#loops is losing her mind again

[chericheribaby]

Me watching the Percy Jackson teaser trailer for the twentieth time and losing my mind over the fact that a story that I’ve been following and loving and treasure for the better part of a decade it’s perfect and amazing and everything I could’ve asked for and it will finally come to life in less than three months and I CANNOT COPE

[unapologeticallylorenz]

My Golden Ending for Byleth is constantly time looping until they figure out a way to smash through every obstacle that holds them back from saving all their children.

the next loop will be the one bro trust me

[karlachismylife]

Simon Riley got his fingers fucked up. Time spent under Roba's torture messed up the joints, made his digits barely able to flex and curl and left him with chronic pain, especially once the temperatures start to drop. It's alright, not the worst thing he came out of that encounter with, he can live with it. Doesn't bother him even that much.

It's just that Simon Riley used to love knitting.

Soft, creamy white, thick yarn turning into volumunous sweaters with huge warm collars his mother and his brother's bird could wear, safe from the nasty winter chill. Stripey socks, comfortable hats, long fluffy scarves - he could and would do it all.

Roba took it from him. Knitting needles became almost impossible to hold properly, struggling over the yarn mess for more than 15 minutes pisses him off and makes him never want to pick it up again. He can barely make a couple rows of a shitty excuse of a scarf, let alone finish a single thing.

And then Soap brings his LT over to his family home for their joint leave - two whole weeks in a household full of bustling life, hearty food and loving banter. In the evenings, when Johnny and all the younglings of the family have already spent their buzzing energy and are snoring in their beds, sometimes piled up like tired puppies, Simon and Mama MacTavish both are kept up by their insomnia. In a pleasantly dimly lit living room, this beautiful woman with white hair and noble profile sits, kitting - soft white wool of Highlands' best sheep turning into a sweater in her hands.

Simon comes to sit with her, calmed down by the sounds her needles make and the hypnotizing movements of her hands. First couple of nights he just lets it lull him to sleep before Mama MacTavish sends him off to wam bed with her snoring son already sprawled across it like a starfish.

Then Simon picks up needles himself. It's a slow, torturous process, his grip slipping, threads coming apart, frustration and anger at his useless fingers building - yet Mama's hands always come to rescue. She soothes the pain in his fingers, helps fix uneven loops, tells him stories of Johnny's childhood to distract Ghost from his angry mind. It works.

By the end of the leave he presents Soap the ugliest knitted hat with pompoms stitched to it in a row resembling a mohawk, and you bet Johnny wears it all the time, flexing in front of everyone who sees him in this monstrosity. He takes it to all the places he shouldn't, stubbornly unwilling to part with the gift, and loses pompoms - yet somehow Simon constantly sees new ones pop up on the hat.

It's Mama MacTavish stitching them on, because she knows, Simon needs a little help with this painstaking work for now.

[marvelstoriesepic]

Powdered Sugar

Pairing: childhood best friend fuckboy!Bucky x hopeless romantic!Reader

Summary: Your friend group is having a night out at the local carnival. Bucky is his charming self and you are tired of pretending it doesn’t affect you.

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: friends to something-maybe-more tension; unrequited love (the perceived kind); heartbreak; unspoken feelings; light angst; emotional withdrawal; miscommunication; mentions of Bucky being a fuckboy and flirting with other girls

Author’s Note: I know this turned out to be a little longer than planned for these drabbles and I did want to end it at around 1.6k words but I felt like the conversation just needed a little more. Anyway, this is based on this request from my sweet, sweet mutual!!

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

Everywhere around you are colors. Blinking, buzzing, glowing colors. Neon reds and golden yellows. Cotton candy blues shaping the darkening sky.

The air is dense with the smell of sugar and smoke, a little burnt, a little sweet - like fireworks melting.

A thousand voices are stitched into the dark. Booths are being crowded, laughter rings out from all around you. Something about it feels like nostalgia wrapped in noise. Summer hanging off your skin.

You walk through it all in a slow dream.

Sam is saying something funny. Steve is losing his mind over who won the water gun race with Natasha. Wanda is laughing so hard she snorts.

You are smiling, but not all the way. Only with your mouth. Your head is somewhere else. Somewhere maybe not here at all.

Wanda’s arm is looped through yours, her voice warm in your ear, but you’re not hearing a word.

Because you’re in your head again.

And in your head, there’s a boy.

There’s always a boy.

He’s got a crooked grin and impossible eyes. Hands made for trouble. And a voice that is meant to live in your name.

He’s in your head because he can’t be anywhere outside of it.

It’s safer for you if he stays in here - because when you let yourself drift, you can imagine what it would be like if things were just a little different. If he was just a little different. If he looked at you the way you look at him when he’s not paying attention. If he loved you back.

You imagine him holding your hand under the glow of cotton candy lights.

You imagine his voice soft only for you.

You imagine his heart not borrowed.

He’s been your best friend since sandbox days and scraped knees. Since secrets shared under blankets and hiding from thunder in the dark. And somewhere along the way he became the sun and you became the shadow. Orbiting. Always too close to stay safe. Always too far to be seen.

And lately, you’ve been pulling back.

Not because you want to, but because you have to. Because watching him flirt with every pretty girl who captures his attention is like slowly bleeding out from the inside. And maybe that’s dramatic. Maybe you’re just being the hopeless romantic again, building castles in clouds and crying when the rain comes.

But god, you wish you didn’t feel so much.

“Hey, where’s Barnes?” Sam asks casually, looking around.

You do too. Because you just can’t help yourself. But you shouldn’t have.

And your fantasies shatter for the thousandth time.

He’s across the way, at a booth that smells like vanilla and sugar and heartbreak. He’s leaning against the counter. Smiling that easy smile. The one he gives to girls he’ll forget tomorrow. The one he doesn’t give to you.

The girl behind the counter is giggling.

Of course, she is.

She’s pretty and pink-cheeked with her long hair fastened at the back of her head, possibly with a hair clip you can’t see. Because she’s not turning around. Not turning away from Bucky.

Bucky is saying something. It’s probably something charming, something easy. And your stomach drops as if you just stepped off the edge of the Ferris wheel.

You blink too long. Swallow too hard.

Something sharp blooms in your ribs, something that nowadays never fully heals. A bruise where no one can see it.

The group keeps chatting around you but you can’t hear them anymore. The noise of the carnival dulls. It all dulls. The lights, the heat, the movement - all of it fades to background static as you stare and think, of course.

Of course, he couldn’t even make it one night.

This was supposed to be for all of you. This was supposed to be just your night as a group - no distractions, no other girls, no stupid charm shows. Just friends, food, maybe a ride or two, laughing till your face hurt.

But Bucky Barnes cannot help himself as it looks like.

And you should have known better by now.

You look away just as he gestures for more powdered sugar - a generous heap of it on top of the funnel cake. Just the way you like it. But you don’t see that part. You don’t see anything but the girl smiling at him like she’d give him her whole world for free.

“You okay?”

It’s Wanda’s voice in your ear. It sounds knowing. And you hate it. Because she knows you are not okay. Knows you haven’t been for a while. And she knows why. Because other than Bucky, everyone can see your heartbreak so plainly.

“Yeah,” you lie tersely because what are you supposed to tell her when she already knows the answer is no?

Bucky comes walking back to your group a minute later holding the funnel cake carefully in both hands. He is grinning, all proud of himself, eyes scanning the group until they land on you.

He makes a beeline for you.

The group keeps moving.

Wanda, to give you some space perhaps, walks ahead, laughing as she tugs Sam toward the spinning teacups as though they’re not entirely designed for kids under ten. Steve is shaking his head, pretending he’s not going to join in, but you all know he will. Natasha is throwing you a subtle, knowing glance before smirking at Steve.

You don’t get far.

“Here,” Bucky says, holding the funnel cake out to you, falling in step.

But you are drifting.

Your body is here, feet touching ground, but you feel like you’re moving through molasses. Everything slow. Heavy. Your heart sticky with regret or embarrassment or whatever that fucking pain is.

You glance down at his offering. The powdered sugar is already melting into the ridges. A soft, sweet mess. It smells like childhood. Like summer. Like him, as weird as it feels.

You swallow. “I’m good.”

You feel the warmth of him. That stupid comforting heat that’s always just there. Like a fire you want to lean into but know better than to trust.

“You didn’t eat all day.”

His voice beside you comes like a tug at your sleeve.

He keeps pace beside you, his stride easy like it always is but you acknowledge that there is a difference in the way he holds himself. Less swagger. Less play. He’s not performing. Not posturing.

You glance sideways. The funnel cake is still sitting in his hands.

Still warm. Still untouched.

“I’m not hungry, Buck. You can have it.” You don’t really look at him.

He doesn’t answer for a few steps, just walks with you, his eyes on you, the crowd fading behind.

The gravel crunches beneath your shoes. A moth flutters through a streetlight above. The world keeps moving, but it feels like something in your chest doesn’t.

He holds the plate out again. Firmer.

“You always eat this first,” he says, and there is something like a forced charm in his voice. Great. He doesn’t even seem to try with you. “Every year.”

Your throat tightens. You don’t take it. You keep your eyes ahead. You don’t respond.

So he steps in front of you, blocking the path, just slightly. As if trying not to be obvious about it but it still is.

It makes you halt.

“Take it, doll,” he insists. Quiet. Not demanding. Rather pleading.

Slowly, you blink up at him. His eyes are darker in the carnival lights. Blue, but tired. There’s something behind them. Something like a question. Like he’s reaching out with more than his hands and hoping you’ll meet him halfway.

Sighing, you take it, your fingers brushing his. You pretend not to feel it. He pretends not to hold on for a second longer than needed.

Picking at the corner, you tear off a soft edge. You bring it to your mouth and chew slowly. It doesn’t taste as good as it is supposed to.

It’s too sweet. Or not sweet enough. You don’t know.

You nod, just a little. “Thanks.”

Bucky doesn’t smile. Not like usual. His face is silence and shadows. There is something unreadable there.

He starts walking again after simply staring at you for a while.

You follow.

For a few minutes, you’re just walking. Side by side. Like you always have. Like nothing’s changed. You don’t even bother looking where the others are going.

You hear him bite the inside of his cheek. You know that sound. He’s deep in his thoughts. He does that when he’s trying not to say something too fast.

“Something’s up with you lately. You’ve been actin’ a little different,” he then starts after some more thoughtful moments, voice careful, deep and raspy. “And I don’t know what’s going on, but-” he sighs deeply. “I miss you, doll. Feels like you’ve been pulling back.”

You swallow another bite of funnel cake as if it’s the most disgusting thing you’ve ever eaten. It sits wrong in your gut. Makes it turn. Makes it hate you. Makes you hate it.

You glance over to your best friend. His hands are in his pockets now. Shoulders tense. He’s not looking at you. But you can see the edge of something vulnerable in the line of his jaw.

“I don’t know,” you get out somehow. “I guess I just needed space.”

He nods. Slow. As if he understands. But you don’t think he does.

“If something’s going on, you can-” His tone is softened, but his voice is scratchy. Almost gravel. “You can talk to me, doll. You know that, right?”

You let the silence stretch.

You watch it reach between you and settle in your bones.

You think about all the words you could say and how none of them are enough.

You think about how much it hurts to want someone who never asked to be wanted.

You think about powdered sugar.

“It’s nothing.”

You watch a paper napkin flutter across the pavement. Someone laughs nearby, giddy and golden and loud. Somewhere, the Ferris wheel creaks.

You walk a little further. Past the game booths. Past the families and kids and the couple kissing against the light-up sign that says Tunnel of love. You pretend not to see it.

He watches you. Carefully. Trying to read a page you’ve scribbled over.

Bucky bumps his shoulder gently into yours, letting out a breath.

“I’m not good at this,” he mutters, voice rough.

“At what?”

He shrugs, looks at the sky, then back to you. “Knowing when I’ve screwed up. With you.”

Your throat closes around nothing. You don’t want it to. But it does.

“You didn’t screw up,” you reply weakly.

“Then what did I do?”

And there is that question you can’t answer without giving yourself away.

“It’s not that simple, Buck,” is all you give him.

“It doesn’t have to be simple, doll,” Bucky presses, a little more desperately. It seems like this has been gnawing at him. “But you’re clearly keepin’ something. And I've got the feeling it’s got something to do with me.”

Your heart thuds. The lump in your throat is unendurable now.

“You’ve been weird,” he goes on, staring right at you. “For weeks. We’re makin’ plans, you cancel. I’m callin’ you, you don’t pick up. Don’t even call me back anymore. And you won’t tell me anything.” His jaw flexes. “Something’s not right. I’m even kinda surprised you joined us here.”

He looks at your profile as if ready to catch the truth as it falls out of you.

You slow down. He does too.

“Just tell me if I did something,” he begs. “If I crossed a line. If I hurt you.”

The carnival is alive around you, loud and bright and unaware. But this moment feels still.

“You didn’t, okay?” you declare. “Not really.”

“But kind of?” he asks, eyebrows pulling in.

You shake your head with a vehement sigh. “You don’t get it.”

“Then make me get it,” he utters with that stubborn and desperate edge. The part of him that refuses to let go. That never has.

“I’m not mad at you.“ Your voice is getting slighter higher. “I’m just-”

He is watching you so openly and you hate that you can’t lie to him properly.

“I’m not keeping score, okay?” you say suddenly. The words come out too fast. Too bitter. “I don’t sit around counting who you talk to or who you smile at or who you fucking flirt with.”

You clamp your mouth shut.

Too much. Too much too fast.

A hand stuffs funnel cake in to keep you from saying more. Your jaw works like it’s a distraction as if sugar and dough can silence what your heart just screamed.

But Bucky already stopped walking.

You take two steps before you realize. Turn.

He’s standing there in the half-light, shadows soft under his cheekbones, carnival glow flickering behind him like bad TV static.

He’s looking at you as though you just dropped a grenade at his feet.

Terrific.

He exhales carefully. Stares at you. Quiet. Maybe a little sad. Maybe a little something else.

But you cannot stop now.

“It’s just- it’s always like this,” you continue. “Every time. We make plans as a group, we do stuff, and then you see someone pretty and you’re just gone. Like the rest of us don’t matter.”

He looks stunned. He looks everything.

There’s a long stretch of silence.

“I wasn’t- I wasn’t trying to ditch you, sweetheart,” he says almost under his breath. “I went to get you some-”

“Doesn’t matter,” you cut in. “Because you always end up talking to someone else. You always find some new girl to flirt with, even when it’s supposed to be just us.”

You tear off another bite and don’t eat it.

“I didn’t flirt with her,” he says, after a beat. His voice is low. Testing. “I swear to you, I wasn’t. I just wanted to get the cake right.” A hand drags through his hair. His voice turns even softer. Dejected in a way. “You looked- I don’t know. You just didn’t look okay. Hoped it might cheer you up.”

You don’t look at him.

Because you’d crumble if you did.

You lick sugar off your lip, suddenly furious with how gentle he’s being. How cautious. As if you are something he doesn’t know how to hold anymore.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” he asks, same voice. “If something I was doing was bothering you - why didn’t you say something?”

“Because it wasn’t your fault,” you answer, and now your voice is breaking. “It’s mine. It’s-” You stop again. Take a breath that tastes like carnival smoke and sweetness and everything you wish you could forget. “I know who you are, Bucky. Okay? I’ve always known. You don’t owe me anything.”

He frowns. But somehow he still looks soft while doing it. “What the hell does that mean?”

You breathe in. Your fingers twitch. You stare at the funnel cake and wish it were enough to quiet the thunder in your chest.

“It means I’m not stupid,” you basically whisper. “I know you. I know who you are with people. I know what your smile does and how easy it is for you to make someone feel like they matter, even if it’s just for five minutes. And it’s fine. It’s fine, okay? I just need to stop watching it happen.”

You feel the moment your words sink into him. You can’t take them back into your mouth and swallow them down. Can’t clean them up or smooth them over.

His eyes are like the sky just before a storm.

“Is that what you think I do?” he asks incredulously. His voice isn’t accusing. Isn’t angry. But it’s pained. Tired. As if he’s been trying to piece something together for weeks and it’s only now starting to form into shape.

His voice is quiet but not soft. Not now. It’s too filled with something else that is vulnerable and profound.

“You think I go around giving pieces of myself away like candy?”

Powdered sugar sticks to your throat.

You open your mouth. Close it again. Because yeah. Maybe you do.

He runs a hand over his jaw. Still not angry. Just hurt. Disappointed. Sad. And trying not to be.

You pick at the corner of the plate.

“That’s not who I am with you,” he states. And there is something different in his voice. Something wobbly. “That’s never been who I am with you.”

Your heart stops. Just a little.

He looks at you. So deeply. As though you’re not just some girl in a crowd. As though you’re not a thing he’ll forget after five minutes. As though he’s trying to memorize the way you exist in this moment - all messy silence and half-held tears.

He steps closer.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he continues after a little pause. “But doll, please don’t stand here and tell me I make people feel like they matter for five minutes. Not when I’ve been showing up for you every damn day since we were kids. Not when I’ve been-”

He stops. Swallows the rest.

Your hands are shaking. The funnel cake is barely still a thing anymore, just warm sugar on torn paper, and you think you’re falling apart.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you say, barely breathing. “I just- I didn’t know how else to say it without saying too much.”

His eyes soften.

He steps in closer. Looks down at you. His hand brushes your forearm, making your fingers stop fidgeting with the paper plate.

“You can say too much around me, doll,” he insists. Soft again. Certain. “You always could.”

The lights glitter in your peripheral. The night is filled with other people’s joy, but yours feels more important.

You don’t bother to think about where your friends are.

He leans down, noses almost touching. His eyebrow twitches. His throat bobs.

“Just so you know,” he murmurs, almost like he’s not sure he should say it but knowing that if he does, he won’t regret it. “You’ve never been five minutes. Not even close.”

You blink fast. Look away. The ache in your chest shifts. It’s not gone but somehow it turns gentler.

You don’t say anything. Can’t.

But you think he hears it anyway.

The hope.

Your heart.

The maybe.

And then he walks beside you again. Like he always has. Like he always will. Even when you’re a little cracked, a little afraid. Even when you’re not saying everything.

But sometimes, just saying enough is already everything.

[matt-murdockk]

Time

pairing: Matt Murdock x fem!Reader

words: 2.8k

summary: On their wedding night, (Y/n) disappears in Matt’s arms-blipped without warning. For five years, he mourns her, tormented by grief and hallucinations. When she returns, unchanged, he’s convinced she’s not real. (angst mostly with fluff ending)

warnings: angst, cussing, lack of proofreading rip, set in infinity war - endgame timeline (reader getting blipped, etc)

a/n: Listen, my boy Matt is the PERFECT practice for writing angst. I just like to put him in situations and watch him like he's in a fish tank and I'm outside tapping on the glass. This man absolutely cannot catch a break and while I am partially to blame (cause I'm writing it this time), just how Matt is written in general is in a way that it just makes sense to put him through shit. He is a walking amalgam of Catholic Guilt, adrenaline, and poor decision making and I love him so much. This one is a boatload of angst but I threw in some fluff in the ending because well, we deserve good things.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The apartment door creaked open with the softest thud, and then her back hit it as Matt pressed her gently against the wood, lips grazing her jaw, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. He was smiling.

That rare, devastating smile he only wore when it was just them.

“You’re supposed to carry me across the threshold, remember?” she whispered, breathless with laughter.

“Oh, I didn’t forget,” Matt murmured. “Just wanted a moment alone with my wife first.”

Wife.

The word made her stomach flip in a good way- warm and giddy and ridiculous.

He scooped her up easily, one arm beneath her knees, the other at her back, and she looped her arms around his neck like she’d never let go. “You’re enjoying this a little too much.”

“I’m legally required to now,” he said with a smirk. “It’s in the vows. Carry you everywhere. Worship the ground you walk on. Try not to lose my mind over how good you look in that dress.”

“Flawless delivery, Murdock,” she teased. “Truly. I can tell you definitely wrote your own vows.”

He chuckled against her shoulder as he carried her through the doorway into the quiet, dimly lit apartment. Candles flickered. Soft music still hummed faintly from the speaker they forgot to turn off before the ceremony.

And for a second- just one perfect second- it was all stillness. Just them. Just this.

He set her down gently, hands lingering at her waist. They kissed again, slower now. Softer. Everything feeling like it had finally settled into place. She pressed her forehead to his, heart beating a little too fast.

“I think I’m going to cry.”

“I’ll beat you to it,” he murmured, eyes closing, nose brushing hers. “You’re here. You’re mine. We made it.”

She smiled, eyes glassy. “We did.”

They stood there for a while. Just holding each other. Breathing the same air. Wedding bands warm against skin.

But then-

She shifted slightly in his arms. Her brows furrowed.

“Matt?”

He straightened a little, instantly alert. “Yeah?”

“I feel... weird.”

He tilted his head, concern filtering through his features. “Weird how?”

She pressed a hand to her stomach. “I don’t know. It’s like- I just got dizzy all of a sudden. Like the room’s moving.”

Matt gently guided her toward the couch, helping her sit down. “Okay. Just breathe. You might be dehydrated. Or just- adrenaline crash.”

She tried to smile. “Yeah. Big day. Lots of emotions. Too many speeches.”

She stood too fast. Her hand slipped from his.

“Careful,” Matt said, already reaching for her again. “Take it slow- ”

“I think I need to throw up,” she mumbled, voice shaky.

“Okay, yeah,” he nodded, already guiding her. “Bathroom’s just- ”

She staggered.

Her balance tipped.

Matt caught her by the waist before she could fall. “Hey. Hey, I got you. It’s okay- ”

She didn’t answer.

Her body felt... lighter. Unsteady. Like her weight was shifting in his arms.

He tilted his head, trying to focus on her. “(Y/n)? You with me?”

She looked up at him.

Confused.

Scared.

“M-Matt, I...”

And then her voice just- cut out.

His arms were suddenly empty.

He blinked.

No sound. No step. No breath.

Just... gone.

The faintest warmth lingered against his fingertips- and then something like dust scattered through them.

“What the- ?” he whispered, stepping back. “(Y/n)?”

His hand shook. Her scent was still in the room. Her heartbeat-

No. No, that wasn’t right.

He turned, listening harder, straining his senses.

Nothing.

There was nothing.

The silence grew louder. His throat closed up.

“(Y/n)?”

He moved down the hallway. Checked the bathroom. The bedroom. “(y/n), c’mon. Say something.”

No heartbeat. No motion. Not even the creak of a floorboard. Like she’d never been there. Matt’s chest started to cave in.

“Okay, this isn’t- this doesn’t make sense,” he muttered. “Maybe you passed out. Maybe you hit your head. Maybe- ”

His foot bumped something.

Her ring.

Her wedding ring.

Lying on the floor.

His knees hit the hardwood before he could stop them. “No.”

He crawled forward, hands blindly reaching, as if she might be hidden just out of reach.

“(Y/n)!” His voice cracked. “Where are you?!”

Still nothing.

Just the flicker of the candles.

Just the soft sound of ash settling.

“No, no- God, no!” He stood again. Stumbled. Slipped.

“(Y/n)!” He shouted so hard it tore something in his throat. “Talk to me!”

He made it to the front door. Opened it. Nothing. No one. No footsteps. No sounds of retreat. Matt’s breathing picked up. His fingers trembled as he unlocked his phone, nearly dropping it before hitting Call.

Foggy.

It rang once. Twice-

Pick up.

The sound of the city outside had changed. He could hear it.

Screaming. Tires screeching. Glass shattering six blocks over. Someone crying for help. Sirens multiplying like wildfire. It all surged into his head at once- too much, too fast.

He pressed his palm against his ear, gritting his teeth. “Too loud. I can’t- ”

Click.

“Matt?” Foggy answered, out of breath. “Hey, shouldn’t you be- ?”

“She’s gone,” Matt said immediately, voice fraying. “Foggy- she was right here, and then she just... disappeared.”

“What do you mean ‘disappeared’?”

“I mean she turned to ash in my hands,” Matt snapped, breath catching. “I was holding her. She said she felt sick and then- then she just... she was gone.”

There was a pause.

“Matt, hang on- wait- ” Foggy’s voice shifted, panic creeping in. “I think... Matt, something’s happening. It’s not just her.”

Matt stilled. “What do you mean?”

“I’m outside and people are vanishing. Right in front of me. There was a guy walking beside me- just turned to dust. A woman screaming for her kid, and the kid vanished. A guy in a cab just disappeared behind the wheel, Matt. It crashed into a light post.”

Matt pressed a hand to the center of his chest like he could anchor himself to the sound of Foggy’s voice. But even that was drowned out by the chaos around him.

“I can’t hear her,” he whispered. “Her heartbeat- her breathing- it’s just gone. Like she was never here, foggy.”

Foggy’s voice came through again, strained and tense. “It’s happening everywhere. I can’t keep up. There’s shouting, people running- I think half the crowd outside just vanished. I’m not exaggerating.”

Matt stumbled toward the couch, hand landing on the coffee table. “She was right here.”

“I’m coming to you,” Foggy said quickly. “Stay there, Matt. Don’t go outside- Jesus Christ, someone else just- ”

The line crackled. Cut out. Came back.

Matt’s hands were shaking as he reached for the remote.

The TV flicked on.

"...mass disappearances reported in New York, Chicago, London- this is now confirmed to be a global event..."

Footage played- Times Square chaos. Pedestrians turning to dust mid-step. News anchors looking off-camera in horror. Phones on the ground. Car alarms going off in every direction.

“We are receiving reports that approximately half the world’s population has- vanished.”

The camera panned to a child’s stuffed toy, untouched, lying in a pile of ash. Everything was still. Except the noise. And the empty space beside him on the floor.

“She was right here,” he said again, softly. Like it might undo it.

“She was right here.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

five years later

She came back mid-step.

One foot lifted toward the bathroom- and when it landed, everything was wrong.

The apartment was darker. Colder. Rearranged.

The soft glow from the corner lamp was unfamiliar. The kitchen counter had a different crack. The rug was new. The air carried a different scent- like dust and time and a city that had moved on without her.

“Matt?” she called, voice hoarse.

Silence.

She stepped further in. The living room looked lived-in, but not by her. Not anymore. Not for a long time. The coffee table was cluttered with open case files. There was a cane by the door she didn’t recognize. Her heart pounded faster.

“Matt-?”

And then he was there. He stood in the doorway like he’d been carved from stone, unreadable and unmoved. Then, quietly- too calmly- he said, “So. You’re back.”

She stopped cold.

“Matt-”

He tilted his head slightly, almost as if studying her. “Took longer this time.”

“What…?” she breathed.

“Usually you show up around hour thirty-six,” he said, like it was a fact. “Right after the exhaustion hits but before the whiskey does anything useful.”

Her stomach twisted. “Matt, I’m not-”

“Don’t,” he cut in, sharp. “Don’t do that.”

She swallowed hard. “This isn’t what you think.”

“No?” His voice was soft, even, lethal. “Because it looks a hell of a lot like every other time I’ve lost my mind and imagined you standing in this room.”

(Y/n) blinked, her chest rising and falling too fast. “Matt, I- I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, no trace of humor. “You wouldn’t.”

“I was just- I felt sick and then it was cold, and everything looked wrong and-" Her words tangled, tripping over each other. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

He didn’t answer.

“Matt?”

Nothing.

She took a tentative step forward. “Please. Say something. What happened? What- what’s going on?”

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His voice, when it came, was low and sharp, like a scalpel slicing through skin without even trying.

“Don’t do this to me again.”

Her breath caught. “What- what do you mean, again?”

“I know your routine now,” he said, voice tightening with each word. “You show up, confused. You ask questions. You cry. And then just when I start to believe you might be real- when I almost let myself feel something again- you vanish.”

“Matt, I don’t- ”

“No,” he snapped. “Stop. Just stop.”

She froze. He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, his jaw locked, eyes unreadable.

“You know what it’s like to bury someone without a body, (Y/n)?” he asked. “To sit in this apartment with your ring in my hand, trying to convince myself that ash on the floor was all that was left of you?”

She shook her head, tears spilling freely now. “I don’t remember anything-”

“Exactly,” he said, bitter. “You never do. That’s the trick, isn’t it? You pretend like you’re all confused. Like you don’t know what’s happening. And I- I fall for it. Every time. Like an idiot.”

“Matt- please, just listen to my heartbeat-”

“I did,” he cut in. “I’ve heard it before. Right before it disappears.”

Her lips trembled. “I swear I’m not-”

“You don’t get to do this,” he said, his voice suddenly shaking, but no less cruel. “You don’t get to come back here like nothing happened. Like you didn’t leave me bleeding on the floor that night. Like I didn’t spend years trying to claw my way out of what you left behind.”

“I didn’t leave you,” she whispered.

“But you’re dead,” Matt hissed, stepping close enough for her to feel the heat off his skin. “You died. And whatever this is- this illusion, this dream- it doesn’t change that. You don’t get to hurt me again.”

He said it like a closing statement. Like a sentence passed down after a trial that never had a chance. But he didn’t stop there.

“You think this is easy for me?” he went on, voice low, cracking at the edges now. “You think I want to keep seeing you in doorways? Hearing your voice when I close my eyes? You think I haven’t begged for it to stop?”

(Y/n) stood frozen, lips parted, tears streaking silently down her face.

“I have spent five years trying to forget the exact way you said my name before you disappeared. Five years trying not to hear it in someone else’s mouth. Five years waking up thinking you might be there- just once- and then realizing that all I’ve got left is a bed that’s too big and silence that’s too loud.”

He was pacing now, hands in his hair, breathing hard, unable to stop himself.

“You were my wife. You were supposed to be the rest of my life. And I had you for minutes. You were ripped out of my arms before I even got to love you properly. Do you understand that? Do you even get what you left behind?”

“Matt-”

“I grieved you like a man who’d never believe in God again,” he growled. “I went back to that night a thousand times in my head-wondering if I missed something, if I could’ve saved you, if I’d just done one thing different-”

“Matt-”

“I begged,” he snapped. “I begged God to bring you back. I lost everything trying to survive you. And now you show up here, looking exactly the same, like time hasn’t touched you, like you’re just picking up where you left off- like you didn’t burn me to the fucking ground-”

“Matt.”

She said it once.

Quietly.

And then she reached for him.

He flinched on instinct, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, gently, deliberately, she took his hand in hers- still trembling from the weight of his words- and guided it up between them.

To her chest. To her heartbeat. Right there. Steady. Real. Alive. His breath hitched. She kept his hand pressed there, fingers wrapped around his wrist like she could anchor him to this one undeniable truth.

“I’m here,” she whispered. “I’m not in your head. I don’t know how or why or what the hell happened, but I’m here.”

Matt didn’t move at first. Just stood there, hand pressed to her chest, like he didn’t trust what he was feeling. Like it might stop if he acknowledged it out loud. Then- suddenly- he let out a shaky breath and pulled her into him, hard.

His voice was muffled against her shoulder. “What the fuck.”

Her hands gripped his shirt like she was afraid he’d drop her again. “Yeah, what the fuck. I don’t know what’s happening.”

He laughed once, breathless and half-broken. “Yeah. Me neither.”

They just stood there for a second. Breathing each other in. Trying to recalibrate. Then, against his chest, she mumbled, “You look like shit, by the way.”

It slipped out before she could stop it. Matt let out an actual laugh- short, incredulous, almost like it startled him.

“That’s not funny,” he said, wiping at his eyes, still half-laughing.

She smiled weakly. “Little bit funny.”

He shook his head, still not quite believing any of it. “God, I missed you.”

And then he kissed her.

Desperate and real and messy- too much force, too much urgency, like he didn’t trust it to last. His hands found her face, holding her like he needed proof she was solid. She kissed him back just as hard, fingers in his hair, anchoring him to now. To her.

It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t perfect. But it was real. And that was enough.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

a little bonus content because well it was funny in my head

A few days later

She was curled up next to him on the couch, legs tangled, one of his old hoodies hanging off her shoulder. The TV was on, volume low, neither of them really watching.

She was still catching up- on everything. The blip. The aftermath. The years she missed. Sometimes it hit her like a freight train. Other times, like now, it just snuck up and poked her in the ribs.

She turned to look at him, brow furrowed. “Wait a second.”

Matt tilted his head toward her. “Uh-oh.”

She sat up a little. “So… technically, you’re five years older than me now?”

He blinked. “That’s what you’re choosing to focus on right now?”

“It’s a valid question,” she insisted, grinning. “I married a man my age, not some grizzled thirty-something.”

He scoffed. “Grizzled?”

“I mean, I don’t see any grey hairs, but-”

“I’m blind, not deaf. I heard that smirk.”

She tried to hold back a laugh. Failed. “So you’re like… what, thirty-eight?”

“Thirty-seven,” he corrected flatly.

“Oh no. I married an older man.”

Matt deadpanned, “And I married a time traveler. Guess we’re even.”

She bumped her shoulder into his. “You gonna start calling me ‘kid’ now?”

He turned toward her, a slow smirk tugging at his mouth. “Only if you want to see how fast a five-year age gap doesn’t matter.”

Her face flushed. “Okay, grandpa.”

Matt groaned. “Regret. Immediate regret.”

She laughed, leaning back into him again, warm and solid and finally, finally real.

“Still married me,” she said, smug.

“Still would,” he replied, without hesitation.

And that shut her up for a minute.

[shouyuus]

the first time college roommate!vi sees you in one of her shirts, she loses her mind just a little bit, bc it's a sunday morning, and she walks into the living room to find you there, one of her big graphic shirts hanging off your shoulders, a book perched against an empty bottle of peach svedka from god knows when, munching through a bowl of overnight oats.

"is... that mine?"

you jump to your feet, blushing something fierce as you tug at the hem of the shirt, pursing your lips; vi's stomach flips; there's a flake of oatmeal at the corner of your lip that she wants so badly to reach out and wipe for you --

"sorry! it's just -- i forgot to do laundry yesterday, and i think one of your shirts got mixed up with my clothes in the last batch so i just --" you fidget with your own fingers, cheeks blazing as you stare down at her shirt hanging off your frame.

"no, no!" vi says, clearing her throat as she tries to focus on anything other than the way your thighs peak out from beneath the hem of the shirt. how she can catch a glimpse of your collarbone when the wide necklines shifts this way and that. "it's fine! you -- it looks good on you, cupcake."

you chew on your lips, tugging at the hem. "t-thanks but -- i'll wash it again before giving it back --"

"you don't have to --" vi says, a bit too quickly, and you look up, your eyes wide. she swears inwardly, clenching her fists. "i mean -- i've got a million shirts like it so you -- you keep that one."

she makes a brave attempt at her usual, easy smirk, shrugging up a shoulder as she looks you over one more time.

"it looks good on you."

and she thinks she's got it -- thinks she's finally gotten back to ground zero, maybe even gotten a bit of the upper hand here. it used to be so easy to make you blush, back when you both first moved in, just a few carefully aimed words here or there, a teasing smirk, and you'd be turning pink enough to match her hair. but it's been harder lately, and vi doesn't really know why (or rather, she doesn't want to think about it too hard, lest she really drive herself crazy with the thought of you), but she's glad that she's still got it in her.

even if it does take everything inside her not to be blushing herself.

"thanks..." you swallow, rubbing your fingers into the soft, worn in material, "i like it cause... it kinda smells like you."

vi thanks every single deity she can think of the name for that she's leaning against the doorframe of her bedroom because if she hadn't, she's sure you would've just taken her out.

and later, after she's made up some ass excuse and said that she's gotta go to the gym for a mid-morning workout (she doesn't actually, but the thought of spending more time with you in that apartment with you prancing around in one of her shirts had her nearly catatonic), she buries her face in her hands, sitting in the gym lockers, her heart thumping a mile a minute, your voice caught like a record on loop in her head as she feels her entire body flush a deep, prickling crimson --

i like it cause... it kinda smells like you.

sweet lord she is so, so fucked.

[ssahotchnerr]

this one is kinda angsty, but imagine Aaron and Reader are still kinda new (not even a year yet) and reader does something Hailey used to do all the time and Aaron (still grieving) just breaks down about it

-🗣️

flashbacks

aaron baby :( cw; fem!reader, established relationship, mentions of haley, references to the foyet arc, discussions of grief/death, food mentions, hurt to comfort <3, aaron cries :( wc; 1.4k

"Hi honey, welcome home."

"Hey," Aaron greeted you, confusion laced in his voice as his brows furrowed. "You're awake at this hour?"

It was about four in the morning, and the team had landed back in Quantico not even an hour ago. He had expected to come home to an asleep apartment, but found you fully awake, in the kitchen making something that smelled wonderful. Cinnamon, was it?

"Yeah, I couldn't sleep." You shrugged slightly, cracking an egg into a bowl and discarding the shell. "So I figured I'd make you a very early breakfast. I thought coming home to something warm would be nice." Glancing over your shoulder, you offered him a bright, kindhearted grin.

Aaron's mind immediately flashed to an image of Haley, the scene nearly identical. In her pjs, a dimly lit kitchen, the aroma of french toast drifting through the air. They'd both sit down to eat, Haley's lighthearted conversation pulling him from the case induced fog that always followed, until he felt like himself again. This was years ago, back when they were happy. Back before... everything.

It was like a smack to the face; the abruptness, the vividness, the grief took him completely by surprise. His whole upper body tensed up ; his chest was particularly tight, as if an exhale would break the barrier and a major flood would erupt.

"Aaron?" Your concerned voice pulled him from his thoughts.

"I'm not hungry."

That's not what he wanted to leave his mouth (he was also starving, in fact) but it was simpler. Horribly simpler by the look on your face that developed. Your expression dropped completely, cheeks warming from hurt and embarrassment.

You turned too late to hide it, beginning to tie up the bread. "Okay, that's fine."

"No that's not what I... shit." He mumbled under his breath, raising his hand to momentarily cover his face. Your wavering, not-sounding-like-you voice shattered his heart profusely more.

He was awful. Awful awful awful.

"It's no big deal, really," you insisted, your tone borderline high-pitched as you forced normalcy. "It was silly of me to assume-"

The very last thing he wanted was to push you away. To make you feel forgotten. Unwanted. In which from previous experience, he was evidently an expert in. He couldn't make the same mistake twice - he couldn't lose you too, by plain idiocy.

"Haley..." he began to explain, taking a deep breath and using it to open up the broken part of his heart - the one he purposely kept hidden away. He also didn't want to deny you any part of it; it was clear you loved him with all of yours, and you deserved to know all depths of his. "She used to do this for me whenever I got home from a case late."

Any short lived walls were dropped, and you faced him with slight horror, now fully aware of what you had done. "She did?"

Aaron met your eyes, nodding silently.

"I'm..." Lost for words, you urgently walked towards him, frazzled yourself. "I'm so, so sorry."

"You didn't know. I mean, how could you." Aaron shook his head, forcing an apologetic smile. He sat down at the table, his back hitting the chair defeatedly. "I didn't mean to be so harsh. It caught me off guard. I'm sorry sweetheart."

"I can only imagine." You dropped onto his lap, looping your arms around his neck. You felt horrible, greeting him with anguish rather than the warmth you had intended, especially after a long, grueling case.

"I didn't expect the memory to be so..." He searched for a word, ultimately failing as his chest rattled slightly.

"Grief is unexpected. It has its ways of sneaking up on you," you consoled softly. "It's okay."

"Yeah, but..." Aaron sighed, looking down with intent to gather his thoughts, if the deep line drawn in his eyebrows was anything to go by. Your fingers ran through the nape of his hair soothingly, an indication he could open up. You were here to listen.

"I feel bad grieving. As if I don't have the place to. I mean, I'm the reason she's well..." Dead. Even more images flashed through his mind, specifically ones of high school Haley: auditioning for Pirates of Penzance just to find the excuse to talk to her, the initial puppy love, the certainty they'd found their person. It made him sick to his stomach. She was so young, so full of life, and she made the deadly mistake of falling for him. "Not here."

"It's not your fault."

"I'm the one who-"

"No, you're not." As he raised his head to look at you, the tears he didn't know had escaped trailed down his cheeks. "Aaron, honey. That man," Your teeth clenched. You didn't want to say his name, knowing what he did to Aaron. The scars he caused, the very ones you saw Aaron glare at in the mirror while shirtless. The terror he caused Haley before taking her life. And Jack, too young to understand why he'd never see his mom again, "Is the only one responsible for what happened. You did everything you could."

"I let her down." He'd never forget Haley's voice during that phone call - the panic as she realized who she had encountered. He had failed her, he had failed to protect their family.

"No, you didn't. And in terms of the present too, you're still aren't." You breathed out softly, sympathetic. "Please, don't blame yourself. I know it's easy to, but it's unfair. And I'm certain Haley would agree."

You tightened your grip around him, pulling him closer with all your strength, as if doing so would alleviate some of his sadness. More than anything, you wished you could absorb some of his pain. You'd gladly take it and more, if that meant relief on his end.

And the two of you stayed like that for a while. Aaron pressed his face into your neck - savoring your warmth, your presence, that you were here with him. He never thought he'd find love again, let alone someone would love him. You were the sweetest miracle he could imagine.

"Thank you," he mumbled into your skin, closing his eyes.

"No need to thank me," Aaron pulled back as you spoke, opting to give you a kiss. "I'll always be here for you."

"I didn't mean to sound ungrateful before."

"I know you didn't," you graced him with another kiss. "And I understand. Moments like that will come and go, they most likely always will. I'm willing to help you through them."

He offered you a gentle smile, his sweet brown eyes relieved but sad.

You reached up, brushing back the cowlicks lazily draped over his forehead. "Tell me about her."

"Hm?"

The subject of Haley had never been forbidden - you wanted to keep her memory alive, for both Aaron and Jack. She played a huge part in both their lives, shaping who they had become. But you were always hesitant, not wanting to bring up the painful memories.

Aaron and yourself were a few days shy of your six month anniversary. But within that first month, in your heart you made her the promise to look after the two of them. You only hoped she somehow approved of you.

And talking openly about Haley could do wonders for him - helping the ongoing grieving process.

"Tell me about her." You used the pad of your thumb, to wipe away his stray tears. "Did she do it after every case?"

"Almost," Aaron chuckled, adjusting his seated position to get more comfortable, his hold on you not daring to lessen. "Sometimes my 'I'm almost home' message would wake her up, and she wouldn't be able to go back to sleep afterwards. I think that's what started it, but she also had trouble sleeping early on when I wasn't home." His thumb causally brushed against your hip bone as he reminisced. "Plus she would get on my ass for all the takeout I'd eat while away. She made sure to sneak some fruit onto my plate."

You couldn't help but laugh, offering an encouraging, soft smile. "She sounds sweet."

"Yeah..." Aaron sniffled lightly, a wistful smile tugging at his lips. There was a tenderness in his gaze, a warmth that wasn’t overshadowed by grief, but rather carried a sense of nostalgic, loving fondness; a ghost of the past. "She was."

"Tell me more." Before he could even begin, he was interrupted by a small grumble of his stomach. Your nose scrunched in amusement, a giggle escaping you. "Hungry?"

"Starving."

[cressidagrey]

She Wasn’t a Secret

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary:  When Oscar casually mentions his wife during a fan Q&A, Lando Norris combusts on stage, the internet loses its mind, Nicole Piastri wonders why her son can’t tell people basic facts about his life—like the fact he’s been married for five years and Mark Webber is quietly regretting his life choices. 

Notes: Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

It started with a ping.

Nicole Piastri was elbow-deep in a tray of Lamingtons when her phone buzzed across the counter. Then again. Then again. Then seven more times.

She wiped her hands, checked the screen, and frowned.

17 notifications. 5 mentions. 2 DMs. One group chat blowing up.

And all of them pointed to the same thing: A tagged video. Captioned: “Lando Norris finding out Oscar Piastri has been married for five years. In real-time. On stage. Live. Absolute scenes.”

Nicole clicked the video, already sighing.

It was exactly what she expected—and somehow so much worse.

Oscar, calm and collected, casually admitting he was married. Lando Norris having an actual breakdown beside him. The interviewer making it her life’s mission to extract every crumb of intel. And Oscar? Completely unbothered. Like he was discussing a weather forecast.

Nicole watched Lando choke, scream, stand up, flail, and nearly combust.

And Oscar? “I thought you knew.” Nicole actually laughed out loud. It was either that or cry.

From the kitchen doorway, Edie poked his head in. “Why do I hear cackling?”

Nicole turned the volume up and played the “I thought you knew” line again.

Edie winced. “Oh. That’s going viral, isn’t it.”

Oscar. Her darling, chronically-understated son. Calm as ever. Dry as toast. Casually dropping “Well, I already did one of those things,” in response to a marriage or tattoo question. Watching poor Lando Norris implode on stage like a wet firework.

Nicole paused the video on Lando’s face in real-time breakdown.

Then sighed.

Deeply.

Because this? This wasn’t even surprising.

The real kicker wasn’t that the media didn’t know.

It was that Lando didn’t know.

Nicole had assumed at the very least Lando was in the loop. He and Oscar were joined at the hip during race weeks. Surely a small, minor detail like, say, being legally wed for half a decade would’ve come up between sim sessions.

But no.

Apparently not.

Because her son, in his infinite, baffling wisdom, had once again forgotten to share anything important about his personal life with anyone outside of a 20-meter radius of his home and maybe Mark Webber.

She muttered to herself as she scrolled through replies.

“Didn’t tell me he had a girlfriend… Didn’t tell me they got married… Didn’t tell me they were having a baby until she was three months pregnant and then only on accident…”

Now the whole world was catching up five years late.

She set her tea down. Reached for her reading glasses. Opened Twitter.

And, with the calm authority of a woman who had lived through every one of her son’s emotional plot twists, typed:

@nicolepiastri: I see the internet is discovering my son is married. Welcome to the club. I, too, found out after the fact 5 years ago. 👍

She hit “post.”

The post went instantly viral.

***

Group Chat: Piastri Fam ❤️

Nicole: Oscar. Darling. You forgot to mention you had a WIFE?

Chris: Bold strategy, son. Just casually let the global media find out you’ve been married for five years via a “would you rather get married or get a tattoo?” question. Stunning PR planning.

Edie: To be fair, he also forgot to mention it to Lando. Who he is teammates with. Who he shares planes with. Who he trains with. Who he considers a “close friend.” So. Not just the media.

Oscar: I didn’t forget. I just didn’t think it was news???

Hattie: YOU’RE A CELEBRITY. EVERYTHING IS NEWS. My friends thought I was lying when I said you were married. They thought I made it up. I had to show them our family group chat as proof.

Edie: You’re lucky Felicity’s cool. If I was married to you and you never told the world, I would’ve changed the locks 💅 AND I would’ve posted a dramatic black-and-white photo with a Taylor Swift lyric as the caption.

Mae: Can I be flower girl for your next wedding? (Only if it’s to Felicity again. Otherwise I’m not coming.)

Oscar: …I’m not having another wedding, Mae. Still married to the same wife. Still in love with her. Still feeding her sourdough obsession.

Nicole: Honestly, this is so you. I shouldn’t even be surprised. You didn’t even tell us you had a girlfriend. 

Chris: Let’s not forget the registry office call:  “Hey, we got married.”  So romantic. Really moved me to tears.

Nicole: YEAH, let’s not forget that you got MARRIED WITHOUT TELLING YOUR FAMILY!

Oscar: Everyone’s being very dramatic about this.

Hattie: BRO. YOU’VE BEEN MARRIED FOR FIVE. YEARS. AND LANDO JUST FOUND OUT. LIVE. IN FRONT OF CAMERAS. HE SPIT WATER.

Edie: I’ve watched the video 19 times now. It lives in my brain like a Shakespearean tragedy. The betrayal. The disbelief. The squeaky voice crack. Art.

Mae: He screamed so loud a kid in the front row CRIED.

Nicole: Also… since we’re all here… When are you going to mention the other secret? 😏

Oscar: …What secret?

Nicole: Oscar.

Chris: We mean the tiny human one, son.

Mae: BEE!!!! 🐝💛

Oscar: Bee is not a secret.

Hattie: She’s not a secret, no. But she’s also not in your driver bio, not on your Instagram, and not in any single interview you’ve ever done.

Edie: You talk about tire degradation more than your own child. Let that sink in.

Oscar: She’s our daughter. Not a marketing tool.

Nicole: We love that you’re private, sweetheart. But maybe next time you could… I don’t know… mention that you have a wife and daughter?

Chris: Not asking for a billboard, Oscar. Just a family Christmas card. Or, I don’t know, ONE social post that doesn’t feature suspension settings or protein shakes.

Hattie: Just wait till Lando finds out about Bee. You are going to have to physically restrain him.

Edie: His brain barely survived the “I’m married” part. He’s going to go into full reboot mode.

Nicole: He’s going to walk around muttering “He has a wife AND a child?!” for days.

Mae: We should film it. Make a documentary. “Lando Finds Out: The Sequel.”

Oscar: I would like to go one day without a Norris-induced disaster, please.

Chris:

Can’t wait for the Netflix edit. Drive to Survive, Season 7, Episode 3: The Secret Wife (and Daughter???) of Oscar Piastri

Oscar: …Traitors. All of you.

Nicole: No, darling. Just a family who loves you enough to roast you mercilessly.

Hattie: And maybe gently suggest that your entire online presence looks like a robot who eats chicken breast and drives fast.

Edie: We just want the world to know you’re more than carbon fiber and rehydration tablets. You have chickens. A wife. A kid. And still somehow come across as the most emotionally neutral man on the grid.

Mae: You’re like a secret cinnamon roll. With downforce.

Hattie: Oscar Piastri: Calm. Composed. Married with poultry.

Nicole: We love you, darling. But maybe consider letting people in a little next time?

Oscar: …Noted.

***

Mark Webber’s phone buzzed once. Then again. Then five more times in the span of a minute.

He looked at the screen, saw the names of three journalists he hadn’t spoken to in months, and immediately thought: What did Oscar do.

He hadn’t crashed. There hadn’t been any mid-race scandals. No random DNS. No sudden tire blowouts.

So Mark did the rational thing.

He ignored the calls and opened Twitter.

The first thing he saw was a video clip with the caption: “OSCAR PIASTRI DROPS MARRIAGE BOMBSHELL. LANDO NORRIS DIES LIVE ON STAGE.”

Mark blinked. Pressed play.

Thirty seconds in, he was already groaning.

By the time Oscar casually said, “We got married when I was eighteen,” Mark had his face in his hands.

And by the time Lando screamed “YOU HAVE A WIFE?!” in what could only be described as an operatic shriek, Mark was laughing. Because of course.

Of course Oscar had managed to soft-launch a five-year marriage via fan Q&A and thought that was completely normal.

He hadn’t even texted Mark to give him a heads-up. Typical.

Mark took a long sip of his coffee and shook his head with fond exasperation. Then his phone rang again. Another journalist. This one he had to answer.

“Yeah?” Mark said, not bothering with a hello.

“Did you know Oscar was married?” came the breathless voice on the other end. “Like—legally? For five years? Who is she?”

Mark rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Yes, I knew.”

A beat of stunned silence.

“You did?!”

Mark leaned back in his chair. “Her name’s Felicity. She’s smarter than all of us combined and makes a lemon slice that could end wars, and rebuilt an engine while eight months pregnant. What else do you want to know?”

“Wait—rebuilt an engine?!”

Mark grinned. “Yeah.”

“But she’s not on his social media! She’s not even in interviews!”

“She doesn’t want to be,” Mark said simply. “She’s his wife, not his brand.”

The journalist let out a choked laugh. “God. She’s going to be a nightmare to research.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Mark said. 

***

Text Messages – Mark Webber & Oscar Piastri

Mark: Mate. You broke the internet.

Mark: Also. You made Lando scream on stage. Twice.

Mark: I’ve had three different journalists call me asking if I “always knew.”

Oscar: I didn’t think it would be a big deal??

Mark: You are insanely lucky that Felicity is brilliant and terrifying and the entire internet is now in love with her. Otherwise, PR would’ve had you doing apology interviews until Abu Dhabi.

Oscar:  She is brilliant. And terrifying. In the best way.

Also, I didn’t hide her.

Mark:  No, you just forgot to mention her to your employer, your teammate, the media, and most of the paddock. Tiny oversight.

Oscar:  I thought it was obvious.

Mark:  She hasn’t been on your socials once. You don’t even post photos of her shoes in the background like a normal soft-launching F1 driver.

Oscar:  Didn’t realize I needed to soft launch my marriage.

Mark:  I’ve also had three different journalists lose their minds when I told them I’ve met your wife. 

I told them that she’s smarter than all of us combined and makes a mean lemon slice.

You married up.

Oscar: I know.

Mark:  You really are whipped, huh?

Oscar:  Didn’t you know that already?

Mark: Yes, but it’s nice to see it confirmed in front of millions.

Oscar: I’m still not sure how Zak knew though.

Mark: Because I told him. After you signed your contract. He wanted to poach your lawyer. I told him that your “lawyer” was your very smart, very spite driven wife. You should probably tell people things yourself from now on.

Oscar: Noted.

Mark: Anyway. Tell Felicity we owe her a thank-you for soft-launching you into public affection. You’re officially not just “the calm one.” You’re “the poetic husband who tucks love notes into his racing gloves and married his high school sweetheart.”

Oscar: …That’s better than “emotionless robot,” I guess.

Mark: Way better. And hey— Proud of you, kid. Even if you forgot to tell the entire grid you had a wife. 

Oscar: Thanks, Mark. Means a lot.

Mark: …you should probably tell people about Bee one of these days though. 

Oscar: Will do.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/gridinvestigator:   🚨 THREAD: What we (the internet) know about the elusive, brilliant, chaotic Felicity Piastri , aka the Mysterious Mrs. Piastri, aka Oscar Piastri’s wife, aka the woman who accidentally became a legend overnight. 🧵👇

@/gridinvestigator: 1. First of all, yes—Oscar Piastri has been married for FIVE YEARS. No one knew. Not Lando. Not McLaren. Not us. He dropped it during a “Would you rather get married or get a tattoo?” question. He said: “Well, I already did one of those.”

Cue the meltdown.

@/gridinvestigator: 2. We then found out he married his high school sweetheart three weeks after graduation. Her name is Felicity. They met when they were 14. She let him borrow her pen. He never recovered. A literal Wattpad story.

@/gridinvestigator: 3. Oscar described her as “his best friend,” and “10/10, would always marry her again.” Meanwhile, Felicity said, “We were inevitable.” Honestly? Nicholas Sparks is shaking.

@/gridinvestigator: 4. Felicity Piastri didn’t soft-launch herself. She hard-launched via complete internet domination. Her Instagram is a mix of: 🧠 Academic papers 🛠️ Vintage car rebuilds 🍞 Artisan bread 🐔 Chickens in tiny sweaters 🔧 Engine grease 📐 Chaos

@/gridinvestigator: 5. Now. Here’s where things get ✨interesting✨ You know that quote Oscar made about “meeting her in school”? I FOUND THE YEARBOOK. Yep. Their boarding school published the 2019 edition online.

Sidenote: I think they both graduated a year early in 2019 and not 2020?!

@/gridinvestigator: 6. I clearly have too much time, because I went through both the 2020 and the 2019 Year Books until I found a girl named Felicity:  Felicity Leong - Dance, Science Club President, Mandarin Club,  Technology Club and concertmaster aka first violin in the orchestra. 

@/gridinvestigator: 7. Oh and if that aren’t enough extra curriculars activities: Guess who took 17 GCSEs (10 +/- are considered “normal”) and cleared them all with a 9, which is the highest grade you can get? Felicity. She also had the highest A- Level grades of the whole school in the maximum of 5 subjects you are allowed to take one year later. 

@/gridinvestigator: 8. The yearbook also mentions her getting a perfect math score and  winning a physics prize

@/gridinvestigator: 9. She graduated 2 (?!) years later in 2021 with a Master in Mechanical Engineering from Imperial College London. Don’t ask me how in the world she did that. 

@/gridinvestigator:  10. Felicity is basically the anti-WAG. No brand deals. No champagne yacht pics. Just her, an angle grinder, a loaf of bread, and a whiteboard full of math.

And somehow Oscar managed to keep this whole goddess-level woman a secret for five YEARS. 

@/gridinvestigator: 12. TLDR: – Her name is Felicity Leong – She was Oscar’s classmate

 – She’s terrifyingly smart – They eloped at 18 and told no one – She is now the internet’s most beloved mystery wife – Oscar is obsessed with her

 – she restores vintage cars, bakes like a god and solves equations for fun

***

The chickens were louder than usual this morning.

Felicity didn’t blame them. She felt a little off-kilter herself—though not because the global internet had decided to collectively lose its mind over the fact that she was married to a Formula 1 driver.

(Okay. Fine. That was probably part of it.)

She stepped into the coop in gumboots and a hoodie stolen from Oscar, hair still in a haphazard braid Bee had done the night before. She was met with indignant clucks and flapping wings.

“Alright, alright,” she muttered, scattering feed like a benevolent rural god. “You’re dramatic. We get it.”

Rosie, the scraggly rescue hen who thought she was a rooster, pecked at her ankle with all the fury of someone deeply offended by late breakfast.

“Take it up with the PR team,” Felicity muttered.

She dropped Bee off at kindergarten wearing old jeans with a patch on the knee and a t-shirt that said Math is not a spectator sport. One of the other mums stared a little too long at her before whispering something to a friend.

Felicity smiled and waved.

Felicity wasn’t surprised by the chaos. She had told Oscar it would happen eventually. Told him people would find out. That one day, he’d make some offhanded comment and the fandom would explode like Mentos in Coke.

What she hadn’t expected was for it to be over a “Would you rather” question. Or for it to involve Lando Norris nearly choking on his own spit on stage.

She’d watched the clip exactly once. With toast. And coffee.

Then she opened the garage.

Her current project sat like a sleeping beast under the suspended work lights: a 1969 Alfa Romeo Spider, stripped down to its bones. Half-sanded, one door missing, the kind of restoration that most people would call madness.

She called it Monday.

She put on her gloves, tied her hair back, and picked up the angle grinder.

Around noon, she stopped for coffee and opened Instagram. Her notifications were, unsurprisingly, a mess.

There was a fan edit of her baking sourdough while wielding a torque wrench. Someone had made a Twitter thread comparing her to various Marvel characters (Shuri with a sourdough starter was trending). Another post showed a blurry screenshot of her academic transcript with the caption “Oscar Piastri’s wife could do your homework, restore your car, out-bake your grandma and defeat you in hand-to-hand combat”.

She took a sip of coffee and muttered, “Dramatic.”

At 2:30 p.m., she washed the grease off her hands, swapped the engine oil scent for something vaguely lavender, and went to pick up Bee.

Bee ran out clutching a glittery rock and a half-drawn picture of Oscar holding a steering wheel and a loaf of bread. Felicity accepted both like priceless relics.

“Mama, can we bake today?” Bee asked as they walked to the car.

“Only if you promise not to eat half the cookie dough before we’re done.”

Bee grinned. “No promises.”

By 5 p.m., the kitchen smelled like vanilla and warm sugar. Bee was elbow-deep in flour. Senna had wandered inside again. Felicity didn’t bother kicking her out.

She kneaded the dough slowly, rhythmically. Felt the tension leave her shoulders.

Fame was fine. Chaos was familiar.

But this—flour under her nails, Bee humming beside her, a project waiting in the garage and a husband texting her to say he loved her between media obligations—this was the life she chose.

That night, after Bee was asleep—cuddled up with Button the frog and a bedtime story half-finished—Felicity sat on the back porch with a cup of tea and looked up at the sky.

So, the internet knew now. Fine.

She hadn’t done any of it for them.

She had fallen in love with a boy who drove like silence and calm, and kissed like he already knew how the future would feel. They’d built a life in soft corners and early mornings, in engine grease and sourdough, in whispered bedtime promises and braids and “Every lap”.

Let the world look.

This part wasn’t theirs anyway.

It was hers.

***

Transcript: Post-Race Media Pen – Chinese Grand Prix

Journalist: Oscar, first of all—great drive today. P8 in tricky conditions, well done.

Oscar: Thanks. Yeah, it was a bit chaotic out there, but we managed it well. Happy with the result.

Journalist: Okay, we have to ask—your name has been trending non-stop since last weekend. Not because of your race… but because of your wife. The internet’s gone absolutely feral.

Oscar: (blinks slowly)  Right.

Journalist #2: Felicity. Married five years. High school sweetheart. Literally no one knew. You didn’t mention her until a fan Q&A. Everyone’s calling it “the soft launch of the century.” Any comment?

Oscar: (shrugs slightly) She wasn’t a secret.

Journalist: (incredulous) But you never posted about her! Never talked about her! Lando said he didn’t know!

Oscar: I mean… I didn’t realize it was something I had to announce. We’ve been married for five years. It’s not new.

Journalist: So why didn’t you ever bring her up?

Oscar: My wife’s just… mine. She’s been there since before Formula 1, before most of this. We weren’t hiding anything. We just didn’t post about it. That’s all.

Journalist: So no regrets about how it came out?

Oscar:  Not really. People know now. That doesn’t change anything. She’s still my best friend. Still the smartest person I’ve ever met. Still the reason I’m able to do what I do and come home happy. 

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/formulafemmes “My wife’s just… mine.” Oscar Piastri said that with his whole chest. Softly. Calmly. Casually. And now I’m lying face down on the kitchen floor.

@/gridgossip the way oscar said “she’s still my best friend” with zero hesitation??? sir. we’re just trying to survive here. you didn’t have to be poetic at a media pen.

@/wifeloversanonymous “we weren’t hiding anything. we just didn’t post about it.” that’s the most mature, emotionally grounded response I’ve ever heard. I am so sorry for calling you a robot for three seasons.

@/felicitynation the way he said “she’s been there since before Formula 1” like she’s his origin story and not just his spouse. I’m not crying, you’re crying.

@/lan_doughnut Lando finding out Oscar has a wife: 😱😱😱 Oscar, two days later, sipping water like it’s no big deal: “she wasn’t a secret.” this man is unshakable.

@/piastrirealupdates “Still the reason I’m able to do what I do and come home happy.” Oscar Piastri you have exactly 2 seconds to stop or I will start writing poetry about you and your wife and your chickens.

@/drive_to_thirst oscar: “she’s mine. not mclaren’s. not the internet’s.” me: 💍🥺🥖🛐🧪🧡📐 (this is now the official felicity piastri emoji combo, don’t @ me)

@/chaoticwagtracker imagine being felicity piastri. you’re just out here baking bread, rebuilding carburetors, feeding chickens, and your husband is on global TV being like “she’s mine. she makes me happy. she’s my best friend.” like WHAT DO YOU DO WITH THAT???

@/softpitstops someone check on every F1 PR manager. because oscar just made 90% of the grid look emotionally underdeveloped in 20 seconds.

@/felicityfanaccount it’s the shrug. it’s the “she wasn’t a secret” shrug. like he genuinely didn’t think we’d care. like he genuinely thought this was normal. the bar is now in another galaxy.

@/oscarupdates “my wife’s just… mine.” Sir?? You can’t just say that and walk off like you didn’t emotionally rupture 2 million people??

@/felicitybrainrot oscar calling felicity “his best friend” and “the reason he comes home happy” after casually revealing she’s smarter than him??? i am lying face down on the floor. do not disturb.

@/gridchaosadmin “we weren’t hiding anything, we just didn’t post about it” is SO MUCH more romantic than any soft-launch story I’ve ever heard. he didn’t even try to curate it. he just lived it.

@/burners4felicity oscar: she’s mine. me: i am normal. i am rational. i am going feral in the parking lot. i am

@/lan_doughnut lando: “he never even mentioned her!” oscar: “she’s still the reason i’m able to do what i do and come home happy.” we are living through a modern shakespearean drama and its name is “The Piastri Marriage Reveal”

@/formula1romance he said “she’s still my best friend” and i felt that in my bloodstream. like. she’s not his aesthetic. she’s not his PR move. she’s his person. i’m crying and baking bread in her honor.

@/piastriwifeupdates “my wife’s just mine” is the kind of phrase that gets etched into a wedding ring or tattooed in tiny script on someone's ribs. you don’t recover from that.

@/felicitypiastrifanclub “we didn’t post about it, that’s all.” you’re telling me these two eloped at 18, never once posted each other, built a life with chickens and vintage cars, and just EXISTED while being soulmates?????@/drivetosurvivepls Netflix watching Oscar Piastri go viral for being emotionally devastating in 8 words or less and frantically rewriting their entire season outline

[munsster]

hey girl!! so i was rewatching season 3 and saw the part where max and eleven are playing the spin the bottle and spying on people and had an idea! what if the reader is babysitting them and the girls drag her in to play and they spin in on steve, so she’s like “alright that’s enough” bc she doesn’t want to invade on her friends privacy but she sits through it anyway, and she hears him talking to robin about how much he likes her and wants to ask her out. IDK i thought that was cute :))

don’t hate the game

A/N: UR SO RIGHT THIS IS SO CUTE. I’m so glad i FINALLYYY found motivation to tackle it <3 (gif creds: @buckysbarnes)

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader

Summary: The girls convince you to play an embarrassing party game from your past. It’s nothing like you remember. 2.4k words

Warnings: pet names (sweetheart, honey), ‘like’, overthinking, implied bullying, stupid pining, insecurity

It's a Friday night in the middle of summer, and you're wondering how you got here. Well, actually you're in your living room, so it's not that great of a mystery, but more confusing than that, you're letting two adolescent girls teach you how to play spin the bottle. If someone had told you at graduation that this is where you'd end up, you'd laugh right in their face.

Who's laughing now.

"But!" Max says, "if you hadn't noticed, none of these people are in the room, so how would we kiss them?"

You fight the urge to sink into your seat, blithely nodding and avoiding anything that might alienate you from your younger counterparts. You're almost sorry you surrendered your night to babysit two capable teens, but you promised El's dad who promised to pay you handsomely. Plus, they seem to like you enough to find you cool. Enough to tell you teenage secrets and complain about their boyfriends.

As they're explaining the rules, a memory creeps in of the first time you ever played this godforsaken party game. On Steve Harrington's floor in eighth grade. The cheers dying off as the mouth of the bottle slowed to a stop in your direction. No one expected him to actually lean over and kiss you. Or that you'd stay good friends despite his high school career soaring into stardom while yours sort of... didn't.

"We don't kiss them!" El chirps with an excited glint in her eye. The girls lean in like it's the first time they're hearing the rules but you're almost certain they made them up.

"Right. Instead, El here becomes our spy. I'm not exactly sure how it works, but she can see into their conversations or something. It's wicked." Max looks to El with something like admiration.

Intrigued, you glance down at the post-it notes arranged in a circle, scribbled with assorted names from yearbooks and yellow pages. A few you recognize: Mike and Lucas, one of the Hawkins Middle math teachers, even Will’s mom wasn’t safe from their antics.

But among the many names, you're most drawn to Steve. The way the letters loop and curl into his name, you go a little dizzy imagining that you really were playing the game. That he was seated across from you now. That he might lean over like he did the first time while your mind raced with a thousand possibilities. It's a prank or a dare or his wholehearted commitment to the game, anything other than his own free will.

You blink out of your silly, nostalgia-fueled trance when Max presses the cold glass bottle to your palm.

"You first."

They giggle and fall into each other when you half-twist the bottle. You're still in disbelief that you agreed to this as you watch the bottle spin, ticking off names as it loses momentum.

"Who is that?" you ask, leaning closer as if you'd read the yellow post-it wrong.

"Oh," El says. She cringes away from the board and crosses her arms over her chest in defiance.

"That bitch from P.E.," Max grumbles, and you have half a mind to scold her if you hand’t found universal bitch-aversion endlessly amusing. "You can spin again, she's not worth the trouble anyway."

You imagine your dream game once again. The bottle flies in the other direction at your fingertips, haywire and picking up a new gravity. It draws a wild, fiery line beneath your stare as you consider the possibility of Steve. It slows and slows until it's spinning almost at the same pace as Earth from a distance. Listening to the roaring sound of the universe as the bottle turns. Turns and turns and turns. Your eyes light up.

The girls giggle.

"No," you say sternly, regretting all your daydreams and fantasies in the face of cold, hard reality. "No, not Steve."

"Please!" they whine.

"Ladies, that's enough. He's a good friend, we're not spying on him."

They act like kicked puppies, though you know they're tricking you as they pout and bat their eyes. You know they know more than they should. About you. You and your feelings towards Steve Harrington. Something they discovered through a quiz in some teeny bopper magazine or other. Those magazines that somehow hold the secrets of the universe and the answers to every haircare question.

“Come on, I’ll make us popcorn and we can start a movie. A horror, if you really want.”

They seem satisfied enough, springing to the couch and settling into the cushions there.

The stove heats slowly. You fish through your cabinet for the last pan of Jiffy Pop, peeling back the thin cardboard cover when you hear snickering from the other room.

“What’s he saying?” Max whispers. You strain to hear her with your back pressed to the wall, just out of sight.

You shouldn’t be eavesdropping. You know better. You’re not a prepubescent girl anymore, you’re the babysitter with responsibilities. Like a job. Yet, you can’t seem to pull yourself away from the doorway. Every time you hear his name, your heart soars with what-ifs. You feel your eyes slip closed as El speaks.

“Steve is speaking to someone. I see her”—Your heart sinks—“Robin!”

You selfishly let out a breath. You’re mostly thankful he’s not spending his evening alone, but you also knew his friendship with Robin was strictly platonic. Robin had sworn by it without you even having to raise the question. You didn’t have to, she said, she could see it in your face. You wondered if Steve found you that transparent.

“He’s talking about… A girl. Her eyes. A smile. And he’s smiling, too. Oh, wait, now he’s frowning because Robin flicked him,” she says with a playful lilt.

She gasps.

“What?” Max yelps, shifting closer on the squeaky couch.

“Steve wants to confess his feelings. Big feelings, he says. Like-like.”

You not sure if that’s El’s paraphrase of Steve’s so-called big feelings or if the term like-like came from his own mouth. Neither option would surprise you. What does surprise you is that you’d never heard any of this from Steve before. You liked to think you were friends, even one of his best friends. He was surely one of yours. You told each other almost everything because you can’t exactly discuss complex relationships and sex with middle schoolers.

But you’d never heard of Steve’s seemingly new, mystery like-liker lover.

“He’s thinking of asking her out. Robin told him he might as well, it’s obvious that the girl he’s talking about likes him back. He doesn’t agree,” El says, her brows furrowed beneath the thick black blindfold, “Robin’s shouting. Steve looks sad.”

“What’s she saying?” Max whispers.

“Shh! ‘You like her so much, you might as well tell her and let her react. But I’ll say this, she’s going to say yes. That girl has been in love with you since the eighth grade’. He’s thinking.”

“Think faster, hair-brain!”

El giggles, her face suddenly falling serious. “‘Really?’” You stifle a laugh at the deeper voice she affects.

“‘She’s never said anything to me about it’. Robin looks angry. ‘Obviously, dingus! Do you go around telling people you’re in love with them?’”

“She has a point,” Max says. “Who’s he talking about?”

“I don’t know—Oh! Here we go,” El huffs, fists clenched eagerly, “He’s making a plan to ask her out, he’s going to call her. He’s getting up—”

Just then, the popcorn bursts from its aluminum confines with a bang. You let out a strangled noise between a yelp and a grumble, annoyed at the rude and very loud interruption. As you set the burner knob in place, you consider the fact that Steve has very real feelings for someone else. Someone who’s just not you. And as you shake the popcorn into a ceramic bowl, the landline rings.

“Will someone get that?” you call, grabbing a few small packages of sweets stashed in the cabinet. You hear the girls spring from the couch, and you shuffle into the living room to a giddy scene huddled around the receiver.

“Yes, she’s here!” El squeals. There’s a muffled response from the other line, and they share a conspiratorial glance.

“It’s for you,” Max says, handing you the phone with a smirk.

“Thank you. Go pick a movie while the popcorn’s hot.” You clear your throat, preparing yourself for the worst. Maybe your boss firing you or a repo man taking your TV. “Hello?”

“Hi, sweetheart, I didn’t mean to interrupt girl’s night, I can call back later,” Steve’s gentle voice filters clear through the speaker. In the silence, static hums, and you press the phone closer to your ear.

Trying to listen for what he might be thinking. He sounds like rain. Like Sunday and a lack of pressure. He sounds inviting and warm like that big green sweater he’s always wearing. If only you knew he wears it because you adore it. You tell him every time; why would he ever stop.

“No!” you chirp, “no, perfect timing actually, we were just about to start a movie.”

“Oh! That sounds fun,” he says. You fidget with the springy cord, facing away from the living room and from the attention of the two flittering girls.

“Yeah,” you say, hoping he doesn’t recognize the disappointment coloring your tone. “So, how’d it go?”

He chokes a little. “How’d… what? Go?” There’s a soft snicker from the other line at his incidental voice crack.

“Your… I mean, did you have something you wanted to tell me?”

The line dips, but you hadn’t heard the telltale plastic clatter of a hang up. Just soft shuffling and a curse from under his breath. You curdle at the near silence.

“What did Robin tell you?” he grumbles.

“What? Nothing. Was she supposed to?”

“Well, no! I just called to tell you—”

He goes silent, and this time you’re actually convinced he hung up. There’s no sound at all, and you double check your receiver to make sure the problem’s not on your end.

“Stevie?”

“Yep, sorry. Just… feel silly.”

“Okay, you’re starting to scare me a little,” you hum, clutching onto the handheld.

“No! Sorry, not trying to scare you, honey, I just need to get something off my chest. But it’s not scary. Or, well, I guess it could be taken that way, and that would be okay. A little sad, but yeah, no hard feelings—”

At this point, you’re sure he’s talking about his prospective date. He knows you have a stupid, obvious crush on him, and he’s trying to soften the blow of new romantic conquest. Of course, introducing his new girlfriend to you would be terrifying, but you’d always put on a brave face for Steve. He knows that. He’d do the same for you.

“Steve?”

“Yeah.”

“Just get it over with,” you sigh, leaning your head against the wall and bracing for heartache.

“Right. Not trying to waste your time. Here goes.”

I’ve got a new, smoking hot girlfriend who just agreed to go on a date with me. And she’s got beautiful eyes and a gorgeous smile, and I’ve been in love with her since I can remember, and we’re gonna run away together forever and get married and have perfect babies.

“I like you,” he huffs.

“Well, duh, I like you, too, you’re only my closest friend,” you say. You’re tense, waiting for the other shoe to come hurling through the skylight. “Now, tell me.”

“No, sweetheart, I like-like you. Have since I was nine. Miss Boyd’s class, if I’m not mistaken.” There’s a soft thud like his forehead colliding with the wall beside his phone.

You inhale a shaky breath. He’s kidding, and it’s a prank. Your heart races, and you want to curse him out for picking on you. He should know better. Right?

“Steve,” you warble, “please tell me you’re joking.”

There’s more shuffling, muffled voices, and you think you’ve just exposed one long drawn out joke. You’re about to hang up with what’s left of your dignity when he says:

“Are you rejecting me?”

He sounds almost mad. Hair ruffled, skin on edge. How you imagine his father might sound just before one of his awful fits. But there’s something much softer to Steve, more understanding. Hurt like a child.

Still, you can’t help your suspicion.

“Quit it. I know it’s a joke, don’t drag it out.”

“Hey, wait a second,” he urges, “It’s not a joke. I like you. A lot.” He says it so softly, your heart just might believe him. As if all the stars have aligned, and he’s actually confessing his feelings for you. You didn’t think the stars did that. Not really, anyway.

There’s a new tune to his voice you’d almost name teasing, “c’mon, don’t leave me hangin’.”

And just like that, he’s back in school again, fawning over you from a distance, finding any excuse to tag you during recess only to avoid you in class so you wouldn’t see him blush. He’s back to whispered secrets through the phone at midnight so his parents wouldn’t catch him. He only ever told you what wouldn’t give him away. He’s back to not letting you pay for your ice cream and shrugging it off with a smile. He’s back, and he might just be yours.

“I—Sorry, you like me? Like like-like, like enough to ask me on a real date?” you huff. He chuckles.

“Well, that last part kinda depends on whether or not you like me back. But yes, I like-like like like-like you.”

You spin to face the living room only to be confronted by an empty popcorn bowl and two fidgety, blushing, wide-eyed teens. They urge you for answers, gesturing wildly and wiggling towards you across the floor.

“Of course, I like you. I thought you knew.”

“Everyone keeps saying that. I guess I was too distracted,” he admits.

“I guess we both were,” you say, unable to keep a grin from your face, succumbing to joy as your fingers dance along the telephone cord.

“So, how about that date?” It escapes him barely above a whisper. He can’t believe he’s actually saying it after all this time. The only thing that convinces him it even came out is your soft laughter.

“Sounds wonderful!”

“Good!” he coos.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

“Great, yeah. That’s… I can’t wait.” He’s earnest until his cheeks hurt, and Robin teases him for it.

“Tomorrow, it is,” you purr, nearly in tune with the low hum of the receiver, “I’ll call you later.”

“Bye, sweetheart. Don’t forget: I like-like you.”

You smile, slotting the phone back into its place. A chorus of giggles erupts at your feet. Spin the bottle had been a good idea, after all.

stranger things masterlist

[chericheribaby]

what i want to do: watch the new season of ofmd

what's stopping me: not having a hbo account

[iceunhie]

latibule.

premise. in which all too many intrusions come in the form of one particular shadow guard. (or, moze always looks to you to patch him up. inexplicably, you let him do so anyway.)

warnings: gn!reader, pining moze but he's too edgy to know, one kimi ni todoke inspired (?) scene, treating injuries, banter (obviously), probably ooc, feixiao cameo, based off of the new quest, kinda mid writing

notes: not proofread i have no excuse i just like him okay???? inspired by @luvether's mozeqiu/reader fic (i love ur works ☹️) ty @lowkeyren for the chinese help!

“You're here again, Moze.”

In the wee hours between 1AM to 3AM, it has become a daily occurence for you to tend to Moze's injuries.

He nods. “I'm here.”

Despite having a perfectly (super) capable healer who attends to even the Lady General personally at her behest, you do not know why Moze always ends up at your window of all things during the ungodly hours of the moon's turn, complete with stupid, easily treatable cuts all across his body.

As General Feixiao's Representative Proxy, such work is not your forte—and rarely do you ever employ your few practiced arts in healing; the result often clumsy and sloppy, just enough to treat the few cuts Moze sports.

Still, it has since become routine to patch Moze up, and despite your insistence that he take care of himself more, the ashy haired man never listens, instead ending up at your home. You wonder if he does this on purpose.

Next time, you think, you're never going to open the windowsill for him again.

You open the windowsill further to let him in. Hypocrite, your mind echoes unhelpfully. Great, you must be losing your mind.

“Got into trouble again, hm?”

His expression tells you that whoever he fought wasn't all that—show-off—internally, you roll your eyes. “...Will you patch me up?”

No, your mind tells you, the words are at the tip of your tongue; you're always sneaking in here at night, and making me go through all this trouble.

(Your actions betray a different tune altogether.)

You don't know when Moze started to make you his personal healer despite Jiaoqiu in the vicinity; a moment of worry led to one thing, and now here you are, Moze's budget Jiaoqiu at home. The thought makes you laugh to yourself. Compared to the foxian, your skills could be described as subpar at best.

(Complaining to your own Lady General was no use. Incredulously, Feixiao believed that it was because—

“You're special.” Feixiao says with a grin. “Is it not obvious that it is because he wishes to see you?”

“What?” Looking at her, your voice is a tired drawl of resignation. “....My Lady, it seems your recent exposure to the Luofu's romance novels have dulled your judgement. Shall I call for Jiaoqiu?”

“Wha- Hey, don't call me senile!” Your Lady General deadpans, “Anyway, I'm telling you, Moze likes you!”)

“Why is it always me?” you grumble under your breath, though it doesn't escape Moze's ears.

It's good that you don't expect an answer; if Moze had to be honest, he doesn't know why he always goes to you either.

“Why wouldn't it be you?” Moze says, not missing a beat.

Your cheeks warm, the heat crawling up your neck from his audacious words. Jeez, he really doesn't know his effect on people, did he?

“...Not to mention, Jiaoqiu is asleep.”

Never mind. “Know the shame.”

“I don't wish to disturb Jiaoqiu as well.”

“Oh, so you see it fit to bother me but don't bother with Jiao-gege?”

“You'll live.” Moze blinks. Frowns. “Wait, did you just call him... gege?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Yes, what about it?”

“Since when were you two so close?”

“Mm, since a certain guard stops by my home at twilight hour?”

“....”

Sighing, your hands are nimble against the bandages, looping the white cloth in your palm and dabbing at the corners of Moze's face, gentle. Up close, his face is all sharp edges and harsh lines. Whether he notices how you gulp when you approach closer, swiping the cloth along his lower lip, he holds his tongue, for fear of disturbing whatever it was, permeating between the two of you like a thick haze, afraid of destroying the peaceful silence.

He watches, instead, as you scrub away the little bit of blood on his cheek.

You're talking; something about him being too reckless, taking care of himself more, yet he finds that he can't catch a word of what you're saying, focusing only on one thing.

Your hands are warm.

Heat creeps up to his neck like coiling vines, twisting his stomach, all because of you. Moze's heart thrums, breath stolen away—you're so close, it's unbearable—and he fights to keep himself even remotely neutral. All because of you.

“Moze?”

What are you doing to him? Why does he always come back to you? Is he sick?

“You're burning up.” You press your hand against his neck; and funnily enough, the thought of leaning into your touch crosses Moze's mind—it's maddening how much he wants to do so.

Blinking once, Moze looks to find you pulling away, and before he can think of it, his fingers wrap around your wrist in an iron grip, carefully maintained distance discarded.

“...?”

“Ah, wait, it's fine— Just—” don't pull away.

What?

Moze coughs. “Just continue.”

The night's breeze flows throughout your home; the chuang kou is wide open, with Moze looking less like General Feixiao's most trusted aide and more akin to an obedient dog. It's humiliation, Moze thinks—but when it was you, his dignity could be in tatters for all he cares.

Your eyes soften, just a bit, “If you say so.”

Inexplicably, relief assaults Moze's senses like a balm to his soul. Because the idea of being perceived, heard—by you—affects him in a dizzying, confounding way, and he knows not how to cure such an ailment whose only cure is your presence.

And maybe, just maybe, it's why he can never stop returning to you. Let you think him a fool, an idiot—so as long as he ends up at your window, by your side, it's a small price to pay.

“Okay.” he affirms, loosening his grip, (never you, though) finally letting you finish patching him up as you plaster what remains of the white bandages upon his face.

Noticeably, he doesn't let go of your hand.

“Okay.” you echo, and finally, you're finished with your work. The sight of Moze all bandaged up perfectly and finally getting to sleep makes you happier than you should be, the prospect of sleep way too enticing.

“There, all done. Take care of yourself better next time, 'kay?”

He hums, “I'll keep that in mind.”

“You sure you will?”

“Yes.” Moze looks at you, and he looks at you like it would be a sin of the greatest kind to take his eyes of off you; holding your presence in his irises, emulating you deeply onto his pupils, his tendons and his limbs. “I will.”

(How could he ever not listen to you?)

You release him, much to Moze's reluctance—opening the closed chuang kou. The night breeze welcomes Moze, kissing his skin, with the colors of the rising sun beginning to rise, vibrancy in the darkness of the inky night.

“...Moze?” you call, in the corner of your eye, seeing him already putting a foot on the rooftop.

“Jeez, if you wanted to see me that much, just tell me instead of going through all this trouble, really....” you mumble, glad that your back is turned from him, lest he sees the heat dusting your cheeks. You know Moze has probably left, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

Well, you'll bring it up another time, then. Something tells you he'll listen, this time.

This time, you don't ignore the flutter of the butterflies in your stomach.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

(“Jeez, if you wanted to see me that much, just tell me instead of going through all this trouble, really....”

In the darkened corner of shadow, a figure slumps disgracefully with a loud thud. Using a hand to grip the side of the wall, nothing can compare to the burning heat crawling up Moze's skin, positively flushed.

Moze puts a hand to his face, slumping further to a near kneel.

It's warm—just like the ghostly feeling of your hands upon his skin minutes prior.

Maybe he'll take you up on your offer.)

a/n: sorry for the long sporadic activity :,D this is what a chuang kou looks like btw

[veiled-harvest]

Kept Woman | Viltrumite!Mark Grayson x Concubine!Reader | Chapter: 1

CONTENT WARNINGS : abduction, mentions of pregnancy, implied breeding ,stalking, light violent threats , light gore+ minimal blood descriptions , mentions of adultery/possible cheating , death.

Why were you, of all people, taken from your home? Everything you knew, gone. Who knew you'd enter into one much larger than you could comprehend? Recanting the last day on like loop the second you drifted off or losing yourself in thought. You fall asleep in this small room and are immediately greeted with the world you once knew engulfed in flames. Your family , your friends , all screaming for help. The soreness in your voice from screaming still burning. Which ever day it was now. You vividly recall being lifted into the air. Exhaustion forgotten when you thrashed, attempting to free yourself, but the figure gripped you hard with no room to flee. Everything became so small in your vision. You had never been this high before, even on a plane. Was the world always this small, so tiny you only manage to make out patches of green or red where your home once was? And ever since, you've awoken in this empty place, a pure white room absent of any color , absolved of any life. The bareness of the room was eerie, and every time you awoke, you were terrified; not even the warmth of your dog was there to comfort you. For a while, you assumed maybe you had died and this was the end, but you’d pinch yourself and push away that delusion. All you did for 2 or 3 days was wept and slept. There was no clock to keep time, no door to exit, yet somehow food would appear when you came to from slumber every day and night.

That was until you rose on the fourth day, the pain from your injuries finally becoming bearable , and moving was slightly easier. The bandages on all your wounds still leaked with blood whenever you moved so you had been avoiding exploring the 4 corners of your confinement.

A faint noise from the ceiling, quiet but noticeable in your newly awakened state.

Suddenly, the door opened, and two women draped in grey and white walked in rather quickly. One approached you and spoke very softly about getting you cleaned up. Her demeanor was calm but orderly. She had lightly grasped your hand and led you off the bed offering to use her fully to support your own weight. The other women swiftly moved in, cleared the blood soiled bed sheets, and replaced them with new ones.

For the next 30 minutes, they washed , fed you and tended to your needs, well, as much as you’d allow anyway, still noticeably dazed and bruised. Then they left you just like that, leaving you in that dense silence you became to loathe. You stood still in the middle of the room, unsure of what to do with yourself. You walked over to the bed and slowly sat on the edge. The bedding was incredibly soft, but that's the last thing on your mind.

Where were you ?

Who were those women ?

Various thoughts flooded your head, good, bad, an endless ambush of possibilities you frightened yourself with. Your mind was racing a mile a minute til the door approached again. It was a man this time. It took you bo longer than a second to process it, one look at his face, and you knew. That familiar shot of adrenaline hit you hard; you became stiff. It was him.

The man who abducted you. His eyes were hollow , fixated on you. This man towed over you with terrifying stature. He scanned you up and down, then moved on to examine the room before he made his way closer to you. You had jumped slightly as the distance between you closed.

"Who- Who are you?" Speaking no louder than a whisper, fearing that it would possibly anger him more than what he was already radiating. Something in your gut told you to proceed with caution. His stare, his demeanor were truly terrifying.

"Have you eaten and bathed?" Completely ignoring your question. You only nodded, taking the hint not to ask again. The man sat down next to you, maybe only a foot of space between you.

"What is your name?" He asked, looking at you with a cold, stern expression. You hesitated, looking away to avoid the weight of his gaze.

“Y/N..” Given the circumstances, stuttering couldn't be helped. You were in an unknown location next to a man whose name you don't even know, in a room so empty you worried simply existing would soil it’s purity .

"My name is Mark.” You nodded, swiftly preparing to ask another question, hoping to get an answer this time.

“Mark..Why did you bring me here?” The carefully chosen words left your lips. He didn't immediately respond as you hoped. His jaw clenched in return; he avoided your bated breath as if he were in any position to do so.

“I brought you here because I thought it would be a waste to let you perish on that planet. You will be taken care of, and in return, you'll give me an heir. " Your throat tightened; all you wanted to do was run, but something in you knew you'd be done for if you did. You couldn't die here. You wouldn’t die here. You have so much to live for. Or had. Although you were told there was nothing left of your home, you refused to give up, there’s some fight left in you even if it was just alittle any bit of push back was enough resilience to cling to.

"And what will you do if I refuse?"

"…Then you will be discarded. But I hope it doesn't come down to that. You seem strong. You will survive and hopefully pass that attribute on to our child." His face exhibited not an ounce of emotion with this declaration, to make such an assumption of who you were. To proclaim, To think he'd propose such a thing when you'd known your Mailman longer than him was absurd.

"Can I at least have time to process this. I haven't even seen past these four walls.” Can you least tell me I'll be stuck here forever. Is what you wanted to say but lacked confidence to confess.

“That can be arranged; Soon enough, you'll be given opportunities to prove your cooperation. In the meantime, rest." His hand briefly touched yours, and he rose from the bed. His heavy steps reached the door, and Mark glanced at you once more, disappearing along with the door, leaving you stunned in this white walled prison.

You might have sat there for hours, you wouldn’t have know, staring across the room at the mirror adjacent to the bed.

Why me ?

All you could think about was your life on Earth. Your last walk in the park while playing with your dog. The child who spilled ice cream on your shoe and his mother profusely apologized while your dog swooped in, enjoying the mess.

The last time you sat on your porch, writing from dawn to dusk, twilight timing in your creative juices kept you writing like you needed it to breathe, forgetting about time itself. The sound of a pencil running along the paper, amused with indulgence in your imagination.

Now, you had to mourn the so-called uneventful life you were lucky to have experienced in that pocket of time. You stared at the reflection for ages. Tears fell, stained, and burned your face. Dried blood at the tip of your fingers from the anxious tugging of skin above your cuticle.

You thought it over a dozen times and decided it was best to simply comply until you found a way out of this mess. What scared you most was how casually he presented the proposal, with the lack of marriage, void of a possible connection between you. Was a child only necessary? Any young lady would have been terrified, fuck, you were mortified, but those faint memories of what Earth looked like in its final moments while you were pulled from the rubble, bloodied and battered. The scattered limbs of other civilians decorating the street, your dog barking frantically, jumping and whining in attempts to save you, quickly turning to cries as you vanished into clouds of smoke. You ran a hand over the already blood-stained bandage on your forearm , which lead to brushing your fingers over a faint scar. You had many small cuts from your dog, though you didn’t mind , it was her way of saying I love you; scare only you could explain.

You had just gotten your dog after moving out with your parents, and like most people, you purchased the puppy to fill the emptiness of new beginnings. Unfortunately, you didn't name the young one. You only rescued it from backyard breeders to avoid letting it end up in the same fate. Chester was her name. They had named ‘him’, assuming ‘his’ sex, but it was too late before they realized it. Truth be told, it was difficult to rename a dog, so there you were. Your big baby with separation anxiety. It hit you that you were now without her. Though you knew that she was gone; the idea of her last moments were trying to save you and incapable of doing so was aching even more than the idea of you being used to possibly make babies.

The daylight from the small window had shifted into dusty blue, and the stars slowly filled the sky. You were drawn to the window as a distraction, but then you saw how high you were and stumbled back, immediately falling to the floor with a light thud. You scurried across the floor to the farthest corner from the window. Hugging your knees to your chest only made the oncoming hyperventilating worse. You bury your head into your legs, letting the silent sobs drench your knees, down to your thigh.

You went through all the stages of grief and rendered yourself exhausted. No energy was left to make your way to the bed, so you stayed put with what little refuge found in the cold corner, Hoping to dream of what once was, you picture your dog curled close at your feet. Tears cascade your face, continuing to empty what you failed to release while awake.

The door appeared once again; Mark entered quietly and approached your sleeping form, taking in the scene as if he was trying to capture and save it for eternity; the way your hair stuck to your cheeks, the tight grip you had on yourself so tight like you'd disappear before him. Mark reached out, carefully collected you into his arms, and headed to the bed. He placed you down gently and tucked you in the best you know how, successfully relieving you of the nightly chills. Your face still showed discomfort, but he had no idea what to do in this minor predicament. So he quietly sat there watching you sleep.

The man with little to no time for his own rest was taking a moment for you. He devoured the sight of your sleeping face. Mark didn't know why, but he was fearful of what would transpire if you spent time together, even when you were unaware. He had the urge to caress your face in an attempt to ease the tension you held with your brows, but Mark knew if, or when he surrendered to this vulnerability, a greater weakness would appear, and Mark could not afford to be vulnerable; but maybe he could just for you, maybe for just a second in the dead of the night.

He left the room with the picture of you sleeping safely wrapped in silk. His thoughts were usually preoccupied with plans to expand the empire yet you effortlessly took up a chunk of focus. Mark had no time for this, but he held that space in his mind for you, the human he had been accidentally dotted and plotted on for months prior to the invasion.

He ventured onto Earth where his people would take control of or destroy, Mark was given the mission no questions asked . He was half-human after all. Curiosity was a common trait amongst he shared blood with; Mark would have been lying if he said a small part of him hadn’t wished he had grown up here. With the numerous cultures to explore and the various unvisited terrain he read about in his father's reports, he fell in love with the planet unbeknownst to those around him.

What really turned him was when he saw you walking with your dog in the park. You were distracted by your phone, furiously typing with one hand, while the other was preoccupied with your dog, leading you through the crowded path. You were a very expressive human, easily entertained by your own intellect. Til this day he wonders why you stood out so boldly. What drew him to your person?

Mark ended up sort of stalking you. Your routine was pretty simple, yet you were always rushing somewhere. In such a short time, his interest in you took up all his time. With each passing day he become more and more intrigued. He witnessed you rushing to work every day; The weak smile you gave unhappy customers at the cafe, There was a few times he almost intervened while not fully understanding why the disrespect upon you bothered him; he watched you come home and collapse on your porch, letting your canine lick away the toubles you faced all day , leaving you in fits of laughter. Whenever you stopped to smell flowers, pick up trash, or said something sweet to a stranger, you bewildered him in such a quaint way. Of course, he observed other humans, but he was drawn to your aura. The light that radiated from your smile captivated him, and he was determined to save you from the inevitable, in the only way he knew how.

Taking you away before it was too late.

His father had already expressed how much time he spent ,wasted focusing on his mother and that he wished he had taken on one or two more women so he wouldn't have ended up with only a single child and the only of-age heir to his father's legacy, which is what led to your immediate capture.

Mark was instructed to take on not two, but three wives at once to meet his father's demands. He'd never do much as had a girlfriend, so obviously he had no idea how he would manage to love you ,cater to the other women all to maintain a bloodline. There was no way this would end well, but he had no choice but to obey his father's instructions—at least for now. Truthfully, there was no room what so ever for ‘other women’ in the future he had been planned for you. But it was the only way to keep you safe and pardoned in the eyes of his people;Masked as a pet, the most precious life in the galaxy.

The new found concept of envisioning you in his state is rest was exhilarating. Ironically before his grand plan of stealing you away, The safest place for you was his mind. Dreaming, Mark hadn't done that before he discovered you. He always thought he'd be this empty shell for hundreds of years. Mark was prepared for the loneliness his mortality brought him, having no idea that a mere human managed to unknowingly change his perspective so quickly.

He reached his chamber and immediately stripped to his shorts, collapsing onto the bed. A hand wandered to the untouched side of the bed, and he pictured you as you were earlier.

Tomorrow was another day closer to you. Another day yearning for the moment you’d finally be able to fill the space on the mattress, where you should have been now, where you belonged.

[imagineweasley]

Bludgering to You

fred weasley x reader

summary: during a quidditch match, fred gets a bit too competitive and crashes into you. he didn't believe in all the clichés about love at first sight before, but as soon as he lays his eyes on you, all that changes.

y/n: your name

y/h: your house

word count: 1.7k

submit requests here! | masterlist

The crowd roared as Fred punted the bludger away from Angelina, mere inches from hitting her straight in the face and knocking her off her broom. She jerked in the air, startled, but quickly regained her composure and sped off to score yet another ten points for Gryffindor.

"And he does it again! Fred Weasley saves the team captain from the Slytherin team!" Lee Jordan's voice boomed throughout the stadium as Gryffindors cheered and Slytherins scowled. Fred waved his bat above his head in victory as Lee continued, "Really impressive she didn’t fall off considering I almost fell off this podium when I saw Goyle's toad-face --" The microphone screeched and Lee's voice disappeared as Professor Mcgonagall snatched the microphone from his hand and scolded him. Lee merely grinned at her.

Goyle's face did look particularly toadlike today, and his already ruddy face was slowly turning into a darker shade of scarlet.

Fred waggled his fingers at Goyle who was now speeding off, "Sorry mate, better luck next time!" He allowed himself one more celebratory loop in the air before he caught George's eye from a few hundred feet away. He was waving his arms in the air at his brother and yelling something Fred could not quite understand.

"What? George, I can't hear you!"

Fred weaved through the players and realized George was pointing. When he got close enough, George yelled again, "DOUBLE BLUDGER!" He jabbed his fingers at Fred's right and left sides, and Fred whipped his head around just in time to see a bludger flying at him.

He managed to drop a few feet in the air and avoid having his skull smashed in. The two bludgers crashed in the air above him; Crabbe and Goyle had teamed up to take Fred out. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Goyle racing away. Fred yelled after them, "OI, YOU TROLL, do you even know how Quidditch works!" They high-fived each other and sniggered, triggering a burst of anger in his chest.

Fred narrowed his eyes at the them in the distance. Suddenly, George was at his side.

"Mate, don't pay attention to them, you have to focus! We can test a puking pastille on them later, I promise!"

Fred nodded curtly, but his mind had not shifted. As he flew away, he saw a one bludger flying towards Harry, another flying towards Katie Bell.

He alerted George but he had already seen it and was speeding towards Katie. Fred turned midair to fly towards and unaware Harry, who was concentrating on finding his tiny gold target. Maybe the anger served as fuel, because he arrived at Harry's side long before he could be hit and smacked the heavy ball away.

Harry called over his shoulder, "Thanks mate!" Before returning to his search for the snitch.

Fred was still breathing heavily, but not from the exhilaration of the match. His eyes were still trained on the opposing team's beaters.

"Don't you dare, Weasley!" Angelina's keen eye had caught the look in his eyes and she called out, "Save that for after the match! Not right now, we can't afford to lose!" But Fred didn't hear her.

He caught hold of a bludger and sped off towards his first target: Goyle.

"YOU IDIOT!!" Angelina screamed in anger as he left her behind.

"Take THIS!" He hurled the bludger at Goyle, whose reaction time was too slow, and it knocked his left arm enough to send him toppling in the air. Fred observed, satisfied, as the smirk was wiped off his pimply face. He caught another bludger and prepared to strike again, but Goyle was less cocky and more alert this time and was able to fly off before Fred could act.

Fred had expected this though, so he was at the ready for the chase. Goyle bobbed and weaved through the players, but as he was a much less talented flier than Fred, he couldn't escape. Fred managed to strike again, this time in the shoulder. He purposefully did not throw hard enough to seriously injure him or put the team in trouble; years of playing Quidditch had honed his ability to control the force at which he threw the bludgers.

Suddenly, Fred saw Goyle reach into his robe. He watched it happen in slow motion: Goyle whipped out a wand and pointed behind him, straight at Fred. Having never seen a wand on the field, as they were prohibited in Quidditch, he moved too slowly to escape Goyle's attack.

"NO!" Fred lunged at the wand but Goyle was too far away, and the spell hit him straight in the chest.

The crowd collectively gasped as it sent him reeling through the air. He could not gain control of his broom for the life of him, and he spun around and around, the only thing he could do was grip the handle as hard as he could. After a few moments, he managed to slow the spinning, but too late; with a loud CRASH, he crashed into the y/h stands.

Students screamed as he crashed into the benches, which splintered and sent wood flying in all directions. Most of them had been able to run out of the way, but there were a few who were knocked off their bench by the force of his crash.

"FRED WEASLEY IS DOWN! FRED WEASLEY IS DOWN!" Lee was jumping up and down and screaming into his microphone, "For those who missed it, Goyle hexed Fred Weasley, THAT HIDEOUS COCKROACH! SOMEONE GO DO SOMETHING!"

Fred's head was still spinning so he could barely hear the crowd. As he gained his senses, he realized that he had crashed directly into a person and was laying on top of them. He quickly pushed himself off of the poor student.

"Are you alright?" He immediately grabbed the student's hand and hoisted them onto their feet.

"I think so? I think I'm okay." Y/n looked down at herself and assessed for any injuries, but miraculously, she did not have a scratch on her.

Y/n looked up at Fred and their eyes met. As quickly as he crashed into her, Fred lost his senses.

He had heard of people describe the moment they met their partners in a magical, fantastical way that he was always skeptical of, and he even made fun of them. They would talk about how time slowed and fireworks went off in their minds, and they just knew this person was the one, but he had never believed it. Love makes people fools, he would say.

But now, he was being proven wrong.

As he gazed into her eyes, time did, in fact, slow, and fireworks exploded through his entire body, the way people had always described. His mind filled with music that wasn't actually there, and every time he recounted this moment to her or their friends or even strangers for years and years after, he would swear he felt a zing! (Y/n would roll her eyes every time, but with a big smile on her face).

"Um... hello?" He was brought back to life when y/n waved her hand in front of his face. He didn't realize that his jaw had been hanging open and that he was still holding the other hand he had hoisted her up with. Amusement danced in her eyes and when she smiled at him, he almost toppled over.

He managed to stumble out, "I'm -- 'm so sorr- didn't mean to--" He didn't know what was happening to him -- usually he was so smooth around girls. Y/n found it endearing though, and laughed in response.

She squeezed his hand reassuringly and replied, "That's alright, I'm okay! You gotta do what you gotta do right?"

In a desperate attempt to prove he wasn't a fool, Fred managed to gather himself enough to gasp out, "PrettiestgirlI'veeverbeenbludgeredinto--" before he was interrupted.

"--AN ABSOLUTE FOOL, YOU LOOK LIKE AN ABSOLUTE FOOL, FREDDIE! CLOSE YOUR MOUTH or A BIRD'S GONNA FLY IN--" Lee's cackle was cut off, and Mcgonagall's voice now boomed, "MR. WEASLEY, GET BACK OUT THERE NOW!"

Fred blushed a deep pink and dropped y/n's hand as if it had burned him. As she laughed, he stammered out some sort of sheepish apology before hopping back on his broom and flying back out.

Thankfully, some people had still been paying attention to the game, and the second Fred flew back in, Harry caught the snitch and the game was over.

Fred flew down, still feeling lightheaded from his encounter with y/n. As soon as his feet touched the ground, Angelina was storming over to him.

"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT, WEASLEY!" Steam was practically pouring out of her ears, "DID I OR DID I NOT TELL YOU TO DROP IT? HUH, WEASLEY? WHAT DID I TELL YOU TO DO!" Professor Mcgonagall was following close behind Angelina and was scolding Fred over her, "-- could have injured yourself or a student, for Merlin's sake, or worse, gotten yourself banned--"

Meanwhile, Harry, who had been too focused on the snitch and missed the hubbub, was jogging alongside the rest of the team and asking, "What was that? What happened? Someone tell me what happened, for the LOVE of--" With a voice tight with suppressed laughter, George shrugged and said, "Can't save you this time, mate."

The team members were giggling and talking over each other, Angelina and Professor Mcgonagall were still scolding him, and Harry was tugging at his robes, still trying to figure out what had happened, but Fred couldn't hear any of it. He had caught y/n's eye again, all the way across the stadium from the ground, and she was smiling sympathetically right at him. He was hopelessly lost in her smile, and he timidly held up his hand and waved. She scrunched her nose in an adorable way and gave him a thumbs up of encouragement. A grin spread across Fred's face.

This brought on another bout of yelling and threats from Angelina as well as more laughter from the team, and still, Fred barely heard her. It was all noise to him.

Professor Mcgonagall caught his far-off look and followed his gaze to see that he was staring right at you. She maintained a stern look, but on the inside, couldn't help but soften. She knew that look. She had seen it countless times before.

And even as Fred was being dragged away by a furious Angelina, he was still smiling and managed to memorize every part of y/n's face, vowing to find her after what surely would be a long post-game meeting.

[sweettu1ips]

PAIGE BUECKERS x SINGER!FEM READER

SYNOPSIS: "The push and pull had always been intoxicating, a slow burn of control and surrender. But tonight, the rules shift—an unspoken goodbye lingering in the space where lips almost met."

WARNING(S): (18+) toxic relationship ⋮ situationship ⋮ hook-up buddies ⋮ fuck buddies ⋮ kissing ⋮ not exactly a happy ending, but if you like that reader got her lick back, then yes consider this a happy ending... ⋮ flashbacks to intimacy ⋮ not really sure what else I'm missing soo...

WORD COUNT: 6.7K

| MAIN MASTER LIST ⋮ VELVET TRACES [P2] |

THE THING ABOUT PAIGE BUECKERS is that she doesn’t do attachment. Not in the way that matters. Not in the way I wanted.

She’s like a storm that never settles, all presence and pressure, rolling in heavy and hot before vanishing like she was never there at all. A name whispered in locker rooms, an echo in arenas, a breath against my neck in the dead of night. She loves like a shadow—only seen when the lights are dim, only felt in fleeting touches that never sink past the surface.

I should’ve known better.

But how could I, when Paige is all adrenaline and honeyed words, wrapped up in a body that moves like poetry, lips that turn even the most fleeting moments into something that sears? She’s a habit, a high, a hands-on-my-hips, teeth-against-my-skin kind of addiction that I can’t shake, no matter how many times I swear I will.

We started as nothing. Just a few run-ins at events, a reckless decision after too much tequila and neon lights bleeding into the early morning.

 Me, fresh off a sold-out tour, my name looping through radio stations like an anthem, still buzzing from the stage, from the energy, from the world’s obsession with me. 

Paige, the golden girl of the court, drowning in expectations but never once missing a shot. Our first time was impulsive, a collision of egos and sweat, hands grasping, mouths hungry, neither of us looking for anything more than the rush of it all.

And then it happened again. And again. Until suddenly, I had the code to Paige’s apartment, and she had a habit of pulling me into dark corners whenever our paths crossed.

It was easy. Until it wasn’t.

Because while Paige only ever wanted hands tangled in sheets and a body pressed to hers, I wanted something deeper. Something beyond the four walls of a dimly lit bedroom, beyond the stolen kisses and murmured goodbyes before dawn broke.

I wanted late-night conversations that didn’t end in tangled limbs. I wanted mornings where Paige didn’t slip away before the sun rose. I wanted to be something more than just a fleeting thrill, more than just a name she moaned into the dark before locking the door behind her.

But Paige?

She wanted nothing more than the sensation, the moment, the rush.

And I don’t know how much longer I can pretend that’s enough.

That’s how I found myself in the studio late at night, the soft hum of the city’s distant chatter filtering through the windows.

 The overhead lights cast a warm glow, the dim shadows stretching like the quiet ache in my chest. The walls around me, lined with instruments and sound equipment, felt both comforting and isolating at the same time, as though they had absorbed every secret I had whispered into the microphone over the years.

Two days had passed since I had last sent a message to Paige, the blue text bubble sitting unanswered on my phone. 

My thumb hovered over the screen, pausing just before tapping it to send another message—my emotions like a tangled wire, too complicated to be untangled with a few simple words. 

Every minute that passed without a reply felt like a bruise on my heart, a dull throb that seemed to sink deeper with each second.

The night was mine now, a time to drown out the ache, to lose myself in music. I sat at the keyboard, fingers brushing lightly against the keys, a note breaking the silence in the room. 

My mind wandered as the melody spilled from the ivory, filling the space between the notes. My thoughts slipped into the lyrics that had been playing on repeat in my mind— Would you hear me more if I whispered in your ear?

A small sigh escaped my lips, and I exhaled slowly, almost like I was trying to let go of the tension held within my lungs. My hands hovered above the piano once more, the next note suspended in the air, waiting for something, anything to push it into reality. 

I could feel the weight of the question—a question that had stayed in my mind since the moment Paige and I had begun drifting, a question I didn’t have the courage to ask aloud. 

Would Paige hear me? Would she understand me more if I approached things differently? Would the vulnerability, the quiet intimacy of whispering, make her more present in our connection? Would it make her feel wanted, or would it push her further away?

I bit down on my lip, the sudden wave of emotion flooding my chest. The lyrics replayed in my mind, Would you hear me more if I touch you right here? 

I didn’t mean to think about it like this, didn’t mean to feel the heat of the words burning in my veins, but the song had a way of weaving itself into my very skin, sinking under my bones.

 The “right here” was never a place—it was an act, an invitation, a vulnerable plea for attention, for connection. I could picture it: my fingertips barely grazing Paige’s skin, the tremor in my touch betraying the uncertainty in my heart. 

The thought of making that kind of contact—so close, so intimate—was both electrifying and terrifying.

I slowly stood, the music still playing in my mind, as my hand reached for the microphone stand. The cool metal against my palm felt oddly grounding. The intensity of my emotions surged, threatening to spill over like an ocean crashing against the shore. 

I couldn’t stop it. I leaned into the microphone, my breath steadying, and whispered softly, “Ah, ah.” It was just a sound, a simple exhale into the space around me, but in that moment, it felt like I had said everything I needed to.

 The vulnerability of the sound echoed, filling the room. A sensation of wanting, of longing, crept up my spine.

I moved to the center of the room, the dim light casting shadows across the floor, and closed my eyes, my body swaying with the rhythm in my chest. My hands floated just above my skin, as if reaching for something that was just out of reach. 

Would it be enough if I reached out and touched someone, poured my desires into every delicate movement? Would it be enough if I brushed my lips against their skin, against their thoughts, the weight of every unspoken word shared in the air between us? The question lingered, as heavy as the silence that hung in the room.

I exhaled slowly again, this time with more certainty, as if releasing the tension that had built up between Paige and me, between myself and the world around me. 

I wasn’t sure if this would be enough—if this small act of touching, of whispering, would ever be enough to bridge the gap of distance that had formed between us.

But there was something about the act of letting go, of offering myself in the quietest way, that made it feel like I could be heard. Even if it was only by myself.

My fingers brushed the strings of the guitar by my side, the soft strum of the chord filling the space with its melancholic sound.

It was almost as if the act of playing the song was a silent plea—a desire to be understood, to be touched not just physically, but emotionally, in ways that words couldn’t express. 

My heart raced, the lyrics flowing through me as if they were written just for me. Would you hear me more?

I paused, letting the silence settle in. I wasn't sure if I was ready to hear the answer. But in this moment, in the stillness of the room, I let myself be vulnerable, letting the music carry my thoughts into the night.

I snapped out of the haze, the weight of the emotions that had overwhelmed me suddenly lifting, replaced by a sharp, determined clarity.

My heart, still thudding in my chest, quieted as I reached for my phone on the corner of the desk, the cold screen feeling almost foreign against my palm.

 My fingers fumbled for a moment, as if they were still tangled in the last few lingering chords of the song that had played over and over in my mind, but soon found their place.

The familiar touch of the phone felt grounding, like a lifeline pulling me back to reality.

I pressed the call button, the sound of it ringing filling the silence, each ring seeming to echo my anticipation, my nervousness, my need for something—anything— to move forward.

It was as if I was trying to shake off the last remnants of the vulnerability I had just laid bare. I couldn’t stay here, lost in my head any longer.

When the line finally clicked, the voice on the other end greeted me with that familiar, steady calm, “Hey, it’s me.”

I exhaled sharply, as if releasing all the tension I hadn’t known I was holding in. “How fast can you get to the studio?” The words came out faster than I had intended, but they carried an edge—urgent, a little desperate. My voice shook, just barely, the slight crack betraying the layers beneath the surface.

I could hear the slight rustle of movement through the phone, as if my producer was shifting his position, maybe setting his coffee cup down, or running a hand through his hair.

It didn’t matter. I could feel the moment stretching between us, filling the space with an electric charge. I wasn’t even sure if I was asking for help, for direction, or for something else entirely, but the need was undeniable.

My hand, still gripping the phone, tightened around it as I gazed out the studio window, my eyes scanning the night outside. The city’s lights twinkled in the distance, just a blur of movement that felt so far away, so detached from the chaos inside me. 

I was still on edge, still haunted by the unresolved feeling that had settled in my chest like a heavy weight. Paige. The distance between us. The things left unsaid. The longing that pressed against my ribs, urging me to do something, to make a choice.

But in this moment, I needed to focus. I had to focus. I wasn’t ready to dive back into my thoughts about her, about us. Not now.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. “I’m not sure what I’m doing, but I need to get this out,” I admitted, my voice a little softer now. The honesty slipped through, unintended but there all the same.

 My eyes shifted over the studio, taking in the dim lights, the instruments scattered around like pieces of a puzzle I wasn’t sure how to solve. The walls that had once felt so comforting now seemed like they were closing in on me, the air thicker with the weight of my feelings.

The producer’s voice came through again, low and calm, but with an undercurrent of reassurance. “I’ll be there in 20.”

I nodded instinctively, even though I knew he couldn’t see me. A sigh of relief escaped me, and I finally let my shoulders drop, feeling the tension melt away, bit by bit. It wasn’t over, I knew that. 

The song I was trying to create, the emotions I was trying to channel, the unresolved ache that lingered—it was all still there, pressing at the edges of my mind. But I had made the decision. I was going to push forward, try to create something, anything, to move past the confusion and the frustration.

As I hung up, the weight of the room felt just a little lighter. I wasn’t completely sure where I was heading with the song, but in this moment, it didn’t matter. The only thing I knew for certain was that I had to keep moving, keep creating. Maybe in the music, I would find the answers. Or maybe, just maybe, the answers would find me.

𖥔 A WEEK LATER 𖥔

The air was thick with anticipation, the bass from the speakers humming through my body like a second heartbeat. Backstage, I stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the strap of my top—minimal, yet enough. 

The dim glow of the vanity lights flickered against my skin, casting shadows that felt almost poetic. The weight of the moment pressed down on me, but not in a suffocating way. It was exhilarating. Electric. Like standing at the edge of a storm, just waiting for the thunder to crash.

For the last week, I had poured myself into two songs. Every lyric, every melody had come faster than ever, flowing through me like something inevitable. Like I was supposed to write them.

 Like they had been waiting for me to put them into words. I hadn’t released them yet, holding onto them for this moment—this night—when I could perform them live for the first time. A choice that was far from accidental.

I ran a hand through my hair, inhaling deeply, trying to shake the gnawing feeling in my chest. It had been almost a week since I had last spoken to Paige. Since she walked away. Since I stood there, silent, replaying every word, every sharp edge of our argument, over and over.

"You act like this is more than what it is," she had said, her voice edged with something I couldn’t quite place—frustration, maybe. Or indifference. "But it’s not. We’re not. You know that."

I remembered the way she had looked at me, the way something flickered across her face just before she turned and walked away. Like she knew exactly what she was doing. Like she knew her words would stick to me, get under my skin, wrap around my ribs and refuse to let go.

I clenched my jaw, blinking away the memory as I exhaled sharply.

The arena was dark, thick with anticipation. A low, pulsing hum vibrated through the air, rattling through the floor beneath my feet. The crowd was already screaming, their voices blending into a chaotic symphony of excitement, but they hadn’t seen me yet. 

Not yet.

A single spotlight flickered on, illuminating nothing but the stage floor. The massive LED screen behind it came alive with static, glitching shapes and distorted visuals flashing in time with the deep bass that rumbled through the venue like a heartbeat. The sound of distant sirens echoed—warped, haunting, looping. A breathy, distorted voice whispered my name, stretched and layered over itself until it sounded surreal, hypnotic.

This—this performance—was my way of getting the last word in.

Maybe Paige would see it as an eye-opener. Maybe she’d see it as an attempt to get under her skin. Truthfully? I couldn’t give a single fuck.

What mattered was the music. The stage. The way the lights would hit just right, the way the crowd would scream the lyrics back to me, their voices colliding with mine in a way that felt almost sacred. 

And the fact that I looked good. No—better than good. The deep purple lace hugged my frame just right, the dark fabric catching the glow of the stage lights in flashes as I moved.

A crew member signaled that it was time, and my pulse quickened, the air around me shifting. The venue was packed—thousands of bodies pressed together, waiting, the energy buzzing like static in the air. And right at the heart of it all—Madison Square Garden. The place where it all started. Where we started.

The music built slowly, a heartbeat turning into a racing pulse, synths creeping in like something alive. The fog machines hissed, rolling thick waves of smoke across the stage, swallowing the floor in shadows. And then—just for a second—total silence.

The arena went pitch black.

Suddenly..

The bass dropped. A blinding flash of white light strobed through the venue in sync with the first beat, illuminating me for the first time, standing center stage. Head down. Eyes closed. The breath of the moment curling in my lungs.

The screen behind me glitched again—flashes of old, grainy footage, a mix of blurred city lights, broken reflections in puddles, flashes of hands, lips, fleeting touches. Her silhouette. The past bleeding into the present.

A deep, sultry voice—mine, but distorted—spoke over the mic, just two words:

"You watching?"

And then—violins.

Soft at first, delicate, but haunting. They floated through the venue like a slow drip of honey, smooth, entrancing, weaving their way through the charged air. The LED screens behind me shifted—deep purple and black, slow-motion imagery of silk slipping off bare skin, fingers ghosting over lace.

The first beat crept in underneath, a subtle pulse beneath the strings.

Then the drums hit, and the violins swelled, twisting into something richer, more dangerous.

The lights flickered, shifting to deep reds and violets as the beat intensified, climbing into something sultry, hypnotic. The bass curled through the melody like smoke, smooth but intoxicating, pulling the entire track into the kind of rhythm that demanded to be felt.

I let the moment stretch just long enough—let the tension coil, let the crowd feel the buildup in their chests, waiting, craving.

And then, just as the beat fully dropped, I moved.

Hips swaying, chin lifted, gaze locked forward.

The mic brushed my lips, and I let the first words spill out.

“I been singin’, I been screamin’...

“...I been goin’ all night till my throat’s bleeding” 

If she was watching, good.

Because this time, I was saying everything I never got the chance to.

The LED screens flicker to life behind me—glitching city lights, reflections rippling in puddles, fleeting hands skimming over skin. A fragmented memory playing for thousands to see.

And then—my voice.

"Did my purple lace bra catch your attention?

Uh Yeah, the look in your eye made me question."

The words drip from my lips like honey, smooth, effortless, but laced with something deeper. Something raw. Something meant for only one person.

And somewhere above—watching, devouring—Paige.

She's here. Actually here, in New York. In the VIP section, perched above the stage with the best view in the house. I don’t see her at first, too lost in the rhythm, in the way my body moves in sync with the dancers around me. 

The choreography is sultry, deliberate, every step calculated. When I drag my fingers down my torso, lingering just slightly against the purple lace that clings to me, the crowd screams—but only one gaze matters.

Paige.

And the second I finally lock eyes with her—piercing blue, locked onto me with a fire that burns even through the darkness—I feel it.

The shift.

Her gaze settles on me like she owns me, like every movement is hers to consume. And then the realization hits—I see it in the way her lips part slightly, in the way her fingers tighten around the glass in her hand—this is a new song. 

She hasn’t heard these words before. Hadn’t known until now just how deep this ran.

A memory flashes, one neither of us could ever forget.

Me, sprawled against silk sheets, bathed in moonlight, wearing this same shade of purple. The lace barely covering me, teasing just enough to make Paige lose her mind. 

The way she had whispered against my skin that night—God, you’re wearing this just to kill me, aren’t you?

I had laughed then. But tonight? Tonight, I’m performing.

And Paige is watching.

"Would you hear me more if I whispered in your ear?

Made all my inner thoughts sound like, ‘Ah, ah’

Would you hear me more if I touch you right here? Made everythin' I want sound like, ‘Ah, ah.’"

The choreography intensifies, fluid, seductive. I roll my hips, arch into the movement, dragging my hands down my curves before flipping my hair back, locking eyes with Paige again. There are thousands of people here, screaming my name, but I only care about one.

Paige’s grip tightens around her drink.

I smirk.

I feel the effect I have on her, see it in the way her chest rises and falls just a bit quicker, in the way her jaw tenses.

She’s unraveling.

And me? I’m going to make her feel every second of it.

"I could take it off for you and tell you what I'm goin' through, hm

'Cause my body positioning determines if you're listenin', ah-ah."

I turn, my dancers moving in sync with me as I twist my body, sinking into the rhythm. The choreography is intimate, teasing—slow rolls of the hips, fingers grazing down arms, lingering touches that set the stage ablaze. And the entire time, my eyes never leave Paige’s.

The flashbacks bleed into every lyric. Paige’s hands gripping my hips that first night, pulling me closer, our bodies pressed together in the dim glow of city lights. The way she had looked at me—like I was something to be worshiped.

And now?

Now, I’m untouchable.

"Did my dance on your lap pique your interest? Yeah

Now I got you like that, let me finish."

The words are a challenge. A reminder.

I run my fingers over my chest, pressing into the lace just enough to tease, enough to dare Paige to remember.

The chorus hits again, and I let myself sink into the song, into the power of it. Paige feels it—the way I own this moment, how every movement is meant to be felt, witnessed.

"I'm losin' my mind, I'm losin' my head

You only listen when I'm undressed

Hear what you like and none of the rest, 'est."

And Paige feels that lyric.

It’s the truth she never wanted to admit.

The way she ignored the things I actually needed to say, the words that got lost somewhere between tangled limbs and gasping breaths.

"I'm-I'm losin' my mind 'cause giving you head's

The only time you think I got depth."

Her stomach drops.

I see it—the way her fingers dig into her thigh, her jaw clenching so tightly I swear she might crack a tooth.

Because fuck.

This isn’t just a song. It’s us.

I know exactly what I’m doing, the way I sway my hips, run my fingers along my thighs. I let myself sink into the music, into the feeling of being desired.

And Paige?

Paige is trapped. Watching. Needing.

But this time, she doesn’t get to have me.

But this time, she didn’t get to have her.

The final notes linger in the air, and I let the moment hang. I let her sit with it, drowning in the weight of the lyrics, the weight of me.

Then, slowly, I tilted my head, eyes flickering up to Paige’s seat.

 I smirked.

And it was as if I knew— felt the way Paige was losing her mind, unraveling at the seams.

And then, just before the lights went dark, I mouthed one final thing.

“Still listening?”

Paige had actually sat through the whole concert—watching, studying, caught somewhere between lust, anger, and something heavier that neither of us had ever put a name to.

 Her eyes had been fixated on me the entire time, tracing every movement, every note I sang, her expression an unreadable mask of longing and frustration, the kind that simmered beneath the surface, never quite reaching the surface.

By the time I was done with my last set, she was already out of her seat, her body taut with tension as she stood.

 I thought, maybe, that this was it. Maybe this was the moment she would finally walk away, truly done with me for good.

But the second I hit backstage, pushing open the door to my dressing room, I realized how wrong I was.

There she was.

Paige was sprawled across the leather couch like she owned the place—legs casually spread, arms draped lazily over the backrest, her fingers barely curled as if she had all the time in the world. Her body was relaxed, but there was something predatory about her stillness, something that told me she had been waiting for this exact moment. 

Her head tilted slightly, eyes never leaving me, watching as the door swung open, revealing me in all my post-show glow. The rush of the performance still lingered in the air around me.

 My skin was flushed from the lights, damp strands of hair clung to my neck, and though my body ached from the show, I could feel the hum of my confidence still thrumming beneath the surface, energizing me, keeping me upright. But in an instant, that energy started to flicker, replaced by something I hadn’t prepared myself for.

My breath caught in my throat as our eyes met.

Everything stilled.

The cool, collected air that had surrounded me the entire night faltered for a second—just long enough for her to catch it. That self-assured smile I had walked in with faltered, just barely, enough to let her know she had the power to break me, to make me doubt every inch of the poise I had so carefully constructed.

The weight of the silence in the room pressed against me, the distance between us shrinking with each heartbeat.

I stood there for a moment longer than I meant to, the tension between us so thick that it felt like it could snap at any second. My final outfit of the night clung to me like it was made just for this moment—soft fabric molded to my form in a way that demanded attention. 

The mini skirt skimming the tops of my thighs, the hem dancing with each subtle movement, while the fitted top traced the curves of my torso, leaving just enough skin bare to tease, just enough to make her notice. 

The dark brown chunky platform boots I wore added an edge to my look, the weight of each step grounding me but also making me feel powerful in a way I couldn’t quite explain.

And all the while, Paige’s gaze was on me—slow and deliberate, her blue eyes tracing me from head to toe, each movement of her eyes sending heat pooling in my chest. Her expression remained unreadable—calm, controlled, like she was watching a masterpiece come to life, but there was something else there too. 

Something simmering just beneath the surface—an intensity I couldn’t look away from. It was like she was waiting for something to break. Waiting for me to break.

I could feel the pull of her gaze like gravity, dragging me toward her without a single word exchanged. It wasn’t just her eyes that had the power over me. It was the tension, the rawness, the fact that I had never really escaped her orbit, no matter how many times I thought I had.

And I knew then, just as I always had, that she was never really done with me.

She wasn’t just watching. She was studying. She was waiting. And I was no longer sure if I could fight it.

I broke eye contact with her, a scoff slipping from my lips before I even realized I was doing it. I rolled my eyes, not bothering to hide the annoyance that flickered beneath my skin. 

If she thought I was going to stand there, locked in some silent power struggle with her, she had another thing coming.

I turned my back to her and walked deeper into the room, letting the door swing shut with a sharp click behind me. The sound reverberated in the otherwise still air, cutting through the tension that had settled between us like a thick fog. 

My hips swayed with the rhythm of my steps, the heavy click of my platform boots echoing off the cement floor. The sensation of each boot hitting the ground felt grounding, like I could still control this situation, even if my heart was already betraying me.

I moved toward the vanity, not daring to look back at her. Not yet. I reached for the small mirror on the edge, adjusting it slightly, watching my own reflection instead of facing Paige’s unwavering gaze.

 I wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of seeing how much she affected me, not tonight. Not when I was so close to losing myself to whatever this was between us.

I could feel her eyes burning into my back, unblinking, like a predator watching its prey. It wasn’t just the weight of her stare; it was the certainty that no matter how hard I tried, no matter how many walls I built around myself, she always knew how to break through them. 

She always knew where to strike. Her jaw was clenched tight, her body unmoving, but I could feel the tension radiating off her in waves.

 She didn’t say anything, but the amused smirk that danced on her lips told me everything I needed to know. She was watching, waiting for me to crack, to give in, to say something. Anything.

I wasn’t going to give her that. Not tonight.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, like it was daring me to do something. I stayed focused on my reflection, pretending that the quiet wasn’t eating away at my insides. But deep down, my mind was a storm. 

Thoughts swirled like a cyclone, each one more confusing than the last. Paige—her presence, her control, the way she always seemed to hold every card—was never easy to ignore. It wasn’t just her ego, the way she carried herself with an unshakable confidence, or how she always had a smirk on her lips like she was always one step ahead. It was the pull of her. The constant tug she had on me, whether I wanted it or not. The way she made me question everything I thought I knew about myself.

I wasn’t some naive girl who couldn’t see the truth. I knew exactly what this was. Paige and I, we were never going to be anything more than what we were—hook-up buddies, tangled in this chaotic mess of lust, anger, and everything in between. Her ego was too big.

 Her confidence too loud. It was a game, one she always won. Always kept me at arm’s length, just enough to keep me wanting more, but never enough to let me close.

And yet, I found myself caught in it, every single time.

The weight of her presence grew more suffocating, and I could feel my patience wearing thin. But I refused to show it. I refused to let her see the way my heart raced when she was around, the way my body seemed to lean toward her without my permission. I couldn’t give her that satisfaction. I wasn’t going to let her win tonight.

She broke the silence, her voice cutting through the room like a blade.

"You really think that outfit's going to distract me, huh?" Her eyes flickered over my form, her smirk widening as she took in the tight mini skirt I’d chosen for tonight, the way the soft fabric clung to my skin. "You think that’s gonna make up for what you did on stage?"

I didn’t look up, kept my gaze focused on my reflection. I wanted to give her nothing. I wanted to return to the calm, collected version of myself—the one that could walk into a room and own it without breaking a sweat. But the truth was, I was already unraveling, piece by piece. And Paige? Paige was the one who had the scissors.

Her voice was a poison, calculated and precise. "So tell me, Y/N, is this your way of proving something? With that little performance of yours? You really think you can just walk out there, do your thing, and not expect me to notice?"

But I refused to give in.

“Don’t pretend like you don’t get a kick out of this,” she continued, her tone dripping with challenge. “You’re not fooling anyone, Y/N.”

I let out a slow breath, letting the tension roll off my shoulders like it didn’t matter. I wasn’t going to let her get to me. Not tonight.

“You really think I care?” I finally said, my voice steady, but I could hear the lie in it. The cracks in my calm. My hands clenched into fists at my sides, but I didn’t move.

Paige let out a low chuckle, a sound that made my pulse quicken. She stood from the couch, the smooth, calculated movement of her body almost predatory as she took a step toward me.

“I think you care more than you’re willing to admit.”

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. Because somewhere deep down, she was right.

I was in too deep.

The silence between us stretched, suffocating yet electric, and I refused to meet her eyes, even as I felt the weight of her gaze searing into me. 

The reflection in the mirror, though, was another story. I could see the smirk spreading across her lips like a slow burn—satisfied, triumphant. I hated that damn smirk. It was her weapon, a reminder that no matter how much I tried to hold my ground, she always had the upper hand.

I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing how much it grated on my nerves. Not once did I meet her eyes. Not once did I let her see how badly she was getting under my skin. 

Instead, I focused on the mirror, watching my own reflection, trying to cling to the remnants of composure. I could almost pretend that I wasn’t trapped in this web of tension, but I wasn’t fooling anyone—least of all, Paige.

She didn’t let it go. Her presence shifted, darker, closer. I felt the heat of her body pressing against mine, her chest just barely touching my back, and I bristled at the contact. But I didn't move, didn't flinch. I wouldn’t let her have that.

Her hands slid around my waist, just above the hemline of my mini skirt. The warmth of her touch made my skin prickle, my breath hitching slightly as she pressed her body further against me.

 Every movement was calculated, deliberate. Her hands were claiming me, possessive in the way they moved, gripping the soft curve of my waist with just the right pressure. My heart raced, but I didn't show it. I wouldn't show it.

I let her. I let Paige think she was winning, let her believe she had me right where she wanted me. Her kisses, slow and feather-light, trailed along my skin, familiar, almost too familiar. I knew what this was. I knew the drill.

 She wanted control, wanted to be the one in charge, and I was giving her that—just for a moment. But deep down, I was already ahead. I always was.

I kept my silence, my body still, my expression neutral, and I could practically hear her self-satisfied smirk. She took my lack of response as confirmation. 

"Did I hurt your feelings, baby?" Her voice, dripping with honeyed mockery, made my pulse spike as she pressed a kiss to where my neck met my shoulder.

The way her lips felt against my skin should have been comforting, but instead, it ignited something darker, something more dangerous. She was playing a game, and I was letting her think she was winning, letting her think she had the upper hand. But all I had to do was wait.

Paige didn’t give me any time to breathe. In one swift motion, she turned me in her arms, so I was facing her now, my back pressing up against the edge of the vanity table with a jolt that made my breath catch. 

The shift was urgent, messy, the kind of passion that made the air between us thick with anticipation. I didn’t flinch, though. Instead, I stayed still as she pressed her hips against mine, the pressure making me bite my lip to hold back a reaction.

 Her hands began to roam, tugging, gripping, finding familiar places that made my body betray me.

I could feel the way she took pleasure in it—the way I let her touch me, let her feel me respond to her. My hands gripped the edge of the vanity behind me, fingers curling against the cold wood.

 Paige’s lips found their way back to my neck, and I let her—let her think that she had me, that I was melting into her touch, that I was submitting so easily to whatever game she wanted to play.

I tilted my head back, giving her more access, playing into the illusion, letting her think she was in control. But it was all a lie. I knew exactly what I was doing.

Her kisses were relentless, tracing sweet spots along my neck that made my breath hitch and my body tremble. 

Her hands slid around to grip my ass through the fabric of my skirt, and I couldn't suppress the soft noise that slipped past my lips—one she loved, one she craved. 

Paige was a menace, always knowing exactly where to touch, how to make me fall into this web of tangled emotions, of lust and anger and everything in between.

Her lips trailed up my neck, slow, deliberate, marking their territory, moving toward my jaw. The warmth of her breath on my skin made my chest tighten, but I could feel the moment approaching, the moment when I would stop this game. 

Just when her lips were about to claim mine, I opened my eyes, my gaze slicing through the thick haze of desire like a blade through silk.

I tilted my head to the side, deliberately slow, a teasing pout curling at my lips—a cruel mimicry of surrender. Our mouths were barely a breath apart, the ghost of contact lingering in the air between us.

If it had been any other night, I would have caved, let her take what she wanted, let myself get lost in her touch. But tonight wasn’t any other night. Tonight, I was the one pulling the strings.

Paige froze, her breath hitched, her eyes flickering with confusion, frustration—searching for confirmation, for any sign that she still had me wrapped around her finger. But I refused to give her that satisfaction.

“I’m not your toy, baby,” I murmured, my voice a quiet storm, steady and unwavering. The weight of my words settled between us like a final warning.

For a moment, nothing existed but the shallow, ragged cadence of our breathing. I watched the disbelief flicker in her eyes, the realization creeping in like a slow-moving tide, threatening to pull her under. 

She didn’t move at first. But then, the smirk she always wore like armor cracked, faltering, and I pushed her back—gently, yet firm enough to carve a space between us, a boundary she had never encountered before.

Her chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, her lips parted slightly in stunned silence. My gaze stayed locked onto hers, heavy with something she wasn’t used to seeing in me—control. And worse—rejection.

A slow smirk ghosted across my lips as I turned away, pivoting toward the vanity behind me. Paige wasn’t far enough for there to be real distance, so when I leaned forward, fixing my reflection with careful precision, the curve of my ass hovered dangerously close to her front—just barely not touching. 

A whisper of temptation. A reminder of what she wouldn’t have tonight.

I adjusted my hair, smoothed my lipstick, acting as if her presence didn’t unnerve me in the slightest. The silence behind me was deafening, thick with unsaid words, unfinished games.

Satisfied, I straightened, meeting her eyes in the mirror, the corner of my mouth twitching with something smug and unforgiving. I turned, stepping past her, my fingers barely grazing the fabric of her sleeve as I moved toward the door.

Pausing in the doorway, I glanced back just once, my voice laced with something light, but sharp enough to leave a mark.

“You know where the exit is.”

And with that, I was gone.

The air outside the dressing room was thick, suffocating, despite the hum of excitement still pulsing beneath my skin. The second the door clicked shut behind me, sealing her inside,

I exhaled—a slow, deliberate release of breath that did little to steady the riot inside me. The hallway stretched ahead, a blur of dim, flickering lights and the distant hum of voices, but I moved through it like I was weightless, like my body hadn’t fully caught up to the gravity of what I’d just done.

I left her there—just like she had left me a thousand times before.

The symmetry of it should have satisfied me, should have made the ache in my chest shrink, but it didn’t. Instead, it spread—slow and creeping, like ink seeping into paper.

A stagehand passed by, tossing me a wide grin. “Insane show, Y/N. You killed it.”

I nodded, murmuring a thanks that barely scratched the surface of my lips. Their words felt distant, muted by the steady pounding of my heartbeat. My hands, wrapped in rings that glinted under the fluorescent lighting, flexed at my sides, still buzzing from the way she had looked at me.

Paige, sitting there like she had all the time in the world, like she had been expecting me to cave—to melt under her gaze the way I always had before.

But tonight, I hadn’t melted.

Tonight, I had watched the cracks form in her armor, had seen the exact moment realization settled in—that she no longer held the leash she thought she did. That I wasn’t hers to summon at will.

I made my way through the labyrinth of the backstage corridors, my heels clicking against the polished floors.

The air was thick with the scent of sweat, perfume, and something electric—an aftershock of the show still clinging to the walls. But none of it compared to the static lingering on my skin, the ghost of her gaze burning into me long after I had walked away.

The night unraveled in a blur after that. The dressing room, the press, the distant hum of a celebration I couldn’t bring myself to care about. People talked, laughed, congratulated me, but I wasn’t there. Not really.

Because in the back of my mind, Paige was still sitting on that leather couch, still staring at the door I had walked out of, still replaying my words like a cruel, looping melody.

I’m not your toy, baby.

I wondered if she had stayed there for long, if she had run her hands through her hair in frustration, if she had exhaled sharply the way she always did when things didn’t go her way. If she had sat in the silence, replaying every moment between us with that same restless, hungry energy I had spent years suffering under.

And then the days stretched into weeks.

Paige didn’t call.

Didn’t text.

But she didn’t need to. Because I knew she had seen it.

The internet had erupted like an uncontained wildfire, speculation running rampant in the wake of my performance. Every move, every lyric dissected, pulled apart, devoured by fans and gossip columns alike.

The video of me on stage went viral within hours—the way I sang with fire in my voice, like the words had been ripped from my ribs, like I needed this to be heard.

The analysis was relentless.

"Did you see the way she looked toward the VIP section? SHE WAS SINGING TO SOMEONE." "The way Y/N sang that line… she meant that. You could feel it." "Purple lace bra. PAIGE’S FAVORITE COLOR. The way she moved during that part? She knew exactly what she was doing." "Paige was in the crowd. You think she didn’t feel that?? That wasn’t just a song; that was a message."

The evidence stacked, theory after theory, fans pulling together every little thread like detectives unraveling a scandal.

Then came the videos of Paige at my concert—sitting in the shadows of the VIP section, her eyes locked on me like a predator watching its prey.

She hadn’t moved much, hadn’t reacted outwardly, but the cameras had caught enough. The sharp set of her jaw. The tight grip on her knee. The way her chest had risen just a little too sharply when I had turned in her direction.

I should have ignored it. Should have turned my phone off, drowned out the noise, let the world do what it did best—talk.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I let myself scroll. Let myself watch the videos, read the tweets, trace over every blurry, stolen moment that confirmed what I already knew.

She had felt it.

I pictured her in some dimly lit room, scrolling through the same chaos, lips pressed into a thin line, fists clenching as she watched the world speculate about us.

Wondering if she was regretting every moment that led up to this—the push and pull, the endless games, the times she had left me in bed, tangled in sheets and longing, only to disappear without a word.

Well, now she knew what it felt like.

And yet…

I missed her.

Not in the soft, romanticized way people spoke about heartbreak. Not in a way that felt poetic or tragic.

I missed her like a craving, sharp and unrelenting. Like something I had been forcibly weaned off, left to suffer the withdrawal.

I missed the way she would’ve laughed at all this—at the internet’s obsession, at the way people were tearing their hair out trying to figure out what we both already knew.

I missed the way she would have leaned in, breath hot against my ear, whispering, "Look what you did, baby."

But I wouldn’t break first.

She had spent years teaching me patience, teaching me the pain of waiting, of wanting. Now, it was her turn.

I stood in front of my mirror, makeup wiped clean, skin bare, exhaustion weighing heavy in my bones. My reflection stared back at me, lips curling at the edges with something dark, something smug.

You know where the exit is.

I wondered how long it would take before she found herself standing at my door.

𖥔 J'S JOURNAL 𖥔

Dear sweets,

this was a quick write--- well more of a get done to test the waters fic. But, here's my first Paige Buecker's fic <3

Not sure if I should leave it as it is or write a second part and make y'all happy...

Anyway's please let me know :)

P.S my main account is: @angelshxt. Thought the wifey deserved a separate blog, so here it is :p

xoxo,

J.

© sweettu1ips.tumblr 2025 do not copy, translate or claim any of my writing or works as your own.

[priscilladawn]

𝐎𝐥𝐝 𝐃𝐨𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐍𝐞𝐰 𝐃𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐬

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐎𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐫!𝐑𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐍𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐛𝐨𝐫 𝐋𝐞𝐨𝐧 ♡ 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠!𝐓𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐋𝐞𝐨𝐧 𝐊𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐝𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫—𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬. 𝐀 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐛𝐚𝐝 𝐣𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐩 𝐛𝐚𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐬, 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐲𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐲 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬. 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐬, 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐫. 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠, 𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭, 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐧𝐨 𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐲 𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐨𝐰. 𝐋𝐞𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐧𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩��𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐦—𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐞. 𝐍𝐨𝐰, 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐬𝐨 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐠𝐨.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐎𝐧𝐞 - 𝐂𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐢𝐞𝐬 & 𝐂𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐞

The smell of roasted brewed coffee filled the air of Leon’s almost empty home. There wasn’t much inside—A couch, wooden dining table, two chairs, his bed, and that was simply it. He was a man, he didn’t do any of that girly decorating stuff, the bare minimum was good enough for him. Yawning as the sun peeked through the bedroom windows, lifting his shirt over his head with a sigh. 

Picking up his belt from the floor, groaning at the strain on his back, this Sunday was just like every Sunday before. A faint feminine scent left in his sheets, clothes thrown all over the floor, and a hangover that repeatedly pounded his head. Calloused fingers sliding his belt through his dark colored jeans loops, running a hand through tousled hair once buckled up. The morning was just like any other—before the doorbell interrupted his thoughts.

Mumbled curses under his breath, Leon was about to lose his shit. Who in the world would be knocking on his door this early in the morning? The sun was just barely peeking over the mountains, and those stupid door to door salesmen were already hard at work. Heavy thumps echoed throughout the home, fiddling with the locks on the door before being met with a sigh he thought he’d never be able to see again.

You. Standing in front of his door with a rosy blush on her cheeks, clearly a little scared and very shy. Holding a small heart shaped box of cookies in her hands, a pink summer dress hanging off of her body and swinging with the fresh spring breeze.

“L-Leon…H-Hi! Good morning! I made you cookies!”

your voice soon broke, a witty smile on your face as you brought the plastic heart shaped box forward, the wind chimes hanging from your front yards magnolia tree hitting his ears. 

“I-It’s just a little thank you for…U-Um…Helping me move in!”

You explained a little bit, realizing you probably sounded a tad bit silly and like a total weirdo saying she just made him cookies. They didn’t know each other that well…So, it was deemed to be awkward. Especially with your shy personality. Of course Leon knew it was for that reason, it was evident, but still, he stayed silent. How adorable it was to watch her little mind work its gears…Try to think of something to say to not make things awkward, even if they weren’t. Chuckling to himself before revealing a smirk that he couldn’t contain, he just had to have a quick laugh at her.

“Thank you sweetheart. Oh wow, these look amazing. You really put your whole heart into this hm?”

Leon questioned with an eyebrow raised, reaching out to grab the small box. Looking down through the clear plastic packaging, seeing all of the different types of cookies she had baked just for him. Basic chocolate chip, jelly heart centers, and snickerdoodle. Smiling to himself before looking back up at her sparkling eyes, opening the door wider as if inviting you in.

“Wanna come on in? I just brewed some coffee, we can share these over a cup.”

The hinges on the door creaked as he pushed the door back, signaling with his hand that she was allowed to walk inside if she pleased. He didn’t wanna scare the poor girl, she already looked shy and hesitant enough. Leon was gonna change that, finally letting your shoulders rest and your back not be so tight.

“Sure! Um, t-that sounds really nice…I’m not a big coffee drinker, but thank you for the offer Leon.”

With a bright grin, you nodded your head happily, so eager to learn more about your mysterious neighbor. Like…What was that noise coming from his home last night? Just kidding. Of course you wouldn’t ask that. That’s just stupid. And plus, you didn’t wanna be hated immediately.

“More for me then.”

A deep grumble escaped his throat, hearing the click of her heels hit the old wooden floor, closing the door behind her like a true man before leading the way. Your eyes wandered; waiting for something that gave you a hint about him. But the bare white walls, minimum decoration, and the empty beer bottles on the coffee table in front of the couch already explained enough about the type of man Leon was, or is.

Walking down the hall into the kitchen felt like a boring uneventful trip. Leon didn’t have a sense of style, or even decor. What more could you expect from a guy in his mid forties? Let alone a retired one? Yeah, he was fine with what he had, which was the important part.

Sitting in the chair Leon pulled out for her, thanking him sweetly with her soft voice barely above a whisper. Adjusting the skirt of that pink frilly dress, keeping up with her adorable little feminine fashion style that made everyone’s head turn, yet it suits you so well.

Ceramic plates in hand, he sat down right across from you at the table. Legs of the wooden chair scraping against the kitchen floor. The bones in his hand flexing with each movement, even setting down a plate in front of you caused your mind to race with a million thoughts, making something deep within you feel a certain way, a way you've never even felt that caused the hairs on the back of your neck to stand up and your spine to shiver. 

A gumble from Leon’sthroat immediately threw you out of that horny girl dazed state.Eyes becoming alert, locking back onto Leon as he picked up one of the strawberry jam cookies with the adorable heart in the center, each one having a different jam filling. You were looking at him with those pleading puppy eyes he couldn't resist without even knowing, head tilted to the side, mouth slightly agape. Twiddling with your fingers in your lap, waiting for him to just say something to get this awkward silence out of your environment.

“Mm…These are absolutely delicious sweetheart. What do you put in here? That’s a hazard around me right there…”

Leon playfully committed on your cookies, smiling whilst chewing, immediately going in for another bite as soon as he was done talking. Relief washed over your body as he finally spoke up, grinning and letting out a witty chuckle. Shoulders relaxing, delicate fingers pushing your hair back behind your ear, straightening back up as a witty chuckle escaped past the gap of your lips.

“Really? Thank you…I-It’s my own secret recipe, nothing bad in it, I-I promise!”

With another laugh, you leaned forward once again and smiled. Adjusting your position in the chair, opening your mouth to say something, yet his sharp voice cut you off without another thought. 

“I know doll, I’m joking with you. Ah shit–You sure you don’t want anything to drink?”

Cursing underneath his breath, Leon soon realized how much of a jackass he was being, completely forgetting to offer you anything. Standing up, grabbing a glass  from the barley filled kitchen cabinet, opening the fridge and looking around to name off the beverages inside. “I got…Milk, juice, water, whatever you want.”

“Um–Water please.”

Nodding, Leon grabbed the pitcher filled with water in his hand, pouring it into the glass cup before setting it down right in front of you. “Here you go doll, if you need anything else don’t be shy to ask.”

“Thank you…You’re too kind.” 

Embarrassingly enough, you didn’t even wait a good minute before taking a sip. Soft gulps echoing throughout the kitchen as the cold liquid ran down your esophagus, his familiar chuckle ringing in your ears as he spoke up once more.

“No, not at all. If anything, I need to be even more.”

Leon leaned back slightly in his chair, that same easy smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His fingers drummed softly against the ceramic mug in front of him, as if there was a rhythm to the comfort he brought into the room—unintentionally or not.

With a snicker of your own, you smiled as you set the glass down gently on the wooden table. The way Leon’s charismatic self would make soft little jokes warmed your heart, even if most of them weren’t laugh-out-loud funny. Who didn’t love a good dad joke, anyway? His humor was old-fashioned, sure—definitely more on the “uncle at a barbecue” side of the spectrum—but that made it even more endearing.

“How is moving in coming along? Do you need help with anything else?” he asked, tilting his head ever so slightly. The genuine tone in his voice made your heart flutter. He wasn’t asking out of politeness. He actually wanted to help.

You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and looked down bashfully at your lap before responding. “Oh, I-it’s good. I’m pretty much settled in, just need a few more things. But I’m okay, thank you.”

Leon nodded slowly, but there was a spark of amusement in his eyes—he wasn’t buying it.

“You sure? I’ve seen you in the backyard lately,” he said, leaning forward slightly as his tone took on a teasing edge. “Those garden beds aren’t gonna build themselves, sweetheart.”

Your eyes widened slightly, cheeks flushing with embarrassment at having been caught. “O-Oh..! I-I know! It’s just been a little hard…I’ve just been lazy, how embarrassing to admit.”

He chuckled, deep and low. “Not at all. We’ve all been there.”

You offered a sheepish smile in return, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your pink fluffy dress under the table. Before you could try to explain further, Leon continued.

“Want some help?” he offered, reaching across the table to nudge the cookie box closer to you. “I have all the tools and everything—you don’t have to worry, doll. We don’t want you damaging those freshly manicured nails of yours.”

You laughed nervously, shaking your head even as a genuine smile spread across your face. His charm was almost overwhelming in the best way. “Oh, t-that would be lovely! Thank you, Leon. You really don’t need to, I can do it!”

Leon waved off your protests with a shrug and a lopsided grin. “No, no, you’re fine. I can’t have a lady doing the hard work, especially when I’m just sitting around. I’ll be there tomorrow, around this time, alright?”

You hesitated for a moment, then nodded slowly, warmth blooming in your chest. His kindness was the kind that felt rare these days. “It’s not your responsibility, I-I really appreciate it, Leon. Y-Yes, tomorrow is perfect!”

You stood from the chair, his movements following hours before running a hand through his messy dark golden blonde brownish locks.

“Well, I-I have to get going. Thank you so much for the water, and I hope you enjoy the cookies. You can keep the container, it’s okay!”

His smile faltered slightly, not ready for the conversation to end. “So soon? Alright, I understand.”

As he led you toward the door, he looked back at you with that signature smirk softening into something warmer. “You’re welcome, sweetheart. And those cookies are absolutely delicious… If you ever have any extra, bring them over, yeah?”

You giggled, covering your mouth with your hand as you stood up to see follow him out. “I-I will! Thank you, Leon. Have a good day, okay? It was nice meeting up with you!”

“Likewise, doll.” He opened the door for you, sunlight spilling in and casting a golden hue along the floorboards. He gave you one last look, a knowing gleam in his eyes. “See you tomorrow, alright?”

“Mkay,” you said softly. His body leaning against the wall by the doorway. “Bye, Leon. Thank you!”

He winked, the corner of his mouth twitching into that familiar smirk again. “Anytime.”

And with that, the door closed gently behind you, leaving the scent of fresh coffee, cookies, and something entirely unspoken lingering in the air.

𝐓𝐚𝐠’𝐬🏷️: @ctmaw @vesperaominosum @mirainwonderland @levislegislation @sunshinedaisywrites777 @writingwisterias @danigirls-missions

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 - Ahhh I finally posted chapter 1 everyone! 🥹 I apologize that this has taken me so long, I have been on my honeymoon with my husband! I’ve been taking everything easy, but I hope you all enjoy! If there is anything I messed up, did wrong, missed, etc, please kindly inform me! Thank you all so much! Love you and stay safe!! 💝 (P.S, if you can tell which parts I wrote half asleep, and which parts I wrote whilst super focused, you get a cookie! 🍪)

[bitchinbarzal]

Anchor | W Nylander

summary: no matter what happens, she is his anchor.

-

The drive home feels longer than usual.

William’s hands grip the steering wheel tighter than they need to, his knuckles pale under the dim glow of the dashboard lights. The city passes by in a blur of streetlights and neon signs, but all he sees are the missed plays, the turnovers, the way the puck seemed to avoid his stick like a magnet repelling metal.

The loss wasn’t entirely on him—hockey is a team sport—but he can’t shake the weight of it. He should have been better, should have made smarter decisions, should have done something to change the outcome.

His fingers tap against the wheel impatiently as he stops at a red light. He could already picture the headlines, the way the media would dissect his performance, how the fans would take to social media to question his contract, his place on the team, his worth.

It’s exhausting.

By the time he finally parks outside their apartment, his body feels leaden with fatigue. He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair before finally stepping out into the cold night air. The loss is still a storm cloud hanging over him, but for the first time since leaving the rink, he feels a sliver of relief.

Because inside, she’s waiting for him.

As soon as he steps through the door, warmth envelops him—not just from the heat of their home, but from the scent of something home-cooked lingering in the air, from the soft hum of a playlist she must have put on while she waited for him.

And then there’s her.

She’s standing in the kitchen, wearing one of his old t-shirts that swallows her. A soft, content smile spreads across her lips when she sees him.

“Hey, you” she murmurs, wiping her hands on a dishtowel before padding over to him.

The second she’s close enough, William melts into her, wrapping his arms around her waist and burying his face in the crook of her neck. She smells like vanilla and something sweet, something comforting, and for the first time all night, he exhales without the weight of frustration behind it.

She doesn’t say anything about the game.

She doesn’t ask how he’s feeling, doesn’t try to dissect what went wrong, doesn’t offer empty platitudes about how he’ll get them next time.

She just holds him.

And that’s exactly what he needs.

After a moment, she pulls back slightly, just enough to tilt her chin up and look at him properly “Rough night?” she asks gently, her fingers reaching up to tuck a stray piece of hair behind his ear.

He nods “Yeah”

She studies him for a moment before looping her arms around his neck and standing on her toes to press a soft kiss to his jaw “I made your favourite” she whispers against his skin “Figured you might need something good tonight”

William’s chest tightens, something warm and unfamiliar creeping into the spaces where exhaustion and frustration had settled.

She always does this. Always seems to know exactly what he needs, even before he does.

He follows her into the kitchen, watching as she plates up food for both of them. She slides a plate in front of him and takes the seat beside him, resting her chin in her hand as she watches him eat.

The silence is comfortable.

“Sorry I’m such shit company tonight” he murmurs after a few minutes.

She frowns slightly, reaching over to squeeze his hand “You’re not”

William lets out a small, humorless chuckle “I feel like I am”

She shakes her head, squeezing his fingers again before intertwining them with hers “You had a bad game. That doesn’t change anything for me”

He glances up at her, his heart squeezing at the softness in her gaze.

“I don’t love you because you score goals or make perfect plays” she continues “I love you because you’re you. And win or lose, bad game or good game, that’s never going to change”

His throat tightens.

He thinks about how easy it would be to let himself spiral after a night like this, how easily self-doubt could creep in and settle into the cracks of his mind.

But then there’s her.

His constant. His safe place. His home.

“That’s why I love you” he whispers, his voice barely above a breath.

She tilts her head slightly, waiting for him to continue.

“Because you make everything feel better. You don’t care if I played bad or amazing, you’re just… happy to see me” His voice is thick with emotion, his free hand reaching out to cup her cheek “You’re my anchor”

She leans into his touch, her eyes warm, her lips curling into a soft smile.

“Always” she murmurs, pressing a kiss to his palm “You’ll always be my number one, on or off the ice”

And in that moment, with her sitting beside him, her hand wrapped around his, the weight of the night no longer feels so heavy.

Because no matter what happens out there, in here, he’s already won.