your tongue, and for a moment, you could almost imagine that you were back to being kids again—hanging out in the abandoned public pool, celebrating one of Oscar’s karting wins with ice cream from Uncle Roger’s, inciting chaos, and never ending laughter.

Breaking the stillness, Oscar’s voice came, quiet but steady. “How are you?”

It was a simple question that has an easy answer to it, but the question hung in the air, heavy despite its simplicity. You paused, gaze fixed on the sky above. After a moment, you decided to answer, keeping your tone light.

“I’m fine.”

Oscar turned his head towards you, his expression curious but patient, waiting for you to elaborate. You took another sip of your drink, stalling for time. Finally, you added, “you know, the usual. Just…life.”

It was not much of an answer to Oscar’s question, really, and you knew it. But it was the only answer that you were willing to give him. You’re glad that he didn’t push, though his eyes lingered on you for a moment longer before he looked back up the sky.

“Any plans?” he asked after a pause.

You exhaled softly, lips curving into the faintest of smiles. “Plans,” you repeated, as if testing the word. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ve stopped making them.”

Oscar’s brows furrowed slightly at your answer, and you felt his gaze on you again. You tilted your head back, eyes tracing the constellations.

“Plans are funny, you know?” you continued, voice thoughtful. “You make them, and then shit happens. Sometimes, you end up where you thought you’d be, and other times…” you trailed off, shrugging lightly.

Oscar tilted his head slightly, watching you.

You smiled faintly, letting out a soft laugh. “It’s like what I told you back then? Last time that we were here, on the exact same sunbeds we’re sitting on—wherever life takes me, right?”

He smiled at that, the memory lighting up his expression. “Wherever life takes you,” he repeated softly, as if testing the words in his own voice.

“You know…Lily’s amazing,” you said, tone light but sincere. “She’s a very lovely girl, Oscar. I mean, she’s gorgeous, obviously, but more than that. She’s kind, and has this certain warmth to her that makes it impossible not to like her.”

Oscar glanced at you, a small smile forming on his lips. “She really is,” he agreed softly, voice carrying a sense of pride.

You nodded, your own smile growing. “You two are like a perfect match. Yin and yang, you know? She really balances you out. You know that you’ve always been on the quieter side, but Lily brings out the best and talkative part of you.”

Oscar chuckled at your statement, eyes briefly meeting yours. “She definitely doesn’t let me stay quiet for long.”

You laughed softly, though your thoughts remained bittersweet. “I saw the way she looks at you,” you continued. “It’s so full of love. It’s the kind of look people dream of, you know? You’re really lucky to have her.”

His expression shifted slightly, as though he was not sure how to respond to the unexpected depth of your words. He gave a small nod, his smile turning a little shy.

“I’m proud of you, Oscar. Really.” you added, voice a little quieter now. “For finding someone like Lily. She’s good for you, and I’m happy knowing that she’ll be there for you.”

There was a pause before you continued on, tone suddenly turning more painful, though there was a weight beneath the lightness of it. “At least now I know that someone will be by your side when I’m gone.”

Oscar frowned slightly, he felt a little chill and was caught off guard by your words. “What do you mean by that?” he asked, confused.

You hesitated for a moment, quickly realizing how your words could have sounded. You forced a small laugh, hoping to brush it off. “I just mean, you know, since I had moved to Sydney,” you said, tone casual. “I’m not here anymore. I can’t be by your side like I used to back when we were kids.”

His expression softened, though he still seemed a little bit puzzled by your words. You just smiled softly, looking up again as you added, “but it’s okay. You’ve got Lily now, and she’s amazing. You’re in good hands.”

The walk back from the abandoned public pool was quiet. The kind of quiet that was not uncomfortable, but heavy with so many unspoken words. The sound of your boots scuffing against the pavement and the faint rustling of leaves in the cool night air were the only things breaking the silence. Your hand stayed inside the pockets of your black leather jacket, the smooth lining a small comfort against the cold night.

Oscar walked beside you, his own steps steady and unhurried. You could feel his presence, solid and familiar, yet neither of you made any effort to fill the stillness. There was nothing pressing to say, and perhaps, that was enough.

When you finally turned the corner leading back to your neighborhood, the headlights of your parent’s car came into view, cutting through the dim light of the street. Your parents were standing beside it, their postures relaxed but expectant, while Nicole leaned casually against the hood, arms crossed. As soon as they spotted you, your mother straightened up, relief softening her features.

“There you are!” she exclaimed, voice a mix of mild concern and amusement. “We were starting to wonder where you’d gone off to.”

Oscar was quick to answer, tone light and easy. “We were at Uncle Roger’s shop, just catching up.”

Your father nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips, while Nicole’s expression softened, her gaze flitting between you and Oscar. “It’s so good to see the two of you spending time together again,” she said warmly.

Your mother stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on your arm. “We should get going, sweetheart,” she said softly, eyes kind but tired.

The goodbyes came swiftly after that, each one carrying its own weight. Nicole pulled you into a tight embrace, warmth and familiar scent grounding you for a moment. “Take care of yourself, okay?” she said, voice quiet but firm.

When Nicole let go, it was Oscar’s turn. He stepped closer, arms wrapping around you with a firmness that caught you off guard. It was not one of those quick, polite hugs—it was the kind of embrace that lingered, as if he were trying to hold onto something fleeting.

“I’ll see you soon, okay?” he murmured, voice low and sincere. Then he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, a small, boyish grin appearing on his face. “And you have to come to my race one of these days. No more excuses.”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly, shaking your head. “Alright, we’ll see,” you said lightly, though you both knew it was not a promise.

With that, you turned and walked towards the car. As you reach for the door handle, something makes you glance back over your shoulder. Oscar was still standing there, hands tucked into his pockets, watching you with an unreadable expression. You gave him a soft smile, lifting your hand in a casual salute. He returned the gesture, a faint smile playing on his lips.

Sliding into the backseat of the car, you buckle your seatbelt as your father starts the car. The low rumble of the engine filled the silence, and as the car began to pull away, you could not resist a one last look at Oscar through the rearview mirror. Oscar was still standing there, framed by the faint glow of the streetlights, his figure growing smaller and smaller until he disappeared from the view entirely.

You did not look back again, you never looked back. But something in you stirred—a quiet, unshakable feeling that this night, this moment, would never come again. Neither of you could have known that this would be the very last time you would see each other. The very last time Oscar would ever see you.

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

Mrs. R

Part Two

Notes: You know what anon, great point. This is gonna be a two-parter. Not beta-read.

If you read this and you haven't seen The Pitt....Come on in, the water's fine.

Warnings: Angst; fluff; all that good stuff

Summary: For as amicable as the divorce had been, the two of you had problems. When Michael was stressed, he shut you out from the source of it, determined not to bring it home. But as hard as he tried, the strain and drain of his work hung on him. You'd wanted to be a safe space for him, but as the pressures of his job mounted, he'd never allowed you to be.

"Didn't think you'd be working today."

It's the most you've said beyond your answering the basics. He hasn't said anything beyond asking the routine questions. He'd had the good grace to school his expression when he'd asked about any medications (blood pressure, cholesterol, birth control), and you'd said no to all.

“We’re slammed. All hands on deck.”

“Yeah, I know.” You wince as he takes careful hold of your wrist, lowering himself onto the stool beside your hospital bed and getting a good look at the jagged cut stretching the length of your palm. 

"So you were replacing a lightbulb in the living room?"

"Uh-huh."

"What were you standing on?"

"...A book."

He shoots you a disbelieving look from beneath his lashes.

"...On top of another book."

A further tip of his brows, and you sigh, finally conceding, "On top of a cardboard box."

He looses a soft, almost grudging laugh as he looks back down at your hand.

"Surprised you didn't stand on the coffee table."

"It's rickety."

"But the carboard box-book combo was stable? What happened to the lightbulb?"

"I lost my balance, my grip tightened and uh...The lightbulb didn't like that."

"You hit your head on the way down?"

"No."

"Alright." He fishes into his pocket for a small flashlight, leaning in to get a closer look. You hold still as he diligently examines the wound.

"It broke pretty cleanly, I don't think there are any other bits in there. I was able to piece it back together—not to use, you know. Just to check."

He hums, giving a small nod. "Couple of stitches and then we'll get you on your way."

"Not gonna summon one of the ducklings for the demonstration?" You ask, unable to stand the relative quiet. "Dana says it's their first day."

"Hm? Oh," He shakes his head with a smile. "Far as I could tell, they were all occupied when I headed back here."

“How are they doing?”

“Well, we’ve got a fainter, a nicknamer, a high-fiver—Local anesthesia—little pinch, don’t look,” He warns, and you turn your head, wincing as the needle dips into your palm. “There we go…And uh, a kid who’s wearing a different pair of scrubs every time I see him.” 

“Fashion show?” 

“Unfortunate series of fluids.”

“Yikes.” 

“Mm.” 

You tentatively glance back down, watching him draw the needle through your palm.

“How are you doing besides that?” You press. 

“...You know.” 

But you don’t know. For as amicable as the divorce had been, the two of you had problems. When Michael was stressed, he shut you out from the source of it, determined not to bring it home. But as hard as he tried, the strain and drain of his work hung on him. You'd wanted to be a safe space for him, but as the pressures of his job mounted, he'd never allowed you to be.

You sit in quiet for a few moments, allowing him to zone in on his work as you let yourself just focus on him.

It’s the first time you’ve seen him in months, though not the first time you’ve spoken. You’ve exchanged the odd texts for holidays, birthdays. The last time you’d seen one another had been brief—hauling a box of things from your car to his car. It marked the official end to your divorce, your possessions and daily lives extricated entirely from one another (save for one of his hoodies, which you'd tucked into your closet and sworn up and down that you simply couldn't find).

But that hadn’t stopped the hurt or the ache of your loss. It hadn’t sapped the warmth, the comfort of the memories of your good days together. It hadn’t lessened what you knew about him, what you could tell from a look.  

"You need a haircut." You tease, tipping your head to get a better look at him. You just manage to see the way a smile tugs at his lips. You hesitate to add anything else, to keep him in a good mood, but you just can't help yourself.

"You're not sleeping," You accuse softly. Robby draws in a slow breath as he threads the needle through your skin again. 

"No," He admits. You wait for him to set the needle aside before you reach out, gently combing your fingers through his hair. His shoulders sag, head tipping into your hand as you gently run your nails down to the nape of his neck.

"What's goin' on, Mikey?" You murmur. His chin tips up to meet your eye, and your palm slides around to gently cup his cheek, thumb smoothing across his beard.   

“…You know what today is?” He asks.

“Adamson?”

“Yeah.”

“S’why I didn’t think you’d be in today.”

“So you stood on two books and a cardboard box to change a lightbulb today, just in case you needed to go to the ER so that you wouldn’t see me?”

“No. Purely coincidental. Besides,” You lean a little closer. “I like seeing you.”

Another smile pulls at his lips, brighter and wider than the last, and your stomach flutters with his admission:

“I like seeing you, too.”

“You two sure you’re divorced?”

The sound of Evans’ voice makes the two of you reel away from one another, your hand lifting from his cheek guiltily. She casts a mischievous smile between the two of you before nodding over her shoulder.

“We’ve got incoming—pileup on the I-79.”

“Be right there.”

Evans casts you one more cursory glance and adds, “See me before you leave, Mrs. R,” before turning, tugging the curtain closed behind her. You try to get a good look at Robby after she calls you that, but he’s up and moving before you can.

“Let’s get you bandaged up and on your way,” Robby pats your knee before stepping around the bed. “We’ll need you to come in for a wound check in a couple of days, make sure it’s coming along nicely.”

“…Can’t be a home visit?” You venture, glancing back toward him. You don’t trust yourself to meet his eye; you still can’t believe you asked it. But you haven’t gotten a good enough look at him, and you just want to know what’s going on—really going on.

You’re not sure it’ll work. He didn’t trust you with those feelings when you were his wife—why should he trust you with them now? 

“We need it on the record.”

It’s a diplomatic answer, and you’re certain that it’s all you’ll get. You nod a bit, watching as he neatly wraps the bandage. 

“You’ve still got tylenol extra strength in the house?” He asks. 

“Mhm.” 

“Take that as needed, up to—”

“1500 milligrams a day, I know.” 

“Still gotta say it.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“There.” 

Robby looks up at you, his hands still wrapped warmly around yours. He draws his lower lip into his mouth, and for a moment, you’re certain that he’s going to say something else—but the curtain is drawn back again.

“Hey Robby, there’s a—Oh. Shit."

You close your eyes, fighting back your own curse before you turn your head, shooting the doctor a tight smile.

“Hey, Frank.” 

“Hey, Mrs. R. Am I interrupting—”

“Nope! I'm all set here. And you guys have incoming, so I should skedaddle.”

Robby lets go of your hand, scooching the stool back as you slide off of the bed, standing. 

“Nice to see you.” 

“Yeah, Frank, you, too.” You pat his shoulder with your good hand before turning to face Robby again. “I’m gonna head out.” 

“Take it easy with the hand. Rest it.”

“I will.”

“I mean it.” 

“Robby—” 

“I know you. You’ll get all cocky with the local anesthetic in your system and you’ll be in agony when it wears off. You drive yourself here?”

“Uber.”

“Good.” 

“Mhm.” You turn to the sandwich cart, eyeing the labels before fishing one out. “I’ll see you around.”

“You’re taking that, really?” 

“It’s for Earl,” You insist, taking a couple more steps back. "Get some rest, Robby."

“Yeah.” 

You let yourself get one last long look at him before you turn away, striding determinedly toward the exit. You just manage to skirt by Evans, taking advantage of the fact that she’s deep in conversation with one of the orderlies. You give the attendants at the front desk a quick wave before you pass down the rows of chairs, holding the sandwich out to Earl. His face splits with a wide grin as he takes it. 

“You’re the best, Mrs. R.”

“Take care’a yourself, Earl.”

“Hey, you, too!” 

-- 

You make it all the way into the parking lot before your phone buzzes with Robby’s message:  I can change that lightbulb when my shift ends

Part Two

Tag list:

@missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @blueeyesatnight ; @amneris21 ; 

@ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage​​​ ;  @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity ; 

@millllenniawrites ; @chattychell ; @dihra-vesa​ ; @videogamesandpoorlifechoices ; 

@missswriter ; 

@thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ; @realwhoreforfictionalmen

 ; @mad-girl-without-a-box ;  @winchestershiresauce ; @lorecraft ; @kmc1989

[baronessvonglitter]

Pretty Please

QZ!Joel Miller x f!bookworm!reader | WC: 2.7K

Summary: your roommate Joel Miller is stressed out, and you offer a creative solution to ease that frustration

WARNINGS: 18+ Only! Mature and Explicit, slight bullying (name calling - from Joel), reader is a bookworm and wears glasses, no age description for reader, Boston QZ, friends with benefits, oral sex (f receiving), soft!Joel, sub!Joel, dom/sub themes, edging, rough sex, unprotected p in v sex, Joel loves nerdy girls, reader is *shaved*, no use of y/n

Author's Note: I know that we all love a good strong DOM Joel, but I wanted to wade in the waters of the Ocean of Possibilities and see what a more submissive Joel would be like. Just like those CEO/investment banker types who visit dominatrices at the end of a long workday just to be treated like lesser than and hand over the reins of power for a bit. Maybe there's a part of Joel that likes being put in his place 🤫

JOEL MILLER MASTERLIST | FULL MASTERLIST

It's just past curfew in the QZ and you're curled up with a good book. The new (to you) apartment you live in came with a great collection of literary masterpieces and your only delight in this cold, cruel world is reading by flashlight, at least until your surly, sourpuss roommate Joel Miller comes home.

The front door opens and slams shut loudly, making the thin walls vibrate. You sigh. He's back.

Joel walks in, looking tired and cantankerous as usual. You quickly shut off your light but not before he sees it. "What have I told you about wastin' the batteries?" he puts his hands on his hips, glaring at you.

Not in a mood to argue, you mumble a quick "Sorry" and scurry past him, but he catches your shoulder. "Just 'cause I can get stuff doesn't mean I will. You need to be more careful with our supplies.. what's this stuff you're readin' anyway?" He makes a grab for your book which you quickly hide behind your back.

"Just some Shakespeare," you lie.

Joel narrows his eyes as if detecting your fib. Suddenly he pulls you toward him and takes the book you're hiding. Eyeing the cover, he visibly blushes and swallows hard. "What's a nice girl like you readin' trash like this for?"

You find it impossible to meet his eyes as your heart roars in your ears. He has your copy of romantic erotica, an old book written decades ago about a woman who trains her lover to be her sex slave. You think to yourself there's no way you can finish it now that he's judging you.

"All right, Bookworm. Out," Joel says, nodding towards the hall before he settles in with a stiff whiskey drink.

Sighing you go to your room. Ever since you moved in a couple months ago after your former QZ was abandoned, Joel has treated you like little more than an imposition. His seemingly affectionate nicknames of "Bookworm" or "Four Eyes" on account of your fondness for books and your need of eyeglasses, respectively, has you wondering if he even cares to remember your real name.

Putting your book away you contemplate another existence. In your story a young woman brings a powerful man to his knees. Had the world not changed so irrevocably, would you have had the fortune of living a life like the characters in your books?

A shower is in order. Once you wash your hair and shave your legs (with shampoo and razors that Joel begrudgingly smuggled for you when you'd politely asked) your spirits are lifted. Hair towel-dried, you put on an oversize tee and some panties and start down the hall where you bump into Joel. He takes a look at your sleepwear and you can see the blush creep up his neck. "Can you put somethin' else on? I can see right through your shirt."

You look down and see your nipples, two puckered points through the cotton of your tee. "I'm just going to bed. Besides, I can wear what I want," you say in an unusually defiant tone.

Joel gets quiet, his body language clearly showing he's getting annoyed. "I just don't want to see you half-naked, Four Eyes." His frustration comes through clear. "Don't you have anything else you can wear?"

You sigh and walk past him to your bedroom closet and pull out a thick flannel shirt. You change with your back to him, feeling his eyes on you like two burning holes in your flesh. His breath hitches, eyes glued to his old shirt he'd let you borrow a time or two. Something primal awakens in him, which he quickly squashes.

"I'm all out of clean pajama pants," you shrug.

"Find some," he says sternly. "That shirt's gonna ride up on you. It's inappropriate."

"No." You stand your ground. "I'm not changing again." You take a moment to look at him, really look at him. He looks stiff, the veins prominent in his neck and forehead. You imagine his warm flesh beneath your kiss, and part of you softens towards him. "You really need to relax. You look stressed."

"Yeah, like you really give a shit," he mutters, looking away.

Studying him more intensely you realize he's not frustrated because you're not obeying him. From the bulge in his jeans it's evident he's turned on by you. Joel Miller is a good-looking guy when he's not being a full-on jerk. Hell, he may even be good-looking then. You take the situation into your hands and approach him, your tongue gliding over your lips. "I could help you relax.. if you want."

Joel freezes and you notice his breathing quicken. "What.. what do you mean by that?"

"You're upset with my lack of 'decent' clothes because I'm a distraction to you. Even if you don't like me, you're still attracted to me."

He gets flustered and it gives you satisfaction to see how much power you have over him. "Maybe.. no. I don't want to. I mean it. I have no interest in anything like that with you."

"Really? Your jeans are having a different reaction."

He looks down quickly, embarrassed and a bit surprised. "It doesn't mean anything," he looks askance.

"Do you want to touch me, Joel?" You start to unbutton your flannel shirt.

"You're my roommate. It's wrong," he says, yet his large, strong hands are reaching into your shirt. His fingers are rough and calloused but damn they feel like heaven as he cups your breasts, runs his thumbs slowly over your nipples.

"Don't think anymore, Joel. Just feel. Just be here with me."

He's unused to following his purely bodily instincts, having to live on his survival instincts for so long. But your skin is so soft and you're so warm and clean from your shower. "God, I want you," he whispers.

You take the lead and kiss him, filling in the space between you. Joel doesn't hold back, cupping your ass in his hands and pressing you to his need, his bulge in direct contact with your clit. Your panties dampen in response. Realizing how far he's taken it, how far he wants to take it, he mumbles an apology. "S..sorry."

"No. No apologies. I want this. Don't you?"

"God yes," he growls, meeting your eyes. He watches, rapt, as you slowly unbutton your shirt and remove it. He's speechless as you go to sit on the edge of the bed, knees parted. You beckon him with one finger.

"I know you've always wanted this," you tell him. "You fantasize about eating me out, how good I taste on your tongue."

As he comes to you he wonders where the shy, docile woman has gone. But he likes this new version of you. "How do you know what I think about?" he asks as his fingers curl into the waistband of your panties. You lift your hips as he eases your panties off. What he sees makes him growl with yearning. "You shaved."

You rest on your elbows, satisfied with the look of sheer gluttony on his face. "A girl's gotta have some luxuries in these trying times.." you smirk and run your fingers delicately over your clit and your smooth folds. Joel moves your hand away. Keeping his eyes on you he laps his broad tongue over your delicate womanhood, then swipes his tongue side to side over your sweet little clit.

You moan loudly at the intimate contact, threading your fingers through his hair. Joel devours you, and the little moans he makes reverberate through you, fill you with vibrations. While he's sucking your clit he slides two fingers in, crooking them so they rub your G-spot, and this combination makes you squirm with delight until you're pushed over the edge. He doesn't stop there, lapping up your honey, holding your thighs as they quake around his head.

"I've wanted this for so long," he growls against your belly, kissing his way up, divesting himself of his clothes. He feels your body heat radiate against him and teases your opening with the tip of his cock, spreading your slick onto him. He kisses both breasts, nuzzles your neck before claiming your mouth again, lining himself up with you. Out of habit you remove your glasses but he stops you. "Leave them on," he whispers. "You look so damn hot, like a naughty schoolgirl.." He watches as you put them on again, your eyes big and bright behind the lenses. Keeping his eyes on you he lets himself sink into your heat, slowly, letting you get accustomed to his size.

"Fuck," you whisper in awe as he fills you, starts to move against you.

He revels in the feel of your soft body underneath his, the snugness of your cunt that dares to take every inch of him. "You're so beautiful," he whispers, taking in the clean scent of your freshly washed skin, the natural fragrance of your arousal. With each press forward he elicits moans, sighs, gasps. Your heart thunders within when you feel how deeply you're joined.

"I need more," you tell him. "Please.."

"More?" His voice is shaky with desire.

"Harder," you gasp.

A dark growl gathers in his throat as he sees this new side of you begin to reveal itself. "You sure you want that from me?"

You nod. "I want you to release all your stress out inside me. Just use me. Please." You look up at him with innocent eyes. "Just for tonight, Joel. Tonight I'm yours."

His body looms large over you. "That's a big request, y'know."

"And I can handle it. I'm a big girl."

He nods, excitement flowing through his veins. "If anything becomes too much, you tell me. Okay?"

Your heart flip flops when he tells you this. Despite this random hookup, he's proving to be a caring gentleman. "I'll tell you, I promise."

Joel can't help but smile and he kisses your forehead. "Good." With heavy breaths he uses all his strength to fuck you into oblivion. He takes out his frustrations on your willing, eager body, his thick, large cock plunging into your tight cunt. "I'm gonna fuckin' tear you apart," he mutters.

His rough way with you takes your breath away, makes you tremble. Joel doesn't hold back, ruts against you, mouth watering as he watches your breasts bounce with each thrust. "God, you're gorgeous," he mumbles, leaning in to kiss you.

You whimper as your mouths meet again, tongues dancing against each other. "Joel.. you're so fucking good."

Grunting in response, he presses against you deeper, harder. You gasp, your body accepting every movement, stretching you more than you thought possible. "You feel too good," he moans.

"You're in.. so deep," you sigh. "Just a little more, I'm gonna--"

"Wait!" he groans, pulling himself away from you. "You're making me.. almost.. I can't hold back," he breathes heavily.

"Shh.." you climb onto his lap. "Let me help you. I'll do all the work," you promise. "All you have to do is grab my hips or touch my breasts," you instruct him, lining up his cock to fit into you again. Joel watches himself disappear between your swollen pussy lips.

"God.. slow.. please," he grunts, grabbing hold of your hips, moving his hands all over your body, exploring every inch of you.

"Yes," you agree, sighing sweetly. "You feel so good.. I like seeing what I can get out of you, Miller."

He lets out a short moan, gripping your hips tightly, running his fingers up the insides of your thighs. His touch is ubiquitous as you ride him slowly and thoroughly. "Please don't stop.. please don't stop." He tries to make it a command but he's so caught up in you that it comes off as begging. "God I want.. please, I need.." he can't even finish his sentences for how much his lust and need has taken over him.

"I know what you need," you moan, moving faster, slamming your hips down on his. The sounds of your colliding flesh fill the room.

"God damn it!" Joel grunts, unable to continue his line of thought. He starts to growl and groan, gritting his teeth.

You smile, biting your lip as you watch him coming apart, completely helpless beneath you. "I'm gonna tame this beast," you tell him boldly. "No one else can do it but me."

"I won't let anyone else handle me," he growls, trying to say something more meaningful, but his brain is overwhelmed. He's just handed over all control to you and it's making him crazy. "Just.. please.."

You stop moving altogether, staying still. "Please what?" you tease him from finishing.

He's about to blow but he can't even get a full sentence out. "Please," he repeats, shaking now just from the feel of you. "Don't stop.."

You remain still. "Say, 'pretty please.'"

"No," he groans. "You.. you won't get me like that." But there's a hint of a smile on his lips.

"Oh," you pout. "That's a shame. I was getting so close and I know you were, too." You start moving slowly and teasingly.

Joel's breath is faltering, pulse dangerously rapid. "Not like this.. wait.. I'm gonna.."

You stop again, a stern look on your face even though you're utterly enjoying dominating this big strong alpha male. "No. You're not," you command him.

Only able to communicate in grunts and groans, Joel thrusts upward, needing the relief that would make you both find release. You gasp, your cunt clenching around him. It would be so easy to just let him keep going, but you hold your hips firmly in place. "'Pretty please,'" you remind him.

"I'm gonna cum. Please let me cum," he whines, desperate now, his fingers tightening on your flesh.

You remove his grip and pin him down. "'Pretty. Please.'" Your lips are millimeters from his, and you can see tears start to well in his dark eyes.

He's losing it now. He's right on the precipice, pain and pleasure mixed as one while you edge him. "All right, okay, I'll say it.. pretty please," he grunts out, voice cracking.

"'Pretty please with sugar on top,'" you smirk. "Say it."

Joel shuts his eyes in frustration. "Pretty please with sugar on top."

You give his lips a tiny lick. "Good boy." Sitting up again you start riding him. You've won but you're both going to reap the benefits.

"God, keep goin'," he moans, eyes still shut, breath labored as he pushes against your hips.

"I'm gonna fucking break you, Miller," you growl, riding him at top speed, without mercy.

Joel is at a complete loss of self, having lost any semblance of control. "Do it.. please," are the only words he can manage among incoherent sounds and grunts as he rises up to hold you.

You feel the friction between you like lightning as you satisfy yourself on his generous cock. "Joel Miller, you're such a good boy for me!" You move against each other in desperation, seeking the moment that will bring you to cum together. You feel him start to twitch and just then your climax hits like a tidal wave. You scream his name as you feel his copious release inside you. All Joel can say is your name, your real name, uttered in an entreaty of gratitude as he buries his face in your neck.

"Sorry if I got a little rough with you before.." he mumbles into your skin.

"I like your roughness," you tell him as you ruffle his soft grey hair with your fingers. "You had a lot that you needed to let out."

He lifts his head and softly kisses the side of your mouth. "Just so you know, I don't intend on stoppin' at just tonight. I have a lot of stress that needs releasing."

"Stressful times we're living in.." You trace his beard with your fingertips and he quickly moves in to kiss your palm.

"Damn right. And it looks like you did tame this beast."

You grin. "Does that make me Beauty?"

"Maybe that's what I'll call you from now on.."

"It's a lot better than 'Bookworm' or 'Four Eyes'."

"I'll still call you those things, from time to time," he grins, and your entire body is warm from his smile.

You are delicate with him now, knowing this man will probably steal your heart just as you've already stolen his.

divider by @saradika 👑

[asyliah]

Mindfucked!

𐙚 . sum : You just found out Sunday can do hypnosis, so you took advantage to it and asked for—seggs. Inspo 💌

𐙚 . warnings . Dom sunday .ᐟ Usage of hypnosis in sexual act .ᐟ unprotected sex .ᐟ p in v .ᐟ slight choking .ᐟ consensual .ᐟ cunnillingus .ᐟ not proof read .ᐟ i wrote this at 12 am

Wc . 1.82k

Hypnotist!Sunday who have the power to take control in your body and mind just by using his sweet saccharine voice, dripping honey and lovely tone. His voice drawn you like like a bee, attracted to a flower's bud when it's a venus trap.

Hypnotist!Sunday who's amused in your request, and took you in a neary love motel—an expensive one. In the queen sized bed with silk sheets, your naked body all bare for him to see as his voice worked into your mind and body, taking a control of it. You were so susceptible to it, so obedient for him. His voice just echoed and feel it reaches into the back of your head and tingle making your whole body jolt and your eyes cross from the feeling.

Hypnotist!Sunday listened to your pleas when you have discovered of his secret quirks in one the gathering of few people in the party. You thought it was a good idea to use his quirks for something more inappropriate. How come you not able to resist? Some guy just said if his hypnosis may able to use in sexual way, and the thought of it lingers in tthe back of your mind. So you pull him into a private place and ask him trying to be thick faced for the very first time. Your past hook-ups were never good in bed, as if something lacks in them.

Hypnotist!Sunday who's at your back and nibbling at your ear, whispering his commands to you: "Listen to my voice, as you breathe in and out. Try to feel feel the tingles in your body like an electricity flowing into your veins. Yes, feel it. You should feel it. I want you to feel it. That tingle, that itch inside you that you cant scratch. The chill that runs into your spine. In the count of one, two, three, you will be bound my words and only my words alone." When he snapped his fingers, you almost screamed at the sudden sensation overflowing into you. It felt like hand roamed every inch of your body, even though Sunday didn't touch you. You drool from the immense pleasure and gripped into his wrists for support.

Hypnotist!Sunday who is so mean and conjured up a flashlight and put you into trance once again as he whispers into you so lovingly and controlling, "In the count of One. Two. Three. This flashlight and your cunt shall be connected." Your drowsy state look at him, his hard and big cock positioning infront of you as the fleshlight laid into your abdomen. He tried to rail the fleshlight as if it was your own tight pussy. God—you could feel his cock rearranging you even though he wasnt inside you. You screamed in pleasure, your hands gripping to the pillows above you as the pleasure intensify that feeling of non-existent cock destroy your inside.

Hypnotist!Sunday who came into the fleshlight, and you also feel a hot liquid painting into you, also cumming after him. When he took his still hardened cock from the fleshlight, there were strings of cum dripping into it. You look at him with pleading eyes, your pussy needed him---his cock. You wanted something long and hard into you, and fill you up. Not some kind of feeling trying to project into you. All fours in the bed and reaching out to his cock, you give him a long lick and smiled. "I want it. I want real sex."

Hypnotist!Sunday that's been intoxicated at you, pins you down into the bed once again, asking if you were sure about this because he would contain yourself and just fuck you till you're dumb at his cock.

Hypnotist!Sunday who slowly enters your tight walls, that gummy feeling trying hug his hard cock as your wetness guides him more. Even though he hasnt fully enter, your pussy tingles so much as if it was waiting for it's entire life for Sunday's cock. His whole length suddenly rams, reaching the tip of his cock in your cervix. He didn't stop from ramming it, he gripped your thighs and spread your legs more, seeing his cock in and out into that creamy cunt. Sunday swears he's getting crazy at the sight of you taking his cock, drooling and moaning like a mess.

Hypnotist!Sunday who keeps repeating the same words into your trance state, the word "It feels good" suddenly keeps repeating into your mind like a mantra, while his cock stretches you out and reached into the parts you did not know there were. You keep babbling "it feels good" both in your mind and mouth, you're completely at his mercy.

Hypnotist!Sunday who sees you covering your face when he felt your pussy is cleching him, a sign that you're cumming soon. You felt too good, that you don't know what to do anymore. Your hips jerked from the pleasure, toes curling while Sunday grunted from the ecstacy he felt. It was like a cloud nine, you were like the gates to heaven. Both of your hands were pin into above you, revealing your flushed face reducing into a babble mess. "Dont hide your face..." His hips grind in you, "I wanna see your face when I cum," and Sunday leaned closer and kissed you deeply, his tounge works with yours—both hungry for each other.

Hypnotist!Sunday take a grip into your chin and hold it, his hands wander into you neck as he slightly put a pressure. "Bear with me," he said, while giving a small smile. He then rock his hips, and he could see the base pf his cock forning white ring. When he glanced at you still in trance, he whispered another command into you. "I'm cumming." He grunted, even though he only said one word, your mind was playing tricks to you and his voice keep playing to your mind. He take a one snap in his hips and came into you.

Hypnotist!Sunday who is tempted by you when you still begged for me, asking for more of him and his kisses. How come he say no? You were too cute begging for me, your legs trapped him from getting up. The look in your eye seem so innocent when you begged for his cock to rail you once again.

Hypnotist!Sunday who knew he's in trouble when he felt his cock go hard once again.

🧷 @asyliah

[airybcby]

you left your typewriter at my apartment

( sae itoshi x fem! reader )

♡ a/n — woke up and was thinking of this song so yk i had to write. not proofread !!

♡ content — all characters 18+ !!, fem! reader, nsfw description but no actual smut, angst, goes back and forth between current time to memories, established relationship (1 year), spoilers for the U-20 game, nicknames like 'love' and 'doll' used, some cussing, girlboss reader tbh, probably ooc sae, lmk if i missed anything!

♡ synopsis — packing had never been a big deal to you, but when you're putting all of your exes stuff in a box to give to him? all the memories come back to you and you're not sure you can handle it.

⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ' and who's gonna hold you like me ? ' ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

sae itoshi was many things.

the best midfielder of current soccer history, an icy older brother, stoic, and downright vicious on the soccer field.

but what sae itoshi was not?

a relationship man.

looking back on it, you should've realized the signs earlier, but how could you when those teal eyes washed away every worry you had?

your belief that sae would be the man you'd marry led you to this moment right now; sweating as you scoured your house to rid it of anything even related to the itoshi name.

you'd already had quite a few items in the box you were curating his belongings in, seeing as you'd gone through every room in your house besides your bedroom. you knew your room held all the memories, worst for last you assumed. for the short year that you and sae were together, he enveloped every part of your life.

you bent down to see under your bed, phone flashlight shining on the parts that the sunlight didn't reach. you sighed as you grabbed a pair of his cleats that he brought over after his game against the bluelock 11 team.

" sae? why didn't you change? " you asked, looking at his form standing in your bed room door frame. you looked over at your phone, the time reading 11:00 at night.

your boyfriend of five months had played his game against the bluelock team, and to the dismay of him and many others in the world — they lost. " four fucking three... " sae breathed out. you knew this game meant more to him than he was willing to admit. everytime you asked , though, you always got the same answer.

" they asked me to play. i'm gonna play. " as if this wouldn't be his first time seeing his brother in years. as if the japan soccer league didn't have high stakes on him winning.

what else could you say? you watched the game, you saw how hard he worked. even if no one else could tell, you knew this defeat stung more than he was willing to admit.

" 'm gonna go shower. " he said to what seemed like no one, even if you were in the room. " want me to come with you? i can—"

" i'd rather shower alone. " sae scoffed out, throwing his cleats in the general direction of your bed, where he usually kept his shoes.

you didn't mind, it was a hard night.

so you let him walk down the hallway to your bathroom, his cleats sitting there abandoned.

you didn't even question why he left instead of spending the night.

rough night. that was all.

the memory flooded into your head before you could stop it. now you realized how stupid you were, even then sae couldn't be bothered to even lay in the bed you'd been waiting for him in.

he couldn't be bothered to take his cleats from under your bed, instead opting to buy new ones.

the thought was funny now, how someone so young could have the money to throw away every time he wanted something. while you kept the damn cleats in a safe space for seven more months, like the idiot you were.

you threw the shoes in the box, moving onto your dresser next. he had his own drawer at your house, a sign he was always welcome. although, he did make sure to take most of those when he broke up with you, but you wanted to double check.

you couldn't clear your home of itoshi sae fast enough.

you pulled open the drawer, staring at the clavin klein boxers that sat so perfectly in the quite empty drawer. almost as if they were mocking you.

you grabbed them quickly, squeezing them in your hand before catching the scent of his laundry detergent.

" wanna take 'em off, love? " he'd asked you, staring up at you as he laid on your bed, clad in nothing but his tight boxers. this was the first time sae had let you be the one on top, his usually demanding presence now one that was completely and utterly yours.

" but you look so good in them, it's not fair. " you sighed, straddling his lap as you messed with the elastic of the waistband.

if anyone were to see the two of you, they wouldn't feel lust— they'd feel nothing but love.

" you're taking too long. " he sighed, easily flipping the positions you'd been in. you now under him as you stared up at him, his teal eyes swimming with raw emotion.

" hey! you said—" " i'll make it up to you, doll. promise. " and that was the last thing you heard before he disappeared between your legs.

you remembered that night well, the promises made...ones of a future— a future of children and marriage and him showing you off like his prize trophy.

yeah right. he couldn't even be bothered to attend the balls held in honor of his team, let alone get you all dolled up and go with you.

maybe you should cut a hole in the crotch, you'd thought. show him he's no better than any other man, you could still be the ex that ruined his stuff to get back at him.

but what did it matter when he could simply buy more to replace it?

nothing could be simple when it came to itoshi sae. not even when your broken up.

you stuffed the boxers under some more stuff before moving to lay on your bed.

you'd already looked through every spot in your room you thought he'd left pieces of himself behind in.

the closet, the dresser, under the bed...what else was there?

you set the box down beside you, rolling over on your side to stare at yourself in the full length mirror that was on the adjacent wall. you looked like a mess.

you caught yourself wondering what sae was doing. was he the same old sae? was he laying in his bed thinking about you? did he look as much of a mess as you did?

you doubted it.

within your daze, your eyes moved toward a polaroid picture you'd stuck in the frame of the mirror, a picture of you and sae at a halloween party just a month ago.

you were excited, like...really excited. this was the first time sae was going to bring you out to hang out with his friends. in the 11 months you two were together, you usually went on private dates to fancy restaurants when he could spend time with you.

you'd never been to an actual party with him though!

you smiled as you sat on sae's lap on shidou's couch, the rather vulgar soccer player convinced sae to not only come to the party, but also bring you. " i've never met the girl before ! why not introduce her to us? "

" you're so boring, sae! you're supposed to be my angel! " you whined to him. " i dressed up enough, love. " your boyfriend said quite monotonously. bull crap, he was just in a white tee shirt and pants, nothing that he had to actually go out and buy.

while the red corset and miniskirt you had dyed yourself made you feel like if you breathed wrong it would all come bursting at the seams.

" you could have at least tried harder. " you offered, maybe with a bit of attitude. the two of you had been having more arguments than usual, but doesn't every relationship hit rough patches? " you're lucky we even came— " " yo sae! get with your girl and smile! " shidou popped up in front of the two of you with a polaroid camera.

so you two shut your mouths as sae's hand slipped over your waist, your head finding his shoulder, and you mustered the cutest smile you could.

...while sae gave a blank face to the camera.

looking back on it, that night was the downfall of your relationship. after that night, sae stopped coming by as much, but you just assumed he got busy with soccer season.

the next time he came by he grabbed everything of his and walked out.

you didn't know what to do. sae said he was going to come by, but you didn't know that meant he'd be taking all of his things out of your house.

" sae, wait! what's wrong baby? did i do something? " you asked an embarrassing amount of times.

" no. just taking my stuff. " he said, not even bothering to look at you.

last week was your one year, but he had a game. you'd gotten in a little fight over him not even bothering to text you a happy anniversary, but surely that wasn't what led to this?

" if it's about the anniversary, i'm sorry! i know you're busy, and i don't care when we celebrate ! " you gasped out, trying to cling to any reason for why he'd be doing this.

" we're not celebrating at all. " he slammed the dresser drawer shut, the only indicator that he was annoyed by you. when sae turned around to face you, " we're done y/n. "

he said it so simply, so clearly that you couldn't even move to stop him from leaving out the door.

the look in his eyes...that wasn't your sae.

that was over a week ago now, and the memory made you want to cry. you wouldn't, tears were made to be shed on people who care about you, not foolish men who couldn't talk about their feelings.

you got up from your bed, walking over to the wall and taking the polaroid off your mirror before taking it to the box.

you stared at the picture, the love in your eyes is something that would haunt you for a lifetime. it could haunt sae too.

you threw it in the box, picking it up before setting it outside your front door.

you pulled out your phone, clicking on the contact, ' s. itoshi ' and typing a message

you: the rest of your stuff is outside when you wanna come get it.

for a year, sae itoshi enveloped every aspect of your life.

you refused to let him consume you even after he was gone.

⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ' and who's gonna know you, if not me ? ' ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

i really wanted to try writing for sae, so i hope yall liked it!

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!

[dastardly-imbecile]

NOTDEER

AO3 HERE

Simon nods at you. He’s tall enough that, at the angle your phone points, the slant of light only reaches his neck, face still obscured in shadow. You can make out, through the barest changes in shades of gray, the suggestion of a nose, the theory of a brow, hypothesis of the lips. Indistinct enough that you could not draw him, defined enough that you can recognize him. --- When you cannot trust your own memory, alone on a trip in the woods, what else is there to do but submit? OR the incomprehensible monster who haunts your campsite is an alcoholic

---

Wordcount: ~7.5k

Inspired by this wonderful drabble by @ceilidho. Also, mandatory nods to the 'Goatman' and 'Fleshgait' creepypastas.

TW: this is some halfbreed horror story, so there WILL be graphic depictions of violence and death! Read at your own discretion!

It starts like any good romance: a grove of darkly flowered dogwoods and a rousing campfire, a bit too much to drink and a night just cold enough that you have an excuse to huddle together. 

It starts like any good horror movie: a storm and a drenched forest, clouds blotting out the stars and the sounds of many toothy things in the realm beyond your sight. 

It starts like any story ever, which is to say a hapless protagonist and a presence that watches, that waits. 

It starts like this: you are sitting around the campfire with three of your friends, trying to spear your marshmallow, fallen into the fire. Giving up, once it grows indistinguishable from all the other lumps of charcoal. 

Darren laughs too hard at that, puts an arm around you when he goes to grab a new marshmallow. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why: Darren’s had a crush on you, ever since you drunkenly hooked up with him at a party in high school, and he’s just the right combination of too forward and too coy to be annoying. Makes rowdy, boys-locker-room jokes, sneaks looks at you to see if you laugh. Loudly talks about some new date around the group, bemoans his singleness in your private messages. 

You haven’t brought it up. No use making things awkward. No use letting him down gently, not when he’ll deny your claims, make it into some big, pick-me delusional-woman deal. 

Besides, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t like the attention a little bit. You’d be lying if you said the night and the campfire and the shitty beer buzzing through your veins doesn’t make any warm body look a bit appealing. 

“Hey,” Kelsey says from across the campfire, “grab the bottle.”

You’ve known Kelsey since third grade—the longest out of everyone at this circle. Were neighbors, close enough that when the fighting between her parents got bad, she’d come crawling through your window and you’d sleep in the same bed, back-to-back. She was your first kiss, during spin the bottle in middle school. Sure took that a lot better than Darren did. 

He does, changing course to reach for the beer. His arm brushes you, not entirely accidentally. You meet his eyes, smile, and the surprise that lights in them makes your grin widen.

With a bit of sloppy, tipsy incoordination, Kelsey fills her own red cup. The liquid is piss-yellow, and it tastes like gasoline, but anything is good when you’re already drunk and a hundred miles from the nearest liquor store. 

Wordlessly, Lou holds out his own cup. You don’t know him all that well, as a matter of fact, but he’s some friend of Kelsey’s from college and she insisted on bringing him along so she doesn’t, quote, get all caught up in your pining third wheel bullshit. Quiet, but the type of funny that makes you think he’s been saving all his humor up. She pours him one, and then, without needing to ask, you and Darren. 

Above, there is the distant rumble of thunder. You realize that you can’t see the moon anymore—it was full, ten minutes ago, and you suppose it’s technically still full, but out of sight, out of mind, all that. The campfire is the only source of light in the woods, that and the flashlight steepled by Lou’s feet, and it gives the whole clearing a sort of airy, unreal sense. Heat mirage, wavering light making everything a bit less solid. 

Kelsey pours a fifth cup. Sets it on the ground. Darren raises his eyebrows. “Wow.”

“What?” She asks. He laughs, like she’s being dumb—which is one of the reasons why you’ve never even tried dating him—and juts his chin out at the extra cup. 

“Going double, really?”

“What?” She repeats, looking down, then back, “it’s for Simon.”

“Who?” You ask, tilting your head. 

“Simon? Remember? Jesus, he lived on the same street as us. Remember, when Mom and Dad were divorcing, he let me stay at his house for two months because your folks didn’t like me?”

You remember the last part of that—your parents had developed an aversion to Kelsey because she dyed her hair and got a septum piercing, and they were the type to call that a bad influence—but not the first. As far as you’d known, she’d gone off to stay with her cousins for that stretch of time.

“No,” you say carefully, “who-”

Darren interrupts you, gesturing around the fire. “And where is Simon?”

“He just got up to take a piss,” she snaps, and the conversation’s getting heated, too heated, pushed along by the same things that made it fun—that being, alcohol and two groups who don’t know each other all that well and sleep deprivation—tipping over the edge of delirious entertainment to irritation. 

“Kel,” Lou says, careful and slow, “maybe you shouldn’t drink more, actually. Nobody named Simon came with us.”

She pauses. There is a strange, slow moment, where time stretches like taffy and the fire seems to freeze, and her face falls in a way that makes her look unlike herself. It’s what you imagine a doppelganger to look like—all the right features, all the right proportions, but a different person behind the eyes, windows to a different soul. 

“Sorry,” she says, and it’s back, all her spirits in the right body, “I don’t know… fuck, I’m mixing some shit up. Yeah, I don’t…”

Another peal of thunder. You look up at the sky. When you were a kid, you always had this wriggling thought in the back of your mind—that you should not look at the sky, in case something looks back, peels you open from epidermis to intestine and puts you back together wrong. 

No, you didn’t. Where the fuck did that come from?

“I think it’s gonna rain,” You observe. Darren throws back his beer, throat working in an effort to chug it, up-down-up like a ship on turbulent waves. Across the campfire, Kelsey looks at her cup with faint distaste. After a moment of consideration, chucks it into the large back garbage bag hitched to the nearest tree—Lou follows, though his cup is considerably emptier, and you as well, after a moment. 

Guess who drops his cup on the ground?

“C’mon,” Kelsey says, pointing. Darren looks at it, picks it up with a two-fingered grip like one might a piece of toilet paper on the bottom of their shoe, chucks it into the bag. 

“My bad,” he says, “Smokey the bear’s gonna get me, huh?”

“He’s for wildfires,” Kelsey snaps, “you’re just a fucking asshole.”

She doesn’t like him much. That’s also why she insisted on bringing Lou. 

He holds up his hands in a back off sort of resignation, pushes himself to his feet. You follow—as you do, a raindrop strikes the corner of your eye, teeters perilously close to falling in. By the time you blink it away, there are more—upon your arms, your legs, striking with the force of slow bullets, which is to say not like bullets at all. Shitty metaphor. Blame it on your BAC. 

When you make the trek back to your tent, Darren sticks with you for a bit longer than would necessarily make sense—it’s only when you don’t spare him a glance, while unzipping your tent, that he finally peels off. 

You turn around—the same instinct that makes you double-check the oven is turned off—to examine the campfire. Stupid, because the rain, extinguishing even the embers, but it does make you realize that Lou left his flashlight there. It illuminates the clearing, the four logs, and the absence of the fifth cup. 

Kelsey must’ve thrown it away. Didn’t see her do it, but Smokey Bear and all that jazz. 

Doesn’t take long for you to fall asleep. A full day of hiking—well, insofar as hiking means trekking a case of beer halfway up a mountain, which you think very much counts, actually—has given your body plenty to be tired about. 

—

When you wake up, it’s the middle of the night. If the darkness beyond your tent does not tell you that, then a quick glance at your phone does—the stark 2:54 splayed out across the screen. 

More pressing is the pressure on your bladder. Most of you wants to stay warm and comfortable in your sleeping bag, but the rest needs out, so you shove your way free. Stumble around a moment before you manage to unzip your tent. Can’t bother to look for your flashlight, so you grab your phone, use it to illuminate the way out into the edge of the clearing and into bliss. Not really needed, in any case—Lou’s is still on, and the rain has stopped, which makes the trip remarkably clear. 

When you turn around, you almost scream. There is a silhouette in the center of the glade, made stark by the stuttering light of the abandoned flashlight. Tall enough to dwarf you in the vertical direction, broad enough to do the same in the horizontal, and the only reason you do not shriek is that freeze manages to claw a victory over flight and fight. 

Instinctively, you put your hand out in front of you, phone still in it—and, when that tinny light lands upon the figure, all the panic suddenly bleeds out of you like a punctured lung. 

It’s just Simon. You met him in the campus coffeeshop, junior year of college, because he was sitting in your usual study spot. It was a silent competition, for a few months, to see who could get to the spot first, until one day, fed up, you sat directly across from him at the table. Another month of silent stalemate, both working across from each other, until you’d broken the ice by asking why he was ordering tea at a damn coffeeshop, and the rest is history, so to say. 

He’s a good friend. Kelsey likes him more than she likes Darren, for sure, and he and Lou could spend a century in happily companionable silence. 

“God,” you groan, “scared the shit out of me. What’re you doing?”

He nods at you. He’s tall enough that, at the angle your phone points, the slant of light only reaches his neck, face still obscured in shadow. You can make out, through the barest changes in shades of gray, the suggestion of a nose, the theory of a brow, hypothesis of the lips. Indistinct enough that you could not draw him, defined enough that you can recognize him. 

“Same thing as you,” he replies, “felt good?”

You snort. “You’re so weird. By all means, the spot’s yours.”

He doesn’t move, as you step around him, though you get the sense his head is turning, keeping his eyes upon you. 

“Remind me,” he says, casual, “how long’re we staying here?”

Right. He’d been a last-minute addition to the groupchat. You’d only added him because you’d remembered him mentioning, offhand, that he did some hiking. Well, in his words, less nature walks, more hunting. 

Thank God he’s not one of those guys that poses with dead deer like they’re fish. 

(Guess who is?)

Though, maybe you wouldn’t mind too much if he was. Since you were a kid, you’ve always wanted to cut a deer open, dig your hands into its guts and pull everything out, line them up all neat on a white table like you’re playing offal-solitaire. Push a finger into its eyesocket until you touch the brain, fuck yourself on its antlers. 

You blink. “Sorry,” you say, “spaced out. Uh, three days I think? A fourth, for getting back home.”

“Good,” he replies. 

A moment where you stare at each other, and then you add, a coy smile tugging at the corners of your lips, “fine if I use the kettle for coffee first tomorrow? You’ll have to wait for your tea.”

When he laughs, it’s a deep, burrish sort of rasp that digs into your sternum. “Fine by me, dove.”

—

You don’t remember making it back to your tent, but you must, because when you wake up, you’re back ensconced in your sleeping bag. The only proof you have that you went out at all is that you forgot to plug your phone back in, and it lays by your head. When you blearily prod at it, the screen does not light up, and you groan when you realize it must’ve died. 

Oh well. Get off that screen, enjoy the marvels of nature, all that. Lemons into lemonade. Water into wine. 

You’re not the first one up—that’s Lou, who’s busy heating up a cast iron over the replenished campfire, boxed pancake mix to his right. He nods at you, and you nod back, perfectly content to stay silent when it’s this early—talk can wait until the sky’s finished birthing the sun. 

You circle around to the other side of the fire, set up the kettle over the grate. By the time the water’s boiling, Kelsey is out, and by the time you pour out four mugs, Darren pushes his way into the open. 

“Hey,” you say, “where’s our teabags?” 

“Didn’t bring any,” Kelsey replies, “none of us drink tea?”

“Oh. Simon must’ve brought his own,” you reply, and the group freezes for a second. Not in the strange, unreal way from last night, but instead in the way that happens when someone’s just made a very poor taste joke. 

“Who the fuck is Simon?” Darren asks, looking up from his half-burnt pancake, “some bloke you and Kel know?”

She frowns. She hates when he calls her Kel. 

“I…” you say, glancing at her. Past her, to the line of tents, to the four tents, not five. “I swear… I talked to him last night?”

The last words are uncertain. Did you? You remember him, of course, tall and broad, but now, if you try, you cannot see his face in your mind’s eye. 

“...I think Kel freaked you out,” Lou says, “must’ve been a dream.”

“I think they’re fucking with us,” Darren says, and you shake your head, though you can’t tell whether it’s to deny him, Lou, or yourself. 

A dream makes enough sense—went out to piss, sure, forgot to plug your phone back in, had some tired-drunk-hallucination midway through. Kelsey’s little thing messed with her head, and maybe she’s the one fucking with you, and it worked a bit better than intended. 

When you think back on college, in that coffeeshop, you find that you don’t remember a single thing about a hulking man in the corner of the place. Makes less sense the more you think on it—why would he be there, not a student? Why would you talk to someone like that? Back then, at least, you were timid enough that you wouldn’t correct a waiter on your misheard order, let alone sit yourself down across from a stranger. 

Weird dream. You scrub a hand over your face. 

“Sorry,” you say, “must’ve… I don’t know.”

“Maybe lay off the alc, huh?” Darren asks, like you’re not only attracted to him when you’re drunk. You nod anyway. 

The day passes as lackadaisically as any day with four twenty-somethings alone in the woods can go, which is to say, easily. You while away a few hours in the morning just strolling through the desire paths that circle your clearing, listening to the birds sing overhead, the squirrels bouncing through great leafy branches. Even see a deer at one point, as it leaps over the path, and it dredges some quiet, half-grown memory from some quiet, half-there part of your mind, a dream within a dream within a bender. 

Lunch is canned ravioli, and the afternoon is a few rounds of poker played with sticks and rocks. Darren suggests—a few too many times for it to be funny—to turn it into strip poker, until Lou starts taking his pants off, and then he shuts up. 

“There’s a lake a few miles from here,” Kelsey says, consulting a map as dusk conquers the horizon, “we should go tomorrow.”

“Didn’t bring swimsuits,” you observe, “or fishing rods.” 

“We can skinny dip,” Darren suggests. 

A moment of silence, to emphasize that he’s being ignored, and then Lou says, “scenic hike, then.”

It’s settled. When night is fully upon the forest, Darren walks to the cooler, and as you once again lose a marshmallow to the flames, he yells back to you. 

“Who drank everything?”

“What?” You call back. A moment of silence, the sound of rustling and the clinking of glass bottles. 

“All the beer! We brought a 12-pack up, and we had nine after last night, and there’s only seven now.”

“Jesus,” Kelsey drawls, “you were counting? Alcoholic, much?”

“It’s not counting, it’s common fucking sense. Three bottles last night, so there should be-”

“Maybe it was Simon,” Lou says. The way he’s leaned towards you implies that it was a comment meant for your ears only, but he’s a bit too loud or everyone is a bit too sensitive, because they stop their argument immediately. 

Your eyes fix upon the marshmallow in the fire, past the point of softening and edging into char. When you were in third grade, a firefighter came to your school, gave a presentation in front of the class. You remember he described a burning house and a woman who wasn’t able to get out. Hid in the bathtub instead. When they went back inside, she was melted into the porcelain. Human lard, he said, smiling, smells just like Sunday morning. Anyone like bacon? 

Yum. Your tongue prods at the back of your teeth, and you try to remember what you ate for dinner. 

A tense moment, nobody sure how to respond to that, whether to brush it off or to play in it. Eventually, it’s Darren who half-laughs, half-groans, “shut up.”

He lumbers back to the fire, carrying two bottles in his hands. 

“So,” he says, handing one to you and one to Kelsey to pour, “again, who is he? Some neighbor kid?”

“No,” she says, staring at her hands, “I think I met him… somewhere else.”

“I think I met him in college,” you blurt, and she brightens immediately, meeting eyes with you. 

“Yeah, me too! That’s it.”

“I think,” Lou says, “the problem with that is that you went to different colleges.”

Darren snorts. You consider passing him the cup, but rapidly change your trajectory to Lou. “Woah. Can’t even get your story straight.”

A new furrow has worked its way into Kelsey’s brow, and she tilts her head. “Did he go to our high school, then?”

“I’d know him,” Darren says, and she shrugs loosely. Looks like it takes a conscious effort to clear herself up, to smooth out the tension in her skin and reach down her throat with a hand and wring her kidneys out like bloodsoaked rags. 

“Dunno, then. Maybe he’s one of my mom’s friend’s sons. She introduced me to a ton of those, back in high school. Or maybe I am messing with you.” She smiles impishly, but you don’t have to examine her eyes to know that she’s lying, that she’s trying to cover. 

The topic passes, eventually, but the mood it sets does not. Lou’s some massive horror buff, apparently, and he regales you with the type of story that takes you back to ten-year-old summer camp. Even Darren gets into it, and you’re reminded why you came on this trip with him in the first place—when he’s not being horny or being an asshole, he’s surprisingly funny, good at setting the mood. 

“...drip, drip,” he says, “and you’ll never guess, what she sees when she’s looking at the trees above the car-”

“Oh my god,” Kelsey moans, “it’s way too fucking dark for this. I’m going to bed.” She points an accusing finger at Darren, “and if I catch you dripping water over my fucking tent-”

“Would never,” he says lightly. She giggles as she stands, staggering to her feet, out from the dome of the firelight and off to the dark lumps of the tents beyond. 

After only a minute, Lou follows, yawning and murmuring a quiet, “night.”

And then, there were two. You glance over at Darren, and through the haze of tipsiness, in the flickering light, he looks almost good. Firelight is better than a diet—it casts all the planes of his cheek in chiseled levels of light and shadow, cuts off the extraneous until all you can see is the shape of a person. 

He must notice, because he grins. 

“You scared too?”

You return the grin. It feels like slipping on someone else’s skin. “Maybe.”

“I can think of something to help that.”

You swat at him, laughing. “And that is?”

“Come to my tent. Find out.”

“God, you’re corny. Fine.” You point at the campfire, “you go ahead. I’ll put out the fire. Smokey Bear, you know.”

He chuckles, and for a moment, you almost think this might not be a mistake. 

The fire’s almost entirely burnt out already, but you give it a few more minutes as you go fumbling about for the shovel. Must trek all the way to the cooler before you find it, buried under a tarp, and by the time you return, there is someone sitting on your log. 

Simon, you know instinctively, from the hunch of his back, from the rasp of his breath. You grin as you come up behind him. 

“There you are. Thought we scared us to sleep, and you were just too chicken to tell us.”

He laughs. It’s deeper than Darren’s, sends a tremor rattling through your chest. 

Carefully, you sit down next to him—he left your space free—and stare into the fire. You don’t feel particularly like looking at his face right now. Maybe you’re afraid of what the firelight will do to it, how the shadows will cut him, shave away the flesh to expose the bone. 

You’ve known Simon since high school. He wasn’t a part of you and Kelsey and Darren’s group—new student, transferred in sophomore year, bit of an outcast, from arriving late in the game and for being generally offputting. Dark clothes, dark eyes, unspeaking. 

It wasn’t until you started talking to him, after being assigned to tutor him in maths, that the wider student body warmed to him. Still, Darren’s never liked him—sees him as competition—and Kelsey’s never liked him—still thinks he’s a bit weird—and Lou, you’re pretty sure, doesn’t like him either, though you can’t say why. 

“Can’t believe you drank the beer,” you say, “and didn’t tell Darren.”

“Wasn’t v’ry good,” he replies, “prefer bourbon.”

You cast him an askance look. “Who’s bringing bourbon on a camping trip?” 

He doesn’t respond. Eventually, you add, “next time. For you,” and he huffs out a muted bolt of laughter. 

“You gonna fuck him?” He asks, after a moment. You chew on your bottom lip.

“Maybe. What’s it to you?” 

You dated Simon briefly, senior year. Your hookup with Darren was a rebound of a sort, in that way, and you don’t think he took it very well—to this day, he still glares at him, still clenches his jaw when he makes some stupid comment. Earlier, when Darren made that joke about strip poker, he looked like he was going to launch across the clearing and pummel him. 

Crash to the ground, break his nose, dig his fingers into his eyes and crush his chest. You remember a factoid—something about lungs, when spread out, something about the length of a tennis court. You bet Simon would do it, slowly unpeel every nerve from the walls of his chest and string them up around the trees like he’s toilet-papering a neighbor’s house.

Your heart beats a little faster. You bite down harder on your lip. 

“He won’t make you cum,” he says, and you shrug loosely. 

“Then who will?”

He tilts his head like you’re asking a really stupid question. You suppose you are. 

When his hand clamps down upon your upper arm, it startles you—for some reason, you haven’t been expecting him to be solid, are not used to the feeling of his fingers on your skin. He’s cold, despite the fire. 

Wordlessly, he yanks you to your feet, drags you to your tent. You don’t necessarily mean to pull your feet, to resist a tiny bit, but it feels right—makes it righter when he yanks open the zipper to your tent, near-throws you inside. It’s spacious enough that two people can fit, low enough that he must duck, and Simon hunches his back in such a way that the shadows obscure his face, paint him in broad strokes of gray. 

You hardly have a moment of peace on the ground, back against your sleeping bag before he’s kneeling, putting a hand in the nexus of your thighs. Such an insistent pressure that you scrabble to tug your pants off, leave long scratches down your stomach with the clumsiness of speed. The cold air almost stings against your bare sex, but before that’s too much a problem, Simon’s lowering himself. There is a brief moment in which his face is in the light, but you blink, and you miss it—and, by the time you’re looking again, his tongue is hitting your cunt, and stars bloom in your vision. 

His hands were cold, but his mouth is warm, and he licks a long stroke to your clit. Focuses on that, for a moment, sucking on it gently, which is enough for your legs to wrap around his back in half-greed half-gratitude. 

When he bites down upon it gently, the brief nip of teeth, you moan. When you were a kid, your neighbors left their bedroom window open one night, and you watched the husband fuck the wife upon the bed, intertwined as closely together as the friendship bracelet Kelsey gave you. After he was done, he peeled off the wife’s skin and ate her whole. Started with the toes and ended with the eyes, shoved her bones down his throat like a fire-eater. 

How does one eat an elephant? 

One bite at a time!

You laugh. Simon knows you well enough that he doesn’t ask you why. 

Instead, he brings his mouth down to your hole, circling it with his tongue, as his hand goes up to rub at your clit. You push forwards into his face, desperate, greedy, and he strokes his hand down your thigh. He’s warm now, warm as you are. 

“More,” you manage to pant, when he extends his tongue into your opening. If anything, he slows—teasing bastard—and now, it’s with a luxuriating sort of tension that he inserts a single finger into your cunt. Follows, a moment later, with another, curves them down and uses his thumb to spin a slow circle over your clit. 

It’s enough to send you over the edge. Your body shakes, walls clenching in on a gaping nothing, and though the climax leaves you limp-boned and hazy, it’s clear that this is only the start for Simon. He rises to his feet to shuck his pants off, followed by his underwear, which does much to reveal that he’s already hard. 

Good. You’d be insulted, honestly, if he wasn’t. He kneels, and you reach out a hand to run over his cock, feeling out the shape of the veins, stroking a single finger over the tip and smearing his precum about. He places a hand upon yours, gently shifting it off, and the other goes to your waist. Without what seems like an effort at all, he flips you from your back to your stomach. Now, you are facing the wall—he may as well have no face, no body, just a pair of hands and a dick. 

“Eager dove,” he murmurs, and you arch up towards him, wanting to be filled, to be contained and released, but all he does is stroke a slow, almost reverent hand over your ass. “Had my eye on you, you know? Ever since I saw you.”

“Please,” you half-moan half-snap, and he finally obliges with a thrust forwards that takes the breath from your lungs. There is an immediate burn. It is not given time to fade, time to adjust, before he’s pushing himself deeper—you shudder, clenching with the effort it takes to accommodate him. The hand upon your ass, he brings up, brings back down again, a sting to distract from the pleasant ache within you. Less a slap and more the way a man thuds a new car, more possession and less the intent to hurt. 

“Not leaving,” he says, and you don’t quite process what the words mean. Simply nod—you’d not if he told you to break your phone and slit your throat with the glass, you’d nod if he asked if he could cut you chin-to-clit and crawl inside your body. He bends closer, close enough that his chest is pressed to your back and his chin notches into the crook of your shoulder. 

You’re already sensitive from his previous workings, and with this—him, hitting spots inside of you that you do not think anyone else could, not in any sense of the word—it does not take much to bring you over once again. A full-body shake that stars from your core, expands outwards like ripples in a lake, violent enough to make you click your teeth together. Warmth, seeping inside of you, and when he tenderly pulls back, it gushes out in a stream that might as well be blood. 

There is movement behind you, shuffling, and by the time you regain the wherewithal to turn back around, sit up, he’s already pulling his pants on, back to you. 

“You’re leaving?” You ask, trying not to sound insulted. True love you did not think this was, but he could at least stay the night. 

“Some business t’ take care of,” he grunts, “I’ll be back soon.”

It’s a good enough excuse that you let your head fall back upon the pillow. You don’t hear your tent zipper being pulled open, but when you look back up, he’s gone. 

—

Kelsey screams. Once, again, again. 

You wake up. 

She screams. 

It spurs you into action, and you leap from the warmth of the bag, fumbling with how quickly you unzip the tent. Burst into the open air—see, from your peripheral, Lou doing much the same thing. 

Once you’re out, it’s not hard to see why. 

Hanging from a tree directly above the campfire, by his wrists, is a man. Is Darren. His chin is tucked into his chest, and he is naked, stomach cleaved open. 

Strangely, there’s no blood, no puddle. You stare at it, some yawning emptiness that might be horror opening inside of you, look down, then up, then down again. 

His dick is cut off. You think, in some ironic world, that would be funny. 

Lou reaches Kelsey first—she stands at the edge of the log circle, looking up, face ashen and eyes wide. It reminds you of, when you were in seventh grade, when you walked into her house after school and found her Mom dead in the kitchen, a knife embedded in her neck. It was her Dad. They never found him—Kelsey’s always been scared that he’ll find her, someday, do the same thing. 

Your hand twitches. It was you. You killed her. She never found out.

You rub your forehead with your hand. Maybe you’re getting a migraine. You can’t remember what you were thinking about. 

“We have to go,” he says, after a moment, voice high with panic, “c’mon, don’t… don’t stay for anything, we have to go.” He whirls around, meeting eyes with you. “Hey! Where’s Simon?”

Silence. Kelsey, after a moment. 

“You’re joking.”

He hesitates, face suddenly as stricken as hers, all blood drained out. “I…”

She whips around, face almost nose-to-nose with his, “you’re fucking joking, who the fuck is Simon, what-”

“I was with him,” he swears, backing away a step, head swiveling around—like Simon will materialize at any minute—“I… he came into my tent, told me he couldn’t sleep. We played poker and he took all my rocks.”

“No,” you say, distantly, like your voice is not your own, “he was with me.”

With me seems like a better word than fucking my brains out. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Kelsey says after a moment, half-sobbing, “whatever- whatever the hell he is, let’s leave.”

“My phone,” Lou says after a moment, dashing towards the tents. You follow, and when Kelsey catches up to you, her hands lock onto your arm. They’re warm. You place your hand over hers, and wonder how long it takes to make a corpse feel real. 

When he emerges, phone in hand, there’s little hope upon his face. 

“Dead,” he says, “flat-out dead, not no service, dead.”

“Mine’s dead too,” you say, recalling that first night, forgetting to plug it back in. You haven’t remembered to do it since. 

“We need to leave,” Kelsey repeats, “no point in checking.”

You don’t need any further reminding. The path that led you to the clearing is easy to find. It’s significantly lighter, going down, with not even a pack upon your backs—makes the journey feel quick, even if it’s agonizingly slow. You do not stop for anything—not food, not water, all done with a numbness of your feet and the strange fog in your mind. 

“I should’ve known better,” Lou says, as the sun reaches his zenith—it comes out with the certainty of a thought that’s been stewing for hours—“I’ve watched a thousand horror movies, obviously. You both think of a man that doesn’t exist and you get confused when we prod you on it, and we’re in the woods, oh my god.”

“Don’t start,” Kelsey snaps. Her voice has stabilized from earlier, but she still has that wide-eyed, deer-in-headlights look. 

“It was so obvious,” he repeats, “and of course, Darren dies first, because he’s the confident asshole, and…”

That feels a tad insensitive, but you suppose the charitable part of his brain has short-circuited.

“And what the fuck does that make you?” Kelsey asks, “the meta guy? You die next. You’re fucking Randy Meeks.” 

“I know,” he replies, and that quiets her. It puts you on that line of thinking—that of horror movies. Logic dictates something along the lines of a final girl, unless your filmmaker is avant-garde or a sadist, so it could go either way for you. 

You don’t realize you’ve turned back around until you’re short of breath—until you realize that somehow, you have made a 180 on the trail, and are now going uphill. It takes another five minutes before Lou notices, before he stops in his tracks, and says, “we… we got turned around.”

“What?” Kelsey asks. He points up the slope. 

“We’re walking up. I recognize that tree! We just passed that rock! Oh my god.”

He puts his head in his hands. She stares dully up the trail, as if uncomprehending, before slowly turning around. 

“Let’s go.”

There’s not any hope in the words. Another bit of time—you don’t have any way to tell, but you think it might be an hour—before, once again, you are climbing up. 

“There’s not really any point,” you observe. 

“No,” Lou says, and he turns again. 

When the sun begins to sink below the horizon, when the sky darkens like a bruise, you break back into the clearing. Logs to one side, tents to another. 

Darren is gone. You look up at the tree, and see not even a rope mark—and, without the puddle of blood, there is no sign that he was ever there at all. 

“Fuck,” Kelsey says. Turns, kicking out at one of the logs, screams the word, then collapses to her knees, sobbing. Lou kneels by her side, rubbing a hand along her back. Looks up at you, after a moment. 

“We’re sleeping in the same tent tonight. All three of us. He seems… he seems to only get one of us at a time. There is no Simon.”

“There is no Simon,” you breathe, digging your fingernails into your palms. No Simon. You did not meet him in college, did not meet him in high school, he was not in your tent last night and you have never felt his hands upon your skin. 

When you were a kid, you’d repeat that mantra to yourself, there is no, there is no there is no there is no there is no there is no there is. 

When you were a kid…

You blink, and you are in the tent. Must be Lou’s—cramped, with all three of you, but you and Kelsey are sharing a sleeping bag, and Lou is in his own. You stare at him, sleeping, and then crawl out into the cold air. Sit for a moment, in the tent, look at the darkness around and the things beyond it that you cannot see. 

Quietly, you unzip the flaps, pull yourself into the open. Walk a slow circle around the camp, half-contemplating, half enjoying the cold air. 

On your third loop, you see Simon, sitting in what used to be Darren’s tent. Your heart stutters briefly in your chest, but you relax just as quickly. He’s so familiar that it hurts. 

You’ve known Simon since first grade, when he would chase you around the playground, and make you kiss him when he caught you. Kelsey’s always hated him. So has Darren. Even Lou, from the first moment he laid eyes on him. When you told them that you were bringing him along on the trip, Kelsey dug her fingers into your neck and strangled you until your nails were bloodied from scratching at her skin. 

“Hey,” you say, ducking down to sit next to him. You didn’t think to bring a light with you, on this trip, so he’s shaded in darkness, but you can hear the movement of his body, feel the soft brush of his lips as he leans down to kiss the top of your head. “Mourning?”

“Somethin’ like that,” he replies, “Lou thinks he can get you out?”

“Yeah,” you reply, “he’ll try again tomorrow, I bet.”

He laughs. You wonder if he has a mouth to laugh with. 

“Not gonna work, Dove. You know that.”

You shrug listlessly. “Makes him feel better.”

One heavy, warm hand settles around your wait, tugs you closer, until you’re half-onto his lap. You nestle your head on his shoulder. He smells like blood. You dig your nose into his chest, inhale deeper. 

“I love you,” you say. His fingers dig in, the tiniest bit, pinpricks of sensation down your side. 

“I know. Love y’ too much, sometimes.”

“Is that possible?” You ask. He laughs, and you swear you can smell it, swear you can taste it. 

“Guess not. I’d just do anything to keep you. Anything, y’hear?”

“Anything,” you whisper. You’re so close to his heart that you swear it goes straight through, you swear you can dig your teeth in and tug it out and speak to it directly, mouth wrapped around his aorta. 

—

When you wake up, you’re sprawled on the ground outside of Darren’s tent. Stumble to your feet, steadying yourself with a hand upon the flimsy material, walk around listlessly until Kelsey pushes her way free of last night’s abode. She looks around, surveying the space, before her eyes lock on you. 

“Where’s Lou?” She asks. You blink once, taking in the tender hope, the wish—she wants you to say, bathroom, or in my tent, or, over there, behind that tree, peekaboo!

You swallow once, and whisper, “I don’t know.”

It is like some invisible wall collapses, making her suddenly smaller. “What do you mean-”

“I mean he’s gone,” you reply, running a hand through your hair, pretending it’s someone else’s, someone you never knew and someone you know as intimately as yourself, “I mean he’s… he’s dead, probably.”

“No,” she says, “no, we were all together- he couldn’t get us, it’s not possible, I- where were you? Why are you out here?”

“I saw him last night,” you whisper, “Simon. I… I went outside.”

“No,” she repeats, “why the fuck would you do that? Is it you?” The accusation comes with the force of a slap—you’re half-surprised one doesn’t accompany it. She backs away a step, pointing, “is he yours? You’ve- you’ve seen him the most, haven’t you, and he fucking killed Darren because you hated him, and he killed Lou because he was trying to get us out, and, oh my God.” 

Another step. She turns, still staring at you over her shoulder—like you will pounce, like you will come for her—begins a halting run down the path. Accelerates to a sprint, by the time she’s out of your view. You place a hand to your chest, and feel the beat of your heart, and wonder what’s wrong with your legs. 

Not ten minutes later, you spot her over the horizon, still running—if at a flagging pace. She turns, when her eyes meet with you, but it’s short order before she’s back in the clearing, collapsing on the log before you. 

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” you say, not turning towards her. Almost surprisingly, your voice wavers, and some animal instinct buried in your hindbrain twitches, caught in the throes of death. “He… it… whatever he is, I didn’t summon him, I didn’t ask for anything. I see him, and I know him, and what am I supposed to do?”

She’s quiet for a long moment. Pushes herself up to a sitting position. 

“Tell my Mom that I love her. And my Dad.”

You can’t remember having a family. You can’t remember being a kid, can’t remember meeting those people that were once your friends. Again, you think of the doppelganger. Maybe you’re the clone, maybe you’ve slipped into the skin of whoever used to inhabit this body. 

“I don’t know if I’m making it out either,” you reply. She laughs. 

“What, he’s gonna kill you? Please.” Again, a peal of laughter, and she can’t seem to contain herself, one hand wrapping around to cup her stomach. 

“I didn’t say I’d be dead.” 

That sobers her. 

The sun falls across the horizon. She walks to the cooler eventually, digs around in it. Comes back with a single bottle of beer. 

“Go fucking figure. Only one left.”

She opens it, takes a swig, holds it out to you. You oblige, turning it about in your hand, take a cautious sip. It brings you back to the firelight, to the time of hours ago, to the life that you cannot be sure you lived. 

You see him before it’s fully dark. Behind Kelsey’s back, in the treeline, face hidden by the drooping leaves and the curve of the shadows. 

“You should go,” you tell her. She stares at you. 

“Yeah? Where?” 

“Let her go,” you say. If there is one favor you can give to your former life, then it’s this. If there is one favor he can give to you, it’s this. 

You don’t see him nod, but you push her anyway, urge her to her feet. 

“Go. Quickly. You’ll… you’ll make it.”

You don’t know if it’s any kinder, honestly. Deer chews its way out of the snare, must live the rest of its life with an amputated leg. Still, she gives you a single, wide-eyed stare, before she jerkily walks to the path, takes to a jog in the dying light. 

There is nothing between you and Simon, not anymore. You stand up, walk into the trees, and he comes towards you in the same measure. Keep walking, until your chest is bumping against his, nose pressed into his chest and legs arranged between his, some half-dissolved hug. 

You have known Simon for as long as you’ve known yourself, and where your skin meets, you can’t quite tell who is who, which limbs you can control and which limbs you cannot. 

“They’ll come looking,” he says. You say. 

“Is that a problem?” You reply. He replies. 

“No,” he whispers, hand coming around to sink into your back, “good hunting.”

“Good hunting,” you echo, and it feels like you could stand here forever, as still as the trees around you. 

You look up at his face. Meet his eyes. 

When you lean up to kiss him, it is the only thing you have ever been certain of.

[revelboo]

what is your worst "hear me out" for transformers? mine is tarantulas like a spider in irl hell no… but a big robot spider thats hot

Probably Tarantulas (I love his Earthspark design) or IDW Waspinator.

I read Windblade for Metroplex lore and it reminded me of this messed up, fatally gullible mech that is everyone’s punching bag and just knows it. 18+ 🌶️

Worker Bee

IDW Waspinator x Reader

• Dragging his broken body, his alt mode scrabbles for purchase in the leaf litter. It’s hard to focus on much besides the pain and finding somewhere safe to hide and heal. He’s not even sure what he did, only that Skywarp had pointed at him right before Megatron went ballistic on him and the two other Decepticons that had been close by. Maybe he had done something wrong. He must have. “Waspinator’s fault,” he rasps, antenna flicking because there’s light up ahead, a building where he’ll be out of the snow just beginning to fall. Leaving the tree line, he drags himself inside, legs scrabbling and knocking over a metal can that clatters as it goes rolling and he collapses on the straw inside. So tired, burrowing in.

• Looking up from your book at the noise, you groan because the raccoons are back and they’ve tipped over the trash can. It’s late and you just want to ignore it and deal with it in the morning, but there might be garbage strewn across the yard by then. Standing, you tug on a coat, grab a flashlight, and a rifle just in case it’s a bear, not cute little trash pandas raiding your garbage. You’d left the barn door open apparently and you find the can turned over, but its contents not scattered everywhere. Maybe the sound scared them off? Setting the gun down, you right the can and turn as something shifts within the hay, rising slowly to tower over you.

• There’s a human with a weapon. Here to hurt him, because everyone does. They always do. It hurts to transform and reach for the human, but his injuries throw him off balance and he crashes down, knocking the little organic sprawling with him. And you’re screaming at him, your fear jangling through him making him curl forward, servos over his head. Waiting for a blow that doesn’t come. “Not hurt Waspinator?”

• Hyperventilating as the monster lifts its big head slightly, you can’t even scream. Voice overlayed with slow buzz, the thing had spoken. It’s gigantic, seizing your ankle when you try to crawl away and dragging you back, looming over you. All you can do is hold up your hands in supplication as those awful mandibles work and those glowing optics stare. “Don’t hurt me.”

• This is new. Someone afraid of him? It should make him feel powerful to be the one feared for once, but it just makes him oddly ill. Sitting up and gingerly touching the wound in his torso sluggishly bleeding energon, he makes a buzzing click of his mandibles. “No hurt,” he says as you scramble to your hands and knees to put some distance between you. “Already hurt,” he adds tiredly, and you hesitate in your retreat. Staring at the energon welling through his servos. You take a hand through your hair, expression twisting.

• All you have to do is run like hell. That thing, Waspinator it had called itself, is hurt too badly to chase you. But there’s something about its defeated tone that makes you feel guilty. This isn’t your problem. Big and scary was already hurt when he crashed in your barn. So why do you go over to the workbench and retrieve a roll of duct tape? He hisses at you, rearing back when you try to touch him and you freeze. “Cut that out,” you snap and his antenna flatten back. Not hurt Waspinator? You’d guessed with the way he’d worded that question that maybe he’s used to being hurt. That he’d fold if you acted aggressive and you were right. It’s unsettling to see a giant, metal death bug cringe like a puppy being scolded. But he doesn’t make a peep as you find the hole in his metal side and gingerly tape the leaking lines, trying to not think too closely on what you’re touching or that your hands are inside him rooting around. “Waspinator, right?” The way he’s just staring down at you with those wide glowing optics just cements in your head that he’s a big, really ugly puppy.

Next

[sebmindbreak]

Ahhhhh requests are open!!!!!! This has been on my mind for so long!! May I request a platonic fic with guest 1337? (can be oneshot or headcannon!)

basically reader reminds guest of his daughter Charlotte (but still gender neutral ^^) so he's extra protective over them!!

Like whenever he stares at reader he gets reminded of the family he left behind so he just projects what he will do with Charlotte (like being the #1 dad).

Thanks so much for reading this silly little request of mine!!! (ʘᴗʘ✿)

HEHEH YIPPPEE

PLATONIC ONESHOT!

YIPPPPEE

ALSO I HOPE YOU LIKE IT <3

TITLE: home , sweet home

The facility was quiet eerily so. Rounds weren’t scheduled for another hour, and the halls were filled only with the low hum of broken lights and the distant clatter of someone rummaging through a supply crate.

Guest 1337 sat on a bench near the mess hall, one arm slung over the backrest, posture heavy with exhaustion.

Then he saw you.

You were sitting cross-legged on the floor in the corner, fiddling with something in your lap a radio maybe, or a cracked flashlight you were trying to fix.

The way your brows furrowed in concentration, the soft sighs when something didn’t click into place it hit him like a truck.

God, you looked just like her.

He blinked slowly, breath catching in his throat. Not physically, no. But something about your energy, your presence it reminded him of Charlotte.

The way she used to hunch over her coloring books with that same intensity, tiny hands smudged in crayon dust, tongue sticking out a little when she focused too hard.

His eyes softened. His whole chest ached.

“…You remind me of her, y’know,” he said quietly, almost like he wasn’t sure if he meant to say it out loud. “My little girl.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight together.

“She used to sit just like that. Always working on something. Never asked for help, either stubborn as hell. Thought she could fix the world with glue and stickers.”

He chuckled under his breath. It didn’t sound all that happy.

“I should’ve been there more. even if..with the war it wasn't possible.”

His gaze drifted toward you again. Your shoulders were a little slouched. Still focused. Still trying.

“You don’t know what it does to a man to be ripped outta that life. To die and come back to this goddamn place, this endless loop of rounds and horror. I can’t see her. Can’t talk to her. Can’t even tell her I’m sorry.”

He inhaled sharply, sat back again, trying to compose himself. His voice dropped to a murmur.

“But then there’s you.”

Silence for a moment. Then a tired smile crept onto his face.

“You keep reminding me of what I lost. But not in a painful way. In a… grounding way. Like like there’s still something I can protect. Something that matters.”

He pushed himself up, the sound of his gear shifting slightly.

“So yeah, I get it. I hover. I check your flank more than others. I make you eat. I make sure you sleep before the next round. And yeah, I’d tear the arm off anyone who laid a hand on you.”

He ruffled your hair gently as he passed, the action natural, easy. His voice was warm now, full of something that almost sounded like hope.

“I can't be there for her now, But I’m here for you. You’re stuck with me now, kid.”

I HOPE YOU ENJOYED!

[romancherry]

caged in silk (4) — false alarm

pairings ➝ dark!joel miller x dark!javier peña x dark!marcus acacius x female!reader

summary ➝ after a false dissapearance gave them quite the scare, joel loses control in his task to teach you a lesson.

warnings ➝ explicit smut, dark!fic, dubious consent, unprotected p in v, rough vaginal sex, missionary, squirting, creampie, multiple orgasms, breeding kink, breast & nipple play, hickeys and marking kink, posessive and dominant joel, submissive reader, sub space, daddy kink, heavy makeout session, crying kink, praise kink, pet names, pussy pronouns, aftercare, manipulation, dirty talk, swearing and other explicit language, 18+, MINORS: DO NOT INTERACT.

word count ➝ 4.111

author's note ➝ hello again! it took me more time to motivate my lazy ass to write this chapter than actually finishing it. i hope you like it and if you do please leave a comment or motivational reblog 🌸 if i missed any warnings let me know.

do NOT repost, reupload, translate or plagiarize my work.

it was almost midnight when the men realized it has been quiet for far too long. they were so deep in their thoughts and work that they hadn’t realized just how fast time has passed. 

joel was fixing the dripping, rotten faucet in the kitchen. marcus was cleaning some rifles, tending to them as if they were the most precious pieces of porcelain. he was so very focused as he tried hard not to lose count on the ammunition. javier sat on his laptop, chain smoking and looking up surveillance cameras in the DEA office in medellin. the only pause between drags of smoke was when he lifted the glass of whiskey and brought it to his lips while listening very carefully on what the american ambassadors discussed – debating important classified cases, blissfully unaware of the hidden microphones javier placed right under their noses before resigning from this god forsaken job almost 3 years ago. 

joel glanced at his watch and scoffed when he realized just for how long he’s been working on fixing the faucet. he muttered a low good night to the boys, his voice grumpy and heavy with sleep, before making his way to his bedroom, already dreaming about how good he will sleep tonight with you in his bed.

he expected to find you under the covers, maybe reading, maybe already curled into your pillow like you usually were by this time of night. but when he pushed the door open and found the bed untouched, the lights off, and your scent faint in the air — not warm and recent, but old, like you hadn’t been there in hours — something in his chest coiled tight.

“sweetheart?” he called. 

nothing. 

he checked the bathroom next, knocking once, pushing open the door. empty. no sound of water. no used towel. 

he paused, brow furrowing.

“marcus?” he called out, already stepping back into the hallway. “you seen her?”

marcus freezes his actions entirely and puts the rifle on the couch next to him, his expression already serious. “i thought she was in your room.”

“no,” joel said, jaw beginning to grind. “she’s not.”

footsteps echoed on hardwood as javier came from the kitchen, still holding a half-empty glass of whiskey. “what do you mean she’s not?”

joel turned to face him, voice edged now. “i mean she’s gone.”

the silence that followed was sharp — thick with tension, panic, anger. 

javier placed the glass into the sink without looking. “check everywhere. right now.”

they split like shadows in motion — no yelling, no chaos, just the kind of cold, calculating urgency born from fear.

marcus hit the basement first, flashlight already in hand. he searched every corner like he was clearing enemy territory — eyes sharp, movements efficient. no sign of you.

joel moved through the rest of the first floor. he checked the pantry, the garage, the laundry room. doors were still locked. windows undisturbed. “nothing,” he muttered into his radio to the others.

javier moved fastest, pacing the perimeter outside barefoot, his phone already out, checking security cams and motion sensors. “no alarms triggered,” he hissed. “no movement out here in the last hour.”

joel stopped in the hallway, hand gripping the molding beside the doorframe like he needed to steady himself.

you wouldn’t try again, he told himself. not after last time. 

he closed his eyes, trying to focus on regulating his breathing and stop the panic from building his heartbeat rhythm until the point of explosion. he tried to think. to bring reason to light – to convince himself that you wouldn’t be so stupid and naive to run away during the night.

why would you want to run? what did they do to you this time? was the picnic too much? have you learned nothing from your last mistake?

his instinct dared to snap his own self out of the building panic and overwhelming thoughts. a wandering, fleeting thought which almost left his brain as quickly as it entered.

the last door in the hallway which led to a guest bedroom none of them ever used. 

the door was not even shut. it was slightly cracked. joel pushed it open with slow fingers, the old brass hinges creaking. and there you were.

fucking. sleeping.

your chest rose and fell in a peaceful rhythm, soft little exhales brushing the pillow. the blanket was wrapped around your body, one arm tucked underneath it and the other loose at your side. a book you never finished reading lay on the nightstand. the lamp was off. you’d gone to bed hours ago — quiet and unbothered.

joel didn’t say a word.

he stepped back into the hall and leaned against the wall for a beat, rubbing the heel of his hand over his face. relief poured over him like a wave, heavy and thick. he called it in over the radio.

“guest room.”

a few seconds later, marcus appeared, and behind him, javier — barefoot, heart pounding, eyes wild. they stopped in the doorway and stared.

“she’s fine?” marcus asked, voice hushed.

“fast asleep,” joel said. “like she didn’t just take five years off my life.”

javier ran a hand down his face. “fuck.”

you stirred, a little frown tugging between your brows as if you sensed their presence even in sleep. you turned onto your back, hair fanning across the pillow, lips slightly parted, still unaware.

joel walked in quietly and knelt by the bed. his hand reached out and brushed your cheek gently, thumb ghosting across your temple.

“jesus,” he whispered. “you don’t even know what you did to us.”

your eyes fluttered open, groggy and dazed. “…joel?” you murmured, blinking slowly at the sight of all three men surrounding the bed.

javier’s brows lifted, and he huffed a short breath. “you scared us shitless.” 

“i — what? why?” you asked, throat rough.

“why did you have to fall asleep here, sweetheart? you know we never enter this room,” javier asks.

“tired. jus’ wanted quiet…” 

javier knelt beside joel, his hand resting over your ankle beneath the blanket. “you could’ve said something, cariño. we tore the damn house apart.”

“yeah. thought you took off again,” joel added.

you blinked, then winced, voice still sleepy. “s’rry. didn’t mean to freak you out.”

marcus crouched on the other side of the bed, his gaze hard and unforgiving despite the quest to find you turning out successful. “we’ll lock every fucking door in this place from now on. don’t pull a stunt like that again, sweetheart.”

joel leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your forehead, his voice low and tight. “he’s right, baby. you gave us one hell of a panic attack.”

you mutter one last tiny apology in joel’s ear before he lifts you off the bed and gently carries you to his bedroom, the place where you’ve been sleeping every night since they kidnapped you. each time was more comforting than the last; joel didn’t present himself as a threat and always kept a respectable distance between you two, although he always ached to touch and hold you tight against his chest. 

after he places you on the mattress, you notice marcus giving him a suggestive glance. 

joel leaves your side and makes his way to his brother’s side. out of your eavesdropping range.

“teach her a lesson. know you got a soft spot for her, but she needs to learn," marcus whispers in joel’s ear, his instructions clear. joel hesitates. doesn’t say anything for a couple of moments. he isn’t a fan of his older brother’s demands. he doesn’t want to break you in. not like this. 

marcus senses joel’s second thoughts and scoffs at his brother’s weak spot for you. “if you don’t, i will.”

that made joel’s eyes darken. not with thrill or hunger, but with the overwhelming need to protect you from marcus’ roughness. he failed to do so after your escape attempt and had no choice but to let marcus punish you. this time, he’ll carry the burden himself, in the only way he knows how. 

joel nods his head once and gives marcus a look of reassurance and cooperation. once marcus is convinced that joel will keep his promise true, he steps out of the doorway and shuts the door behind him. 

joel turns slowly towards the bed, watching the curiosity in your eyes mix with a potion of anxiety. you can tell. his tense stance. the way he won’t look you in the eye – not quite. his mind races. his hands tremble slightly, and you’re not sure why. is it because of anticipation or the tethering loss of control?

“take off your clothes.”

the order makes you flinch, your instincts telling you to back away slightly. your mind is fully alert now. the exhaustion and gentle yearning for the comfort of a warm and soft bed have been gathered together and thrown out the window. 

“i won’t ask again.”

shivers crawl up your spine at his intimidating tone. if he was trying to inflict fear upon you, to make you forget about all the times he was gentle and careful with you as if you were a porcelain doll — he has done it. with minimal effort. 

you carefully lift yourself off the bed and stand in front of him. there were only a few feet between you. he could take two large steps and you’d be done for. clothes ripped off, a hand wrapped around your throat while he did as he pleased. 

you try to banish these thoughts out of your head and presume it’s best if you try to hurry up slightly. you don’t want things to come to that. you still believe that if you cooperate, he’ll be gentle. a part of you tells you that he doesn’t want to do this. 

but that part of you is so wrong, my dear. because while joel doesn’t want to scare you away and force you into submission like marcus wants, he is still, at the end of the day – a man. 

a man who has built a life out of butchering people for money since his daughters died. a god among men who ripped the soul out of living and well breathing creatures and never felt sorry for it.

until the day you came into his life. when he saw you for the first time and figured you are not a thing to be broken and burned alive. but to be molded and carefully guided into a lifestyle he and his brothers crafted specifically to force you to accept them as your new reality.

in conclusion; he wants you. oh, how much he wants to give into his carnage and tear you apart with his cock. only when he remembers the way your moans filled his ears like a melody when your orgasm flooded his mouth the last time…

god, it’s maddening. infuriating. 

but he must not act on primal instincts and think with his cock. no matter how painful it feels. no matter how the majority of the blood in his brain now flows in his cock right now. and he can barely resist anymore. 

he watches your lip tremble and eyes grow heavy with tears as you quietly do as instructed. 

you start with your socks, quickly discarding them on the floor so you don’t keep him waiting. so you don’t let him think you’re dragging this out to think of an escape.

your loose sweatpants come off next. when you reveal your bare thighs to him, he swears he feels like a medieval man who saw ankles for the first time. 

skin so soft. flesh so plump and glowy. his mind drifts off to when his head rested in between them to devour your pussy. how good it was when he felt the pressure of your muscles against the sides of his skull. an orgasm so intense he was worried you’d crack his head like a watermelon. but he loved it so much he made a promise to himself he’ll experience the same pain again when he made you ride his face and smother him with your thighs.

your t-shirt was next to drop on the floor. it belonged to none other than joel. he felt a sense of pride and ownership each time he saw you wearing his clothes around the house. knowing your scent mixed with his drove him crazy because he yearned to inhale directly from the source. 

tonight, he would achieve this and more. 

the sight of your bare breasts made his heart skip a beat.

he has never seen such work of art in his life. your full chest looking as if it’s been crafted by the gods themselves. like aphrodite chose you as her avatar.

he doesn’t wait for you to take your panties off. in two long strides, he breaks the barrier between you two. his hands immediately jump at your breasts, cupping them in earnest. 

he weighs and plays with them in his calloused palms. he is not being a gentleman at all – rough fingertips graze over your buds until they swell. the moment they rise to angry little peaks, his mouth latches onto one while the other is being tended to vigorously.

you quickly grow overwhelmed by his lustful attack. his warm, wet tongue lapping hungrily at your nipple, sucking and drinking as if the elixir of life itself courses through it. 

the other poor, tortured nipple – red and aching from the relentless pinching and twirling between his thumb and index. you squirm in his hold, hands grabbing a tight hold of his salt and pepper hair. 

you moan, but you don’t think it’s because of displeasure. yes, there is pain. but there is also beauty.

beauty in the way he makes you feel so wanted. so worshipped. he kisses and bites and marks every inch of your chest. he groans in both relief and pleasure when his mouth runs a path upwards on your body and finally stops at the nape of your neck. 

not only does he pull a bit of flesh in between his teeth to paint your skin in bruises – he also inhales deeply at the same time as he sucks. 

your natural scent – finally flowing through his nostrils. so sweet and musky at the same time, with notes of a warm sleep and the masculine scent of his t-shirt.

when he is satisfied with his work over your neck, his lips trace a path towards your jaw. not once do they depart from you.

you’re both breathless when he pulls you in for a kiss. he didn’t even look at you before he claimed your mouth. he needed to do this before he could stop himself.

his hands are everywhere on the lower half of your body now. he keeps you flushed against his chest, your nipples grazing uncomfortably against his blouse. he grinds and ruts himself against your thighs like a stray dog. makes sure you have nowhere to go too – his hands presenting themselves as a tight and sure anchor over your buttcheeks; smothering, kneading and occasionally slapping the tender flesh until it jiggles like jelly in his palm.

you give up on trying to put space between you. no matter how much force you channel into your hands and wrists, you can’t move this brute wall off of you. 

instead, you accept him. pull him closer, even. the act makes him moan into your mouth, deep and rough. 

the kiss bruises you. makes you shake in his grip and you’re sure that if he wasn’t holding you now, you’d fall. 

he is not here to make love to your mouth. at least not yet.

he kisses you as if he’ll never get another chance to. he needs to explore your hole and claim it with his teeth and tongue before he can soothe the ache he caused.

it’s possessive. controlling. desperate and needy. you don’t bother fighting for control and dominance. you just let him take what he wants in order to indulge himself in the pleasures he has been denying and ignoring for too long.

he shocks you when he takes you into his arms. gathering a handful of your asscheeks before using his sheer power to lift you in his lap.

he drops you both onto the mattress. your back pressed between a soft cloud and a massive brick.

not even once does he break the kiss. he swallows every moan and gasp that comes out of your mouth and greedily licks every corner with his tongue, teeth occasionally lathering attention to your bottom lip to drag and nip it.

his hands move from your ass to fumble with his own sweatpants. he is so thankful to just drag them down his thighs along with his boxers; his cock finally having enough room to breathe.

you try to break the kiss to get a look, but to no avail. he keeps your head in place with his free hand resting on your neck. his fingertips firmly pressing into the sides, a silent command to stay still. his mouth still makes out with yours hungrily as if he’s trying to keep you busy and not allow any anxiety creeping in your pretty little head. 

the hand he used in order to free his cock from his boxers moved directly to your clothed pussy. his index ran one trail up your slit to feel the cool wetness sink into the material before gathering it in between his fingers and pulling it to the side.

he didn’t waste any more time. as soon as he cleared the way, he grabbed himself by the base of his cock and gathered your juices on his own leaking head before sliding home in one smooth thrust.

you both broke the kiss at the same time to fill the room with your own moans. once he bottomed out and felt the dangerously addicting way your walls squeezed him, he didn’t know how to stop. he just lost every last drop of control he thought he had and unleashed all the pent up desire he felt for you.

“oh god, babygirl,” joel chanted as he threw his head back, eyes shut in bliss. “fuck, i can’t stop. i’m so sorry.” 

he moved his hand from your throat to the back of your head, gently lifting it a few inches to bring you closer to him. his other hand made its way under your knee. making sure to keep your legs as open as possible for him to fuck you as hard and deep as he liked.

“joel, n-no! oh my god – fuck!” 

the burning sensation left your tight channel as quickly as it came. it was soon replaced by complete and utter pleasure as your already soaking wet pussy gushed and clenched around him as he pistoned in and out of you. 

your walls presented no restraint. your pussy greedily welcomed him as if she has waited her entire life for this moment. to fulfill her duty as nothing more than a cocksleeve – a hole to serve him warmth and pleasure. 

your broken moans ambitioned him to sink deeper inside you. he plunged in deep, hard and fast, not giving you any time to adjust as he took whatever he wanted from your willing body. god, he hoped it wouldn’t come to this. he hoped his restraint and control would not shatter so quickly. but when he saw your beautiful naked body and felt you soaking wet through your panties, he knew you were made for him. he knew this pussy had a mind of her own. 

“atta girl. pussy knows what she wants, huh? t’be fucked and destroyed by a nice, big cock. fill her up with cum and never let her go.”

he tears his gaze from your swollen pussy to your face and really looks at you. 

blabbering, crying, moaning and utterly ruined. 

pink sore eyes filled with glossy tears. flushed cheeks. mouth slightly open in a round shape with a string of saliva dripping in the corner. your own finger resting on top of your tongue. a physical guardian to stop more moans and pleas from making their way out.

“fuck, look at my girl,” joel praises. he presses a soft plump kiss in between your eyebrows – an unusual contrast to the way he ruts roughly between your thighs, assaulting your poor pussy as she gushes her release all over his cock and the sheets beneath. he lost count of how many times he made you cum until now. he’s more than convinced you never actually kept count, your mind too blank and pliant to bother yourself with too much thought.

“what’s wrong, baby? cock so good it fucked ya stupid?”

you shake your head in approval, your eyes wide and glossy like precious pearls and diamonds. there’s no coherent thought behind those eyes – he scared them all away. no insecurities or anxiety in the way to stop you from feeling him at full intensity. 

and he’s so proud. so so proud he made all the voices in your head shut down for once. his heart swells with how much trust you put in him to break you apart and put you back together.

“that’s a good girl. mhm, the best girl in the whole damn world. my good girl gon’ let me cum deep inside her? hm? swell her belly full a’ babies?”

you nod in earnest, a big bright smile creeping up your face like it’s the best deal in the world. like it’s your whole life purpose.

“y-yes, d-daddy. p-please fill m-me up. wan’ your babies!”

your innocent little plea does it for him. his rhythm wavers as he buries himself to the hilt and cums deep inside you, filling your belly up with a big load. 

he stays attached and connected to you both physically and spiritually. he swears he can feel your hearts beating in sync as he holds you close to his chest and soothes your nerves by placing a few wet gentle pecks on your cheeks and forehead. 

“shhh, baby. my sweet baby. gotcha now. did so, so well for daddy. my perfect lil’ girl.”

he forces himself to remove his softening cock from between your legs. once he does, he makes sure not to leave you alone and sweaty for too long. he takes off his damp blouse and uses it as a makeshift rag to clean you up. he soothes every cry and unintelligible word that comes out of your sweet mouth.

“here, honey. drink. you did perfect. so proud of ya," he praises as he helps you drink a much needed glass of cold water. 

after he’s done cleaning both of you up, he joins you under the blankets. his fingers trace the side of your arm as he looks at your relaxed form. so obedient, full and content. 

“bet ya enjoyed your lesson, huh?” joel murmurs, aware of how close you are to drifting off to sleep. “don’ ever scare us like that again, sweetheart.”

“mmmm,” you nod while keeping your eyes closed, although you’re not so sleek in hiding your small grin of mischief, “no promise."

he chuckles, shaking his head in amusement at your little attitude. “you’re trouble, sweetheart. what are we gon’ do with you?”

oh, he knows exactly what they will do with you. 

and in the bedroom next door and the living room respectively, javier and marcus have figured out a few plans in their mind themselves. 

because you may not realise it yet, but joel had just paved the way for his brothers. made their life easier. broke you in and gave you a taste of what your future will be with, under and on top of them. 

without needing to even speak to each other, they all know you’ve just become addicted. soon enough, one man will not be enough to satisfy the burning hunger inside you; you’ll need all three to satiate your needs and take care of you.

and honey, they will. in each of their own, unique ways – they will make you forget why you even fought them off in the first place.

[damian-navarro-art]

BATGIRL & ROBIN

Finally guys after all the sneak peeks… my Cassandra Cain and Mia Mizoguchi Short Story! CASS AND MAPS!

Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think!

I’ve been posting it on my instagram all this month and last week on my twitter but i had totally forgotten to post it in here, for 2 months there wasn’t a day i wasn’t thinking on them and i would have loved with all my heart to do something even longer but… building up a story, thinking over and over the layouts, drawing and coloring with this level of detail all on my own is really hard and i can’t but feel guilty of taking this long for just this 7 pages, but as little that is, with all my heart i just really hope you like them :’) , I tried to put many little easter eggs and references but i will mention some at the end to not spoil your reading.

Okay, so some of the esster eggs:

PAGE 1: that Adam West Batman & Robin climbing a building shot which actually came to me from Bruno Redondo’s cover of Nightwing actually , and the rest of the panels hugely inspired by Batman The Animated Series!

PAGE 2: a portrait of Niccolai Tapes( The Mad Monk) on his early years and at his side Matt Wagner himself! , then a newspaper with a Batman based on his first appearances and a reference to the events from Batman vs the Mad Monk by Matt Wagner, and then ofc all the room filled with a bunch of objects taken exactly from the same pages of Matt when he draw The Monk’s Castle on the same book. and finally the book of Dracula for the same reason ;) , all this layout was inspired by one of the most iconic pages from American Pax by Frank Quitely

PAGE 3: all the vampires were based physically on Voldermort’s Death Eaters! but also the girl in black is Dala! Mad Monk’s more loyal acolyte which in the book she always desired to become a vampire but never could! , but from left to right, Barty Crocuh Jr. , Dala as Bellatrix, Peter Pettigrew, The Monk was “Voldemort” , then Snape, Lucius, Narcissa and Fenrir Greyback, and that last panel was a BLADE reference 🙂‍↕️🙌

PAGE 4: this whole Cass yellow panels with speedlines were supposed to represent the same kind of panels that Damion Scott drew when Cass was moving really fast in her Batgirl run, the whole layout was based on a page of Jamal Campbell from his Green Arrow run

PAGE 5: shot referencing the killing joke joker and batgirl cover, you can see a “Red sun” mode on the bat-flashlight apart from the Ultra Violet setting, them. Maps bites the Monk as she used to do a couple times in Gotham Academy, and Cass final attack is a reference to one of the moves she does in her 2000s run to stop the heart beats of a thug , and those circles were inspired by David Aja’s work on his Iron Fist and run!

PAGE 6: the building on the background purposely resembles the Bat ears, the GCPD have the uniforms from BTAS and you can see also Detective Montoya and Jack Ryder interviewing her :), Maps little hearts are taken from Karl Kerschl who used to do them on Gotham Academy a couple times, and finally the Grapple Gun reference from all the time Maps mentioned it on Gotham Academy 🙂‍↕️,ohh and the box of the gift was also the same feom Shadow of the Batgirl when Barbara gives her suit to Cass!

PAGE 7: Frank Miller’s Batman and Carrie Kelly cover 🙂‍↕️🫶

THANK U GUYS 🫶

[ilsanslut]

꒷♡꒷ STUCK!

♰ featuring: nagi seishiro + shidou ryusei (separate) [blue lock]

♰ note: thank you all so much for supporting my last work as much as you did. it really means so much to me that people genuinely enjoy my writing and my content! now, as my second-ever work, i would appreciate it greatly if you would continue to support my work by reading, liking, and reblogging! also, I tried to make their sections as even as possible, but i'm a ryusei simp so uhhh enjoy!

sypnosis: in which you find yourself stuck in a rather precarious position and your boyfriend decides to "help" you. not without proper payment first, though. wc: 3.4k content/trigger warning(s): 18+. SMUT. fem/fem-bodied reader. stuckage. shidou is a warning on his own. accidental choki abuse (nagi). dry humping. degradation. unprotected sex. rough sex. creampie/breeding. spanking. name-calling/dirty talk (ryusei). ꒷꒦

NAGI SEISHIRO.

It was a normal weekend, unlike any other. It was just before noon, and you were cleaning your and Seishiro’s shared apartment while he was at the gym with Reo. You were diligently working to remove the accumulated dust from your wooden dresser with a disinfectant wipe that had a coconut scent when, all of a sudden, your hand bumped into something rather hard.

“Choki!!”

You shrieked, watching in horror as your boyfriend’s beloved potted cactus flew off of the dresser and knocked into the wall behind it. Everything moved in slow motion, and you could only gawk in horror as the pot spun once, twice, and then tumbled behind the dresser. You grimaced inwardly, awaiting the sound of shattering ceramics and the dull shuffling of displaced dirt, but it never came. Instead, the sound of the pot sliding down the wall and "gracefully" hitting the floor was heard instead.

With baited breath, you grabbed your phone, turning it to flashlight mode. You used it as a visual aid as you peered behind the dresser to assess the damage, sighing with relief when you saw Choki, Seishiro’s child, lying almost undisturbed between the wall and the backboard of the dresser.

Now here comes the difficult part, moving the dresser.

Kicking off your fuzzy house slippers to give yourself some traction, you grabbed the back end of one side and mustered all of your strength to shove the heavy thing out of the way—slowly, of course. Choki’s life was at stake here. However, you were only able to move the heavy thing out of the way just enough so that you could slip part of your body inside to reach for the plant. It was still a very tight fit.

Getting on your knees, you maneuvered between the tiny space you created, squeezing your arms, shoulders, and ribcage between them until the tension finally gave way at your waist. Breathing out in relief, your fingertips finally managed to grace the pot’s edge, pulling it into your grasp.

“Got . . . cha . . !”

You tried to shuffle backward, but you couldn’t. Attempting once more, you would come to realize that the dresser and the wall had some sort of death grip on your hips, rooting you in place. You were stuck. Trapped. And Nagi wouldn’t be home for another 30 minu—

“Y/N, what are you doing?”

You breathed, overjoyed at your boyfriend’s sudden voice. He always had the habit of moving in complete silence, despite his massive size. You hadn’t even heard him come home.

“Sei, oh, thank god! C-Can you pull me out? I think I’m stuck!”

You could barely make out the sound of his soft footsteps padding against the wooden floor as he made his way over to you. You could feel the heat radiating off of his body as he stood behind you, yet he made no effort to save you just yet.

“How did you even manage to do something like this?”

His confused tone held an unamused lilt, one that made your cheeks burn with embarrassment.

“I was cleaning the dresser, and I accidentally knocked Choki over. They’re fine! B-But I can’t get out . . .”

Still nothing.

Was he mad? Disappointed? Since you could not see him, you could not tell. You were aware, though, that his gaze was "burning" into you. You shifted, partially in discomfort, as you made a point to wiggle your hips so that he could focus on the task at hand. As a result, you could hear him drawing in a sharp breath through his teeth. Before you could ask him what he was doing, you felt him kneel behind you. His two strong hands came into contact with the exposed skin around your hips, where your shirt was rising. He did not pull, though. The opposite happened; you felt him pressing against you, his bulge delightfully nestling against your folds through your thin pajama shorts.

“Seishiro?!”

He effectively silenced your confused warble in exchange for a surprised squeal when his open palm placed a firm smack on one of your cheeks. All the while, he shamelessly ground himself against your core, stating, “That was for Choki." You swore that you could hear the pout in his voice when he spoke.

“Removing you would be a hassle. Besides, I’m tired.”

B-But what about me?!

You wanted to protest, however, you refrained. You felt his lithe fingers pinch the fabric just over your clit as he pulled it to the side, resting it against your ass and exposing your pretty folds to his prying eyes. You heard his hands rustling with his sweatpants and boxers before you felt him tapping the pretty pink-flushed tip of his cock, which you loved so much, against your sensitive bud causing you to keen and your toes to curl.

“Wish you could see how pretty you look right now.” He mumbled, teasingly pressing the head of his cock against your entrance a few times, but never pushing in fully.

“I-If you got me out, Sei, then maybe I could . .” Your voice was unsteady as your anticipation began to build in the form of your puffy folds beginning to leak for him, the lewd sounds of it squelching around his tip echoing in your quiet room.

He answered you with silence and actions rather than with words. In one swift motion, he pushed entirely into you, and without waiting for you to adjust, he began to thrust his hips into you at a steady pace. You clenched around him, nails scratching against the backboard of the dresser, the wall, the floor—anything to brace yourself from your boyfriend’s fervent pace. Once he got started, he wouldn’t stop until he spilled entirely inside of you, filling you to the brim with his cum.

“S-Sei, it’s too much!” You mewled, yet your body writhed with pleasure. You always said this, and yet, he knew you could take it. You've done it many times before. That’s why he reached further into the space you had created to bunch up the back of your his shirt and used it as leverage as though he were pulling your hair to pummel into you faster and deeper. Your ass rhythmically pounded on his pelvis, sending a lewd ringing through your own ears as it echoed off the bedroom walls. Something about this precarious situation you were in mixed with the feeling of Seishiro’s cock hitting those sweet spots inside of you, enthralled you more than usual. You were close and he could feel it.

“Gonna cum f’me, already?” He grunted as his other hands squeezed your hip, their blunt nails digging into your flesh. His moans were heavenly, a sound you longed to hear, as your walls fluttered around him. The hand that was on your hip pressed itself against the edge of the dresser, shoving it effortlessly to the side and thus freeing you from your confines. Although he appeared so unsuspecting, Seishiro’s strength, when he decided to use it, was frightening. Your lower half fell to the ground, your breasts and cheek smushing against the wooden floors as you felt his soft fingertips rubbing fast, furious circles around your clit.

“Oh my god, S-Sei, I-I’m gonna—”

“C’mon, make a mess for me, pretty.”

You did exactly that, creaming delightfully around his cock while mewing in ecstasy. Before long, you could feel Sei's hot seed bursting inside of you and filling up your pretty pussy to the brim, as well as his hips stuttering against you. Both of you were panting as he pulled out of you, your releases dribbling out of you and pooling beneath you onto the floor.

You finally managed to get off your sore knees and elbows as you turned to face your lover with trembling limbs. It was at this point that you noticed Seishiro's eyes, which were burning with something fierce and unknown, were boring into your own. His eyes resembled that hungry expression he would have when his ego started to rule him on the field.

“Let’s do it again, Y/N. On the bed this time.”

God, he was going to be the death of you someday.

SHIDOU RYUSEI.

You had a rather eventful day. Starting off leisurely in the morning, you and your boyfriend Ryusei enjoyed a pleasant brunch together before deciding to head out to the beach that day. You had to pick a spot with some privacy because Ryusei insisted he was only there to “freshen up his tan”, which required him to be in the nude, while you were there to enjoy his prescene, the sound of the waves lapping against the shore, and the sensation of sand between your toes. Only a short while ago, the two of you finally arrived home. Ryusei was currently taking his own shower, as you had already finished yours.

Relaxing on the couch in nothing more than an oversized shirt and your panties, you had decided to turn on some Netflix with the intention of finding either a good or a fun-bad horror flick to watch, when all of a sudden, the slippery lotion residue on your hands caused the remote to slip from your grasp and tumble onto the floor and skid beneath the coffee table. You groaned, head tossing back with exasperation, as this minor inconvenience was nearly enough to ruin your entire night and make you not even want to watch a movie anymore. Nonetheless, you sulked off the couch and sank to your knees, searching for the offending culprit beneath the coffee table. Somehow, it had managed to slide to the other side of the room, mocking you as it lay motionless between the walkway in the middle of the coffee table and the television. Any normal person would’ve simply gotten up and walked around the table to retrieve it, however, you were not like most people. I mean, look at your taste in men, for starters. Not to mention, you’re incredibly stubborn.

Instead, you crept beneath the table's glass top and between the second shelf, stretching your slender fingers as far as they could reach until they touched the black exterior of the remote. However, it was a little too far away for you to grasp, and your touch, combined with your wooden floors, only served to push it further away from you. You swore, glaring at the thing as though it had just offended your loved one, huffing in defeat as you decided to rise and walk to the remote.

But you couldn’t.

Your brow furrowed in perplexity as you placed one palm flat on the ground and the other on the surface beneath you, attempting but failing to push yourself back. You were wedged between the table's glass top and bottom shelves, flat on your chest. The more you wiggled, the further you seemed to wedge yourself in between the two surfaces that held you taut.

You stopped, dumbfounded. As much as you dreaded calling Ryusei for help because you knew he would taunt you endlessly instead of helping you . . . you did not have many other options.

“Ah, Ryu!!” Your voice carried through the hallways, hoping that he was out of the shower to hear you yell.

“. . . Yeah, babe?”

His voice made your heart lurch in your chest. You were already debating whether you should just say nevermind and try to wiggle out on your own, or put your pride aside and ask for his assistance. In the end, the latter would be victorious.

“Could . . . Could you come here for a second? . . . Please.” Your plea was quiet, your cheeks already burning with shame as you awaited your impending doom.

You raised your gaze towards the master bedroom, where he was currently. How cruel fate was to put you in a position where you would be forced to watch him approach. Each second felt like an eternity until you heard the soft padding of Shidou's feet leaving the carpeted bedroom to shuffle along the wooden floors, only to abruptly pause.

Sheepishly, you peeked up at him through your lashes to where he stood, chest bare, droplets of water dripping from his unstyled hair and body, a towel that he used for his hair wrapped around his shoulders, and a towel wrapped dangerously low around his waist. His face was expressionless, his fuchsia oculars taking in the scene before them in silence. Your shy, embarrassed gaze, the position of you between the coffee table, and the cursed remote only inches away from his own feet.

“—You’re stuck, aren’t you?”

How you wished you were facing the other way to avoid seeing the way that maniacal grin that nearly resembled the Joker's formed on his face and how his cat-like eyes narrowed at you in amusement at your misfortune.

“ . . Yes.”

He barked out a laugh at you, his head tossed back in sheer, unabashed mania, much to your chagrin. Even though you knew this would happen, your cheeks couldn’t help but burn with frustration and shame. “I know, very funny. Now, could you help me out here, please? My knees are getting sore.”

Despite your whines, his mockery would continue, his large hands grasping both ends of the towel that rested on his shoulders as he waltzed over to you leisurely. “Hmm, I dunno, babe~.” He continued walking until he crouched right before you, his legs spread wide enough for you to see that he was already semi-hard beneath the fabric. Of course, he would be aroused by your misfortune. Tearing your gaze away from his manhood, which was only inches away from your face, you peered up at him only to see him grinning mercilessly down at you with mischief twinkling in his eye. “I gotta admit, I like this view of you. How’d ya know doggy was my favorite position~?”

Probably because you’ve put me in it multiple times before, asshole. You wouldn’t say that, though. You didn’t want to prolong your torment any further.

“Ryuseii.” You whined, mustering your best pitiful glance in an attempt to draw even an ounce of sympathy from your demon of a lover. “Please?” You tried with a pout.

You couldn’t tell if your attempt worked, however, with the way Ryusei’s feral grin would reduce to a playful smirk, you figured that you have gotten through to him. He raised his hand, patting your head twice and making sure to tousle your hair while he was at it. “I’ll see what I can do, cutie.”

He made a move to rise to his feet but paused mid-squat, ���No promises, though.”

You waited until he was out of your view to roll your eyes at him, hands bracing themselves against the floor as you awaited to be freed from this nightmare. Ryusei sank to his knees behind you, humming aloud as though he were trying to make a big play out of figuring out how to get you out—or how you got there to begin with. His slender digits grasped at your waist, tugging halfheartedly. You knew better than anyone that Ryusei was capable of hoisting you into the air and tossing you around as though you were nothing. That being said, it was beyond obvious to you that he was obviously making a poor attempt on purpose.

“Wow, I dunno, Y/N. You see pre-tty wedged in here . . Maybe this’ll help.”

You had no idea when he had the opportunity to do it, but he had dropped his towel somewhere along the way, and you could feel him rubbing his semi-hard on against your panty-clad ass and making your clothed folds the focal point of attack.

“Ryusei—!” In frustration and arousal, you laboriously dragged out the syllables of his name. As much as you wanted to be mad at him, you knew that something like this was coming.

“Mm, yeah, keep saying my name just like that, baby.” He sighed blissfully, shamelessly now humping himself onto you until he was full mast, his hardened shaft twitching excitedly between your pillowy ass cheeks while his blushed tip beaded with pre. “Hah, shit, that’s it. ‘Could cum right now, all over ya’. You want that, angel? Want me to paint this pretty ass—” He paused, raising his palm high into the air before bringing it down unforgivingly against your rear to accentuate his point. “Look at that. Ya want me to paint this pretty ass with my nut, hm?”

"Yes, please, Ryu . . ?" You said against your better judgment as your thighs pressed against one another and your teeth dug into your bottom lip.

He chuckled throatily, already pulling your panties down your plump thighs until they rested on the backs of your knees. He lined himself up with your already drooling cunt, not wasting any time to push into you with one single thrust. He bottomed out inside of you, drawing all of the breath from your lungs. His pelvis pressed flush against you, blunt nails biting into the flesh of your hips and ass as he greedily pulled you against him. It was almost as if he were trying to force himself further into you than he already could. You whimpered beneath your breath, clenching around his cock as you felt his balls pulsing against your sensitive clit. He had only just entered you, and already he was about to cum.

“Greedy fuckin’ pussy.” He snarled through clenched teeth, picking up his pace. “Grippin’ me so tight, suckin’ me in so good, ngh—s-so desperate to be stuffed with a cock.”

His thrusts were sloppy and uncoordinated, but he did everything he could to keep bullying his cock into you, drool dribbling over his parted lips. It should be illegal for you to feel this good. It wasn't fair. He wanted to ravish you—take his time turning your cunt into his personal little pocket pussy, his perfect fucktoy, already premolded to the shape of his dick. But damn, he was about to bust, and you were approaching your climax too.

His pace grew relentless, barely giving you time to breathe or even think as he forced your hips to fuck back onto him, drawing a helpless gasp or delighted moan from your pretty lips with each impassioned thrust. You squirmed in his hold, your breath coming out in hot tufts as your end grew near.

“R-Ryu, baby, hah, mphf!!” You could barely get the words out as he fucked you within an inch of your life. “I-I’m close! M-My clit, please! I c-can’t reach it; touch me, plea—”

“No.”

His response was curt—simple, snarled out in what could only be described as a ferocious growl. His movements grew sloppier, his hips faltering in their pace as his cock throbbed heartily inside of you, ready to burst. “You cum on my, ngh, fuckin’ cock or not at all. Ya hear me, y’little cock-lovin’ slut?”

You whined in protest, to which the forward brought his palm down heavily on your already reddening cheeks from just his grip on you alone. If he could’ve reached you, he would’ve had a vice grip on your hair by now. “Answer me, bitch.” He spat with false malice, “Y’gunna cream around my cock? Make this fat dick a mess, hm?”

“Yes, yes, yes!” Came your loud, unabashed chorus of unfiltered, unadulterated moans of sheer bliss.

Neither of you could hold back anymore. Ryusei spilled rope after rope of his hot, sticky seed into your abused cunt while your pretty folds creamed around his shaft in a way that could only be described as tantalizing. Silence, aside from both of your spent keens and blissed panting, filled the air around you. Once he was certain you were plugged full with his cum, Ryusei effortlessly snatched your body from between the coffee table, causing your exhausted body to collapse into his lap. As exhausted as he was, he made sure to cup your head so that it didn’t hit the ground too hard. He was always the sweetest when his post-nut clarity hit him. He took in your expression, noticing that your eyes were half-lidded and glassy with fat tears spilling from your waterline; your drool-covered lips were plump, red, and raw with the faintest of indentations along them from your pearly teeth; and your body convulsed and twitched ever so slightly from the sheer intensity of your orgasm. Not to mention the utterly fucked-out and euphoric look on your face.

. . . Ah, shit. He was hard again.

“Still with me, princess? . . Good. Come suck this cock clean and let me ruin that pretty face of yours even more~.♡”

ⓒ vampiie 2023 — all rights reserved. please do not repost my work outside of tumblr, modify, or translate my work in any form/means. please do not share my work to tiktok or any other site.

[dina-winchester]

What We Were ⁵

Read part four here

Pairing: Dean x You

Summary: Dean’s always there when you need him most, no matter what.

Warnings: Graphic depictions of injury, blood, angst with comfort, emotional scenes, no use of y/n

The Endgame

It’s the next night. You can feel the weight of your injuries, fresh stitches pulling uncomfortably at your side as you walk through the woods. Your hand instinctively presses against them, the pressure reminding you of how much damage was done, how much you’re still trying to recover from.

The cold night air bites at your skin, but the pain is sharper. You’re moving slower than you’d like, your flashlight flickering as you sweep it across the trees, keeping your gun tucked into your waistband for when you need it. But part of you knows this isn’t like before. The Wendigo’s faster, stronger, and you’re not the same. You’re too rusty. You haven’t been in this life for a while, and it’s showing.

Then, through the trees, you see it.

The mouth of the cave.

A sliver of hope cracks through the storm of fear in your chest. Maybe, just maybe, Nick’s in there. You swallow hard, forcing your breathing to slow, trying to steady your shaky hands. The cave seems so close, but in the back of your mind, you know it’s not enough. There’s still so much to do. So much danger.

But the thought of Nick, the possibility that he could be alive, sends a surge of adrenaline through you. It’s almost enough to make you forget the pain, to make you forget how much you’ve been through already.

The cave is right there.

You push through the pain, stumbling forward, heart pounding as the thought finally takes shape—Nick might be inside. That hope flares in your chest, just for a moment.

Just as that thought crosses your mind, the world explodes into movement.

A snarl rips through the night, and before you can even react, that’s when it hits.

The Wendigo slams into you from the side. You scream, the sound ripping from your throat as claws tear across your ribs, reopening stitches and adding new wounds. You’re thrown like a rag doll, your back crashing against the forest floor with a brutal thud that knocks the air out of your lungs.

Your flashlight skids off somewhere into the dark.

Pain explodes in your side. You’re gasping, eyes wide, adrenaline screaming through your veins. You see it closing in, the Wendigo moving with that inhuman speed, and you grab for the flare gun, hands slick with blood.

You fire one flare. It misses—barely grazes the damn thing—but the burn makes it hesitate. It snarls and recoils, the flames licking its side. You scramble back, bleeding, your fingers clawing through leaves and dirt as you grab the last flare with trembling hands.

Your limbs are sluggish, every movement agony, but you refuse to stop. You won’t stop. You’re fumbling the flare into the barrel when the Wendigo charges again. It knocks the gun from your grip and claws you across the thigh, sending you sprawling to the ground.

You scream again, louder this time, raw and furious.

Your vision is going fuzzy now, the darkness creeping in at the edges. But you’re still moving. You’re crawling, dragging yourself toward the gun, breath coming in short, panicked gasps. You reach it with shaking fingers, flipping over onto your back, blood soaking into your shirt, staining the dirt beneath you.

You start loading the flare again.

Hands shaking.

Breath hitching.

Your heart’s hammering so loud it’s all you can hear.

You think—this is it. You’re going to die here.

And still, you keep going.

Then—Sam and Dean show up.

They’ve been tracking the case themselves. A string of deaths in your area caught their attention. They didn’t expect to find you in the middle of it.

Dean sees you bloodied and shaking, on the floor trying to load a weapon with trembling hands.

Your name is being called out.

His voice—panicked.

“Dean!” Sam’s voice joins it, closer now, fast and alarmed.

You don’t dare look away. Your eyes are locked on the Wendigo just feet away, your fingers fumbling with the flare gun like it’s your only lifeline—because it is.

But suddenly there’s movement behind you, boots pounding, flare gun sounds off, the wendigo bursts into flames with a nasty roar—and everything else stops.

You collapse backward, panting, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes as Dean drops to his knees beside you, grabbing your face with blood-covered hands.

“Sweetheart—oh my god—”

You can barely see him, but you feel him. Dean drops to his knees beside you, his hands cradling your face like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. His breath’s ragged, panicked, like he just ran through hell to get to you—and maybe he did.

“I got you. I got you, okay?” His voice cracks, and that’s what really gets you. Not the blood. Not the pain. That.

Your lips part, trembling. “Dean…”

Sam’s just behind him, already checking the perimeter, flashlight beam shining on whatever’s left of the creature and then into the cave. “It’s dead—we’re in the clear. Dean—she’s losing a lot of blood.”

Dean doesn’t move from you.

Your fingers twitch weakly around the flare gun, still cradled to your chest. “Did I… did I hit it?”

“Damn right you did,” Dean breathes, brushing hair back from your face with trembling fingers. “You torched the son of a bitch just enough to keep it off you. Jesus, sweetheart…”

You laugh, just barely. A breath of a sound. “Still got it.”

Dean presses his forehead to yours, eyes shut tight, like if he just stays close enough, it’ll be okay. “You stubborn, reckless… brilliant pain in my ass,” he whispers.

You shiver hard, and Dean shrugs out of his jacket, laying it over you as gently as he can. Your blood is on his hands now—literally—and he doesn’t care. He’s still holding your face like you’re breakable, like the next breath you take might not come.

“I stitched myself up,” you mumble. “Didn’t hold.”

“No,” he says, a whisper thick with fury and grief, “it didn’t hold because you went out here alone. Sweetheart, what the hell were you thinking?”

You look up at him, vision swimming. “That my friend might still be alive.”

Dean falters. “Your friend?”

“Nick.” You nod slightly, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes. “I had to try, Dean. I couldn’t just sit and do nothing. You know I couldn’t.”

His jaw clenches. You can feel the war inside him—between wanting to yell and needing to keep you breathing. The latter wins, barely.

“We’re getting you out of here,” he says, voice steely now. “You hang on, alright? Just… stay with me, sweetheart.”

Dean’s arms tighten around you like he knows—like he feels it in your blood-soaked silence.

You shake your head against his chest, weak but stubborn. “I’m not leaving… not without him…”

Dean pulls back enough to look at you, panic flashing in his eyes. “Sweetheart, you’re bleeding out—”

“I can’t,” you rasp. “Not until I know if he’s in that cave.”

Dean’s eyes snap toward the jagged opening just ahead, the one you were crawling toward before everything went to hell. The realization hits him like a truck. You weren’t just hunting. You were hoping.

Sam’s already moving, his flashlight beam cutting across the trees. “I got it,” he says. “You get her stable. I’ll check the cave.”

“Sam—” Dean starts, but Sam’s already gone, slipping past the rocks and into the darkness with practiced ease.

Dean swears under his breath, then looks down at you again. “You should’ve called,” he mutters. But his voice is softer now, not angry—just wrecked.

You close your eyes, exhaling like it hurts. “I know.”

A minute passes like an eternity.

Dean shifts, pulling off his overshirt and pressing it firmly to your worst wound, right over your ribs. You hiss and arch slightly, eyes fluttering. His palm stays steady, firm, even as your blood soaks through the fabric and your fingers grip his wrist.

“Hey—stay with me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, grabbing a roll of gauze from his jacket pocket. His hands move fast, shaking but sure, working around your body to bind the gashes as best he can. “You’re okay. I got you. Just breathe.”

Your body is trembling in his arms, your breathing shallow, but your eyes are fixed on that cave entrance. You refuse to shut down. Not yet. Not until you know.

Then—

“Dean!” Sam’s voice echoes from inside, sharp and urgent. “He’s alive!”

Your breath catches.

Dean’s head snaps toward the sound. “Son of a bitch…”

You almost sob with relief, a fresh wave of tears flooding your eyes. “I knew it,” you whisper, voice breaking. “I knew he was in there…”

Dean lowers his forehead to yours again. “You were right.”

“I had to try…”

He nods slowly, hands still cradling your face. “You saved him.”

Sam appears a few seconds later, supporting a barely-conscious Nick, pale and filthy but alive. Dean shifts you in his arms, but you’re already fading now—body giving out under the weight of blood loss and relief.

Still, you smile weakly through it. Because you did it.

You found him.

And you didn’t stop until you did.

Your eyes flutter. You want to say something. Tell him you’re glad he’s here. But all that comes out is a soft, broken breath as you finally let yourself go limp in his arms, pain pulling you under.

Dean gathers you up carefully, whispering to you the whole time like it might anchor you to the world.

“I got you, sweetheart. You’re okay. Just hold on.”

Read part six here

A/N: I hope you liked this chapter! Thanks for reading and thank you for every reblog. You guys rock! Let me know if you’d like me to add you to the tags. 🫶🏻

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Thank you so much, once again. You guys are awesome! 🩷

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[crowsofdarkness]

Pairings: Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x FemaleHydra!Reader

Bucky finally decides to honor his promise to you.- a part two to THIS blurb. There will eventually be a part three if people are interested!

18+ CWs below the cut: angst, someone being frozen alive, mentions of blood and torture.

The darkness loomed in front of Bucky, mocking him as he continued to tentatively step through the abandoned laboratory. There was a lingering smell of staleness in the air, tangled with something old and moldy. The bright beam from his flashlight illuminated the decaying walls splattered with the mold he smelled and something red. Once he stepped closer, it was evident what that substance was. 

Blood. 

Very old and dried blood. 

Bucky rounded his shoulders to steady himself, telling the negative voices in his head that it wasn’t your blood. He spent the last twelve months looking for you and he promised it would be alive. Yet along with everything else he promised you, Bucky wasn’t so sure this one he could keep. It took him nearly a year to find you, using all of the new resources that came with being one of the New Avengers. 

At first, Bucky kept searching for your whereabouts a secret from everyone else because he didn’t want their looks of pity when he told them the truth. 

“I left her behind because I was too afraid to go back.”

But there was one late night in the tower where Yelena found Bucky sitting in the common area, scanning through all of the files he had on you. It was only two and he’d gone through them at least three times over, hoping some sort of new info would jump out at him. 

“What are you still doing awake?” Yelena asked him, sitting on the couch across from him. 

“Couldn’t sleep,” he muttered. 

She made a noise that sounded like a hum before nodding towards the array of papers on the table in front of them. “Doing some light reading?” 

Bucky hesitated at that moment, wondering if he should tell Yelena about what he’d been doing in his private time. They’d all grown close the last few months and he knew that she wouldn’t judge him for his past transgressions. Not when she had her own. 

So he spent the rest of the night telling Yelena everything and when he was finished, she gave him a smug smile. 

“Why didn’t you say anything? I have a few buddies that owe me a favor. They used to work in Hydra so I can ask around.”

Not even a week after Yelena asked, Bucky was given new information that nearly let out a sob. The last location you were held. It was an underground location in Romania, far off in the woods where no one had been in years. He nearly missed the door in the ground because it had been covered with debris and leaves. 

The other members of his team offered to come with Bucky but he politely declined. If he found you, his solnyshka, he didn’t want to scare you by bringing a bunch of strangers. 

If? No, not if. When he found you. 

Kicking over the long forgotten medical equipment and other trash, Bucky came to a halt at the end of a hallway. He could go either left or right but wasn’t sure which way he needed to take. Yelena said that even though this place was long abandoned, every two hours, a group of guards would come check the premise to make sure no one was breaking in. 

Or more so, making sure something wasn't breaking out. 

Bucky had less than ten minutes to find you before the guards came to do their rounds. So, he stopped and listened, all outside noise fading away as he did his best to focus on the sound of a heartbeat. Bucky began growing agitated when all he could hear were the sounds of the old building nearly caving in. His hands shook at his sides as he tried so hard to focus his super soldier hearing on parts of the building. 

Before he left the tower, Ava had a small heart to heart with Bucky, making sure he knew there was a possibility you weren’t alive anymore. You could have died shortly after he escaped Hydra, there wasn’t any proof you were still alive. Bucky had this exact conversation with himself, he was prepared he would be walking onto a corpse or a bag of bones. But he couldn’t give up hope just yet. 

“Solnyshka,” he breathed with his bottom lip trembling. 

Suddenly, Bucky’s ears picked up on a faint sound down the hallway to his left causing his vibranium fingers to twitch at his side. It wasn’t a heartbeat but the sound of something moving. 

No,  not moving. Something rippling, almost like the waves from a raging storm .

Very quickly, Bucky ran down the hallway getting closer and closer to where the sound was coming from. He had less than six minutes now to complete this promise otherwise the guards would find him and undoubtedly kill him. It had been ages since The Winter Soldier had come to the surface, Bucky doing whatever he could to keep that side of him buried deep, but for you he would risk it all. 

When he reached a room at the end of the hallway, a familiar chill wrapped around his bones making him come to a sudden halt. The memories of him being locked in a cage with those frigid temperatures were nearly debilitating. His heart began to beat wildly in his chest, damn near bursting through and falling to the floor at his feet. 

Focus, Buck. Don’t let those memories drag you down to the depths again.

Pushing through the darkness in his mind, Bucky stepped into the room and let out a gasp. This had to have been a prison at one point with the cages that lined the wall yet what kept his attention was the large tub in the middle of the room. Slowly, Bucky walked towards it, noticing the various tubes that were running from inside of the tub to a large monitor on the side of it. It was evident the chill in the air was coming from whatever this contraption was. 

A cryo chamber.

“What the fuck?” He muttered while staring at the monitor. 

It was showing a xray form of a body with a very slow, nearly there heartbeat and a clock showing how long whoever was being kept in the chamber had been asleep for. 

Seven years, twenty four days, sixteen hours, three minutes, and twelve seconds. 

Laying a gentle hand on the edge of the tub, Bucky let out a deep breath before gazing down into the frozen water to see those familiar bright eyes starting up at him, void of all life. 

“Solnyshka,” Bucky sobbed, tears burning at the corners of his eyes. 

There was some contraption covering your mouth as your body floated in the ice water. All that was covering your body was a thin tank top and a pair of underwear. Your skin that he spent countless hours kissing was so pale, it looked like you were fading away into the water. 

His sunshine had turned into a pale moonlight. 

Bucky reached his right hand into the water to reach for you but reared back with a hiss as the frigid temps almost burned his skin. When he glanced at the computer that was keeping you frozen, he thought about how long it would take to defrost the tub so he was able to pull you out until a voice spoke in his ear; Bucky always wore an earpiece even when he was working solo missions, just in case. 

“You have less than two minutes to get her out before a group of guards find you. It would take at least four hours to completely melt the water.” 

Bucky jumped in his skin. “Fuck, Yelena. You scared the shit out of me. How long have you been there?” 

“Since you got on the jet,” she stated before the sound of someone slurping a drink came through the com. “I’m seeing six heat signatures on the edge of the perimeter.” 

“I can take them out,” Alexi’s eccentric voice yellowed into the com, causing Bucky to wince. 

“Are you guys here?” Bucky asked. 

There was silence for a quick second before Ava spoke. “This is important to you, Bucky. We wouldn’t let you do this on your own. You need support incase-.” 

“It’s her,” Bucky interrupted, staring down at his left hand. “She has a heartbeat, it's really slow, but there.”

“I’ll prepare the warmer,” Walker said. 

“One minute, Buck. Were parked on the west side of the building. There’s a staircase twenty feet to the right when you walk out of the room. Take it and you will walk up into a hidden section of the woods where there’s currently no guards. They’ll be too busy checking on Y/N to look for you,” Bob said. 

“Until they realize she’s missing, find out the Winter Soldier took her, then kill you both,” Yelena said. 

“Thanks, Yelena,” Bucky grumbled before turning off his com. 

Taking a deep breath, he submerged his vibranium arm into the water to rip out the contraption that was inside of your mouth then very quickly lifted you from the water. Very loudly, alarms began to go off as lights all throughout the room flashed red making Bucky cursed. He should have counted for an alarm system but he’d been too lost in his thoughts about finally finding you. A year of searching led to this moment and he’d be damned if it all went to shit now. 

Instantly he was soaked as he pressed you to his chest. You were so fucking cold, ice clinging to your skin, and Bucky stared down at your face. Your eyes were still wide open, void of any emotion, and he placed his lips to your cold forehead. 

“I’m here, solnyshka. I’ve got you and I’m going to take you home,” he let out a broken sob before running out of the room, just as voices yelled down from the other end of the hallway, followed by rapid gunfire.