#thanks for the question this was so fun to think about!!

[cheftsunoda]

hiii!

I love your writing sooo much and I just had an idea for a story with Lando (if you write for him)

The idea came to me when I was watching one of his interviews in which he gets asked if he likes cats or dogs and he says that he's DEFINITELY a dog person and hates cats (which should be a crime imo)

Anyway I was wondering if you could write a story in which the reader LOVEEEES cats and Lando likes reader a lot but they tell him that they refuse to date someone who doesn’t like cats so Lando tries to charm/befriend their cat/cats

nine lives — ln4

lando norris x !cat lover reader

smau + blurbs

You’ve always said you could forgive many things in a relationship—bad taste in music, questionable cooking, even the occasional forgotten anniversary. But not liking cats? Unforgivable. Which is why, when a clip of Lando—your boyfriend of almost a year—where he boldly declares “I just don’t trust cats. They stare at you like they’re plotting your death.”, your phone practically explodes with notifications. And right in the middle of your peaceful Sunday morning, curled up in bed with four purring furballs and one very smug grey baby sprawled on your chest, Lando walks into the room holding his phone like it’s ticking.

“They’re all sending me this video,” he says, deadpan. “And now half the internet thinks we’re about to break up because I disrespected Mister Whiskers the Third.”

You blink at him. “You did. And you disrespected me.”

And that’s when he sighs—loudly, dramatically—and looks your cats in the eye like he’s facing his greatest challenge yet.

“I guess I’m gonna have to win them over, huh?”

fc : random pinterest girlies

(a/n) : hi babyyyyyy. thanks for the love:) i am a huge cat person so this was very fun for me to write. my cat was stepping on my keyboard keys as i was literally trying to type it out. LMAOOO

ALSO NOT MY DUMBASS HAVING THIS EDITED AND READY FOR TWO DAYS AND NOT REALIZING. IM SO SORRY.

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lando’s ‘undercover’ GQ interview — 6/23/2025

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It starts innocently enough. You’re lounging on the couch in your sunlit living room, a tabby curled against your hip, a calico stretched across your feet, and your ancient, grumpy Persian—Count Meowcula—curled up like a loaf of bread on the coffee table. Lando is still asleep upstairs, likely tangled in the duvet with his mouth slightly open and hair sticking up like a dandelion. You’re scrolling through your phone when the first tag pops up.

@/username000 : NOT LANDO SAYING HE HATES CATS 💀💀💀 @/yourusername come get your man pls

You furrow your brows and click the link.

It’s a recent clip, from the GQ interview he just did the other day. The interviewer shows him an old clip of himself.

And the younger Lando on the video, without missing a beat, replies with boyish arrogance, “Dogs, obviously. Cats are evil. I don’t trust them. They just sit there and judge you.”

Your jaw drops a little. “Excuse me?”

He goes on—oh, he goes on.

“They’re always knocking things off tables. Like, why? For what reason? I could never live with a cat. I’d be on edge all the time.”

You blink at the screen, stunned. A moment later, your mentions erupt like fireworks.

@/username00 : so like… yn owns FIVE cats and lando said THIS?????

@/username0 : the betrayal. the slander. does Count Meowcula know??

@/username1 : if my man ever said this about cats i’d simply let them scratch his eyes out 😭

You let out a little laugh—half horrified, half amused—and glance around the room. As if sensing drama, your youngest cat, a tiny grey kitten named Pickles, climbs onto your lap and stares directly into your phone screen like she’s reading the replies.

“I know,” you murmur to her. “He’s got some explaining to do.”

Almost on cue, heavy footsteps pad down the stairs. You hear a yawn, then a groggy voice.

“Morning…” Lando steps into the room, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He’s in one of your hoodies and a pair of mismatched socks, hair a complete mess.

You swivel your phone toward him, the video paused on the exact moment he says, “Cats are evil.”

He squints. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

Lando flops face first onto the couch beside you, groaning into a throw pillow. “I was, like, twenty! I didn’t know better!”

“The internet disagrees.” You smirk, holding your phone up as notifications keep pouring in. “You’ve got approximately two million cat lovers and a grumpy Count Meowcula very disappointed in you.”

Lando turns his head, eyes squinting at the Persian cat who is, indeed, staring at him with an expression of utter betrayal.

“I told him it was an old interview,” you say solemnly. “He doesn’t care.”

“I’ll never earn his forgiveness, will I?”

“Not unless you make amends.”

He sits up dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. “Then I have no choice. I must… bond with the cats.”

“Oh?” you tease. “The same cats who are evil? The ones you can’t trust?”

“I was young! I was foolish!” He throws himself at your feet in mock agony. “Please, my love, allow me to prove myself to you—and to Pickles. And to Mr. Whiskers. And… Count Meowcula.” He pauses.

“God, why do they all sound like retired supervillains?”

“Because they are.”

Pickles meows at him, unimpressed. Lando slowly sits back up, adjusting his hoodie and patting his lap. “Alright. I’m ready. Send me your softest warrior.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re serious?”

“I’m ready to face the consequences of my words,” he says solemnly. “Bring me the cats.”

One by one, like some ceremonial trial, the cats are introduced. Pickles curls up beside him without protest. Mr. Whiskers claws his leg once, just for good measure, and then lays on his foot. Count Meowcula eyes him for a solid three minutes before climbing onto his lap and promptly falling asleep.

You grab your phone and take a picture of the scene—Lando sitting stiff as a board, surrounded by cats, one paw resting over his knee like a warning.

Moments later, the tweet goes viral. The top reply?

@/alex_albon : petition for Lando to do a cat photoshoot in apology form.

You grin and show it to him.

“Absolutely not,” Lando mutters as Mr. Whiskers licks his hand. “Okay. Maybe. Only if I get to wear the little ears too.”

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yourusername

liked by lando, oscarpiastri, alex_albon and 1,201,005 others.

yourusername : should i leave this muppet because he doesn’t like my babies?

tagged : lando

—

view 72,075 other comments.

alex_albon : yes. absolutely. dump him. lily and i will take you and your cats in.

liked by yourusername and lilymhe

↳ yourusername : omw to the albon farm where me and my 5 children will be APPRECIATED.

liked by alex_albon and lilymhe

↳ lando : HEY HEY WE DO NOT HAVE TO GO THIS FAR

liked by yourusername

↳ lando : i am like the cat whisperer now. ask pickles.

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : you screamed when mr whiskers jumped up on the couch behind you. mans was just existing.

liked by alex_albon

↳ lando : HE STARTLED ME.

liked by yourusername

maxverstappen1 : leave him. now. i want to see him walking down the road with one of those hobo sacks.

liked by yourusername

↳ lando : OH MY GOD. YOU ARE ALL SO OVERDRAMATIC. I WAS YOUNG.

↳ maxverstappen1 : do not care. you still said it.

liked by yourusername

username00 : i take it he is still in alot of trouble yn

↳ yourusername : oh yes. very much so. sleeping on the couch currently.

liked by maxverstappen1 and alex_albon

↳ maxverstappen1 : make him sleep on the sidewalk.

liked by yourusername and username00

lando : I AM SORRY BABYYYYY DO NOT LEAVE ME. I NEED YOU AND YOUR 5 CHILDREN.

liked by yourusername

alexandrasaintmleux : leave lando. not bc of the cat thing but just so you can date me😻

liked by yourusername

↳ lando : ALEX. OUT. DO NOT TRY TO WIN OUT ON MY MISFORTUNE.

liked by yourusername and alexandrasaintmleux

oscarpiastri : I, for one, stand for feline rights. #teampickles

liked by yourusername

charles_leclerc: just wait til she has a conversation with zhou about this…

liked by alex_albon, oscarpiastri, maxverstappen1, yourusername and zhouguanyu24

↳ zhouguanyu24 : oh i already know and sweetcorn and i are offended deeply

↳ lando : BROOOOOOOO

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f1gossipgirls

liked by yourusername and 1,100,100 others.

f1gossipgirls : Lando on live tonight with YN’s kitten Pickles!

tagged : lando and yourusername

—

view 175,007 other comments.

username000 : pickles pawing him in the head killed me #teampickles

liked by yourusername

username00 : @/yourusername you are so powerful. he went from hating cats to calling pickles his son in a matter of a week

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : that’s what good pussy does…bad joke?

liked by lando and username00

username0 : pickles had more screen time than max 😭

liked by yourusername and maxfewtrell

username1 : HE DID THE BABY VOICE AWWWWW

liked by yourusername

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The stream wasn’t even supposed to happen. It started because Max texted Lando “go live you coward I miss your face”, and then fifteen minutes later Lando was setting up his webcam while you sat cross legged on the couch, cradling Pickles in your lap like royalty. You had no intention of being on camera—until Pickles decided to launch himself from your arms and climb straight up Lando’s hoodie mid-intro.

“AH—oh my god—HE’S IN MY SHIRT,” Lando yelps, half-laughing, half-panicking, while you scramble into frame trying to extract the tiny menace from his hood. The comments explode instantly.

@/username0000 : IS THAT PICKLES??

@/username000: this is already the best stream of the year

You finally wrestle the kitten free and sit down beside Lando, both of you breathless from laughing. Pickles, smug as ever, curls into a perfect ball on Lando’s shoulder like he owns the place.

“He’s… decided to stay,” Lando mutters, eyes wide. “I’m not moving for the rest of the stream.”

“That’s called growth,” you tease. “You used to call him a demon.”

“I still think he is,” Lando says. “He’s just my demon now.”

Then Max joins the call. And everything goes downhill.

“Oi,” Max says, grinning into his camera. “Am I interrupting domestic bliss?”

“Pickles almost crawled into my ribcage five minutes ago,” Lando replies. “So yes, but it’s fine.”

You wave at Max. “Hi Max. I saved your best friend from a feline induced death.”

“Legend,” Max says with a wink. “Though if Pickles had finished the job, I’d finally win our Fantasy league.”

Lando flips him off. The chat goes wild. Over the next half hour, it descends into total chaos. Lando’s trying to game, Max is throwing shade, and you’re in the background trying to keep Pickles from knocking over an open can of Monster with the energy of a feral toddler. At one point a conversation sparks.

Max started. “So YN, how many cats is too many cats?”

You thought for a moment. ”Hypothetically?”

“Yeah.”

“Ten.”

Lando spits out his drink, “TEN?”

You shrugged, “I’m just saying. We have the space.”

Max laughed. “This is how it starts. First it’s one kitten, next thing you know, you’re on a reality show called My Strange Addiction..’”

You laughed, “I’d watch my episode.”

Lando sighed heavily, “Don’t give her ideas, she’s already been measuring out a catio for the balcony.”

The chat is unhinged at this point.

@/username11: lando is literally becoming the cat dad he swore he’d never be and I love it

Then Pickles decides to crawl back onto Lando’s lap mid game, and instead of pushing him off, Lando just says, “Okay okay buddy, you can sit there, just don’t touch the mouse—”

Immediately, Pickles touches the mouse. Lando loses the round. Max howls laughing.

“I’ve been sabotaged,” Lando groans. “By my own child.”

You hand him a tiny sweater. “He earned this.”

Lando holds up the sweater to the camera—soft knit, neon orange, a little lightning bolt stitched across the back.

“It’s giving superhero sidekick,” Max says. “He needs a cape.”

“Don’t tempt me,” you say, already pulling out your phone to text your Etsy supplier.

By the end of the stream, Pickles is asleep on Lando’s chest, purring, and Lando’s stroking his tiny head absentmindedly while bickering with Max about who cheated in karting back in 2015.

“He’s so gone,” Max mouths into the camera, pointing at Lando, who doesn’t even notice because he’s too busy whispering, “You’re my best mate, but if you ever touch my mouse again, I swear—” to a literal sleeping kitten.

The final shot before the stream ends? Lando kissing the top of Pickles’ head without even realizing he’s doing it. The comments explode. And the clip goes viral.

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You come home expecting the usual—a trail of cat toys on the stairs, a half consumed cup of Lando’s coffee on the kitchen counter, and Pickles dramatically lounging in your spot on the couch. What you don’t expect is Lando standing in the hallway with his hands behind his back and the guiltiest grin on his face.

“What did you do?” you ask instantly.

“Why do you assume I did something?” he replies, rocking on his heels.

“You only smile like that when you’ve either crashed a scooter or spent a suspicious amount of money.”

“I prefer the term invested.”

You narrow your eyes. “Lando…”

He takes your hand. “Okay. Just… come with me.”

He leads you to the balcony, practically vibrating with excitement. The sliding doors are already open, and the cats are pacing back and forth like they know something’s up. And then you see it. A catio.

Not just any catio. A custom, multi-level, architectural wonderland that stretches across half the balcony. There’s a tunnel system, clear bubble pods for sunbathing, platforms shaped like trophies, and tiny nameplates engraved for each cat. At the top—of course—is Count Meowcula, looking down on his kingdom like he’s about to demand taxes.

You blink. “Lando. What the hell is this?”

“It’s a Catio 2.0,” he says proudly. “Designed it with a guy from Reddit. Don’t ask how much it cost.”

You turn to him, stunned.

“And this?” you say, gesturing to the racing stripe hammock that literally says “PICKLES’ PAD.”

He scratches the back of his neck. “Okay that part was my idea. And the tiny pit wall.”

There is a tiny pit wall. You burst out laughing, hand over your mouth. “I can’t believe you did this.”

He shrugs, pulling you into a hug. “You said they deserved fresh air and enrichment. And I figured… if I’m gonna be a cat dad, I might as well go all in.”

You lean up and kiss him, dizzy with love. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I know,” he grins. “But you love me anyway.”

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It started as a joke. You were scrolling through Instagram with Lando one night, curled up on the couch while Pickles aggressively kneaded his thigh. Zhou had just posted yet another selfie with Sweetcorn, his fluffy, spoiled cat, perched on his shoulder like a queen.

Lando squinted at the screen. “I’m starting to think Zhou loves that cat more than he loves people.”

You smirked. “I respect it. Honestly, I love sweetcorn too.”

“Okay, weird. But what if we got him, like… a Sweetcorn pillow?” Lando said, half joking, half serious.

You stared at him. “Wait. That’s actually genius.”

Two weeks later, the package arrives.

A two foot long plush pillow—an eerily accurate, almost too realistic version of Sweetcorn, down to the slightly tilted ears and smug expression. You nearly cry laughing when you pull it out of the box. Lando holds it up like he’s presenting Simba.

“We’ve peaked,” he declares. “This is our legacy.”

You’re both waiting outside the Ferrari hospitality unit when Zhou walks up, sunglasses on, coffee in hand, completely unprepared.

Lando grins. “Got you a present.”

Zhou raises a brow. “What’d you do?”

Then you pull the pillow out from behind your back and hold it up proudly.

Zhou stops. Blinks. Takes off his sunglasses in slow motion.

“You did not.”

“Oh, we did,” you laugh. “Meet… travel-sized Sweetcorn.”

Zhou stares at the pillow, mouth open, completely speechless. Then, without a word, he drops his coffee and takes the pillow in his arms like a long lost child.

“I’m never sleeping alone again,” he says.

Lando bursts out laughing. “We made it extra squishy so you’d get maximum cuddle support.”

Zhou is still cradling the pillow, already doing voices— “‘Who needs anyone when I’ve got you, Sweetcorn 2.0.’”

You snap a picture of him holding the pillow like a baby, and before long it’s all over social media.

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lando

liked by yourusername, oscarpiastri, alex_albon and 4,001,008 others.

lando : i have made amends with all the cat people in my life. built a catio, traveled to the albon farm and got zhou a mini sweetcorn. and i can say i finally understand why max broke down the door for his cat children.

tagged : alex_albon, yourusername, maxverstappen1 and zhouguany24

—

view 175,001 other comments.

yourusername : this is the man i love. covered in cat hair.

liked by lando

lando : god i hate how i will do literally anything for you

liked by yourusername

yourusername : love you lannnnnnn

liked by lando

maxverstappen1 : and id break ten more doors.

liked by yourusername and lando

alex_albon : you still flinched when one of ours sneezed but we made progress so idc

liked by yourusername and lando

zhouguanyu24 : mini sweetcorn sleeps beside me every night. nothing will ever top this gift.

liked by yourusername and lando

yukitsunoda0511 : yn!! do you think we can get him to go to the cat cafe in tokyo??

liked by yourusername

lando : no

yourusername : if you love me you will

liked by yukitsunoda0511

lando : GOD damnit

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[mona-risms]

HII!! it's 🪷 Anon, I saw ur reply to my request and it's totally fine! If it's still possible could I request a demon that was made by gwi-ma specifically but hates him just as much as huntrix does. So reader(either fem or nb) helps defeat gwi-ma and live happily ever after with the girls(platonic if that's ok)

-🪷 Anon

◆ MAIN COURSE: HUNTR/X and Gwi-Ma's demon!gn!Reader

◆ TYPE: SFW, platonic

◆ ALLERGEN WARNINGS: None I think???

◆ NOTES: YAYAYAYAY THANK YOU FOR UNDERSTANDING 🫶🫶🫶

Gwi-Ma would probably be severely Picky when it comes to ever using his power for anything. So in this case, you were probably created as some sort of failsafe/watcher/whatever the fuck for Jinu and his plan with the Saja Boys. You ARE made by him after all, made w his very essence. Why would you Ever fail him or go rogue, right? Lol

Hence, you observe. Not HUNTR/X, not at first. You observe humans first; all the way from how they move to how they speak and even how they breathe, and then you adapt. Using whatever demon magic tomfoolery there is, you manage to get yourself into their personal staff team, probably thanks to some poor guy's soul that you ate tf up so you could gain whatever skills they had that'd qualify. Yk, like Kirby

You get close to Bobby, their manager. And as a result, you also get close the HUNTR/X trio, or at least as close as you can manage for a short amount of time obvi. You learn their likes, dislikes, how they are professionally and how they are personally. And as you do so, you even start to learn about Yourself—things you like, dislike, preferences, how you respond to certain things—even though you're not supposed to be anything else but an observing demon in disguise that serves Gwi-Ma. But the more you 'observe' aka spend time with them, the more you begin to question what the need is to terrorise and kill humans, especially this specific lot

Zoey shows you her turtle collection and the notebooks of ideas and pure vibrant creativity. Mira teaches you some of their choreo just for the fun of it, if you wanted to learn, and takes you shopping to the cutest punk fashion stores (girlie the plug frfr), and Rumi would want to go out to EAT EAT EAT and bask in the very rare quiet w you, maybe even involving her lightly strumming or fingerpicking her guitar. These girls are so unbelievably welcoming w you and Bobby is so happy asw. I think Bobby gets really happy when he sees his staff and his girls getting along :((( he's like a silly dad or an uncle

But wait. You weren't just sent to observe HUNTR/X though, were you? While yes he can see and hear what his demons can anyway, you were sent to watch the Saja Boys and make sure they're not being fucking incompetent. And yet when Jinu sees you ohhhh man

You feel his presence before you hear him—a discordant chime in the winds, like an old rusted bell.. or a weathered bipa.

"You're getting a bit too comfortable with them, don't you think?"

You scoffed and crossed your arms, pointedly looking at the horizon, "Like you're one to talk. How's seducing Rumi going for you?"

"As planned, obviously," Jinu walks over to stand beside you. "And you? Any developments in your.. friendship approach?"

"Yes, actually. Though it's not like I report to you—I report about you too, don't forget that."

"Right, right. My mistake." He leaned on the metal bar as he watched you quietly, though as he spoke your attention is mildly stolen by a certain blue tiger-demon lightly headbutting your hand, with the magpie fluttering to stand on the railing. "I shouldn't overstep, right? Might make him angrier if I even dared to suggest that his precious servant is deviating."

You felt yourself stiffening at Jinu's words, though your hand went to scritch the tiger's head anyway, "No, Jinu. We shouldn't—we wouldn't want to make him angry over false accusations, would we?"

You see his eyes narrow at the corner of your eye—he caught on to the sudden mirrored circumstances, of course, he wasn't slow in the least. He pushes himself away from the railing and places his hands in his pockets, "Guess not. ..Just be careful of where your loyalties lie."

And he teleports away before you could respond.

"Asshole."

When the Saja Boys start their plan, that's when you start fully going down the descent of an existential crisis. Every time they/random demons attack, even when HUNTR/X doesn't know it, you're there. You're there to watch and observe, to see if everything's going to plan or it's all going to shit. But you can't interfere, not without Gwi-Ma's permission—just watch and consume souls. But as you're watching it's like. What the fuck. What the hell. Why is this necessary dude

It's the train scene when it all comes ahead and very much apart, where you're inside the train and very much aware of what's going on, and you hear Gwi-Ma in your head, pleased at how the trio is falling fucking apart bc of Rumi's secret

You heard singing from inside the train, singing that went on as perfect as usual.. until Rumi.

You heard hesitation. You heard the shame. And the worst part of it?

You could feel Gwi-Ma within you watching, anticipating.

...

One moment you were inside the train, the next?

You were right in front of the ogre, with Rumi pushed away from your proximity. Your hands, once human, had changed its form to the claws Gwi-Ma blessed—no, cursed—you with as you held back the giant club with a demonic growl. You bore your teeth, and your patterns blazed as bright as your eyes; the colour couldn't belong to anyone else by the one who made you.

Even the hulking demon had to take pause at the sight of you, at the sheer presence of Gwi-Ma on your person, and the trio could actually see something like genuine fear in its eyes.

"You..."

You could hear Rumi's shattered confidence in her voice, and you dare not look back in case you see the three of them look at you as anything but a monster. You don't know if you could take it, take feeling like you were wrong.

So instead, you barked out, the demonic cadence layering on top of your voice—a voice he even doctored to make you more trustworthy, "DON'T JUST STAND THERE! THE PASSENGERS!"

And you push against the ogre before forcing a teleport to the demon realm on the both of you, the scream leaving your lips gutteral and inhuman.

Gwi-Ma is worse than unimpressed. Furious, actually! Congratulations, you pissed off a Demon King! And you still see the souls drawn right into his fire, which would've looked beautiful, if it weren't for the implications of the sight—they couldn't kill of the demons on time. His mark on Rumi's breaking down their entire dynamic and Rumi herself, and the amount of people he's killed and consumed was staggering

His fire's looming at you, fed and absolutely enraged at how his own fucking creation went AGAINST him. He was lenient with his treatment on you, biding his time and leaving you to do your thing because he was expecting you to act upon his will perfectly, NOT grow attached to the people he wanted GONE. Jinu is one thing—someone self-serving, even if the look he casts on you at the top of the shrine with his pets looks like it belongs to someone who's anything but self-serving—but you were made of his very self. His essence. And if you weren't going to make yourself useful? He'll unmake you as easily as he made you

Skip to the near end, when the Saja Boys perform Your Idol and everyone's brainwashed into sacrificing themselves to Gwi-Ma before Rumi interrupts it all. By now, you're probably most likely fused back into Gwi-Ma, seeing as how you're useless sentient when you're not going to serve him. But the remaining consciousness of you can hear Rumi sing.. then Zoey, and then Mira. And Jinu not only hears them too, but he feels that lingering something from within Gwi-Ma himself

When he sacrifices himself, he gives half of his soul to Rumi. The other half? To the person who never got the chance to have a soul of their own—you. Because at least he knows you can put your loyalties on the trio where he couldn't. You're the one who grew much closer to the three of them, it's only right

Deapite your body still originally designed by Gwi-Ma, you've made it your own. With your sentience and with Jinu's soul, you successfully help HUNTR/X and you get to witness the new iridescent Honmoon that only they could make—it's so much more beautiful than the streaking soul retrieval you saw just before your 'death'

You disappeared after that day. For a little while, anyway.

Your sustenance came in the form of mostly people who weren't going to be missed, namely criminals, or people who much preferred death to whatever fate they had—an ugly thing, but half of you still lived because of Gwi-Ma's essence, even if Jinu's soul had minimised the need to feed enough that you can sustain yourself temporarily via human foods.

But eventually you were found anyway. You were leaning on the railing that Jinu had contronted you at, his friends sticking close to you, when you hear three sets of footsteps from behind you.

"Ahh, guess I've been found," you turned around to look at them, your expression softer than it's ever been this whole time—you felt much more free, and judging from the way the trio had stuck to each other stronger than ever, judging from the way Rumi had opted for a simple short-sleeved shirt that showed her markings, iridescent as the new Honmoon? You figured they felt free too.

You raised your hands slowly in surrender, though you made no other move, "If you're here to kill me off, I-- oomph!"

You don't even manage to finish your sentence before you feel Zoey immediately on you, practically glomping with you with her short frame, and you feel your shoulder getting wet. You look back up at the other two, and even they're making their way over with teary looks and quivering lips before immediately joining in the pile.

"Are you-- what-- why are you three crying? I--" Your eyes start to sting, and your arms hesitantly wrap around the three of them, as if scared that one wrong move could make this moment dissipate. "Why--"

A large sniffle from Zoey as she buried her face even deeper into your neck, "We looked EVERYWHERE for you! After we sealed the demon realm away, we-- we couldn't find you and-- and--"

"We thought you got sealed off too," Mira piped in, her voice noticeably much raspier and thicker than usual, "but we looked everywhere. Even had Bobby use whatever contacts he had 'cuz he was looking for you too."

"You're not.. mad? You're not gonna kill me?"

You feel claws digging into you—Rumi's, still uncontrolled, you realise—at the question, "No. Are we mad? Sure, for not telling us and disappearing at the worst time possible, but I know what it's like to-- to hide. We just.. missed our friend."

Friend.

Because that's what you are. Not a demon, not Gwi-Ma's creation. A friend.

You felt yourself crumple in the pile, and the others followed suit as all four of you end up crying on the ground. The only spectators are the magpie and the tiger.

[fervent-adoration]

I think we need some more villain f/o representation... so, let's have a

VILLAIN F/O ASK GAME!!

Made with romantic f/os in mind. Pro/darkship DNI, please and thank-you! Our viewpoints clash and I would appreciate you finding another ask game to reblog!

What is your favorite personality trait of your f/o? Why is it your favorite? And how does it affect their actions as a villain?

What is your f/o’s most unorthodox act to show love?

What made you fall for your f/o?

How does your f/o show you that they love you? How does it match up with your preferences? (This is basically asking about love languages with more specifics)

Are there any fun facts about your f/o that you want to share?

Why is your f/o a villain rather than a “hero”? How do they see themself in this regard?

Are you a “f/o apologist”, a “I can fix them”, a “I’ll pretend that this never happened”, or a “I could make them worse” sort of partner in regards to your f/o and their villainous actions?

What’s the worst thing that your f/o has done? How do you feel about that? Is it canon to your selfship lore?

What is your dynamic with your f/o? As many dynamic descriptions as you want here!

What role do you play within your f/o’s villainy? A peer? An onlooker? Perhaps the one to try to stop them? What’ve you got?

How does your f/o feel about PDA?

How does your f/o’s past affect the way they approach their relationship with you?

What kinds of dates does your f/o like to go on with you?

What does your f/o visualize for the future with you? How does this align with your view for the future?

How did you win your f/o’s heart? Was it easy? What’s their favorite thing about you, do you suppose?

What kinds of compliments does your f/o give? Why these ones? Do you like them?

Does your f/o encourage you to become actively better, or do they encourage more nefarious behaviors?

Is your f/o good at taking care of things? How are they in a domestic setting?

How does your f/o attempt to impress you? Does it work?

How would your f/o react if they found you upset?

How did your f/o first take to learning about you? Did they ask you questions outright? Observe you when the two of you were together? Word of mouth from others? Or even something else?

Will your f/o do anything for you? What is their limit, if anything?

Was your f/o scared of falling in love?

Free space! Tell us about your f/o in however much detail you wish, and tell us about your favorite aspects of your relationship with them. This is the infodump question.

Feel free to reblog and have people send specific asks, or just fill out all of the questions for yourself!

[camficdiner]

1.2

2.10

3.1

4.3

i think you’re gonna cook with this one 🙏🏼

☕️Cam’s Fic Diner – Order 025

Thank you for your sweetness and patience — this one’s been a journey, a fully on fluff journey, with regrets and tears,

Enjoy your meal love, its served with honey glaze

-your favorite server

⸻

💬“She Had Your Eyes”

✨ Description & Prompts

• Character: Quinn Hughes

• Prompt: Drunk marriage in Vegas, accidental pregnancy, emotional confrontation

• Word Count: ~2.1k

• Type: Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Family

🛼✨🧁🍒

Las Vegas was supposed to be a quick getaway. A fun escape from your routines, a wild weekend with friends, some bad decisions and blurry photos. You never expected to wake up in a luxury suite at The Cosmopolitan, your mouth dry, your head pounding, and Quinn Hughes sleeping next to you — shirtless, tangled in the hotel sheets.

And definitely wearing a wedding band.

You sat up too fast, blinking at the ring on your own finger. Your heart thudded, first with confusion, then with a growing pit in your stomach. The echo of last night’s chaos slowly filtered in — the shots, the dance floor, the neon lights, Quinn’s laughter, his arm around your waist. You remembered a chapel. Pink. Elvis impersonator. The words “I do.”

“No,” you whispered. “No, no, no.”

A low groan came from the other side of the bed. Quinn.

He looked just as wrecked as you felt: messy curls sticking up in every direction, red-rimmed eyes, shirtless. And when he sat up, he mirrored your horror as you both stared at your left hands.

“We didn’t—” he started.

“We did,” you said grimly.

You both lunged for your phones. Sure enough, your camera rolls confirmed it: a chapel, a very happy officiant, and you and Quinn grinning like idiots with glitter in your hair and rings on your fingers.

Quinn Hughes, your very complicated friend-with-benefits, your maybe-something-more-but-never-defined, had married you. In Vegas. While drunk.

You remembered the sex too. Vaguely. It had been good—scratch that, amazing. But also messy and unexpected and clearly not thought through.

Quinn freaked out.

He stood, muttering about mistakes and how this couldn’t be real, how he had to leave. You tried to talk to him, to get him to calm down, but he was already pulling on his jeans, grabbing his phone.

“I can’t do this,” he mumbled.

“Quinn—”

He was gone before you could stop him.

⸻

Three days later, you stared at the two pink lines on a pregnancy test.

The silence of your bathroom was deafening.

You weren’t sure how you got there. How from a half-joking night in Vegas, a half-relationship with Quinn Hughes, you ended up alone, with a baby on the way. You hadn’t heard a word from him. Not a text. Not a call.

And that’s when you saw it. A story. A post. A girl — tall, blonde, draped over him like she belonged there. And the caption: “My whole heart.”

Your throat closed. He hadn’t ghosted you because he panicked. He hadn’t vanished because he was scared. He was with someone else.

You were just the detour. The accident.

So you did what you had to: you called your brother.

He showed up twenty minutes later, no questions asked, and held you while you sobbed. Then, slowly, piece by piece, you began to rebuild.

The months passed. The bump grew. Your brother went to every appointment with you, holding your hand while you heard the heartbeat for the first time, while you picked names, while you decorated a nursery in your new apartment.

And you tried—really tried—not to look at Quinn’s Instagram.

But you saw it anyway.

The James Norris Trophy. A clean suit, his proud smile. “Couldn’t have done it without the team.”

Then, a month later, an Instagram story from Porsche Centre Vancouver: “Thrilled to welcome Quinn Hughes as our newest brand ambassador.”

Each announcement was a dagger. Because he was out there, living his best life, achieving everything he’d ever dreamed of—and you were in the quiet of your small apartment, folding newborn onesies and wondering if he ever thought about you. About that night. About what you were now carrying.

You didn’t want him back. Not after he ran. But part of you, some deep, aching part, wished he would at least ask.

Because even if your heart was fractured, your body swollen and tired and aching, you were growing something beautiful.

And he didn’t even know.

—

The hospital lights were harsh, too white, too real for the blur of pain and panic you were in. Your fingers clenched around the side of the bed as another contraction hit, tearing through your spine. You were alone, but not lonely — not anymore. Because you weren’t doing this just for yourself.

You were about to meet the only constant that had stayed with you since that night in Vegas. And she was coming fast.

You screamed, you pushed — and suddenly, everything fell away.

The nurse’s voice filtered in through the haze. “It’s a girl.”

Your chest heaved. Your hands trembled as they placed her on your chest, slick and warm and alive. The world narrowed to a heartbeat and the softest cry.

And then you saw them.

Her eyes.

Deep blue a touch lighter than yours, with some green in it. Familiar. Exactly the same shade as his.

Quinn.

You’d spent the past nine months trying not to think of him. Trying to erase the weight of the Instagram post that shattered your heart — his smile beside her, captioned “Heart”

But now, here she was. With his eyes. The proof that Vegas wasn’t just a mistake. It had left you with someone permanent.

You named her Olympia.

⸻

Three Years Later

Vancouver in early spring was always wet and green. You’d found peace in its stillness, a small rented flat near the sea, and a part-time job at a bookstore that let you be home by three.

Olympia ran ahead on chubby legs, clutching her red balloon and squealing as the ducks in the park scrambled. Her hair curled in soft brown waves. Her laugh was infectious. She was everything.

And yet —

You still looked him up sometimes.

You knew Jack had moved closer. That his family still spoke well of you.

But you never reached out.

And then you saw them.

Two figures coming down the paved path, side by side. Quinn and Jack. Laughing about something. You froze mid-step, your heart doing a strange, sharp twist.

You hadn’t seen him in person since that morning in Vegas.

Quinn stopped first.

His eyes scanned you, then softened in surprise. His lips parted slightly, like a question was sitting on his tongue but hadn’t formed yet.

Jack said something, but you didn’t hear it.

“Hey…” Quinn’s voice was quiet, unsure. “It’s been a while.”

You nodded, tensing your jaw. You were about to reply when you heard her.

“Mama!”

Olly’s voice rang out, bright and high, and she came toddling over, arms outstretched.

You bent to scoop her up, hugging her to your hip like muscle memory. You didn’t look at him yet. Not yet.

But when you did—

Quinn’s face had changed.

His eyes locked on Olympia.

Then flicked to you.

Then back.

His expression folded inward, shock overtaking confusion. Because there, in your arms, was a little girl with his exact same eyes. The same curl in her hair. The same shape to her mouth.

His voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “She’s yours?”

You didn’t say anything.

He didn’t say anything.

You saw it in his eyes before you heard it in his voice — the slow-burning panic blooming behind his irises, the sharp, silent question written in the twitch of his jaw: She looks like me. How is that possible?

Quinn stared at your daughter like she was the answer to a question he hadn’t dared to ask himself in three years. You adjusted her on your hip, her tiny hand curled around your necklace as she blinked up at the stranger. Stranger to her, anyway.

“She yours?” he asked, voice raw, cautious.

“She’s mine,” you answered carefully, but your voice cracked under the weight of truth, and you saw it land.

That hurt that bloomed over his face—it was real.

“But is she…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.

You nodded once. “Yes. She’s yours, Quinn.”

His breath caught. It wasn’t relief—it was devastation, thick and swallowing. He stepped back a little, like the truth physically hit him. Jack said something behind him, but it was muffled, distant. This was Quinn’s storm.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked quietly.

You looked down at your daughter, then back up at him. “Because you left me. You ran out of that hotel room like I was a mistake, and a few days later, you were posting pictures with your girlfriend on Instagram. I found out I was pregnant the same week.”

Quinn was silent.

“You didn’t even check if I was okay,” you continued, words trembling now. “You never texted. Never called. I thought you didn’t care. And I wasn’t going to beg someone to be a father who didn’t want to be there.”

Quinn’s hands were shaking. “I didn’t know how to deal with it. I panicked. I was scared—”

“You were selfish, Quinn,” you snapped, more pain than anger. “I was terrified. I went through pregnancy alone. I gave birth alone. I’ve raised her—every scraped knee, every nightmare, every milestone. Alone.”

Tears brimmed in his eyes.

“I never wanted you to be alone,” he whispered. “I was a coward. I thought if I ignored it, it would disappear. But it didn’t. You didn’t. And now she’s here and she looks at me like she knows me and I—”

He stopped himself, choking on the weight of it all.

“I want to know her,” he said finally. “Please. Let me try.”

You didn’t say yes. But you didn’t say no.

—

It started small. A text asking how she was doing. A message asking what kind of books she liked. A FaceTime where she shyly showed him her dinosaur pajamas. And slowly—like thawing ice—he melted into her life.

He came to the playground and pushed her on the swing. She reached for his hand without hesitation.

He showed up at your door with her favorite muffins and left with marker drawings all over his forearms.

The first time she called him “Dad,” he cried. Quietly. You saw it, though. And your heart cracked open.

Then came the big things.

Introducing her to Ellen and Jim. Watching Jack fall in love with her in five minutes flat. Quinn holding her on the bench of a Canucks pre-game warmup, helmet on her head three sizes too big.

And one day, he stood in front of you, nerves in his fingers, and said, “I left her. A while ago. The girlfriend. I should’ve told you sooner, but I didn’t want to show up like a white knight.”

“You’re not a white knight,” you replied. “But you’re trying. That means something.”

He took your hand. Carefully. “Can we try too?”

You blinked. “Try what?”

He smiled, small and real. “Us.”

Your daughter ran between you both just then, laughing with her pigtails bouncing, and without thinking, you reached out together—one hand each, steadying her between you.

You looked at her. Then at him.

And for the first time in three years, you let yourself believe that maybe… just maybe… things weren’t broken.

Just unfinished.

——

It started with a question, whispered one quiet evening in your daughter’s room.

Quinn had come to tuck her in like he did now every night he was in Vancouver. She’d taken to calling him “Q” at first, unsure of what else to call him. Now it was “Daddy.” Sometimes “Daddy Q,” when she was being silly.

That night, as he settled the stuffed unicorn into her arms and brushed her dark hair behind her ear, she blinked up at him with those same eyes. His eyes.

“Daddy?” she asked, voice small. “Are you and mommy married?”

Quinn blinked. He glanced over his shoulder at you. You smiled softly, already knowing this day would come.

“Kind of,” he said, trying to be gentle. “A long time ago. But not… not properly.”

She frowned. “I want it to be properly.”

It stayed in his head all night.

And three days later, as the two of you stood on your balcony, wine glasses in hand, watching the Vancouver skyline glow like it was holding your secret, he turned to you.

“I don’t want to wait anymore,” he said quietly. “I don’t want you to be my almost-wife. I want you to be my real wife.”

You turned to him, stunned.

He didn’t go down on one knee. He just took your hand, kissed the ring that never left it — the one from Vegas you never dared to take off — and added softly, “Let’s do it right this time.”

⸻

The wedding was small. Intimate.

Held in Vancouver, at a garden you’d always loved as a child. Your daughter wore a white dress with tulle wings sewn onto the back. She walked down the aisle holding a little velvet box, cheeks flushed with excitement, while Jack — proudly grinning — waited at Quinn’s side as best man.

Your dress wasn’t flashy. It was soft, elegant. Your bouquet was wildflowers. And as you reached the end of the aisle, your daughter took your hand and placed it into Quinn’s, the whole garden holding its breath.

Quinn looked at you like it was the first time. Even after everything — the mistake, the heartbreak, the rediscovery — he still looked at you like you were the beginning and end of his world.

“I do,” he said, voice thick with emotion.

You couldn’t stop the tears as you said it back.

⸻

The reception was simple — a long table under strings of lights, family and friends all gathered. Jack toasted to “the only couple I’ve ever known who got married in reverse order.” Your daughter climbed into Quinn’s lap halfway through the cake. He fed her the icing off his finger, kissing her temple like he’d never lost a single day.

Later, you danced to no music under the stars, her asleep in her flower girl dress in your mother’s arms.

“I always meant it,” he whispered in your ear. “Even back then. Even when I was scared. I’ve loved you every damn second.”

You pressed your cheek to his.

“Then here’s to forever.”

And in the warm hush of the garden, his lips met yours.

What happened in Vegas didn’t stay in Vegas.

It just…

Came home in time.

⸻

[cainrising]

propt list #3 the theatre au with choscar???? those boys are built for the stage

prompt 3: theatre AU where one character is trying to goad the other character out of the bathroom and onto the stage from where they are crying in the bathroom because they're on in 5.

I didn't edit this as harshly as I usually do w my stuff, so I'm sorry some bits are rushed and weirdly paced. I know next to nothing abt theatre so 😭 ntm on me

here's 3.6k of sound tech oscar & lead actor charles ^^

“Where the fuck is Charles?” Max is demanding, as Oscar rounds the corner. “Fucking—we’re on in fifteen and nobody has seen him?!”

“He was getting changed, I don’t know,” Lando says defensively, hurriedly shrugging on his waistcoat. “Mate, I’ve got to—Carlos! Carlos, have you seen my script? Carlos!”

Frazzled, Carlos almost gets his eye poked out by a makeup brush when he turns, then nearly trips over an intern, who looks seconds away from bursting into tears. “How many times have I been telling you to keep it in your pocket, Lando,” Carlos scolds. A cloud of powder bursts, and about five people fall into coughing fits. Carlos screws his face up, turning back with a foul twist to his mouth, but the makeup girl has already fled to pursue her next victim—poor, unsuspecting Kimi.

Oscar pushes his hair back off his sweaty forehead, and for the fifteenth time this hour, he thanks his lucky stars he’s only working Sound. Max looks like he’s about to brain someone with his clipboard, Ollie is hyperventilating under the prop table, and apparently Charles, their leading man, has fucked off to Timbuktu. It’ll be a miracle if Oscar makes it out of this without grey hairs.

“Oscar!”

Christ, Oscar thinks, and pulls his headset to the side. Not that he really needs to. His mum probably heard Max back in Melbourne.

“Yeah?”

If stress had a picture in the dictionary, it would be Max.

“Are you busy?” Max bulldozes on, “I need—fucking Charles! He’s waltzed off, and curtains are up in—” he jerkily consults his watch, and his eyes go wide and despairing. “Fuck!”

“You want me to, uh,” Oscar, for some stupid reason, looks around, like Max could be talking to someone else. “I mean, wouldn’t Pierre—?”

“No!” Max snaps, whirling around, to where Yuki is lounging on the stage apparatus. “Yuki! If you fall from there—”

He storms off in a cloud of furious anxiety, and Oscar sighs. He never should have allowed Logan to convince him this would be fun. He’s sweating in places no man should sweat. He’s ninety perfect stage glitter. He’s got a raging headache, and it’s not even six thirty. This? This is not fun. 

“Don’t just stand there!” Max yells, face red, Yuki thrown over his shoulder. Pierre has his phone out, recording. God, Oscar does not want to know. “We’re on in fifteen, Oscar. Fifteen!”

Oscar closes his eyes, dumps his headset on the stack of chairs tucked in the corner, and goes to find Charles.

--

He checks the dressing rooms first. They’re closest to the stage, in a little deserted corridor, where the air is much cooler, free of the chemical stench of hairspray. Oscar takes his first breath free of rancid floral perfume and knocks twice on the door. Pushes it open.

“Er.”

“Oscar!” Alex says shrilly,

Slowly, Oscar glances down, where George’s shirt is chucked. The room is a right state, feathers flung everywhere, tins and bottles of fuck knows what uncapped over the counter, lipstick smeared over the mirrors. It’s what the house looked like when Hattie had her first date. Oscar’s never really forgiven her for smearing eyeliner on his favourite shirt.

Staring at the floor inevitably leads him back to Alex’s bare ankles, then Alex’s bare legs, then Alex’s—

Politely, Oscar averts his eyes. George makes a sound like a drowned cat.

Eyes on the prize. Not—whatever this is. “Have either of you seen Charles?”

“Charles?” Alex repeats weakly. “Oscar. Are you serious?”

Right. Bit of a stupid question, really. Only thing Alex has seen recently is George’s tonsils.

“Sorry,” Oscar drums his fingers against the doorframe. “Er. I would say carry on, but, like…”

“Mate,” George finds his voice, crimson all the way down his chest. His naked chest. Because his shirt is on the floor. With Alex’s trousers. “Can you get out?”

--

“Charles?” Liam frowns, or, well. Oscar thinks he’s frowning. Hard to tell over the stack of boxes towering over him, and, subsequently, his face. “Nah, mate. Haven’t seen him. D’you mind—?”

“Oh—” Oscar steps out the way, and Liam grunts his thanks. “Sorry. Do you know where he might be?”

He doesn’t fancy being guillotined today, which is probably the fate that awaits him if he returns to Max empty handed. It’s looking more and more likely, though, the more rooms Oscar pokes his head into, only to find them distressingly absent of Charles.

How many places are there for someone like Charles to hide? Oscar has never seen him without an entourage loudly announcing his presence for all the building to hear, or one of his fifteen hefty instrument cases, or his ten million rattling keychains. You can hear Charles coming from the other side of campus—quite literally. But with Oscar’s life literally dangling in the balance, magically, Charles is nowhere to be found.

“The café, maybe?” Liam suggests, distracted. “I don’t know. Saw a few of the extras coming back from there. He might have gone with them, you know what Charles is like.”

Indeed, Oscar knows what Charles is like. A breeze, maybe, or a windchime. There one minute, gone the next; chasing the next daydream, as all the artsy types are wont to do.

To Oscar, who lives his life amongst zeros and ones, Charles could not be more of an antithesis.

“Thanks!” he calls after Liam’s strained back.

Liam lets go of his stack to stick his thumb up, and Oscar is halfway down the corridor when he hears a catastrophic crash, and a fervent, loud curse.

He winces and hurries down the corridor.

--

He doesn’t find Charles in the café, but Oscar does pilfer a Styrofoam cup of coffee, and that’s pretty good, too. Logan only stocks Monster—‘doesn’t believe’ in coffee—so Oscar has been cut off from his source of sweet, disgusting, real caffeine for weeks. Honestly, as he peers into the coatroom, Oscar thinks it might be worth getting flayed alive for this. Silver linings, and whatnot.

Mark, his student advisor, would weep with joy at his newfound optimistic streak.

As Oscar sets his empty cup on the carpet and reaches for the bathroom door, it swings open on him. Franco nods in greeting, in full costume. Never in Oscar’s life has he ever seen a tie knotted that sloppily. And are those—hickeys?

“I wouldn’t go in there if I was you,” Franco grimaces. Lowers his voice to a loud whisper. “Someone is having a, uhhh…” He twirls a finger by his temple and whistles. Stares at Oscar expectantly.

“Um,” Oscar says.

“Yes,” Franco nods, “So. Break his leg, or whatever the saying is.”

He proceeds to pat Oscar on the shoulder and stroll leisurely away. His shirt is untucked at the waistband. Oscar considers the absurd state of his life. And of his bladder, because he really needs a piss, but he doesn’t feel like dealing with a mental breakdown, and really, none of this would be happening without Logan. This is all his fault. Oscar will be sure to tell Max that, when he’s forced to turn up with his tail between his legs and without the star of the show. Surely, Max will understand.

Max will not understand, Oscar thinks with dread. Max is an easy-going guy usually, but not when it comes to theatre. He runs the club like the damn navy SEALs. Rumours say he kicked Lewis Hamilton out of his own play for being three seconds late to dress rehearsal. Oscar is so dead, it isn’t even funny.

With a deep breath, arming for war, Oscar pushes open the door and slips inside, and it’s—quiet. Nobody is wailing. It’s just a normal bathroom. If the far stall door wasn’t closed, Oscar would have had no idea someone else was here at all.

Warily, he approaches the urinal. Why he’s bracing for someone or something to leap out of the stall and eat him, he isn’t sure. He’s severely anaemic. Nothing wants to eat him.

Oscar is washing his hands, already thinking about where to check for Charles next, when his peripherals snag on a spike of light. Oscar's head jerks, nearly gives himself a nasty crick.

Lando swears on his nan’s grave he got knifed in the loo once. Oscar has no desire to follow in his footsteps, and—today is not going to be that day, he realises in relief. There’s no Nike tracksuit and balaclava lunging for him; it’s a keyring, laying on the floor, beneath the shut stall door.  A whole host of them.

A mini silver microphone, he notices, somewhat absently, as he rips off a square of paper towel. A prancing horse, a tiny dog, a shark. One of the souvenir types, with a worn French-looking word painted on the fin. A homemade chain of red-white beads, and a CL. A Lion King the musical pendant.

Red-white beads, and a CL, Oscar thinks, and freezes.

--

In any good story game, there comes a pivotal moment in the plot where the character is faced with a panel of critical dialogue options. Standing like the standing man emoji in front of a regular, unimposing loo, Oscar searches the crossroads ahead.

Number one: clear his throat as un-awkwardly as he can and tell Charles that he needs to crawl out before Oscar is nailed six feet under. Probably insensitive if Charles is having a breakdown, and Oscar doesn’t feel like informing Charles that his best friend, who is a loving dad to three cats and two dogs, is most definitely an axe murderer in another life.

Number two: send Charles a text. A very good option, Oscar thinks, but his phone is out of power and—he doesn’t have Charles’ number in the first place. He can count on one hand the amount of meaningful interactions he’s had with Charles since meeting him. Which isn’t to say they aren’t friendly. Charles is friendly with everyone. Oscar, like most poor souls, is more than a little in love with him, in a, like. In a cool, chill, low-key way. He isn’t leaving love letters in Charles’ bag. Or baking him brownies. Oscar is too broke to buy ninety pence ramen, let alone eggs.

Number three (and this one is the worst, but also the most feasible): knock on the door and coax Charles out himself.

Okay, Oscar thinks, nodding pacifyingly to himself. Okay. Splitting things into chunks didn’t help, so he’ll divide it further.

Pros to number three: he lives to see another day. The show goes on, hopefully without a hitch, and Oscar can assuage the guilty conscious he’ll inevitably develop if he scurries off and leaves Charles here.

Cons: literally everything else, but especially the concept of—a crying Charles. Who probably needs reassurance. Reassurance Oscar is infamously bad for supplying.

(Lando came to rehearsals the other week red-eyed and teary over the death of his hamster, and Oscar asked him if he accidentally put it through the washing machine. Because, well, in his defence, he’s heard it was a common way hamsters die, and he likes collecting data, but apparently, Logan explained patiently, it was a little—a lot—tactless. And whatever Oscar does, he should never ever become a grief councillor, God, please.)

A hitching sniffle bounces off the tiles, and Oscar’s choice is taken out of his hands.

“Charles?” he clears his throat, apprehensively rubbing the pads of his fingers together. “Um. Is that—is that you?”

There is a very long moment of silence, in which Oscar tries not to lose his nerve and flee, and Charles tries to pretend he doesn’t exist. Neither of those work out too well.

And then, “Please go,” Charles begs thickly, “I will—I’ll—”

His voice cracks, and there’s a wet gasp, and Oscar closes his eyes, physically pained. He wishes he was literally any other person in the world right now, or at least one who wasn’t a catastrophic failure at human connection.

Max wants you, Oscar goes to say, and pauses. Thinks. He doesn’t want to give Charles the impression he’s only here for Max, even though that is… the reason Oscar is doing this. It doesn’t feel nice when you think you’re a chore for someone, Oscar knows that.

Okay, see, he’s doing such a good job. Just a little bit more.

“Is—er. Can I help… with anything? Would you—” Oscar hesitates, “Do you want to, um. Do you want to talk about it? Or can I—get someone?”

“No! No, don’t get anybody,” Charles says frantically, a jingle of his keychains as his bag is shuffled. “I’m fine, I’m—this is just. I am having a little break, I will be fine, you can go now. Please.” Ruining the effect, Charles’ voice breaks, and a panicked sob wavers beneath the door, reverberates between the walls, and pings directly into Oscar’s brain.

Torn, Oscar chews the nail off his pinky finger and stares at the bronze hinge, as if it holds the secrets of the universe. Or a manual on how to fix a crying person, like they give you in toy sets. Insert battery here. Take out this screw. Press button. All done. Neat and tidy and perfunctory, a perfect sequence of xyz working in expected harmony.

There is no manual for what to do when your sort-of crush, sort-of acquaintance is sobbing in the bathroom, less than ten minutes before a show.

“I won’t tell anyone?” Oscar tries. He winces at his own flat awkwardness. Christ, he wouldn’t confide in himself either. “I mean, I’m a pretty good listener, and…a problem shared is a problem halved?”

Fuck, just kill him. Just shoot him. That did not seriously come out of his mouth. He sounds like his mum.

But, miracle of all miracles, despite the overwhelming odds, Charles says, whiney with hysteria, “I am being stupid, this is all. We’ve practised lots and I know all my lines and I know I will be good, but—but maybe I will not be, and Arthur said he will come, and—and he will—he will make fun of me!”

Oscar still remembers Edie’s giggle fit when she saw him in his donkey costume for the first time ahead of his Year Two nativity. Siblings are evil like that.

“What if I say something wrong, or I trip and break my nose and get blood all over everywhere, and what if I have to kiss Alex with the bone sticking out of my face and—and it gets in her eye and she dies?” Charles wails, and Oscar holds his breath, so he doesn’t do something majorly stupid, like snort.

“That probably won’t happen,” he assures, dropping his jacket on the floor. Oscar nudges it open with his toe, and folds to take a seat. They’re probably going to be here for a while. “Everything will be fine. You’re a good actor, and Alex is a good actress, and everyone’s—you’ve all practiced a lot, haven’t you? So anything that will go wrong, you’ll probably know how to fix it, right?”

“But what if I forget?” Charles insists, “Or what if someone else will forget? And all these people will be staring at me!”

People are usually staring at Charles. Really, Oscar thinks, he could perform thirty minutes of an algebraic lecture, and the audience would still be watching, enraptured, by the end of it.

Logically, Oscar points out, “I’ve watched all the rehearsals, and I know you’re going to do great.”

“You know?” Charles sniffles doubtfully. “How can you know? So many things can go wrong, and I will never live this down, and my whole life will be ruined and buried and it will have all been for nothing, and what if I am really just so bad and they throw tomatoes at me and I get kicked out and have to live on Maman’s sofa for the rest of my life—”

Damage control, Oscar flails. Damage control, damage control—

“I think you’re pretty neat,” he blurts, painfully earnest. Might as well have wriggled his heart out from between his ribs and pushed it under the door, Jesus. “I mean. You’re—um.”

Like when he finally solves whatever’s causing his code not to run, and his chest loosens, and the universe unfurls beyond the gloominess of college work, and Oscar remembers that actually, the world is full of beautiful, lovely things, and he wants to bunch all of them in his stomach at once, so he remembers always.

Oscar blinks. Okay, no. He can’t say that. But it’s true. Charles is lovely and beautiful, and he pours into life like sunshine, and Oscar’s crush on him, perhaps, is not so small. Even though Charles has only ever said hi and good morning to him, and also that one time they got caught in the rain and Charles offered to share his umbrella with Oscar.

“You work really hard,” Oscar salvages, “You’re really, um. Passionate. You make your characters feel real, and you’re a brilliant musician, and, yeah. You’re going to do fine?”

Charles stays quiet. Oscar can’t even hear him sniffing.

Then, “You really think so?”

Oscar closes his eyes in relief. Thank God he hasn’t cocked it up. Again.

“I really think so,” he confirms.

 The door gives way behind his back. Oscar jolts to support his own weight, head swivelling, and—

“Oh,” he says stupidly.

Charles has glitter along his cheekbones.

It’s such a little thing to notice. His eyes are red and puffy, and his white shirt collar is wrinkled where he must’ve been tugging at it, and his hair is in a sorry state, but over all of it, Oscar is stuck on that. The glitter.

In the sterile bathroom lighting, it lays dull against Charles’ skin, but Oscar can imagine it, in the stage lights. The glimmer, otherworldly. How Charles’ entire body throws itself into animation, a fluid extension of somebody else, not a twitch out of his control. It seems ridiculous Charles could ever doubt himself. Oscar knows all this—has known it all these weeks—but it’s thrown into stark relief, here. With Charles looking a little like a wet dog, yet still so—whole, Oscar thinks. So encompassing. It’s like looking into a lunar eclipse.

“Oh,” Charles repeats, and he smiles, sheepish and still glassy eyed and pink-nosed and really pretty. So pretty, Oscar thinks, and realises he’s sitting on the bathroom floor, practically at Charles’ feet.

He clambers upright as gracefully as he can, as Charles collects his backpack and wipes his eyes. Oscar didn’t really plan for… what he would do after. Finds himself at a loss, not sure what to look at, or what to do with his hands.

Thankfully, Charles beats him to it. “I was—I am being very stupid, so thank you,” he ducks his head, rubbing at his nape. He’s wearing rings, Oscar notices, and his brain blue-screens. “It was just—I didn’t sleep very well last night, and I am a little nervous, and—yes. It’s like this, sometimes.”

Weirdly enough, Oscar only likes him more. It’s nice to know even Charles Leclerc cries in the toilet and gets worried about—stabbing his stage partner’s eye out with his broken nose. It’s endearing.

Oh, God. Oscar is endeared. That’s what’s happening here.

“You’re welcome,” he says, strangled. Clears his throat. “It happens to, um. A lot of people, I think.”

“Maybe,” Charles agrees. His knuckles are blanched ivory around the crimson strap of his backpack. He’s staring somewhere over Oscar’s shoulder, gaze darting. Oscar blinks, and Charles is looking at him with big, open eyes, and saying so, how would you feel about having coffee sometime? As thank you—for being nice?

No, he’s not. Oscar is daydreaming. He does this sometimes. Makes up possible conversations before they can happen, just in case. Charles would never in a million years ask him out. Ever.

“If you don’t, this is fine, too,” Charles is rushing to say, “I know you were just being nice, but I—”

Oscar realises three things at once. One: Charles Leclerc just asked him out. Two: he’s standing here, in front of Charles Leclerc, who just asked him out, and saying nothing, like a gormless twit. Three: the only dream this is is a dream come true.

“Yes,” Oscar interrupts, humiliatingly eager. “I mean—yes, yes please. I would like that. Coffee. With you.”

“With me?” Charles points to himself.

Oscar nods so hard he thinks his head will fall off. “With you. Please.”

“Oh,” Charles blinks. “Oh! You—so, that is a yes? To coffee. With me?”

If Oscar opens his mouth, he’s going to make a noise only dogs can hear. He hums instead, ears burning hot.

“Oh, that’s—” Charles is kind of pink. “That’s. Okay! Do you—can I—your number?”

Charles wants my number, Oscar thinks, dazed and dizzy and giddy. Holy fuck. Maybe the bloodline won’t end with him.

“Yep, can I—?” Oscar gestures to Charles’ phone, sticking out of his pocket, and almost sends his jacket flying into the urinals. “To—my number?”

“Oh, right, yes,” Charles hurries to hand it over, and Oscar has to retype it three times before he’s sure it’s the right one. He saves his name as oscar, and, after a careful moment of consideration, adds a :].

“So—coffee?” Charles checks, one last time, as he reclaims his phone.

Oscar has never heard anything sweeter. “Coffee,” he confirms.

He takes back every bad thing he’s ever thought of Max. In fact, Oscar could kiss him right now.

He’ll be sure to dedicate Max a speech at their wedding, instead.

[kjiscrawlingbackformore]

Insufferable

Street!Racer Natalie Scatorccio x Fem reader

Warnings: mentions of a previous crash. and idk silly douchebags?

A/N: Wrote this bc of @natorccios 😔 who unfortunately got me sucked into the world of cars

She was insufferable the day she came into your life. The garage smelled like motor oil, burnt rubber, and someone’s questionable cologne. you stood with your arms crossed, regretting every decision that led you to this underground race lot on a Thursday night. The LED lights above flickered once before buzzing into silence, like they too were over it.

“Tell me again why I’m here?” you asked, glancing at Lottie, who looked entirely too relaxed leaning against her sleek black Ferrari like it hadn’t cost more than most people’s tuition.

“Because you love me,” Lottie grinned, eyes glinting. “And because you seriously need to get out more.”

You raised a brow. “Your idea of getting out is… street racing?”

Lottie shrugged. “Controlled chaos. It clears the head.”

“Sounds like a rich person thing.”

Before Lottie could defend herself, a rev of an engine interrupted them, sharp and snarling, like it was announcing royalty. Another car rolled up beside Lottie’s Ferrari, a red car, low to the ground, and loud in the way that said I want attention and I will get it.

The girl who stepped out of it was all attitude and leather. Her hair was platinum blonde, and her eyes electric blue. She was beautiful.

She had a smug smile and as Lottie would say had hands that moved like they knew what torque felt like, what a carburetor could take, and how far she could push until something broke. Her eyes landed on you like they were scanning a machine. One glance, and she was already calculating.

“Nat,” Lottie called, already grinning. “This is y/n. My friend I was telling you about! The business comms partner. Y/n, this is Natalie. The reckless idiot I let race my car when I’m feeling generous.”

Natalie gave a mock salute. “Reckless winner, thanks.”

You didn’t move from where you stood, something about her attitude left you feeling unimpressed. You nodded. “Cool.”

Natalie blinked, clearly thrown by the dry greeting. “That’s it?”

Your eyes narrowed, “I’m not great with introductions.”

“You’re not great with enthusiasm, either,” Natalie said, voice teasing. “You look like you’d rather be at a library than talk to me.”

“I would. Libraries don’t smell like engine grease and ego.”

Lottie nearly choked on her laugh. Throwing her arm around your shoulder like she always did. You were pulled in close, your arms still crossed but now the smell of Lottie’s very expensive designer fragrance was stronger than the gasoline in the air.

Natalie tilted her head, clearly amused eyes not leaving yours. Not even fazed by the sudden burst of physical touch from Lottie the way most girls and boys were. “And what if I told you this ego’s about to win me another six grand and the best street cred on the East Coast?”

“I’d say your priorities sound exhausting,” You deadpanned.

There was a beat of silence before Natalie grinned wider, like she’d just found her next puzzle. “You’re fun.”

“I’m not.”

“She is fun.” Lottie interjects, you glare at her.

“I bet you are when you’re not glaring at people like they just stepped on your soul.” Natalie suggests.

“Still not fun.”

Natalie leaned in a little, undeterred. “Tell you what. If I win this race, I’m taking you out. One date. Just coffee, so you don’t think I’ll try to murder you.”

You raised a brow. “And if you lose?”

“I drive you to class for a month. Full chauffeur service. I’ll even carry your books like it’s 1957.”

“You’re serious.”

Natalie smiled. “Very.”

You didn’t answer right away. You looked at the car, then back at Natalie. She was all smirk and swagger and arms crossed like she was born to be too much.

“You’re not my type,” You said finally.

“Lucky for me,” Natalie replied, stepping back toward the driver’s side door, “I’m everyone’s type eventually.”

The engine roared to life.

You watched her peel off toward the starting line, your heart doing something it shouldn’t have. Lottie removed her arm from your shoulder and nudged your arm, biting back a grin.

“Admit it,” she whispered getting close to your face. “You’re intrigued.”

“Doesn’t matter she’s going to lose,” you muttered.

Lottie snorted. “No, she’s not.”

And when Natalie revved the engine again, eyes locking with yours through the windshield, cocky and gleaming — you realized something horrible.

You might want her to win. And when she did win you couldn’t help but feel…intrigued and almost excited to go on a date with this cocky jackass of a girl.

The more she came into your life the more you couldn’t help but feel inclined to like her. She tried so hard. At every turn you friendzoned, ignore and shut her down. She sent flower arrangements, called to check up on you. Would pick you up from your classes even when you said you’d just take the bus home.

She’d buy you dinner or somehow miraculously be at the same parties Lottie dragged you to. She was persistent as hell. And it became endearing the way she sounded so nonchalant talking to you. Held herself loosely. Eyes almost disinterested.

Yet she touched you with so much intention. She did things that were well so chalant. Natalie did everything she knew that showed she was the most interested in you.

It was a walking contradiction. And for some reason you couldn’t help but say yes to her when she asked you out again. You couldn’t help but kiss her back when she leaned into you.

You couldn’t stop the yes that tumbled out of your lips when she asked you to be her girlfriend. She had in her own unpolished way won you over.

You learned a lot about the girl in the next months. She was obsessed with three things. Weed. You. And her damn car. She was in trade school to be a mechanical engineer. So her school work and schedule was significantly different than yours.

She wanted to build cars like her dad did before he died. It was very big deal for her. She lived for the thrill of driving.

You didn’t know a lot about cars before dating her. That changed quickly, all she ever did was point out cars and ramble about the make, and the design model, and the engine. You had all this random information on cars you never thought you’d have.

So you knew her car was a red 96 pontiac firebird. You knew it because she named the car Sally. And Sally was always going to be the other woman of your relationship. You learned to live with it.

What made loving Natalie the way you do hard was the fucking races. The races that left you stressed beyond belief. It never was like this before. But that was until the accident.

And it brought to life just how dangerous it all was to you. What Natalie did was different. It was hard and she was damn good at it. But she wasn’t perfect. And she wasn’t unbreakable.

If Natalie was a calculated racer like Lottie you’d feel differently. But no Natalie knew how to push her car to the very line toeing impossible. She took risks. Big risks. And it left you sick to your stomach.

There were moments you wished you ended up with Lottie. Kind, gentle, like a soft glimmer of a lake at sunset. She would quit if you asked her to. You knew it.

Natalie was all passion, the raging wave of the ocean sea, pushing and pulling everything into its orbit. Including you. And you could never even consider telling her to quit. It would be like asking Nat not to breathe.

So there you stood just past the line, arms crossed, heart in your throat, stomach churning like you’d swallowed a whole fucking blender. Being as supportive as you can with a danger junkie girlfriend. The roar of engines vibrated in your bones, but all you could hear was Sally — that throaty growl you could pick out in a lineup of a hundred cars.

Sally took her place, and Natalie slid into the driver’s seat like she was slipping into bed. Like she belonged there. Like it wasn’t her death she was flirting with every damn time.

She had one hand on the wheel, other flipping off someone across the lot. A cigarette tucked behind her ear. That ridiculous grin on her face like this wasn’t a race that could get her killed — like it was a game. Just another Tuesday.

The flag dropped.

You barely remembered to breathe.

They took off so fast it knocked the breath out of you. Tires screamed. The pack veered dangerously close, too close, jostling, clawing for space on a street that wasn’t wide enough for this much ego and engine.

But Natalie? Natalie made it look like ballet. She slid between two cars like she’d been born for it, dipped into a turn so tight you were sure she’d roll.

You looked away.

Couldn’t fucking watch.

You tasted bile and asphalt in your throat, fingers digging into your arms, holding yourself together like that might somehow keep her from flying straight into a light pole.

Someone shouted.

Cheered.

You turned just in time to see Sally cross the finish line, Natalie leaning half her torso out the window, whooping like a maniac, throwing up devil horns with one hand.

She parked sloppy, all screech and spin, like the victory lap was just a part of the thrill. The car barely stopped moving before she was out, wild-eyed and grinning, sweat and oil on her jawline, and somehow still the most beautiful girl you’d ever seen.

“Baby!” she yelled, like nothing had happened. Like you hadn’t aged five years in the last sixty seconds.

You didn’t even get a word out before she was on you, yanking you into her, arms around your waist, lips crashing into yours so fast it made your teeth clack.

She tasted like smoke and adrenaline.

The kiss broke with her forehead pressed to yours, her breath still ragged from the high. She looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that could ever calm her down — which was fucking ironic, because she’d just lit your nervous system on fire.

She leaned you against the hood of Sally, pulled her cigarette from behind her ear and lit it one-handed, still grinning. She could see your face.

Paler than normal, your eyes watching all the other cars begin to fan out. Lip slightly aggravated from bitting it too hard. The way you always do when you’re nervous. Natalie loved that you cared, but she wish you didn’t worry so much.

“You gotta lighten up,” she said through a drag, voice hoarse. “I’m a professional, babe.” She said it softly with reassurance.

You didn’t answer. Just closed your eyes and let your forehead rest against her shoulder. Tried not to think about why your heart was racing. Or the image of her car on fire, Natalie being pulled out of the wreckage bright flames dancing along her back.

Your throat dried up. And you just held her tighter. Forcing your teary eyes to calm down. Because Natalie is fine and she’s a professional. She’s in your arms and you can hear her heartbeat.

Natalie’s head rested onto of your gently. Her hand rubbing your back in circular motions. “Sally did such a good job tonight. I’m gonna have to detail her tomorrow.” She mumbled absentmindedly.

You rolled your eyes thankful for the change in conversation. “Yeah well just don’t forget to pick me up with your girlfriend.”

Natalie laughed, “I won’t forget baby. Me and Sally take care of our girl.”

The sun was too bright for how late you’d stayed up, your brain fried from both lectures and the whiplash of loving Natalie too much with the way you stayed up for her races. You were halfway down the steps from your last class, textbooks wedged under your arm, and there she was.

Leaning against Sally, cigarette dangling from her lips, sunglasses low on her nose, that too-cool-to-care pose like she hadn’t almost killed herself twenty hours ago.

You watched as your classmates eyed her like a museum exhibit. Like they’d never seen someone as hot. Which fair. Your girlfriend was hot. Arms cross, nursing a cigarette, wearing that damn leather jacket the sleeves rolled up, white tank top underneath , and too big jeans.

She was so beautiful.

And your favorite part was the feeling was mutual. She looked you up and down like she hadn’t seen you in a week, like she was already planning on wrecking whatever outfit you were wearing.

You smiled soft, involuntary.

And that’s when the frat guy stopped you.

Some business major with a backwards cap and a too-practiced smile. “Hey, Y/n, right? From ethics? I, uh, missed the notes from last Thursday…”

You blinked, pausing before sighing. You didn’t want to blow him off. What if you need notes next time…reluctantly you look at him. “Oh, sure. Yeah, I can send them to you.”

He smiled, a kind smile. But stepped in just a little too close. You frowned at the sudden action. Your shoulders tensing. He said something about buying you coffee in return. His hand lifted, casual like it was nothing, and he tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear.

You froze for a second, caught off guard. And then like second nature pointed across the parking lot. “No need to get me coffee. That’s my ride and she’s buying my lunch.”

He looked.

Natalie had pulled the sunglasses off. She wasn’t leaning anymore. She was standing straight, jaw tight, middle finger raised like a goddamn statue of war.

The guy chuckled, clearly not reading the room. “Wait, that’s your girlfriend? Shit I heard you broke up with her.”

Your eyes widened. Feeling your heart begin to race. Natalie is not against any kind of brawl if it came down to it. And what you didn’t need is your girlfriend to be banned from campus because of a douche bag.

“What? No very much still dating…and if you’re not careful will hear you,” you warned.

Too late.

Recognition hit his face. “Shit—I know her. She races with Travis and them, right? Fast as hell.”

Natalie was already walking over. Slow. Controlled. A smile that wasn’t really a smile plastered across her face like a warning label.

“Well, well,” she said. “Didn’t expect to see you here, Carter.”

He smirked. “Small world.”

“You always this handsy with girls who date people that could smoke your ass in second gear?” she said, tilting her head.

“I was just saying hi.”

“Oh, is that what that was? Looked like you were trying to finger her hair follicles.”

You tried not to laugh. You failed. A strained giggle slipping out. Natalie’s smug grin widened at the sound.

Carter scratched the back of his neck. “You always this territorial, Scatorccio?”

“No,” she said. “Only when some third-string racer tries to hit on my girl in broad daylight like he wants to lose both a race and his teeth.”

He raised his hands. “Okay, okay. Chill. You want a rematch, just say it.”

She stepped closer. “Tomorrow night. Same spot as last week. I’ll bring Sally. You bring a helmet for your ego.”

He backed off with a whistle, hands stuffed in his hoodie. “You’re fucking nuts.”

“You have no idea,” you muttered under your breath.

Once he was gone, Natalie grabbed your wrist and spun you into her. Her hand grabbing your face, and then she kissed you. Hard.

Like she was claiming territory, carving her name into your mouth. Her hand gripped your waist, the other in your hair, and your textbook hit the pavement somewhere between breath and surrender. You didn’t even notice.

Her lips were insistent, and when you pulled back for air she chased your lips again. This time all tongue, like she was addicted to your taste. You moaned when she began to suck on your tongue, or the way she tugged you closer like she wanted you in her skin.

When she finally pulled back, lips slick, pupils blown, she said, “Next time someone tries that shit, just tell them you’re taken.”

You looked up at her, chest heaving. Feeling dizzy, eyes flickering back to her lips. You needed her now. Which you knew was her desired outcome.

“I pointed,” you said.

She grinned. “I know. I just like watching you let me get away with shit.”

You rolled your eyes.

But you didn’t let go. Instead you kissed her pressure point on her neck. Natalie chuckled, feeling your lips begin to kiss open mouth kisses all along your neck.

“I only do it because you look so damn good.” You mumble into her skin.

Natalie felt her heart hammer in her chest. She swallowed hard. Something about you saying that made her weak. Kissing her neck in front of the whole school.

She loved how you were so unashamedly into her. It turned her on so bad. Made her want to do reckless things. Her hand slides underneath your shirt, to feel your skin. To drag her nails against your back.

“Baby, let’s go home,” Natalie says, her voice low as more students walk by, side-eyeing the public makeout session like it’s part of the syllabus.

You pull back with a sigh, dramatic, like you’re actually disappointed. “I was just starting to enjoy myself.”

Natalie scoffs and crouches to pick up your dropped textbook. She flips it over in her hand like it personally offended her. “I want to continue this but not in the middle of your campus. I already got almost banned. Don’t want to get bannedbanned.”

You laugh. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s go, baby.”

The car ride back to your apartment is filled with the steady hum of the road and Natalie occasionally drumming the wheel like she’s playing drums in her head. Your thoughts trail back to the challenge — that stupid boy and his even stupider fingers in your hair.

It’s not that you didn’t like Nat racing. It’s hot. She’s so hot when she races. She is so insufferable when she isn’t racing. It really does help her settle into her skin in a special way.

You just wished she was a safer driver you guessed.

Natalie must sense your silent spiral because she reaches over without taking her eyes off the road and lifts your hand to her mouth, kissing your knuckles softly.

You breathe out through your nose. “Today in my econ class-.”

“Baby no offense but that class is boring as fuck,” she says, kissing your hand again. “Tell me something I actually want to hear.”

You glance over at her smiling. “Okay then. You’re so beautiful when you’re jealous.”

That grin, the lopsided, dimply one she tries to hide but never really can blooms across her face.

“Jealous?” she repeats, voice going high and fake-offended. “That guy was two inches from licking your ear, baby. I was seconds away from peeling his face off.”

“He asked for notes,” you say.

“He was going to ask you on a date,” Natalie fires back, one hand gesturing dramatically. “That was a full-on ‘what are we’ conversation in body language.”

You bite back a laugh. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m Italian,” she says like that explains everything. “We don’t do subtle.”

You shake your head, fighting the way your lips pull up. “So what, you’re racing him tomorrow because he touched my hair?”

“Because he touched your hair, because he tried to flirt with you, and because I don’t like how he drives. He’s smug. Drives like he’s on a video game. I’m gonna wipe that ‘I got a B in Intro to Econ’ look off his stupid face.”

You lean your head back against the seat. “Ethics. He’s in my Ethics class.” you pause, “You know I’m not some prize to win, right?”

Natalie glances at you, her grin softening. “You’re not a prize. You’re the whole damn race.”

You groan. “That was sooo fucking cheesy.”

“I’m romantic,” she says.

“You’re insufferable.”

She smirks. “Still got you, though.”

You glance out the window, smiling despite yourself. “Yeah. You always do.”

And she reaches across the console, And interlocking your fingers with hers and pulling it into her lap. Like she just wants you closer to her.

Back at your apartment, the light was soft, the kind of pale gold that made everything feel like a Sunday morning. Natalie had kicked off her boots the second she walked in, flopped down on your couch like it was her own, and now had the bottom of your calculus notebook flipped over as she sketched something with your pink pen.

“You see,” she was saying, “the way the turbo spools, it’s like—you’re pulling air in at this crazy speed, right? So when I corner, if I feather it just right—” she paused to make a swooping motion with her hand, like a tiny car dancing along an invisible road, “—it lets me cheat the lag and slingshot through the bend. It’s like riding the edge of a whip crack.”

She looked up at you, eyes wild with excitement, cheeks flushed, knees pulled to her chest as she sat sideways on your couch. Her smile was all teeth and joy and grease-stained memory. Like she could talk about engines the way poets talked about love.

You didn’t know what half of what she said meant. You also didn’t care. You just watched her. Her hands moving, her voice getting faster when she got excited, her whole body practically glowing with it.

You couldn’t help it. You leaned in and kissed her. Right in the middle of her sentence. She stilled, lips parting like a question. You kept your forehead pressed to hers, hand slipping under her jaw.

“That’s fine,” you whispered, voice low. “I don’t need to understand it. Just… promise you’ll be careful.”

Her brows pulled together slightly, smile fading just a little. You looked her straight in the eyes.

“I… I don’t want you to get hurt again.”

The room went still. Not dramatic, just still. Like everything was holding its breath.

Natalie’s face softened. She touched your wrist gently, fingers brushing your pulse. “Baby…”

“I mean it.”

She leaned forward, pressing her lips to your temple, slow and quiet. “I know.”

You pulled her in, wrapping your arms around her waist. She fit there like she always had—like even the chaos in her bones knew how to rest with you.

“I’ll be careful,” she said, voice muffled against your hair. “I promise. For you.”

And for a second, you believed her. Even if you knew better. Even if the road always called louder than promises could whisper.

The night continued on. You made dinner for the night. And talked about how pissed your business statistics professor made you today. There you had fallen asleep mid-ramble, your words trailing off into soft breath against Natalie’s collarbone. Your hand was still curled in the hem of Natalie’s shirt like some part of your brain didn’t want to let go, even in sleep.

Natalie didn’t move. She just held you.

The room had gone still. The city hum outside the windows softened to a lull, like even the streets knew to be quiet when you were like this…open, warm, trusting.

Natalie stared at the ceiling. Her fingers absentmindedly traced the curve of your spine under the old T-shirt you were wearing, the one Natalie had stolen from your drawer earlier that week.

And for a moment, she let her thoughts go where she usually didn’t.

The fire. The crash. The smell of smoke and gasoline and the sharp, coppery tang of blood in her mouth. Waking up in the hospital, ribs shattered like glass under her skin, burns licking up her side, and her body stitched together like something temporary. Like a maybe.

You had been there. Everyday you had been at her side in the hospital. That first day, that first week, even when Natalie was mean. Even when she was scared.

She remembered waking up from a fevered dream and finding you asleep in the stiff plastic chair beside her bed, your head tucked into your arm, your phone still playing the playlist Natalie liked to fall asleep to. That had been it.

That was the moment.

The moment she knew. She was going to marry you. She didn’t know when, or how, or even if you would ever want to, but something inside her had clicked into place. Not a question. A fact.

She looked down at you now, peaceful in a way Natalie almost never let herself be.

And the guilt snuck in. Soft but sharp.

She hated that you worried. Hated that every time Natalie raced, she left behind this trail of fear in someone who loved her too much to say stop, but loved her enough to ask her to be careful.

Natalie kissed the top of your head. Whispered it against your skin like a promise.

“I’m not gonna crash again,” she said, almost like it could be true just because she wanted it to be.

But her ribs ached faintly at the memory. The skin on her side, tight and scarred, remembered everything.

She held you tighter. Closed her eyes. Tried not to think about how fast everything could be taken away — how much she was risking now that her heart wasn’t just her own.

The next night had crept in like an accomplice when you drove up to the same stretch of deserted industrial road. Yellow street lamps splintered into sharp cracks of light across the pavement. Natalie’s fingertips tapped an impatient rhythm on Sally’s hood, cigarette smoke curling up into the chill.

Lottie’s car was parked nearby, her cigarette was in between her fingers as she exhaled the smoke. Her arm rested above your window as you both waited. You felt thankful for her steady presence. Lottie always seemed to ground you in a weird way. She always was so calm and sure.

Carter pulled in behind her, his engine growling low. Natalie didn’t even glance sideways. She cut the light and stepped over to lean into your window.

“Stay close,” she said, voice steady like a threat. “No hero shit.”

You nodded, sliding out of her car and following her to meet Carter at the makeshift line—the faded chalk, the empty stretch of asphalt beyond. The silence before a race was always worse than the race itself.

Natalie winked at you. “Wish you could tape this.”

He snorted next to you. “Don’t blink, or you’ll miss how fast I’ll wipe the floor with her. And then I’ll show you what a date with a winner is like”

You furrowed your eyebrows in a mix of confusion and disgust. Natalie catches it and stifles a chuckle.

“That’s special.” Lottie mumbled next to you.

“Big words,” and then Natalie gives you that look and replied softly. “See you at the finish.”

Lottie grabbed the flag and took her position in the front. When the flag dropped—no crowd, no fancy announcer—just two cars, two engines, neon lights reflecting off steel.

Sally shot forward. Natalie handled her like she was part of her own skin, shifting gears as if reading the road’s mind. The car behind jerked and lunged, but she kept control—corner to corner, inch by inch.

You smelled rubber and smelled fear—Carter’s car was too close. Too close. The world around you dissolved into engine revs and the electric thrum of danger.

Then, a near miss—you saw Sally dip and drift into the gravel bank for a heartbeat. Your ribs tightened, breath caught. Carter surged ahead. But Natalie yanked Sally out of the mistake, tires screaming like banshees.

They rounded the final bend, headlights hitting that chalked finish line.

Natalie punched it, Sally roared. Carter’s car bounced and faded behind. She won.

Barely. But she still won.

Sally rolled to a stop. Smoke hissed off her tires. Natalie hopped out, breath ragged, gloves off, face wild.

You ran forward to her as Carter skulked off in silence. Natalie grabbed you, pulling you into a bruising hug. You pressed your forehead to hers. Pressing a hard kiss to her lips. She tasted like gasoline, heat, and victory.

“See?” she said, voice thick. “I told you I’m a professional.”

You swallowed the fear that still rattled your heart and pressed a kiss to her temple. “Fucking unbelievable.”

She kissed back, thumbs tracing light trails across your cheeks, like every second away from this moment would break her.

“The things I do to defend my girls honor,” she whispered. “Win the race. Get the girl. Fuck the girl. Could do this forever.”

You scoffed, “That’s insane. Who said you were fucking the girl?”

“Hm you did. Just now.”

“Oh my God-Shut the fuck up.”

Natalie laughed, her lips in a goofy grin. “God I love this feeling.” She squeezed you closer to her.

And for the first time in a long time, your stomach didn’t twist. It clenched tight—in awe, in love, in the dangerous beauty of letting someone like Natalie Scatorccio be who she really was. She was the most insufferable person you know. But damn if she isn’t the best at what she does.

[kaysfanficcorner]

The Camgirl and the Millionaire, Part 3

Pairing: Harry Castillo x Camgirl Reader

Summary: Things get more complicated.

Author's Note: Well here we are. I had so much fun writing this chapter and I am incredibly proud of it. These two have captured my heart and I cannot wait to see this little story through to the end. Harry and his camgirl have been the highlight of my summer so far. Thank you for being along for the ride, and please enjoy one of the most explicit things I've written to date.

New note, 6/25: Also, I went back and made one small edit to part 2. In it, Harry said it was June. For the outline I have planned I needed to move things up two months to August, so now I just made Harry make a vague reference to it being summer. You’ll understand when part 4 comes out!

Warnings: Alcohol consumption; Mentions of THC consumption; Cursing; Flirting; Lying, which I assure you hurts to write just as much as it hurts to read; Angst; Fluff; SMUT in the form of unprotected sex, oral, cum eating, anal; A lot of feelings; Reader is thic; Reader is sort of goth; Reader has pierced nipples; Reader is a sex worker; I gave Harry an appendix scar, don't ask me why

18+, Minors DNI

Ao3

*****

Harry can’t quite believe himself, feeling legitimately nervous as he waits for you near the entrance, but still inside the events venue. Women don’t tend to make him nervous, not at this stage of his life at least. Somehow, someway, you make him incredibly nervous. Perhaps it’s because you’re nothing like anyone he’s ever felt attracted to before. With you everything feels strangely different. So different that he let himself go during the concert, not giving a single damn if anyone who he may know was paying any attention to him or not. But now, after coming down from his multiple highs, Harry’s sure he’d overdone it and he’s sure people will be talking come Monday morning. The question is, though, should he really care all that much?

Shortly after you both agreed to get food together, you declared that you needed to use the restroom and grab your things from the employee area in the back. You explained how you and Vanessa were able to get into the event in the first place with the help of that guy, Charles was it? The venue’s owner, evidently. Apparently Vanessa is usually at these events as an employee, which is in all honesty not much of a surprise. It all makes sense. As he stands there thinking about it, the puzzle pieces of how his evening ended up going in this direction have started clicking together. You’re not from this walk of life and you certainly would have never attended this event without the promise of the musical guest. Harry was only able to meet you due to some wild stroke of fate. Or luck. He’s not sure which. 

Harry himself doesn’t care, but your lack of status makes things even more scandalous when he really thinks about it. He knows that his brow must be riddled with worry as you’re approaching him once again, looking much more casual than you had when you walked away. When he really sees you, though, the worry in him fades away. 

 You’ve lost about three inches to the tasteful black Jimmy Choos you’d been wearing, which you’ve now replaced with short ankle-high black socks and a pair of black and white checkered Vans. The classic slip ons, a shoe Harry hasn’t noticed anyone wearing in a long while. He supposes that they are still popular if you’re wearing them, but most of the people he interacts with on a regular basis would not go for skateboarding shoes even in the most dire of circumstances. It’s an intriguing choice, much like the rest of you.

Your hair is back to being drawn up from your neck and shoulders, though the look is much messier than the bun Harry had ruined in the heat of the moment. You’ve got a black sweater slung over your forearm, and the straps of the heels are looped through your index and middle fingers on that same hand. Your free hand comes to rest on his arm as you move in beside him. Somehow being shorter makes you even more adorable to Harry, and he’s once again thanking himself for taking the plunge to enhance his own appearance. Your height difference is exactly what he imagined for himself when the surgery was possibly just a disastrous idea. At his true height the two of you would be nearly eye to eye.

“There you are,” you say with a little grin. “I bid farewell to the lovers back there so I’m good to go when you are. Van says you better not murder me or kidnap me, or she’s gonna come after you. I told her I’d be fine with the latter and she better not try to save me and ruin our good time.”

Harry nearly chokes at the suggestion, the very notion of it shocking, but your giggle at his reaction is enough to calm him. “You really aren’t like other girls,” he says, at a loss for more to say than that. 

“The highest compliment a girl can receive,” you agree, leaning into him slightly.

Harry looks around the room, noticing a few eyes on them, and he’s suddenly wildly ready to leave. His driver should be pulling up any minute, but he hasn’t heard the ding of a text or felt the vibration of a notification in his pocket yet. His eyes narrow a little as he regards you seriously.

“Listen, I want you to know that I don’t normally behave like that when I’ve only just met someone. I don’t know if I’ve ever behaved like that, actually. I apologize if I came on too strong on dancing with you, or singing those crass lyrics.” Harry says this with a self conscious little pit in his stomach. 

A moment ago he felt very confident that dancing with you in such an erotic way had been the right call, but suddenly he’s not so sure. It’s not enough to throw him off his game completely, but thinking back on how sultry the last hour and a half of his life has been, in a very public place, a wave of true embarrassment surges through him. People like Harry aren’t supposed to act like that, at a charity event no less. He finishes the water in another large gulp, mostly as a way to avoid looking at you directly while you respond. He could really use the next liquid he consumes to have an alcohol content. 

The look you send him is clearly one of gratitude. “Harry, you were great. You are great. I appreciate your concern for me, but I truly had the time of my life with you out there. I wouldn’t be standing here right now if you made me uncomfortable. No apology needed.”

What a relief washes over him. “As long as you felt safe and respected,” Harry adds, nodding once.

You’re nodding in return, smiling unfalteringly. “I felt very safe and very respected. A little worshiped, even. Singing those lyrics was absolutely the right call and at your handsiest you were still very respectful. Thank you for being a gentleman. That’s rarer than you may think these days.”

“Mhm, I’m aware that men in general suck,” he agrees, looking around the room nervously again. 

Now that his integrity has been cleared up with you, he’s not so sure it will be for anyone else who was paying attention to him tonight. As Harry glances around, he catches the gaze of a haughty looking blonde woman whom he knows he went out with once, but can’t possibly recall the name of. Cynthia? Cheryl? Something with a C? Harry remembers thinking it was a fitting letter because she’d certainly been a bit of a cunt, the way she’d spoken down to their waitress being enough evidence of that. Someone like her is the antithesis of what Harry wants in a life long partner. 

The unpleasant woman notices Harry looking and frowns deeply at him, clearly still scorned by his rejection. Then she sees you, how closely you’re pressed to him, and she gives you a once over which suggests exactly what she thinks of you. Her eyes land on your worn pair of streetwear shoes for a long moment, and her upper lip curls in an ugly sneer. 

“Some women suck too, though,” he says with distaste, frowning a little. “Wait, that sounds sexist. What I mean to say is: I think most people suck.”

“Sucking as a person encompasses all genders,” you agree.

Your gaze follows his to the woman across the room, and Harry watches your brow raise, but then to his great surprise you blow the woman a kiss and lean into Harry even more as you lift up on your tiptoes to place a chaste peck to his neatly trimmed jaw. He’s certain it was one of his gray patches, and his chest swells a little. Normally he’d be horrified that you just did that, but seeing the other woman huff and walk off strikes a chord within him and that warmth he felt spreading through him earlier on in the evening comes back. 

What a curious feeling. 

Once you’ve clearly had your fun you ignore the woman completely, looking back at Harry with a sugary sweet smile on your lips as you rub your bare shoulder into his upper arm. “I may have some money compared to most but I’m not one of these stuffy broads. Maybe I’m wrong with this read, but I don’t think you would be hanging out with me if I was.”

“You’re not wrong,” Harry breathes, pleased to know that you’re actually seeing him. That feels new for some reason. “I have a feeling that people like her are going to talk, because we definitely gave them something to talk about…” he trails off, a smile creeping onto his lips as he remembers how your body fit against his so well. 

“See, that’s the spirit! We had fun, so fuck those other people. And your reputation is safe with me. I’m not going to run off and tell the ‘who’s who’ that Harry Castillo is an incredibly sexy dancer. Or that his hands were all over me and it was the most amazing I've felt in another’s company since I can’t remember when. Or that his lips are addictive. I won’t even say that he’s quite handsome. Very bite-able.” 

As you say that last bit, you’re leaning over to gently nibble at his shoulder through the white dress shirt. Harry could care less that you probably just stained it red with rouge. He’s never met a girl who wants to openly gnaw on him before, and his stomach flutters in response to it. 

Harry’s shaking his head, wanting to reassure you that he wasn’t thinking about you like that. “It’s not you I’m worried about when it comes to my reputation, it’s the rest of these sharks. I’m sure at least one of them caught a whiff of blood in the water.”

You grin widely, laughing. “Yeah, well, my favorite character in Jaws is Captain Quint, so let the bastards try and take a chomp at you while I’m around.”

His left brow raises curiously. “Doesn’t the captain get eaten by the shark at the end of that movie?”

“That’s neither here nor there, but if it would make you feel better I’ll change my favorite to Sheriff Brody,” you giggle, then you change the subject. “Is our ride here yet?”

At that moment, Harry feels a vibration against his right thigh a barely audible ding goes off. “Actually, I think it is.”

*****

Harry links arms with you as the two of you descend the stairs leading down to the sidewalk, and the feeling of guilt slowly eating away at your gut gets a little worse. You really like this guy, and starting things out with a lie feels like it’s suddenly a huge mistake. But what if you come clean and he ends the night before you’re ready for it to end? Isn’t it best to see the rest of this night through and then see where things go with him after that? There’s still a good chance that he’ll disappear from your life after tonight and then you will have embarrassed yourself for no reason. And, again, it’s not that you’re embarrassed about your profession, but you’re starting to feel embarrassed for being a liar and a coward. That stings a lot, especially when the spark you’re experiencing with Harry feels like it's not nothing. 

Apparently you got so lost feeling guilty and anxious just now, that you completely missed the fact that you and Harry have made it down to the crowded curb. As well as the fact that your favorite musician is no less than twenty feet away as he gets ready to climb into his limo, surely off to some club or afterparty. You also hadn’t realized that you've been staring directly at the handsome celebrity, or that you’re wearing a displeased look on your face, until Harry looks at you with an expression of worry on his own.

What Harry doesn’t realize is that you’re deeply displeased with yourself at this moment, but he must think it has something to do with him. He seems a little self conscious as he looks over at the famous man climbing into the white stretch, frowning as his chocolate eyes meet yours once more. “You know, I can probably find out what party he’s going to.”

Your eyes widen, shocked that he thinks you’re worried about that . “I didn’t even notice him, Harry. I was distracted by something else.” 

“What is it? You seem upset all of the sudden.”

This is it. Your chance to tell the truth. Do it, do it, do i-

“The heels killed my feet,” you lie, adding a wince for effect, though your feet really do ache.

  Apparently lying is just your fucking thing now, you think, shame filling you for a moment. Coward.

“ Oh ,” he looks utterly relieved, and you can’t help but wonder how he can be so confident at one moment and almost vulnerable at the next. It makes you wonder if he’s been a little deprived of certain things emotionally in his life, thinking that makes two of you if it’s an accurate read. 

Just then a sleek black car pulls up behind the leaving limo, and Harry’s opening the door to the back seat for you. “Let’s keep those feet off the ground, then”

“Are you planning to sweep me off of them, Harry?” You flirt effortlessly, feeling a sense of calm wash over you again when he grins handsomely in response, fingers slipping in between yours. That’s it, just get your groove back.

“If you’ll let me,” Harry says, the air of if completely honest. 

As he guides you down into the leather seat, your hands remain joined. He leans down to kiss your knuckles once before letting your hand fall down into your lap. Then the door shuts, and a moment later the door on the other side opens. You’re grinning at him as he slides in beside you. Literally right beside you, not just in the other seat. He’s even using that weird middle seatbelt that no one likes, body pressed closely to yours as you buckle yourself in too. 

*****

Soon the two of you are instead seated across from one another in a twenty-four seven diner splitting a whole cheesesteak and a couple of cheap beers. Both of you remark that neither of you really eats food like this anymore, and that you’ll both regret it when you feel like shit the next day. But damn does it taste amazing. It also helps that you both took some generous hits on the dab pen again before entering the restaurant, making the greasy subs all the more alluring. 

You’re grinning at him between bites and sips, practically moaning. “I’m so glad that they put cheese wiz on this the real Philly way. Fuck, I’m in heaven.”

He nods in agreement, chewing a hefty chomp of his own. “This is very delicious, which means it could definitely kill me. Are you from the Philadelphia area, then?”

“No, the Baltimore area. A dinky town outside of the city. Close enough to Philly, though. I still know a good cheesesteak when I taste one. I just know a good crabcake better.”

“I knew your accent was from one of the two. Philly didn’t feel right though.” 

You smirk, “It’s the weird ‘o’ thing we do, isn’t it? I’ve never been able to shake that.”

Harry shrugs into another bite of his sandwich. “I think it’s cute.”

Downing the rest of your beer, you’re blushing as you tell him, “Well I like your voice a lot. It’s handsome and smooth, like rich caramel in my ears.”

Harry snorts into his own beer, shaking his head with a cartoonish grimace. “Caramel in your ears doesn’t sound pleasant. Come on, Miss author . Is that the sexiest thing you could come up with?” 

“It sounded like a good phrase in my head,” you’re forcing yourself to laugh, ignoring the sick jolt of anxiety he just caused. There are a few bites of cheesesteak left on your plate, but your appetite is long gone.

Harry seems to notice how fake it sounds, frowning. “You know what? I’m going to quit teasing you about that. We don’t have to talk about your writing unless you bring it up. That was rude of me. Shit . I’m not doing a very good job of earning that trust we talked about, am I?”

Deflect, deflect, deflect. Be fucking cool about it. “It’s okay. I’m not that upset. I’ll admit that wasn’t one of my better turns of phrase, but I can’t help it that amber is the color of your energy, Harry.” Joking as an attempt to re-lighten the mood, you’re grinning when he makes a scrunched face at the reference. But then that lovely face of his morphs into a relieved smile, and your anxiety settles.

“You’re too funny,” he chuckles. “I like your sense of humor. It’s refreshing.”

With a fake scoff, you’re feigning surprise. “You mean to tell me that blondie from the venue back there wasn’t a funny person? I never would have guessed.”

“Shocking, I know,” he agrees, grin handsome as ever. 

A wave of emotion rolls over you when you take a moment to really look at his face, at how beautiful he is and how lucky you feel to be here with him in this moment. The need to speak from the heart strikes you, and you let yourself go a little. “I’m having a really good time with you tonight, Harry. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think meeting you is the thing I’ll cherish more than the actual concert.”

“I feel similarly,” Harry says, reaching a hand across the table for you. You slip yours into his easily, and he gives a gentle squeeze. “Do you want me to take you home to your place after this?” Harry asks, eyes darkening a little as he waits for your answer. He looks both nervous and hopeful.

You reply honestly, “If I say no, that I’d like to go home with you instead, will you think I’m an easy slut? I don’t make a habit of going home with strange men, usually.”

Harry shakes his head fervently, laughing. “If anything I’m worried that you think I’m an easy slut. I typically go on a couple of dates before I bring someone home. I’m not twenty-five anymore.”

“Me neither. I can’t explain it, but this feels different for me. You feel different. You keep saying I’m not like most girls, but you’re not like most guys. Do things feel different for you tonight, Harry?”

He nods, “They do. You’re more than welcome to come home with me, if it’s truly what you want.”

“It’s what I want,” you say honestly, scared of what telling the truth in this regard means considering how much you’ve lied about everything else. Every time you’ve had the opportunity to come clean before it’s too late, fear has halted your mouth. Nothing’s stopping your wicked, traitorous tongue this time around, though.

“I like you a lot, Harry.” Confessing this with real emotion behind your words, you’re willingly making this more complicated. It’s as if you’re suddenly uncaring of the consequences you may eventually face for it, stepping blindly into a situation that simply can’t end well because you have to see where it goes regardless. You desperately need Harry Castillo to know exactly what he does to you, and for you to understand what you do to him. You need it more than you need to breathe. 

“I like you too,” Harry agrees, smiling at you genuinely as he wipes his hands and discards with his napkin on the empty plate. He downs the rest of his beer, eyes darkening as the slice of lime slides down the neck of the bottle with the final drops of golden liquid. The way he looks at you feels almost predatory for a moment, like he’s deciding when to pounce. 

“Now, tell me,” he says your name, letting it melt ever so slowly on his stupidly alluring tongue, “if this were one of your stories, what would happen next when we finally establish that the two main characters like each other?"

*****

Harry’s tongue is buried so deeply in your cunt that the end of his broad nose is simultaneously and unceremoniously kneading into the sensitive, swollen nub begging for attention just above your wanting slit. It occurs to you that you very well could get off from his nose if he keeps this up any longer but just when you think that, his appendages disappear, and the airy chill on your soaked mound is enough to sober you up a little. You’ve half a mind to complain that he stopped, beginning to prop yourself up on your elbows to look down at him. 

But then there’s a swift, nonpainful swat to your inner left thigh.

“Lay back down,” Harry commands, growling in a voice dripping with a dominating tone that could send you off to the other side if you let it. “Nowhere near done tasting you yet.” 

 You’re on the kitchen island in Harry’s insanely lavish apartment, the skirt of your red dress pushed up over your waist to expose the lower half of you. Your black thong is hanging from the faucet on the kitchen sink, where it landed perfectly when Harry threw it behind his head without looking. You’d wanted to laugh at the bullseye, but Harry’s determination to get between your legs stopped you from being silly. Instead, you let him spread you, wailing and moaning as he proceeded to eat you out better than you’ve ever had it in your entire life. That you can confidently say, and you’ve had a handful of mouths bring pleasure to your body over the years.

Harry’s a pro beyond pros, knowing every little nuance to a woman’s most sacred of needs. 

He proves that when you follow his orders, laying back down to give him full access. His tongue runs from the base of your slit slowly up to your aching clit, stopping to swirl around it a few times before suckling lightly. Then he stops abruptly, repeating the entire pattern all over again. Each time he shows extra attention to your engorged nub, your body heats up even more and the cries of elation spewing from your wanton mouth echo through the apartment’s high ceilings.

Harry Castillo is secretly a madman, you’re sure of it, and his sexual vigor is right up your alley. The man is still fully dressed. You have no idea what his dick looks like, or the rest of that surely inviting body, and he hasn’t even seen your tits yet. They are still firmly secured in the bodice of your dress. 

Upon entering the apartment, Harry told you that if he didn’t get a taste of your pussy before the two of you did anything else, then he was liable to explode. 

Hearing him say that as he effortlessly lifted your ass up onto the gorgeously finished wood countertop? That made you start to fall for Harry Castillo before he ever put his mouth to your flesh. 

“Been thinking about this all night, sweetheart. Ever since we danced,” Harry says into your folds, hot breath and facial hair causing your back to arch in anticipation. He’s practically nuzzling your vagina with his entire face, spreading your wetness and his own saliva all over himself. You keep yourself neatly trimmed and waxed at all times thanks to your secret profession, and Harry seems to appreciate this immensely. “It’s even better than I imagined. So pretty and soft and wet for me, aren’t you?”

“All for you,” you breathe, pushing your hips forward to try and coax his mouth back onto you. “ Please , Harry,” you’re begging, voice husky and needy, “I was about to cum before you stopped.”

The chuckle Harry lets out is low and handsome, nearly sending you over the edge with the very sound of it. You feel his hands grip your thighs, spreading them even more. Then his tongue starts trailing each of your labia majora, one after the other. 

“I’m well aware of that, sweetheart. I just wasn’t ready for you to cum yet.” A kiss to your inner thigh. “Soon, though, I promise. Just be patient for a little longer.” A kiss to the opposite thigh. “Let me take care of you how you deserve to be taken care of.”

Then, without warning, two of his thick fingers enter you at once. They wiggle about a few times, getting fully coated in your fluids, and then he’s pumping slowly.

Wide-eyed, your head tilts up so you can look to where he’s seated between your legs on the footstool he’d pulled up when this encounter began. “ Harry ,” you breathe.

“Yes?” He asks, grinning devilishly up at you.

“You’re amazing,” you say dreamily, grinning widely to yourself as your head lay back down. 

Soon your orgasm is steadily building again, core tingling from the combination of his fingers curling sharply into your g-spot, and the darting flicks from left to right of Harry’s expert tongue. This time he doesn’t deny you, boring into your clit with more intensity as a third finger finds your entrance.

“Let go for me, sweetheart. Show me what you can do,” Harry coos lasciviously, then digs into his meal with a ferocity which finally tips you all the way over the edge.

Grunting and shaking, your body convulses with your hands braced against the countertop. It’s as if you’re trying to push all of yourself into Harry as the orgasm rocks through you, and then suddenly everything feels too sensitive and you’re hissing at him to lay off a little bit. 

He does, and as you breathe heavily in the aftermath of your bliss, he trails kisses all over your stomach before laying his head down on your belly button. Hands shakily prying themselves from the wood, you snake them into Harry’s soft brown hair and begin to comb your fingers through it. 

“You were so lovely,” he remarks, voice almost dreamy. “You came so beautifully for me, sweetheart.”

Your own voice sounds throaty, almost foreign to yourself. This isn’t like the fake voice you put on for work, this is real sexual tranquility. “Thank you, Harry. That might be my best orgasm to date. Not joking. I’ve received oral from a handful of people and I’ve never felt anything remotely close to what you just did."

“Well I will always try to ensure that your next one is still your best to date, then.” 

Fuck. He’s talking like this isn’t going to be a one night thing. And after the tonguing of a lifetime, you know you don’t want it to be either. You’re so royally fucked, and he hasn’t even actually fucked you yet.

Realizing this, you begin to sit up a little, causing Harry to lift up from your belly and look at you curiously. So you quickly explain, “I need you, Harry. All of you.” 

Harry stands, lifting you to sit up more with your ass sliding off the edge of the counter. He’ll have to clean that massive wet spot in the morning, but you pay that little mind as your bare feet touch the cool ground. Your knees begin to give out as your skirt falls to rest below them. Harry catches you easily as you wobble into him with a soft moan, and then without a word he’s sweeping you up into his arms bridal style. You’re a little nervous, given that you’re a few jean sizes up from someone like Vanessa, but he’s kissing you on the forehead as he easily carries you from the kitchen to the master bedroom with little strain.

There he lays you down on a bed of white satin, a bed so ridiculously huge that you can’t help but giggle at how tiny you feel laying in the center of it. 

Harry’s unbuttoning his shirt, smiling down at you fondly. “What’s funny?”

You’re shaking your head, laughing. “This bed is ginormous, Harry, and I haven’t called something ginormous since I was a kid. But it’s an appropriate adjective, this thing is cartoonishly big.”

“Is that such a bad thing?” He asks, smirking. His shirt is gone, now his undershirt. The body hidden beneath is one well maintained with diet and exercise, defined lean muscle tone showing you as much. Naturally tan, with dark body hair and an appendix scar, he looks so utterly beautiful to you. His hands are going for his belt, and suddenly you’re up on your knees, scooting forward towards the edge of the mattress. “Wait, please let me,” you ask sweetly, hands already reaching for the black leather strap and silver buckle as Harry’s hands instead move to find the zipper leading down the right side of your red dress. 

As you unbuckle him and slide the belt from its loops, discarding the thing to the side, Harry is simultaneously unzipping you. He lifts the fabric, tugging upwards, and your arms lift to accommodate the rising garment as it’s peeled from your body. Harry, aware of how nice the dress is, gently hangs it over the back of the stylish black accent chair across the room. As he turns to really take in your fully nude appearance, a warm smile so sweet crosses his features. There’s lust in the expression, sure, but his eyes wash over you several times and each time it looks as if he’s almost overwhelmed by what he sees. 

“I’ve never seen pierced nipples in real life before,” he remarks, mesmerized by them as he leans forward to cup both breasts in his hands. The pad of each thumb runs gently over the black barbells, stimulating the raised nubs of flesh nestled between. 

For a moment you’re self-conscious about them, frowning a little. “Are they too much? Ex-goth girl, remember? They’re a relic of the past, but I loved them too much to get rid of them. The lip and the eyebrow had to go, though.”

Shaking his head, Harry frowns a little too. “Please don’t be embarrassed. I love them. It’s just a little new for me, that’s all. Will I hurt you if I play with them?”

Relieved, you smile at him with a shake of the head. “No, as long as you’re careful not to yank too hard, obviously.”

Harry takes that as permission to dive in, and both his hands and his mouth spend a good few moments ravishing your ample breasts. Squeezing, pinching, licking, biting. 

“You’re so lovely,” Harry says your name, “what a prize you are. Though, I don’t entirely know what I did to win.” 

“As if you’re not a prize too,” you say, rolling your eyes a little as finally he moves his crotch back within reach. You make quick work of undoing his trousers, and then he helps you yank them down his legs, stepping out of them. Gripping the elastic waistband of his black boxer briefs, your movements are slow and deliberate as you pull down and forward. The trail of dark hair below his belly button is growing wider and thicker by the inch, trimmed neatly but still prominent. Slowly the base of him becomes visible, and then in one swift move his erection is springing free. 

A little gasp escapes your lips at the sight of him, not only pleased to see his foreskin still intact but truly shocked by his size. You’re not entirely sure how long he is, certainly long enough, but the massive girth of him is really what makes your mouth water. The anticipation of that thing stretching your walls is enough to make your core heat up again, ready for round two. 

“You like him?” Harry asks, smiling down at you as one of his hands strokes your hair. 

“I love him,” you agree, licking your lips as you lean forward to take him into your hand. Harry moans, hips bucking slightly. Having worked with an uncircumcised cock before, you know how to grip him and gently pull downwards, unveiling his swollen head and the delicious little bud of precum waiting for you. “Now this is a prize. You even get to unwrap it,” you say with a flirtatious giggle, adding, “and dare I say it's ginormous . There I go using that word twice in one night.”

When your tongue flicks out to lick that offered drop, Harry’s whole being seems to melt into you a little. Grinning, you widen and slowly take him into your mouth. Adding a little bit of pressure and suction, you slowly begin to work him in and out as the hand gripping him continues its rhythmic pumping. The little whimpers he’s making for you are music to your ears. 

“Oh shit , sweetheart, you’re doing great, keep going,” Harry’s encouraging, both hands in your hair now as his eyes slip closed and he throws his head back a little. “ Fuck .”

You’re gagging, trying your best to fit all of him down your throat as a bit of drool dribbles down your chin, when suddenly he’s stopping you. He’s pulled out and he’s trying to push you to lay down. He even leans down to lick at one of your pierced nipples, his hand resting between your breasts as he pushes. 

“Wait, I wasn’t done yet,” you pout, reaching for him again. 

Harry growls, a primal noise from a refined man such as he, and he’s urging you backwards onto the white bed more. As you lay out below him and the gorgeous man is crawling between your legs, they instinctively bend and come to wrap around his hips a little. Your hands come to rest in the middle of his back, fingers gripping in anticipation of what’s to come. Then you feel the tip of his cock pressing into your entrance and, still slick from Harry’s treatment of you in the kitchen, your cunt welcomes him into your body easily. 

A great cry escapes you as the width of his cock stretches you out considerably, the line of pain and pleasure blurred as your walls clench and squeeze, half trying to accommodate him and half trying to expel the painful intrusion. 

Three slow, gentle pumps are all it takes for Harry to enter you all the way to the hilt, and when his tip presses painfully into your cervix, the moan you let out is quite guttural. 

Then his lips are on yours, and your legs are hooking behind him at the ankles as he really begins to pound into you. His hands come to your ass, sliding below each cheek. With the leverage this gives him, Harry lifts your hips from the mattress completely. Thrust after thrust he’s relentless, and another orgasm is already starting to build deep within your needy core. 

“You’re going to make me cum again,” you whine between heavy breaths. Head lifting up to bite into his bicep, the need to cling to him for dear life has taken over completely. The only thing you have left to grab him with is your teeth, and so you do.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Harry’s mouth is against your ear saying, “taking me so well like a good girl. I was right when I sang that to you earlier; Little pussy fits my dick so perfectly.” He pulls your ear lobe into his mouth, nibbling on the soft flesh as you writhe and whine for him. “You’re going to cum again, this time with my cock buried all the way inside you, sweetheart. Need to feel you contract around me. Then, if you’ll let me, I’m going to fill you up with mine.” 

Fearful, you practically start to push him off of you, terrified of the consequences if he were to cum in you. “I’m not on the pill! Or anything!” 

He stops thrusting for a moment, looking down at you seriously as he brushes hair from your eyes and kisses your forehead. “I had a vasectomy a few years ago. It was my forty-fifth birthday present to myself when I decided I definitely don’t want kids.” After he says that, he begins to slowly gyrate his hips into yours again, and you’re lifting to meet his movements in tandem. 

Then you kiss him with everything you’ve got. 

“ Fuck, Harry ,” you moan, “I think you might actually be fucking perfect for me.”

And with that, he fucks you until you’re practically braindead, completely stupified by his cock. You ride him a little, and then he’s on his knees taking you from behind off the edge of the bed. For a moment he migrates things to the bathroom, where he props you up on the sink and pounds into you standing up. 

Then it's back to the bed with your legs straight up his body, crossed ankles resting on his right shoulder. He’s holding them in place with his right hand, and his left is gripping into your thigh so hard you’re sure to have five small bruises where his fingers are indented into your smooth, damp skin. Harry’s done an expert job of edging you once more, changing positions each time you start to get close, his own stamina and restraint a marvel. It’s starting up again, though, and this time he’s not stopping to switch things around. 

“Close again, Harry,” you spout out through thick moans, a small part of you wanting him to prolong this more even though the rest of you is screaming in agony for release. 

“Go ahead,” he says sweetly, smiling as he kisses your calf and looks you right in the eyes. “Let me see that face while you cum for me. You look so beautiful stuffed with my cock, sweetheart. Show me .” 

Then he bites down on the same spot he just kissed, and your second orgasm overcomes you. Your muscles clench around him so hard, clinging to the very thing causing them to do so. Harry lets out a gorgeous sounding moan, leaning more of his weight into your legs as the pleasure of it seems to take hold of him. 

He’s parting your legs as you come down, twitching against him as he readjusts into a more basic missionary position. Your arms come to wrap around his neck, just as your legs move to wrap around his waist. Shortly after that, Harry’s own grunting cries of culminating ecstasy are ringing throughout the high ceilings of the bedroom. He’s convulsing against you and you’re instinctively cradling his head, peppering his cheeks and forehead with little kisses to guide him through it. A few more gentle pumps and he’s eventually sliding out of you with a great sigh. There’s almost instantly a distinct leaking sensation running down the crack of your ass. 

He’s kissing your forehead, then looking right into your eyes as he gets comfortable beside you. “You okay?”

“I’m great. How are you?

“I’m perfect, sweetheart. Just perfect.”

“Your body felt so good, Harry,” you’re sputtering out, grunting as your own body is again twitching in a brief aftershock of sexual bliss. “Everything felt so good.” 

Harry is nodding in agreement, looking up at the ceiling with this handsome little grin playing at the corner of his mouth. Shaking his head, his eyes are filled with wonder as if looking up at a star splattered night sky. He looks so youthful to you at that moment, de-aged ten years for a split second. “I haven’t had sex that great in- Fuck . I don’t know if I’ve ever had sex that great, and I thought I was having great sex pretty regularly. You’ve single handedly and irrevocably changed my life tonight. I hope you know that.”

You’re also looking up at the ceiling, deep breaths causing your breasts to rise and fall. What Harry just said is so true that it almost hurts to realize it. Things have changed, feeling suddenly like so much more than the one night stand you’d been anticipating. It doesn’t seem like the high endorphins is making you think this way, though. You’re well aware of what that feels like. Something about this night with Harry Castillo feels real. More real than anything you’ve ever felt with another. “Same goes for you, handsome. Ruined all other men for me in a single night together. It’s practically criminal.”

As you look over at Harry, his hair mussed and face flushed, a blush creeps into your cheeks at the notion that the wetness you feel running down you is actually him . Allowing him to finish inside was a genuinely new experience for you, and the thrill if it is so unlike what you were expecting. If anything you assumed it was going to feel gross. Cum always equalled babies in your book, so you never thought it would ever feel this amazing to know some of it is buried deep inside you and the rest of it is dripping onto the bed below. To know it’s the cum of this man in particular? That adds an extra layer to the feeling. 

It felt so different to embrace your lover in the heat of his orgasm, being so used to the empty, cold sensation of a pull-out and the inevitable warm spray to some other part of your body. There’s always been this sudden disconnect right before the moment of a man’s climax, but with Harry you got to ride it out with him, completely connected all the way up until the end. Connected in a way you never have been before, not even with a female partner. The notion of this stirs something deep within you, and your heart swells for the man placing kisses to your shoulder while he’s catching his breath. 

The most satisfying peacefulness washes over you as you tell him, “I’ve never let anyone cum inside me before.”

His brown eyes darken slightly, and Harry looks both surprised and a little pleased with himself. “Really?”

“Really,” you’re grinning, “I don’t want kids, so that shit was always very off limits. I’m not sure how to explain it in a way that you would understand, but that was very special for me. Thank you, Harry.” 

He leans over, grinning like a madman before kissing you passionately. “It was an honor to fill you up, sweetheart. I’d do that every single day if you’d let me.” 

*****

You and Harry ended up spending the entire weekend together against your better judgement. The longer time you spent in his company, the more the stupid fucking lie was hanging over your head. But your weekend with Harry proved to be downright magical, and the more the two of you got to know each other, the less easy it started to feel to come clean. You thought about doing it so many times, and each time your anxiety would stop you. What if he truly hates you after he learns the truth? He might not, you never know. But even after so many long talks and lovely sex and shared laughter, the truth is inevitably going to change the way he looks at you. The very thought of that sends your nervous system into an overload, and strikes a deep crack through your already straining heart.

Harry Castillo makes you feel the way the romantic novels that you most certainly do not write make you feel, and your greedy ass wasn’t about to go and fuck up what was turning out to be the best seventy-two hours of your life thus far. Morally gray as it may be, Harry could know the truth after your beautiful weekend together. You felt that you deserved at least that before you light the fuse that will blow this situation to hell whether you want it to or not. 

It’s as if you’re using your budding feelings for Harry to bargain with yourself for victory, but either way you’re liable to lose and deep down you know that.

The charity concert was on a Friday, so when the two of you woke up late into the morning on Saturday, Harry asked you if you wanted to stay for a while. He’d already taken the liberty of having his assistant drive over with a few different outfit options for you, and one swimsuit. All correct sizes, and all something you would have picked out for yourself, which gained Harry even more points in your book.  

‘A while’ started with french pressed coffee and a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs and avocado toast, all made by Harry himself. Then ‘a while’ progressed into having sex again, this time on the living room couch, then once more on top of his washing machine after he’d started a load of laundry. You’d joked about how you could use another load too, and Harry ran with it. He ate his own cum out you while the machine whirled to life under your body, just before filling you up with even more of him. 

After that, the two of you went down to the lavish pool in Harry’s building. An over the top extravagant amenity with a gorgeous view of the city, and probably the nicest pool you’ve ever had the pleasure of swimming in. Once the two of you started to horseplay, however, things very quickly took a turn for the sexual once again. Harry’s finger had slipped inside of your tastefully high-waisted bathing suit under the water, and when his hidden erection pressed up against your bare leg, the pool was a thing of the past. 

That time he fucked you in his shower, bent over at the waist as hot water cascaded around your already enflamed body. When you begged him to take your ass in lue of your pussy, the man in question had moaned into your shoulder, “you’re a dream come true, sweetheart,” and he delivered what you asked for beautifully.

His assistant also brought you a small handful of basic beauty products to choose from. As you were later lathering on a serum nicer than any brand you’ve ever bought, even with your recently raised standards, it dawned on you that Harry probably spent at least five or six hundred dollars, if not more, on all of these things for you. That kind of casual spending, on you no less, made your head spin a little. 

You may pamper yourself all the time, but it’s wildly different when a man like Harry Castillo is the one doing the pampering.

In the evening Harry ordered takeout from his favorite place in Chinatown, and given that the both of you didn’t have a single bodily fluid left to give, the night was filled with conversation, snuggles, and soft touches. He let you pick out a movie, and the two of you fell asleep spooning on his couch (also ginormous, by the way) halfway through Bram Stoker’s Dracula from 1993.

On Sunday, after breakfast and one more go around in the oversized bed, Harry took you to the Central Park Zoo. His almost boyish energy around all of the animals was so endearing to you, especially when he lit up for you around the bats. Given that the winged animals played an integral role in the events which led to your dalliance with Harry, he felt the need to commemorate the weekend by purchasing you a stuffed one from the gift shop. You never even saw him go for the register, preoccupied by a rack of silly t-shirts. So when he presented it to you upon exiting, you’d thrown your arms around his neck and kissed him right there in the middle of central park. All the while your mind was screaming at you to tell him the truth, but you listened to your body instead. 

From there he took you to a ridiculously nice Italian restaurant, where he confessed to you over pasta that he’s never been in love and he’s scared that he never will be. That confession had shocked you, even more so when he quickly followed it up with a warning that if you said yes to what he was about to ask, then you were taking on the risk that he’s incapable of the feeling all together. The notion of him being incapable seemed silly, considering how affectionate he’d been with you thus far, but you kept that thought to yourself. 

Then Harry reached across the table, and the next confession came pouring out of him. He told you that he wanted to try to feel love, and he felt something with you that he honestly hadn’t before. Not love, not when you barely know each other, but that spark that they talk about in the movies. One little spark, but enough to grab his attention and hold it fast. 

After making your head spin with his honesty, he proceeded to say that the last couple of days truly meant a lot to him and, with the deepest sincerity in his chocolate eyes, Harry Castillo asked if you would let him see you again. Seriously, and exclusively. 

Your answer was the easiest one to give in the world, and yet instead of shining bright like the sun as it should have been, your heart suddenly felt much more like the moon hanging ominously over the city. While the front facing side of your heart swelled a bright, glorious red for the possibility of a relationship with this man, the side cast in shadow was already starting to shrivel and turn gray with guilt. 

*****

As you finish frantically pacing the floor and vividly telling a couch faring Vanessa everything about your weekend with Harry, sparing her the gorier sexual details, your stomach lurches and your heart sinks. While you’ve been wildly wrapping up the story, a great, ugly scowl has been slowly encompassing her normally beautiful features. There’s no hiding from your best friend, that’s just a fact. 

“Listen, I know what you’re going to say,” you try to diffuse, hands up.

“Listen my ass ,” she says your name sharply, stabbing you right where she wants to. 

You wince .

“I’m glad that got your attention, bitch.” With that, Vanessa pats the cushion beside her. “Sit down, your energy is stressing me the fuck out .”

“Sorry,” you say, complying.

“We are both grown-ups here, so I’m going to speak plainly.” Vanessa bores into you with her dark eyes, making your throat seize up. “You know what you need to do, or you’re going to fuck up what is potentially the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”

“I know,” you breathe, frowning. “I’m going to have to finish one of my novels and get it published."

Vanessa groans ferociously, hands clawing over her face. Then she whacks you in the head with a pink throw pillow. “No, you stupid slut! Tell him the fucking truth! If you let this go on too long the damage will be too severe to repair.”

“Yeah, I know that,” you say, hanging your head. You’re going to have to hit the bong several times in order to sleep tonight, the horrid pit in your stomach will make sure of that. “Fuck, Van. I really am stupid aren’t I?”

“You are. But I love you, and maybe if you handle this situation correctly then Daddy Warbucks will love you too,” she says, grinning a little as she uses the silly nickname. You can already tell she’s going to drive that into the grave with over-use. 

Her change in mood warms you, and the anxiety melts away a little. Feeling more like yourself, you send her one of your signature, Vanessa exclusive eyerolls. “Are we really going to call him that?”

“If you’re really going to date him I am,” Vanessa giggles. 

“What if he really can’t feel love, Van?” You ask her, frowning. 

Vanessa shrugs. “If that’s even a real thing. Sounds to me like he just hasn’t been in real love yet, not that he simply can’t feel it. But if it is true, then at least he was an interesting chapter of your life and a good lay. Date him for a few weeks before you worry about that, anyway. What if you’re the one who doesn’t end up loving him?”

As she says this, your phone buzzes against the coffee table. Reaching over to grab it, your eyes bulge a little at the name associated with the text notification. He just dropped you off a few hours ago, surely you’d assumed it would be a few days before you heard from him again. But here he is, making your heart flutter from the other side of the city. 

Harry Castillo: Two nights with you beside me and I’m spoiled rotten. You were right. This bed is ginormous. Sleep well, sweetheart. 

“I think he’s going to make not loving him incredibly difficult, Vanessa.”

*****

Monday morning Harry’s seated in his office doing the complete opposite of working. He’s on his phone, which makes him a hypocrite considering he recently instructed the management team to start cracking down on that with the associate employees. 

He simply can’t help it. You’re literally all he can think about, to the point that he’s a little worried that something is wrong with him. You’d responded to his text last night, but you haven’t said anything to him since and he’s fixating on whether or not it’s appropriate to text you again so soon if you haven’t texted him first.

Fucking cellphones, Harry thinks bitterly, chiding himself for behaving like a teenager as he sits the phone face down on the glass top protecting his cherry desk. He looks at his computer, opens an email, reads the first three words of the subject line, and then he’s picking up his phone again to check it despite the fact that he knows it hasn't gone off.

Nothing. He groans, feeling like an idiot as he reaches for a sip of coffee. He doesn’t put the phone back down, though, instead he pulls up his camera roll and the couple of photos of you he snuck over the weekend. 

The first is of you, in nothing but one of his black t-shirts and a lacy black thong, your back mostly to the camera as you sip on a mug of creamy coffee. You’re looking contently at the view from Harry’s kitchen window, sunlight streaming all over you. He loves your profile in that one, and the way the light accentuates your features. 

The next is a photo of your naked silhouette in the frosted glass of his shower. 

The third photo is of you at the zoo, happily captivated by the animals and paying no mind to the fact that Harry just had to capture how beautiful and carefree you looked in that moment. 

He’s never taken candid photos of a lover before, nor has he obsessed over receiving a text from one. He certainly never paid this much mind to when Lucy would or would not contact him, and he’d been prepared to marry the woman for Christ’s sake. 

Harry also never once called Lucy ‘sweetheart.’ Or any pet names, now that he thinks about it. Never a ‘baby,’ or a ‘honey.’ Not once. He would always greet her with a simple, somewhat awkward ‘hey you’, and he mostly just called her by her name. 

You come into his life and suddenly he’s throwing around the term of endearment like his life depends on it, and somehow not hearing from you yet is driving him mad with anxious energy. Harry Castillo is a man who is very rarely anxious. 

What is wrong with him? 

There were a lot of people at the charity event, and at the zoo. Maybe he’s coming down with something. Yes, surely he’s getting sick and that’s why his head’s not on straight.

Then the phone vibrates in his hands, and your name flashes just above the image of your grinning face. His heart leaps from his chest, breath hitching. He taps it before it can swoosh away with the rest of his notifications, and a feeling of calm washes over him as he reads the message.

You: Missing your avocado toast this morning. :(

It shows that you’re typing, and then a second message pops up. This one is a photo, however. In it, you’re wearing a black graphic t-shirt advertising what he’s certain is the band Type-O Negative . Your hair looks insane, adorably so, and you’re pouting cutely over a sad looking cup of yogurt.

Harry’s got half a mind to cancel his meeting and take you out for brunch, but before he can even think of a response to text you back with, his younger brother is barging into his office without knocking. He’s the only person besides their mother who can get away with that .

“What, Peter? I’m busy,” Harry says, not looking up from his phone. 

“You don’t seem very busy to me. Is that her you’re texting?” His brother’s voice is saying. 

Harry looks up sharply, glaring. Words aren’t necessary.

Peter grins, plopping himself into the chair across from Harry’s desk. He takes a long sip of his own black coffee, eyeing Harry the entire time. “I originally came in here to complain that I missed the surprise Bad Bunny show, which I’m very upset about. Charlotte being pregnant is ruining all my fun, but don’t you dare tell her I said that. Anyway, then I heard a rumor that you found yourself a new woman at the show, and that the two of you got to know each other very well on the dance floor. I just had to come hear all about it.”

Harry’s eyes narrow even more at his annoyance of a sibling. He loves him, but he could also strangle him at any given moment. “Get out of my office, Peter. I need to prep for the meeting at eleven.”

“Yeah cause you were doing that so dutifully before I walked in,” Peter laughs, taking another generous sip. “So is that her you’re texting, then? What’s she look like?”

Harry groans, “Yes, it’s her.” Then his eyes flick back down to the open text thread, and when they land on the adorable photo of you with your pathetic yogurt, the joyful little smile which creeps onto his lips simply can’t be helped. 

Peter’s jaw drops, “ Oh . Oh fuck , Harry. This is a wild development. I wasn’t expecting this today.”

Harry’s gaze moves back to his brother, eyebrow raising at the look on his face. “What on Earth are you talking about?”

Peter’s sharp laugh is one of disbelief. “She’s the one, man! I’m calling it. You’ve never looked like this before. Not once in my entire life have I seen that fucking look on your face. It’s the only explanation!”

“Bullshit, Peter,” Harry scoffs, looking away but not back down at your image. He has to consciously make himself not, knowing Peter would notice and use the impulse against him. “You know my opinion on that.”

“Whatever, big brother. Suit yourself. As the one of us who has fallen in love, I think I know what I’m talking about. But I’ll let you figure that shit out for yourself. Wait until Charlotte finds out, she’s going to go nuts.” As he says this, Peter is already getting up to leave. “See you in the conference room. Please actually prep for this though. I need you out there. Text her back and then think about her later. Trust me, it gets easier the more you get used to it. Love is fucking weird, man.”

“I am not in love with her,” Harry argues, shaking his head. If anything, what he’s feeling is infatuation more than anything else, right? 

“Keep telling yourself that, bro. And for the love of Christ, get your shit together for this meeting.” And with that, Peter is gone as quickly as he came. 

Harry looks around his large office, at his view of the city below, and wonders if there’s any validity to what his brother just said. Another vibration goes off in his hand, and the excitement he feels is like a jolt of caffeine straight to his heart. 

Only, it’s just his calendar reminder letting him know that his next meeting is in fifteen minutes. The deep disappointment he feels leads him to conclude that Peter doesn’t need to get Harry’s hopes up like that, but there’s a nonzero chance that his baby brother actually knows what he’s talking about for once.

*****

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Taglist: @cheyxfu @notahappystan

[fluentmoviequoter]

Say It Plain

Eddie Diaz x fem!firefighter!reader

✰ You make Eddie feel like he belongs in Los Angeles and in the 118, caring for him and his son. The closer you get, the more he realizes that you bring something to his life he didn't know he needed. After you become close friends, he decides to tell you he sees you as more than that.

✰ fluff, banter/humor, friends to lovers, brief angst/fear, confessions, spoilers for 2x02-2x03, 5.7k+ words, requested

✰ pictures from pinterest (Joe's is in NYC, just don't think about it)

✰ A/N: This is my first attempt writing for Eddie, so he's most likely OOC!

“It’s hot,” Chimney complains.

“When did you get a meteorology degree?” you question, lacing your voice with faux shock until your conversation is interrupted by an alert of a car accident.

“If you think it’s hot now,” you murmur, “tell me how the gear feels.”

“It’s gonna be a long day,” Hen sighs as you open the truck door.

You nod, and she taps her hand comfortingly on your back.

When you return to the station, you change and look forward to going home to eat as much ice cream and as many popsicles as you have in your freezer. You drop your phone from your pocket, groaning as you squat to retrieve it. Your fingers brush the concrete, and your eyes widen at the realization that it’s cool – at least twenty degrees cooler than the air. Not caring that you’re in an open area, you shift to sit on the concrete floor, then lay down with your back on its cool surface. Sighing, you close your eyes and hope that you don’t have to get up for a while.

“Are you okay?” someone asks.

“Yep,” you answer, lifting one arm to send them a thumbs up. It’s not a voice you recognize, but you don’t know everyone in the station right now anyway.

“Okay,” the voice drawls. “You’re just lying on the floor because?”

“It’s cool. It feels good.”

The man above you hums, then says, “You know, you can run cold water over your wrists to regulate body temperature.”

He sounds closer, so you pry your eyes open and turn your head, surprised to see him lowered to one knee with his left hand spread on the floor and his right elbow propped on his knee.

“You’re the new recruit,” you realize. “And, yeah, everyone knows the kangaroo method.”

His brows lift as he fails to hide his smile. “Not everyone knows that,” he argues. “Eddie Diaz.”

He offers you his hand, but you lift your index finger to ask for a second. You stand, then offer your hand.

“Wait,” he murmurs as he stands. Only when he’s upright does he shake your hand and murmur your name under his breath.

“Welcome to the 118,” you say. “I assume someone has shown you around already?”

“Yeah, I got the tour. Didn’t include the fun fact about taking naps on the floor to cool off, though,” he jokes.

“Well…” you look around, then lean forward to whisper, “I know all the good tricks around here.”

“Seems like I met the right person, then.”

“I heard you graduated top of your class,” you say as you walk down the hall. “Congratulations, that’s amazing.”

“Thank you,” Eddie replies. “I know it doesn’t really win much in a new station, but I’m committed to this.”

“We’re glad you’re here,” you assure him. “Even if a lot of us are intolerable.”

“You seem alright.”

Your smile grows when you see his, and you pretend to flip your hair over your shoulder despite having it pulled up. “I’m more than alright,” you tease.

He laughs at you, and your belief is confirmed: Eddie is amazing, and he’s going to be a great addition to the station. You can see a great friendship with him.

“Diaz!” Nash calls. “Got some people to introduce you to.”

“The intolerable ones?” he asks through his teeth.

“Mmhmm,” you hum, waving at Nash.

“Eddie, this is Hen,” Nash introduces. “Hen, Eddie. This is Chimney-“

Nash is interrupted by yet another call, and you tap your knuckles against Eddie’s bicep in a silent wish that his first day is memorable for the right reasons.

You’re sandwiched between Buck and Chimney as you drive to the auto shop, where someone is apparently blowing up. Chimney leans over you to talk to Eddie, who presses his lips together when you shove Chimney off of you.

“Nash,” you complain into your headset. “Chimney’s touching me.”

“Whoa, okay, that did not sound good,” he argues. “If HR calls me, I’m going to be very upset.”

Buck interrupts your playful conversation to ask, “Is your full name Eduardo?”

“No,” Eddie answers.

“People ever call you Diaz?”

“Not if they want me to respond.”

You look at Hen and mouth, what is happening? She makes a measuring tape motion, and you shake your head. As Buck continues badgering Eddie about getting an unofficial ‘callsign,’ you let your gaze stray to Eddie. He’s inarguably attractive, but there’s something about his demeanor that makes him immediately likable.

“Look,” Buck begins again.

You smack your hand against his chest, then point at him in warning. When he falls silent, his eyes wide and obviously offended, Nash laughs in the front seat.

“Wait, wait, wait!” Hen yells, slapping her hand down on the table. “Go back?”

“I have a son named Christopher?” Eddie repeats slowly, looking at you for confirmation.

“This isn’t supposed to be an interrogation,” Nash intervenes.

“Yeah, ask a good question,” you encourage. “Like mine was.”

Eddie smiles at you but doesn’t say anything.

“I was asking for clarification on the ex-wife part,” Hen clarifies. “Someone left you? Is she stupid?”

“No,” Eddie answers immediately.

“She fumbled, that’s what she did,” Chimney deadpans.

“Chim,” you gasp, turning toward him.

He lifts his hands over his chest so you can’t hit him the same way you slapped Buck earlier.

“May I ask another question?” you ask.

“Go for it,” Eddie answers.

“Can we go home?”

“I actually do need to get going,” Eddie agrees, standing.

“No,” Hen complains, causing Eddie to stop halfway between sitting and standing.

“You can go,” you tell him. “I’ll walk out with you.”

Away from the rest of the team, you sigh and look up at the sky.

“Thank you,” Eddie says.

“For?”

“You made my first day really great,” he explains, watching you as you draw your eyes back to him. “I was a little nervous about fitting into the team, being the new guy. You made me feel really welcomed, and I appreciate that.”

“Well, you’re great, so it wasn’t hard,” you reply, not realizing that it sounds a little flirty.

“And thanks for Buck, too, of course,” he adds as you begin walking again.

“No one has ever thanked me for him before. I think I’m offended, Eddie.”

He laughs before he clarifies, “I mean, thank you for interceding. He seems…”

“Intolerable?”

“Unlike you,” he agrees with a nod.

“Have a good night, Eddie,” you say. “And enjoy some time with your son.”

“See you tomorrow.”

Eddie ensures you’re safe in your car and it starts properly before he heads home. He met his new team today, but you’re the most memorable member of the 118. You’re sweet, made him feel like he belongs, literally knocked manners into someone for him, and didn’t get in on the jokes about his ex. There’s a mutual respect between you and Eddie, the beginning of a great friendship, he thinks. And while the team is good, you make the transition to Los Angeles and the LAFD seem conquerable.

While you spend the night alone in your apartment, Eddie picks up Christopher from his mom’s house and takes him home.

“How many friends did you make on your first day?” Christopher asks, copying Eddie’s question from after Christopher went to his new school for the first time.

“One,” Eddie answers, chuckling. “I guess I’m not as popular as you.”

Christopher laughs, and Eddie wonders what his son would think of his new friend.

“Mango pineapple or strawberry banana?” you question when Eddie enters the kitchen on his second day.

“Uh, neither?” he replies carefully. “Why?”

You lift two smoothie cups, and he makes an ah sound before pointing to the one in your left hand. As you extend it to him, your fingers brush, bringing a smile to both of your faces. Eddie takes a single sip of the smoothie before his eyes widen appreciatively.

“Did you make this?” he questions.

“Of course not,” you scoff. “My favourite place is three blocks from here and I thought we could use a good start to the day.”

“This is amazing,” he muses. “What do I owe you?”

“An answer to a question.”

“No, I mean-“

“I know what you mean,” you interrupt. “And I can appreciate that you’re a gentleman, there aren’t many of you left. But it’s a gift.”

“Thank you,” Eddie says softly. “What’s the question?”

“Can I see a picture of Christopher?”

Eddie slows, impressed that you cared enough to remember his son’s name. He sets the smoothie cup down and pulls his phone from his pocket. When he finds a picture, he turns his phone toward you, but you move closer, pressing your shoulder to his arm to see.

“He’s adorable,” you gush. “Oh my gosh.”

“He’s a great kid,” Eddie agrees, watching your profile.

“How’s he like LA?” you inquire.

“Pretty well so far,” Eddie replies, pushing his phone into his pocket and briefly wishing you’d stayed against his side. “He loves the museums, all the places to go and see.”

“Have you taken him to the LA Zoo?”

“No, but it’s on the list.”

“There’s a first responder discount when you do go,” you tell him. “Not a huge one, but it helps.”

“What would you recommend we see first?” Eddie asks, leaning on the counter across from you as you share breakfast.

“Ooh… LA County Museum of Art, The Getty, California Science Center, Griffith Observatory, and the zoo and botanical gardens are some of the best,” you list. “And that’s just museum-adjacent locations.”

“Hey,” Buck greets. “Is Nash here?”

“In the office,” you answer. “How are you?”

“My sister made me coffee, things are great.”

Eddie glances at you from the corner of his eyes, and you fight the urge to laugh.

“Wait, why hasn’t Nash cooked yet?” Buck questions.

“It’s not his week to make breakfast,” you say simply. Buck frowns, so you add, “Is it, Buckley?”

“It’s my week?” he asks.

“Ding ding,” you sing-song. “Get crackin’, Buck. Seriously, there are eggs in the fridge.”

Eddie follows you out of the kitchen, looking down at the smoothie cup in his hand. You brought him this knowing that someone else was supposed to cook; you only brought him something. Maybe he was right when he told Christopher you were his friend.

“Hey, I was gonna go to CityWalk for dinner and to hang out for a bit tonight,” you tell Eddie. “Would you want to come? You could bring Christopher if you wanted, of course.”

Eddie had planned to get yet another pizza and try to unpack the last of his boxes tonight. A night out with you, however, sounds a lot more enjoyable. You’ve given him more than one reason to unpack, to make a home here where he can be himself and happy for a long time.

“That would be great, if you’re sure,” Eddie replies. “Christopher would like the break in routine, I’m sure.”

“Great,” you cheer. “If, uh, if you want to ride together, I can pay for parking.”

“Yeah, but I’ll cover it, since we’re crashing your night.”

You prepare to argue again, but Nash steps out of the office and waves to you and Eddie.

“Nonemergency medical call a few blocks from here, can you take it?” he asks.

“Of course,” you answer while Eddie nods.

Eddie leads you to the ambulance, checking that everything is in place before he climbs into the driver’s seat. You radio to dispatch that you’re responding to the call while Eddie pulls out, and only then do you realize this is Eddie’s first ‘real’ call. He was incredibly helpful yesterday, but it wasn’t quite the same.

“Hey, take the lead on this,” you suggest.

“No, no, you’ve been here longer,” Eddie argues.

“LAFD isn’t exactly a hierarchy of seniority,” you point out. “Besides, I’m more inclined to spray water on problems. You’ve got the experience and the knowledge for this. Let me support.”

Eddie nods as he slows to enter the driveway where the 9-1-1 call originated. You follow his lead from the time he greets the caller – the mother of a young girl who’s having difficulty walking – until you leave, after the girl’s pulled tendon is iced, bandaged, and her mom has instructions on what to do.

“Great job,” you applaud as you return to the ambulance.

“Thanks,” he replies. “Couldn’t have done it without you. Never met someone so competent at bandage cutting.”

“I try.”

Your laughter mingles with Eddie’s as you return to the station, and suddenly, neither of you can remember what life was like before you met.

After you knock, you shift the bags in your hands and wait. You’re early, but you know Eddie is home. The door opens, and he smiles at you with a button-down shirt halfway on.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out. “I’m early, but I had something I wanted to bring.”

“You’re fine,” Eddie assures you, welcoming you into his home. “Whatever that is, you shouldn’t have.”

Rolling your eyes, you wait at his side until he closes the door and leads you into his house. When you reach the kitchen, you set the bag on the counter and look around. His home is cute and homey if a little empty and noticeably missing a woman’s touch.

“It’s not much,” you say when you realize Eddie is watching you. “Just some food. You can put them in the freezer, warm them up whenever you want.” You stop, nodding awkwardly as Eddie continues staring. “Or throw them away,” you add, “your choice.”

“Thank you,” he says. “And I won’t be throwing them away, though I appreciate the opportunity to choose.”

“You’re so annoying,” you groan, not meaning it at all.

“Dad?” Christopher calls as he comes down the hall.

Eddie tugs his shirt down, smiling at his son.

“Hey, pal,” Eddie says, kneeling to tidy Christopher’s clothes. “You look nice.”

“Your shirt’s off.”

Eddie smiles as you chuckle, then he looks toward you. “Christopher, this is the friend I was telling you about.”

Your smile falls upon learning that Eddie told his son about you, but when Christopher turns to say hello, you don’t have to think about smiling at him. He’s already the sweetest kid you’ve ever met, and when he makes jokes that remind you of his dad’s somewhat dry sense of humor, he somehow becomes cuter.

“I can put these in the freezer while you finish, if you want,” you offer, pointing over your shoulder toward the food.

Eddie nods as buttons his shirt, directing Christopher to take a seat so he can comb his hair quickly.

“You brought food?” Christopher asks.

“I did,” you reply as you move into their kitchen. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I made a few things mine and your dad’s friends at the fire station enjoy.”

“Are you a good cook? Will it taste good?”

“Christopher,” Eddie chides quietly.

“It’s a fair question,” you point out. “I wouldn’t say I’m great, but no one has complained yet.”

“That’s good,” Christopher muses.

“Guess where we’re going,” Eddie encourages.

“Last time you said we were going somewhere fun, it- it was Target,” Christopher replies, squinting up at Eddie as he stands.

“Target is pretty fun,” you interject.

Eddie points at you in agreement and nods before he says, “No, she’s in charge now, so it will actually be fun.”

Christopher and Eddie both look at you, so you press your hands against the counter and murmur, “That’s a lot of pressure.”

“You know, I’ve never been to Universal with my other friends,” you muse as you wait for a car to pass in the parking garage.

“And I’ve never had a friend bring me food or give me first responder discount advice,” Eddie counters. “Or met someone that could give Christopher such a fun experience that he falls asleep in the middle of a sentence.”

You glance in the rearview mirror, smiling at the sleeping boy in your backseat. Eddie had carried him through CityWalk, drawing lots of looks and coos from passing women. He either didn’t notice them or was too interested in your conversation about where you grew up to care. Either way, you’re honoured to be his friend and to be worthy of such attention.

“I know you’ve got a busy week with unpacking and post-academy stuff,” you say as you merge onto the freeway. “So, if you need anything, let me know.”

You’re back at your apartment when you realize there’s a twenty-dollar bill and a sticky note in one of your cupholders. Eddie just couldn’t let you pay for parking.

A week after your impromptu trip to CityWalk, Eddie approaches you with a proposition. The problem, he realizes quickly, is that he isn’t sure what exactly he’s proposing.

“I want to take you to dinner to thank you for all your help, everything you’ve done,” he explains. “But I don’t really want to leave Christopher with a sitter, and he’s gotten so comfortable at the house, so…”

“You don’t have to get me anything to say thanks,” you reply, smiling. “We’re friends, Eddie.”

“I want to.”

“Then,” you pause to think, then finish, “order me a pizza.”

Eddie considers the idea for a moment, then smiles. “I’ll order a pizza, but you have to come share it with me and Christopher. He’s been asking about you.”

“Eddie-“

“I know I don’t have to,” he says for you. “Please?”

It doesn’t take much to convince you, apparently, because his big brown eyes and soft murmur lead you to agree. As if you could tell him no, you think, startled by your own inner voice.

A few hours later, you’re knocking on Eddie’s door. Christopher opens it, smiling up at you as he says hello. Immediately, he pulls you into a hypothetical conversation about how animals communicate with each other. Over pizza, you talk to Christopher about anything and everything he can come up with, laughing and smiling while Eddie sits beside you. He watches you and Christopher, failing to identify the feeling blooming in his chest. When it’s time for you to go home, he has a sudden desire to take your hand and ask you to stay.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” you say as he walks you to your car. “Maybe we should try to communicate with our eyes only, like giraffes.”

“Nash would love that,” Eddie agrees, though he knows it isn’t hard to tell what you’re thinking by looking at your eyes – which he does often.

You raise your brows, and Eddie smiles at the look in your eyes.

“Already working,” you muse as you open your door.

“Drive safe,” Eddie says. “Text me when you get home?”

“Of course. Goodnight, Eddie.”

Days after your shared dinner, you get a chance to have another conversation with Eddie. He’s under a truck, trying to figure out why its wheels aren’t turning properly to the left, but at least you can talk for more than two minutes about something that isn’t call-related.

“And?” you ask when Eddie trails off while telling you about a project Christopher did for school. “How’d he do?”

“He made an A, the kids loved it,” he says before grunting. “Wish I could get that kind of popularity with popsicle sticks.”

“Well, you’ve got the Diaz smile to go with it.”

Eddie moves his leg to kick you, his touch gentle as he laughs. He begins to push himself out from under the truck when the ground shakes. You throw your arms out to catch yourself against the side of the ambulance, but the movement doesn’t stop when you attempt to right yourself.

“Earthquake!” someone yells.

Someone says it must be a six or seven magnitude, but you’re focused on getting out from under the rafters and lights above you. Reaching down, you pull Eddie’s ankle, then take his hands and backpedal to the corner. He stands from the lying board and pushes you farther into the corner, sheltering you with his body until the shaking finally subsides. The station is a wreck, but you know that the city is probably in worse shape, and you have mere seconds until the calls begin.

“Are you okay?” Eddie asks. When you don’t answer right away, he steps back and places a large hand behind your neck, tipping your face toward his. “Are you okay?” he repeats urgently.

“I’m okay,” you promise, laying your fingers on his forearm below his tattoo. “Are you?”

Eddie nods, keeping his hands on you until Nash begins yelling about a collapsed hotel.

“Is Christopher at school?” you ask quietly.

“He is. I’ll send his teacher a text to check on him.”

Eddie spreads his hand against your back as you rush to the truck and ambulance, preparing yourself for a long day. You try to text your friends and family, but there’s no service.

“Are you okay?” Buck asks.

You lift your head and realize he’s talking to Eddie. Eddie says he doesn’t have service, shaking his head as he looks at you. Your heart feels like it drops at the news that he can’t check on Christopher.

“Who are you trying to get a hold of?” Buck inquires.

“My son,” Eddie answers.

“Whoa, you have a kid?” Buck exclaims.

“Oh, right, we waited until Buckley left to get to know Eddie,” Hen says into her mic, mostly to mess with Buck.

“Is he at school?” Buck asks Eddie. “They’ve got earthquake procedures, I’m sure he’s fine.”

Eddie nods, and for once, he avoids looking at you.

The hotel becomes visible a moment later, leaning out over the street with its structural components made visible past the broken windows and shattered cement. Your team exits the truck with their eyes up, intimidated by the job but mentally finding routes to get inside and get people out. You think about going inside once, but immediately remember Christopher is at school, probably scared of his first earthquake.

“Have you ever dealt with something like this?” Eddie asks.

“No,” you answer with Nash.

You stay by Eddie while Nash talks to the incident commander, but you don’t listen to what she says, only your racing thoughts and the groaning steel before you.

“Okay, listen up,” Nash says, succeeding in drawing your attention for the first time since you got out of the truck. “Here’s how you make it to the end of the day: you don’t worry about the things that you can’t do anything about, focus on one task at a time. I can’t order you guys to go inside that building, and I’m not gonna judge you if you decide not to.”

“Hen,” Chimney begins, “you got a kid, so…”

“Yeah,” she agrees. “And I’d hope if someone whose job it was to save him had the chance, they’d do it. No matter what.”

You know Hen is right. You also know that Eddie is just as scared as you are but won’t leave.

“Where do you want us?” Eddie asks.

A police officer runs up behind you and beckons your team, but you don’t move. Nash steps toward you and lays his hand on your shoulder.

“I meant it,” he says. “I’m not judging you for leaving.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

“I’m not. You’re doing what’s most important to you, and to someone you care about. But roads are going to be mayhem and you’re too far from the station to get your car easily regardless.”

“Yeah, I’ve got a plan for that.”

Nash smiles and shakes you gently. “Of course you do, kid. We’ll see you on the other side of this.”

He drops his hand and steps around you before you spin and call his name.

“You better see me on the other side,” you demand. “All of you.”

Nash salutes you, and you return to the truck to leave as much gear as you can. Left in your base layers, you slide your phone, your ID, and your keys into your pocket before you push through the crowd gathered around the hotel to start running.

Behind you, Nash joins your team on the street to survey a man in need of saving. Eddie notices he’s alone and looks over his shoulder.

“We’re down a player,” Nash says. “And she’s expecting us to come home, alright?”

Eddie doesn’t get a chance to ask where you went before he and Buck hatch a plan to reach the man above them.

It takes you three times as long as it should to run the few miles from the hotel to Christopher’s school. All of the students are gathered in the gymnasium and on the baseball field, and your heart beats faster as you move through the crowd of kids and scared parents. The elevated heart rate isn’t from the run but from your concern. Christopher is important to you, and his dad grows more special to you each day. When you know Christopher is safe, you’ll shift your worry to his dad, and this day will seem like an eternity, so you have to stay focused on one task at a time, just like Nash said, and only think about what you can do something about. Like finding Christopher, which proves easy when someone yells your name, and his bright smile brings you to your knees before you hug him tightly against your chest.

The first thing Eddie does when he returns to the truck is check his phone. There are three messages from you: the first is an apology for leaving, the second is an assurance that Christopher is okay, and the third lets him know that you took Christopher home. After the pizza night that has become a defining moment in your relationship, Eddie gave you a key. It’s what friends do, he had told himself. Now he’s not so sure that was the real reason.

He pushes that out of his mind and accepts Buck’s invitation for a ride. When he reaches his front door, he unlocks it and steps inside, expecting to be greeted by Christopher’s easy smile and a relieved look in your eyes. Instead, he sees you lying on his couch, your eyes closed peacefully, and Christopher lying comfortably against you, fast asleep.

Eddie places his hands on the back of the couch and leans back, stretching his arms as he sighs. I’m home, he thinks. Then, he realizes that he’s never thought of this place as home before tonight.

“Eddie?” you ask, opening your eyes slowly. “Eddie.”

Your eyes fly open then, and Eddie drops one hand to lay on your shoulder as he leans over the couch.

“We’re all okay,” he promises.

You check your phone, see one new message, and then move carefully, standing as Christopher burrows deeper against the couch cushions in his sleep. Smiling down at him, you don’t regret leaving your team because you trust them, and they’re safe.

“I’m sorry if I overstepped,” you say.

Eddie pulls you into his arms, hugging you tightly as he murmurs, “Thank you.”

You return the hug, wrapping your arms around his waist and exhaling.

“You’re on his pickup list,” Eddie reminds you, “so no overstepping.”

Nodding against him, you think about how tired you are. You could fall asleep in his arms without much effort, but you force yourself to step back and gather your things.

“I’ll see you later, Eddie,” you say. “Tell Christopher I said goodnight.”

“Wait, how are you getting home?” he asks, stepping toward the door with you.

“Buck’s waiting; he can take me.”

“Oh. Yeah, yeah. Goodnight, and thank you again.”

“Of course.”

Eddie watches the door close behind you, and this house doesn’t feel quite so much like home anymore. Oh, he realizes, I wasn’t thinking about the house. He should have seen it sooner: the piece of himself he thought was missing, what he thought he couldn’t get back after the divorce, or when he left Texas, it’s you. You made him feel like part of the team, like a good friend, but there’s more now. You make Eddie Diaz whole. And he didn’t notice until after you walked out.

“I only need one more chance,” he whispers as he locks the front door. He exhales heavily, then asks himself, “How do I make sure I don’t blow it?”

It takes three days of working together before Eddie has an opportunity that he actually takes. During those three days, he is constantly aware of how he feels. When you’re at his side, when you’re working, when he’s not sure if you’re okay, every situation brings a different thought, a different emotion into his heart and mind. You were separated briefly during a house fire call when the car in the garage exploded while you’d been in the backyard getting the family’s dog. For the next five minutes, your team fought the growing fire with no radio transmission from you. You jogged down the street then, panting and carrying the dog inside your turnout gear. Eddie wanted nothing more than to pull you into his arms, tell you that he needs you, and never let you go. But the raging fire took precedence.

Today, your 48-hour shift ends at a decent hour, and you go home, shower, and make dinner before the sun sets. While you do that, Eddie paces in his house, wondering how he can tell you that you make him feel whole, that you make life promising and full for him. Eventually, Christopher tells Eddie he’s surpassed his 10,000 steps, and he has an idea.

You’re sitting on your couch watching TV when your phone rings. After you pause the show, you answer Eddie’s call and immediately ask, “Are you okay? Is Christopher?”

On the other end of the line, Eddie laughs. “Can you open your door?” he replies.

“What?” you mumble, still awaiting an answer to your question.

“Open the door, please?”

You walk to your front door and pull it open, your jaw dropping at the sight. Moving without thought, you end the call and step back, letting Eddie step inside. He’s wearing a suit and tie, he has a large bouquet in his hands, and you practically have to force your jaw closed again as you close the door.

When you turn toward him, your back against the front door, he doesn’t give you a chance to speak, though you desperately want to tell him how good he looks. He sets the bouquet on your coffee table before he speaks.

“I need you let me talk and not say anything because if I don’t get all of this out, I’ll never say it,” he explains.

You remain silent, crossing your arms over your waist and chewing your bottom lip.

“Right,” Eddie realizes, shaking his head when he remembers you won’t answer because of what he just asked. “I realized something. When we became friends I thought it was great, because it is, but I also felt like I’d never encountered a friendship like this one. And then we went out to dinner, and you care about Christopher. Moments between us started feeling different…”

Nodding, you try to keep up with him, watching his mouth move as he speaks, rambling between his points about what he realized.

“…it’s because you’re the piece that I didn’t want to admit was missing, you make everything feel right, perfect, whole-“

You’re still nodding along with his speech but grow more concerned about whether he’s actually breathing while talking. Between what he’s saying, the fact that you’ve known you felt the same since he bought you pizza, and your worry about his lung capacity, it’s an easy decision to step forward and kiss him.

Eddie freezes when your lips meet his, your hands clutching the lapel of his blazer. Then, he melts into your touch. His hands rise, one arm circling your waist as he cups the back of your head and steps forward, caging you in against your couch as he moves with you. The kiss meant to slow him down and give him a chance to breathe takes your breath away instead.

When Eddie pulls back, keeping his hands on you like they were shaped to hold you, he looks between your eyes. “Does- does that mean you feel the same?” he wonders softly.

“Did I not say it plain enough?” you tease, bumping your nose against his. “Yes, Eddie, I feel the same.”

Eddie kisses you again, a series of quick pecks interrupted by your question, “Where’s Christopher?”

“On his way over with pizza,” Eddie says. He kisses your jaw, then adds, “Buck’s bringing him.”

“You’re welcome,” you sigh, softening beneath his touch.

Eddie lowers both hands to your waist and steps back to look at you. “We should probably stop referring to each other as friends now.”

“Whatever you say,” you agree, smiling.

Eddie rolls his eyes at your playful tone before he pushes his hands over your hips and then up the length of your back, kissing your neck when you tip your head up. You kiss him again, then step back.

“I got that ice cream Christopher told me about,” you say. “Let me make sure I have enough for all of us.”

Eddie watches you, the lovesickness he felt in his chest before now evident in the smile on his face. Buck pulls up outside and taps the horn, so Eddie leaves your house to go get Christopher.

“About time, man,” Buck sighs when Eddie pulls the back door open.

“You didn’t even like me when we met,” Eddie points out.

“Yeah, but I saw how she looked at you. Do her right, man.”

“I will. Thanks for everything, Buck.”

“Your son tips better than you.”

Buck smiles at Christopher, who laughs. Eddie thinks he probably doesn’t want to know what they talked about on the way over.

“Can I help?” you ask, standing on the sidewalk behind Eddie. You don’t wait for an answer before you lift the pizza boxes from Buck’s passenger seat and thank him softly.

“Be careful, kids!” Buck calls before he drives away.

Eddie shows Christopher around your house, then tells him to sit on the couch while he helps you. Alone in the kitchen, you steal one more kiss. Eddie was a great friend and continues to be a great teammate, but this is even better than the life you thought you wanted.

[mitchelimarns]

wait i saw ur trevorjamie? post and i am INTRIGUED what is that?? who are they? what is the backstory? please enlighten me??

hi op!! thank you for asking this question that i am Completely Normal about it. sending this ask is like asking the Cocaine Guy for some cocaine. of course i have some! now come take my hand and engage in ethically gray fandom practises with me. warning: this is going to be overly long (it is actually so long, i'm SO sorry). you might feel like i am actually a Cocaine Guy at some points because of the euphoria you will achieve (or because of how insane you might think i am). another warning: 99% of this based in fact and the other 1% is based in that beautiful gay area between fact and fiction.

trevorjamie is the hockey rpf ship between former (!!) anaheim ducks and now current (!!) philadelphia flyers forward trevor zegras, (drafted 9th overall in 2019) and former anaheim ducks and current philadelphia flyers defenseman jamie drysdale (drafted 7th overall in 2020)

an aside on trevor zegras

before we go into the backstory, i think the key to understanding the appeal of trevorjamie is to understand the appeal of trevor zegras. when i say appeal, three reasons come to mind:

his career can, as of right now, be divided into two parts: Trevor Zegras, Wonder Kid and Trevor Zegras, Wasted Potential. trevor the wonderkid spans his his first two (and a half if you count 20-21) seasons: back-to-back 60+ points (that's Really Good for a rookie/young player). finishes second in the rookie of the year voting. also appears on the 2023 NHL EA video game cover, which is A Big Deal, especially for such a young player. even makes a guest appearance at the 2022 NHL All-Star Game where he scores a goal blindfolded in the ugliest red and yellow get-up i've ever seen while NHL team mascots pelt him with dodgeballs (no, i am not making this up.) here's the video. throughout his first two years, he makes insane plays, including multiple michigans (a lacrosse style move that's really hard to land in hockey, much less NHL-level hockey). here's a webweave about trevor and Hockey that i think about Every Day. here's a video of his frankly mind-boggling highlights from his first two years. here's another. here's a webweave with quotes on how talented he is. from 2021 till 2023, trevor zegras is, for all intents and purposes, the young, sexy and talented face of the nhl. Trevor Zegras, Wasted Potential starts after he injures his ankle in 2024 and his goals/assists production falls off majorly for the next two years (we shall go more into why & how of Trevor Zegras, Wasted Potential later.) but either way, his hockey is always in the spotlight for being creative and unique.

the second reason is his personality. nhl players are notoriously criticized for being boring "robots" with no emotion and so when trevor zegras, the Lover Boy who wears his heart on his sleeve comes along, people are captivated by how open and genuine he is. he’s like that frat boy who was always admired and never loved. here's a post about a coach talking about how much trevor talks. here's a youtube compilation of his interviews (very old but it's all i could find). fun facts: he once tried to pick a fight with sidney crosby, probably the Most Respected hockey player on earth. he dated dixie d'amelio for a bit. he went to the 2022 & 2023 montreal grand prix (and repped mclaren with his nhl friends!) his instagram username is 'Z' and he posts like an influencer. in conclusion: he's just a twink tiktoker and tattooed greek man from the suburbs of new york who is occasionally Haunted By The Demons. and we love him for that!

the third and final reason that i personally love him is because he is a part of the 2019 U.S. National Team Development Program draft class (the 2001s.) the USNTDP was started as a junior program for elite highschool hockey players across the US, meant to foster team-bonding between american players from a young age and also give them a taste of the pro-life before the NHL that isn't college hockey or a foreign minor league. it is famous in the hockey rpf fandom for spawning some of the most codependent homoerotic friendships, from dylan larkin & zach werenski to will smith, ryan leonard & gabe perrault and of course, trevor zegras and his friends: jack hughes, cole caufield, alex turcotte, etc. the reason that this particular group/USNTDP class is so famous is because they are soo co-dependent that jack hughes (and his brothers who are also elite NHL players, luke & quinn hughes (quinn has the funniest beef with trevor)) bought a lakehouse in michigan (where the program is located) so that the boys can summer there every off-season. the lakehouse has now expanded to include a revolving door of The Hughes Friends, including umich (luke & quinn hughes' alma mater) & other college hockey players. this has, of course, spanned many fics across many ships and is an integral part of The Lore. the lore behind cole, jack and trevor's friendship is also insane (please peruse @/whirlpool-blog’s jhtz tag), but that's a problem for another day (if it intrigues you, have a scroll through the usntdp tag generally too). but yes, the dynamic between trevor & his friends is another fan favourite, with countless interviews and instagram #moments, if only because all rpfers yearn for one direction. (jack is zayn, trevor is harry and cole is niall. no i don't take constructive criticism).

tldr: trevor zegras is a loud, controversial, talented and loved player. now, in my opinion jamie drysdale - in contrast - is quiet, sweet and soft-spoken, aggressively canadian, a guitar player who also likes to cook and hates mornings. however, there are other takes out there like this one that beg to differ and make for an even more interesting dynamic. either way, together, they compliment each other. one is Insane and the other is So Nonchalant. we must fundamentally understand that to understand the appeal of trevorjamie.

now onto the actual question: the trevorjamie backstory.

now before we begin, i have taken a lot of help from the wonderful primers of @/somewhatinvested, linked here. i highly recommend a scroll through their blog, (esp their tzjd lore tag) as well as @/whirlpool-blogs, @/teex, @/bliksemflitsenblog, @/f1vegas, @/sergeifyodorov and @/zeegras because i am but an amateur and they are phd experts conducting their second thesis.

but here's my take, which includes Recent Happenings A.K.A. trevor is traded to philly A.K.A. the greatest moment of my life A.K.A. yaoi always wins.

the beginning: 2020-2021 season

even though they were drafted in 2019 and 2020 respectively, trevor and jamie first actually met when they played against each other in the 2021 world junior championships (which is A Big Deal for young hockey prospects) where trevor (who played for the US) was spotlighted for two reasons:

winning MVP of the tournament, after leading the tournament in scoring (and actually tying the all-time US world junior record)

making the most cocky comments, including saying this about the canadian team: "i don't think they've been tested by a real time yet.” right before the highly anticipated US-canada final.

jamie plays for the canadian team. the usa won the final. trevor had 2 goals and 1 assist in the final. jamie was, understandably, Pissed. now this was A Problem because they are going to be teammates and are also flying to anaheim together on the same plane (along with other californian prospects but that's irrelevant.) jamie allegedly did not want to talk to trevor at all on the flight. trevor forced them to make amends over chick-fil-a after. hence began the most epic enemies-to-roommates-to-lovers arc in 2021 as they roomed together in a hotel in irvine. they spend this time mostly playing for the minor league affiliate of the ducks, the gulls (if you do not know what a minor league is, think gulls is the f2 team of the ducks, an f1 team).

throughout the (shortened) 2020-21 season, they bounce back & forth between the ducks and the gulls. the whole time, they stay together in a hotel in irvine (along with two other prospects) even though they only overlap for 13 NHL games over the course of the 2020-21 season (they are called up at different times to the ducks). one of their other roommates, perrault, says that the two of them were the closest between the four roommates. when trevor is first called up to the NHL, he wears the suit that jamie wore to their US-canada final game (insane). despite playing only 13 NHL games together, they score their first NHL goals in the same game (jamie's first NHL game), only minutes apart (breaking the record for the closest NHL debut goals). jamie has a secondary assist on trevor's first goal. jamie is interviewed after the game and says that "it was a good night for our household." the photo of them celebrating trevor’s first goal is re-created by a fan. the painting is later hung in their shared apartment by trevor. they wear matching rose pins on the anniversary of their first goals a year later. #gay

jamie Panics: 2021-2022 season

when the new season starts in 21-22, trevorjamie have established themselves. they are ready to move on from the land of Hotel Nomads and Buy A House. trevor said that he assumed jamie and him were going to live together. however, jamie is asked by an older teammate to live with him and says yes. i wonder Why.

trevor ends up first living with two other teammates for a week and then later moves in with cole york, the older brother of one of USNTDP cult bros, cam york (remember the name because it will come up later). during this time, trevor adopts a lizard. no, i am not joking. i can only imagine the Yearning reached catastrophic levels. HOWEVER! the Hockey Gods intervene and jamie's roommate is traded halfway through the season. it is confirmed that trevor moved in with jamie at the end the season. #lovewins

the 2022 offseason is incredibly famous because of the troy terry (one of their teammate)'s wedding, where we had some prime trevorjamie moments. see @/somewhatinvested's primer. take particular notice of this photo, allegedly taken after the wedding when they are both hungover in a ski-lift in aspen:

boyfriends: 2022-2023 season

2022-2023 is notable because yes, trevor & jamie live together in an apartment (yes, that apartment where trevor hangs the fan painting of their celebration). but also because jamie gets injured after playing only eight games and instead of going home back to canada, like a normal player would, he stays with trevor in anaheim. for the rest of the season (a solid five months). truly insane. this gives us some amazing Domestic content, such as jamie cooking for them both, jamie playing the guitar for trevor, watching sunsets together on the rooftop connected to their apartment (including jamie allegedly taking the most romantic sunset trevor photos), cuddling on valentine's day together and of course, the infamous shared rooftop playlist (preluded by the apple music JamieTrevor playlist), which trevor and jamie both confirmed they listen to while watching the sunset together. some of the music in this playlist is truly insane. (side note: i highly recommend checking out jamie's spotify (it's actually his mom's spotify) playlist "California" because it is. insane. listening to those 11 songs with the implications of trevorjamie is a Crazy experience. also jamie has only added like 13-15 songs to the “Rooftop”playlist and the summer trevor got a girlfriend he removed “Lover” by Taylor Swift and added it to his “California” playlist. god they make me unhinged)

in the 2023 offseason, trevor, jamie and USNTDP buddy cam york (there he is again!) go to stagecoach together. trevor and jamie are, predictably, weird about each other. trevor sets up him and jamie up with two models. stuff gets messy. here's a primer. here's more lore about trevorjamie being weird about their girlfriends. here, i put my rpf goggles to speculate that perhaps trevor Panicked this time.

the horrible, very bad, no good trade: 2023-2024 season

in 2023-24, they are not living together. maybe stagecoach has something to do with it, maybe it doesn't. either way, 2023 continues to give us content, such as trevor posting a photo of jamie with a winky face emoji after Contentious Contract Negotiations and dedicating his michigan goal to jamie.

but then on january 8th, the news breaks that jamie drysdale has been traded to the philadelphia flyers.

now, this is shocking because both trevor and jamie are good players: they're high draft picks who are faces of the franchise, touted as part of the ducks' rebuilding core and they just signed contract extensions. but it is even more shocking to trevor zegras, who is going to be separated from His Guy.

now hockey trades are famous for Being Chaotic but this was next-level: the ducks were on a week-long roadtrip, preparing for a game against nashville. trevor and jamie were allegedly together in a dive bar in nashville when jamie got the call. jamie's mind "was in a daze." he flew out of nashville at 5:45 a.m. trevor allegedly reached out to his USNTDP bro on the flyers, cam york (there he is again again!) to connect with jamie. jamie moves in with cam york (!) and another teammate. he picks #9 to play with the flyers, the same number trevor wore on the US world juniors team. which could mean nothing.

the day after the trade, trevor is supposed to be interviewed before the nashville game but allegedly refuses. a rinkside reporter stated that "trevor is the person who will miss jamie the most..was visibly glum... was his very best friend... I don't think he has fully processed it this morning...he said it doesn't feel real yet...they're going through it, they're going to remain close friends for the rest of their lives." trevor is uncharacteristically silent throughout the whole ordeal: no goodbye post, not even a story. later on, he states that him and jamie "peed together, got injured together, slept together," which goes viral. trevor likes a post of the quote.

in his first shift in his first game after jamie leaves (which is also trevor's 200th NHL game), trevor immediately breaks his ankle and is helped off the ice. he misses the rest of the season. he later says that the injury hurts less than the trade.

jamie's first game is flyers' pride night. afterwards, trevor likes the flyers post of the game and reposts it, with the same winky face emoji that he used when jamie got resigned to the ducks. here's screenshots of the two stories (the second one is the flyers story. yes that’s jamie wearing a dog mask. no, don’t ask.)

danny briere, fujoshi extraordinaire: 2024-2025 season

now before we move on to recent events, we must go back to trevor. specifically, Trevor Zegras, Wasted Potential. so i mentioned that after the ankle injury in 2024 (the one he got immediately after jamie was traded), trevor’s goals and offensive production drops massively. his name comes up in trade rumours throughout 2024 and 2025, including a trade to the flyers. critics point to his defensive game as a back-end liability. people say he takes shifts off and takes games off, which basically mean he plays with no heart. they say he’s rude and disrespectful in his chirps. he hardly celebrates after goals anymore. people say he's lazy and overconfident, all flash and no substance, too scrawny to play in the league and annoyingly talkative to top it off.

all of this stems from many reasons, including his head coach, greg cronin, having an old-school style of hockey that encourages "grit" and none of the showboating and puck handling trevor is good at and loves. during this time, the ducks general manager pat verbeek (trevorjamie fandom’s Resident Evil Man) moves trevor from his natural, life long position of centre to right wing, which is another factor in his dropping production. gone are the days of trevor zegras, all-star rookie. people call him washed up and a draft bust. rpfers say he is broken-hearted.

this is worsened when he, just starting to find his groove and show flashes of defensive capability in 24-25, suffers a torn meniscus and has to undergo surgery for six weeks, missing majority of this season. when he comes back, he violates player safety rules despite and is suspended for six games. in first game after the suspension, he immediately tries to fight someone (which he never does) and loses very badly.

in contrast, jamie is thriving. he is maturing and growing defensively, he buys his own house in downtown philly, he hard launches his long distance gf (the one who trevor introduced him to at stagecoach) and spends his time with his philly best friend, cam york (the one who trevor introduced him to). during this time, jamie hardly mentions trevor, except for a flyers social media video where he says the most famous person on his phone is trevor zegras (full government name).

him and trevor also allegedly have dinner together after a ducks-flyers game in philly in 2025. trevor did not play in the game due to his injuries but still waited outside the flyers locker room “quietly and patiently” and later said the dinner was like “jamie never left.” fun fact (said with the air of a Crazy Person): due to trevor’s injuries and the distance between the two teams (they are in separate conferences), trevor has actually never played an NHL game against jamie.

that brings us to today, when trevorjamie fans across the world collectively lost their minds when it was announced that the flyers had acquired trevor zegras.

trevor's only public acknowledgement about the trade (besides liking a bunch of posts) is this photo of him & jamie posted to his instagram, no caption and no acknowledgment to his other buddies on the team such as cam york (there he is again again again again!). nope, trevor needs everyone to know that this trade is about His Guy and His Guy Only.

you may notice some similarities to a certain pic on a ski lift in aspen. but whilst they were Just Bros in that one, they are definitely Not Bros in this one. just the semantics of taking a pic from two years ago, when we know trevor has pics of him, jamie and cam york at stagecoach... oh trevor zegras, you are the biggest idgaf war loser.

besides this photo, trevor also did a virtual press conference (video here) and went on a local philly podcast. jamie has only liked the post saying goodbye to the teammate that they traded for trevor and no posts related to trevor at all. he has also not posted anything on instagram.

but that doesn't matter because trevor zegras is So Back, baby. he will be playing under #46, the number he used to play on the gulls (he used #11 on the ducks). he is free of his Demons (the #11, pat verbeek and playing right wing). he is going to the land of brotherly love, matvei michkov (known for doing michigans, trevor's MoveTM) and travis konecny (known for being a yapper like trevor).

so where does this leave us now? well, both jamie and trevor will be playing the next season together (!!!!!!!). hopefully, we shall see trevor have a breakout year, a la dylan storme. both of them will be on the last year of the 3-year contracts they originally signed with the ducks. we don't know if either will resign with philly. but one thing can be sure: they will definitely, definitely Be Weird About It.

TLDR: trevor and jamie are insane about each other. i am insane about them. come join us!

if you've made it to the end, congratulations! i hope this enlightened you! if you have more questions (either about trevorjamie or anything else mentioned here), my ask box is always open! have a great day!!

[certifiedsexed]

Hi certified sex ed! I was hoping for some advice on something :)

My (12 years old) sister recently bought a book that has explicit smut in it. Normally, i wouldn’t particularly care as (to be honest) i was reading similar when i was a bit older than her, and also reading smut isn’t the worst thing in the world for her lmao. However, my only concern is that this book portrays a particularly toxic relationship, including in that scene. Obviously it’s important for her to have expanded views or something similar, but i worry this book isn’t the best idea, especially as this will probably be one of her first impressions of sex, etc.

Should i stop her reading it? At the moment, i don’t think i will, but i am going to warn her that they aren’t accurate portrayals of real life relationships :’)

Thanks!

Hullo!

Here's the thing: she bought it! It's hers. If she wants to read it, she's probably gonna read it even if you take it away or find something "better".

But if your concern is that the sex is in an unhealthy/toxic relationship, don't tell her its not an accurate portrayal of real life relationships. That's not true.

If she knows literally more than three people or has ever turned on the television, she knows toxic relationships exist. Its not a stretch for her to realize oh, sex can be a part of that.

That said, feel free to tell her the book has (a?) sex scene(s?) and that it's not part of a healthy relationship. You could even recommend her other books that involve sex scenes in more healthy relationships if you're worried about this being a bad first impression, that way she has options and knows what's going on.

If she knows the book has a sex scene and that its not part of a healthy relationship, as well as knows she can read other books with sex scenes with more healthy relationships, I don't think you'll have to worry much.

Sometimes first impressions of things are weird but as long as she's aware and she knows she has choices (and someone to come to if she has questions/concerns), she'll probably be just fine.

Good luck! I hope this helps a little, lemme know if you have anymore questions. (This was actually a really fun question to get btw because I also have siblings and was very involved in the sex education aspect so I remember the worries and concern very vividly lol.)

[nekoboydreams]

Hi! I really enjoyed your visual novel, it was super interesting, and I have a lot of questions!

1) It seems like no one in the circus troupe really gets along (or is it just Pierrot and Harlequin who have issues because of a tragic love triangle in the past?). Is the promise of creating a real home the only thing still holding them together?

2) Will we see the appearances of the other clowns and harlequins? (Pierrot mentions he's the only Pierrot "among jesters and harlequins"). This question also applies to their human forms (if they even have them).

(do they absorb people to create their human forms, and of course, to feed themselves? (Sorry, I took Harlequin's play "And the Monsters Became Humans" a little too literally. I think they ate that person in the smiling mask, like they did Columbine.Though, I don't think that terrible person who imprisoned them could be considered an example to compare themselves to….(

3) I think this is related (or maybe not), but in that same play, when the monsters were listing the advantages of becoming human, the silhouette with the orange eyes (the one that looks like a hedgehog) said, "No one will hurt us anymore." That immediately made me think of when we stood up for Pierrot at the very beginning of the novel. I think that's cute. Is there a connection there?

(By the way, I find it funny that in Harlequin's play, Pierrot looks like the shortest one, but now he's the second-tallest character!) I think that hedgehog in the play is Pierrot – maybe because Pierrot's hat has three points and his eyes are orange. Now I can't unsee Pierrot as a hedgehog.

4) We know the colors of the tickets are connected to the clowns, but what are the black and yellow tickets for then? Are they for people who are some kind of "audience" that will then support the circus's status? (Saying good things about it on TV, among people, etc.)

Sorry if these questions are too long and if there are any errors in the text as English is not my first language.

Good luck to you!

Wow, Thank you! And, so many questions! That's totally fine it's always fun for me.

1) Let’s say the rest of the circus gets along in their own way. It’s a bit of a chaotic family. Only Pierrot and Harlequin have a serious issue between them, which sometimes causes headaches for the others.

2) The other members are already prepared for their appearances! As for what they’re really like under their costumes, that’ll be revealed a bit later.

Harlequin’s story is true, but it’s told in his way. The flashes you see while he’s telling the story are pure reality. There will be more to that story, so maybe things will start to make more sense from here on!

3) Very well spotted, dear anon! I don’t think I’ve seen anyone bring that up yet. There is definitely a connection between those scenes! As for the shape and size of the dolls, keep in mind they were made by Harlequin himself! As you saw, his doll is even taller than the orange-eyed one, and he’s also the only one staring directly at the screen.

4) The yellow tickets are the regular ones, the kind you buy at the circus box office! The black tickets… those are very different. You’ll have to wait and see more about them in the future! TYSM!

[alwayssmilingvenison]

Alastor smiled lovingly at the sight, scooting closer with his now freehand resting on Lucifer's knee. "That'll be grand." He agreed to the record shop idea.

They had a full day of fun once Charlie woke up. She was happy to make the trip and make games along the way, like "shadows", where you had to always be walking in a shadow, unable to step on light. She playfully told Alastor not to cheat on that one. At the record store, she was happy to sample music and insisted on Alastor singing a few songs with her, which he did happily, even as they gathered a little crowd. Both were quite the dramatic performers and pulled Lucifer in on a few of their acts. The store far more lively than it'd been in years, so the owner happily let them take a record for free.

They then went to Lucifer's apartment, where Alastor was happy to see no sign of Michael. They got some of Lucifer's things and left to Alastor's apartment. Charlie insisted on helping make dinner, and after dinner, Alastor let Lucifer help tuck her in. She asked for the Ugly Duckling, which Alastor had always said was her daddy's favorite.

Every weekend, the trio got to play house, Lucifer and Alastor had dates every Tuesday and Thursday, Mondays were for work only, Wednesdays were spent at the hotel (which Charlie was eager to return to), and Fridays were Alastor's day with Charlie, giving her his full attention and love. Of course, there were phone calls and texts to Lucifer sprinkled in everyday.

Michael grew restless as he realized Alastor wasn't giving up. He did try to sway Lucifer into letting go, but it was proving to be no use. But that was...fine. It was fine! Everything was still under control!

He watched his twin pack for the next day, to stay with those demons and took a deep breath. "I think you're moving way too fast and being foolish, Lucifer..."

━━☽⛧☾━━

"Papa..." Charlie called as she came around from feeding the ducks in their palace's garden.

Alastor was leaning against a large tree at the center, working on a flower crown she had requested. "Yes, darling?"

"Tell me about momma again? How did she become queen before you?" She asked hopefully, coming to a stop in front of Alastor, sitting on her knees. It wasn't an unusual question. Charlie loved every story Alastor had to tell about her parents.

Alastor hummed. "Well, I wasn't born yet." He remarked, chuckling as she pouted. "Alright, alright... It was the start of humanity, God wished to make beings that would age and experience the joys of his light in the darkness he banished. He made a man and woman from clay, Adam and Lilith. He insisted they were married, but Lilith never agreed. She was upset as she was given unfair rules and expectations while Adam was free. Her discontentment summoned an angel--"

"Daddy!"

Alastor chuckled. "Yes, your daddy. He heard her sadness and wished to make her happy. She said the only thing that would make her happy was to be taken away and treated fairly. He agreed and hid her away in safety. God noticed Lilith missing and made from Adam, Eve. Lilith and your daddy were curious, so they watched and realized Eve was a puppet. They thought that was unfair and wanted to make her be free, to be a real person, and join them in their new home. So, Daddy gave her a magical apple that would allow her to come. She became a real person, and she was thankful, but she didn't follow them to their new kingdom as she fell in love with Adam. So, they left her be, came home, got married, and eventually had a little ball of sunshine." He laid the flower crown on her head and booped her nose. "You."

Charlie giggled and sighed happily. "I love that story... It gets better every time you tell it, Papa!"

Alastor smiled and nodded. It got better because he slowly added more detail over time. One day, she'd be ready for the true story... but not today. He closed his eyes, and it was quiet a moment before Charlie spoke, pointing up to the tree he leaned against.

"Isn't that an apple tree?"

Alastor opened his eyes and looked up. "It is." He confirmed and Charlie beamed.

"Let's pick apples and make tarts for daddy! Maybe then he can come home!"

Alastor blinked and smiled sadly. "I dont know if it'll work... but it's worth a try." He relented, not wanting to crush her spirit. They were just apples.

Alastor smiled lightly. "You'll be the first to see how it ends up." He assured because it was true. There may be no book, but it was Lucifer's life, he'd see how it all ends long before Alastor could even start writing.

He unwrapped an arm from Charlie to pull Lucifer over a little so he could rest his head on top of his. He gave a light and content sigh. It was funny. He never saw himself as a family man, yet this day was easily one of his favorites close to their wedding if he was honest. Their little girl cradled in one arm and his husband in his other, enjoying a peaceful day at the park. Something he normally found boring, but now was so perfect.

He hummed as Lucifer spoke before chuckling and pulling back to look down at him. "Darling, you may have whatever role you wish with her. She's almost as over the moon about you as I am." He assured, kissing his forehead lightly. "Things to know? She's an angel as long as she gets her nap. She will try to weasel out of them, never let her, because she becomes an adorable demon stomping her foot and holding her breath. Otherwise, she's fairly easy to reason with. She loves games, running around, playing dress up, singing, bedtime stories, coloring, glitter, and her dolls. She does have some from her daddy that she holds dear, they normally never leave her room, but I'm sure she'd make an exception for you." He explained. "She loves all food except asparagus. Honestly, a very easy and loving child.

[lycheeflavr]

Hiii i js stumbled into your blog and its superr cutee!! I really love your writing was wondering if you were open to wrote about Tsukishimaa? If not, its okay :))

Heiii, first of all, thank you very much, and also thank you for the request <3 yes, of course!! I honestly had so much fun writing this, also I didn't know if you would like some smut as well, so I added a little smutty bonus scene at the end. You can skip it, it doesn't really matter to the story :)) now I hope you have a lot of fun reading this!!

The Bones Beneath 🧢🐠

pairing: timeskip!tsukishima kei x GN!reader tags: slow burn (ish), mutual pining, coworker tension, art & science themes, tsuki being a secret softie, slight angst with comfort, banter & emotional closeness, confessions without confessing, fluff if squint, reader is an exhibit designer/artist, tsuki is an AV tech/paleontology nerd, almost love, quiet longing summary: You were never supposed to get attached to the quiet AV technician helping set up your fossil exhibit. He was there to wire the lights. You were there to make bones beautiful. But somewhere between late-night fixes, museum shadows, and cups of burnt breakroom coffee, something between you began to take shape—slow and fragile and maybe a little ancient in its own way. word count: 5.8k

Tsukishima Kei liked his hours quiet and his fossils older than God.

The museum opened to the public at nine, but he was always there by seven. The early mornings were his: no chattering tourists, no interns asking questions he didn’t care to answer, no toddlers smudging glass with sticky hands. Just silence, bones, and the low mechanical hum of the lights flickering to life row by row.

He walked the exhibit floor with a mug of instant black coffee and a clipboard he didn’t really need. The Tyrannosaurus rex stood tall in the center of the room, jaws frozen in a permanent snarl, ribs exposed like cathedral arches. Tsukishima paused beneath it every morning like it was ritual. One sip of coffee, one glance upward. The bones never changed.

That was the point.

He liked things that stayed the same. Fossils. Labels. Dust motes in the morning light.

At exactly 7:43 a.m., he opened his laptop behind the front desk — not where the general staff worked, but the tucked-away station he’d unofficially claimed. It had the best Wi-Fi signal and worst chair. He preferred that no one else wanted to sit there.

Emails loaded slowly. He sipped his coffee and scanned subject lines. One caught his attention, marked URGENT – EXHIBIT SUPPORT REQUEST. He clicked it without much enthusiasm.

To: Tsukishima KeiSubject: Visiting Artist Collaboration | Exhibit Support

Kei, You’ve been assigned as the museum liaison for our upcoming interactive exhibit, “Extinction Echoes.” The guest artist arrives tomorrow to begin work on the installation surrounding the T-Rex centerpiece. Please provide access and assist as needed — you’ll be their primary point of contact.

Let us know if you have questions. — Ms. Fukuda

He stared at the screen. Then took another long sip of coffee.

Artist, he thought, in the way someone might think pest infestation. They always asked too many questions. They moved things that weren’t supposed to be moved. They cared about aesthetics over accuracy, emotion over science. It made his teeth itch.

He clicked the artist’s attached bio and scanned the page.

You had a list of gallery credits longer than his patience. Installations in Kyoto, Seoul, Paris. Something about “immersive spaces challenging temporal experience.” He didn’t know what that meant and didn’t care enough to pretend. There was a photo of you attached — mid-laugh, head tilted back, paint-splattered hands. You looked loud, even in stillness.

Tsukishima closed the tab with a sigh.

This was going to suck.

He stared at the skeleton of the T-Rex for a while longer, like maybe it would offer sympathy. It didn’t.

Back to his feet, clipboard tucked under his arm, he continued the routine — checking casing screws, labeling touch-up requests in pencil. As long as you stayed out of his way, maybe this wouldn’t be a disaster.

Maybe you wouldn’t talk too much.

Maybe you’d cancel last-minute and spare him the headache.

He doubted it.

The fossils, at least, wouldn’t leave him unread.

The next morning, Tsukishima arrived five minutes earlier than usual.

Not because he cared. Just to set the rules. It was important that people knew their place in a shared ecosystem — especially the kinds of people who used phrases like temporal fluidity and wore too many rings.

The exhibit hall was still empty, the bones calm and familiar in the blue-toned light of early morning. He was mid-sip of coffee, debating whether he had time to finish it before the chaos arrived, when—

“Hi!” a voice called from the far end of the gallery.

He turned, already bracing himself.

You were a splash of color against the muted sandstone walls — all layers and movement. A long, oversized coat in a shade too bright to be taken seriously, mismatched socks barely visible beneath wide-legged trousers, a bag slung across your shoulder like it weighed more than you did. One hand held a battered sketchbook. The other, naturally, clutched a drink in a cup aggressively labeled LAVENDER MATCHA in bubble letters.

He blinked once. Then again.

“You’re Tsukishima, right?” you asked, walking toward him without waiting for an answer. “Sorry I’m early — I just couldn’t sleep last night, I was too excited. This place is incredible.”

He nodded once, clipped and formal. “I know.”

That stopped you for half a second. Then you laughed.

“Oh, cool. Confidence. Love that.”

He didn’t respond. Just turned and started walking toward the control panel, trusting you'd follow.

You did, footsteps echoing lightly behind his. “The bones are even more haunting in the morning. Kind of like they know they’re supposed to be asleep, but they’re still here. I mean, isn’t that sad? In a poetic way.”

“I’m pretty sure the skeletons don’t have feelings,” he muttered without looking at you.

“Well, someone’s a morning person,” you teased, grinning.

He resisted the urge to sigh. “I assume you read the layout brief?”

“I did, but I don’t do great with maps,” you said, flipping open your sketchbook and holding it up like proof. “I just take notes like this. Shapes, light impressions, space planning... it makes more sense to me.”

He stared at the mess of charcoal strokes and layered watercolor swatches that resembled absolutely nothing useful.

“This is your system?”

“Mhm.”

“It looks like a bird flew into a window and died.”

You snorted — actually snorted — and Tsukishima narrowed his eyes.

“Wow,” you said, grinning. “Are you this charming with everyone, or am I just special?”

“I’m not charming.”

“Well, you’re something.”

He stared at you, unreadable, then said, “Let’s get this over with.”

You followed as he walked, still chattering, unbothered by the blank expression he wore like armor. He gave you the tour — exhibit boundaries, restricted zones, lighting rig limitations — and you nodded along, eyes darting between him and the bones above like you were seeing a world he couldn’t.

“This place feels like a cathedral,” you said eventually, voice lower now. “But broken. Like worshipping something that’s already gone. That’s why I want the light to move slowly across the ribs. Like… memory.”

He paused.

The quiet stretched. For a moment, you thought he hadn’t heard you. Then, softly:

“They weren’t worshipped. They were feared. The T-Rex was a predator.”

“Still deserves a little reverence,” you said.

His jaw twitched.

You smiled. “You’re kind of a fossil snob, huh?”

“I’m a paleontologist.”

“Oh, that explains the glasses.”

“I don’t wear—” He stopped himself. Exhaled sharply. “You’re going to be exhausting.”

“I’ve been called worse,” you chirped.

You sat cross-legged on the floor a few minutes later, sketchbook open on your lap, head tilted at an angle only artists and toddlers attempting handstands ever attempted. You tapped your pen against your lips thoughtfully.

Tsukishima hovered nearby, clipboard in hand, pointedly not watching you.

“I think we should try sound too,” you said suddenly. “Subtle—like a low hum. Maybe faint echoing footsteps, like ghosts. Not too literal.”

“That’s not in the budget,” he replied, immediately.

“Not yet,” you shot back, unfazed. “But maybe if I bribe the right intern—”

“Please don’t.”

“No promises, dino boy.”

The silence that followed was immediate. You looked up, blinking. He was frozen mid-step, like you’d just said something blasphemous in a sacred space.

“What?”

“Did you just call me—?”

“Oh. That slipped out,” you said, sheepish. “Sorry. I mean—Kei, right? Or… Tsukishima? Do you prefer one?”

His expression flattened. “I prefer not being called a pet name designed by a cartoon character.”

You grinned, and there it was — the spark. The part you hadn't expected. Under all that sarcasm and sharpness, something coiled and unreadable. Maybe not warmth. Not yet. But interest, flickering low and quiet like the gallery lights overhead.

“Well,” you said, tucking your pen behind your ear and getting to your feet, “I guess I’ll just have to earn it.”

His eyes narrowed. “Earn what?”

“A less embarrassing nickname.”

He rolled his eyes so hard it was practically audible.

You turned, already halfway to the next room, your voice floating behind you. “Come on, fossil prince. We’ve got work to do.”

He muttered something under his breath — probably unflattering — but followed.

Not because he cared.

Just because you clearly needed supervision.

Tsukishima wasn’t sure when it stopped bothering him.

You were in the exhibit every day. That part made sense — you had work to do. What didn’t make sense was how you did it.

You hummed when you worked. Never full songs, just little pieces, shapeless and aimless, like you were keeping yourself company. You talked to the bones like they were old friends. Called the Stegosaurus “Big Spikey Boy” under your breath. Left coffee cups in bizarre places — behind glass cases, perched on light fixtures, one time balanced delicately on the rib of a hadrosaur like it belonged there.

He found himself moving them instead of snapping at you.

That annoyed him most of all.

You sprawled on the floor to draw. Sat backwards on chairs. Doodled stars in the margins of your blueprints. You weren’t messy — you were chaotic. But not in a way that ruined things. You took up space like you belonged to it. Like you’d earned it.

He hated it.

He really, really didn’t.

Tsukishima started staying later under the excuse of “supervising.” In truth, he just… didn’t want to leave. Not when your sketchbook was open across your knees, feet bare, toes tapping the air in rhythm with the music you played from a tiny Bluetooth speaker you weren’t technically allowed to use.

Soft stuff. Dreamy. A little sad. Fuzzy guitars and synths like melted sunlight.

He told you to turn it off.

You didn’t.

He didn’t ask again.

Most evenings, he brought work with him — real work, grant edits or exhibit updates — but he barely touched it. Instead, he watched you in the corner of his eye. The way you moved around the bones, measuring with your hands, frowning thoughtfully at light angles. Talking to yourself under your breath.

And once, when he stayed too late without realizing, he looked up and caught you lying flat on your back in the middle of the exhibit floor.

At first he thought something was wrong — your limbs were outstretched, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling like you’d fallen and simply given up.

Then you spoke, quiet and unhurried.

“It’s beautiful how it still takes up space after all this time.”

He didn’t answer right away. The gallery was too still, the air too thick. It was the kind of sentence people usually said in museums when they were trying to impress someone. But you’d said it to no one. Like you didn’t expect to be heard at all.

His voice came out rougher than intended.

“You mean the T-Rex?”

You didn’t move. Just blinked, slow. “Yeah. It’s been dead millions of years, and it still makes people stop. Still commands a room. Like… it never left.”

He stared at the curve of the bones — the arc of the ribs, the open jaw — and swallowed.

“It’s not really the same,” he said eventually. “This is a reconstruction. Most of the bones are casts.”

“Still,” you said, softer now. “It’s the shape that matters.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. Or maybe he did, but it sat too heavy on his tongue.

Instead, he sat beside you.

Not close. Not touching.

But that was the first time he didn’t go home early.

Over the next week, something shifted.

You stopped asking if he wanted music on — just played it. He stopped pretending to glare.

You started bringing two coffees, not one. Always black for him, always in a plain cup labeled KEI in smudged pen.

He never said thank you.

You never expected it.

You adjusted a lighting fixture one evening, standing on the lowest ledge of the exhibit’s frame. Tsukishima reached out instinctively when you wobbled.

His hand curled around your waist for half a second. Warm. Steady.

You froze. He stepped back like he’d touched a stove.

“Careful,” he muttered.

You smiled. “You do care.”

He didn’t answer. But he didn’t let go as fast next time.

He started reading your notes after you went home.

Not snooping — just... curious. Your sketchbook was a mess of lines and light notations: “bone shadows curl here,” “weight of silence stronger in this quadrant,” “add faint shimmer to mimic breath.”

Breath.

He didn’t know how to explain how badly that word undid him.

You treated the exhibit like it was alive. Not a museum piece, but a memory you could still talk to. An echo with ribs.

And you never once made him feel like he wasn’t allowed in that echo, too.

One night, he walked into the exhibit after hours to find you asleep on the bench beneath the T-Rex.

Your coat was bundled under your head, sketchbook lying open on your chest. The gallery lights glowed faintly overhead, casting soft shadows across your face. You looked peaceful. Quiet. A part of the space now, not just working on it — woven into the silence.

He sat across from you, pretending to read a paper he wasn’t holding. Time passed. Maybe ten minutes. Maybe more.

Then your voice, soft with sleep:

“Are you watching me sleep?”

He didn’t flinch. “You’re not even fully asleep.”

You peeked at him with one eye open. “Maybe I was dreaming about you.”

“Unlikely.”

“Rude.”

He rolled his eyes — but a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, unguarded for once.

You caught it.

“Kei,” you said, like it meant something new now.

He looked up.

“Yeah?”

You blinked like you hadn’t expected that response to come so easily.

Then you just smiled and said, “Nothing.”

He didn’t press. But he stayed until the building closed.

It started with the lighting.

You stood in the center of the exhibit with your hands in your hair, gesturing to the overhead rig like you were conducting some invisible orchestra.

“We could do a soft fade that moves with the visitor — like the bones respond to presence. Just a slow, low shift as people walk through. Imagine how alive it would feel.”

Tsukishima didn’t even look up from his clipboard.

“No.”

You blinked. “No?”

“That’s not what this exhibit is. It’s not a haunted house. It’s not a performance.”

“You haven’t even seen it yet, Kei. I have a test set-up. It’s subtle. Thoughtful. It adds mood.”

“It adds distraction,” he said flatly. “And it compromises the fossil presentation. Light distortions throw off color perception and may damage the casts over time.”

“Oh, come on,” you snapped, heat curling into your chest. “We’re not burning them under stage lights. This isn’t your personal lab. It’s a space for people to feel something. You said you wanted more engagement.”

“I want clarity. Not theatrical gimmicks.”

The word landed hard.

You went still, mouth pressed into a thin line.

“So that’s what you think this is,” you said, voice tight. “A gimmick.”

Tsukishima looked up then. Slowly. His expression was unreadable, but his jaw was set like stone.

“You act like you’re saving them. Like making a dinosaur look dramatic is the same as making people care.”

“And you act like people will care just because you slapped a plaque on the wall and stood under a spotlight!”

It burst out of you, louder than you meant.

“You’re so obsessed with being precise, with being right, that you don’t even see how cold you sound. No wonder no one sticks around.”

The silence was immediate.

You heard it the second it came out of your mouth — the way his face didn’t flinch but froze, eyes going cold and glassy like he’d just flicked off something vital inside himself.

He stared at you. Long and flat.

Then:

“You think people care about your lights? You think they’ll walk out remembering ‘how it felt’ and not just take a photo and leave?”

You swallowed hard. Your chest ached.

“I don’t know what they’ll remember,” you said. “But I’m scared they won’t remember anything. That they’ll walk past bones that are millions of years old and shrug. That all this work will fade into the background because it didn’t shine enough to be seen.”

That cracked something in your voice. The quiet truth beneath the fire.

Tsukishima looked at you for a long moment.

Then he muttered,

“People always care about spectacle.”

And walked away.

You didn’t talk for two days.

You kept your head down when he passed. You played your music softer. Your sketchbook stayed closed, and the second he entered the exhibit, you left.

It shouldn’t have hurt like this.

He wasn’t yours.

But it did. Quietly. Deeply.

Because for all his sharp edges, Kei had made space for you in the quiet hours. Had let you stay. Had sat beside you under fossil ribs while the world turned slow. You’d let yourself think he was listening. That he maybe even believed in some part of your vision.

Apparently not.

That night, Tsukishima stayed late in the office alone. The building was too quiet. He hated how much he noticed the silence now when you weren’t filling it.

He didn’t even mean to open the sketchbook.

It was sitting on your stool, slightly askew, pages fanned like it wanted to be read. He stood there for a long minute before touching it — fingers brushing the paper like he was afraid it might burn.

The notes were messier than he remembered. Half-formed thoughts, shorthand, tiny arrows. But there was a page marked with a sticky tab in the shape of a cartoon bone. He opened to it.

The full skeleton was drawn by hand — not just a diagram, but alive, posed in a way that almost made it look like it was breathing. Lights were sketched in around it, rays tracing the angles of ribs and jaws like sunlight through water. At the bottom of the page, in your handwriting:

I want people to feel like they’ve stumbled into something sacred. Like the bones were waiting for them. Like they’ve walked into a memory older than the Earth they came from.

He stared at the words until they blurred.

He hated how it made his throat tight.

Tsukishima didn’t sleep that night.

He didn’t know how to say it — how to apologize. He didn’t do sorry very well. He usually didn’t need to.

But the shape of your fear haunted him. The way your voice cracked when you said, “I’m scared they won’t remember anything.”

Because he understood that. Too well.

He spent his whole life being remembered for the wrong things. Or not remembered at all.

And you? You wanted your work to matter so badly you were willing to fight him over it. Risk looking soft. Sentimental. Even foolish.

He thought that was brave.

He thought maybe you were brave.

You noticed it the second you walked in.

The lighting rig had changed.

The movement was smoother now, less of a fade and more of a pulse — like breath in the air, like shadow and presence mingling gently along the curve of the fossil display. It responded, but didn’t overwhelm. Subtle. Intentional. Balanced.

And the tech setup? Upgraded. Clean wiring, reinforced bracketing. Your original sketch still hung nearby, but someone had gone over it in pencil — adjusting angles, improving placements.

Your stomach flipped.

There was only one person meticulous enough to have done that.

You found him in the staff lounge, hunched over a mug of black tea and pretending to read a paleontology journal.

You stood in the doorway for a second, then cleared your throat.

“You… fixed the rig.”

Tsukishima didn’t look up.

“It was sloppy.” He turned a page, like the conversation bored him. “I fixed it.”

You smiled despite yourself.

“Thanks.”

“It was bothering me.”

“Right. Of course.” You stepped fully into the room, grabbed your own mug, filled it just to do something with your hands.

The silence that settled wasn’t heavy, but it was strange — like the room didn’t know what to do with the absence of arguing. You sat across from him slowly, letting the mug warm your palms.

Outside, thunder rumbled.

“Looks like the storm’s rolling in,” you said, glancing toward the windows.

Tsukishima gave a quiet hum.

“Museum’s closing early. They already put the signs out.”

You nodded. Another pause.

“I guess we’re stuck for a bit.”

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t leave either.

Rain began to patter against the windows — soft at first, then sharp, like tiny bones clicking against glass.

You didn’t speak for a while. It wasn’t awkward. Just… quiet.

Eventually, you exhaled.

“I used to think museums were holy.” The words slipped out so gently you almost didn’t notice yourself saying them. “Like sacred, somehow. Even the air felt different. Like I couldn’t breathe loud.”

Tsukishima didn’t move, but you saw the way his eyes lifted, just slightly.

“When I was a kid,” you continued, “we didn’t go many places. But my aunt took me to this little natural history museum once. It was kind of sad, honestly — half the exhibits were broken, one of the audio guides just screamed static. But there was this fossil in the middle of the floor. Some ancient sea creature I couldn’t pronounce. And I just… stood there. For, like, half an hour. Didn’t say a word.”

You smiled a little at the memory.

“She asked if I was bored. But I felt… I don’t know. Seen? Like something that big and that old still being here meant I could be too.”

You rubbed your finger around the rim of your mug.

“I just wanted to make something that someone remembered. Even if they couldn’t explain why.”

The thunder cracked closer now. The lights flickered faintly.

You weren’t sure if he was going to say anything. He didn’t meet your eyes. But after a moment, he spoke — quiet and firm, voice low enough that it didn’t sound like performance.

“Then make something that can’t be forgotten.”

You froze.

Your breath caught.

Not because of what he said — but how he said it.

Not dismissive. Not mocking. But earnest.

Like he meant it.

You looked up. He still wasn’t looking at you, but his fingers had stilled on the page.

The storm roared outside.

Inside, something softened.

You didn’t move. You didn’t speak. You just let the quiet stretch — filled with the scent of tea and rain and the unspoken possibility that maybe… just maybe… you weren’t as far apart as you’d thought.

You didn’t expect to cry. But as the lights came up—soft, fluid, breathing in harmony with the slow rise of ambient sound—you felt something tighten in your chest.

It was exactly what you’d imagined.

The fossil hovered like a ghost over time, suspended in silence and reverence. The light kissed every ancient curve, every bone, every inch of its long-buried story. There was a stillness in the room, as if the crowd understood that breathing too loudly might break the spell.

Your piece. Your concept. Alive.

Applause came gently at first. A few quiet murmurs. And then a wave of sound, camera flashes, hushed voices saying your name with excitement.

Someone clapped you on the back. Another handed you a glass of cheap champagne.

“Brilliant work,” one of the donors said. “Unforgettable,” a curator whispered. “You should be proud,” your boss told you, beaming.

You smiled. You said thank you. You tried to listen. But your eyes were scanning the room for him.

Tsukishima stood in the shadows, off to the left side of the exhibit hall, mostly obscured by a pillar. He was still in his uniform jacket, arms crossed, gold glasses catching the shifting light. He wasn’t clapping. Wasn’t even pretending to mingle.

But he was watching.

You met his eyes across the crowd.

There was a pause. A flicker of something you couldn’t name. And then—he looked away.

You turned back to the small crowd around you. Smiled again. Nodded. Said something about collaboration. You think someone took a photo of you mid-sentence. You didn’t mind. This was what you’d worked for.

But you kept glancing toward the pillar. He was gone.

You slipped out not long after.

The night air was sharp and wet, still humming with the electricity of the earlier storm. The exhibit hall door clicked shut behind you, muffling the buzz of celebration.

You found him near the back entrance of the building, leaning against a railing, eyes tilted up toward the cloud-covered sky. He hadn’t heard you approach.

You paused.

He looked taller out here. The pale security light washed over his cheekbones, caught on his lashes. He hadn’t even changed out of his work shoes.

“You disappeared,” you said quietly.

Tsukishima’s shoulders didn’t shift.

“Didn’t feel like standing around.”

You walked over, hands in your coat pockets.

“But you were part of this.”

“I just fixed the wiring.”

You scoffed, half amused.

“You didn’t just fix the wiring, Kei.”

That made him glance at you. Just a flicker of gold through those glasses. And then he said something you didn’t expect.

“It was beautiful.”

Your breath hitched.

He looked away again. Like it cost him something to say it. Like it meant something more.

“You could’ve said that inside,” you said.

“You didn’t need me to.”

You studied his profile in the silver light.

“But I wanted to.”

Silence again. Not heavy this time. Just… tentative. Careful.

Then:

“You’re going to do big things,” he said, like it was a truth he'd known for a while. “And I’ll be here. Resetting lights. Screwing metal into walls.”

Your brow furrowed.

“Is that what you think?”

He shrugged.

You didn’t know what to say at first. Not because you disagreed, but because you’d never really thought about how he saw himself in all this. How he saw you.

You stepped closer.

“Tsukishima,” you said quietly, and the way his name sounded in the dark felt like a confession. “It’s not just mine, you know. That exhibit. It’s yours too.”

“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”

“I wouldn’t.”

He looked at you again. This time, for real. Not through the fog of tension or sarcasm or pride. Just… him.

And you almost leaned in.

Almost.

But instead, you stood there — too close, not close enough — breathing in the same sharp air, hearts too loud in the silence.

And when he turned to go, he didn’t say goodbye. Just brushed past you gently. Like the beginning of something, or the end of something else.

You watched him disappear down the long path behind the museum. And for the first time all night, you didn’t feel victorious. Just… full. And hollow.

At once.

A few days pass. The exhibit continues without you. Your name is printed in neat black ink on the display cards, and people wander through, praising your “vision,” your “emotional composition,” your “eye for stillness.” You’re already being emailed about new opportunities.

But the only thing you can think about is the shape of Tsukishima’s silhouette in the silver museum light. The things you almost said. The things he almost said back.

You return one quiet afternoon to pick up the last of your things.

It’s raining again.

The museum feels different in the daylight—less mysterious, more skeletal. You walk past school kids and bored parents, past tour groups and sleepy guards, toward the side hallway that smells faintly of sawdust and old lightbulbs.

He’s at the workbench. Same posture. Same headphones. But you can tell he saw you come in—his hands falter for just a moment before resuming whatever careful task he’s pretending requires all his focus.

You clear your throat anyway.

“Hey.”

No reply. He’s sanding something. Aggressively.

You smile to yourself and set down your tote bag, beginning to gather the few things you left behind. A notebook. A print draft. The sweatshirt he let you borrow when the AC broke one night and you stayed too long.

He still hasn’t turned around.

You don’t push it. You just take your time, folding the sweatshirt with unnecessary precision, letting the silence stretch long enough to sting.

When you finally zip your bag and sling it over your shoulder, you pause in the doorway.

“Thanks,” you say, voice quiet. “For everything. The project… it only worked because of you.”

For a second, you think he’s going to ignore you.

But then, still facing away, he mutters:

“The bones were already there. You just made them louder.”

You blink.

And then you laugh. Soft, surprised.

“Getting poetic, dino boy?”

He finally glances at you. The corner of his mouth lifts just a little.

“Don’t get used to it.”

You take a step closer, a hand still gripping the strap of your bag like a shield.

“Well. It was nice hearing you say something beautiful for once.”

“I’ve said a few beautiful things.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

A long pause. He looks down at the thing he was sanding. Then back at you.

“Come back sometime,” he says, casual but not really. “The fossils get boring.”

Your heart stutters. He doesn’t even flinch.

You tilt your head, grinning now.

“You mean you get boring.”

“That too.”

And it should feel like a joke. It should feel like nothing. But it doesn’t.

You both hold each other’s gaze for a second too long. Not quite smiling. Not quite speaking. Just letting the moment breathe between you—thin and fragile and unbearably loud.

You take a breath.

“I might come back,” you say finally. “Just to check on the fossils.”

He nods once, slow.

“Sure.”

You don’t say anything else. You just walk past him, the hallway stretching out ahead. But this time, your steps are slower. This time, you hope he’s watching.

And he is.

When the door closes behind you, he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days.

NSFW bonus scene 🧢🐠 (female reader)

It starts with silence.

You’re standing just inside the workshop door, bag dropped, rain sliding down the windows behind you. You don’t know what made you come back — not really. You just knew the thought of leaving felt more like a loss than a choice.

He looks up. His brows twitch in confusion, but he doesn’t say anything.

So you walk up to him. Slow. Careful.

“Do you want me to stay?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

He swallows, throat working.

Then, simply:

“Yes.”

The word lands heavy. So much more than yes. Yes, I missed you. Yes, I thought about it. Yes, I don’t want this to end yet.

You kiss him.

It’s awkward, at first — all angles and hesitation. He doesn’t move right away, like he’s still computing what’s happening. But the second you breathe his name, something gives. His hands come up, hesitant but firm, catching your waist and pulling you closer like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

The kiss deepens, slow and uneven, as if he’s learning it in real time — a little desperate, a little stunned. His glasses nudge your cheekbone. His breath shakes against your lips. You slide your fingers into his hair and feel the shiver roll through him.

“You’re sure?” you murmur.

He nods, eyes locked to yours.

“Yeah. Fuck—yeah.”

You're on the workbench within minutes. It's cluttered and dusty, but neither of you care.

His mouth is at your neck now, hungry in a way that feels new — like he's been holding back for weeks, months. His hands are firm where they grip your hips, but his touch is almost reverent, like he's afraid to take too much all at once.

“Been thinking about this,” he says against your skin, low and wrecked. “You. That night you fell asleep in the AV room. The way you said my name.”

You exhale a shaky laugh.

“You’re such a freak.”

He huffs, presses a kiss to your collarbone.

“You like it.”

You do. God, you do.

His hands slide under your shirt, slow and searching. You lift your arms, and he helps pull it over your head with surprising care. His fingers brush over your chest, your stomach, reverent and unsure.

“You’re allowed to look,” you tease gently.

He does — and the way he looks at you makes your whole body flush.

“I’m not great at this,” he admits quietly. “Just... tell me if I mess something up.”

Your heart pulls. You cup his face and kiss him again, slower this time.

“You’re not messing anything up.”

When he finally touches you in earnest, it’s a little clumsy — he’s clearly overthinking, too aware of your reactions, too in his head — but it’s sweet. Honest. Every movement feels like it means something.

You guide his hand. Help him find the rhythm. And once he gets it—once he really sees the way your breath hitches and your hips shift—he gets bolder.

His mouth finds your chest. Then your stomach. He murmurs something against your skin, but it’s too quiet to catch.

You tangle your fingers in his hair and gasp when he finally pushes your underwear down and touches you properly — one finger, two, slow but insistent.

“Fuck, Kei—”

That’s what breaks him. Your voice like that. His name like that.

He presses his forehead to your shoulder, still working his fingers inside you, lips parted as he groans softly into your skin.

“Want you,” he says, low and ragged. “I—I wanna feel you. All of you.”

“Then take it,” you whisper. “I’m right here.”

It’s not fast. He makes sure you’re ready. Makes sure you’re looking at him when he finally pushes inside, like he needs to see you fall apart for him.

You breathe his name again and again, and every time you do, he fucks into you a little deeper. A little harder. Still holding back, like he's afraid of hurting you. But you can tell he’s close — his body trembles against yours, his breathing fractured and tight.

When you come, it’s with his name on your lips, your fingers digging into his back, your legs tight around his waist. He follows right after, buried deep, biting down softly on your shoulder to muffle the noise he makes.

He doesn’t move for a long time.

Just breathes with you. One hand tangled with yours, the other resting over your heartbeat.

“You still want me to come back?” you whisper after a while, voice hoarse.

He lifts his head. Meets your eyes.

“Only if you plan on staying.”

authors note: I absolutely loved writing this!! I hope I stayed true to tsukis character and I also hope your happy with your request! :) reqs are still open and very much welcome! ly all <3

[omniphilic]

hiya soileil!!!! i wanted to ask if you have personal hcs (headcanons) for mark and how you generally like to imagine him when you write him!

thanks for the ask! 🙏🏾 next time if you're not sure how to spell my name, copy and paste it from my intro post or let autocorrect do its thang (fun fact: my name is sun in french :3), but to answer your question because i think about this A LOT.

I like to combine Comic Mark and Show Mark personality wise. Not to say the show version of him is the greatest person alive, but I choose to keep of his poorer traits or qualities from the comics rendition of him to give him more dimension. Overall, I follow the order of events as they occur in the show.

In my opinion, Mark is extremely Golden Retriever. I think he’s very personable, gentle and affectionate with those he loves, but I also see him as someone who can be stubborn, reluctant to change, impulsive, and self-centered. He isn't met with a lot pushback ever. In the comics this is more prevalent, as the only characters to openly disagree with Mark are portrayed as villains or become evil (Cecil, Robot) over the course of the run.

In the show, Debbie has the balls or the sense to actually nip Mark's nonsense in the bud. When Mark tells her to "Make me" after she tells him to come inside and stop flying. When she says "Is this what you need?" she's forcing him to confront that sense of self-righteousness. Amber is another character that does this, when she gets mad at him for 'ditching them' and leaving them to fight the Re-Animen.

I think Amber was justified in her irritation because he is essentially playing in her face, choosing to maintain the lie of him just disappearing instead of coming clean then and there or at any other point before. He lies to her throughout the majority of the relationship when the rest of his close companions already (William and Eve), choosing to leave Amber in the dark. As she goes on to reveal she knew his secret, I can understand her frustration. How are they supposed to be going steady when he's withholding a quite vital part of himself for.... literally no reason. She would've been safer had she have known, she would have never been mad at him if she had known. There were more benefits to telling her than not telling her.

Eve pushes back the hardest before they get together, like right before Omni-man fucks Mark's shit up and she tells him to stop moping about quitting hero work. He's presumptuous about her life, assuming he knows why she quit as opposed to asking directly, looking to follow in her footsteps because he's overwhelmed by a situation he himself created.

Overall, I don't think Mark is a very nice person. Going back to his conversation with Debbie on the back porch, I find it utterly insane he doesn't apologize to Debbie for essentially threatening her, and there are other instances of him not having others best interests at heart so he can maintain a sense of security—a big one being when he ditches Earth to go coddle her over a broken leg while the whole Invincible War is going on the background.

I think his self-centeredness doesn't allow him to deeply engage with the feelings of others, but his persistent, almost pervasive sense of conscientiousness is what keeps him on the straight and narrow for a large part of his time as Invincible. I feel like his sense of obligation is derived from guilt as opposed to love for humanity.

When Mark is around people he loves, or connects with emotionally, he is more comfortable divulging his true feelings. I find him to be both self-deterministic and rejection sensitive, averse to truly absorbing the opinions of others unless he feels that way himself, as well as being afraid of being told he's doing something wrong.

All of that to say... I don't think he's consciously being a bad person, he's just limited by those he's surrounded by, they don't tell him about himself regularly enough to get him used to that kind of push back.

For the most part I think he's on the level, tries his best to be a good person where he can. He has some capacity for pettiness, but it isn't often his first resort. Some of his biggest moments of growth occur when he's learning of the realities of the world, like during the first Flaxan invasion, where he realizes how brutal the life of a superhero can be, but he rarely ever has moments of self-discovery, understanding and reconciliation. TLDR; this boy needs a therapist.

He has nobody to relate to because nobody is exactly on his level, and the people who should be concerned with his emotional wellbeing (Eve or Debbie) and they don't encourage him to open up.

Often what happens to him in sensitive moments, when he does genuinely try to open up (to Eve, when he is trying to communicate what happened with future Eve) he is very strongly shut down, which would further reinforce his insistence on not communicating his true feelings.

This happens a lot. I think the reason is because of bad writing, honestly— Some people (primarily female characters, like Eve and Amber) act as is needed to move along the plot, I believe, but despite this shortcoming in the narrative I chose to just... bake it into his character.

Mark's upbringing (as a white dude who is written by a white dude) means he not only navigates the world differently but is socialized differently than most likely me or you, so he has a different sense of entitlement, a different understanding of right and wrong, and a lack of curiosity.

i think he would be more knowledgeable in his like. mid-later twenties (wait until I make that Dilf! piece with @wingfleur) but he's bumbling for a fair bit of his late teens early twenties.

He's just a loser trying his best!!! anyway this turned into a ramble imma dip out—

[theh0lylyre]

That necklace... and a start of a love story 💘

(V x F!reader, friends to lovers)

yes this user starves for V content so she makes her own

I actually got DMC5 last week and V is so fun to play…. my favorite character is obviously not V 🫩

Also I might not post for a while. Uni starts next week, so I’ll be busy. Gotta pass before I get V’s ass. I’m sorryyy ✨

“V, I think this girl likes you.”

You were beside Lady and you guys were chatting. You’ve been wanting to confess to your long-term crush, the emo boy, the human half of Vergil. You both have been close friends but you’re afraid that V might not even understand how you feel towards him.

You didn’t expect Lady to take the first move. Fuck. This was never part of the plan. You were supposed to confess before New Year. Or maybe mutter out words during an intense demon battle to give him motivation. You both approach V, walking towards him while his back faces you. You were already very, very flustered. And what’s worse is, Griffon adds fuel to the fire.

Griffon is well aware of how you feel towards V, and he promised to keep it a secret. Now, he’s on Lady’s side this time. You wish a qliphoth root could just take you right now and seal you away forever.

“O-Oh! Right! She has a crush on you—“

“Shut up, annoying chicken!!!”

You shout at Griffon, making him stop instantly. You knew he was afraid of you, yet he still spilled the honest truth to his summoner.

V faces towards the two of you, eyes locking with yours. Lady smirks, and runs away.

“Trish is calling me. See you later!”

You wanted to slap her but it has sinked in, that maybe this is the day where you lose your very best friend. Thanks to some annoying blue chicken and a short haired girl.

“….What is a crush? Like you want to crush me into pieces?”

V questions, still looking at you. He notices your flustered, red-as-a-tomato face, and a slight smirk forms on his lips. Maybe he does understand after all.

“Ha! Q-Quite the opposite actually—“

“—Stupid chicken! Ignore him, V. I-I don’t even know what he’s saying…”

“You will pay for this, Griff…” are the only words you can formulate in your head. Your mind is totally blank, afraid of what fate has in store for you. It’s over, you think. You still try to think.

With the help of his cane, he walks toward you, your faces now inches away from each other. You can feel the heat from his body radiating.

“Tell me, y/n. What is this… crush thing…?”

“U-Um… Nothing really! I don’t know what—“

V starts to feel a little frustrated. You were quite the honest girl to him. He knows all your secrets. And what makes it even painful is, he holds the necklace you gave him tightly. You gave it 3 years ago as a gift, and from that day he never took it off. But it seems that he’s about to rip it off his neck. 3 years down the drain. Fuck your devil-hunter-in-love-with-an-emo-boy life.

“Aren’t we close after all, y/n? You don’t keep secrets from me.”

You felt a pang of guilt. You now think it’s your fault. For admitting your crazy feelings to Lady and Mr. Annoying Chicken. You should’ve just kept it inside. Until you can’t hold it in anymore. Regret has bloomed in you.

Suddenly, you feel a gloved hand on your cheek. It was V’s hand. He checks on your temperature.

“Are you alright? You don’t look well. You’re quite red, too.”

“Ah…. Yeah! J-Just feeling a little cold…”

“You’re lying, aren’t you? I know there’s something deeper.”

You stay silent. At this point, you are completely surrendered by his touch.

“Uh oh… this is getting spicy…”

Without a word, V snaps, and Griffon disappears in an instant, leaving the two of you.

“I do not desire to conceal this feeling any longer, either.”

He drops his cane, both hands cupping your cheeks, and he pulls you in for a kiss. His lips feel soft against yours, and you instantly kissed back. You can’t believe that this boy stole your first kiss.

You both pull back, looking into each other’s eyes passionately. You did it. You finally confessed your feelings for him.

He suddenly pulls out his book, holding tightly onto the necklace you gave him, and reads one out loud to you.

“…I shall write your name here then. This is our book now.”

Little did you know that the poem he read was just one of the poems he wrote for you. Half of the book are full of poems about you, and V can’t wait to show them off throughout your brand new relationship. 🖤

[ghoastixx]

omfg IMAGINE lestat cleaning and dressing up fledgling reader😭cooing softly and telling his fledgling how cute they look.

To build up confidence (Lestat with his new fledgling)

Author's note: You don't even understand, I screamed when I saw this. I BELIEVE THERE IS NOT ENOUGH FLEDGLING APPRECIATION IN FICS!!!! Like yes, let me believe I am a vampire's new favorite little fledgling, thank you. Thank you so incredibly much for this request. Since you did not specify on gender, I am going to write reader as gender neutral, but if I do end up describing body type or whatever, it may lead more towards male (yes I know Lestat is Bi, sue me.) I am almost done with 'The Vampire Lestat' book so a good bit from that is mentioned here. Thank you again! Lots of love!

(I had to look up what 'cyrano de bergerac' was when writing this and I fear it is now going to be my new reading material...)

-Ri

Things to look out for: Degradation, blood (obviously), not really being seen as an independent adult anymore (It's not forced infantilization I swear it's different,) Honest to god Lestat is his own warning, bashing on American theater (I'm in American theater,) I imagine the production is Rocky Horror Picture Show, I just feel like it's right.

God, aren't you just adorably pathetic? That is the first thing your maker thinks about you. Of course, first glances can be deceiving.

American theater is so intriguing, no? Some of these shows just lack elegance and real, true, talent. But, that is sometimes the point, right? Lestat did not have high hopes for this little...production. If anything, he only came out of curiosity and a sort of nostalgia. Something about the little hole in the wall theater reminded him of his own uprising with the traveling performers, or perhaps even what used to be his own little theater in Paris. Of course, his own theater had been...nicer than this little... honestly could you even call it a theater?

He wasn't sure why he was so picky tonight, this was a thrill, no? A rush! Something that was not perfect, and of course, sometimes art was not meant to be perfect. After all, it's not like this was 'Cyrano de Bergerac' anyways. It was meant to be silly, a little something new for him to admire... But this? This is honestly not what he expected... and he was upset.

There was no true talent on this stage, no time put into this at all, no respect. Lestat honestly was debating getting up and leaving, but then he heard this voice, and he was stopped.

God, aren't you adorably pathetic?

Why you were not a lead in this production, was baffling to Lestat. You could act far better than majority of the mortals he had watched grace the stage this night, but your voice is what caught his attention. That voice. It was so...strained. Your voice was strained. The best part? You knew.

You had so much confidence, standing up on that stage, doing your part, but all Lestat had to do was take one look at you, and he almost had to giggle at how fast your thoughts were going.

"shitshitshitshitGODIsoundlikeshittonightohmygodismymiconwhattheFU-"

He was impressed, you were aware of how tired your voice was, how this little theater was doing nothing but ruining your chances at performing for the finer people, yet you were still having fun. How curious... So, like any respectful patron...he found himself knocking on the door to the dressing room...and offering you voice lessons...

Normally whenever he got this far, he would embarrass the musical offender by showing just how much more sophisticated in the arts he was than them and then using them as a blood bag, sparing the world of their miserable vocal range. He found himself amused as this little human stood in front of him, wiping their makeup off, hair pulled back, a tee shirt and sweatpants already thrown on, as they questioned his motives with offense.

"Look man, I know I didn't really sound good tonight, but that doesn't give you any right to come in here and-" Lestat cut you off by explaining exactly what was wrong with your voice and exactly how he planned to fix it.

As the piano sang under his fingers, your voice, now less tired and looser with the help of some honey, wafted from your chords. Everytime he would stop and say you were wrong, you took the note, thanking him. It seemed whoever had been working with you on the music for this show had done a miserable job... You actually sounded much better with the tips you were being given... this wasn't the affect that he wanted. He debated just killing you right then and there, but then you said something and he almost stopped playing.

"I really appreciate you taking time out of your night to help me out, I didn't even know what I was doing wrong. You really helped me out. You play beautifully... You think you can help me out with this song?" Perhaps it was amusement or maybe pity for this kid, but Lestat became their vocal coach, and favorable patron.

Months went by and Lestat watched his pet project grow through the shows in this little muggy theater. Almost every lead roll you could've possibly wanted had become yours, flowers so many you were almost out of vases, and other patrons begging you to come to their theater, it was all a dream come true! Throughout all of this, you stayed faithful to Lestat, seeking him out for help, constantly looking to repay this 'debt' that you felt you owed him, which he thought was adorable. You gave him free tickets to the shows and the satisfaction of how well you were doing on stage, how marvelous you were to watch, and the thrill of watching mortals question your relationship to the man, often reffering to him as your 'rich uncle' and some even questioning if he was your father and you a nepotism child. He had grown fond of you, thinking this endearing, he couldn't help but wonder what you would be like when he finally sunk his teeth into you, wrapped his claws around you, and showed you just how much more potential you had.

It was so warm out tonight, his little human was so miserable it was amusing, they were basically using Lestat as their personal cooler, leaning up against his side as they finished going over lines for the next distracting show they were going to audition for. Lestat had been growing impatient, he often found himself growing lonely when the little nuisance had to go home, how lonesome his big old house had become, and tonight was no exception to this.

"Lestat, are you listening to me?" They sat up against him, tilting their head, awaiting response.

"You could have far better, ma colombe," He felt annoyance rise in his throat when they scoffed, almost a laugh.

"I could have better? Yeah right, look at me 'stat, you ain't getting much better out of this."

"I could give you better, everything you've ever wanted, and you doubt me." Their frown fell as his tone was practically laced with seriousness, they sat up completely, looking at him.

"Lestat, you know I appreciate everything that you do and have already done for me, you don't have to do anymore, you already do to much," It was his turn to scoff,

"Too much? You could have so much more and you say this is too much? Are you dense or just stupidly naive?" They just shook their head, they had long ago become used to Lestat's petty insults. He looked at the human when he felt their warm hands lay over his cold ones, and that's when he realized what he truly wanted. "I'm a vampire."

"What."

It took half an hour to calm his human down, to explain everything to them, to get them to believe. They were sitting in front of him on the table, curled into themselves like a frightened child, but they made no move to escape, nodding, a bit pale. Lestat stood up a bit so that he was eye level with them, moving his hand up to cup their cheek gently.

"Please understand, mon cher, I am not going to hurt you. I want to see you thrive under my guidance,"

"You want to make me into a vampire too." He smiled at how blunt his little human was, how adorable they were.

"I am giving you a choice, mon cher, you can leave now and never come back and pray I never see you on your own again, or you can stay here with me and have everything you could possibly want and more, including bigger and better stages."

They looked down at their lap, hesitating, which worried Lestat just a bit, but one look into their head made him beyond satisfied. "My pet, if you just want to stay here with me for me, that's fine too." All it took was for his human to nod, and their fate was sealed.

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

Lestat was enthralled as he looked at the creation, his creation, gathering their bearings in front of him. The turning had been strenuous for his little fledgling, but it proved efficient and was finally over, their human body had just died, and his blood now flowed through their shaky body. They perked up at the sound of Lestat's laughs, brows furrowed in a morbid concentration. It sounded like music to them, a gorgeous sound they could listen to forever.

"Mon bébé, look at you," He cooed, stepping towards them. Their hair was all messy, their own internal inneards on their face, hands, and shirt. Their face was smeared with blood and their eyes a new striking color, he kneeled down in front of them, a smile of pure admiration on his face. "such a messy eater, non?" He teased, licking his thumb and pressing it against his fledglings cheek, wiping some of the blood off. His fledgling turned their head, he clicked his tongue. "Now now, no need to fuss, little one. Let's get you cleaned up, yeah?"

He scooped up his little fledgling, melting as they held onto him, nuzzling into his neck. Lestat helped his new fledgling change into a soft pair of clothes he had, already planning what their new wardrobe would become, and started to wipe his face and hands off with a wet cloth.

"My little one, look at you...you're so cute, so precious..." His little fledgling looked up at him with this new-found innocence in their eyes, like Lestat held the world, pressing themselves against their maker's every touch. Lestat could've died, he knew he would be wrapped around this little one's finger now. "Mon bébé, always so good for me, non? My sweet little fledgling, if I'd have known you'd be so precious I would have turned you ages ago..." He pressed a gentle kiss to his fledglings forehead, he began to brush out their hair.

"Oh my darling, how my stage will love you."