#something like from good things-to bad things-to good ones again

[jellyfishline]

Sorry for adding unsolicited advice, but one of the most valuable things I've learned as a writer is how to push over this kind of block! So I'm gonna share a few strategies that have helped me, and might help other people too!

Strategy one: skip over it.

Literally don't write a transition. Just skip to the next interesting scene. Promise yourself you'll go back and write a smooth transition later. A shocking amount of the time when I come back to edit I find that I don't even need more of a transition at all. Sometimes, your brain is so stuck in the story that it doesn't want to leave any negative space, but the negative space of a new scene, a new chapter, or a new paragraph is what the story craves.

Strategy two: just describe it.

Don't try to write it nicely, prettily, or well. Write like you're making an instruction manual, or notes for an actor in a screenplay. Write "and then they walked into the room." Write "and the conversation was over." Write "the next day, [blank] happened." Again, a shocking amount of the time for me, writing it in plain language turns out to be what the story needed. And if it does need more detail, you can always add that detail later! It is so much easier to add frills once you've got the bedrock of a scene in place.

Strategy three: just dialogue.

Idk how often this happens to other people, but I often get tripped up trying to juggle dialogue, actions, body language, and internal monologue when writing. When that happens, I switch to writing just the dialogue in short exchanges, no dialogue tags or description, with only paragraph breaks and punctuation to structure it. This both frees me up from the paralysis of trying to write everything at once, and has the added benefit of really honing in on character voices. I love to try to give all my major characters a distinctive enough voice that you can work out who's talking by the cadence of their speech, even without dialogue tags.

Strategy four: outline it.

This is sort of an expanded version of strategy two. If you're really struggling, or if this transition is something you know is going to take a whole scene or a whole chapter and more than just a line or two of description, pause to write out the events in a short, descriptive, beat-by-beat way. "They talked. They argued. No one listened to each other. They all went to bed frustrated." Sometimes this beat-by-beat plotting will transform into something you can really use--fragments of dialogue, a solid description, a realization that you can restructure so an important piece of information doesn't actually have to go here--but if not you still have a workable framework to either propel you into the next scene or start building up into a meatier bit of prose.

Strategy five: just do it.

Putting this strategy at the end because while I think it’s a lot of writers' first instincts when coming up to a roadblock, I also think the inability to force ourselves through the boring miserable bits of writing and "just do it" is a major reason why projects get abandoned. Sometimes, you might find yourself in a position where you really do just have to write your way out of the problem you've made for yourself. In those cases, I think it’s a good idea to take a deep breath, be generous with yourself, and applaud yourself for showing up, even if you're only writing a sentence or two every day. Writing is hard! Even professionals have bad days. You don't have to burn yourself out putting words on a page. Take the pressure to perform off yourself, and just write what you can. Eventually you'll get past it, and the words will flow again.

writing is so funny because i could write nonstop for 9hrs and then hit a block where im like "how do i transition between this moment and the next?" and then i just dont touch it for 6 months

[willwasnotfound]

Other kind of demon

DAAAAAMN, I just invented this today and it's waaay crazy that it has so many likes :'v (at least for me) Thank you everyone for reading this, I promise I'll do my best to give you all whatever you want, again, sorry for any mistakes, english is not my first language! Prologue, Chapter 2

The souls you left behind

Calling Y/N the new member of huntrix was both wrong and correct at the same time, she still sang by herself, but started to release a lot of songs with the girls, and that was enough for the fame of both to increase.

She not only was a great singer, she was great at composing and writing, she made up song for both, Huntrix and her, loving the recognition it got her.

Pop/Stars was just the begining, she wrote more and more, ironically, More was the next song she wrote, inviting a chinese singer that was also rising up on the industry, making it one of the biggest hit on the charts.

Tonight Huntix had an important show, it would be the last before taking an important break that they needed reaaally bad.

“Everyone look alive.” Bobby, the manager of the group, said to the concert staff backstage making sure everything is perfect for the performance of the group. 

“All right. Looking good over there. Okay. Ready? Ready. But where are the girls?” Bobby, double checked everything around the arena and looked on his phone to see any updates from the girls. 

“What? What? Where are they going?” Only to see on his phone that the plane of Huntrix was going out of track on its destination. "Y/N! Did the girls told you something??" Bobby kept freaking out, searching the mentioned girl.

"I think they just might have problems." Y/N called the girls, and they answered quickly.

"Hi Y/N!" The tree girls greeted her with a smile, then Bobby as he appeared on the screen too. "Hi Bobby!"

"Yeah, hi! Uhm, what are you doing?" Y/N passed her phone to Bobby, just leaving to backstage and prepare some stuff, she already knew what might happen. "We're about to eat our preshow ramyeon." Rumi turned the phone to show the food they had on their jet.

"Pre-show? What about the show-show?" Suddenly, the phone was stealed from him from some fans, and he foughted to have it back.

Then Y/N appeared again, helping Bobby to have the phone back and also talking with the girls. "Hey, need some help opening?" She quickly appeared on the screen, to which the girls nodded.

"Yeah, I think we've got a plague." Mira turned to face the flight attendants clearly annoyed.

"We owe you one!" Zoey smiled brightly to then end the call.

"So?" Bobby stood aside from her, trying to calm down, if Y/N was calm it was probably a good thing.

"I'm going to open the show, don't overthink, 'kay Bobby?" Y/N went straight to the stage. "Please, put on the track." She talked to a staff behind Bobby, he only nodded, and encouraged Y/N.

The fans were screaming in excitement, they had expected her to be there, yes, but not that soon, and as the final note rang out she signaled to the sky, noticing the figures of the main evente and calling for the public to also look at them.

"Look up at the sky, I present to you, Huntrix!" With that, a cloud of smoke raised in the area, from which a demon emerged falling between spectators, along with the girls on stage, interpreting "How it's done." Zoey quickly killed the demon, making it go 'puff' and explode into confetti, pleasing the fans.

As Rumi reached the highest note, they could see golden in the Honmoon, smiling excited as their goal seemed so close. The rest of the concert went normally, the first songs were the ones that shared with Y/N, after that, she leaved the stage to take a break.

She was tired, she got rid of Gwi-Ma, yes, but somehow she kept hearing voices, not from her mind, it was like the demons that the Huntrix girls slained runed to her, to find another demon on the realm to rest.

Y/N was not a normal demon, that's for sure. She actually devoured souls, but probably not like Gwi-Ma did, or at least she wasn't really sure about that, perhaps he did hear the agony and enjoyed it.

So yeah, that's exactly what happened to Y/N, somehow she fed herself by demons, unlike whatever she thought and told the hunters- It was like they knew what she was, and didn't wanted to let her go, remembering all she was before even becoming a demon, she didn't want that, she tought she would forget, and yet, the more she leaved all behind, the more it seemed to chase her.

The concert finished, and she reunited with the girls after they left their staff behind.

"Hey Y/N!" Zoey went to hug her tightly, being followed by smiles of the other two.

"Thanks for saving our ass, the concert could go wrong without you." Mira patted his back. "No problem, I'm glad to help you." Y/N pulled apart from the hug, the girls started to walk away to the car that would leave them on their penthouse.

"Do you want to come over with us? We'll be having an important meeting with our couch." Zoey jumped happily next to the girls.

"I wouldn't like to bother you, thanks." Y/N brushed off and keep walking behind them. "Also, I have some stuff to do, I need to write some things and then just sleep."

"But I thought you didn't need to sleep?" Zoey tilted her head slightly, being followed by Mira.

"When I hadn't take a break for days I do need to rest." Y/N sighed and waved at them as she saw how they got into the car. "But have a nice rest on your couch." She chuckled.

"Okayy, be safe!!" Zoey said already on the car, after a bit losing track of their friend.

"I'm a demon, I think I can take care of myself." Y/N turned into a shadow, starting to roam through the city.

She did'nt lie to the girls, she was in fact tired, but everyday she did a patrol just to be sure that demons weren't around.

This world was now hers to protect, and it was just because she accepted to be with the hunters, if not, god knows what would have happened.

And suddenly, she felt a presence. No, not one, five. They were demons for sure, she could sense them, and even as a shadow, she knew they could see her too, they were just like her, humans with deals to seal.

"I know you're watching me." Y/N stopped and showed her human form, her eyes shined with that golden light as she searched for the ones behind that presence. "Show yourself." And as she barely turned around she found them, five male demons standing in there, their patterns shining just like their eyes, she was basically surounded, all because she let her guard down.

Shit.

Ngl, I improv half of this cuz I started to disociate through it, I'm so sorry if there are errors, I really tried my best to make it have sense :'v

Umm, I don't know, let me know if you liked it or not! I''l try to get my writting habilities better, I'm not perfect at english grammar T-T

Taglist: @just-set-things-on-fire, @gremlinartstudio, @latisthegenderfluidwannabealone, @katzline

[nogutsnogloria]

summary: the pressure to get pregnant is getting to you. jack slows it all down.

jack abbot x reader

a/n: winner of the poll from the other day. i am not too sure i love this but if i stare at it one more day the whole thing is getting deleted.

warnings: bad writing. struggling to conceive. talks of infertility. happy ending.

this is the period from hell. it’s the worst one you’ve had in a while, only adding fuel to the fire that you weren’t pregnant. another month of failure, another month having to tell jack your body can’t produce what the two of you have been hoping for.

the cramps, migraine, nausea, and slightly elevated body temperature are all punishment this month. you were curled in the bathroom on the floor but now have found your way out to the couch. jack is working night shift so you won’t see him until the morning where you can break the news. so you just curl up on the couch not even bothering for the comfort of bed and cry until you exhaust yourself out enough to fall asleep.

jack comes home at his usual time after shift. he notices the house is still dark which isn’t totally uncommon, you sleep past seven on occasion. so he unlocks the door and quietly enters the house, dropping his bag by the door and hanging his jacket up on the hook next to yours.

he is surprised by your sleeping figure on the couch in the living room as that is not where you should be sleeping. upon a quick inspection he can see that you have been there all night. he also notices your almost fetal position which is a tell tale sign to him that you are dealing with cramps, he would know more of the severity once he went and checked in the bathroom for which pain killer was used this time.

his heart breaks for you, he knows you have been taking each month harder than the last when it comes to not conceiving. his physician brain lets him see this more clinically. you have only been trying for six months which really isn’t long in the scheme of things especially considering how irregular your cycle was, he’s a bit older which might have a factor, but the two of you were just checked over and neither of you had anything to worry about while trying to conceive, the timing just hasn’t been quite right on both of your parts.

you just see it as your body not doing something it was made to do, and you don’t like to do things if you are not good at them, you would even call yourself a failure over a thing like this which jack hated. he wanted to give you a three hour lecture until you understand how this doesn’t make you a failure that this is an experiment where you two haven’t quite gotten the formula and science down perfect yet. he has half a mind to find every ovulation and pregnancy test that has been taunting you and hide them all where you won’t find them for a while. he still might do that when he wakes up in the afternoon because he knows that this pressure that you have put on yourself is not constructive and it’s just breaking you piece by piece, which is breaking him to stand by and helplessly watch.

he decides he will make himself a quick bite to eat before taking you to bed and sleeping whatever is going on off together. he’s busy plating his eggs when he feels you press the side of your face into his back wrapping your arms around his middle. he feels a small smile creep on his face at being wrapped around, he reaches behind him so that he can pull you into his side and kisses the side of your head. “good morning, love. do you want breakfast? i can share.” he feels you shake your head. “no thank you, i’m not hungry.” jack nods. “how are you feeling?” he rubs your back and looks down at you.

he can feel you frown into his side. “i got my period” jack knows that answer and the tone of your voice means the period is bad, the mental health is also bad. “how about we go back to bed and we talk about it when we wake up?” he feels you wrap your arms around him tighter. “i just woke up.” he moves his hand up and down your side again. “i know but i think we should go back to sleep for a bit, you couldn’t have had that great of a sleep on the couch, and i am going to be selfish and say i sleep better beside you anyways.” you look up and give him a little smile, it doesn’t quite reach your eyes which kills him a little but he knows you just need a bit of time.

he drags you into the bedroom and tucks you in with a kiss on the forehead. peeling away so that he can clean up after his shift. he sees on the bathroom counter is the prescription grade painkiller for the cramps and migraine that you probably won’t tell him you have. he quickly showers off his day and grabs a dose along with a glass of water for you and heads back to the bedroom.

you are back curled on your side with your back towards him so he comes over to your side with the water and meds. “ideally you’d eat something with this, i am not going to force food down your throat if you’re not feeling well which i can only assume what is happening here, but can i interest you in anything? one of those granola bars you pack in your lunch, the fruit snacks even?” you look at the medication in his hand and then up to his eyes. “can i please have a banana?” he smiles at you. “even better. i will be right back.” he comes back with a banana sliced with half the slices covered in peanut butter and hands you the plate. “thank you, i really don’t deserve you.” you sigh as you take a bite. jack tilts his head with a frown, because you deserve anything you want but he’s trying to find the right way to say it because he knows all you want right now isn’t as easy as a snack. you can’t ask be pregnant and it magically just show up on a plate.

jack grabs the ankle that you have poking out of the covers and gives it a squeeze. “i’m here for you. you know that right? you don’t need to be fighting this alone. the last thing i want is for you to be beating yourself up about this, we have both been checked and there is nothing medically stopping this from happening we just need to stop putting so much pressure on it. i think we should hide the tests under the sink for a couple of months and take a trip for the next ovulation period? maybe somewhere warm, just get away.”

you nod at him with tears in your eyes. “i think you’re right, i just don’t know how to not put pressure on it. the problem is that i want it more than anything, i don’t know if i can take the disappointment again.” jack crawls into bed so he can hold you close. he lays on his back and pulls you onto his chest so he can rub your back and massage your scalp, any form of comfort he can think to do. “you should probably hide the tests. if i know where they are I’m not so sure i will be able to ignore them.” he places a kiss to the top of your head. “i can do that, i will do it after we wake up.” he finally feels you relax in his arms. “i love you jack. thank you for being everything and more that i need.” you feel him drop another kiss to the side of your head. “i love you too. if you were all i get to have in this life i would die the happiest man over and over.”

when the two of you wake up in the afternoon jack goes and hides the tests you have stashed under the sink and places them up in a high cupboard that you never go into because you can’t reach. he pulls out his laptop and the two of you book a little trip to tulum for right when your next ovulation phase should technically be. when the time comes you are too busy counting all the freckles the sun has brought out on his body to even pay attention to what day it was in your cycle.

eight weeks after that you ask him to find one of the tests he hid only because you felt a little off, jack is pretty sure he knew 3 weeks ago but was waiting for you to clue in. you guess the saying “it happens when you aren’t trying” is true.

[kiyuhai]

iwaizumi, Osamu, and kuroo(if you write for him) with a s/o that has mochi-like (face😭) cheeks?!

note. hi!! thanks for the ask hehe<3 honestly, it would range with squishing and biting. they get cuteness aggression. tbh, me too.

Iwaizumi Hajime

It was the first thing he noticed from you. Round cheeks that remind him of…. Hajime looked at the mochi in his hands, and slowly raised it up to compare it to your cheeks, even from far away. “.... Mochi.”

Oikawa gives him a look, glances over to where he was staring, then grins. “Ah, did you mean [Name]-san?”

“Is that her name?”

“Yes?? Do you think her name was mochi or something?”

“Well, she looks like one.”

--

“So is that why you call me mochi? I thought it was just a cute nickname!!” You huff at him, shifting away from him as you pout. Hajime laughs, and scoots closer, only for you to move away. This takes only a few more scoots before you reach the end of the couch and you simply cross your arms and pout. 

He pokes your cheeks, “It is a cute nickname! Because it matches you.” 

You squint. “Are you trying to get on my good side right now, Iwaizumi?” 

“Oh no, not the last name.” Hajime rolls his eyes, but his smile only widens. You catch a glint of mischief in his eyes and freeze.

“What- hold on, what are you doing–” 

Too late. 

He has his hands on your face, squishing and kneading like there’s no tomorrow and you splutter. “Haji?!”

“Shhh, let me squish your very squishy face.”

You pout, but that makes it worse. Resign to your fate, oh, mochi-cheeked lover. 

(when you try to move away, he bites your cheek. Its the cuteness aggression talking.

Osamu Miya

It was his nickname to you, since you were friends and since you started dating. It NEVER went away. “Mochi-cheeks.”

You glare. “I have a name, y’know?!”

“Yeah,” Samu shrugs. “But mochi-cheeks match you better.”

Your cheeks puff out and he grins, pointing to them. “See? Mochi-cheeks.” 

“Ugh, ‘Samu!” 

He just laughs, and reaches over to hold your face in his hands, ultimately squishing your cheeks together. ���‘Samu!!” He squishes your cheeks again, and you groan. 

“What, Mochi-cheeks?”

“Stop– Squisfhing me!” Your words come out muffled when he stretches your cheeks and he simply grins. 

“Nah.”

You narrow your eyes at him and his stupid lopsided grin, but you don’t really do a thing to stop him anyways. So that’s your fault. 

Kuroo Tetsurou

He bites you. Bite you as in, BIG chomp, teeth on your cheeks, and you screech. Loudly. “KUROO!”

Kuroo only smiles, pulling away slightly, a glint in his cat-like eyes and you lower your body, quickly maneuvering yourself away from him. You raise your hands up against him as you say, “Stay! No!"

"What? C'mon, sweets! I'm not gonna do anythin'!"

"No! You're a biiig liar, Kuroo. No! Stay- Bad Kuroo!! Bad- YAH!”

Unfortunately for you, he’s taller, and much more agile, so now he has you in his arms, keeping you in place despite your squirming and attempts to run away. 

You try again, “Kuroo-” the warning in your voice goes unnoticed- more like ignored- and he takes a big bite of your cheeks. 

You screech. 

He laughs. The stupid, hyena laugh. 

You are so gonna kill him.

[mitchmarner-93]

imagine you were a small boy in king’s lynn. your parents are well-off but they’re not rich enough for the kinds of things you want to accomplish. so you put on a suit at fourteen and you make a presentation. A List of Reasons Why You Deserve To Achieve Your Dreams. your parents are too busy to be grown-ups, so you become one. you learn to sell yourself at a young age, because the dream you want is a bussiness at the end of the day. it’s cut throat and bitter and you learn to play by its rules. you learn that you must have value to be worth anything.

you learn that love is a transaction.

so you become good. so good. you win every single race and championship so that everybody has to love you. your reward? a car that’s so bad that you cry when you get your first points. your dream becomes a grind, day-in and day-out. even when you’re so close, you’re so far from winning. but it’s ok, because the promise is that you will one day be in a car that has eight championships, racing alongside one of your heroes. so you have that hunger to prove something. when they call you up for even one race, you’re dynamite. you’re so close to winning, but just like all things in your life, you’re unlucky again. and when you finally make it to that car, your Promised Land, you find the Land is barren. destitute. an illusion. still, you cannot give up on your dream, even when you’re hated by the people whose love you crave. your country has its favourites and it’s not you. but you believe and believe, because no one has ever believed in you and if you don’t, who will? even when you get a rookie wonder boy teammate who gets all the things you never did, you believe. and suddenly, the car is finally good. you taste champagne again, stand on that prized first step. but then. in your home, in your country, you realize the car was never for you.

and you realize that love is still a transaction.

[bitterreid]

🍒 Cherry Red 🍒

Summary: The cars need work, but Eddie is… distracted. By you. And ice cream. --- (This is part two of my mechanic!Eddie series My Clementine, but can be read as a stand-alone!)

Word count: 4.6k (fluff/smut)

Contains: fem!reader x mechanic!Eddie, fingering, oral (f receiving), praise, Eddie is down bad (as he should be), even more incorrect car facts probably, woops, porn w plot

A/N: you guys requested a part two and I am a girl of the people!!! So here it is!!! PLEASE let me know what you think, because I was SO happy reading all the positive feedback on part one :)) and lmk if anyone would want a part 3!!!!! <3

⋆⭒˚.⋆​​🍒 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

Eddie had been going mental.

It had been two days since he last saw you, and Eddie was sure no weekend in his entire life had ever lasted this long. He had laid about, tried not to melt during this ongoing heat wave Hawkins kept trying to drown him in, and mostly just thought of you. Non-stop. Whatever he tried, the image of your pretty face between his thighs kept popping up behind his eyelids every time he so much as blinked.

He was very much aware of how pathetic he was, truly, as he stared at his reflection in his tiny bathroom mirror. His big brown eyes peered back at themselves in the swipe he had cleared off the fogged up glass with his fingers. He touched his hair. Again. And Again, and again and a few hundred times over until he groaned in frustration and dragged his hands down his face. He had probably spent more time grooming himself this morning than he had in the rest of his life.

Unsatisfied with the end result (the heat and humidity made his curls extra puffy), Eddie dragged himself out of the bathroom and to his uncle's van.

"You ready, kid?" Wayne asked as Eddie finally hoisted himself into the passenger's seat.

"Ready as I'll ever be," Eddie mumbled, winding down the window to feel the soft summer breeze on his face. It was only 7:30 in the morning, which meant that the excruciating temperatures that were to come had not yet fully woken up. Instead, Eddie welcomed the mellow warmth on his face, closing his eyes to mentally prepare himself to face you again. 

He had no idea how today would go. Friday had been his literal dream come true, the most beautiful girl he had ever seen had just - somehow - liked his awkward charm enough to give him the best present of his life, but how did he act now? Was it a one time thing? Would you suddenly ignore him now? Eddie felt a sinking feeling at the thought of it. He really liked you, he realised somewhat hesitantly. Because he knew very well that there was a huge difference between a heat-of-the-moment kind of fling and the soft, colourful-winged nerves he felt fluttering around inside his body. He just hoped you felt the same.

⋆⭒˚.⋆⭒˚.⋆

Eddie spent the day on high alert. With every move he made, he was painstakingly aware you could be watching. You weren't, of course, so Eddie looked like a fool every time he turned around in his (definitely not practiced in front of a mirror or anything) movie-like manner, to an empty door frame, or worse, Wayne, who gave him increasingly weirded out looks. 

He was starting to lose hope. Maybe it had meant nothing to you, maybe you had meant nothing by it, maybe you hadn't thought of him at all since that night, maybe you didn't like him, maybe he had done something wrong, maybe he- 

"JESUS! Oh my god- oh you have to stop doing that!" Eddie blurted out, steadying himself on one of the cars. 

You stood beside him, close enough so he could smell the sweet vanilla-like scent of your perfume. You were even more beautiful that he remembered, the ache in his chest told him without uncertainty. And you had a love for scaring the living shit out of him, apparently, as he gathered from the satisfied smile on your lips.

"Hi Eddie, good morning," you said, voice betraying no ill intentions.

"Good morning," was all Eddie managed, paired with a smile he hoped was not as awkward as it was in his mind. This was just typical. He had daydreamed about what to say to you all weekend, played out entire conversations in his head, and now he was reduced to a nervous mess in front of you.

"How are the cars behaving today?" you asked, stalking around the one he was working on, "This one is notorious, if I remember correctly."

"Yeah, yeah, this one's feisty," Eddie said while lightly smacking the side of the car like it was a horse, "she's a real piece of work."

"Hmm," you mused, sitting down on one of the stools in the garage, "she's pretty though."

"Yeah," Eddie wrung the oil and grease stained rag he wiped his hands on between his fingers, "real pretty." It was unclear to himself whether he was still talking about the car. 

Wayne had gone out to fetch a part for one of the Mustangs in the town over, so it was just you and Eddie in the sweltering heat trapped inside the garage. Had you waited until Wayne left to be alone with him? The thought alone made his heart skip a beat. 

"So, uh, how've you been?" was the only sentence his scrambled brain could produce on the spot, somehow. 

You smiled at him as if you saw right through him, "Melting, mostly, what about you?" 

"Yeah, same…" Eddie internally cursed himself for his total lack of social skills, "real uh, real warm." He could about die right now, yeah.

You snickered at him, luckily more in a (dare he say it?) affectionate way than a mean one, to Eddie's surprise and delight. "Right on, Munson," you said, "Hey, would it be okay if I just hung around here for a while? Just reading all alone in an empty house is just a tad sad, you know?" you asked while producing a book, seemingly out of thin air.

Eddie couldn't agree to your request fast enough, "Y-yeah! Sure, sure."

"Alright, don't mind me, don't want to distract you," your smile was sweet, comforting in a warm way that had nothing to do with the temperature.

But distract him, you surely did. Eddie was a mess in your presence, no one needed to spell that out for him, but just the mere fact that you were now sitting a mere few steps away from him messed up his brain to a fatal degree. He spilled oil, screwed bolts on the wrong way, tried to open a hood that was already open, and that was all in the first ten minutes. Meanwhile, you seemed completely unbothered.

But for Eddie, the unspoken events from a couple of days ago hung in between you, making the air he was trying to breathe thick and syrupy. He didn't know what to do with himself, somehow completely enamoured with the simple sight of you reading a book, but nervous to his core when he thought about starting a mere conversation.

He was pulled out of his spiraling thoughts by the sound of you snapping your book shut. You stretched your limbs, your top riding up to expose a sliver of your waist that Eddie was sure would come back to haunt him in his daydreams and nightmares alike. You looked up at him, and Eddie suddenly realised he had been frozen in place, bending over one of the motors, screwdriver in hand, frozen mid-air. He quickly straightened up, going for unbothered and casual. (he was neither)

"Hey so, would you like to go get ice cream later?"

Eddie felt like he had been hit over the head with a lottery ticket. You had just… asked him out. Why didn't that cross his mind? Why didn't he do that? "Yeah!" he blurted, quickly reigning himself back in, "Yeah, sounds nice."

"Great," you smiled at him while you got up from the chair, "I'll come back here around five, yeah?"

"Yeah, great, great," Eddie could hardly school the broad smile on his lips into something less euphoric, "See you then!" 

"See ya."

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

The hours crawled by achingly slow, making Eddie wonder multiple times whether the big grandfather clock was even still working. But then, finally, a quarter to five arrived. He wished he could take you out -was this a date? He still wasn't sure - in an outfit different from his dirty tank top and ripped jeans, but it would have to do. Besides, if he wasn't mistaken, you seemed to have a thing for it?

Anyway, at exactly 4:58, you appeared. You had changed into a flowy sundress, and wow. Eddie marvelled at how the colour brought out the depth in your eyes and complimented the glow of your skin tone perfectly. Simultaneously, he wondered when exactly he had become Shakespeare? He had never noticed these kinds of things before. But then again, it had never been you standing before him.

"Hey Mr. Munson," you greeted Wayne.

"Hey Sweetheart, what are you doing here, shouldn't you be out enjoying your summer?"

"Oh I am, Mr. Munson, promise," you smiled your infectious smile at him, "mind if I borrow your nephew for that tonight?" 

Wayne's eyebrows shot up as he gave Eddie a surprised look over your shoulder. All Eddie could do was smile back sheepishly. It's not like he had wanted to keep it a secret per se, he just didn't want to put up with all the teasing. 

"All yours," he motioned to Eddie, "And I've told you a million times, sweetheart, just call me Wayne."

He packed the last of his things into the truck while you made your way over to Eddie. Before he left, Wayne gave him a pointed look, the same one as when Eddie looked at the expensive cars a little too long. The same one that applied to everything else in this garage, now including you, be careful, boy. 

But Eddie didn't have much time to heed his warning, as you were now standing right before him, and his nervous system once again crashed and burned inside his chest. 

"So, which one?" you quipped.

"Hmm? Which what?" Eddie felt like you always had his brain working overtime.

"Which," you swung the door of the cabinet containing all of the car keys open, "one, Eddie?" 

"No way."

"Yes way," your smile grew even wider, "I'm driving, of course, but it's you pick tonight."

Eddie thought he might spontaneously propose to you right then. Instead, he went on a rant about all the dream cars that were gathered in this room. "Maybe the Camaro! Or the Miata, the Aston Martin, the Carrera 6…" he was almost bouncing from excitement.

You laughed along with him, the affectionate tone seeping back into your voice, "Your pick!"

"Sweetheart, you're making it real hard on me," he half-whined, somewhat finding back his charm, "Any requests from your side?"

"Nope, all yours."

"You're too kind to me," he drawled, "but I bet you already know which one I'm going to pick, right?"

You grinned, taking a key from the cabinet and tossing it in the air, "Thunderbird, of course." 

"Of course," he echoed, now it was his turn to sound fond.

"M'lady," he said as he opened the car door for you.

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

Eddie shouldn't be surprised by your driving skills, logically, you had grown up with all sorts of classic cars around, obviously. But he still was. The genuine smile that took over your face as you shredded through the bends in the country roads made his heart do flips inside his chest. He was, once again, quite aware of how pathetic he was being, sitting there in one of the most beautiful cars he had ever seen, and only looking at your side profile.

When you got to the ice cream shop, it was extremely busy. Heatwave, and all. So you stood in line, and Eddie's nerves seemed to have sufficiently calmed down for him to behave like a semi-normal person again, so he ventured into starting a conversation.

"What flavour are you gonna get?"

You thought it over for a second, "Cherry."

"Cherry?" Eddie craned his neck to see past the cue, "they have that?"

"Yeah," you nodded, "they have all kinds of crazy flavours, way crazier than cherries, I once had strawberry cilantro sorbet here - that was a mistake," you giggle, thinking back. 

"Cilantro??" Eddie exclaimed, "Sorry but anything green does not belong in ice cream." 

"I agree, definitely, but I have this terrible habit of always picking the strangest flavour and then regretting it." you mused, getting closer to the end of the line. "Hey, they have clementine!"

"Clementine?" Eddie barely even knew what a clementine was, but before he could ask you whether that would even taste remotely good, you had already ordered a scoop of it. When it was Eddie's turn, he ordered cherry. 

You walked away from the stall to an area with some benches under the shade of a large tree. Eddie watched as you took the first lick of your bright orange ice cream, and saw in real time as your face went sour.

"I think I did it again," you said after you had swallowed, "this is… this is a crime." The crinkle in your nose made Eddie's lopsided grin even wider.

"Trade?" he offered.

"Would you?" you said, eyes lighting up.

"Hmh," he nodded, "let me taste," you held out the cone and Eddie took a broad lick, trying not to think of any underlying implications and/or flashbacks, and indeed, it was terrible. The ice cream tasted like straight up chemicals, pure food colouring, paint, something like that, and Eddie had to try so hard to school his face into an agreeable expression. "I like it."

"You don't!" you exclaimed, "you can't!" 

"I do, though" he sing-songed, plucking your cone out of your hands and replacing it with his. 

"Did you order cherry just because you knew I'd like it?" you wondered, eyes slightly wide, slightly thrown.

"Maybe," Eddie mumbled before he took a big bite from his ice cream, "just enjoy the cherry for me, alright?" 

"Alright," you said quietly, smiling into your ice cream, "thanks, Eddie." 

Even the chlorine-like taste was worth getting to see you enjoy your bright red treat. 

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

After you had both finished your ice cream (Eddie was so glad it was over), you talked for hours. Afterwards, Eddie couldn't even begin to name the topics, but what remained was a warm, fuzzy feeling, and the fact that you were not only the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen, but also the funniest. Oh and you were so smart, and kind! And Eddie could keep going, but you were currently throwing the keys to the Ford in his direction.

"Fancy a test drive, Munson?" 

"No way! Can I?" Eddie's eyes went comically wide, excitement bubbling up in his chest.

"If you can sit through that ice cream, I think you deserve a ride," you smiled, broad and careless, and Eddie couldn't tell what he was more excited for, driving the car, or more time with you.

When he carefully let himself drop into the driver's seat, he marvelled at the beauty before him, "You're sure?" he had to check.

You just nodded, "Just, never, ever tell my dad. Ever." 

Eddie swallowed, alright, no pressure.

But it was so worth it. Eddie was careful enough in handling the car, luckily, but still managed to rack up speeds that would make Hopper frown, even though he reserved them for the deserted backroads you had directed him to. 

When he had finally had enough of driving (speeding) around with you giggling beside him and your hair swooshing around your face in the wind, it had already gotten dark. He parked the car at the side of the dirt road in the middle of nowhere you were currently on, somewhere between the corn fields.

"Look at the stars!" he exclaimed, as he marvelled at the sight above him. You tipped your head back as well and smiled.

"If you want to stargaze, we should sit in the back, there's more room there" you suggested. And it was an innocent enough suggestion, sure, but Eddie's voice surely thought otherwise when it almost broke at the word "Sure."

So, you climbed into the backseat together, Eddie's long legs still a bit cramped, but there really was more room, he had to admit. You settled into the backseat next to him, and Eddie was almost surprised by how easy it was to put his arm around you. The way you fit into his side made him question why he was so nervous at all, because it just felt right. 

You sat there silently, cuddling up to each other in the faint moon light. It was quiet, serene, almost. Until you shrieked. And jumped. Or, well, as much as you can jump in a car, at least.

"What! What's wrong?!" Eddie exclaimed.

You were frantically swatting around you, "Grasshopper!!!" was the only thing you shrieked, and Eddie would have burst out laughing if you hadn't yelled it so loudly. Still he huffed a little laugh, but wasted no time in helping you catch the thing. Eddie eventually succeeded in capturing it in his hands and throwing it into the fields, bringing peace back to the car. 

"It was, it was just really big," you managed, out of breath from the swatting. But once your wide eyes met Eddie's, you both burst out laughing. 

"He was pretty big, I'll admit," Eddie eventually managed, "But you were really brave, sweetheart." 

You shoved his shoulder, wanting to wipe the teasing grin clean off his face, but you accidentally lost your balance, falling into Eddie's chest. He caught you, and suddenly all giggly, lighthearted giddiness evaporated. Your face was so close to his that he could practically feel the burning of your cheeks reflected on his. 

He was almost lying down already, but with one smooth movement from you, he was now flat on his back, with you on top of him. Your hair softly swayed in the wind as you looked down on him, your smile hovering somewhere between playful and sincere, and Eddie thought that he should take a moment to imprint this sight into his brain forever. Your beautiful face, the stars above you, the soft sounds of crickets in the grass around you, and the bone-deep silence beyond that. 

He smiled up at you, embarrassingly aware of how sappy he was being inside his head, and cupped your cheek with his large, warm hand. You instinctively leaned into his touch, which made his heart flutter, as he slowly caressed your cheek with his thumb. 

After what felt like hours of staring into your eyes, the wind whistling softly through the fields, you draped yourself on top of him and buried your face in his neck, where you - ever so lightly - started planting kisses. Eddie's eyes immediately fluttered closed, not used to the soft, intimate touch, but reveling in it. 

Your kisses slowly grew more heated, your teeth scraping over his pulse point had Eddie writhing beneath you, not being able hold back a whiny moan when you followed the soft sting with careful laps of your tongue. His hands found your waist, softly caressing your curves through the fabric. Just the shape of you, the dip in the small of your back made him go crazy. His hands roamed your body, not quite daring to dip below your waist just yet, but his inhibitions were slowly melting away with the way your mouth attacked his skin.

By now, you were planting open-mouthed kisses on his collarbones, and Eddie had never wanted to bottle a feeling as much as the feeling of your body pressed to his and your mouth on his neck.

When your hand slowly slid between your bodies and you reached for his belt buckle, he stopped you, though. Eddie was a gentleman, of course, and he had been daydreaming about this moment all weekend.

You halted your gentle attack when you felt his fingers curl around your wrist, insecurity flashing in your eyes for just a second before Eddie smiled and said "Not this time, sweetheart, it's time to let me take care of you tonight."

Your eyes went a little wider at his words, and then a lot wider as he grabbed your waist and flipped you over, him now hovering above your frame. The gasp you let out was followed by your giggles, which only encouraged Eddie's antics. He smiled wolfishly down at you, at your delicate features framed by the moonlight, the smooth expanse of your neck and collarbones until his view was obstructed by your dress. He had been dreaming of kissing the soft skin behind your ear since he met you, he could finally admit now, and when he did, the feeling was unmatched.

The soft mewls he pulled out of you with each peck and precise lick fueled him on even more, kissing a stripe down your chest to where the swell of your breast disappeared into your dress. He didn't particularly think it would be a good idea to strip you completely naked somewhere in a random field, but god, how he wanted to. Instead, he would have to settle for his next plan. 

After making sure he left no part of your neck untouched, unkissed, his large hands curled around your waist again to slide you further up on the seats. He positioned himself in between your legs, smoothing his large hands up and down the expanse of what was already revealed of your thighs. He could hardly think straight anymore already, he vaguely thought, so lost in the sight of you, even while still fully clothed. 

He looked up at your face, your eyes were heavy with need, tracking his every move, while your bottom lip was tucked between your teeth. You were a vision. 

"'This alright?" Eddie asked, an almost breathless quality to his voice.

"Yeah," you said, softly, a smile playing on your lips.

At your confirmation, Eddie wasted no time in bunching your dress up at your hips, revealing your light blue panties, complete with a little bow. He groaned as soon as he saw the little wet patch that had formed on the soft cotton, growing hungry in a way that was new to him. But he wanted to draw this moment out for as long as you would let him. 

He started by kissing each of your knees, working his way down your thighs kiss by kiss. The skin there was just so soft, Eddie thought he could drown in it. The plush flesh felt divine underneath his fingertips as he softly squeezed your hips, getting closer and closer to your centre. 

You were growing impatient under him, your body writhing and wiggling in his grip. He smiled against your soft skin, "Needy, are we?" he remarked, as if he had any resolve left in him. 

At the simple "Please, Eddie, need you," that left your lips, he was a goner. He capitulated instantly, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your panties and pulling them down your legs. His eyes were fixed on your pussy, the way your slick glistened in the pale moonlight seemed to him the single most alluring thing he had ever seen. 

He carefully leaned down, as in trance, and swiped his calloused fingertips through your folds, gathering your wetness. You moaned instantly at the relief it brought, making Eddie even more crazed to taste you.

"All this for me, sweetheart?" his voice was thick with anticipation.

"All for you, Eddie," you cooed, arching your back for him.

That was what did him in, what made the very last of his resolve crumble. He dove in, licking a broad stripe from your entrance to your clit. The way you arched into him and moaned his name upon the contact made him dizzy. So he kept going, licking deliberate strokes up your soaked pussy, while you mewled above him. He had a steady grip on your waist, holding you to his mouth as he experimentally wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked. 

The pornographic moan you let out went straight to Eddie's rock hard dick, making him moan against your core. He didn't have a lot of experience, but he sure made up for it in enthusiasm, plus, he liked to think of himself as a quick learner. That's why, when your hands found their way into his hair, he let you softly pull his hair to guide him to all the right spots. He followed your directions carefully, devoting extra attention to your most sensitive spots, all while you ground your hips onto his face.

Eddie had never been this happy in his entire life, he thought. The way you tasted, the way you sounded, the fact that it was his name tumbling from your lips amidst your moans and curse words, he must have gone to heaven. 

When he broke away for just a second, your eyes were heavy lidded, your chest rising and falling rapidly, and your lips were bitten raw. Eddie had never seen anything more beautiful. 

"Sweetheart, do you want my fingers?" 

You smiled coyly, almost bashfully, as you nodded, "Yeah, please?"

And who was he to deny you anything? He gathered some of your wetness first, circling your clit just a couple of times, reveling in the soft "oh" sounds you made with every pass of his fingers, before he carefully pushed his middle finger into you. He studied your face intently, but he only found pleasure there, in the way your eyes screwed shut, your lips slowly parted, and the way you clawed at the expensive leather of the seats. 

Eddie couldn't care any less about the seats right now, though, being entirely mesmerized by the way you were taking him. 

"More?" he offered.

All you could do in your blissed out state was nod.

So Eddie added a second finger, steadily pumping in and out of you, watching your body react as if it was pure magic. The whiny sounds you started to make tipped Eddie off about how close you were getting. He quickly added his mouth back into the mix, going back to licking and sucking on your clit as his fingers still worked your entrance. 

The sounds you were making were divine, and also the backdrop to all of Eddie's future fantasies, he was sure. So he kept going, spurred on by every breathy "Edddie, Eddie, Eddie," that left your lips.

Your hands found his hair again, raking through his curls and softly pulling on them. "Eddie, baby, I'm so close, ah-" your thighs were trembling by now, a sight that made pride bloom in Eddie's chest.

"Yeah? Are you gonna come for me, sweetheart? Gonna come all over my fingers for me?" 

And that was all you needed. With a last high-pitched moan and a dozen more chants of his name, your back arched into him as your orgasm crashed over you. Eddie felt your pussy squeeze his fingers even tighter as he worked you through your orgasm, completely in awe with the stunning sight playing out before him. 

When you came down from your high, cheeks glowing and smile cherry red and satisfied, Eddie felt a surge of affection blooming in his chest that had been just as strong as his lust. 

"Was that good, sweetheart?" he asked, partly to mirror your earlier question, partly because he still needed some validation.

You leaned forward, raking your fingers through his wild hair once more as you planted a careful kiss on his forehead, "Eddie, that was the best orgasm of my life," you giggled, dropping your head on his shoulder. Soon, you were joined by Eddie's matching giggles, which he just couldn't hold back at your compliment. He was glad your face was buried in his neck again, because his cheeks were burning so hard, he was sure not even the night air would be able to hide his deep cherry blush. 

⋆⭒˚.⋆​​🍒 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

let me know if you guys still want a part 3! :)) thanks for reading and feedback is very very welcome! <3

Tag list? @pretendthisnameisclever @g3n3zshack @s1mp-4-ga11y (never thought I'd be cool enough to have a tag list so thank you guys <333)

[cayleeuhithinknott]

✿ — get well soon . . . sub!chris

in which . . . chris has a bad mental health night and shows up at your door for comfort.

warnings . . . emotional vulnerability , anxiety , mental health struggles , comfort-heavy , use of good boy and mama , crying

𝑺𝑾𝑬𝑬𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑬𝑹 𝙒𝙍𝙄𝙏𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝙈𝘼𝙍𝘼𝙏𝙃𝙊𝙉 𝙁𝙄𝘾 #14 (FINAL)

chris doesn’t text first.

doesn’t call. doesn’t warn you.

he just shows up at your door at 11:47pm, hoodie pulled over his head, shoulders hunched like he’s physically holding himself together with the last bit of energy he has left.

you’re already halfway to the door the second you hear the knock. something in you knows.

when you open it, there he is. barely looking at you, hands stuffed deep in his pockets, eyes glassy and unfocused.

“baby,” you breathe, voice low, already stepping aside to let him in.

he doesn’t speak. just moves toward you in that slow, broken way, like gravity’s got him by the throat.

the second you shut the door behind him, he’s curling into you.arms wrapping around your waist, face burying itself into the crook of your neck, hoodie soft against your skin but his breathing even softer.

you don’t ask what’s wrong.

you already know this routine.

instead, you press your hands to his back, fingers spreading wide like you’re physically trying to shield him from whatever storm’s still chasing him.

“deep breaths for me, baby,” you whisper, “in through your nose…slow…that’s it.”

he tries. you feel the tremble in his ribs as he sucks in a shallow breath. holds it for a second. then lets it out, shaky and uneven but still progress.

“good boy,” you murmur, kissing his temple.

he makes a small, broken noise at that. like the words cracked something in him he didn’t want to admit was there.

you tighten your arms around him. rock him gently side to side like muscle memory.

“been one of those days again?” you ask softly, letting your chin rest on top of his head.

he nods into your chest.

“bad thoughts?”

another nod.

“okay. you don’t have to talk about it yet.”

you lead him to the couch without letting go of him, sitting down and tugging him into your lap like he weighs nothing. his long legs tangle with yours immediately, arms still locked around you like he’s scared you’ll disappear.

he’s quiet for a long time.

just stays there, pressed against you, letting you rub soothing circles into his back and play with the ends of his hair.

you feel him tense when he tries to pull in a deeper breath, like even breathing feels too hard right now.

“you’re okay,” you whisper, voice low and steady. “you’re not alone. you’re safe.”

he lets out a shuddery sigh.

“…don’t wanna ruin your night,” he says eventually, voice so small it barely sounds like him.

you pull back just enough to tilt his chin up, forcing him to look at you. “hey. listen to me. you’re never ruining anything. you’re allowed to have bad days. you’re allowed to need me.”

he swallows hard, blinking up at you with those glassy blue eyes.

“but i wanna be strong for you,” he croaks. “don’t wanna…be like this.”

you soften instantly. press your forehead to his.

“then let me be strong for both of us tonight, yeah?” you whisper. “just for a little while. let me take care of you.”

that’s what breaks him.

he lets out this tiny, wounded noise and just sinks. fully melts into you like he’s surrendering, shoulders finally sagging, hands fisting in your hoodie like he’s holding on for dear life.

you keep stroking his back. letting him cry if he needs to. letting him breathe if that’s all he can do.

you kiss the top of his head. “you’re doing so good for me, baby. you’re trying so hard. i’m so proud of you.”

he sniffles against your chest. “m’sorry.”

“stop apologizing,” you tease gently, scratching your nails through his hair. “my sweet boy doesn’t need to be sorry for having feelings.”

he lets out the smallest laugh. barely there, but it’s enough.

“there’s my boy,” you smile.

you talk to him about nothing for a while. little things. what you made for dinner, something dumb you saw on tiktok, how you tripped over your own feet earlier in the kitchen.

slowly, he starts answering. giving you soft little comments. making sleepy jokes under his breath like he’s trying to pretend he wasn’t falling apart twenty minutes ago.

“you’re mean,” he mumbles when you tease him about how clingy he’s being.

“you love it,” you grin, tapping his nose.

he blushes a little but doesn’t argue.

eventually, you manage to pull him up and into your bedroom.

he whines the whole way there, dragging his feet dramatically just to be annoying.

“mama,” he pouts. “wanna stay on the couch with you.”

“we’ll be way more comfy in bed,” you say, tugging him along. “and you’re taking your jeans off before i cuddle you. house rules.”

he grumbles but obeys, kicking them off and tossing them across the room before flopping into your bed with a huff.

you join him a second later, pulling him right back into your arms.

he’s asleep in less than five minutes—curled into your chest, legs tangled with yours, fingers still curled in the hem of your hoodie like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he lets go.

you run your fingers through his hair one last time and press a soft kiss to his forehead.

you’ll always take care of him.

and you mean it. every word. every time. forever and always—your boy.

author’s note . . . that’s a wrap!! this marathon is gonna double as my 1 year being on this app because i cannot bring myself to do anything else 😵‍💫 but i hope everyone enjoyed this!! :)

🏷️ : @sturniolo04 @admeliora94 @alexturnersgooch @snuffbut @strnilolover @frattboychris @marrykisskilled @mqttittude @purpledragon222 @aubsloveschris @paisleyy22 @emely9274 @oliviasthatgirl @conspiracy-ash @matthewsroses @pasteldreams @matts-wife @courta13 @sugarraez @adorechris @elenayzxsturn @mattybsgroupie @oopsiedaisydeer @bluestriips @grace-sturnz @sturnboos @owenstar @ribbonlovergirl @tweetybaird @tezzzzzzzz @vanteguccir @bernardmatthews @weirdothatwrites @thighs4evan @lm-a-mirrorball @iluvchr1s @sturnslux3 @cutseylady @iconiccolo @beardedbernard @kenah-sturniolo @edwardscoldhands

© cayleeuhithinknott

[szatears]

thinking about smoking weed with smoke hmmm

backwoods, modernau!smoke.

summary: sometimes all you need is a spliff and your man...

pairings: modernau!smoke x blackfem!reader

warnings: substance consumption, smut (mdni), oral (fem receiving), slight masturbation (fem), ooc smoke, use of n word, descriptions of reader, established relationship.

notes: GIRLLLLLL THE GRINCH SMILE I DID WHEN I READ THIS REQUEST??? 😛😛😛 i need michael b jordan so bad, it's no longer a joke.

The frown on Smoke's face didn't leave as he exited his office building and made his way home. It stayed with him through the car journey, deepening when his aux wasn't connecting properly, insisting on playing Mariah Carey, which he most definitely wasn't in the mood for. And it stayed with him as he put his key into the door.

He was met with silence, but a few lights were on as he walked down the corridor, slipping off his shoes. "Baby, you down here?" he called out, keys rattling as he placed them on the coffee table, along with his wallet and gun.

"Give me a sec," your voice replied from upstairs, sending small waves of ease through Smoke's body. You were something so special to him that he often had a lack of words to describe how much comfort you brought to him. He felt undeserving of it.

Your footsteps could be heard coming down the stairs as Smoke made himself comfortable on the large sofa, legs spread out in front of him as he let his head lean back against it.

You couldn't help the pout that appeared on your face at the sight of your disheveled husband, remnants of bags under his eyes, his face tense... he worked too hard, you often told him.

"Ain't no such thing as workin' too hard, doll," he'd reply.

And each time you'd roll your eyes, but you'd still be there when he came home, that frown on his face and his shoulders tense and stiff.

"Hey," you murmured, not wanting to disturb any leave he may have found. His eyes fluttered open at hearing your voice, his arms outstretched and reaching for you. You held onto his shoulders as he held your waist, climbing on top of him.

With each leg on either side of his as you straddled him, you let your soft palms caress his face gently. Smoke's hands rested on your ass, finding the silky material of your pyjama shorts quite therapeutic.

"How was your day?" you leaned close to kiss his jaw, pulling away when he hummed.

"Long as hell," he sighed, eyes low as he looked at you. "I take one day off and niggas actin' like they'on know how shit works."

You smiled a small smile, your thumb and forefinger rubbing the tips of his ears.

"Good money, though," you both said at the same time, prompting him to laugh. One thing about Smoke? He never let anyone get in the way of his and his lady's money. Ever.

He continued to massage your hips and ass with his large hands as you left small kisses all over his face. Til you pulled away, patting his chest.

"Come with me," you took a hold of his hand, not really giving him a choice as you led him back upstairs. "I know what you need."

Smoke held a puzzled expression on his face as he followed suit, watching you open the upper balcony door in your shared bedroom.

You pushed him down gently to take a seat on the outdoor loveseat. "Take your shirt off," you smirked, heading back in through the screen doors.

He wasn't taken aback, but was still surprised by your instructions, doing so nevertheless. By the time you returned with the tin box you both knew so well, he was shirtless, tattoos out in the open for interpretation and your loving gaze to land on. His sweats were still on; it was hot outside but not too hot for him to risk getting bit up.

You took your seat again on his lap, handing him the box. "Yeah," he groaned, nodding. He just loved how you got him.

There were prerolls already in there, but you insisted he rolled one up himself, to 'enjoy it more.' Truly, it was because he looked hot as fuck rolling a blunt.

You left the speaker on in the bedroom, the faint melody of Erykah Badu following you both as you looked at the Mississippi skyline from the balcony.

Humming along to the song, your eyes never left your husband's hands, watching him generously fill the paper, carefully rolling. You'd never get tired of watching him work, there was just something about the way Smoke carried himself doing literally anything that got you so worked up.

When he lifted his tongue from the paper, finally done rolling it, he set the box beside him, slightly lifting you up with his hips as he dug in his pockets for his lighter.

He held the blunt to your lips but you shook your head. "You first," you nodded your head to him, taking the lighter from his hands. He shrugged, blunt between his lips as he leant towards you, the flame flickering as you shielded it from the slight breeze, holding it up to Smoke.

With the blunt finally lit, you put the lighter on top of the box, smiling when Smoke took a hit, almost instantly releasing all the tension in his body. It wasn't just the weed that did that to him. Your presence along was enough to cure him of any fatigue.

He tilted his head back as he exhaled, closing his eyes. Handing the blunt to you, he pressed his hand on the small of your back, pushing your chest closer to his front.

He watched closely as you took your first hit, holding the smoke for a moment in your lungs, just like he taught you, before letting it out.

As you were about to blow out the smoke from your next inhale, Smoke's hand wrapping around your throat brought you closer to his face, and you already knew what he wanted.

Your lips parted at the same time his touched them, transferring the smoke from one mouth to another in a nasty kiss. You moaned into his mouth as he took the blunt back from you in one smooth motion, never breaking the kiss. Your arms found home around his broad shoulders, your hips slowly grinding on his crotch as he tongued you.

But ever the tease, Smoke pulled away, smirking at the whine you let slip from your lips. He simply put the blunt back to his lips, watching you with his hooded eyes.

You were half willing to get up from his lap, go back inside and handle yourself accordingly, but you knew better than that.

"Just let me finish this, baby. Yeah? Then I'ma take care of you." That was all you needed.

Between the two of you, you took one more hit of the dwindling blunt, Smoke smoking the majority of it. You were lost in your own world, the hazy feeling the substance gave you having you tracing his tattoos that you pretty much memorised.

You hardly felt him lean forward and ash the blunt on the table opposite you both, only paying attention when he lifted you up by the back of your thighs, carrying you inside to the bed.

He lay you down with a soft hum, but you frowned when he began to walk out. "Sh, give me a sec, baby." He left you with a kiss in the cheek, returning momentarily with a cold bottle of water.

He took a sip, more like drank half the bottle before handing it to you, who actually did take a few sips.

Setting it down on the bedside table, you eyed Smoke closely, the both of you reaching that part of the high that had you focused only on each other.

He kneeled in between your legs on the mattress, holding your leg over his shoulder, kissing down it towards the hemline of your shorts.

Smoke was usually the silent type of high guy. Just in the moment, really letting the feeling sink inside of him. But when he was high and about to fuck you? It was a turn.

"You gon' have to come up outta these, darlin'" he tapped the side of your thigh, reciprocating the lazy smile you gave him as you lifted your hips, slowly taking off the shorts you wore.

Underneath was a pair of navy blue, lacy underwear, his absolute favourite. The low groan he let out confirmed that. Smoke wasted no time, kissing your cunt over the panties you wore, your bottom lip tugged between your teeth as you shivered from the contact.

"Elijah... stop teasing," you whimpered when his thumb grazed over your slit, slickness waiting to welcome him back in.

"You gotta be patient, baby. This shit needs time." You rolled your eyes, moving his head away, and slipping your hand into your pants, moaning as you rubbed up and down your coated folds.

Smoke was hovering over you now, his hands flat on the bed on either side of your body, caging you in. "This what we on now?" he cocked his head to the side, the bulge in his pants tightening as you moaned, your eyes on his the entire time.

Smoke found you attractive all the time but right now? You were about to drive him insane.

Your moans only picked up as you continued to rub your clit, forcing yourself to not fall back against the bed. "Shitttttttt..." you dragged out, holding it all in so you wouldn't break eye contact with him. Not just yet.

"You close, baby?" He asked you, licking his lips as he stared right back at you.

You nodded fast, mouth dropped open as you felt your climax rushing in. "Oh, fuck."

And just as you were about to cum, his hand yanked yours out of your pussy, ripping the side of the blue material before you could protest.

"Elijah! Those were my favourite," you gasped, annoyed at both the ripped panties and your orgasm being disrupted.

"I'll buy a hunnid more. Lay back," you did as he said without any more complaints, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as his tongue licked slowly up your soaked cunt.

"Yeah... Just like that, baby," you said, head in the clouds.

He lapped at your folds, giving your clit all the attention in the world, swirling it around in his mouth. Smoke was good at so many things, you'd learnt over your time with him. But when it came to eating pussy? You were sure he took first place in that.

Your thighs locked his head in place, squeezing whenever his pace had you jerking around. "I'm so close, E, keep— fuck— keep going," you spurred him on as he hummed into you, your hand brushing his waves as you searched for something to hold onto.

Your eyes screwed shut as the invisible coil inside you was about to snap, your climax approaching again. "Come on, let it out," he encouraged you, eyes trailing up your body to your eyes, gauging in the way your body heaved up and down as you came hard, over his goatee and moustache, his lower face quite literally coated in your juices.

"Yeahhhhhh," he smiled, cleaning you up with his tongue.

He kept licking at your clit, already pushing you to another orgasm despite your feeble attempts to push his head away. "Give me one more, doll. Just one more, then I'll let you have this dick, yeah?"

"Fuck, Eli," you groaned, cumming yet again as his words echoed around your head, giving him what he wanted.

"Just like that, sweetheart. I told you got it, ain't I?" He was just so vocal when it came to sex, but even more so when it was sex whilst high.

He finally lifted his head up from your pussy, bringing his body right above yours. When he bent down to kiss you, your eyes fluttered closed at the taste of you on him, your hand at the back of his neck deepening the kiss.

"You ready to tap out on me or you gon' let me handle this shit?" He whispered, kissing your neck, just where you liked it.

"It's all yours."

taglist. @childishgambinaax @abriefnirvana @blackisy2k @chrisevansmentee @siasoup @amethyst09 @heauxtales @skywalker0809 @thelightknight21 @klssngss @atomicearthquakemusic7 @oc3anbxbyxoxo @honestlyurslol @simpingfor-wakasa @omg-mymelaninisbeautiful @favoritten @christinabae @junkie05 @gyattttsblog @jackierose902109 @rose-bliss @jexireads @queenofklonnie22 @tatertooted @thefirst-ofus @lemoneyes22

[angelsuecult]

perfect places | s. crosby

warnings: some language, sex jokes

summary: you and Sidney finally get time to yourselves, the aftermath isn’t pretty.

request: Maybe they go to one of Sid’s games and spotted by paparazzi or for one of his games he has on like pink laces or pink tape on his stick.

word count: 16.9k

a/n: okay so I feel like I strayed kind of far from the request on this one. i think I was just trying to sort of like do some build up/make a nice story for the two of them? I was also listening to you are in love by taylor swift basically on repeat while writing this one so that might explain it. It’s also super long so forgive me on that guys. forgive me original asker, i may have gotten carried away with this one pls don’t hesitate to reach out if you hate it/love it/want more, anything really!

previous part | part two

—

Wednesday 

It has been close to 5 weeks now. 

The house smells like garlic and something just shy of burning butter. You’d stepped away from the pan for maybe—maybe—forty-five seconds to grab your daughter’s water cup from the other room, and now the sautéed onions were skating a little too close to the line between golden and scorched. You turned the burner down and stirred them quickly, murmuring a soft, “C’mon, work with me here,” under your breath like the onions could hear you.

Your daughter is in the living room, perched cross-legged on the carpet, narrating a story as her dolls enacted it all. Something about a hockey princess and her dragon friend who lived under the rink. It was cute—adorable, really—and it made the house feel full in a way that distracted from the low fatigue behind your ribs.

And then your phone buzzed on the counter.

You glanced over. Probably a reminder or maybe Owen’s mom finalizing drop-off times. You wiped your hands on a towel and tapped the screen.

Sidney Crosby: Hey. 

Sidney Crosby: How’s your week been? Hope you and the little one are doing great.

You blinked. For a second, the message didn’t quite register. You had to reread it once, twice. Then again, slower.

You hadn’t actually expected to hear from him.

Not really. It wasn’t that you thought he was rude or full of shit—Sidney didn’t come off that way. It was more that well, life was busy. His life especially. The man was a walking headline. With training, press, games, travel, probably a calendar booked for months out. You figured the meet-cute at the gear store and then at the rink had been nice but nothing more. Something to smile about and then file away under “fun moments that don’t go anywhere.”

But there it was. His name on your screen. His words, low-key and friendly. You smiled before you meant to. You: Hi :) we’re good. Someone’s got mystery sauce on her shirt and is telling a story about dragons under hockey rinks. 

You: So you know. Just a regular Wednesday.

He replied fast. Sidney Crosby: That sounds like a solid plot. Does the dragon know how to skate?

You laughed quietly. You: Apparently he was trained by the hockey princess herself.

Sidney Crosby: Smart dragon. Good mentor.A pause. Sidney Crosby: You doing good? How’s everything been since Little Penguins?

You leaned against the counter, phone still in hand, onions now perfectly golden. You stirred them absentmindedly while texting back, your thumb hovering as you paused to find the right words.

You: We’re great. She’s still buzzing from it. Talks about it like she’s been drafted by the Pens. You?

His reply made your stomach do a little flip. Sidney Crosby: Glad to hear it. I’ve been good. Busy, but not bad busy. 

Sidney Crosby: I’ve been meaning to text you, just didn’t want to bother you while things were hectic.

You bit your lip, smile twitching again.

You: You wouldn’t have bothered me. Promise.

He replied right away.

Sidney Crosby: Good to know. I’ve been thinking about you.

Your chest fluttered, breath catching in your throat just a little. You tried to keep it cool.

You: Oh yeah? Hope it was all good thoughts.

Sidney Crosby: Only the good kind.

Sidney Crosby: Wanted to see if maybe you’d want to grab dinner Friday? Just us. I’ll find somewhere quiet. No pressure.

Your heart skipped. No—actually flipped. You stared at the screen, rereading the message at least three times before you even registered your daughter was at your side talking to you again.

“Mommy? I drew you a dragon,” she said, holding up her notebook proudly.

You blinked and turned around, clearing your throat. “Oh, baby, it’s beautiful.” You kissed the top of her head, smiling softly. “I love the wings.”

“They’re sparkly,” she said, matter-of-fact. “Even though I didn’t have glitter. Can I have a snack?”

“In a minute. Dinner’s almost ready,” you said, distracted now. Because your brain was still chewing on one thing:

I’ll find somewhere quiet. No pressure.

Dinner. With him. This Friday.

You hesitated.

You’d already promised your daughter she could go over to Owen’s that afternoon. She’d been talking about it all week. And you were supposed to stay for a little while—chat with Owen’s mom, hang around until they were fully settled and playing nice. She’d been talking about it all week, literally had a countdown going. Two more sleeps till Owen’s!

You didn’t want to back out. Your girl counted on you to be steady. And maybe it was silly, but single mom guilt was just this constant shadow at your heels. It crept in during quiet moments and whispered things like don’t be selfish and she should always come first and is one night out really worth missing something for her?

So you didn’t reply to Sid right away.

Your thumb hovered over the reply box, and then you locked your phone instead.

Goddammit.

You wiped your hands again and grabbed your phone again, unlocking it, swiping out of the conversation and scrolling to the contact labeled Michelle—your best friend’s name.

You hit call.

“Hey,” Michelle answered on the second ring, over the sound of her dog barking in the background.

“I need advice,” you said, the words tumbling out in a rush. “And maybe permission to be a selfish bitch.”

Michelle immediately sighed. “Oh no. What did sweet girl do now?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly. “She’s perfect. It’s me. I’m the problem.”

“That’s not news.”

You laughed, a little breathless. “Okay so, remember Sidney? Hockey guy? Kid whisperer? Weirdly charming for someone who probably owns like eight matching suits and drinks protein shakes for fun?”

“You mean Sidney Crosby. The one you swore was just flirting for fun? Yeah, I remember.”

“Well. He texted me.”

Michelle went silent for a second, then: “Okay. Start from the top. Slowly. With details.”

You explained everything, from the text while you were making dinner to the sudden dinner Friday invite. You didn’t leave anything out. Not even the part where you felt like a giant jackass for even thinking about ditching your kid for a date, even a one-off, even with someone who maybe made you laugh more than you had in months.

“So say yes,” Michelle said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“But the playdate—”

“She’ll be at Owen’s. She’s not gonna notice if you’re gone for like, two hours.”

“She might—”

“She won’t,” Michelle cut you off. “You’re allowed to have a goddamn life. You know that, right? Like you’re not chained to the hockey mom bleachers 24/7.”

You sighed. “It’s just… the guilt, you know?”

“I get it,” Michelle said, voice softening. “But she’s got you like, ninety-nine percent of the time. She knows she’s loved. She knows you’re her person. And hell, she’s five. If anything, she’s gonna forget you’re gone the second Owen pulls out a Barbie with a missing leg and calls it a zombie.”

You laughed, despite yourself.

“And let’s be honest,” Michelle added, “you’ve been talking about this man like he hung the moon since you met him at the gear store. You literally called me to say his forearms should be illegal.”

“His forearms should be illegal.”

“Exactly. So go let them ruin your life for a night. Worst case, you eat good food and get a story. Best case—your daughter gets a hockey stepdad and we get free tickets.”

You groaned. “I hate how reasonable you sound right now.”

“You deserve this, hon. It’s okay to want someone to look at you like you’re not just the snack-bag handler and the bedtime enforcer. Let him take you to dinner. Plus it’s not like he’s some random guy.”

Because yeah. It wasn’t just anyone asking.

It was the guy who’d helped you pick out shin guards and made you take phone notes like you were eighty. The guy who remembered your kid’s face—and yours. The guy who made it easy to laugh.

Your thumb hovered over the message thread again.

You were nervous. But you were excited, too.

So finally, you tapped back into your messages with Sidney. Read his last text again. Felt that flutter return.

You: I promised my kiddo a playdate Friday so I might be dropping her off late afternoon, but… if you’re still willing, I think I could be convinced.

Three dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then came back.

You held your breath.

Sidney Crosby: That sounds a lot like a yes.

You smiled.

You: That sounds a lot like cockiness.

Sidney Crosby: You’d know. 

You warmed all the way to your ears.

Sidney Crosby: Can’t wait to see you.

Michelle was still on the line.

“Well?” she asked.

You grinned. “I think I have a date Friday.”

“Hell yeah, you do.”

You stare at your phone for a second longer than necessary, dinner still sitting on the stove.

Then you tap out a quick message to Lauren, Owen’s mom. Your dinner plans with Sidney are suddenly very real, and you're kinda spiraling. Your kid’s singing a slightly off-key version of “Let It Go” from the bathroom, and you’re trying not to chicken out. So instead of overthinking it, you finally just type.

You: Hey! Super random, but is it still okay if I drop her off Friday afternoon for that playdate with Owen?

No context. You don’t mention why. You toss your phone on the counter like it burned you, turn the heat down on the stove, and grab a dishrag to clean up the mess like a functioning adult.

Your phone dings about a minute later.

Lauren: Um yes, of course!! Don’t worry, we’re all set. She can stay as long as you need.

You exhale. Relief. You’re about to text her back a quick thank you when your phone dings again.

Lauren: …Wait.

Lauren: Are you going on a date?

Shit.

You hesitate, fingers hovering over the keyboard. If you lie, she’ll probably find out anyway—either from your daughter telling Owen, or you just cracking because you’re terrible at lying. You’ve gotten close over the last few weeks; you text almost every day. She’s been there. And you trust her.

You: maybe?

You add a grimacing emoji. Then a shrug. Then delete both and just send the word.

You: Yes.

Another ding.

Lauren: OMG STOP.

Lauren: This is so exciting. Who is he??

Lauren: Wait wait. Is he a hot hockey dad?? Tell me he is.

You groan.

You: I’m not telling.

Lauren: Oh my goddddd it is one?? I knew something was going on at the Little Pens.

You cover your face.

You: I hate you.

Lauren: You do not. I’m so happy for you. You deserve this!! You never go out. You’ve earned this. Moms deserve sex too, babe.

You: WHO SAID ANYTHING ABOUT SEX

Lauren: Oh please. If you don’t at least consider it, I might be more disappointed than Owen when he found out goalie goals are rare.

You: Okay well if I do end up in his bed, I will let you know.

Lauren: You better. Full report. Details. DICK. STATS.

You: You’re going to hell.

Lauren: I’ll see you there, but you’ll be walking bowlegged so I’ll win.

You toss your phone face-down on the counter like that might help cool the blush creeping into your face.

Not that that’s what the night is about. You’re not even sure what the night is about. It’s just dinner. Just dinner with a guy you maybe haven’t stopped thinking about since he taught your daughter all about hockey and then turned around and asked you out.

No big deal.

Right?

You make it through dinner with your little one without your head exploding. She's in a chattery, giddy mood—spilling juice and telling you about how Owen says he’s gonna teach her how to “slide into the net like a penguin on his belly,” which frankly sounds like an ER trip waiting to happen.

Right before bedtime, sweet girl gets an idea, "Can we pick out my outfit for Owen’s house on Friday?"

"Sure, lovebug."

You try not to think about Sidney. You really do. But as you help your kid rifle through her drawers, all you can see in your head is his smile at the rink, that voice telling you he’d see you around, the text that surprised the hell out of you, and your dumbass grin when you said yes.

Your daughter picks out a shirt with glittery hearts on it and her favorite striped overalls.

“He’s gonna think I look cool,” she says.

You laugh. “He’s gonna be blown away.”

And you? You’re kinda feeling the same way. About someone else.

Thursday

The morning started like most of them did—too early, too chaotic, and way too dependent on the second cup of coffee you hadn’t even made yet. Just you and your girl, sleep still heavy in both your eyes, the kitchen too quiet aside from the soft clinking of breakfast and lunch prep. 

You stood at the kitchen counter in an old t-shirt—oversized, a little frayed, and soft from a hundred washes—and stared blankly at your daughter’s lunchbox like it had personally offended you. Her Disney princess thermos was already packed, and a granola bar was poking out of the side pocket like a tongue sticking out in mockery.

"Mommy," your daughter called from down the hall, “I can’t find the other sock with the kitty on it!”

“Check under your bed, baby!” you called back, sealing a sandwich into a ziplock. "Or the couch! Or maybe it's hiding with my last ounce of sanity!"

“Don’t know where sanity is,” she yelled, the word sounding all kinds of wrong coming from her tiny voice. “But the sock’s not under the bed!”

You chuckled under your breath and finally gave in, abandoning the last grape you were cutting in half to go join the hunt. Sock retrieved from the crack between the bed and the wall. Victory achieved.

Together, you walked back into the kitchen for a quick breakfast. Your daughter sat cross-legged at the counter in her school clothes while she demolished a bowl of Cheerios and raspberries.

You sipped your coffee slowly, eyes skimming the sticky note you’d slapped on the fridge the night before—a running list of things to pack for tomorrow, playdate logistics, your dinner plans, pick-up arrangements with Michelle. You’d been up late texting her and Lauren after finally responding to Sidney, your stomach tangled in a mix of nerves and disbelief. And now it was Thursday morning, which meant tomorrow was The Day.

“Hey, baby,” you said, voice still a little scratchy as you leaned on the counter across from her. “You remember how I told you about Owen’s tomorrow?”

She looked up, cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk. “Mhm?”

“I was thinking,” you continued, kneeling down in front of her to put her feet into her shoes, “after school tomorrow, I’ll drop you off at his house for a little playdate, like we talked about. And then later, Auntie Michelle’s gonna come pick you up around seven-thirty, and she’ll bring you back to her place for a little while. Just for an hour or two. Then I’ll come get you when I’m done with dinner, okay?”

“Dinner?” she repeated, blinking. “Are you having dinner with Owen too?”

You smiled. “No, sweetheart. I’m gonna meet a friend for dinner tomorrow.”

Her little brow furrowed. “So… you’re not takin’ me to Owen’s?”

Your heart did a little flip. “No, no—baby, I am. I’m picking you up from school like always. I’m taking you to Owen’s. And then after you play for a bit, Auntie Michelle’s gonna come get you.”

She tilted her head, clearly trying to piece the sequence together in that curious way she always did, lips pressed into a thoughtful line. “But… why?”

You stifled a grin, because of course she’d ask. You leaned forward, tucking a curl behind her ear. “Because I’m gonna go meet a friend for dinner. Just for a little while.”

“Ohhhh,” she nodded slowly, chewing on the corner of her lip like she was mulling it all over in her head. “Okay.”

You watched her face carefully. “You cool with that, bug?”

“Yeah,” she said, but then after a second, “Wait… who are you having dinner with?”

You hesitated, then just gave her a warm little smile and said, “A friend.”

That didn’t satisfy her. Not even a little.

She tilted her head, narrowed her eyes like a tiny detective. “Like a grown-up friend?”

“Yes,” you answered carefully.

“Like… a boy friend?”

“Sweetheart,” you said with a little laugh, turning to grab your coffee off the counter as you prepped for the next round of kid questions. “Why are you interrogating me like you’re the FBI?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “Is it Auntie Michelle?”

“No, babe.”

“Uncle Danny?” (Michelle’s brother).

You laughed, shaking your head. “Definitely not. Uncle Danny would make me split fries and then not eat his half.”

“Uncle Alex?” (Michelle’s Boyfriend).

“Worse,” you said dramatically, “he’d make me go to that taco place that gives me stomach aches.”

She giggled, hand clapped over her mouth. “Then who?!”

You could feel it coming before she even said it. The question that always felt like a little paper cut.

“Are you gonna see my daddy?”

It landed in the space between you, just quiet enough to take the air out of your lungs for a second. Not harsh. Not accusing. Just curious. Just hopeful.

You exhaled through your nose, gently brushing your thumb over the back of her little hand.

“No, baby,” you said softly. “I’m not.”

She didn’t get upset. She rarely did anymore. Her disappointment was always gentle, quiet, like the way a balloon slowly deflates. You saw it cross her face—a tiny flicker of something—but then she perked up again, the way five-year-olds do when the gravity of things slips just slightly out of reach.

“Oh.” She stared down at her cereal for a second, then looked back up with big eyes. “Will you bring me ice cream?”

You barked out a laugh, louder than expected. “Absolutely I will.”

“Pink kind.”

“You got it. Pink as pink can be, the way you like it.”

“And a spoon.”

“Of course a spoon,” You said, pulling her into a tight hug, “What kind of monster do you take me for?”

She snuggled in, grinning against your neck. “A grown-up one.”

You tickled her under the arm, she giggled for a second before squirming away and bouncing off of her seat and toward the front door like the weight of the world had been lifted from her tiny shoulders.

You watched her go, your chest twisting with something you couldn’t quite name. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe relief. Maybe both tangled up in that knot you’d been carrying for the past five years.

You didn’t talk about her father often. He wasn’t in the picture. Never really had been. And your daughter never asked about him until she did, and when she did, it always hit you like a sucker punch to the ribs.

You shook it off, grabbed your keys and coffee, and followed her out the door. Because life didn’t slow down just because your heart felt a little bruised.

“And I get to stay longer than last time!” she cheered, kicking her feet excitedly.

“Yup,” you smiled as she climbed into the car. “You get a whole afternoon.”

“And you’re gonna go eat dinner?”

“Mmhm.”

She kicked again. “With your friend?”

“Yup.”

She paused. “Is he nice?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Who said it was a he?”

She gasped dramatically. “It is!”

You groaned. “You little sneak.”

She burst into laughter, her tiny voice ringing like a bell. “I hope he brings you flowers.”

You shook your head, grinning despite yourself. “Why’s that?”

“‘Cause if he doesn’t I’m gonna be mad at him.”

You bit your bottom lip, eyes misting just a little. “Okay, tough girl. I’ll let him know he better come correct.”

“Yeah,” she said, her little voice so serious. “Or I won’t share my ice cream.”

The drive to school is a blur of her singing to the radio, asking if zebras wear pajamas, and reminding you to pack her purple leggings for tomorrow “in case Owen wants to see her do her spin.”

You drop her off with a hug that lasts a little longer than usual.

And then you're alone in your car, the reality of tomorrow settling somewhere in your chest like a weight and a spark all at once. 

You don’t even make it out of the school parking lot before your phone starts buzzing in the cup holder, Michelle’s name lighting up your screen. She’s lucky you love her.

You answer with a dry, “What?”

“Oh, don’t start with me,” she fires back instantly. “What are you wearing tomorrow?”

You snort, backing out of your parking space as sunlight spills through the windshield. “Jesus, I don’t know. I was gonna try and dig around in my closet and see if I could make magic happen.”

Michelle makes a disgusted sound on the other end. “No. Nope. Absolutely not. You are not pulling some six-year-old clearance dress from the back of your closet for your first date with Sidney fucking Crosby.”

You sigh. “Do you hear how crazy that sentence sounds?”

“Yes,” she says without pause. “And I stand by it. You’re dating a national treasure, babe. You need to look like one. Get your ass to the mall. I’m already here.”

“You’re already—? Michelle.”

“Too late. I’m holding a coffee hostage for you. I will drink it out of pure spite if you make me wait.”

You groan but it’s hopeless. Of course you’re going. Of course she’s already there. She always is.

“Fine. But I’m not buying anything,” you grumble.

“We’ll see.”

You meet up in the parking lot half an hour later, both of you armed with reusable coffee cups and a sense of purpose—hers for fashion, yours to defend your closet’s honor.

“So what’s the vibe? Hot mom on the prowl? Shy suburban MILF? Undercover bombshell?”

“Jesus, Michelle.” You laugh, adjusting the strap of your crossbody bag. “I’m just trying to make it through the day without stress-sweating.”

“Sexy and casual it is.”

You wander the center together, weaving in and out of shops, but before either of you so much as touch a grown-up blouse, you’re already lugging three shopping bags. All full of stuff for your kid.

Michelle squints at you over her cup. “You realize we’re supposed to be shopping for you, right?”

You shrug, holding up a tiny glitter-covered hoodie. “But look at this! She’d lose her mind. And these leggings? The little stars on the knees?”

Michelle narrows her eyes. “You are impossible.”

“She’s five. This is peak adorable clothing age. I’m just trying to seize the moment.”

She grabs your elbow and yanks you into a store that has nothing even remotely glittery or pint-sized. The mannequins are wearing things with underwire and lace and heeled boots that could end a grown man.

“Now,” Michelle says, eyes scanning a rack of silky tops. “We’re not leaving until you find something that makes you feel confident.”

You toe the edge of the plush fitting room rug and sigh. “Okay, but I need to tell you something first.”

Michelle side-eyes you. “You’re not pregnant, are you? Because if you are, I am not helping you baby-proof your house again. I will, you know I will but that’s besides the point.”

“No,” you laugh. “Not unless immaculate conception is real.”

Michelle grins. “Knew that man gave off holy dick energy.”

You groan and lean your head against the dressing room mirror. “Okay, seriously though. This morning, when I was getting her ready for school, she asked if I was going to see her dad.”

Michelle’s face hardens instantly. “Really?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. I told her no, obviously. She was just curious. Said it kind of casually. But I just—I don’t know.”

Michelle’s silent for a moment, arms crossed as she leans against the mirror next to you. “He always shows up again, you know. When you’re finally doing okay. Especially if he thinks you’re seeing someone.”

“I know.” You sigh. “It’s like he’s got radar. He’ll go quiet for months, maybe longer, and then boom—he texts or calls or leaves a voicemail about ‘wanting to see her.’ Like clockwork.”

“Because he doesn’t actually want to see her. He wants access to you.”

The way she says it makes your stomach churn. Because she’s right. Every single time.

“He’s not gonna know,” you say, more to yourself than her. “I’m just grabbing dinner. It’s not serious.”

Michelle arches a brow. “With Sidney Crosby. Yeah, no one’s gonna catch wind of that.”

You rub your temples. “God. I hate this. I hate feeling like I have to ask permission to move on. Like every time I do something for me, I feel like I’m betraying her somehow.”

Michelle softens. “Babe, she’s not gonna suffer because you have a life. You’re not ditching her for a week in Cabo. You’re going to dinner. And you’ve made sure she’s safe and happy and with people who love her. That’s all she needs.”

You nod, eyes hot but holding back tears. “She asked for ice cream. After asking about her dad.”

Michelle lets out a laugh, loud and sharp. “See? She’s fine. She just wanted sprinkles and emotional security.”

You laugh too, the sound breaking through the heavy feeling in your chest.

“She’s lucky,” Michelle says, plucking a silky wine-colored wrap top off the hanger and handing it to you. “She’s got a mom who does everything for her, who puts her first, even when it costs her. And now she’s got a chance to see that her mom is also a person. With a life. And a beautiful man who wants to take her out.”

You roll your eyes but smile, holding the top up to your chest in the mirror. “Think he’ll like it?”

Michelle grins. “Bitch, he’s gonna lose his mind.”

You exhale slowly. “Okay. Dinner. I can do dinner.”

“Damn right you can,” Michelle says, already fishing around for matching heels. “Now let’s go find a bra that’ll make your boobs look expensive.”

You groan but follow her deeper into the store, your heart a little lighter. You still don’t know what’s going to happen. 

Twenty minutes later there's a zipper halfway up the back of a slate-blue blouse when your phone buzzes from the little cushioned bench in the corner of the dressing room. You pause, arms lifted awkwardly, blouse hitched halfway up your ribs like you’re in some kind of amateur striptease—glamorous, really—and squint toward the screen lighting up.

Sidney Crosby

You freeze.

“Holy shit,” you whisper, suddenly hyperaware that one boob is definitely just out in the wild. You fix it fast, shimmy the shirt down properly, and fumble to grab your phone with one hand while smoothing the blouse over your stomach with the other.

It’s a simple message.

Sidney Crosby: Hey. Just checking if we’re still on for tomorrow? :)

That fucking smiley face. Why is it cute? You hate yourself a little.

You type back quickly, before you can overthink it.

You: Yeah, definitely. Looking forward to it :)

Another smiley. You’re so goddamn embarrassing.

You toss the phone aside on the bench and try to focus on the skirt. It’s a midi thing, stretchy waistband—comfortable enough you don’t feel like you’re being punished but still cute. Michelle had waved it in your face. “Trust me, you’ll thank me when you’re not suffocating in shapewear.”

You’re just smoothing the skirt over your hips when your phone buzzes again.

Sidney Crosby: Nice. I’ll come get you around 7? Or do you want to meet somewhere?

You chew on your lip, thinking. It’d probably be easier to meet, but a bigger part of you—one that you’re trying really hard not to name or psychoanalyze—wants him to come pick you up. There’s something kind of… old-school about it.

You: Come get me? If that’s okay?

Sidney Crosby: Yeah, I’d like that. Send me your address later?

You smile. God, you hate how much you’re smiling. Your cheeks are already warm and your phone’s not even done buzzing.

Sidney Crosby: Also—is this a fancy thing? Should I not show up in jeans like an asshole?

You giggle. Actually giggle. Alone. In a dressing room. Like a teenage idiot.

You: Jeans are perfect. If you show up in a suit I might vomit.

Sidney: Noted. No suits. No vomiting. Sounds like a solid plan.

You're still smiling when the curtain jerks halfway open and Michelle pokes her head in.

“Oh my God, you’re blushing.”

“Jesus, Michelle!” you yelp, yanking the curtain closed again and trying to hide the visible glow of your screen.

“Oh my God,” she repeats, muffled now. “Is that him? Is it Sidney? Are you sexting? Are you telling him what kind of panties you’re wearing?”

“I will smother you with a blouse,” you hiss, trying to hold back laughter.

“You’re totally flustered right now. Like, your voice got all high. It’s like when I texted that hot Pilates instructor and spelled core like an apple core.”

You groan and push the curtain aside, stepping out in the outfit. Michelle immediately gasps like she’s just seen her favorite artist on stage.

“That. That right there. You’re wearing that.”

You glance down. “It’s just a blouse and a skirt.”

“It’s hot without looking like you’re trying to be hot. Which is, ironically, the hottest thing you could do. You just need tights, and new heels.”

You roll your eyes, tugging slightly at the waistband. “I dunno. It feels… almost too good.”

“Exactly. You deserve too good. Especially after dealing with your walking oil spill of an ex.”

“Michelle.”

“What? Am I wrong?”

You sigh, and sit down on the little bench again, grabbing your phone and reading through the texts again like a teenage girl re-reading a crush’s Snap streak.

“He said he’s picking me up at 7. No suits. No vomiting.”

Michelle tilts her head and clutches her chest. “He’s cute and considerate. God, you’re screwed.”

“I know.”

“Hey—listen to me.” She squats down to your level, resting her elbows on her knees. “You’re not just someone’s mom. You’re still you. You get to have this. You get to be nervous and flirty and maybe even get laid by someone who actually cares about what gets you off.”

Your face goes hot. “Michelle.”

She shrugs. “I’m just saying. Sidney Crosby’s forearms alone could probably handle things you haven’t experienced since college.”

“Can we not talk about his forearms while I’m in a blouse this thin?”

Michelle cackles and claps her hands together. “This is so fucking fun.”

You shake your head, but you’re laughing now, too.

Your phone buzzes once more.

Sidney Crosby: Should I bring anything?

Your fingers hover over the keyboard. Michelle peers over your shoulder. “Say, only if it’s wine and strong arms.”

“I will kill you.”

You: Just yourself. And maybe an appetite.

Michelle groans dramatically. “You’re adorable. God help us all.”

You hit send, still smiling like an idiot.

You don’t know what tomorrow’s gonna look like yet. You don’t know how many times you’ll panic or second-guess or feel that sick twist of guilt when you leave your daughter at Owen’s and then Michelle’s. But right now, sitting in a dressing room with the world's most chaotic best friend and a phone full of texts that make your stomach do that stupid fluttery thing, you feel a tiny little flicker of something you haven’t had in a while.

Hope.

And maybe a little horniness. But mostly hope.

For now.

Friday 

It’s a mess of crayons, backpacks, and snack wrappers in the backseat, and somehow your daughter is still talking, even though you’re less than two minutes from Owen’s house. She’s in the middle of a long-winded explanation about how Owen told her yesterday that his big sister has a phone, and he might have seen a video, but he didn’t really watch it, not all of it anyway, because he weren’t supposed to be in her room but he was just getting a book and then it came on and it was only a little bit scary, like not bad scary, just—

“Okay, baby, pause,” you interrupt gently as you put the car in park in front of Owen’s house. “Deep breath.”

She gasps dramatically, inhaling like she’s trying to suck all the air out of the car.

You reach back and brush a stray curl out of her eyes. “Are you excited for tonight?”

She nods so hard her whole body wiggles. “I love Owen’s house. They have a trampoline and a dog and snacks with cheese sauce and—”

“I know, I know,” you laugh, unbuckling her car seat straps. “You’re gonna have the best time. Just try not to start a war in the living room, okay?”

“I never start the war,” she says as you help her out of the car. “It’s Owen. He throws first.”

“Sure,” you say dryly, grabbing her backpack and her water bottle. “That sounds completely believable.”

You walk her up to the front porch, holding her little hand in yours while she bounces at your side like a pinball with legs. You can already hear voices and something crashing—probably a toy, hopefully not glass—on the other side of the door.

Before you even ring the bell, the door swings open, and Owen barrels out in socks like a kid on fire, skidding a little.

“You’re heeeere!” he squeals, launching himself at your daughter.

She shrieks back, drops your hand, and immediately wraps her arms around his neck like she’s reenacting the final scene of a romcom.

“Okay, that’s enough romance,” you mutter, laughing as Owen drags her inside. You follow close behind.

“Owen, shoes!” comes a voice from the kitchen. “I swear to God—”

Lauren appears a second later, holding a juice box in one hand and a half-eaten cheese stick in the other. Her hair’s in a messy bun and she’s wearing a sweatshirt that says Mom of 3, Pray for Me.

“Hey!” she grins, tossing the cheese stick to her own mouth before you even get a word out. “You ready for your hot momnight out?”

You groan. “Don’t call it that.”

“Oh no, we’re calling it exactly that,” she says, grinning wickedly. “Come on, tell me—who is it? Do I know him? Is he a hockey dad? It’s a hockey dad, isn’t it?”

You narrow your eyes at her. “I’m not telling you anything.”

“You suck,” she whines. “I let you dump your child into my chaos house and you won’t even give me one crumb of gossip?”

You smile and shake your head, watching the two five-year-olds disappear into the den like gremlins. You hear a thud, then maniacal laughter.

“Do I need to send you a waiv—”

“Just send me the bill when they inevitably break a lamp,” you say.

Lauren laughs and sets the juice box on the counter. “But for real, you look cute, Y/N. Like, date cute. Like, panty-worthy cute.”

“Jesus Christ, I’m not even dressed for it yet,” you mutter, tugging your jacket closed even though it’s not even cold.

“Oh, come on! I saw you at the rink the other day. I saw that look you gave one of the coaches.”

You blink. “What look?”

“That one! The ‘I’m trying not to be horny in front of children’ look.”

“I’m gonna scream,” you mumble.

She gasps like she just cracked the code. “It is one of the coaches!”

“I didn’t say that!”

“You didn’t have to!”

You point a warning finger at her. “Lauren. I’m serious. You don’t get to know anything yet. You’ll be the first to know if I end up married or murdered, I promise.”

She dramatically gasps again, one hand flying to her chest. “You promise-promise?”

“Swear on my bra drawer.”

“Oh, wow,” she grins. “That is serious.”

You both laugh. It’s loud and real, the kind that feels good in your chest. It’s nice.

She leans on the doorframe. “Well. I’m proud of you, babe. For real. It’s hard, you know? Letting yourself be a person again.”

You nod quietly. You do know. Maybe a little too well.

She nudges your elbow. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, if he hurts you, I will castrate him with a butter knife.”

You snort. “Good to know.”

She glances toward the playroom and lowers her voice. “Now go. Before you lose your nerve and end up back here with a tub of Goldfish and a kid in your lap.”

You smile. It’s small, but it feels solid. “Thanks, Laur.”

“Anytime. Now go get laid or fall in love or both. I expect a full debrief tomorrow.”

You roll your eyes and head back toward the car, heart hammering a little harder with every step.

You ended up driving home slowly, as if that would somehow slow down time. You probably ended up wasting like thirty minutes.

And your house still smells like the strawberry bubble bath your kid used the night before—faint but sweet. You’d barely made it through the door before you were stripping out of your jeans and sweater, heading straight for the shower. Hot water, eucalyptus body wash, and the slight panic of holy shit, this is happening, it’s really happening. Sidney Crosby is picking you up in a few hours for an actual date, and you are not okay.

You wrap yourself in your robe, hair towel still piled on your head, skin warm from the heat. You should be resting. Maybe sitting down, putting on an audiobook, eating something small. But your nerves don’t care. They don’t want calm. They want chaos.

So, naturally, you start cleaning the house.

You’re halfway through wiping down your already clean kitchen counters—again—when the front door opens.

“Are you—oh my god. Y/N.” Michelle’s voice cuts through the quiet. “You’re scrubbing the counter? In a robe? Towel in your hair?”

You glance over your shoulder. “I’m being productive.” 

“You’re being insane,” she says, dropping her purse onto the entry table and kicking her shoes off. “I’ve never seen someone try to clean anxiety off their kitchen island before, but you’re setting a new bar.”

“I just needed to do something.”

“Yeah, like relax?” She pads over to you and plucks the sponge out of your hand. “Sidney is not going to care if your counters are spotless.”

“I know that.” You throw your towel on the couch and exhale. “It’s not about him. I’m just—I don’t know. My brain is going a million miles a minute. I’m excited. But also nervous. And a little nauseous.”

Michelle grins and flops onto your couch. “You’re adorable when you panic. So where’s Lover Boy taking you?”

You grab a glass of water and your phone. “Here, he sent me this last night.”

She sits up eagerly, snatching your phone and reading it out loud. “‘Nice little private spot, they’ve got great food, super lowkey, so we’re not splashed all over the front page of dumb hockey blogs. Are we still on for 7?’” She looks up at you. “Oh, he’s good. He’s really good.”

You groan and snatch your phone back, clutching it to your chest. “Why does that message make me feel like I’m seventeen and going to prom?”

“Because he’s Sidney fucking Crosby and he’s into you.” Michelle wiggles her eyebrows. “God, I still can’t believe it. You met him buying pink skates for your kid. That’s a rom-com origin story.”

“Yeah, well, I hope it’s not a rom-com ending where I get stood up and end up crying in a diner.”

Michelle snorts. “Please. He’s obsessed with you. You’re golden.”

You nod, then glance at the clock. “I packed her overnight bag, by the way, in case she gets too tired after your ‘niece bonding time.’”

“Oh we’re going hard tonight,” Michelle says with a wink. “Movies, nail polish, a dance party, maybe a pillow fort. She’s gonna be too busy living her best life to miss you.”

You smile at that, warmth spreading through your chest. “Thanks for doing this.”

“Of course. She’s my favorite tiny human.” Michelle eyes you for a second. “Speaking of being ready for all scenarios... please tell me you shaved.”

You choke on your water. “Michelle!”

“What? Just in case! You never know where the night will go.”

“It’s a first date!”

“Yeah, with Sidney Crosby. If you don’t think that man is capable of smooth-talking his way into your panties by dessert, you’re in denial.”

You roll your eyes and head toward your closet. “You’re annoying.”

“I’m just saying, if the opportunity arises, you don’t want to be caught with a winter forest situation down there.”

You groan again but laugh anyway, following Michelle into your bedroom and to the closet where she immediately starts rifling through your clothes.

“This is date night. No mom jeans. No oversized sweaters. No ‘I gave up on life at Target’ shirts. We agreed.”

You cross your arms, still in your robe. “I want to be comfortable.”

“Sexy and comfortable can coexist, Y/N. That’s why God invented wrap blouses and stretch fabric. And why we bought you that outfit.”

She starts pulling hangers out one by one—rejected looks piling on the bed. You shoot down at least five of her suggestions for being too revealing, one for being too sheer, and one because, in your words, “my tits are spilling out like an avalanche, Michelle.”

“That’s the point!” she argues.

“Not tonight it isn’t!”

Eventually, you both settle on a wine-colored blouse, soft and silky, with just enough of a dip in the neckline to feel scandalous without being too much. You pair it with your new black skirt that reaches mid-thigh, tights, and a simple gold necklace. 

Michelle gives you a once-over and sighs. “You look fucking stunning.”

“I look like I’m about to pass out from nerves.”

“You look like someone who’s about to have a night she’s gonna replay in her head for months. Maybe years.”

You give her a pointed look. “Please don’t jinx it.”

“I’m not. I’m manifesting,” she says, walking over to fix a stray piece of your hair. “Now go do your makeup and try not to second guess everything.”

You nod, your stomach tight, heart pounding—but you’re smiling. You can't help it.

You check your phone. 6:28 p.m. You slowly make your way to the bathroom.

Sidney’s going to be here in thirty minutes.

Oh God.

You're barely starting to put on mascara when your phone buzzes on the bathroom counter. You freeze, wand mid-air, one eye closed like you're halfway into a stroke that'll definitely leave a smudge if you're not careful.

Your brain jumps to the worst immediately. Maybe your daughter’s sick. Maybe she’s sad and wants to come home. Maybe Owen bit her—he did that once during a disagreement over who got the last orange Popsicle.

You lean down and squint at the screen.

Lauren: Hey! Just passing on a message from a certain bossy little lady—she says, and I quote: “Tell Mommy to make sure he doesn’t forget the flowers. And my pink ice cream. Not white. Not purple. Pink.”

You blink.

Then laugh.

A surprised, full-body kind of laugh, the kind that bubbles up out of nowhere and makes your chest warm.

“Oh my god,” you mutter, still smiling as you pick up the phone to type back.

You: She’s too much 

You: I’ll do my best but I make no promises about the flowers. The ice cream though—non-negotiable.

Lauren: Good luck. She’s keeping track like it’s her business. You’re gonna get grilled the second she sees you. I’d prepare a PowerPoint.

You: Oh I’m already mentally preparing my closing statements. She’s a tiny attorney with pigtails and pink rain boots.

You pause a second, glancing at yourself in the mirror—one eye made up, one still bare. Your reflection looks like some chaotic mid-makeover movie montage. Hair pinned up with an emergency claw clip, your phone in hand and your cheeks still a little warm from laughing.

Lauren: So... hockey dad, huh?

You groan under your breath.

You: Lauren. No.

Lauren: PLEASE TELL ME. Is it one from the rink? The one with the jawline that could cut glass?

You drag a hand down your face, abandoning your mascara wand entirely.

You: Not confirming or denying anything. Just let a girl live.

Lauren: Live your life, babe! But you owe me details next time I see you. I’m talking who, what, where, if he smells good, and what his handshake says about his soul.

You snort, toss the phone down, and mutter, “She’s worse than Michelle.”

From the other room, Michelle calls out, “What’d I do?”

You grin, shaking your head as you go back to your makeup. “Nothing. Just getting bullied from multiple angles now.”

Michelle appears in the doorway with a bottle of sparkling water and a bag of gummy bears. “Ooh, was that Lauren?”

“Yup.”

“She know?”

“She knows something,” you say, adjusting the angle of the mirror as you finally finish your lashes. “Apparently sweet girl passed along a note.”

Michelle plops down on the bed. “Oh god. What’d she say?”

You spin around with a smile. “To make sure he brings flowers. And doesn’t forget her pink ice cream.”

Michelle wheezes, practically choking on a gummy bear. “That’s your child. Right there. A tiny romantic with a superiority complex.”

“She’s insane. Like, how does she even know to ask for flowers? I swear I didn’t teach her that.”

“Duh,” Michelle says, tossing a gummy into her mouth. “Disney. The princesses always get flowers and rides in magical vehicles.”

“Well shit,” you mutter. “Now I do have to marry him or she’s gonna think I got rejected by Prince Charming.”

Michelle laughs so hard she nearly rolls off the bed. “Don’t worry, babe. He’s way hotter than Prince Charming. You’re like... the hot queen who seduces him and then inherits the kingdom.”

You make a face. “Why do your compliments always feel slightly illegal?”

“I specialize in morally grey hype,” she says, then lifts her chin. “Anyway, did you text him about the flowers?”

“Oh my god, no. I’m not gonna text Sidney Crosby and be like, ‘Hey, bring flowers or my five-year-old will fight you.’”

“I don’t know,” Michelle grins. “Sounds like peak parenting to me.”

You just shake your head and go back to finishing your makeup, still smiling.

The next ten minutes pass with a weird sort of anxious energy—too much time to sit and think, not enough to nap or relax or even get anything productive done. You double check your bag twice. Reapply lip balm four times. Spray perfume, then wonder if you overdid it and spend ten minutes debating if you need to shower again.

Michelle eventually chases you out of the bathroom with a hairbrush like she’s wrangling a feral cat. “For the love of god, sit the hell down and breathe. You look perfect. You smell like a grown woman who knows what she’s doing. Stop sabotaging yourself.”

You sink into the couch, heart rattling like it's stuck in your throat.

Michelle hands you a small pouch. “Here. Lip gloss, blotting paper, mints. And an emergency condom.”

You nearly choke. “Michelle—”

“Just in case!” she sings. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

“I haven’t.”

“Liar.”

You laugh, too nervous to argue. “I really haven’t. I mean, yeah, he’s... I mean look at him. But like. Not tonight.”

Michelle nods slowly. “Totally get it. You just wanna see if the vibe matches the look. Respect. Chemistry check first, horizontal tango later.”

You toss a throw pillow at her as she heads out of your front door, laughing despite yourself.

And then your house is quiet for the first time in what feels like weeks. No squeaky shoes darting down the hallway. No Disney songs humming through your phone speaker. No tiny voice asking how long it takes for ice cream to melt or how many dogs is too many dogs.

You kind of hate how still it feels.

Your fingers play with the edge of the couch, your heels dangling from your toes, heart climbing steadily up your throat while the digital clock on the oven ticks toward 6:50. 

The mirror in the hallway doesn’t lie. You feel good. You look good. 

And he’s not late. But you check your phone for the hundredth time anyway. Nothing.

And then there’s a knock. A soft, measured three-tap knock that somehow manages to startle the absolute hell out of you.

You freeze. “Jesus Christ.”

Your heart kicks up again.

You smooth your blouse, exhale once, then twice, and open the door.

Sidney’s standing there.

It takes less than a second for your chest to tighten, for all the nerves to snap into something fizzy and warm, crawling straight up your spine. He’s wearing a button-up and dark jeans, sleeves pushed to his forearms, his hair just a little tousled like he kept running his hand through it in the car. And in his hand—a bouquet.

Your mouth parts slightly. “You brought me flowers?”

His mouth quirks. “I did.”

You take them, stunned into smiling. Soft pinks and cream-colored blooms, wrapped with a small ribbon. You can’t even speak for a second because the smell hits you all at once—fresh and summery and kind of perfect.

“I wasn’t sure what you liked,” he says quickly, rubbing a thumb along his jaw. “But they looked nice.”

“They are,” you say, glancing down at them again. “They’re really beautiful. Thank you. Come in—I want to put them in water before we go.”

“Sure.”

He steps inside, slow and careful like he’s taking the space in respectfully. You can feel him behind you as you head into the kitchen, opening the cabinet above the sink for your one real vase—the tall clear one with the subtle twist in the glass. You fill it with water, trim the stems like your mom taught you, and set it on the counter.

“They match your place,” he says behind you.

You glance over your shoulder. “What?”

He nods at the flowers. “You. Them. All of it. It goes together.”

You laugh a little, not quite believing he just said that out loud. “You’re such a sap.”

He grins, unapologetic.

You watch him look around while you fuss with the vase just a little more than you need to. He’s not nosy—he doesn’t touch anything—but you can tell he’s paying attention. His eyes pause on the living room shelf with your daughter’s framed art project, the throw blanket crumpled on the corner of the couch, the light blue soccer ball tucked halfway under the TV stand.

And then he reaches the fridge.

“You guys got a lot going on here.”

You walk over, following his gaze. There are photos—her at Halloween as a tiny Elsa, her as a newborn, her beaming at a playground slide, the two of you with whipped cream mustaches. Scribbled drawings in crayon and marker and stickers shaped like stars. And in the middle, stuck by a magnet shaped like a cat, is a small sticky note in bright pink with the messy handwriting of your 5 year old:

“pink ice cream!!pleas thank ulovumommy”

You laugh. “That’s been there since yesterday. She made me promise.”

Sidney leans in, smiling. “What flavor is pink ice cream?”

“She doesn’t know sometimes it’s strawberry, sometimes it bubblegum. If it’s pink, it counts.”

He chuckles. “Smart.” 

There’s a beat. A warm silence. You look up and he’s still looking around, but softer now. Thoughtfully.

“You got a nice place,” he says finally.

“Thanks. It’s home.”

He nods, and then—almost like he can feel you growing too aware of the moment—he pulls his keys from his pocket.

“You ready?”

You glance down. Your shoes are on. Bag in hand. Your kid’s safe. Michelle has her overnight bag. You double-checked everything before Sidney even got there.

“I think so.”

“Good.” He opens the door for you. “Let’s go have dinner, pretty girl.”

You blink. Try not to smile like an idiot. Hard fail.

Outside, the sun’s hanging low, there are warm shadows across the sidewalk. His car’s parked out front—black, clean, low profile. He walks you to the passenger side and opens the door for you, which feels so absurdly nice you don’t even try to make a joke.

You settle in, smoothing your hands down your thighs. He closes the door gently, then walks around to the driver’s side.

You watch him slide into the seat beside you, glance over with a small smile, and say—

“Just so you know, I was early. Not because I was trying to be cool or anything.”

You raise a brow. “Then why?”

He shrugs. “Was excited. Figured being early was better than pacing around in my kitchen like a dumbass.”

You laugh.

It’s easy. And steady. And not rushed at all.

Not even a little.

The car falls quiet in the way late summer evenings are quiet—soft and golden, windows cracked enough to let the breeze in, the hum of the road a backdrop instead of a barrier. You fidget with the case of your phone, not because you’re uncomfortable, but because your brain hasn’t caught up to the fact that this is real. That he showed up early. That he brought you flowers. That now you’re sitting in his passenger seat like some alternate universe version of yourself who does stuff like this.

It’s the kind of quiet that doesn’t make your skin crawl or your palms sweat. It’s the kind that fills in naturally between soft bursts of conversation, where the world passes by out the window and you can just exist in it without feeling like you have to perform.

Sidney keeps one hand on the wheel, relaxed, the other resting loosely on his thigh. Occasionally, he glances your way—quick flicks of his eyes like he’s making sure you’re still good. Still with him. And you are. You definitely are.

The sky outside slowly turns to that deep, navy kind of blue, just before full dark as you move. Streetlights flicker on. Shops glow warm behind their windows. And every so often, you catch the scent of his cologne again—something clean and just the slightest bit woodsy—and it tugs something low and soft in your gut.

“You always this quiet?” he asks after a few minutes.

You glance over, smirking. “Only when I’m trying to decide if my date is a serial killer.”

He snorts. “Fair.”

“Do you always offer women rides in cars that look like they came off a spy movie set?”

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re saying that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I’m just saying—” you gesture vaguely at the sleek dashboard “—this feels like the kind of car where you press a button and it launches rockets or something.”

“Unfortunately, the rocket package was extra,” he says seriously. “I went with heated seats instead.”

You steal a glance out the window. “You always drive yourself?”

His eyes flick toward you. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Who I’m trying to impress.”

You smile. “So—me, huh?”

“Obviously.”

You laugh softly, letting your head fall back against the seat for a second. “Good to know I’m high on the priority list.”

“You’re at the top,” he says without hesitation, his voice low, sincere.

You glance at him again, heart tugging a little. That boyish grin he gives you in return nearly makes your chest cave in.

The rest of the drive is a mix of soft music and half-spoken jokes. He makes fun of your GPS voice (“Why is she British?”), and you threaten to reprogram it to a cartoon chipmunk just to mess with him. He tells you a story about one of the younger guys on his team showing up late to skate because he got locked inside his own apartment’s garage, and you laugh too hard, snorting once, which earns you an exaggerated look.

“Don’t judge me,” you say, covering your face with one hand.

He grins. “It’s a good laugh.”

You don’t reply to that. You can’t. You’re too busy trying to calm the heat blooming all across your chest.

By the time he pulls into the restaurant’s lot—a corner spot tucked behind a small row of trees—you’ve somehow convinced yourself that maybe you can do this. That maybe tonight doesn’t have to go wrong. It’s the kind of place you’d miss if you weren’t looking for it—no flashy signs, just a small awning and warm amber lights glowing behind frosted windows. Quiet. Discreet.

He throws the car in park and turns to look at you, one hand already reaching for his seatbelt. “Ready?”

You nod. “Do I have lipstick on my teeth?”

He actually leans in to check—eyes scanning your mouth carefully.

“Nope. Just lips.”

You roll your eyes, smiling despite the rush of nerves twisting inside you. “Gross.”

He’s already out of the car by the time you’re unbuckling, moving around to your side before you can even reach for the handle. The passenger door swings open and he offers a hand—warm, callused, steady.

You take it and let him help you out. Your fingers linger a second longer than they need to. His thumb brushes the side of yours before he lets go.

Your heels click against the pavement, and his hand stays on the small of your back for just a second longer. It feels good. Secure. And you hate how much you notice it.

The restaurant is—just like the rest of this night—surprisingly you. Not fancy. Not too loud. Just nice. Dim lighting that makes everything a kind of soft gold, like candlelight even though most of the tables have tiny glass lanterns instead of actual flames. There’s a hum of conversation, laughter, the clink of forks on plates. It’s full, but not crowded. 

Friday night. Peak romance hour.

You glance around as you step inside, already cataloging the room like second nature—how many exits, who’s watching who, whether there’s a kid crying in the far corner or if it’s just the sound of silverware.

You’ve been doing this kind of thing for years. Comes with the territory. Mom mode never really switches off.

The host greets you both with a polite smile, but there’s a flicker of recognition behind his eyes when he looks at Sidney. His gaze lingers a beat too long—like he’s trying to figure out where he knows him from—before shaking it off and grabbing two menus.

“Hi there. Reservation?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “Under Crosby.”

His eyebrows twitch. Confirmed. But he keeps it cool. “Right this way.”

Sidney walks beside you, close but not crowding. His shoulder brushes yours once, and it leaves your skin buzzing under your blouse. He notices it too. You can feel it.

You’re led to a small round table in the far corner, half-tucked behind a tall planter and shielded slightly from view. Cozy. Private.

Romance-y as hell.

You pull out your chair, about to sit down, but Sidney catches the back of it first and helps ease it out with a small, quiet gesture that feels old-fashioned in the best kind of way. He doesn’t say anything about it. Just does it.

The host sets down the menus and dips his head. “Your server will be right with you.”

Sidney thanks him quietly, and you swear you see the guy glance over his shoulder one more time as he walks off—probably trying to confirm whether or not that is the Sidney Crosby.

“You get that a lot, huh?”

He looks up from unfolding his napkin. “What?”

“The look. Like they’re trying to solve a riddle with your face.”

He tilts his head, then shrugs. “Sometimes.”

“And it doesn’t drive you nuts?”

He leans back a little in his chair, glancing around casually. “Not really. I mean, yeah, it can get annoying. But it’s not personal, you know? It’s just part of it.”

You nod, trying to play it cool. But your fingers tug lightly at your napkin under the table.

But your body’s used to being on alert. It comes with motherhood—hyper-awareness, that constant half-readiness in your muscles. You don’t let your daughter wander. You don’t take your eyes off her in public. You know what it means when someone’s watching a little too long.

And now, it’s not your daughter they’re watching. It’s you.

You take a breath.

His smile is soft. “You’re good at that.”

“At what?”

“Watching. Being aware.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re saying I’ve got eyes like a hawk?”

“I’m saying you’ve got mom eyes. That’s way scarier.”

You laugh—because he’s not wrong—and tilt your head. 

He smirks. “I play in front of thousands of people every night. But you? Yeah, you’re intimidating.”

You scoff. “I’m literally one person.”

“That doesn’t change anything.”

Your cheeks burn. You look down at your menu, trying to hide the stupid grin tugging at the corners of your mouth. But you can still feel his eyes on you—steady, warm, a little amused.

“I feel like you like flustering me,” you mutter.

“I think you’re cute when you’re flustered,” he says without missing a beat.

You roll your eyes, flipping the menu up like a shield. “Jesus. You’re worse than Michelle.”

He laughs—low and genuine.

“You’re gonna have to tell me more about her,” he says, scanning his own menu. “She sounds like trouble.”

“Oh, she’s insane,” you agree. “She made me shave my legs just in case I was ‘getting lucky.’”

Sidney nearly chokes on air, lifting a hand to cover his mouth. “Did she actually say that?”

“Yep. Right before rifling through my closet and telling me my boobs were ‘wasting their prime.’”

He laughs again—louder this time, drawing a glance from a nearby table—and shakes his head. “I gotta meet this woman.”

“You don’t,” you say quickly. “She’ll make you sign a contract in blood if you so much as try to ghost me.”

He leans forward slightly. “What if I don’t want to ghost you?”

You look up.

He’s not smirking anymore. Just looking at you—really looking. Like he wants to know what’s behind your eyes and not just your makeup. Like he’s willing to wait for whatever it is.

Something tightens in your chest.

You blink slowly. “Then I guess we’re safe.”

You feel your foot nudge against his under the table. Neither of you moves it. Neither of you says a thing.

Then he smiles gently. “Wanna order wine so we can pretend we’re not being watched?”

You huff a laugh. “God, yes.”

And just like that, the tension breaks.

The waitress is sweet, mid-thirties, and noticeably unbothered by Sidney’s presence. She even calls him “hon” at one point and tells you your shoes are cute. You decide you love her.

He orders for both of you after you admit you’ll probably just end up getting whatever smells the best walking by. You let him pick a wine too, because—truthfully—you’re tired of making decisions and he seems to genuinely enjoy this whole “taking care of you” thing.

You lean in a little, nursing your glass of water between your hands, eyes focused on him over the soft candlelight flickering between you. “So,” you say slowly, “how’s the season going?”

Sidney shifts in his seat. Just a little. Barely enough for anyone else to notice, but you’ve always been sharp. Especially since becoming a mom. It’s practically instinct at this point—watching for tells, reading expressions, knowing when someone’s hiding something. And he is.

“It’s fine,” he says casually, grabbing his water like it’ll shield him.

You hum. “Fine?”

He nods once. “Yeah.”

That’s all he gives you. Just a yeah.

You let the silence hang for a beat. Raise an eyebrow. And when his eyes flick up and meet yours again, the tiniest bit of guilt blooms behind them. You bite down on a smile.

“You’re a really bad liar,” you say softly, tilting your head.

He actually laughs at that. “That obvious, huh?”

“Yup.” You grin, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. “You're just like my kid. I ask her if she brushed her teeth and she swears up and down that she did, but her breath smells like a pancake.”

He breaks into a real laugh then, leaning back in his chair, eyes crinkling in that way you’ve only ever seen on TV or in magazine photos. “A pancake?”

“Blueberry. Always blueberry.”

“Well, shit,” he mutters, and you both laugh again. Then he exhales, drags a hand through his hair, and drops the act. “It’s been rough.”

You nod slowly, giving him the space to fill.

“We’re adjusting,” he goes on, “some new systems, a couple guys out already. Typical early season stuff. But…” He hesitates, fingers tapping against the base of his glass. “You know how it is. When things are off, it gets in your head.”

You do know. You’re not playing professional hockey, but you’ve had your own fair share of spirals. Nights where everything feels out of step and wrong and too quiet once your kid’s asleep. Moments where the weight of responsibility feels like it might flatten you. So you nod again, more solemn this time.

“That’s a shitty place to be,” you say.

He looks at you like he hadn’t expected you to say that. Like he’s used to people giving advice instead of understanding.

“Yeah,” he says. “It is.”

You give him a small, crooked smile. “Well, for what it’s worth… I think your bad season still probably looks like magic to my five-year-old.”

That softens him. His whole face shifts.

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah. She’s obsessed. You’re basically her Elsa right now.”

He blinks. “I don’t—wait, like Frozen Elsa?”

“Yup.” You nod solemnly. “You have superpowers and everything. Do you not shoot ice from your hands? That’s disappointing.”

He snorts. “I can’t say I do.”

“Well,” you say, sighing dramatically, “there goes that illusion.”

Sidney grins, but you can see he’s holding something back. Like he’s trying to figure out how much he’s allowed to want to be a part of this life you’re talking about. You don’t blame him. You’re doing the exact same thing.

“So,” he says slowly, “have you brought her to any games yet?”

You shake your head, laughing under your breath. “No. Not yet. I mean, she’s watched a bunch of games on TV. More than me, honestly.”

His eyebrows go up. “Wait—you haven’t watched a full game?”

“Nope,” you admit, tugging at your napkin. “I… it’s not that I don’t want to. I just haven’t had the time. Or the patience. Or the attention span. Or—”

He chuckles. “Okay, okay, I get it.”

“But she’s all in,” you add. “She’s got this idea in her head that she wants to visit every single hockey arena. I don’t even know where she got that from.”

He leans in, totally amused. “All of them?”

“All of them. She told me we need a map. I told her we need a trust fund.”

He laughs again, shaking his head. “She sounds amazing.”

“She is,” you say without hesitation.

There’s a moment where you both sit with that. The weight of it. Of what it means to be someone’s parent. Of what it means to bring someone into that.

“You guys should come to a game,” he says suddenly, softly.

You blink. “What?”

He smiles. “I’m serious. It could be fun for her. And maybe it’d help you get into it too. I’ll get you good seats. Quiet ones.”

You stare at him, heart doing something completely irrational in your chest. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know I don’t,” he says gently. “But I want to.”

You chew your lip. “She would freak.”

“Good,” he says, smiling. “Let her freak out.”

You laugh under your breath, but it’s shaky. There’s something creeping up your spine now, something warm and terrifying. Like you’re tiptoeing along the edge of something bigger than you.

“She’d want to bring a sign,” you warn him. “And scream every time she saw you on the ice.”

“Good,” he repeats. “That’d probably help my game.”

You look at him—really look at him. Past the headlines, the persona, the name. And he just looks back at you like he’s trying to memorize the exact shape of your smile. You didn’t expect this. Not the ease. Not the sincerity. Not the way it all feels like something you’ve missed for a long, long time.

You’re terrified. But for the first time in forever… you’re also kind of hopeful.

“Okay,” you whisper.

His eyes flicker. “Yeah?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. We’ll come to a game.”

And you’re pretty sure that the grin he gives you after that could melt any rink in the league.

Dinner comes, wine is served, plates are warm and steaming. His hand brushes yours as he helps push your plate closer, a simple little thing that sends a rush up your spine that you pretend not to notice. You thank him with a quiet smile and pick up your fork, spearing a piece of whatever vegetable the place has made actually taste good.

For a while, it’s just the sounds of forks and clinking glasses and soft conversation around the room. You’re both chewing, glancing at each other now and then, and it’s comfortable. Weirdly. Like you've done this before. Like it’s not the first date but the third or the fifth.

You’re the one who speaks first.

“So,” you glance up at him through your lashes, playful but careful, “how’s it feel to be the most recognized person in a place designed to be lowkey as hell?”

He smiles, one corner of his mouth tugging up like he knows exactly what you’re doing. “It’s part of the job,” he says, shrugging. “I’m used to the peepers.”

“Peepers,” you repeat, snorting into your wine glass. “God, what are you, seventy?”

Sidney laughs—a real one, warm and crackling with a low rumble. “I mean, people are peeping,” he says. “I’m just calling it what it is.”

“They’re definitely peeping,” you admit, nodding. “One lady almost broke her neck trying to see if it was really you.”

“She probably thinks I’m out with my wife,” he murmurs, a little quieter, more thoughtful.

You glance up at that. The weight of it hangs between you for a moment. “Or your mistress,” you offer dryly.

Sid chokes on his water and laughs. “Christ.”

“Too far?” you ask, biting back a grin.

“No, no,” he says, still laughing. “It’s perfect. I like that you’re not afraid to say shit.”

“I am,” you confess with a shrug, twirling your fork around the edge of your plate. “Afraid. A little.”

You hesitate. You shouldn’t say anything. You should keep it light and flirty and nonchalant like Michelle told you to. But something about the way he’s looking at you—patient, waiting, like there’s nothing you could say that would scare him off—it makes it easier to tell the truth.

“You could’ve picked the place,” he says. “I would’ve taken you anywhere.”

“I don’t think Chick-fil-A screams first date, Sid.”

He laughs again, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Alright, maybe not. But I meant what I said yesterday—I didn’t want this to be, like… this whole big public thing. I wanted it to be just us.”

You look at him again, and this time you don’t hide the way your gaze lingers. He’s watching you too, and there’s something that simmers low and steady beneath the table. A gentle but unmistakable tension. Not the awkward kind. The kind that says we get each other. Like your knees might touch and it would feel like gravity instead of coincidence.

He tilts his head a little, tone shifting. “So how did she get into hockey? Your daughter, I mean.”

You pick at your food, glancing down before answering. “Street hockey, actually. Some neighborhood kids had a little game going on and she wandered in like she owned the place. Skinned both knees but refused to cry.”

Sid smiles, resting his chin on his hand, genuinely invested.

“She came home a mess—blood, dirt, leaves in her hair—and all she could talk about was how she almost scored. That was it. She was in. Wanted a stick the next day.”

“That’s the most badass thing I’ve ever heard.”

“She is,” you say before you can stop yourself. Your throat catches a little, emotions rushing your chest like they always do when you talk about her. “She’s so… brave. Loud. Fierce. Nothing like me.”

Sidney’s expression softens.

You shrug, forcing a smile. “Anyway. I panicked. Called everyone I know in case they knew anything about hockey. Ended up at that store.”

“And that’s where we met,” he finishes gently.

You nod, trying to keep your heart from thudding out of your chest. “Yup. That’s where I made a total ass of myself.”

“I don’t remember that part.” 

You pick up your fork again and say, “We’re a real pair, huh?”

He chuckles. “A skater mom and a washed-up hockey player.”

You laugh through your nose. “Hey, you said it, not me.”

He smirks. “You’re gonna keep me humble, aren’t you?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“I think you’re kind of amazing,” he finishes softly.

You sit back in your seat and stare at him. Words fail. You shift, trying to pull air back into your lungs. “So. Dessert?”

He smiles. “Absolutely. I have a sweet tooth.”

You nod slowly. “Let me guess… big cookie guy?”

“Rude.”

“I’m just saying. You scream chocolate chip.”

“I’m deeply offended.”

You grin at him and for the first time tonight, you let your foot nudge his gently under the table.

“Fine. Surprise me then.”

He raises his hand to flag the waiter, and as he does, he leans toward you with that same glint in his eye.

“Just wait,” he murmurs. “I’m full of surprises.”

The check comes, and you barely reach for your wallet before Sid’s already handing over his card.

You try. Really, you do.

You give him your best raised-eyebrow Are you serious? look and mumble, “We should at least split it.”

“Nope.”

“Sidney.”

“Y/N.”

You groan, slumping back against your chair like he’s personally offended you. “You’re gonna make me feel spoiled.”

He grins. “Good.”

You narrow your eyes. “What if I wanted to pay?”

He leans forward, his voice dropping. “Then I’d say, next time.”

The waiter walks off before you can argue further, and you mutter into your wine glass, “Smooth bastard.”

He just smirks and downs the rest of his water like he didn’t just win the round. Again.

The air is cool outside, the kind of crisp that brushes over your shoulders and pricks at your collarbone. You don’t even realize how close you’re standing to him until his arm brushes yours and he murmurs, “Wanna walk for a bit?”

You nod without thinking, and he tucks his hands into his coat pockets, guiding you down the sidewalk like he’s done this a thousand times.

The streets are soft with traffic, not too loud, not too busy. The occasional clink of silverware from outdoor patios and quiet hum of Friday night laughter follows you both, but it doesn’t feel invasive. It almost feels peaceful.

Sid talks about his sister for a little, how she’s doing great, smarter than him by far, how you’d probably love her. You talk about how your daughter’s started adding random silent letters to words when she writes just to be “fancy,” and how she refuses to sleep unless her stuffed flamingo “Mrs. Pickles” is tucked in beside her.

He laughs so hard he nearly trips on a sidewalk crack.

“Mrs. Pickles?”

You nod solemnly. “She takes her very seriously. It’s a high-ranking title.”

He shakes his head, eyes wide with amusement. “That’s elite naming. Like, all-time great.”

“She said she couldn’t trust a flamingo without a diploma,” you add.

He actually stops walking for a second to bend slightly and laugh. Full-bodied. Warm. He looks at you after, hand pressed to his chest. “I love her.”

You smile softly. “She’s a little maniac.”

“She’s your maniac.”

You don’t know why that makes your eyes burn.

You both fall into a comfortable silence for a moment—your footsteps lining up, your shoulders brushing every now and then—and then he suddenly veers right, gently grabbing your hand.

“Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“Trust me.”

“Famous last words,” you mutter, but you follow.

He leads you a block over, then slows near a little corner shop lit up with warm, yellow lights and a soft-pink neon sign.

You stare at it, then at him. “Ice cream?”

He nods.

“It’s like 60 degrees out.”

“So?”

You squint at him. “I’m not judging.”

He shrugs, pulling the door open. “Told you, I’ve got a sweet tooth.”

You follow him inside, letting the scent of waffle cones and cold sugar wash over you. It’s cute in here. Narrow space, hand-written chalkboard menu, a bunch of mismatched chairs crammed into one corner.

Sid walks right up to the counter like he’s been here before.

The teenager behind the counter immediately does a double take, mouth twitching like he recognizes him but isn’t totally sure.

You nudge his elbow. “You’ve been here before.”

He glances at you. “Yeah.”

“Is this like your post-game craving spot?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes. They’ve got good pink ice cream.”

You blink. Your heart does that annoying squeeze thing again. “Wait. The pink ice cream?”

He nods, voice casual. “The fridge note kind.”

You just stare at him. “You remembered that?”

“I notice stuff.”

You press your lips together and look away. Jesus. Of course he noticed. He probably remembers everything. And he’s out here hunting down pink ice cream like it’s a goddamn quest.

“You’re—” You shake your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

He grins. “Is that a thank-you?”

You roll your eyes but can’t stop the smile tugging at your mouth. “I’ll tell you when I’ve tried it.”

You both lean over the counter to look at the options. There is pink ice cream. Bright pink, obnoxiously so. Cotton candy, the little sign says.

“Rocky road for me,” you say.

“Cookies and cream,” he says like it’s a sacred declaration.

You burst out laughing. “You are basic.”

He doesn’t flinch. “And proud.”

He insists on paying. Again. You half-heartedly argue, but the truth is—it’s kind of sweet. And his look dares you to stop him.

“I’m never paying for anything again, am I?” you mutter.

“Nope.”

You both walk back out into the cool air, cones in hand. He passes you the second one—a tiny pink scoop in a little cup with a plastic spoon.

“For your kid,” he says casually. “You can give it to her tomorrow. Just stick it in the freezer when you get home.”

You don’t respond right away because your throat’s tight. And you’re not exactly sure what to do with the feeling of someone being that thoughtful just because.

Finally, you whisper, “Thank you.”

He bumps your shoulder. “Told you. Sweet tooth.”

You both stroll down the sidewalk again, slower this time. The night’s soft around you, quiet in a way that feels almost sacred.

“This is nice,” you say finally.

“It is.”

“It’s like… weirdly easy.”

He nods. “Yeah. I was thinking the same thing. I figured first dates were supposed to be awkward.”

“This one kinda is,” you tease. “You’re just too charming for your own good.”

“Oh, I’m the charming one?”

You smirk. “You literally ordered pink ice cream for my daughter after a fancy dinner. Don’t act like you’re not laying it on thick.”

“I just wanted to see you smile again.”

Your breath catches.

You look over at him, your heart banging around your ribs like it doesn’t know where to go.

“That’s not fair,” you whisper.

He doesn’t say anything.

You both fall into a long, quiet stretch. The kind that carries weight. The kind that makes you wonder if you should stop walking and turn to face him just to see what might happen if you did.

But you don’t.

Instead, you glance over and say softly, “She’s gonna love the ice cream.”

He nods. “I figured.”

You don’t want the night to end.

But the air’s turned sharp, a little too cold now, nipping at your skin every time a breeze kicks up and skates down your arms. And maybe it’s the ice cream, maybe it’s just late—but you both slow your walk back to the car, lingering without really trying to.

The last few blocks feel different. Softer. Your laughter’s quieter, closer to a whisper. He’s walking a little closer too, brushing against you every few steps like he doesn’t want to stop either.

Sid reaches for the car door before you can, his hand warm even through your sleeve when he gently takes the pink cup from your hand to open it for you.

“Don’t drop it,” you warn, voice teasing but quiet.

He smirks. “You think I’d ruin the sacred pink ice cream?”

You slip into the passenger seat he climbs in beside you. The second the doors shut, the car feels warmer—more contained. A different kind of atmosphere than the wide-open air you’d been walking through. You settle in slowly, careful with your daughter’s prize, balancing it on your lap.

Sid glances over with a grin as he starts the engine. “So. You got more plans tonight or what?”

You blink. “What?”

He glances at you again, playful. “You know. Another reservation? Another guy waiting outside the ice cream shop?”

You laugh. “You think I double-booked?”

He raises a brow. “You wouldn’t be the first.”

You scoff, mock offended. “Please. I barely had enough energy for this one.”

“Ouch,” he grins. “That your way of saying you’re sick of me already?”

“No,” you laugh softly. “It’s my way of saying Michelle has probably run my kid into the ground and I should go pick up the remains.”

He chuckles. “That bad, huh?”

“She feeds her sugar and lets her wear the same pair of glittery socks for days straight. It’s like Lord of the Flies in that house.”

“That explains the glitter on your hoodie skirt.”

You snort. “There’s always glitter on me. It’s like a curse. I’ll be buried with glitter on my corpse.”

He laughs harder than you expect, his eyes crinkling. “Okay, so you don’t have another date. That’s good.”

You turn slightly toward him, raising a brow. “Why?”

He shrugs, pulling up to a red light. “I don’t know. It’d suck if I wasn’t your favorite guy you saw tonight.”

You tilt your head, teasing. “That’s a bold assumption.”

He grins again. That same small, almost-shy but not shy smile he’s given you all night when he knows he’s being just a little cocky. “Yeah? You gonna tell me I’m wrong?”

You don’t answer at first. You look out the window instead, watching the glow of the streetlamps smear across the glass, the city sliding by like some sleepy dream. Then you look down at the pink cup in your lap and say softly, “You remembered the ice cream.”

He glances over at you. His voice is quiet. “Of course I did.”

That’s when the silence shifts.

It’s no longer just comfortable—it’s weighted. Full. Like a question neither of you is asking out loud yet, even though it’s there.

You tuck your hair behind your ear. “I really did have a good time.”

He exhales, nodding once, eyes back on the road. “Yeah. Me too.”

The drive the rest of the way to your place is quiet, but it’s not awkward. It’s the kind of quiet that feels settled. Like something important already happened, and now neither of you wants to break the spell.

By the time he pulls up outside your place, the cold’s settled back in your bones. You hold the ice cream cup a little tighter, not quite ready to say goodbye yet.

Sid parks but doesn’t shut the car off. He looks over at you slowly, and for a second, you’re sure he’s going to say something meaningful—something heavy.

Instead, he smiles.

“So,” he says softly, “are you gonna give me a glittery high five or what?”

You laugh. “I don’t think you’ve earned that yet.”

“No?”

“No. Maybe after a second date.”

He freezes, just for a second, before that same soft grin pulls at the corners of his mouth. “You asking me?”

You meet his eyes, heart pounding. “I’m just saying… you’ve set the bar really high. Next guy’s gotta buy ice cream for my kid, and for me, and walk me around the city.”

“Sounds like a nightmare,” he says dryly.

You grin. “Right? Horrible.”

There’s another pause. One of those thick, almost-touching kinds.

He leans a little closer. Not enough to push, but enough that you feel it in your chest. His voice is low. “You should bring her to a game.”

You nod, a small breath catching in your throat. “Yeah. I think I will.”

“You too.”

You glance up at him. “You think I’d like hockey?”

“I think you’d like my hockey,” he murmurs.

God, he’s dangerous when he does that—quiet and careful and full of heat.

You open the door slowly, cold rushing in again. “Thanks for dinner.”

“Thanks for coming.”

You hesitate on the threshold of the car, the cup still in your hand, and then glance back at him. “Text me when you get home?”

He nods, just once. “I will.”

You step out, shut the door gently behind you, and walk toward the front steps, your pulse drumming loud in your ears. You don’t look back.

But you feel him watching the whole time.

You’re barely inside your place before you’re toeing off your shoes and fishing your phone out of your pocket.

Your fingers are stiff from the cold, and you fumble the lock screen once before getting it open. A few notifications wait for you—one from your mom checking in, a couple from that group text with the school moms that you still haven’t had the heart to mute—but one message stands out like it’s glowing.

Sidney Crosby: Hey. Sorry to text so soon.

Sidney Crosby: I had a really great time tonight. Like really. Would love to do it again soon. Also—would love to see you and the little one at a game sometime. I think she’d love it. I think you would too. No pressure. Just… yeah. I had a great night. :)”

You exhale before you realize you’re even holding your breath, your shoulders sagging a little with it. There’s this weird ache in your chest—warm, fuzzy, deep. And unsteady. You tap out a response quickly but rewrite it twice before you finally send:

You: I had a really great time too. Thank you again for dinner (and the ice cream, you thief). We’d really like to go to a game. Just let us know when your schedule isn’t insane. No pressure either.”

And then you add, without thinking:

You: Pink ice cream is safely in the freezer. I think that automatically qualifies you for sainthood.”

His reply is nearly instant.

Sidney Crosby: Damn. I was going for ‘cool guy’ and accidentally landed on ‘saint.’ Rookie mistake.

You grin, your cheeks aching from it as you put your phone down just long enough to tuck the little pink cup into the freezer like it’s treasure.

Then you pad down the hallway, peeling off your coat, tossing your scarf over a chair, slipping into the bedroom to tug on a pair of leggings and an oversized sweatshirt. You pause by the mirror, fingers grazing the corner of your mouth, like you’re still trying to feel if the smile’s actually yours.

You grab your keys again, double-check the ice cream, your phone, your charger, and then you head out. Michelle’s place isn’t far. You knock softly before letting yourself in, already knowing she told you to come straight up.

The lights are low and the apartment smells like lavender lotion and kettle corn, and you’re hit with that familiar wave of comfort—Michelle’s version of chaos is soft and familiar, a kind of organized mess that makes it easy to breathe.

You step into her bedroom and smile the second you see her—bare-faced, in her old college hoodie, hair piled on top of her head in a claw clip, sitting cross-legged on the bed with a bowl of pretzels.

“Oh my God,” she whispers dramatically when she sees you. “Tell me everything.”

But your eyes go first to the lump under the covers.

Your daughter is sound asleep, curled on her side in the center of the bed, cheeks flushed, her curls still slightly damp and sticking to her forehead. She’s in her favorite pajamas—the ones with the pastel dinosaurs—and the stuffed turtle you keep having to stitch back together is tucked under one arm.

Your throat tightens instantly. “She brushed her teeth?”

“Twice,” Michelle grins. “Because I told her that’s how she gets extra sugar out. You’re welcome.”

You shake your head, smiling as you quietly set your bag down and toe off your shoes. “You’re gonna make her a sugar addict.”

“She already is,” Michelle says proudly. “You just live in denial.”

You lean down, kiss the top of your daughter’s head gently, brush a curl off her cheek, and then slip into the bed beside her, careful not to jostle her too much. She stirs a little, but doesn’t wake.

Michelle’s eyes are glued to you. “Okay. Spill. Now.”

You stifle a laugh, tugging the blanket up and settling back against the pillows. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything. From the moment he knocked on your door to the exact second he dropped you off. Everything.”

You sigh. “He brought flowers.”

Michelle clutches her heart. “Stop.”

“No idea they were expected. Just… did it. Like it was normal.”

“That’s so hot I’m actually nauseous.”

You smile despite yourself. “He noticed her drawings on the fridge. That ‘pink ice cream’ note? He took me to get some after dinner.”

Michelle stares at you. “You’re lying.”

You shake your head. “He remembered it. On purpose.”

“I hate him. I love him. Tell me what you wore. Wait—no—tell me everything else first. Dinner. Talk. Details.”

So you do.

You tell her about the restaurant, the dim lighting, the round table, how he held the door for you and helped you out of the car like it was second nature. You tell her about the conversations, the way he made you laugh, how he asked about your daughter like he’d been thinking about her all week. How he admitted to being a bad liar. How he said he wanted to see you at a game too.

You tell her about the cookies and cream and the rocky road and the way he refused to let you pay for anything. You admit you didn’t want to go home. Not yet.

Michelle’s beaming by the time you finish.

“So are you seeing him again or am I faking an emergency to force him to your door?”

You laugh. “I think we’ll see him again. He texted me as soon as I got in the door.”

“And?”

“And said he had a great time. That he wants to do it again. That he’d love for the two of us to come to a game.”

Michelle grabs a pillow and screams into it like a teenager, then flops dramatically back against the headboard. “I swear to God, if you don’t marry this man and let me give the most unhinged speech at your wedding—”

You roll your eyes, smiling. “Stop it.”

“I won’t. You deserve someone good. Someone solid. Someone who buys your kid ice cream because he saw a note on your fridge and decided to make it a priority.”

Your chest aches again. “I know.”

Michelle looks at you more carefully then, her voice softening. “It’s okay to like him.”

“I do like him.”

“I mean really like him.”

You stare at the ceiling. “That’s what scares me.”

She doesn’t push. She never has to. She just slides further under the blankets and pats the space beside her. “C’mere. Stay. She’s out cold anyway.”

You nod, curling onto your side and gently lifting your daughter so she’s draped across your chest. She mumbles something in her sleep and goes right back to breathing evenly, face nestled against your collarbone.

Michelle flips the light off.

And in the dark, with the weight of your daughter curled over your heart and your best friend close enough to reach, you let yourself exhale all the way.

Not because the night is over. But because it feels like something else is starting.

Saturday

The first thing you hear is your daughter’s giggle. That kind of bright, unfiltered laugh she only does when she’s entirely unbothered by the world.

The second is Michelle, whisper-yelling something about eggshells and “oh my god, that is not how you whisk—okay, okay, yes it is if you’re Gordon fucking Ramsay, but he’s not here, is he?”

You roll over, squinting at the faint morning light bleeding through the blinds. The room smells like coffee and something sweet—vanilla or maybe pancakes. You blink a few times, gathering yourself. Your body is stiff from the way you fell asleep last night, half curled around your daughter, the other half pinned by Michelle’s absurd collection of throw pillows.

You sit up slowly, rubbing your eyes. The apartment’s a little chilly this morning—enough to make you tug Michelle’s extra blanket tighter around your shoulders as you shuffle down the hallway toward the kitchen.

And the moment you step into view, Michelle spots you.

She freezes.

She looks guilty.

You squint at her. “What did you do?”

Your daughter turns toward you at the sound of your voice, face lighting up instantly. “Mommy!”

She’s standing on a kitchen chair, proudly whisking a bowl of batter with enough enthusiasm to splash it halfway up the side of the fridge. Her hands are covered in flour. She’s never looked happier.

Michelle gives you a smile that’s too big and way too fake. “Hey! Morning! You want coffee? We’ve got decaf, full-caf, oat milk, existential dread—dealer’s choice.”

You narrow your eyes at her. “What?”

“Nothing,” she says way too fast. “Absolutely nothing at all.”

“Michelle.”

She pivots to put sausage on the skillet, overly focused. “I mean… not while there are tiny, curious ears in the room. So maybe just enjoy this fine meal and we’ll circle back.”

You glance down at your daughter, who’s now humming some nonsense song while shaking sprinkles into a small bowl like she’s making her own Michelin-star dessert.

You decide not to push it. For now

You step in beside your daughter, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “You cooking, Chef?”

“I’m making pancakes!” she says proudly, pointing at the griddle like she’s orchestrating a Michelin-star breakfast. “I cracked the eggs all by myself.”

You glance down. There’s eggshell in the batter.

You make a mental note not to mention it.

You pour coffee, help her pour the batter onto the pan in slightly more controlled circles, and quietly enjoy the morning. It’s simple. It’s warm. It’s normal.

Until it’s not.

Because as soon as breakfast is over and your daughter trots off into the living room to line up her toy horses on the coffee table, Michelle turns to you with that same weird expression from earlier.

She looks like she’s bracing for impact.

You set your mug down slowly. “Okay. What?”

Michelle winces, like she was hoping you wouldn’t ask. “So… remember how I said I follow Sidney’s topic on Twitter?”

“Wait, you follow—?”

“I like knowing if he’s scratched or not! It helps with my fantasy team!” she defends. “I’m not stalking, okay? I just—look, you said he texted you after the date, and I wanted to see if he’d posted anything, maybe I wanted to see if the hockey girls noticed, I don’t know, I was curious, sue me.”

“What’d you find?”

She grabs her phone, opens it, and hesitates. “Okay. You promise not to freak out?”

“That’s literally the worst way to start this conversation.”

Michelle flips the phone around.

It’s a video.

Grainy, slightly zoomed-in, clearly filmed from another table. But it’s undeniably you and Sidney. At dinner last night. You recognize the way your hands move when you’re talking, the way he leans in when he listens. The angle’s tight enough that you can’t hear the conversation, but someone added subtitles anyway. And not just that—there’s a whole goddamn description in the tweet thread:

“Saw Sidney Crosby at dinner last night with a mystery woman. They later left together and got ice cream nearby. No idea on who she is yet but she seems nice enough??”

Michelle flips to the next tweet—screenshots from someone who’d apparently followed you both to the ice cream place. They circled your pink cup and captioned it “did she seriously get two ice creams? that’s adorable.”

Your stomach drops.

“That’s—that’s creepy,” you whisper. “That’s so creepy.”

Michelle nods solemnly. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not even on social media like that,” you mutter, grabbing your coffee again just so you can hold something. “I have like twelve people on my private account. How the hell did I end up on someone’s gossip thread?”

Michelle tries to lighten the mood. “To be fair you are dating one of the most famous hockey players in the world.”

“We’re not even—” You groan, sinking further into your chair “Michelle. That was our first date.”

“And it was a good one!” she chirps. “Apparently so good people decided to record it.”

You shoot her a look.

She sits down across from you. “Look, I’m not gonna lie. It’s fucked up. But this might be something you deal with now. If things go somewhere. You know?”

You nod slowly. The pit in your stomach grows.

You pick up your phone.

Nothing unusual at first. Just the usual: a couple texts from friends, a notification from the school reminding you about pajama day on Tuesday, and—

A few messages from Sidney.

Sidney: Hey. Just wanted to say I’m really sorry about that video going around. I didn’t know someone was filming us. I don’t post about my personal life, ever, and I should’ve thought about that more. I hope you’re okay. 

Sidney: Text me if you want. 

Sidney: Or if you don’t. Just yeah. I’m sorry.

You stare at it.

And then, the one below it.

A number you know by heart.

Your daughter’s dad.

The text is a screenshot. The thumbnail of the video.

“Is this you? Really classy, Y/N.”

Jesus Christ.

You put your phone down like it burned you.

Michelle frowns. “What is it?”

You turn the phone so she can see both messages.

“Oh,” she says softly. “Yikes.”

“Yeah,” you mutter, slumping further in your chair. “This is too much.”

She eyes you carefully. “Have you texted Sidney back?”

“No.”

“You’re going to, though, right?”

“I don’t know.”

“Y/N—”

“I don’t know, Michelle.”

Your voice is louder than you intended. You wince and glance toward the living room, but your daughter’s still happily babbling to her horse figurines, completely unaware.

“I just,” You lower your voice. “I knew this could happen. I knew it. But I didn’t think it would be now. It’s been one night. And I already have some stranger subtitling my life and my ex texting me screenshots like I owe him a goddamn explanation.”

Michelle’s quiet for a beat. Then: “You don’t owe anyone an explanation. Not him. Not the internet. Not even Sidney if you’re not ready. But don’t punish him for something he didn’t do.”

You sigh. “I know. I know.”

Michelle leans forward. “And maybe this is fucked up, but I kind of love that the pink ice cream made it in.”

That gets a small laugh out of you, even if it’s watery.

You close your eyes, press the heels of your hands to your face. The panic’s subsiding a little. But it’s still buzzing somewhere behind your ribs.

“I just wanted something normal,” you whisper.

Michelle nods. “So what do you want to do?”

You power your phone off slowly, set it down face-first.

“I want to not deal with it for a few hours.”

She doesn’t push.

Instead, she calls out, “Okay, who wants to help me fold laundry and definitely not build a blanket fort in the living room?”

“Me!” your daughter shouts.

You smile faintly, pushing up from the table.

Michelle’s already moving, yelling over her shoulder, “And I better not see any videos of you folding laundry either, you hear me? This is a private fort construction zone!”

And somehow, even though your stomach still turns and your chest still aches and your phone still holds two unread messages—one from the guy you like, the other from the man you used to love—you find yourself walking into the living room.

—

[thatonegrimm]

The Manager’s Guide to Demon Boybands: A Witch’s Oath

Sweat, Spells, and Setlists

Chapter1/Chapter 2/Chapter3

The studio smelled like sweat, spell-dampened glamour, and expensive hair product. The air hummed with the intensity of their rehearsal, a friction of energy as the Saja Boys moved in sync, yet just slightly off-kilter, enough to make her feel the tension between the boys and the world that no longer remembered them.

She leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, clipboard balanced on one hip. Her gaze was sharp, catching every movement, every flicker of hesitation in their choreography. She was not impressed.

“Again,” she said, her voice calm but carrying an unspoken weight.

The beat dropped.

The Saja Boys danced with the kind of energy that only demons could summon sharp, powerful, but imperfect. It wasn’t that they were bad dancers. No, they were extraordinary. But the cracks were there, the tiny moments where their power slipped through the glamour that veiled them. Your trained eyes caught it all the hesitation in Jinu’s left foot, Abby’s overpowering rhythm that was too big for the space, the brief flicker of gold behind Mystery’s shadow as he spun too fast, the way Romance flirted with the beat but never quite became part of it.

And then there was Baby—his footwork impeccable, aggressive, like he had something to prove.

They were beautiful. And terrifying. But they were also lost.

Jinu was the easiest to read. He moved with the precision of a soldier, every motion deliberate and controlled, but there was a tension in him. He wasn’t just dancing for the sake of performance. It was like he was fighting for something fighting for survival. There was something about the way he counted the beats in his head, as if trying to stay one step ahead, as if trying to hold everything together without anyone noticing the weight of it all.

You liked him. He reminded you of yourself—always watching, always calculating, always holding things together in silence.

Abby, on the other hand, danced with a kind of grace that shouldn’t belong to someone as large as he was. His chest rose and fell with the rhythm, his gaze connecting with each of the boys in turn, always making sure they were still a team, still in sync, even when the world outside their rehearsals threatened to tear them apart. Abby wasn’t just strong physically; his emotional intelligence was off the charts. He saw everything every crack, every sigh, every unspoken word.

But the truth was, Abby didn’t realize how strong his power was. She had seen it before. She had felt the crackle under his skin when he was angry, when his strength flared out of control. She had seen him almost destroy a room with nothing more than the sheer force of his presence.

Mystery, meanwhile, moved like water fluid, unpredictable, untamed. His body bent the choreography to his will, twisting it into something primal. She thought she caught him glancing at the mirror more than the others—not out of vanity, but confusion. He didn’t seem to recognize himself in the reflection. He didn’t see the demon lurking beneath the surface.

And when the glamour slipped, when his true form shimmered through for just a moment she noticed the flash of the spiral-shaped mark under his collarbone. A demon’s brand. The same kind of mark the boys had been born with, but one that no human was supposed to see.

Romance, as usual, flirted with the mirror, with the choreography, with the beat itself. His every move was a performance—charisma wrapped in flesh, smooth and effortless. He was too good at pretending to be human.

It made you trust him the least.

He noticed everything. His eyes had already clocked her, the way she was watching them more than their footwork. He smiled, a knowing, teasing grin, and Areum could almost feel him pulling at her, trying to get a reaction. But she held her ground. There was more at play here than the surface, and she wasn’t going to let him distract her from the real danger.

Baby didn’t smile.

His footwork was flawless fast, aggressive, and precise, like a machine. Every move had purpose, every motion calculated for maximum impact. There was no wasted effort, no hesitation. But more than that, there was a stillness about him. The others joked around, laughed between takes, but not Baby. He was all business, his eyes always darting around the room, taking in the smallest details. He was young, yes, but that didn’t mean he was naive.

And that was why you marked him as the most dangerous. Not because of his recklessness, but because of his deliberate control. He was the one who could destroy everything without even trying.

You let them run the dance three more times, making mental notes, tracking their movements, but also watching them closely—watching how their power leaked out when they forgot to hold back, when they let their guard down. You wondered if they knew it was happening. Did they feel it?

Probably not.

That was the problem with glamour. It slipped at the edges.

The boys filed out of the studio sometime after seven, laughing and shoving each other, their hair damp and their clothes wrinkled from hours of rehearsal. They were loud, vibrant, trying to act like normal humans. They joked and teased each other, putting on their best “idol” faces, trying to blend into the world that no longer remembered them.

You handed them their revised schedule and didn’t linger.

“Group photoshoot on Monday,” you said, voice crisp and direct. “Don’t be late.”

Jinu nodded, his gaze lingering on the paper. Abby grinned, stretching his arms above his head. Romance winked at Areum, the flirtation still lingering in his eyes.

Mystery stared at the fluorescent light like it had insulted him.

Baby didn’t say anything. But he caught your eye for a beat longer than usual, as if something unspoken passed between them.

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

Your apartment was small, neat, and filled with protective wards. Silver threads crisscrossed the windows, keeping the world outside from prying too closely. The balcony, barely visible from the street, held dried herbs strung like bunting, a scent of magic and nature filling the air. The tea shelf doubled as a potion rack, every bottle and jar carefully labeled, as though the apartment were a place of secrets rather than just a home.

You dropped your keys in the bowl by the door, unbuttoned your blazer, and crossed to the window out of habit.

Then you paused.

Across the narrow street, in the window of a sleek new apartment building, a light flickered on. Then another.

A shadow passed by—a tall, broad figure, familiar yet distant.

Then another.

Then five.

Your fingers tightened around the mug.

So.

They lived across from you. Not exactly opposite, but close enough that you could see their windows if one leaned out a little, just enough to glimpse movement, silhouettes, outlines against the curtains.

They didn’t know.

Couldn’t see you through the protective charms woven into the glass.

But you could see them.

And for now, that was enough.

You though, had known.

Had known from the moment you saw them that they weren’t just any K-pop group. They weren’t just talented boys with too much charisma. You saw them for what they truly were: survivors. And knew what would happen if the wrong people discovered them.

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

At first, the boys had laughed off the idea of needing a manager.

Abby, as always, was the first to speak up: “We’ve got charisma. We don’t need anyone holding our hands.”

But he didn’t see it. He didn’t see the weight of the world on their shoulders, the constant pressure to fit in when they had been erased from human memory. He didn’t see the darkened eyes watching them from the distance, the people who would see them not as idols, but as demons.

Jinu had been the first to get it. He saw the exhaustion in their eyes, the way they floundered in a world that couldn’t remember their past. He saw that they needed something someone to help keep them grounded in a reality that had forgotten them. And he saw that she was more than just a manager. She was their lifeline.

Mystery hadn’t said much about it. But every time she was in the room, his eyes would flick to her, as though searching for answers in the quiet strength she carried. He didn’t understand her completely, but he recognized that she was the one who kept them from unraveling.

Romance, for all his flirtations and playful demeanor, had moments when he looked at her with something softer in his eyes. He never asked for her help, but he always sought her out when the world around them felt too loud, too overwhelming. She was the one who held their group together, the one who kept the chaos at bay, even if she didn’t fully reveal her own secrets.

Baby, however, was the one who noticed her first. Baby, despite his youthful appearance, could sense things the others couldn’t. He noticed how you never looked at him like a child. Didn’t underestimate him the way others did. You saw him, and in doing so, gave him something the others never could: the feeling of being understood.

The prophecy that foretold five flames—five demon lords walking the Earth—had been true. But what it didn’t tell them was that their existence would disrupt everything. They were demons, but they were alive, walking, and hiding in a world that had no place for them. And even though she had kept them safe for now, the prophecy also spoke of her being part of their future, part of their salvation.

She wasn’t just their manager. She was the key to their survival.

Their connection to her went beyond mere circumstance. It was fate. And even though the boys didn’t realize it, they had been marked by destiny. She had been drawn to them, and they to her.

They needed her more than they knew.

Because without her, they were nothing more than lost demons, forgotten by the world they had tried so hard to fit into. And they would soon realize that the world wasn’t going to let them stay hidden for much longer.

Taglist: @poem-bee @gremlinartstudio @wantstoliveinfantasy

[mattslilies]

Mother Knows Best - M.S.

"what if something's wrong?" or... the one where you're pregnant with your first child, and matt can't stop calling up marylou's phone with questions. warnings: pregnancy, mentions of kicking, throwing up, general pregnancy symptoms. matt being a worrywart because he cares so much word count: 666 a/n: requested by anon!

you doubled over, well, as much as you can, a groan leaving your lips. it took matt three point two seconds to be across the house and by your side, face full of concern.

"what's wrong? is everything okay?"

you laughed as much as you could manage standing back up as the pain in your stomach slowly dissipated.

"i'm okay, honey. baby just kicked me and i wasn't expecting it."

he nodded sympathetically, immediately helping you walk over to the couch, getting you to sit down.

"do you need anything? water? a snack? ibuprofen?"

you shook your head, smiling at him.

"matt, i'm fine, baby. take a breath."

he nodded, sucking in a sharp breath like he hadn't allowed himself to breathe in ages.

"i'm sorry, they just kick you so much-- i get worried."

you nodded, getting him to sit down with you.

"i know. you worry a lot, but it's because you care. it's okay. i promise i'm alright."

he nodded again, calming himself down. he'd never been seen pregnancy firsthand, and he'd be a liar if he said that he wasn't worried about anything and everything going wrong. that was his kid, he couldn't let anything happen to them.

"i'm gonna call my mom real quick."

you couldn't help but laugh, waving him off to go do so.

matt had called his mother for every single thing that had happened during the first seven months of your pregnancy. every pin drop, every ache, every pain, every tear, he'd called her, panicked. she'd been able to calm him down each time, offering solutions and advice, and also telling him to stop worrying so much.

now that you were nearing the eighth month, marylou never got a break from her son's contact. not that she minded, of course. she adored you both, but you always failed to talk matt out of phoning her. "it can't hurt to ask", he'd always respond with. and no, it couldn't, but still.

at this point, you just let him do it. it calmed his nerves, which in turn helped keep you relax, and helped the baby overall, so it wasn't much of a sacrifice to just let him do his thing. marylou was an amazing mother in law, and you were incredibly grateful to have such a good support system around you.

you giggled to yourself as you heard the back end of their conversation.

"is it normal for them to be kicking her so much? it's not gonna cause any problems, right?"

you felt bad for teasing, because the concern in matt's voice was genuine, but you could just see marylou fondly rolling her eyes on the other end at her son's dramatics.

"what if something's wrong?"

"are you sure?"

you covered your mouth with your hand, attempting to stop the laughter as you knew exactly how marylou was responding. you waved at matt, signaling you wanted him to walk back over to you.

"bring me the phone, baby, i want to talk to her."

he nodded, walking back over.

"mom, she wants to talk to you real quick."

he passed the phone to you, and you pressed it up against your ear, smiling.

"hey! i told him i was fine, but you know how he is."

she laughed into the receiver.

"i do. he just loves you, that's all."

"he does. i know he does."

matt looked at you suspiciously, wondering what his mother was saying about him.

"you've been an absolute saint this whole time, we're so grateful for you."

you could almost hear her smile through the phone.

"of course. what are mothers for, after all?"

you smiled, wrapping up the phone call. matt took his phone back, a fake hurt look on his face. you kissed it away, grinning at him.

"you know i love you, even when you worry so much. it means a lot to me, knowing our child is going to have an amazing father who cares so deeply about them."

[theegoldenchild]

Chapter Eight: Daddy’s Little Girl

Warnings: 18+ | Mentions of light BDSM | Blood | Death(?) | Angst | Wanted to nut but I’m crying in the club

Outside, the Mississippi heat simmered, but inside The Devil’s Tongue, cool shadows lingered, pierced only by slats of honeyed light through half-open shutters. It was quiet, but not silent. Too many things stirred beneath the surface for true peace.

Sera padded barefoot across the smooth floor, her legs bare and her body wrapped in one of Stack’s white button-ups—thin, oversized, and left undone at the top where her collarbone and a teasing slip of soft brown cleavage peeked through. The hem brushed the tops of her thighs and swayed with each step she took, revealing just enough to make the silence hum. She hadn’t bothered with putting on her underwear since she couldn’t find them. There was something sacred in the fainting throb between her thighs, something unspoken she wasn’t ready to cover up. Not yet.

She wandered around with a lackadaisical purpose, fingers trailing across the edges of makeshift tables, overturned crates, and the old piano Smoke had dragged in just three days ago. Her ginger curls were still damp from the wash Stack had insisted she take, and her skin shimmered faintly with the almond oil he had massaged into her thighs and hips while muttering something about “bruises that don’t belong on delicate things.” She didn’t protest. Not when his hands had been so gentle after being so wicked the night before.

Smoke stood near the long bar that stretched across the left side of the room, sleeves rolled up and eyes squinting over a dingy ledger as he scribbled figures in the margins. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his lips, unlit and forgotten. Beside him, Stack moved like a phantom, counting bottles on the shelf with one hand and tossing an empty one over his shoulder with the other. It shattered against the far wall and neither man flinched.

Both of them watched Sera out of the corner of their eyes. They always watched her. Like two wolves, one cold and calculating… the other wild and impulsive… tracking their prey even after the hunt was long done. Their eyes followed every sway of her hips, every turn of her neck, every flutter of her lashes as she bent to pick up a stray rag and wrung it absently between her fingers. She wasn’t trying to tempt them this time, not on purpose, but she wasn’t hiding either.

She was still learning what it meant to be touched, kissed… Worshipped with mouths and hands until she shattered like a glass bottle thrown against a wall.

Stack was the first to speak, voice laced with teasing danger. “Ain’t no shame in glowin’, baby girl. You look good in my shirt… Real good.”

Sera glanced over her shoulder, lips curving just slightly, unsure if it was pride or embarrassment that warmed her cheeks. “You got a lotta nerve talkin’ like that Mr. Stack… after what you did to me.”

Smoke didn’t look up from the ledger, but the side of his mouth curled with dark amusement. He liked that Sera was getting comfortable enough to sass them and wanted to hear more of it from her. “Ain’t even do half of what we could’ve. You still breathin’, ain’t you?”

Stack chuckled. “Barely.”

Sera shook her head but kept moving, pretending she wasn’t trembling under their gaze. “You always this loud in the morning?”

“Only when the night before was that sweet,” Stack said, licking his bottom lip.

Smoke finally looked up, eyes dark brown like fresh roasted coffee. “Stack, count again. I ain’t payin’ foe guesswork. And stop runnin’ your mouth… leave our woman be.”

That earned a tsk from Stack, but he obeyed, dragging his eyes away from Sera to focus on his assigned task. “We down six bottles of rye, four of corn, and two of the apple shine.”

Smoke’s brow furrowed. “That ain’t bad. If we keep the mixin’ tight and don’t let these fools pour heavy, we should pull close to two hunnid profit just tonight. Maybe more if Randy people show an stay too long.”

“Randy people?,” Stack quizzed, snorting. “After what we did last night, I doubt they gonna show at all.”

The barn-turned-juke was cleaner than it had a right to be after what happened outside just hours earlier. Blood never touched the floorboards, but the memory of it clung to the twins like cologne. Smoke’s hands still lingered with a scent of gunpowder. Stack’s boots still carried dried earth from where he’d dug one of the graves. They hadn’t planned to kill anyone. Not that night. Not before sunrise. But Samuel’s little “lesson” had come too early and been too bold. And now six men lay rotting behind the tree line.

Sera didn’t ask about it but she knew something happened last night. She felt it in the way Smoke’s voice lowered when she was near and how Stack’s smile didn’t fully reach his eyes today. It was in the tension stretched between their shoulders and the way they watched her like something holy that had almost been snatched away. They weren’t sorry. But they were… different. Quieter. More possessive.

Stack reached for another bottle, paused, then turned his head slowly toward her. “You eat enough this morning, sweet girl?”

She nodded. “I ate all you fed me.”

“That don’t answer the question.”

She looked down at her belly, smoothed the shirt over it, then nodded again. “M’happy.”

Smoke’s gaze sharpened. “Come here.”

Sera blinked and shifted her weight on each foot before listening. Her legs moved on instinct now. Like the imprint of last night was still guiding her steps. She reached him, and he tilted her chin up with his fingers, calloused and firm. “You still got that tingle?”

Her eyes flickered between his and Stack’s. “A lil’…”

Stack grinned. “Good.”

Smoke gave a warning glance to his brother before brushing his thumb across her bottom lip. “You say somethin’ if it gets too much. Got some that can soothe it… Understand?”

Sera nodded, heat rising again low in her belly. It wasn’t fair. The way they could talk about bottles of liquor and body counts and still make her thighs press together with just one look. One touch.

Smoke stepped back, letting her go with a sharp inhale. “Go sit, sweetheart. Can’t have you wanderin’ all over this place with no drawers on.”

Sera quietly squeaked and turned quickly with her cheeks burning as Stack let out a laugh so loud it bounced off the rafters. She walked toward the velvet loveseat in the far corner. Every step felt like a reminder of who she belonged to now. Of what her body had learned in the dark. The twins went back to work. But neither of them stopped watching. And neither of them planned to let her wander far. Not tonight. Not ever again.

Smoke scribbled one final figure into the margin of the ledger, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he mentally tallied the math. Profits looked promising. Folks had been whispering about The Devil’s Tongue all week, buzzing like flies around honey. If tonight went smooth, they would have more cash than they knew what to do with and a new kingdom to rule. Bootlegging, blues, bodies—it was all lining up.

Stack crouched near the lower shelf behind the bar, counting the last row of bottles, but his gaze kept drifting to Sera.

She was perched sweetly on the velvet loveseat in the corner, curled with her knees tucked to her chest and his shirt riding dangerously high along her thighs. Her eyes were drifting, heavy with leftover sleep and the itis. Every few seconds she’d stretch one leg, then the other, as if trying to find a way to sit that didn’t remind her of how they’d left her the night before.

Stack grinned to himself, licking his thumb and rubbing it across a dusty bottle of peach liquor. “She’s real tender today,” he stated, not really intending to be heard.

Smoke kept his eyes on the ledger. “That your way of sayin’ you sorry?”

Stack’s grin widened, voice dropping even lower. “Nah. That’s my way of sayin’ we need to think ‘bout jade trainin’ her. Eventually.”

Smoke froze and the room went still. The soft clink of bottles, the scratch of pencil, even the breath of the room seemed to pause for just a moment. Then Smoke slowly lifted his head, his eyes hard and cutting like steel. “What the fuck did you just say?”

Stack straightened, bottle still in hand, brows raised like he was daring Smoke to make this something it didn’t have to be. “I said what I said.”

“Nah nigga. Run that by me again?” Smoke asked, not loud, but sharp like barbed wire.

Stack dusted his palms on his slacks, gaze unwavering. “I say we jade train her. Like we used to. You know… soft stretchin’, light discipline. Build her up right foe’ we take that next step.”

Smoke’s eyes darkened. He turned fully now, shoulders squared and breath slow. “She ain’t like them sorry ass girls you used to pull from whorehouses out west,” he spat out. “She’s pure. A church girl. She don’t need all that.”

Stack’s expression twisted, his usual playfulness curdling into something sharper. “Don’t stand there actin’ holier than thou. You the one who taught me how to train a woman, Elijah.”

“Yeah, and I regret teachin’ you anything when you throw it ‘round like it don’t mean nothin’, Elias. Her daddy done enough damage to her.”

“It does mean somethin’!” Stack snapped, chest rising. “It means takin’ control. Breakin’ her down real slow so we can build her back up better. Softer. Obedient. That ain’t abuse, that’s moldin’. That’s what you told me!”

Smoke took a step forward. “That was for women who wanted it. Who came to us already half-ruined. You think Sera’s ready foe that? She still blushin’ when we kiss her, still squeezin’ her damn thighs together tryin’ to understand what we did to her.”

“She ain’t stupid,” Stack shot back. “She felt everything and she liked it. I saw the look in her eyes when she was rockin’ against you like her soul was on fire. You think she ain’t crave more?”

Smoke’s jaw ticked with frustration. “It ain’t about what she crave it’s ‘bout what she can handle.”

“You scared she’ll love it too much?” Stack pressed, stepping in closer. “Or is you scared you will? Huh?”

Their bodies were close now… twins face to face, tension simmering hot enough to spark.

Stack’s voice dipped into something darker. “You remember how you used to be? How many women begged to be your doll? Lucille, Dorothy, that pretty chocolate woman from Baton Rouge. You used to own ‘em. Used to bend ‘em over velvet couches just like that one and make ‘em beg with tears on their cheeks and spit hangin’ from their mouths. You don’t get to stand here and act like Sera’s too precious for that just ‘cause she pray on Sundays.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

Smoke didn’t answer. His eyes flicked over to the velvet couch where Sera now lay sprawled out like she’d been kissed by exhaustion.

Stack caught the look. “Don’t lie to me, Smoke… You want it too. You want her kneelin’ tween’ your legs with a jade plug stretchin’ her pretty lil’ ass while you tell her she’s been a good girl for takin’ your discipline.”

“Shut your damn mouth.”

“You want her wearin’ a collar so everyone from Mississippi to Illinois know she belongs to us.”

“I said—”

“You want her trained. Just like I do.”

Smoke moved so fast the ledger hit the floor. In one stride, he was in Stack’s space, gripping the front of his shirt, breath hot and sharp through gritted teeth. “She ain’t ready. And you don’t push her. Not unless she ask for it. You hear me?”

Stack didn’t flinch or blink. He was the only person on this earth his brother couldn’t intimidate. “She’s askin’ already. Not with words. But with her body. You think she don’t feel it? That ache tween’ her thighs? That emptiness we left her with?”

Smoke’s hand flexed and he nearly shoved his other half down to the ground. But Sera stirred then, shifting on the couch, making a soft and broken sound that immediately silenced both men. They looked over in unison. Her legs stretched slightly, shirt slipping higher up her thighs as she turned and tucked herself into the cushion, sighing like a kitten half-remembering the dream she just left behind.

The tension deflated a notch. Just barely.

Smoke stepped back first, running a hand over his hair as he looked away. “We go at her pace. That’s final.”

Stack smirked, though there was something bitter behind it now. “Fine. Her pace. But when she starts beggin’ for more, don’t act like it’s a surprise. You the one who taught me how to turn angels into demons.”

He stepped back, the heels of his boots dragging slightly across the old wood planks as he moved toward the liquor shelf again. He looked casual on the surface, but his jaw tightened with quiet defiance as his mind started plotting. He crouched again and plucked a half-full bottle of corn whiskey from the bottom row, then straightened slowly and tilted the bottle just enough for the liquid to swirl like it was mocking the tension still hanging between them.

“Bo’s got a new shipment comin’ in today,” Stack said offhandedly, but there was a sharp edge laced in the calm. “Chinese stuff. High-grade. All kinds of trinkets.”

He turned, leaned against the shelf, and took a mocking sip straight from the neck of the bottle. His eyes slid to Smoke like he was measuring just how far he could push him. “Imported jade. Premium glass. Leather cuffs softer than rabbit fur, strong enough to hold a horse.” He smirked around the mouth of the bottle. “Said he’s got some real rare pieces. Thought I’d stop by and pick up a few things… just in case her pace changes.”

Smoke’s eyes snapped back to him, flint meeting flame. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Stack asked, playing dumb as he rolled the bottle between his palms. “You said we wait on her, right? So I’m just preparin’. You know… like how you always taught me big brother. Be ready. Never let the opportunity come knockin’ and find you empty-handed.”

Smoke took a step forward again, this time slower and measured. “I ain’t lettin’ you put no damn plug, no collar, nothin’ on her without her beggin’ for it so hard she can’t breathe. And even then,” he growled, “I say when it’s time.”

Stack’s grin faded as he held Smoke’s piercing gaze. “She ain’t just your woman and I ain’t gonna hurt her, Smoke,” he whispered. “But I am gonna teach her. And if she starts beggin’? If she comes crawlin’, red-cheeked and teary-eyed, sayin’ she don’t know why her belly won’t stop cryin’ unless one of us fills her from behind—”

His voice dipped further, like poison in honey. “Then I’ll be ready. Cause’ you made me this way.”

Smoke silently glared at his brother. Nothing Stack said was wrong and that’s what he hated. Sera was different and he knew that… his heart knew that. But every time she would call him Mr. Smoke or Elijah… the sadistic part that he tried to keep buried away stirred inside of him begging to be released.

His voice was flat and dangerous. “You bring that shit back here and touch her too fast, I’ll put you in the ground right next to Samuel’s boys.”

Stack scoffed, pushing off the shelf. “You gonna kill me for doin’ exactly what we both dreamin’ ‘bout?”

“I’ll kill ya for gettin’ greedy.”

There was another pause. Both men stood chest to chest and the shadows around them stretched long and sharp across the dusty floor between them. The only thing breaking the tension was the quiet shift of Sera’s breathing in the corner, soft and innocent. Completely unaware of the storm brewing nearby.

Finally, Stack stepped back and his smirk had returned—but this one was filled with mischief. He wouldn’t be able to bring his brother on board just yet, but he knew he would come around in due time. He just had to help him see the vision clearly. “Relax, Elijah. I ain’t touchin’ her like that til’ she asks for it.”

He turned, walking back towards the bar, voice thrown over his shoulder like an afterthought. “But I’m still stoppin’ by Bo’s. Be a damn shame to miss out on good inventory.”

One hour turned into two. Then three. And by the time the clock inside the juke struck noon, the light bleeding in through the warped windowpanes was thick with summer heat… like God himself had turned His face from the Delta and let the devil take over.

Sera hadn’t meant to stay this long, but after breakfast and a much-needed nap, she couldn’t find her main two dresses and decided to wear the only thing that wasn’t missing, her thin, tinged-yellow slip. The cotton clung damply to her hips, more translucent now with every drop of sweat and shift in light. The heat had softened her edges and left a light sheen on her skin, and though she tried to cross her legs modestly on the couch in the back corner, the fabric rode up high each time she shifted.

She didn’t know that Stack had tucked her dresses behind a row of whiskey barrels in the far stall, where no woman would dare venture in fear of snakes or spiders. And she sure as hell didn’t know that Smoke… Mr. Smoke… the epitome of indifference and self-righteous perfection was currently carrying around her drawers like a thief with a holy relic stuffed in his back pocket. Folded neatly, pressed against the curve of his thigh like some shameful treasure.

“You forgot the goddamn kerosene,” Smoke snapped, bending near a battered crate of lanterns. Sweat darkened the fabric of his undershirt along the spine and under the arms while his broad back flexed with every move. His voice cut through the stagnant air like a blade.

“No the fuck I didn’t,” Stack yelled, tossing a hammer onto the floor with a metallic clatter. “You the one who said, ‘make sure we got extra nails.’ Which we DO. So stop all that lip flappin’.”

Sera flinched a little at the sound, but didn’t move. She was starting to get used to their arguing. It was always loud and always sharp but never dangerous. Not to her, at least.

She stretched her arms above her head and let her spine curve into a long, sweet arch, unaware of just how much she revealed as the hem of her slip inched up higher on her thighs and her breasts subtly outlined beneath the dampened fabric. Her wild ginger curls stuck to the sides of her neck, and when she turned slightly to fan herself, she didn’t see the way Stack’s eyes followed the movement like a hawk tracking a rabbit.

“Why she take my shirt off an wearin’ that slip?” Stack asked suddenly, wiping his brow with the back of his arm, a glimmer of mock innocence in his tone.

Smoke didn’t answer. Just grunted and pulled out a rusted lantern to test its wick.

Stack grinned, knowing damn well what he’d done. “Ain’t like she got nothin’ else to wear…”

“She had other clothes,” Smoke muttered, but there was no conviction behind it. No real protest.

Stack kept pushing. “You sure about that? ‘Cause I ain’t seen hide nor hem of them dresses since breakfast.”

Smoke shifted uncomfortably, reaching into his back pocket and brushing his fingers against the soft cotton stored there. Her underwear. White, ruined, and still drenched with her juices folded tightly. He didn’t know why he’d done it. He just remembered seeing them tucked into a corner of his bedroom after she’d gone back to rest. One look at the way they curled like silk petals in the morning light, and something in him snatched them up before reason could catch up.

Now, they were his little secret. And it was eatin’ him alive.

Sera stayed quiet, perched on the couch with her knees pressed together, the hem of that thin yellow slip barely reached her mid-thigh. Her eyes danced cautiously between the twins like she was watching twin Goliath’s fight for dominance.

Stack stopped working and leaned against the wall just a few feet away, arms folded as his gaze unapologetically raked down her legs so bare, smooth, and glistening faintly with heat. His eyes dragged ravenous, over the curve of her thighs, the bend of her knees, the delicate arch of her ankles. He wanted to taste her again… A sly grin curved his lips as his gold tooth glinted in the light.

“Ain’t said nothin’ since breakfast,” he quipped, voice silk-drenched and quiet. “You fallin’ asleep with your eyes open, little dove? Or just tryna drive a man crazy sittin’ there lookin’ like a glass of sweet tea on the hottest damn day of the year?”

It was like Smoke could read his twin's mind and his voice cut through the heat like a bucket of ice cold water. “Control yourself.”

Stack gave a quiet laugh but didn’t look away from Sera.

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, voice softer than usual. Her fingers twisted the fabric of her slip in her lap, eyes cast downward. “Just… thinkin’. I—I think I’m ready to go now.”

Silence wrapped around the room like a noose. Smoke straightened from the crate he was leaning over, the muscle in his jaw ticking once… twice… before he finally spoke. “Go where?”

Sera swallowed. “Home. I… I didn’t mean to stay so long. I missed church this mornin’. My daddy probably worried sick.”

Her voice faltered at the end, lips parting like she wanted to say more but couldn’t bring herself to. Her eyes didn’t lift. She couldn’t bear the weight of theirs, not when her whole body still throbbed with the memory of what they’d done to her last night. Not when her soul still felt tangled in the sheets of their sin.

Smoke stepped closer, his feet heavy on the floorboards. “You sure?”

Sera nodded once, still twisting the fabric of her slip. “I just need to… check on things. I—I don’t wanna make it worse by stayin’ away. Not today… Not on the Lords day.”

Stack pushed off the wall, a flicker of something indistinguishable passing over his face. “You think that preacher man ain’t gon’ raise all kinds of hell the second he sees you in that?” He motioned loosely toward her slip, eyes narrowing. “He see you walk in with that and smellin’ like us? He gon’ throw a damn fit.”

Sera stiffened. “I’ll change,” she whispered. “If… if I can find my other dresses.”

Stack opened his mouth to respond, but Smoke shot him a look that made his brother fall back a step and press his lips into a thin, crooked smirk.

Smoke crouched in front of her, lowering himself until he was eye-level. His voice was softer now, deeper in tone but edged with something tight beneath the surface. “You sure this ain’t about guilt?”

Sera’s honey brown eyes finally lifted to meet his, wide and glistening. “It’s about what’s right.”

“You think what happened last night was wrong?”

She opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out. Instead she looked away and nibbled on her bottom lip.

Smoke didn’t press her for an answer. Just stood. “If you ready, you ready,” he said, voice clipped. “I’ll take you.”

Stack scoffed and dramatically threw his hands in the air. “This nigga…”

Smoke started toward the barn’s back room where his coat hung on a hook and paused just long enough to glance over his shoulder. “You got five minutes to find ya other dresses, my love.”

That nickname… that damn nickname that made Sera’s heart race a million miles per minute almost made her rethink wanting to return home. Almost. She stood slowly, bare feet padding quietly across the floor as she moved towards the back and began her search. She didn’t ask where her other dresses or underwear were, didn’t accuse, didn’t cry. She just kept her head down and her fingers tight around the edge of her slip.

As she searched, Stack watched her go and his grin was long gone, replaced by quiet calculations. Smoke came back out with another cigarette between his lips, her drawers still tucked tight in his pocket.

“She ain’t stayin’ gone,” Stack said flatly.

Smoke didn’t answer. He just struck a match, lit the cigarette, and let the smoke curl around his head like a halo from hell.

The ride back to Sera’s home was quiet. Too quiet.

The iron-bell rumble of the C.R. Patterson filled the heavy air as it trundled down the long dirt road towards her home. Dust curled behind the wheels like smoke from a slow-burning fuse, and the sun overhead bore down in wide, unrelenting strokes. No birds sang. No breeze stirred. Only the grumble of the motor and the crackle of gravel beneath the tires marked time as the juke joint faded into the horizon behind them.

Sera sat in the back seat, small and still, with her knees pressed together and her arms wrapped tightly around her waist like she was holding herself in place. The tinged yellow slip still clung to her body, too thin for the sun, too sinful for Sunday, and too revealing to return to a preacher’s home. But she hadn’t found her dresses because Stack hadn’t let her. And Smoke had said nothing.

So now she rode like this. Silent, soft, and her curls pinned back but frizzing from the humidity. Her bare thighs stuck to the warm leather seat each time the car hit a bump, and every so often she tugged the hem of the slip lower as if modesty could be wrung from fabric already see-through in the light.

Smoke drove with his eyes fixed on the road ahead, his jaw sharp and a cigarette twitching between his lips though it had long since burned out.

Stack rode beside him, arms folded tight across his chest, hat tipped low but not enough to hide the scowl twisting his mouth. “You really takin’ her back there?” He muttered under his breath, voice sharp like a blade being dragged across leather.

Smoke didn’t look over. “Not now.”

“She’s sittin’ there half-naked, and you gon’ put her back in that house like it’s fine?”

“I said not now, Stack.”

“You think that bastard won’t smell us on her?” Stack snapped, tone just low enough not to carry to the back seat. “You think he won’t notice how she walkin’ slower? How she can’t even look either one of us in the eye for too long without her breath catchin’?”

Smoke gripped the wheel tighter, the leather creaking beneath his fingers. “Keep ya damn voice down.” My

Stack glanced back at Sera. Her soft, solemn profile lit with that tender glow from the window and then leaned in closer to Smoke, lowering his voice further, words slipping like venom through clenched teeth.

“You sendin’ her back to that man? The same man who beat her and locked her in a room like she was livestock?”

Smoke didn’t answer.

“She your woman now,” Stack hissed. “Ours. And you treatin’ her like she just some stray we borrowed for a night and now we takin’ her back to the pound.”

Smoke’s voice was barely above a growl. “You think this ain’t killin’ me too?”

“Don’t look like it,” Stack spat. “Look like you pacifyin’. Like you tryna pretend last night was some fever dream and not the start of the rest of her damn life.”

Smoke pulled the cigarette from his lips and crushed it dead against the dash. His eyes flicked once in the rearview mirror, landing on Sera just long enough to watch the way her lashes brushed against her freckled cheeks and her delicate hand rubbed over the bare skin of her sun kissed arm.

“She needs to want it,” Smoke said, barely moving his lips. “The blood, the break, the end of that bastard’s reign… it gotta come from her. Not us. Or it’ll never stick.”

Stack scoffed. “So what, we just drive her up the road and toss her back into the fire, waitin’ for her to crawl back blackened and burned?”

“She’s stronger than you give her credit for.”

“No. She’s softer than you wanna admit.”

They were both quiet for a moment. The car dipped in a rut, and Sera jolted gently in the back seat, adjusting her posture with a soft wince that didn’t go unnoticed by either man.

Stack ran a hand down his face, agitated. “You keep talkin’ about lettin’ her decide if Samuel dies,” he said after a beat, voice a harsh whisper again. “But the longer you wait, the more shit he stacks up on her shoulders. You think it’s gonna help her to walk back into that house lookin’ like she just rolled outta bed with the Devil himself?”

Smoke’s jaw flexed. His thumb tapped the wheel.

“She goes back now,” he said, each word drawn tight like a tripwire, “and she sees how different everything feels. How ugly it looks compared to where she just came from. How small he is. How loud we echo, even in silence.”

Stack shook his head and focused his eyes on the road ahead. He didn’t agree with this plan.

Smoke went on. “She’ll want blood soon enough. We don’t gotta ask for it. She’ll beg for it.”

When they finally arrived Sera stood outside her childhood home with her heart hammering behind her ribs and a fire bubbling low in her stomach. Smoke stood on her left. Stack on her right. She could feel them both watching the house ready to burn it down. But this—this was her fight.

She took a breath as deep as the river, held it in her chest, and stepped up onto the porch. Her bare feet brushed the warped wood slats, worn soft from years of Sunday shoes and silent retreats. The screen door creaked softly in the breeze, hanging slightly ajar. That was her first warning. The second was the smell. A thick whisky aroma clung to the air. It was sour, sharp, and it slapped her in the face the second she stepped over the threshold. Her nose crinkled. She looked around, brows drawn in confusion. Her father never drank. Never even kept it in the house. Had called it the Devil’s water since she was a child.

But now? A bottle sat open on the table next to Pastor Samuel's favorite chair—his Bible in one hand, his glass in the other. He was slumped in his seat, eyes bloodshot and brooding, lips moving silently over some passage as his thumb dragged across the underlined verses. The room was dark despite the daylight. Curtains drawn and a fan clacked softly overhead.

She took one step in, and the floor creaked. That was all it took before his eyes lifted and fixed on her. Suddenly it felt like Sera walked into a freezer the way a chill crawled down her spine.

“Close my damn door.”

Her fingers trembled as she obeyed, pulling it shut behind her. The latch clicked softly, and the silence between them became unbearable.

She swallowed. Hoping if she pleaded her case Samuel would be understanding. “Daddy, I—”

“Don’t call me that.” His voice was bitter and full of disappointment. “Not after what you done.”

Sera stepped forward cautiously. “I only stayed one night. I was safe. I came back...”

“I wanted you back ‘fore they touched you,” he snarled, standing slowly, the Bible still in his hand, knuckles red and split from God knows what. “Not after they finished with you like you some field whore they picked up for sport.”

Her face crumpled, shoulders drawing tight. “They didn’t—Papa, it wasn’t like that. They care about me.”

“They own you now!” he foamed at the mouth, stepping forward, eyes wild. “You walkin’ around dressed like your mother, talkin’ like her, thinkin’ a man—or two… Lord help us—can fill the God-shaped hole in your chest!”

Her voice was a whisper. “Why are you drinkin’? I’ve never seen you—”

“I’M drinkin’,” he shouted, spit flying from his lips, “because my daughter let not one but TWO killers lay with her like dogs, and now the whole damn town gon’ whisper about how the preacher raised a harlot!”

Sera recoiled, one hand pressed to her chest.

He stared at her, eyes roaming her slip, disgust carved into every crease of his face. “You couldn’t even pick one man like a regular whore? You had to take two? Two, Seraphim? TWO!?”

“They… they care about me,” she said, but the words were faint and trembling.

“They defiled you. And you let ‘em.”

And then—he raised his hand.

It happened so fast, it was barely a thought. His Bible slipped from his fingers and thudded on the floor, and his arm came up like it had done plenty of times back when she was a child and talked too loud in front of the church elders. That same heavy weight in his palm, same heat in his eyes.

But this time… his hand never reached her. The door burst open behind her so hard it slammed against the wall, and the air rushed out of the room. Smoke entered first like a hurricane moving in slow motion.

Stack followed, and he saw red. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t shout. Didn’t warn. He stormed over to Pastor Samuel and drove his fist into the man’s jaw with a crack so sharp it echoed like gunfire.

Samuel stumbled back, crashing into the armchair, glass shattering on the ground beneath him.

“DON’T YOU FUCKIN’ TOUCH HER!” Stack roared, dipping low and drawing his blade from the sheath at his hip, “I’ll gut you like the bloated fuckin’ coward you are. Say I won’t.”

Samuel groaned, clutching his jaw, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. “Get off me—get your devil hands off me—!”

Stack yanked him forward by his collar, pressing the tip of the blade against his ribs, slowly pressing the tip into his flesh. “I’ll carve out that lying tongue first, preacher man. Then I’ll go for the lungs. You won’t make a sound in ya own house eva’ again.”

“Stack.” Smoke’s voice rang out, sharp but quiet. He was standing beside Sera now, one hand hovering over her back. His eyes never left Samuel. “Wait.”

Stack looked at his brother with a bewildered expression. “You have got to be fuckin’ kiddin’! You saw him raise that hand!” he growled. “You saw it!”

“I did.”

“He don’t get to live!” Stack’s voice was sharp, crackling like heat off a skillet. His chest heaved with each breath, rage making his hands tremble around the knife still slick with threat. The veins in his neck bulged. His jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it hurt to speak.

Smoke didn’t blink and didn't look at Stack. Instead, he kept his gaze locked on the preacher slumped in the chair, blood blooming at the corner of his mouth like a bitter communion.

“He doesn’t,” Smoke said finally.

Sera inhaled sharply. Her head turned fast and her eyes darted between the two men. “Wait… what does that mean?”

Smoke turned to her, slow and sure, as if this wasn’t something sudden but something inevitable. He wished it could’ve played out differently but this moment had been circling the horizon since long before any of them were born.

He reached out and gently tucked a loose frizzy curl behind her ear. His voice was steady and barely louder than a hum. “I need to ask you somethin’, my love,” he whispered in a gentle tone.

Sera blinked, her heart hammering. “What?”

“If I protected you—if I did what needed to be done… would you ever hate me for it?”

Her lips parted, confusion creasing her brow. “What kind of question is that?”

Smoke’s eyes didn’t waver. “Just answer it.”

Sera pondered on the question for a long minute. She knew the twins were dangerous but she wasn’t quite sure how dangerous they were or what methods Smoke and Stack would use to protect her. And right now, after what her father told her… she didn’t want to think for herself. “I… No. Of course not.”

He nodded once, like that confirmed something inside him. Something he’d been holding back. Something that had been pacing behind his ribs for far too long.

“Go upstairs,” he said gently before tenderly kissing her forehead. “Take your time. Get whatever you want to keep, my love. You ain’t stayin’ here no more.”

Sera hesitated, looking between the twins. Stack was still vibrating with fury, standing over her father like a storm about to strike. Samuel wheezed, a dark wetness bubbling in his throat, but there was no remorse in his eyes when he looked over at her only resentment. “Whore.”

Sera swallowed, then gave a quiet nod and moved toward the stairs. She didn’t ask any more questions and didn’t look back. She trusted the twins to make the tough decisions she couldn’t make herself. The moment her bare feet disappeared up the steps, silence fell heavy in the room. Smoke didn’t look at Stack. Stack didn’t look at Smoke. But the air between them sparked like fireworks on the white man's favorite holiday. No words. Just a slow exchange of breath, memory, and pain.

Smoke gave the faintest nod and Stack’s shoulders dropped like he’d just been given permission to become what he’d been holding back. Without a word, he turned and grabbed Samuel by the collar, yanking the older man to his feet like he weighed nothing.

Samuel screamed. “NO—NO PLEASE—NOT LIKE THIS—!”

Stack punched him in the face again before dragging him across the floor, his boots thudding heavy against the worn wood.

“I’M A PASTOR! A MAN OF GOD! YOU TOUCH ME AND THE WHOLE TOWN—!”

The rest of it was lost in the slam of the back door flying open.

Smoke didn’t move. Just stood there, still as a statue, staring at the blood-streaked Bible on the floor. He bent down slowly and picked it up with one hand. Flipped through the pages. They were smudged and torn in places. One of them had a faint reddish smear right through Corinthians.

Love is patient. Love is kind.

He hummed and shut the book.

Outside, the sounds of struggle grew louder. Stack’s voice was deranged and Smoke could hear him somewhere near an old smokehouse. “You think ‘cause you wore a collar and stood behind a pulpit, you was safe, nigga? We warned ya ass.”

“PLEASE—PLEASE—SHE’S MY BABY—”

“She was,” Stack growled. “Now she’s ours. And you tried to put your hands on OUR woman.”

There was a thud. A grunt. Then more dragging.

Smoke still didn’t move and he didn’t flinch when Samuel screamed again, this time raw and animalistic. The sound echoed through the backwoods like judgment day had arrived on four legs and no mercy.

And then silence fell over the land. A door shut somewhere out back.

Smoke exhaled through his nose and looked up the stairs. He listened for Sera’s footsteps, the soft creak of the floor above. He imagined her kneeling at her old bed, folding a dress she hadn’t worn in two summers. Maybe she’d pause at the windowsill where her mother once planted violets. Maybe she’d run a finger across her old Sunday school book before leaving it behind.

He hoped she didn’t cry because after today… after what he let Stack do… after what he would do… there would be no going back.

And if she did cry… He hoped it wasn’t for that man. He hoped it was for all the things she’d finally been freed from and what he and his brother would show her.

The stairs creaked under Sera’s feet as she descended, a leather bag strap dug softly into her shoulder. It was a worn thing—her mother’s old market satchel, faded and stitched at the sides where time had aged it but it now held all the pieces of her she couldn’t bear to leave behind. A pressed church dress that still smelled of gardenia. Two dog-eared Bibles; one hers, one her mother’s with passages underlined and scribbled margins full of long-forgotten notes. And a photograph. Just one.

She took her time on the steps. The house was too quiet. Unnaturally so. The fan overhead still hummed and somewhere outside, a crow called once, then went silent. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she paused. Smoke and Stack were waiting. Just like she expected them to be. But something about them was different now.

They didn’t stand shoulder-to-shoulder like usual. Smoke had one hand tucked into the crook of his arm, his weight shifted to one hip, gaze calm but distant. Stack leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, the buttons of his undershirt undone halfway down like he hadn’t bothered to fix himself back up. Neither wore their jackets. Neither looked like they had an ounce of regret between them.

But it was the details that caught her. Stack’s sleeves were unevenly pushed up, and his slacks—dark gray wool, usually spotless—had irregular speckles dotting the fabric, just above the knees and down one thigh. A deep burgundy-brown. She blinked at it but said nothing. There were faint scratches along his forearm too. Raw and recent.

Smoke… he had cuts. Clean and shallow, but unmistakable across the tops of his knuckles. The kind that came from skin meeting bone. She could see where he’d wiped away the blood but hadn’t tended to it properly. His sleeves were also rolled up, exposing tendons and veins, and his shirt hung open at the throat. One collar tip was crumpled.

They looked like they had gone somewhere the devil would be too frightened to travel. Sera swallowed a nervous gulp and she still said nothing. Instead, she shifted her bag on her shoulder and let her fingers trail along the banister as she stepped down the final stair.

Stack straightened when he saw her, eyes scanning her face like he needed to know if she was alright with just a look.

Smoke tilted his head slightly. “You ready?”

Sera nodded. “I… I took what I could carry,” she said softly. “Some memories. Some… pieces.”

Smoke gave a small nod of understanding. Stack offered the tiniest, crooked smile that was soft, despite the hardened edge in his jaw.

She hesitated then, her voice wavering as she turned toward the kitchen. “I was gonna leave a note. On the table,” she said quietly. “Just a goodbye. Let him know I ain’t runnin’ from him. Just… choosing something different. Think he’ll write back?”

Smoke’s eyes flicked toward the hallway behind her towards the back door. Just for a second. Then he stepped forward, slowly, and brushed his thumb along her cheek. “He might,” he said, voice warm and sweet in the same way a parent would address a child asking about Santa. “But don’t hold your breath, sweetheart. Sometimes men like that… they already decided what they wanna hear. Nothin’ you write gon’ change their mind.”

Sera nibbled on her bottom lip. “Still feels wrong, leavin’ without sayin’ it.”

Stack heard enough and stepped in beside her then, reaching down to lift her bag from her shoulder and toss it over his own. His arm brushed hers. She felt his fingers graze the back of her hand—barely there, but firm enough to anchor her.

“You did say it,” Stack comforted her. “You just finally said it with your feet instead of your mouth.”

Sera turned back to Smoke. “So I shouldn’t leave the letter?”

He gave her a small smile gentle, that couldn’t hide his tiredness. “Leave it if you want. But write it for you. Not him.”

She stood still for a moment, caught in the middle of a house she no longer belonged to, between two men who’d done something while she packed up her innocence upstairs. Something she hadn’t seen, but felt. In the walls. In their skin.

Whatever had happened while she was gone… it was finished now. And they weren’t going to make her carry the weight of it. Smoke reached for the front door and held it open. Stack touched her lower back to guide her through. She stepped out into the sun, bare feet on the porch wood, the hem of her yellow slip dancing around her thighs in the breeze and didn’t look back.

The door shut behind her with a quiet click.

It sounded a lot like a lock turning.

Or a chapter ending…

.

.

.

.

.

.

No one:

Sera after the twins ctrl+alt+deleted her daddy:

Authors Note: For anyone confused about ‘Jade training’ it’s basically anal training. Sex toys in the 1920’s weren’t common BUT glass and jade anal plugs existed (very rare). Listen… it’s fanfiction and if you’ve read my other work it was only a matter of time before I figured out how to incorporate toys while keeping things historically accurate 🤭🤭🤭

Tag list:

@nahimjustfeelingit-writes @theethighpriestess @imagining-greatness @hearteyes-for-killmonger @blackpantherismyish @theogbadbitch @queenofklonnie22 @underated345-blog @bxrbie1 @harleycativy @hermyowney @kcundercover0 @cleo92bitch-i-am-old @gtf-o-m-d @merranerra @afroslacks @wingedpeachjudgegiant @smutattack @solarssins @xoxodaedreams @rolemodelshit @chrisevansmentee @honggihwa @softy212 @michifilmz @hon3yjaxx @ladymac82 @fruitypatooties-blog @whysoceerious @deexoxomuah @nanamiismine @monstaxmomma0 @a4g3lstarfire @blk-afrodite @melodyofmbaku @championshipshade @aretasreads @nubiagurllll @wabi-sabi1090 @swiftscepterdragon @midnightmemoirsofher @plan3tch1ld @dutifullythoughtfulenthusiast

[lilliths-story-studio]

CW: The vaguest of mentions towards self elimination in a conceptual sense and not pertaining to the narrator’s internal thought process. Covering bases just in case it could be a problem though.

The return to the cabin is well timed. The only place to stay dry is just in front of the doorway, under an awning roughly the size of a greeting card. It doesn’t do a ton to keep the rain beginning to fall in swiftly fattening drops from pelting us. But the scent is clean and the water is a blessing in the midst of all this heat, so I lean against my side of the doorframe and just watch.

I only check the treetops twice before I finally relax and enjoy the storm.

“Have you found anywhere else like this?” She asks after several minutes of doing the same.

“Up north, there’s a spot called Kilbourn that reminds me a ton of Corbin. Strong riverside community. You’d like it.”

I’d wanted to take her.

“I remember you mentioned it…”

When she was making plans to come back out on the road with me, once her degree was finished. Something that had been extended twice due to her struggles with chronic fatigue, which are starting to make a lot more sense.

“They get real good rainstorms- but like everyone by a river, they kinda just want the stuff to stop flooding their homes, thanks.”

“You still rank them?”

“They’re harder to keep track of one at a time on the road than they were when I was staying put. Oklahoma gets some best ones, but they also go bad the most often.”

“Mild way of putting it.”

I kill off my beer at the same time she finishes hers.

“I’m grabbing another, want me to bring you one?”

“I’d say I can grab it myself, but now that you’ve offered, I’m feeling kinda lazy today.”

She snorts and takes the can.

“You’re lazy everyday.” She pops the door. “That’s why I offered.”

The door shuts, because at the very least she and I agree on wet hardwood and not wanting to skid to our collective death. The wind is picking up, tossing more of the water sideways into my side. I wipe at the water, like it will make a difference, and hiss as I’m reminded of the stinging in my palms.

Right.

Between the storm, the beer, and the conversation, the discomfort had been forgotten.

I should clean those.

As if reading my mind, Cassy reappears with the drinks and a small first aid kit.

“Let me see your palms.” She sets the drinks just next to the door starts unzipping the pouch. “I know I’m not getting you inside until this,” she waves between me and the storm “is out of your system.”

“It’s energizing and relaxing, I can understand that people don’t like being wet outside of a pool, though.”

Her lips press together on a suppressed bit of laughter. I look instead at the wounds as she goes to work.

“Thanks.” I clear my throat. “Sorry I just kinda…left you to do yours alone.”

“The last time you bandaged me up was very sweet- and I had to go and redo it anyway.”

“Nevermind, I retract my apology.”

“Meh, bank it.”

“I hate that you’re counting on it.”

“You doubt one of us is going to say or do something charged and mean again?” She starts cleaning out the really rather shallow scrapes with a wipe that smells like the Vodka I used to steal from Drew during my first run with his crew. It stings about the same.

“I mean, I’m going to try not to…”

“Like I said. Bank it.”

“So, full seriousness, what are you most worried about in those trees?” I hiss as she scrubs harder than she had a moment ago. “Fuck?”

“Way to lighten the mood.” She removes the wipe. “It’s dark, I really should be doing this inside. Since you’re not moving, however, I want to make sure the dirts out.”

“I appreciate it.”

Once the job is done she hands me the drinks to hold while pops back inside to put things away, then comes back, sticking her hand out.

“Beer, bitch.”

“You wanna get yourself hauled out in the rain?” Her eyes widen the slightest fraction and her lips purse. “Then watch the sass.”

I pass her can to her and she not-quite yanks it out of my hand.

“So the Howler is probably the most boring because it’s the most common story and sighting around here.” She says, popping her tab.

“That’s the Beauty and the Beast stunt double, right?”

“Beauty and the..”

“Giant wolf-cat thing the size of a bear with horns?”

She snorts a laugh, immediately covering her mouth.

“I don’t imagine it would go quite so well for anyone out here as it did in the movie.”

“I don’t know, the wolves would argue it hadn’t gone well at all.”

She laughs, head tilting back and full throat exposed. I can’t see much, only faint details illuminated by the glow spilling from the cabin window just past her. But it’s a kind of perfect I haven’t seen in years.

“I’ve never seen the Howler, but E has. She’s jumped at every elk call since.”

“She’s seen it. In person. For real.” I repeat back.

I know I’ve joked about Bigfoot, but there’s no way demon-bear is real.

“In person. For real- we see enough weird shit that lying is kinda pointless now. I believe her.”

“I can’t imagine it cares about my hair, though.”

I wait, uncertain if I’m going to get any more answer than that. Low, rolling thunder rumbles its way along in the distance while gusting wind sweeps itself into a stronger refrain. The trees bend more than they had and a fresh wave of water pelts my uninjured shoulder.

“Every region has its rules, if you take the time to get to know the wilds of it - and the things the wilds will warn you about.” She turns her eyes towards the woods and whatever she believes to be in there. “You know your rules up north and why?”

“Yeah. Thought he was nuts, but every time we’re up there Drew says something about the trees and whistling after dark, then threatens to beat every ass not inside the encampment borders when the sun goes down. I guess his dad grew up in the area.“

“That’s because those rules keep what lives in those trees from getting up close and personal.”

“Have you seen them?” Our boss had told stories of cannibalism and curses. I’d assumed them to be folktales and no more, same as the ones in these woods.

“E saw it, I only heard.” She taps her toes against the ground, still just watching as the branches dip and sway with more enthusiasm. “Fucked her up harder than the Howler by a lot.”

I give her a beat, nursing my drink in the interim.

“So what does that have to do with these woods and my hair?”

“Your hair is one of the rules that helps keep you from getting up close with the things in these woods. Everything out here is incredibly energy sensitive, and you have no actual wards. Just the braiding we can get done, your visualization, and a bandana. So you can’t afford to skip out on any of them, given they’re all meant to be extra on top of proper protection magic.”

“Weren’t you supposed to teach me that?”

“Do your light exercise tonight and let me re-braid your hair.” She says.

“I guess Imagination was the true magic all along.” I shake my head and take a drink. “And what’s going to get me, then? What’s the boogie man?”

“Do you remember the feeling in the caves? That thick, almost aggressive anxiety?”

Anxiety? That word seems entirely too mild.

“Vaguely.”

We all pretend to be tougher than we are sometimes, right?

“It’s alive. Sentient. And it produces these sort of parasitic little spirits that feed off of the same emotion they were born from. In the case of the caves and these woods - fear.”

“The caves we went diving into with only one flashlight?”

“You’re not gonna let that go, are you.”

Between the drink in my hand and the charge of the storm, I’m in a good mood - and the idea that she knew what was gonna be nipping at my heels when she’d walked off with the light threatens to smash that. I take a deep drink.

One. I don’t want to let this ruin my slightly improved night. Two. She’s laughed twice and I like the sound. Three. The rain soothes both the heat and agitation in me. Four. I need answers about what I think I saw. Five. Going after her stunt in the cave again is just going to restart the arguing.

And I just…don’t want to argue.

“Sometime next century, sugar. Keep explaining before I start thinking about it too much.”

She takes the hint.

“When you don’t have any protections in place, that shit can slip right up like you’re an open bar. It fattens up the meal by swelling all of that unease until it pops. The second the lid blows and all that unchecked emotion goes off, it latches on like a frat boy doing a keg stand.”

“Not great, but is that it? Emotion explosion?”

“How hard to I have to beg for you to never call it that again?”

“Answer the questions for now and we’ll see how benevolent I’m feeling at the end.” I offer a smile.

This time when she ducks her head, I don’t bother looking away.

“They’ll latch on if they like the taste, and if you don’t know how to get rid of them, you’re just going to be in that cycle of inflammation, explosion, and consumption until you’re life is ashes around your ears. Typically they’ll move on then. The host often doesn’t survive the separation.”

“What, it kills them on the way out?”

“It just drains everything out from them before it drops them like an empty bottle and leaves. A not-insignificant number…decide there’s no point in getting back up.”

Well.

Shit.

“Fine, braid my hair before bed.”

“How can I resist such a sweetly worded request.” She raises a brow.

I shrug and look back towards the woods instead of the storm. The owl is back. I blink, and it’s gone.

“What is it?” She asks after a moment of silence.

“Nothing…”

She chuffs a humorless laugh and throws back the rest of her drink.

“I doubt that. Something in the woods?”

“Treetop, I think.” I shake my head. “Mind playing tricks after your ghost stories.”

“Don’t be so sure about that. There aren’t a ton of old treetop legends that I’ve stumbled across out this way, mostly caves, farms, and bridges. But I told you, there are newer things that have shown up lately. One of them hangs out in the trees. So far, we’ve never seen one come down from the branches. It just kinda…watches.”

“Like the bridge just says names?”

“Nothing collects names or follows you through the entirety of the woods for no reason. We noticed it about a year ago - just staring at E. Followed her until we left. Never made a noise - we just glanced up and saw a set of these wide, silver circles on a branch about a foot over our head. It had this dark silhouette that seems both spindly and oddly wet for something that lives in the trees. I screamed, but it just kept locked onto her until we were out.”

Okay. No thank you.

“You just saw the one?” Did it turn into an owl and vanish?

I look at my now empty beer.

Maybe I should leave it at that if I’m hallucinating shapeshifting tree spiders.

“I saw a second one last time we were out here. I ignored our rule and went walking alone - we’d fought. I thought it was following me, but I actually caught sight of it from the back. I don’t know what it was following, but it didn’t pay me the slightest attention. Just sat in the tree and leaned in to watch whatever it was closer.”

“You didn’t check it out?”

“I had nothing on me.”

“Didn’t stop you today.”

“And I was alone.”

“You can’t honestly count me as backup, can you? Best I can do is tip toe and yell ‘look out’ if we do stumble into a monster movie.”

“It’s still more than I’d have alone.” She tilts her head. “You good to go in? I don’t think it would come down and out, but I don’t really want to bank on a guess.”

I sigh and wipe at the side of my now-dampened tank.

“Yeah, I suppose.”

Inside I make double certain to lock the door, and a point of telling Cassy I’d done so. She gives me an odd look, but otherwise just grabs my empty from me and heads into to kitchen. I pop into the bathroom with my bag to change into black sleep shorts and the oversized black Felix T-shirt I’d purchased to replace the grey one Cassy had stolen.

The same one she’s in when I emerge from the bedroom and find her perched on the couch with two fresh drinks. I slow; smashing a couple drinks on the porch or over cards back at camp is one beast. Sitting and drinking with my ex seems like a recipe for more trouble on my disaster sundae.

“What time are we getting started in the morning?” I ask, taking the drink reflexively as she passes it into my hand.

“Probably about 8.”

“Alright, I should make this it and get to sleep, then.”

I crack the drink because why would I waste it. And I fold down onto the couch because I’m tired of standing. I don’t move when she shifts ever so slightly closer on the other side, because she’s always been a restless sitter. And I turn towards her to converse because there’s no tv, and I don’t just want to sit in silence.

I swear I can hear Drew groan at my justifications.

She’s smiling, and I can see the dimples properly in this light. Between the drink in my hand and the rain we’d just come in from, my good mood has persisted and I just want to enjoy the sight. I don’t want to smash it this time.

It’s familiar and just a little sour. A tinge dusty. But still better than the animosity we’d been trading.

“Do you like the carnival? When you came out here, you sounded like you hated it.”

“I hated Drew.” I scoff into my can. “Asshole was nosy as hell and wouldn’t get off my back about the drinking…”

“It wasn’t even that bad yet.”

“He knew where it was going.” I sigh, throwing the drink in my hand down my throat to spite the man’s inexplicable give-a-shit about my general health and wellbeing. “I’m not the first foster brat that ran off with his gig straight out of eighteen. Sounds like we share certain patterns of behavior.”

“So you’re looking forward to going back?”

“Yeah.” I hold my hand out for her empty as she tosses it back. “I’ve got a pretty good crew of idiots back there. Jax tries and fails to get me to care about anything to do with the fitness nonsense he’s all up in.“

“I could have told him that was a lost cause.”

I shrug.

“I warned you on day one of ‘come do Pilates with me’ that we had different fitness goals.”

“You had none.”

“Which would be different from you having all of them. Statement stands.”

She rolls her eyes and pushes off of the couch. Turns are taken wrapping up in the bathroom, and then I’m back out on the couch after assuring Cassy yet again that nothing had gone wrong the prior night.

The window over the couch is covered with a single copper panel of curtain. The cloth had been pushed to one side for light whilst we’d been outside, but is now firmly back in its location. The desire to wrench it open is at least marginally lesser than the prior night, and beggars have long since learned that implementing their namesake typically results in loss.

Sleep is slow to claim me, a cruel joke considering I should be more wiped than I had been the prior night. But I can’t stop thinking about that owl or the creepy guy at the grocery store. In all likelihood, the later had just been an awkward jerk and the former had been a stress hallucination. I’ve never had one myself, but I recall Cassy having mentioned similar problems in her own life.

Except maybe she can see things.

Not helping me calm down.

I turn to my side, facing away from the window and looking at the sealed door. She’d advised me to knock on the wall if I changed my mind, and I had promised her she could put in her earplugs without fear. Drinking with her had been a fuzzy enough line, but sharing a bed again…that one seems pretty damn clear.

I scrape my fingers through my hair and return to my back. What Cassy had said about doing that light exercise comes to mind.

Why the hell not. I’m just laying here anyway.

At some point in the middle of Felix’s glowing eyes turning into a low-budget force field, I recognize I must have slipped into sleep, given that ceilings don’t typically morph into open sky. The stars are glittering bright as so many dreams caught in the inky expanse of eternity, and soft music teases across the air to reach my ears. Soft, twinkling sounds that remind me of a babbling brook.

I want to go find it.

How handy that the entirety of a dense and ancient wood welcomes me, the sound growing louder. Distance closes in strides or thoughts, it’s hard to keep the means of movement straight in this shifting landscape.

What had started as babbling water turns to whispering giggles.

Rude.

“Hello?”

Who am I looking for? Not who, what, right? I heard water. Or whispering. I’m not sure which, but it’s growing louder as I push on until I finally glimpse a break in the ground. An erosion of soil framing a humble stream of water. My chest sparks and spasms, like it can’t beat fast enough. Or maybe like it tried to beat too fast and tripped over itself?

The meager trickle sounds loud as baying hound in my ears, deafening almost. Just whispering, giggling, and then it speaks my name.

I jolt awake, sitting up on the couch with my ears ringing loud enough deafening me. It’s a million degrees in this cabin, and the only saving grace is a hastily fetched glass of water. I wrench the tap as cold as it will go, adding ice cubes and hastily gulping mouthfuls. I ignore the faint shake to my hands and the brain freeze begging me to slow down. It wasn’t even a scary dream - just my psyche tripping over all the shit that’s happened in the last 48 hours, easy enough to see.

I just need to get through my water, calm down, and I can get back to sleep.

I watch the kitchen and living space like a hawk as I work through the liquid, slowly calming my pulse. The shadows here don’t move like they did in the cave, but my eyes still swear they see masses shifting. I finish my drink and splash my face with cold water.

All of these stories and witchy talk have gotten to me, and my dreams are just doing what they do to catch up.

The fact that the charm around my throat feels like a hot coal is chalked up to my own body heat and dismissed.

It’s just a damn necklace.

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Prompt #1180

"I'm feeling kinda lazy today."

"You're lazy every day."

[formulafanfics13]

Lando needing to take out his frustrations from a race that ended badly and so he does in bed. Which reader has agreed to and doesn’t mind. But maybe Lando gets too rough and she uses their safe word but he doesn’t realise because he’s so far gone. And then after many(or few) attempts he finally hears it(maybe she starts crying idk) and then Lando immediately feels bad and tries everything to make up for it ❤️

Brutal Love, Gentle Hands - LN4 🔥

masterlist

Summary After a disastrous race, Lando takes his frustration out in bed — too hard, too fast, too disconnected. You’ve always trusted him with your body, always had a safeword system in place for nights like this, when he needed to burn it all out. But tonight, he doesn’t hear you. Not until you scream red. And when he finally does — when it hits him what he’s done — everything inside him breaks. The story unfolds in the aftermath: apologies, shaking hands, grief wrapped in tenderness. He holds you in the bath. He doesn’t touch you again until you ask. Because you were never just a body to him. You were his home. And he forgot — for one devastating moment — but he never will again.

Warnings dark themes, rough sex, emotional distress, ignored safeword (momentary), panic response, aftercare, sobbing, protective partner, guilt, kink dynamic with safety system, intense emotions, bath scene, domestic softness after trauma, resolution through communication, consensual kink but temporary breach of boundaries, reference to couples therapy, hurt/comfort, no glamorisation of boundary-crossing.

You could always tell when it was a bad race. Not from the way he spoke, because Lando didn’t say much when he was like this. Not from his jaw, even though it was clenched so tight you could trace the shape of his molars through his skin. Not from the slamming of the door or the sound of his helmet hitting the floor or the shower running too long.

You knew it the second he touched you. Because it was different. Rougher. Faster. Less present, more desperate. Like he was chasing something that he couldn’t get from a car and was going to claw it from your body instead.

He kissed you hard in the hotel suite, the scent of race sweat and champagne and engine oil still clinging to his neck. His hands tugged at your waist. His voice, low and flat, was the only warning you got. "Clothes. Off. Now."

You didn’t protest. You never did on days like this. You’d agreed a long time ago that if he needed you to take it, if it helped burn through the frustration, if he needed to fuck the rage out of his system, you would take it. Because he would stop if it got too much. Because you had the safeword. Because you trusted him.

But tonight? Tonight, you should have known.

He didn’t kiss your mouth again after the first time. Didn’t undress you with the kind of reverence he usually did. He yanked your top over your head like it was in the way. Shoved your shorts down your thighs while dragging you to the bed like a possession.

“Fucking bullshit race,” he spat under his breath. “Could’ve had a podium. Fucking strategy fucked me. Always fucking me. At least you’ll take it properly.”

You gasped when he flipped you onto your stomach. Cried out when he forced your legs apart with a knee and buried his hand in your hair to pull your face back. You weren’t wet yet, not really, but he didn’t notice. Or maybe he didn’t care.

He shoved into you anyway. No prep. No warning. Just brute force and blind frustration.

“Good fucking girl,” he growled, setting a brutal rhythm that made your body jolt with every thrust. “You’re the only one who listens. The only thing I can fucking control.”

You whimpered. Fists clenched in the sheets. Tears pricking already. You wanted to be good. You wanted to take it. But it hurt. Too much.

The pace was relentless. His grip on your hair was vice-tight. You tried to speak, tried to say the word, but it came out garbled. Swallowed by the sound of skin slapping skin, by the raggedness of his breathing, by the litany of curses under his breath.

He wasn’t here. Not really. His body was, but his mind was still on the track. Still in the car. Still stuck behind a team radio screaming strategy calls too late.

You opened your mouth again. Tried to say it. Louder this time. “Red.”

No response. Your breath caught. You squirmed, he only growled louder and slammed into you harder.

“Fuck, stay still. Stop fighting me.”

You sobbed. “Red, Lando. Red-please.”

Finally. Finally his rhythm stuttered. You felt his hands freeze. Heard his breath catch, caught the split-second of clarity.

“What-?”

“Red,” you gasped, voice cracking, shaking now under him. “Red. Please- stop- I can’t- it hurts-”

And just like that, it broke. He pulled out immediately. Crawled off you with shaking hands, his own breathing suddenly ragged, terrified. “Fuck. Fuck. Babe- no. No, no, no-”

You curled onto your side, legs drawn in, trembling. A hiccup of a sob escaped you. Lando’s heart fucking shattered. “I didn’t hear you. I didn’t-” his voice cracked. “I didn’t know. Fuck. I didn’t mean- I thought- you always- fuck, I’m sorry.” He wrapped himself around you, completely abandoning his own nakedness. Arms tight, hands frantic as he tried to gather you against his chest without hurting you further. “Shhh, baby, I’ve got you. I’m here. I’m here. You’re okay now. You’re okay.”

You were still crying, too stunned to form words. Lando pressed kisses to your shoulder, your temple, your knuckles. Anything he could reach.

“You used your safeword. And I didn’t hear you. That’s on me. That’s not okay. I’m so fucking sorry.”

You nodded into his chest. Barely. But it was enough.

He shifted so he could look at you. His hands were shaking. “I’ll never do that again. Never. You’re more important than anything else. I don’t care about the race. I don’t care about the podium. I care about you. You’re mine but only if you want to be. You say stop, I stop. You say red, I stop. No excuses.”

He looked broken. More than after the race. More than after any crash. You reached up with a trembling hand and touched his cheek. “I know,” you whispered. “I know you didn’t mean to. You just didn’t hear me.”

“But that’s not an excuse. I should have- I should’ve seen- fuck. I hurt you.”

You shook your head. “You stopped. That’s what matters. You heard me. In the end.”

And he lost it. Head in your neck. Arms tight around you. You both cried, softly now. Together. He didn’t try anything else that night. Didn’t ask. Just cleaned you up, drew a bath, sat behind you and held you while you soaked in silence. He washed your hair. Rubbed your shoulders. Let you curl into him in bed with your face pressed against his chest and his arms cocooning you like a shield.

In the morning, he made you breakfast. Booked a session with the couples’ kink therapist you both used sometimes. Ordered you flowers. Called his trainer and cancelled media duties.

And he didn’t fuck you again until you asked for it. Because you were never just his outlet. You were everything. Even when he forgot, for a moment. He never would again.

[fandom-imagines-stories]

Bonding Exercise Part One

Robert Reynolds x Reader

Words: 3091

Summary: For some reason, someone thought it would be a good idea for you to all go camping together… big mistake. 

Notes: Oh look another imagine I had to split into two parts or else it was going to be way too long. Oops. I got this idea right before going to Yellowstone with my sisters and I couldn’t resist. This gives me classic Avengers Tower fic vibes and I am here for it. Let me know what you think! 

More Thunderbolts and Marvel: HERE

-

“The next person who breathes in my direction is never breathing again,” Ava snapped, glowering at the back row of seats through the rearview mirror.

Walker opened his mouth to speak–probably to point out that you and Bob were too focused on each other to be huffing on the back of her neck, but she turned her icy stare on him and he decided to sit quietly. Wise, considering he was the closest to her. 

Alexei drove, so Yelena claimed ‘daughter privilege’ to the front seat. Walker and Ava took the center row, leaving you and your boyfriend to squeeze into the back with all the supplies that didn’t fit in the trunk. 

Bucky did the smart thing and said he’d just take his motorcycle. You were definitely wishing you had chosen to ride separately right about now.

“No making out in the back of van!” Alexei called out, sending you a smirk.

Bob blushed. You buried your face in your hands. 

“I only kissed her a little bit,” Bob murmured, earning disgusted noises from Ava and Walker.

You rolled your eyes. “Are we almost there?”

“Very close according to my GPS,” Alexei said. His GPS was a map on the dashboard with liquids you didn’t want to identify staining the corners. “Two-ish hours.”

The crowd in the car collectively groaned. 

“Please tell me someone brought alcohol,” Ava said.

Everyone but Bob’s hands shot up. You leaned over, giving his hand a slight squeeze.

“I brought those fizzy drinks that you like,” you whispered. You’d found these non-alcoholic sparkling punch drinks that Bob had really liked. He brought your hand to his lips. Walker gagged.

“Can we ban them from sitting together for the rest of this stupid trip?”

“Just because your heart is dead, Walker, does not mean theirs has to be,” Yelena said. She flipped around in her seat. “Even if it is a little nauseating.” 

You were grateful no one mentioned that the two of you were the reason you were in this mess to begin with. For a long time, you and Bob kept your feelings for each other between yourselves. Things were complicated enough, and you didn’t want to deal with the possibility of Valentina turning you into some kind of super couple. The attention was bad enough. You wouldn’t drag Bob into that. 

Unfortunately, the team wasn’t overly thrilled to find out you’d been going behind their backs for nearly a year. 

You’d gone to a very small pizza place on Staten Island to celebrate another year of Sobriety for Bob, and Walker, Bucky, and Ava found you. Needless to say, it did not go well. 

With a very public blow-up now circulating about the New Avengers, Valentine said something needed to be done. Mel gave you two solutions: a spiritual bonding retreat or camping. The group unanimously decided. 

You understood why they thought it was a bad idea, Bucky especially. He’d been around long enough to know there was no such thing as a happy ending. But was it too much to ask for a happy middle? 

As if sensing where your mind had taken you, Bob moved his thumb back and forth against the back of your hand. 

“What if we get attacked by a bear?” Ava asked. “Do any of us actually have a clue what we’re doing?”

“We were taught how to survive in the wild in case we had to go on the run,” Yelena said. “I could skin a rabbit faster than anyone else.”

“I don’t want to skin a rabbit,” Bob said.

“We have plenty of food,” you assured him.

“I will fight off any bear that comes near Lena,” Alexei said, patting her on the shoulder. She grimaced and turned to the window.

“Why do you care?” Walker asked. “You can just materialize away from it.”

“Maybe the bear would be friendly.”

“Bears are not friendly, Bob.” Walker snapped. “They are killing machines.”

“I thought that’s what we were,” you muttered.

The rest of the ride was held in irritated silence, with the occasional anecdote from Aleix, which just made you more and more confused about his past. You listened, though, to every word. Every time one of them talked about where they came from, you wondered if your story was the same. Were you changed in some lab? Or were you put through a program like the Black Widows? All you knew was that you woke up one day in a clearing surrounded by a circle of bodies–a SWAT team–and you could control liquid. Including making human blood boil. The rest, who you were before that day, you couldn’t remember. All this power, all the pressure to be something great, and you didn’t even know your last name.

“Are you sure this is the road?” Yelena asked. She had the map spread over her lap, tracing her fingers over the lines that marked the paths. 

“I know exactly where we are going.” Alexei made an abrupt turn, launching you into Bob’s lap, and a case of tent spikes into your back. 

He grunted, taking a shoulder to the ribs. 

“Isn’t there supposed to be a lake?” 

“Who let him drive?” Walker exclaimed. 

Bob helped steady you back into the seat, sliding his arm behind you to both keep you steady against Alexei’s driving and to ease the anxiety building in his chest. 

He didn’t have fond memories of family trips. Or camping. Or anything involving other people in general.

“We are definitely in the wrong place,” Yelena said. “Just go to where I tell you.”

“Fine, fine.” Alexei whipped the car around. Bob had to hold onto Walker’s headrest so he wouldn’t slide into you. “I was taking the scenic route.”

“Buck is going to think we got attacked or something,” Bob snickered.

“I’m sure he’s thrilled to have the time away from us,” you said. 

Bob leaned in, whispering. “He needs his old man alone time.”

You snorted, which made Ava glower again. You both tried to hold your breath, which just made you laugh harder.

“That’s it.” Ava clicked her seat belt and started to climb over the seat, Walker, and you both tried to hold her back from tackling Bob.

-

Bucky, sure enough, was waiting at the campsite by the time Alexei found the right dirt road- after almost driving you all into a river. Bucky sat next to a perfectly made tent in front of a perfectly made fire, cooking a can of soup. He glanced up when the van skidded to a stop in front of him, frowning.

“The team is all together!” Alexei cheered. 

Bucky raised a brow. “You were supposed to be here three hours ago.”

“Yeah.” Walker climbed out of the car. “We know.”

Ava was next. Then you. Then Bob, who had a little red mark on his forehead where Ava flicked him. When he scrunched from the back seat, he took in the scene around you. Everywhere were tall trees with leaves that caught the sun like emeralds. Down a makeshift path of stones was a beach next to a crystal blue lake. Most of all, there was quiet unlike anything he’d ever known before. His whole life had been noise. It felt strange, almost unsettling, to take that away. But he was drawn to it anyway. 

You breathed in the smell of damp earth and were grateful it wasn’t trash on the street for once. Part of you wished the change would help you remember. Were you an outdoorsy kid? 

“Alright.” Yelena hopped down from the passenger seat. “Now, we set up.” 

Bucky slurped a spoonful of soup. “Done.”

“Yes, well, we have to decide who is sharing,” Yelena said. "There are only three more tents.” 

Alexei held up a hand. 

“No,” Yelena said.

He put his hand back down. 

“Bucky, Walker, you’ve known each other the longest,” Ava said.

“Only because we beat the shit out of each other a couple years ago. That shouldn’t count.” Walk said. “Why can’t you and Yelena share? Have a ‘girls night’ or whatever.”

“Do you think all women are just dying to have sleepovers with each other?” She fired back. 

“Bob and I will share,” you finally blurted.

The others went quiet. Bucky looked away. You hated how they all acted like your relationship was some taboo subject. The second it wasn't just something to joke about, they just wanted to pretend it wasn’t real. Like it was something they could all just forget about. 

Screw that. You knew what it was like to really forget.

Nudging Bob with your arm, you started for the trunk of the van. 

“Come on. We can set up by the lake.” You grabbed the biggest tent and set of spikes. 

Bob glanced at the others, then at you, then at the lake. It did look like a nice spot. He followed you through the small opening in the trees to a wide section of smooth gravel on the beach. 

Walker snagged his arm before he could step out of the brush. 

“I swear, if I have to listen to the two of you-” He inhaled sharply, “canoodling all night, I will kill you in your sleep. Got it?” 

“I don’t think I can actually-”

“Got it!” Walker just seemed so irritated, Bob decided to just nod. He hurried after you. 

“You okay?” You asked, spotting Walker’s retreating form.

“Yeah.” Bob’s brows furrowed. “I just don’t think I’ve ever heard a grown man say ‘canoodling’.” 

You snorted and rolled your eyes for the thousandth time since the trip started.

“That’s because Walker isn’t a grown man. He’s a twelve-year-old bully trapped in a super soldier’s body.” You placed the first tent spike and realized you forgot a hammer. “Little help?” 

Bob crouched down beside you and pressed the stake into the ground with ease, doing the same for each corner and on the sides. It was actually kind of fun, and when you were finished, the tent was sturdy and in place. Bob felt a flicker of accomplishment. It was something so normal and yet, it wasn’t anything he’d done before. Maybe this trip wouldn't be so bad after all.

“Hey.” Bob caught your hand, tugging you gently toward him. “I know they’re still kind of pissed at us, but I’m happy I get to be out here with you.” He smiled his sweet, crooked smile and kissed your cheek.

You leaned into him, relaxing for the first time since the fight with the others in front of that stupid pizza place. Between his presence and the quiet rush of waves from the lake, you could actually breathe again. 

“We should get back,” you said, reluctantly turning away. “The others will think we’re up to something scandalous.”

Bob hesitated. He pulled you closer to him, hugging you from behind so you were both facing the water. 

“Just a little longer,” he pleaded softly, pressing his lips to the nape of your neck. He snuggled into you the way he often did right before he fell asleep, taking you in as much as his senses let him. You smelled like fresh rain, your skin soft against his, your voice calming in his ears. He wanted to savor every second.

“Do you have extra tent spikes?” Yelena poked her head out from the trees. “Alexei managed to break all of his.”

“I’m sorry I’m too strong for little plastic pokey sticks!”

Your light laugh vibrated against Bob's chest. 

“We’ll be right there,” you said. 

Bob loosened his hold, and the two of you made your way back to the main camp.

“Oh no.” You muttered, finding you’d left behind complete and utter chaos. “You guys, we were gone for five minutes!” 

Before you sat two piles that might have been tents and a set of charred hot dogs next to the fire. Alexei was still trying to put the rods of his tent together and Walker was failing to give him instructions in any sort of calm, helpful manner whatsoever. Ava had gotten into the beers and was watching it all next to Bucky. All they needed was popcorn. 

You let your palm hit your forehead and slid your hand down your face. Bob just stood next to you, blinking.” 

“Do you think we should help them?” He whispered. 

You sighed and walked over to the first failed attempt at shelter. Using the same patience and method as before, you and Bob managed to put both up by the time Alexei fixed his. 

“You cheated,” he huffed. “He can fly.”

How that helped put a tent together, you weren't sure, but you decided not to argue anyway. You instead focused on getting yourself a drink. A strong one. You handed Bob one of his punches and he took it like a kid taking candy. 

“Thanks,” he muttered, taking a sip with a content smile. Bob watched you make a drink and sit in front of the fire, waiting a moment before joining you. He liked the way the flame made your eyes glow, how it warmed your skin, and flickered at the shadows around you. 

Bucky cleared his throat, making Bob jump. The old soldier raised a brow. Bob gave him a smile, tight lipped smile. 

“Did you, uh,” he took another sip for courage, “have a nice ride out here?”

Bucky narrowed his eyes like he was suspicious of the question. But after a second, he eased. 

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s good to get out of the city for once.”

“It’s so quiet,” Bob awed. “And it smells so good. I forgot how good trees smell, you know?”

Bucky glanced at him for a long while- not out of annoyance. Appreciation. He found a strange sense of comfort in seeing the kid so happy. 

“Yeah,” he said finally. “It’s nice.”

Bob took a breath. “So about the other day-”

“Nope.” Bucky shook his head briskly and stalked off.

Bob deflated a little and went to join you. 

You stared into the fire, trying to ignore the cold creeping into the air. Ever since you gained your powers, even the slightest chill sank down to your bones, like ice taking over your body. Maybe you were always like that. Maybe not.

“Are you cold?” Bob asked.

You hadn’t realized how much you started shivering.

“Oh! Here.” He jumped up to grab something from the van. He came back with a massive, fluffy blanket that he usually kept on his bed. “I brought this for you because you always forget and you’re always cold.” Bob wrapped it around your shoulders, letting his hands linger to rub warmth into your arms. “I hope that helps.”

“It’s perfect.” You tilted your head back to look at him. “Thank you.” 

He sat beside you. You tucked the blanket around him, too.

The others all gathered around the fire and for a while, it all felt weirdly… normal. Like you really were just a regular family on summer vacation. Alexei started telling another one of his stories and Yelena kept pointing out everything he got wrong, which made you all laugh. Bucky made everyone’s hot dogs because he was the only one who could manage not to burn them. Even Walker seemed to have a decent time. He heated a pot of coffee over the fire and poured you a cup.

“This’ll warm you up,” he said. His gaze darted between you and Bob. You hadn’t realized how much you were snuggled into him, still shivering. But Walker didn’t make any snide remarks or roll his eyes, he just held out the steaming mug.

You grasped it with both hands, letting it warm your palms. “Thanks.” 

He nodded and turned back to the conversation- something about new weapons from somewhere or something. 

“Ugh, I thought we came out here so we didn't have to talk about work,” Ava whined. Everyone paused. You each looked around the group. 

Bucky raised a brow. “What else are we going to talk about?”

Ava rested her chin on her hand, frowning. “You make us sound so pathetic.”

Another pause. The group collectively shrugged. 

“I watched a pretty cool movie on Netflix the other night while you guys were out,” Bob chimed in. “It was about–”

“She kinda has a point,” Walker interrupted. “None of us really has a life anymore.

“You say that like we had one before,” Yelena said. You could tell this wasn’t going to be a pleasant topic. 

“I did.” 

“Good for you, Walker,” she huffed. “Tell us another story of your time in the American military. We’re all dying to know.”

“I think that’s a little uncalled for-” Bob started, but was silenced again as their argument erupted. Ava jumped in. Bucky tried to get them to shut up, which roped him in, too.

“Are we going to do this every time?” You exclaimed over the commotion. “Rehash the same things like we’re all broken records of tragic backstories?”

It must have been the drive. Or maybe the situation in general. But Yelena was annoyed and wasn’t thinking. 

“It must be nice not to remember,” she fired back. As soon as she said it, a deadly quiet fell over all of you. Her eyes widened, processing what she’d done.

Bob tried to hold you closer, to remind you he was there, but you stood and walked away, letting the blanket fall around him. 

“Y/N, wait!” Yelena called. 

You disappeared into the dark and the trees. Overhead, thunder boomed. Bob and Yelena jumped to their feet. 

“Let her go,” Bucky said. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. 

Silence came again. 

Alexei let out a low, long breath, shaking his head. “I knew I should have brought he board games.”

Yelena sat back down, head in her hands, but Bob stayed. He wanted to run after you, but his feet wouldn't move. He couldn’t see you anymore. It made him nervous. It wasn’t as though this was the first time it had come up, but he knew each time that it did was another shot of ice through you. Another brick for you to build the wall around your heart. He just hoped this time he could do something to stop it. You were always there for him. He didn’t want you to get lost in the same shadows. 

“I’m making another drink,” Ava said. “Who wants–” Before she even finished, hands shot into the air, Bucky’s metal one glinting in the crackling light of the fire. 

[tikitakatia]

Gotta Call ´Em Something — A. Putellas x Reader

WC: 1.2k

Summary: May the gay gods bless you, you don´t know how much longer you´ll last with these situations.

You’ve worked at FC Barcelona for six months now. That’s 182 days, 4,368 hours, and according to the deeply unscientific tally on Mapi’s whiteboard in the gym, over 300 separate attempts to flirt with Alexia Putellas. Which is, coincidentally, also how many times you’ve failed. Not because you’re bad at it.

No, you’re actually incredible at flirting. You’re practically built for it: the timing, the smirk, the voice drop. You flirt the way others breathe. But Alexia Putellas? She’s the final boss of obliviousness. The patron saint of “Wait, that was flirting?” You are practically on your knees with romantic, yearning desperation, and she still greets you with a casual “Holii” like you’re just another teammate asking if she wants more ice in her drink.

You’ve tried everything. Compliments, thoughtful little gifts, lingering touches during post-match massages. You once told her she looked like a renaissance painting and she responded with, “Which one?” and then sincerely asked if you meant “the one with the screaming man.” You didn’t even bother correcting her that The Scream is neither a renaissance painting nor flattering. You just stared at the wall behind her and whispered, “Yes.”

You’re not subtle. You’ve never been subtle. Subtle is for cowards. The first week you met, she said, “I’m always sore after leg day,” and you, clearly not in possession of your own soul, responded with, “Good thing I know how to use my hands.” She laughed. She thought it was funny. Friendly. You, on the other hand, went home and screamed into a pillow so loud your upstairs neighbor texted you to ask if someone had died.

Everyone else knows. Everyone. The entire locker room is involved. Mapi and Cata have a running commentary on your attempts, complete with odds and spreadsheets. They once made cards for it, Flirting Bingo. Square one was “offered to carry Alexia’s Louis Vuitton bag again.” The free space just said “blushes when she says your name.” Even Caro is in on it, and she has the emotional range of a house plant.  She walked past you once mid-flirt and muttered, “Dios mío, just flash her or something.”

Ona, who has the observational skills of a sniper, said it best after a particularly disastrous encounter in the cafeteria where you called Alexia mi sol and she asked if that was your new nickname for the coffee machine. Ona just leaned against the table, sipped her smoothie, and went, “I’ve seen snails crawl faster than Alexia takes to understand your flirting attempts.”

It’s become a locker room soap opera. You flirt. She blinks. You sigh. Mapi shouts. Pina eats popcorn. Keira places bets. And Alexia? Alexia just hums and asks if anyone wants more Prime. You are living in hell, and it’s got a very specific Catalan accent.

But you keep trying. Because you're nothing if not romantically deranged. You flirt harder. You bring her coffee. Offer massages you absolutely do not have time for. She compliments your hoodie and you offer to share it. She says you’re great with your hands, and you ask if she needs a demonstration. She moans during treatment, and you have to step out and splash cold water on your face.

And she never, ever gets it.

Until one fateful afternoon, after a training session, when you find yourselves alone in the physio room. She’s perched on the edge of the table, swinging her legs slightly, scrolling through her phone. Her hair’s damp from the shower, her cheeks flushed, and she’s still wearing your hoodie. (Yes. Still. It’s basically her hoodie now. You've given up.) The two of you are laughing about something dumb she said during rondos, probably involving a cone and you're feeling bold. Or desperate. Hard to say. It’s a fine line these days.

“So,” you say, trying to sound casual, “what do you think about pet names?”

She glances up, curious. “Like what kind of pet?”

You blink. “No, not actual pets. Like… babe. Baby. Amor. Cariño. You know. Terms of endearment.”

She hums, thoughtful. “I guess. I mean, you’ve got to call them something.”

You smile. “Yeah?”

She nods seriously. “Like… dog.”

You stare at her.

She stares back, deadpan.

“I used to call my pomeranian cariño all the time,” she adds, as if that clarifies things.

Somewhere in the distance, you’re certain Mapi has sensed a disturbance in the Force. You’re pretty sure Irene just dropped a protein shake. Possibly in slow motion.

You blink once, slowly. “Like… a person. Like if you’re dating someone.”

“Oh!” she says, like the thought has never occurred to her before.

“Well, yeah. I guess that’s cute.”

“You guess.”

She shrugs, entirely unaffected. “I mean, it’s not like I’d call my girlfriend dog.”

“Thank God,” you mutter under your breath.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

From outside the room, you hear Ona’s voice drifting in: “She needs subtitles, bro.”

You are going to cry. Or combust. Or kiss her. Or all three in quick succession. But before you can spiral further, Alexia looks up again and offers you one of those slow, sweet smiles that short-circuits your brain.

“Why?” she asks. “Do you use pet names?”

“I would,” you say, “if I had a reason to.”

She nods. “Makes sense.”

She nods. Like you’re discussing the weather. Like you’re not actively, aggressively pining for her with your whole chest.

Weeks later, something in you snaps. Possibly your dignity. Possibly your last functioning brain cell.

“I want to kiss you so bad sometimes I forget how to speak,” you blurt.

She looks up, smiling. “Your Spanish is always really good.”

You blink.

She blinks.

From the hallway, there’s a metallic thud. That’s probably Mapi walking into a wall. Or throwing herself at one.

Alexia frowns. “Wait… was that, did you mean that literally?”

Mapi bursts through the doorway like a human hurricane. “NO. No no no. You are NOT about to mess this up again. She’s been flirting with you for six months, Ale. SIX. MONTHS. She offered you her water bottle with eye contact. That’s practically second base.”

Alexia turns to you, stunned. “You’ve… been flirting with me?”

You just stare at her. “Yes. I’ve been flirting. Since February. I literally asked if you liked pet names and you said "like for a dog.”

Her mouth drops open. “Oh my god. I thought you were just… really friendly.”

“I am friendly,” you say. “But I’m also in love with you and I’ve aged three years trying to communicate that.”

She laughs, nervous and pink-cheeked, and takes a step closer. “So… you like me?”

“Yes.”

“Like… like-like?”

You blink. “I’m sorry, are we in middle school?”

She grins. “Okay. And you want to kiss me?”

You nod. “So badly I’ve considered creating a PowerPoint presentation about it.”

She looks down at her feet. Then back at you. Then she kisses you.

And just like that, the entire world shifts.

Her lips are soft, warm, slightly uncertain. You melt. Everything inside you goes still. Her hands find your hoodie, well, her hoodie, really, and tug you closer. You taste spearmint gum and 182 days of unresolved tension. You think, Oh. This is it.

When she pulls back, she’s breathless and smiling. “So… what do I call you now?”

Mapi groans from the doorway. “Don’t say dog, I swear to god.”