#this is OLD OLD OLD but I really need to get back to just going at stuff

[cheftsunoda]

pls pls pls pls something with kimiiiiiiii

no distractions — ka12

smau + blurbs

kimi antonelli x !f1 academy driver + wolff reader

toto wolff x !daughter driver reader

kimi and yn have been in a relationship for the last few months…however, it has been a secret. but not for the reasons you’d think— it’s not a fear of a bad reaction from toto or what the press would think. toto has a serious ‘no distractions’ rules for both his youngest driver and his daughter during the racing reason. maybe a distraction is for the best in this world of chaos…

fc : annie schröter & various f1 academy ladies:)

not proofread

(a/n) many many requests for kimi:) also for my dear @angelluv16

—

yn_wolff

liked by susie_wolff, georgerussell63, lewishamilton & 2,907,057 others.

yn_wolff : george getting scolded by my father on FaceTime to ‘act like a senior driver’ was the best part of my week

—

georgerussell63 : can you plz tell him that i was joking

liked by yn_wolff

yn_wolff : you are 27 years old and you are the senior driver…you tell him

liked by georgerussell63

georgerussell63 : i might be 27 years old but toto lectures still scare me

liked by yn_wolff

susie_wolff : So proud of you, my girl! 💪🏻❤️

liked by yn_wolff

yn_wolff : love you mommmyyyy

lewishamilton : Wish I could’ve been on that FT call 😁

liked by yn_wolff

yn_wolff : i don’t recall dad ever having to lecture you for that reason

liked by lewishamilton

georgerussell63 : listen im not used to this. its like being handed a baby as a first time mother

kimi.antonelli : mi scusi?? un bambino?? (excuse me?? a baby??)

liked by yn_wolff and lewishamilton

yn_wolff : oh way to go. you pissed off the italian. (and toto’s favorite) (and my favorite)

liked by kimi.antonelli

georgerussell63 : no toto told me he doesn’t have favorites

yn_wolff : toto lied

liked by lewishamilton

f1academy : Pretty girl! 😍

liked by yn_wolff

mercedesamgf1 : Mini Wolff has done such a good job being CEO and team principal while Boss man is away.

liked by yn_wolff and kimi.antonelli

yn_wolff : i know im rlly out here running ts

carmenmmundt : pleaseee tell me you have the video

liked by yn_wolff

yn_wolff : check your messages carms

liked by carmenmmundt

lando : send it to me plzzz🙏🏻

alexalbon : i NEED it

yn_wolff : ok I just sent it in a mass text to everybody

liked by alexalbon and lando

georgerussell63 : really guys

username00 : is she attempting a soft launch??

—

The motorhome was quiet, tucked away from the chaos of the paddock, and for once, so was my mind. Kimi lay stretched out on the couch, one arm slung around my shoulders, the other resting lazily across his chest. My legs were draped over his lap, a shared blanket tossed haphazardly over both of us. It was peaceful, the kind of rare stillness that only existed between back to back race weekends and overly complicated strategy meetings.

He was talking softly—something about feeling the pressure now that he’d taken Lewis’ seat. He never admitted it outright, but I could hear the weight in his voice. People weren’t just watching—they were expecting. Comparing. Waiting to see if he’d crack.

“You’re not him,” I said quietly, tracing patterns on his hoodie. “You’re not supposed to be. You’re you. That’s who Mercedes picked. That’s who I pick.”

He turned his head, just enough to meet my eyes, and gave me that rare, quiet smile—the one only I ever really got. His fingers brushed a strand of hair behind my ear, and for a second, the world outside didn’t exist.

CLUNK.

The door burst open.

“Oi, have either of you seen—”

George stopped mid-sentence. His eyes landed on the blanket. The tangled limbs. Kimi. Me.

The realization hit fast.

“Oh my god.” His grin was immediate.

I bolted upright like I’d been electrocuted, Kimi jerking back so hard he almost knocked over the lamp.

“It’s not what it looks like!” I blurted, way too quickly.

“Really?” George raised a brow, smug. “Because it looks like Mercedes’ new golden boy is snuggling the F1 princess in a very distraction-like manner.”

Kimi groaned under his breath. I elbowed him gently, trying to look composed while my heart threatened to punch a hole in my chest.

George turned to leave, clearly savoring the moment. “Toto is going to love this.”

“GEORGE!” I was already off the couch, chasing after him, half-laughing, half-threatening. “If you say a word to my dad, I swear to God— I will pay someone to run you off the track!”

“Worth it!” he shouted over his shoulder, dodging out the door as I followed him with a throw pillow in hand and zero mercy.

Behind me, Kimi just sighed and muttered, “I’m definitely getting a lecture for this.”

—

George was already halfway down the paddock, power-walking like he was leading a cool down lap, phone in hand and a mission in his heart.

“GEORGE, I SWEAR—”

I was practically sprinting after him, trying not to trip over my own shoelaces or the leftover cables running along the motorhome row.

“You don’t have to do this! There’s still time to not be annoying!”

He glanced over his shoulder with the biggest grin on his face. “Too late! This is premium gossip, and Lewis deserves to hear it first.”

“GEORGE.”

He ignored me, of course. Because why wouldn’t he? He was already tapping his phone screen like a man possessed. I saw Lewis’ name pop up at the top of the screen and nearly screamed.

“Hi, mate,” George greeted, way too casually. “You’ll never guess what I just walked in on—”

I launched myself forward and slapped the phone out of his hand before he could say another word. It bounced onto a table outside the Mercedes hospitality unit.

“HEY!”

“Don’t ‘hey’ me! That’s my godfather! I’m not letting you tattle like you’re in Year 6 and just caught someone sneaking sweets before lunch!”

George was trying so hard not to laugh that he was nearly choking. “I’m just saying, it’s objectively hilarious. Like, you and Kimi? Caught in the motorhome? By me? Come on—Lewis will LOVE this.”

I pointed a finger at him, out of breath and deeply unamused. “You say one word to him and I will personally leak your sim data from Silverstone last year.”

George paused.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

Just then, Lewis himself strolled out of hospitality, holding a cup of tea and looking blissfully unaware.

George opened his mouth.

I stepped in front of him like a bodyguard. “Hi, Uncle Lewis! You look so peaceful today! Just glowing. Nothing interesting happening at all.”

He blinked at us, clearly suspicious.

“…Are you two okay?”

George coughed. “Totally. Nothing to report.”

I smiled way too hard. “Yep. No drama. Just vibes.”

Lewis squinted. “Right…”

As he walked away, I glared sideways at George. “You’re insufferable.”

He smirked. “And you’re in love. How cute.”

—

yn_wolff

liked by kimi.antonelli, carmenmmundt, susie_wolff & 3,087,552 others.

yn_wolff : 5 more days until the first break of the season. (can’t come fast enough) (i need it to survive)

tagged : kimi.antonelli, georgerussell63, carmenmmundt and susie_wolff

—

kimi.antonelli : pls pack me in your suitcase for break. im so tired

liked by yn_wolff and georgerussell63

yn_wolff : ordering a bigger suitcase rn

georgerussell63 : 🤭

kimi.antonelli : george cheated in the challenge btw

georgerussell63 : i did NOT

yn_wolff : i was sitting there the whole time. you most def did. @/f1 20 place grid penalty!!

liked by lando, alexalbon, kimi.antonelli and maxverstappen1

F1 : 📝📝

carmenmmundt : miss you already pretty girl

liked by yn_wolff

georgerussell63 : who does that hand belong to??

yn_wolff : your girlfriend

liked by carmenmmundt

georgerussell63 : is this just bully george day?

yn_wolff : that is every day

username05 : def a soft launch omg

lando : why do you look so chill and well rested while i look like ive been hit with 3 trains and a Ferrari strategy call?

liked by yn_wolff

yn_wolff : it’s the wolff genes

georgerussell63 : it’s because she is in loveeee

yn_wolff : @/alexalbon & @/carmenmmundt come get your menace please

alexalbon : george leave her alone before you lose your job

liked by yn_wolff

lewishamilton : You’ve been working hard kid— you deserve a break.

liked by yn_wolff

yn_wolff : so do you after dealing with Ferrari for half a season

liked by lewishamilton

—

kimi.antonelli

liked by yn_wolff, georgerussell63, olliebearman & 1,549,087 others.

kimi.antonelli : first week of break spent back home🇮🇹

—

yn_wolff : sorry I couldn’t fit you in my suitcase:( but it looks like you’re having a great time ❤️

liked by kimi.antonelli

kimi.antonelli : the best ❤️

olliebearman : 8/10 soft launch.

liked by kimi.antonelli

lando : this is no mystery. Ik exactly who that is. you are in trouble 😁

liked by kimi.antonelli

yn_wolff : god I hate you brits. not one of ya can keep your mouth shut

liked by lando and georgerussell63

olliebearman : excuse me??? i never said ANYTHING

yn_wolff : you are an exception

mercedesamgf1 : Enjoy your break Kimi!

liked by kimi.antonelli

—

yn_wolff

italy 📍

liked by kimi.antonelli, georgerussell63, mercedesamgf1 & 4,907,809 others.

yn_wolff : italy, ily

—

georgerussell63 : do you love Italy or the person in italy??

yn_wolff : this is me leaving you on read

username00 : omg it’s Kimi

username10 : insane power couple

mercedesamgf1 : this looks…familiar

carmenmmundt : so cute 🫶🏻

liked by yn_wolff

olliebearman : 9/10 soft launch

liked by yn_wolff

lando : you both make it so obvious

yn_wolff : focus on getting your own relationship before digging into mine norizz

lando : get mad at george not me — he told me

georgerussell63 : snitch

susie_wolff : So sweet❤️

—

There’s something different about Italy when you’re not just visiting — when you’re with someone who belongs to the place. Kimi knows every little side street, every beach that doesn’t show up on tourist maps. He points out the bakery where he used to sneak pastries with his cousins, like he’s handing me pieces of his childhood.

His hand never leaves my back as we walk through the market. I catch his mom smiling every time he touches me, like she’s already known I was going to be here long before we even did.

At dinner, I sit between him and his little sister, our legs tangled under the table while warm Italian voices buzz around us. Kimi leans in to whisper translations, but honestly, I don’t need them. His family’s laughter, the clink of glasses, the way his thumb keeps brushing over my knee — it all feels like home. I catch him watching me more than once with that soft little half-smile of his, like he’s still surprised I’m really here.

One evening, we sneak away on his family’s old scooter. I wrap my arms around his waist, bury my face in his back, and laugh into the wind. He reaches back to squeeze my hand whenever we hit a straight stretch, like he just needs to feel me there. We stop at a cliffside and watch the sun sink into the sea. Neither of us says anything for a while. He kisses my shoulder gently, and that says enough.

Later, his dad hands me a film camera and says, “You’re already one of us. Might as well help capture it.”

So I do.

Kimi laughing with his cousins, totally unguarded. His sister tucking wildflowers into my hair. Him and I barefoot on the sand, sneaking kisses behind his mom’s umbrella like teenagers.

—

Taking Maggie for ice cream was technically Kimi’s idea. But the second she looked up at me with those big brown eyes and asked if I wanted to come too, there was no way I was saying no.

We walked down the cobbled streets of the village, her skipping between us, one hand in mine and the other in Kimi’s. She told us all about how she once ate four scoops in one sitting like it was a world record. Kimi just groaned and said, “Yeah, and then threw up in my shoes.”

To which Maggie replied, completely unfazed, “Worth it.”

The gelateria was a tiny, pastel-colored spot that looked like it belonged in a postcard. Maggie pressed her face to the glass case, absolutely agonizing over her choice. Kimi already knew what he wanted — stracciatella, always — and when he looked at me, I just shrugged and said, “Whatever has the most chocolate in it.”

We ended up sitting on a little bench outside, Maggie in the middle with a double scoop of pistachio and raspberry that dripped down her wrist before she even took a bite. Kimi handed her a napkin, which she immediately ignored. I reached over to wipe her chin, and she just grinned at me with that gap-toothed, ice-cream-drunk look only kids can pull off.

Kimi leaned back, his arm draped behind me, watching the two of us like he was trying to memorize the moment. I caught him smiling when Maggie rested her sticky head on my shoulder.

“You’re good with her,” he said quietly, nudging my foot with his. “She really likes you.”

I smiled and stole a bite of his gelato. “She has good taste. Clearly runs in the family.”

He rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling.

Maggie, completely unaware of how soft we’d just gotten, suddenly asked, “Can I have another scoop if I say you guys are in love?”

Kimi nearly choked. I laughed so hard I almost dropped my cone.

We didn’t give her a second scoop. But we did let her pick the music for the walk back.

—

We came back sun-warmed and slightly sticky, Maggie’s cheeks dusted with sugar and her hands somehow still covered in melted gelato despite me wiping them down twice. Kimi held the door open for us, brushing a curl from my face as I walked past. I smiled at him without thinking — soft, easy, like second nature.

That was my mistake.

Because the moment I stepped inside, I saw them. My parents. Sitting at the garden table, clinking mimosa glasses with Kimi’s parents like this was some sort of diplomatic summit. There were pastries. Fresh flowers. An aura of parental chaos. Kimi froze behind me.

“Oh no,” I whispered, under my breath.

“Oh no,” he repeated, under his.

Mum spotted us first. She smiled—the smile. The one that said I know everything and I’m trying not to laugh about it in front of your father.

“Hi, darling,” she said sweetly, waving us over like this wasn’t a whole setup from the universe. “Did you two have fun?”

I opened my mouth to respond, but Maggie beat me to it. “YN bought me ice cream and Kimi said she’s his gi—”

Kimi coughed. Loudly.

“—giggler,” she finished, completely unconvincingly. “Because she giggles a lot.”

I turned slowly to look at her. She gave me an innocent thumbs-up and started eating a croissant like she hadn’t just tried to blow up our entire lives in front of Toto Wolff.

Mum was vibrating with quiet laughter. Kimi’s mother looked like she wanted to say “finally.” His dad just nodded, like this confirmed a bet he’d made with himself months ago.

And Papa? Toto looked directly at Kimi. Then at me. Then at the not-insignificant way our hands were still touching.

He raised an eyebrow.

“Brunch?” he asked. Voice calm. Dangerous.

Kimi, to his credit, didn’t flinch. “Sounds great.”

I could practically feel mum’s delight from across the table.

As we sat down, she leaned in and whispered, “This’ll be fun.”

I sighed, reached for a piece of bread, and muttered, “Only if no one lets Maggie speak again.”

—

yn_wolff

miami 📍

liked by lewishamilton, carmenmmundt, kimi.antonelli & 4,098,790 others.

yn_wolff : miami— always a pleasure. (yay kimi! p1 quali)

—

yourbff : i love you and miami :)

liked by yn_wolff

yn_wolff : best time with you

carmenmmundt : you are the IT girl. so miami coded

liked by yn_wolff

kimi.antonelli : great weekend. great city. great girl.

liked by yn_wolff, lando, georgerussell63

lando : i know that’s kimi in the mirror pic don’t play with me

yn_wolff : what did i say

username22 : the ‘yay kimi’ caption like you’re not fully dating is actually comedy

liked by olliebearman

olliebearman : longest soft launch in my whole 20 years of living

liked by yn_wolff

—

f1gossipgirls

liked by georgerussell63, lando and 208,090 others.

f1gossipgirls : New paparazzi pics show what looks very much like Mercedes’ golden boy Kimi Antonelli kissing Y/N Wolff (yes, Toto’s daughter 👀) during their vacation on the Italian coast.

—

user has turned off comments.

—

My palms were sweating. Which, frankly, was ridiculous. I race cars at 200 km/h for a living. I’ve gone wheel to wheel with girls twice my size and once drove half a race with a loose visor screw. But this? Sitting across from my father with Kimi beside me, trying to casually bring up the fact that we’ve been secretly dating for months? Yeah. This was the most terrifying thing I’d done all year.

“So…” I started, playing with the hem of my sleeve. “There’s something we wanted to talk to you about.”

Toto looked up from his laptop, eyes flicking between us with the kind of calm that made me more nervous than if he’d been yelling.

Kimi, to his credit, didn’t flinch. “It’s about me and Y/N.”

My dad raised an eyebrow.

“We’re… together,” I said, heart pounding. “Like, dating. We have been for a while now. But we didn’t say anything because of the no distractions rule and—”

Toto held up a hand.

“I know,” he said simply.

I blinked. “You… what?”

“I’m not blind,” he said, with the faintest smirk. “He looks at you like you’re a trophy. Also, Susie told me.”

I whipped around. “She what?”

Toto ignored me, turning to Kimi instead. “You’re both winning races. Training hard. Staying out of drama. If this is a distraction, I want more of them.”

Kimi nodded, looking both respectful and vaguely relieved. “Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t call me ‘sir,’” Toto muttered. “You’ve hugged me three times this season, you’ve lost that right.”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it.

“Just one rule,” he added, giving us that look. “No kissing in the garage. I’m still your father. And your team boss.”

“Deal,” I said quickly, while Kimi mumbled something that sounded like “understood.”

As we stood up to leave, Toto called after us.

“Oh, and Kimi?”

He turned.

“You break her heart, and I break your contract.”

Kimi went a little pale. I grinned the entire way out of the room.

—

kimi.antonelli

liked by yn_wolff, lando, olliebearman and 5,090,879 others.

kimi.antonelli : i missed the whole 'don't date the bosses daughter' memo

—

georgerussell63 : toto’s gonna frame this post and hang it in his office

liked by yn_wolff and kimi.antonelli

lando : you only got away with it bc he loves you. no one else could of pulled this off. i respect

liked by yn_wolff and kimi.antonelli

charles_leclerc : i want to be this brave one day

liked by yn_wolff and kimi.antonelli

susie_wolff : Happy to have you a part of the family, Kimi! So cute.

liked by yn_wolff and kimi.antonelli

lewishamilton : Well, if the father approves...I guess that means the godfather has to as well. Happy for you both!

liked by yn_wolff and kimi.antonelli

olliebearman : oh thank GOD. i was getting bored.

liked by yn_wolff and kimi.antonelli

carmenmmundt : my favesssss

liked by yn_wolff and kimi.antonelli

mercedesamgf1 : oh now this is ICONIC

liked by yn_wolff and kimi.antonelli

[p1astr81]

Hiii!! 🫶

Can I request for a Lando x rival!reader? Like she's a driver from another team and they hate each other very much— always fighting on and off track, 🖕 every time one surpasses the other, cursing a lot. But, when she's really on a mood, and actually not caring for Lando teases, he gets worried and finally show some cute feelings!

Sorry if you don't like it and you can change anything you like :))

I twisted this a little without actually meaning to. Sorry!!!

You hopped out the car furious. Lando had just crashed the both of you out. “You have to leave space on the outside, Norris! That’s how it fucking works!”

“Maybe you should know when to back off.” He shot back

“And give you a free win? I don’t think so.”

He scoffed a laugh. “Like you would’ve won that anyway.”

“I might have if you knew how to fucking race! What? Did someone’s daddy not teach him how to go wheel to wheel?”

“Yeah, yours.”

The trackside marshalls were dragging you both away now. “Fuck you, Norris,” you flipped him off.

He returns the gesture. “Oh I bet you’d like that,”

“You’re disgusting.” You spat.

He’d impeded you in quali.

You caught him in the media pen. “Seriously, your agenda against me is really getting old.” You kept your voice low, aware of the many microphones around you.

“That’s just racing.” He shrugged.

“No. It’s called playing dirty.” Your press officer grabbed your arm. Her efforts to pull you away were in vain.

“It was an honest mistake. Don’t let it keep you up at night.”

You raised both of your hands, one used as a shield from the cameras. The other was used to flip him off.

He laughed. “Real mature of you.”

“Oh, you’re the last person to be talking about maturity.”

“Y/n, enough.” Your press officer tugged your arm again. You complied this time, leaving Lando with a roll of your eyes.

The next day, after the race—which you’d won—he saw you again. Walking the paddock. He hadn’t thought you saw him standing outside the McLaren hospitality. But you raised your hand, and gifted him yet another bird without even looking at him.

“That’s my seat.” You pointed out.

You were one of the last to arrive to the driver’s dinner. When you did get there, Lando was sitting in your seat.

He raised a brow. “I didn’t see your name on it.”

“I always sit next to Max. He’s my teammate.”

“And he’s my friend.” He tilted his head.

“Ha!” One short burst of a laugh. “I didn’t know you had any of those.” Then you turned to Max, who was watching the interaction with an amused expression. “Is he paying you for this?”

Max laughed.

“I do have friends. But I guess you don’t since you seem to need to sit by Max so badly.”

Damn. He got you there. You bit your cheek and turned on your heel. You ended up sat between Alex and Ollie.

You ate something foul. That was the only explanation for the ache in your stomach.

You were missing much of the FIA ceremony, hunched in a secluded hallway right by the bathrooms. Footsteps clicked along the tile nearing closer to you with every step. You straightened, acting as fine as possible. Still, a hand clutched your stomach.

“Skipping the ceremony? I didn’t think you could have good ideas. Guess I was wrong.”

Oh fuck. Not him. Anyone but him.

You ignored him, eyes to the wall in front of you, measuring your breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

Lando got closer, his brows furrowing. “Y/l/n? You don’t look too hot.”

Your face scrunched in pain at the feeling like someone was stabbing you in the stomach. “Thanks.” You muttered.

“No seriously, are you okay?” He was right in front of you now, obstructing all your vision.

“Just go away.” You groaned.

“I’m definitely not doing that. Not when you look like you’re dying.” His eyes were bulging out of his head. “Should I go get someone? I’m sure they have some sort of medic here.”

You groaned again, a new wave of pain shooting up your spine. You sunk to the floor, Lando dropped to his knees with you. A cold sweat started to collect along your hairline.

“Okay, I’m going to get someone.” He stood.

You caught his hand before he could go anywhere. He froze, eyes darting from your hand in his to your fiery glare. “Don’t.” Was all you said in a shaky exhale. Eyes squeezed shut, your head hit the wall.

“Will you tell me what happened then?” The urgency hasn’t left his voice since he arrived at the scene.

In through your nose. Out through your mouth. “Food poisoning.” Your voice was hardly a whisper.

“This bad?”

Your nod was small, but it delivered your point. “Just please go.”

Despite your eyes being closed, he looked at you like you were crazy. “And leave you here? Alone?”

“I’ll be fine.” You huffed.

“Jesus, I’m not leaving you by yourself. Not when you’re like this.” He stubbornly repeated.

You realized then that your hand was still in his. You quickly dropped it. “Norris please.”

His brain fought between being stubborn and staying, and listening to your wishes and leaving. So he compromised. “I’ll go get Max.” He sighed.

The next morning

breakfast was awkward.

“…so, yeah. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean anything.”

You’d tuned out Lando’s rambling a while ago. He’d been going for ten minutes.

“Okay. Thanks.” You shrugged, taking a small bite of a banana muffin.

Lando looks dumbfounded. “That’s it? I just apologized for a year’s worth of arguments and you say ‘thanks’?”

You just nodded.

“No, ‘I’m sorry, too’?”

You blinked, then, “I’m sorry, too.”

His jaw fell. Unreal. This is unreal.

You put your muffin down slowly, and dust your hands off. “I’m getting over the worst case of food poisoning this world has ever seen. Talk to me when the mere smell of food doesn’t make me gag.”

There’s so much attitude in your words, and instead of Lando getting into another spat with you, he smiles. “I was really hoping that apology wouldn’t change how you talk to me. Good to see it hasn’t.”

You raised a brow. “What? You got a think for it or something.”

It was meant to be teasing. But Lando said nothing, just a shrug of one of his shoulders.

You leaned back in your seat, crossing your arms over your chest. “Interesting.”

[palephilosopherautomaton]

Title: "Living History: Mr. Vale Breaks the Silence"

It started on a Tuesday, third period. Room 312. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly as a gaggle of half-asleep juniors dragged themselves to their desks, the smell of dry erase markers and stale coffee lingering in the air. Mr. Vale — tall, sharply dressed in his usual charcoal vest and old-fashioned cufflinks, with hair silvered not by age but experience — closed the classroom door, turned to the board, and silently erased “Unit 6: The Fall of the Roman Empire” from the schedule.

He turned back to the class. His voice, always calm, now had a strange weight behind it.

“Today,” he said, “we’re going to talk about what really happened.”

A few kids glanced up, confused. One yawned audibly.

“Because frankly,” he continued, tapping the cover of the textbook, “this thing is garbage.”

There was a beat of silence.

“You see,” Mr. Vale said, “I was there.”

Nervous laughter rippled through the room. Then he said it again.

“I was there. I watched Rome burn from the inside. I spoke with Attila the Hun. I helped write the edicts of Constantine — he was illiterate in Greek, by the way — and don’t get me started on Julius Caesar. The man couldn’t resist a pun, even mid-battle.”

A girl in the front row frowned, raising a hand.

“Wait… are you saying you’re like… immortal?”

Mr. Vale gave a small, tired smile.

“Immortality is a word humans use for something they don’t understand. I don’t age. I don’t die. And I’ve seen the world rewrite itself again and again to make sense of things it doesn’t want to believe.”

He walked to the window and pulled open the blinds. The spring sun fell across the room.

“So today, we correct the lies. Starting with Rome.”

Lesson One: The Fall of Rome (Spoiler: It Didn't Fall)

“The Roman Empire didn’t fall in 476 CE. That’s just a convenient date to make students feel like history is neat and tidy. Rome didn’t fall — it fractured. It whispered itself into the Church, into the laws, into the very language you still use. The so-called 'barbarians' didn’t sack Rome out of savagery; they were invited in by a senate too riddled with greed and fear to protect its own walls. And Odoacer? Not a conqueror. A caretaker. A man who loved Rome more than the Romans did.”

“I should know. I sat beside him when he crossed the Rubicon.”

Lesson Two: The Crusades (aka: A Petty, Blood-Soaked Family Feud)

“You call them holy wars. They were nothing of the sort. The Church needed power, and power loves a distant enemy. What better way to unify bickering nobles than to send them East in search of 'infidels'? Do you know what I saw in Jerusalem in 1099? Children crucified beside their mothers. Templars bathing in blood. And all of it done with the sign of the cross on their chest.”

“They called it God’s work. But I watched a man — a monk — break down sobbing on the Temple steps, asking me if God had gone deaf.”

Lesson Three: Napoleon Wasn't Short, and He Wasn't Mad

“He was meticulous. Brilliant. Terrifying. And he knew he was going to lose. By 1812, Napoleon understood he was a myth more than a man. That’s why he marched on Moscow — not for strategy, but for legend. He wanted to burn his name into the world so deeply that even ruin couldn’t erase it. And it worked.”

“You remember him, don’t you? The small man with the hand in his coat. Except he wasn’t small. He was my height. Taller, even.”

“But the British wanted a joke, and they told one. History remembered the punchline.”

Each day, more students paid attention.

Phones stayed in pockets. Heads lifted. And somewhere, between myth and memory, they began to believe him.

He showed them a coin minted in the reign of Hadrian — unweathered, glowing like it was struck yesterday.

He recited Beowulf in its original meter, correcting the textbook’s translation on the fly.

He described the Black Death not from a scholarly remove, but as one who buried a wife and two sons in Florence, and burned their bodies himself because no one else dared.

And through it all, he never aged. Never stumbled. Never forgot.

One day, a student asked the question none of them had dared yet:

“Why are you really telling us this now?”

Mr. Vale paused. He looked out the window again. The clouds were darker than before. His voice dropped lower.

“Because the world is spinning toward another forgetting. And this time, I think it may be final.”

“Because truth isn’t in books. It’s in scars.”

He rolled up his sleeve, revealing a spiral of runes etched into his forearm — some glowing faintly, others cracked.

“And because you — all of you — are going to need to remember what really happened.”

“When history starts repeating itself... it's not a warning. It's a signal.”

You are an immortal who has been alive for over 2000 years. Nowadays, you work as a history teacher. Thing is, a lot of the history textbooks are just flat-out WRONG, and you would know; you were there for a lot of the events they cover. Fed up, you decide to teach what ACTUALLY happened.

[gyeomsweetgyeom]

[1:47 pm]

(cw: f!reader)

tagged! @bluedbliss

Fratboy!Jaemin did a lot of things in university just for the fun of it. Massage class? Sure, why not. Gymnastics? Again, why not. Join a frat? Only because Jeno did. Working at the on campus daycare? Well, that one was because of his mom. He needed a job and she happened to know the head teacher.

So now he spent three of his days here at the daycare, taking care of the young kids with the help of one main teacher and another aide, you. The kids had named you "Pretty Teacher" and he couldn't agree more. You were a full time aide and he found that he could handle some clingy kids and no sense of personal space for a few hours a day when you were helping out beside him.

Right now, you were both leading the kids through circle time outside while the head teacher took a quick break. After some stretches and some calming exercises for the kids, they focused on building with some blocks.

One of the girls, looked up at you, judgement written clearly on her face as she looked between you and Jaemin. Her little voice rang out, "Pretty teacher, is Teacher Na your boyfriend?"

The other kids looked up then, "oohing" at the word "boyfriend." You shook your head with a soft laugh, prying apart two blocks before handing them to the boy sitting beside you, "no, Teacher Na is not my boyfriend."

The kids pouted and even Jaemin found himself fighting back a pout along with the four and five year-olds. He wanted you to be his girlfriend. He thought he'd made that pretty clear when he insisted that he play the role of 'dad neighbor' when you were given the role of 'mom neighbor' or when he brought you snacks or coffee at the before the kids showed up.

Another girl, this time sitting beside Jaemin, squealed with excitement, "he's your husband then! You're married!"

Jaemin coughed awkwardly, "we're not married."

"But you like her?" The girl asks as she cocks her head to the side.

"Yes," Jaemin answers, immediately drawing sounds of excitement from the kids. He even finds that your eyes flicker to meet his gaze before he adds quickly, "because she's my friend."

"My mommy said her and my daddy were friends before they got married!" A boy adds, "my daddy was my mommy's sister's boyfriend! That's why they don't talk no more!"

You bite back a look of shock as you try to guide the conversation away from marriage and parents, or any other topics these kids might have overheard at home. They're stubborn though, insisting that the two of you get married because that's what adult boys and girls do, "duh, teachers!"

You're given a bundle of flower weeds and pushed until you and Jaemin are sitting side by side on the bench. The oldest of the bunch, a five year-old, grins widely and begins the 'vows' going on about love and happiness. She claps her hands, "now you're married! Kiss!"

The kids sound out in a mix of cheers and boos. You laugh softly, choosing instead to hug your coworker swiftly to give into the requests of the students. It's basically nothing, you can barely call it a hug since it's more like two bodies just pressed against each other for a second. Jaemin thinks he just saw heaven. It's the best hug he's ever had and it lasted a full, singular second. It was great.

Somehow that's the only thing on his mind as he finishes off his work day. He grabs his stuff after everything has been wiped down and disinfected, lingering around the gate as you walk toward him.

"Hey, Pretty," he greets you, watching as you laugh softly.

"Hi, Nana, you waiting for me?" You ask as you close the gate behind yourself.

"A good husband waits for his wife doesn't he?" He asks with a gentle smile.

You giggle softly, knocking his elbow with your own, "oh, did we go straight from coworkers to husband and wife?"

He shrugs with an easy smile, "gotta start somewhere, right?"

You shrug, staying silent as you both walk across campus. He comes to a stop, drawing your attention, "actually, I did really want to ask you... do you want to go out some time?"

"Ooh, first date as husband and wife?" You laugh with a wiggle of your brows.

"We have to start somewhere don't we?" Jaemin asks as his smile turns nervous.

You turn to him and notice how he seems less confident, nervous as he waits for her to answer. You reach for his hand and give it a reassuring squeeze, "a date sounds really nice."

"Perfect, I'll text you, Pretty."

[vamptizm]

SNOOZE — p. bueckers vi.

pairing: paige bueckers x soraya mensima (oc)

synopsis: rookie paige bueckers enters the league with confidence, charm, and a bad habit of gravitating toward things she shouldn’t want— like soraya mensima, the wings’ respected star and reluctant heartbreaker. soraya’s been here longer, knows better, and refuses to let lines blur... even as paige keeps rewriting them with every smile.

warnings: slight angst. nothing else i think.

word count: 6225

note: i know i took my sweet time… so sorry… but hey y’all better actually like and reblog ts since you’ve been asking for me and threatening me like ANIMALS (jk)

masterlist

♯┆taglist (open) .ᐟ ★ @brenwritesss @bueckersbitch @ekisokay @sierrale8ne @ohmybueckers @pboogerswbb @yailtsv @lilpaigeyherbo @prettygirl-gabi @mariahthealchemist @avvwritesstufff @vintagebueckers @naeswrrldd @thaatdigitaldiary

The days that followed the preseason game against the Aces passed like molasses. Thick with tension, unspoken words, and the residue of a night neither of them could erase—no matter how hard Soraya tried.

She hadn’t spoken to Paige since that night. Not really. Not after Paige had shown up at her hotel room, eyes stormy with need and confusion, not after Soraya had pushed her far away. Soraya could still feel the weight of those words sitting heavy in her chest. A mistake. She’d meant them when she said it. Or at least she’d tried to.

The silence after had been brutal.

It wasn’t just awkward now, it was charged. And that charge, that tightrope of volatile energy, was exactly what Soraya didn’t trust herself with. So she pulled back.

Hard.

The first step? Cutting out the most intimate inconvenience. Rides to and from practice.

Her old car had been sitting at the shop for weeks, and after getting a final call about the cost of repairs, she’d barely blinked before deciding it wasn’t worth the hassle. She had the money. NIL deals during her college years, quite a few good endorsements, and smart savings had left her more than stable. She didn’t need to keep driving around an old car out of sentimentality. That was old Soraya, too attached to the familiar, too scared to let go.

The new her needed something that matched the version she wanted to be. Untouchable, sharp and unfazed.

So she walked into a dealership two mornings later and drove out with a sleek, matte dark green Ford Mustang GT5. The engine purred beneath her hands like it belonged to her. Fast. Beautiful. Built to outrun things.

It suited her.

But she still couldn’t quite bring herself to face Paige directly.

Instead, she handed the news off to Dijonai, muttering something about not wanting drama, not wanting to give mixed signals. "Just let her know I don’t need the rides anymore," she said flatly, eyes fixed on the floor of the locker room as she laced up her shoes.

Dijonai raised a brow but didn’t push. “Alright. I’ll tell her.”

When Paige got the message, standing by her locker with her bag slung over one shoulder after Soraya had already left, she went still. The words hit a place inside her that was already sore and raw.

“Oh,” she said, voice tight. “Cool. Makes sense.”

She nodded like it didn’t matter, like it wasn’t a slap in the face. Like she hadn’t secretly waited to feel needed again. Like she hadn’t hoped for one more silent drive with Soraya sitting beside her, moody and quiet, maybe, but present.

She doesn’t want to be around you, Paige reminded herself. She made that clear.

Still, the image of Soraya behind the wheel of that gorgeous car, wind teasing her hair, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, lips parted around a straw or a smirk. God. It haunted her.

The distance between them only stretched wider in the days after. At practice, Soraya barely looked her way unless it was during drills. On court, they were seamless, electric. Off court? It was like Paige didn’t exist.

And yet, every time she glanced up, she found Soraya already looking. Only for a second. Just long enough to feel it like a spark behind the ribs.

Then she'd turn away. But Paige felt it. Every time. And it was starting to drive her insane.

She didn’t let the disappointment show. Didn’t let it register anywhere but in the pit of her stomach, where it tightened like a cramp she refused to acknowledge.

She was Paige Bueckers. Calm. Composed. A rookie in the W, carrying the weight of expectations with her usual quiet grace. People had always talked about her like she was inevitable. Her game. Her presence. Her poise. She had girls lining up for a chance to be close. She was not supposed to be distracted. Not by someone she barely knew. Not by a teammate. Not by her.

And yet… here she was.

Checking the parking lot before every practice. Watching for the flash of matte green. Wondering what song Soraya was playing. Who she was thinking about. If she ever looked over and thought about that night. The one Paige couldn’t stop replaying, no matter how hard she tried.

It pissed her off. Not because she didn’t care, but because she cared too much, when she knew better.

This was supposed to be her season. Her career. Her focus. And yet, all it took was a quiet look, a cold shoulder, a memory that burned hotter than it should’ve—and suddenly Soraya was in her head again, uninvited and immovable.

She hated it.

But she couldn't stop it.

The next days were blurred.

Practice, film, weight room, media, repeat. The second preseason game against the Toyota Antelopes had come and gone—another checkmark on the calendar, a win in the books. The team looked sharp, energized, ready. The coaching staff was optimistic. Reporters were already crafting headlines about the Wings’ potential chemistry, their balance of veterans and fresh legs, the fire humming just beneath the surface, waiting for more fuel until it’d burn down the other teams.

And yet, beneath all that buzz, Soraya felt like she was unraveling.

Not visibly. Not obviously. That was never her way. On court she was still locked in, sharp passes and quick reads, knockdown threes from the corner pocket. The moment the ball was in her hands, she came alive. But once the drills were over, once the lights dimmed and the structure dissolved into silence, something in her dimmed too.

She was quieter than usual. Not that she was ever the loud one, but even her normal, dry one liners had gone missing. She lingered behind at practice, always the last to leave the locker room. Her headphones were in more than out. Even Dijonai couldn’t get much more than a “nah, I’m good” when she offered to hang after practice.

By the time the regular season opener hovered less than 24 hours away, it was becoming noticeable.

She told herself it was nerves. Told the others the same, when anyone asked. Just the usual preseason jitters, nothing to worry about. Everyone got a little on edge before the first official tip. It was believable.

And yet the dread in her chest felt nothing like nerves.

It was heavier. Denser. Less like static and more like pressure, pressing behind her ribs, building with every hour. Not quite fear, not quite sadness. Something tangled in between.

Soraya knew what it was, even if she refused to say it aloud. Even if she’d avoided watching the footage her assistant coach sent her of their first regular season opponent.

And that was the real reason her sleep had been light. Why her palms wouldn’t stop sweating. Why she hadn’t been able to finish a full meal in nearly two days, appetite evaporating as soon as she sat down.

The gym echoed with the rhythmic squeak of sneakers against polished hardwood, the dull thump of basketballs hitting the court, and the low murmur of teammates exchanging morning banter. Soraya moved through it all like a ghost—silent, focused, already dressed down in her black practice shorts and navy Dallas Wings tee. Her braids were pulled back, expression unreadable. She wasn’t there to socialize. Not today. Not ever, really.

She headed straight for Chris, who stood near the scorers' table, clipboard in hand, tracking player rotations before drills officially started.

"Coach," she said, voice low but firm. “What’s the fine looking like?”

Chris barely looked up. “For the T?”

She nodded once.

“Already handled.”

Soraya blinked. “What do you mean, ‘handled’?”

Chris flipped a page on his clipboard, shrugged. “Paid. You're good.”

The answer was too easy. Too vague. Soraya wasn’t the type to let details slip past her. “By who?”

“Don’t know,” he said with a casual whistle between his teeth. “Didn’t come from payroll. Someone paid it directly. Now go warm up, I need you sharp today.”

And just like that, the conversation was over. He blew the whistle, summoning the team into lines. Soraya didn’t move immediately. Her brows drew in as she watched him walk off, a hollow tightening blooming behind her ribs.

Who the hell would pay her fine?

It wasn’t cheap, two hundred, maybe a little more. And she could name on one hand the people with both the spare money and inclination to do something like that for her. Dijonai? Maybe. But even that felt off. Her best friend would've at least mentioned it—or made a joke out of it.

And that left one other possibility.

Soraya didn’t want to give the thought weight, didn’t want to let it curl into something more than passing curiosity, but as the team broke into pairs for drills and she heard Chris call out, “Bueckers, Mensima, you’re up first,” it became impossible to ignore.

Of course.

Fate had a cruel sense of humor.

Practice went on like normal. On the surface, at least. Soraya and Paige moved fluidly through passing sequences, pick-and-roll drills, and shooting reps like they weren’t at odds. Their chemistry on court was undeniable—clean, practiced, electric—but the silence between them was deafening. Every glance was loaded. Every accidental touch burned.

Still, the question gnawed at her, sharper with each drill. Until finally, during a water break, Soraya caught sight of her across the gym.

Paige stood near the far bench, a towel slung over the back of her neck, scrolling through her phone like nothing in the world could bother her. Lips wrapped around the mouth of her water bottle, cheeks faintly pink from exertion, strands of blonde hair curling at the edges of her temple. She looked disgustingly at ease.

Soraya’s jaw flexed.

She didn't want to walk over there. She didn’t want to give Paige the satisfaction, didn’t want to seem like she cared. But the question had rooted itself in her brain like a splinter, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to let it go unless she asked.

So she did.

Crossing the gym, ignoring the way her stomach clenched with every step, Soraya stopped just short of her and spoke without preamble. “Did you pay my fine?”

Paige didn’t flinch, didn’t even stop typing. She simply lowered the water bottle, barely glanced up, and replied in the flattest tone imaginable, “Yup.”

That was it.

Yup

Soraya felt her fingers twitch at her sides. “I didn’t ask you to do that,” she said, her voice tighter now, less measured. The irritation was starting to bleed through. She hated feeling indebted. Hated more that it was Paige who did it.

This time, Paige did look at her. Just for a second. Cool blue eyes meeting hers, unreadable. “And I didn’t ask you to play the hero for me.”

The words hit harder than Soraya expected.

Her breath caught, but only for a fraction of a second. “Wasn’t for you.”

A small, derisive snort slipped past Paige’s lips. She didn’t argue, didn’t fight it. Just gave a humorless smirk and said, “Sure.”

Then she turned and walked away.

Soraya stayed there, frozen in place. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, her jaw clenched so tight it ached. She should’ve been angry. She was angry—at Paige’s arrogance, at her own stupidity, at how something so simple had already left her off balance again.

And yet, beneath the frustration, that same unbearable warmth lingered. The memory of Paige’s hands, her mouth, the way she looked at her—the same way she used to look at basketballs, at gold medals, like they were everything she ever wanted.

Soraya shut it down.

There was practice to finish.

And feelings had no place here. Not that there were any.

Soraya couldn’t go home.

The silence in that place was too loud. The air too still. The walls too thick, too suffocating when her thoughts started spiraling. It wasn’t even late when practice had ended, but the second she stepped inside her apartment and closed the door behind her, she felt it creeping in again—that familiar gnawing at her chest, the ache that came with memories she thought she’d already buried.

She didn’t bother changing out of her practice clothes. Just tossed a different shirt over her head, grabbed her keys, and left. She needed movement. Distraction. Chaos. Something to drown out the noise inside her own head.

So she drove. With the windows rolled down, letting the wind whip through the cabin as she sped through the city. First to her favorite café for a cold matcha that she barely tasted. Then to the little gelato place tucked between two shops, ordering a double scoop of pistachio she didn't finish. She stopped by an old bookstore she used to visit during her rookie year and browsed without buying anything. Wandered through a thrift store, then found herself at a trendy axe throwing place, pretending that the loud music and even louder laughter around her didn’t make her feel more alone than she already was.

By the time the sky had begun to fade into hues of lavender and gold, she was in Garland, parked in front of an empty playground she’d unintentionally passed and turned back around for. Something about it felt a little cinematic—quiet, tucked away, untouched.

She sat on one of the swings, her body heavy but her mind racing. The sun was melting into the horizon now, casting streaks of orange and purple across the clouds, bleeding into the blue that darkened with every passing second. Her legs rocked gently, the old swing creaking beneath her as she moved, half lost in the rhythm, half desperate to escape the storm behind her eyes.

She tried not to think of it all. Tried not to think about the game tomorrow. About what it meant. About who she might see again.

It shouldn't be bothering her—not after all this time. Not after all these years. Not when she'd rebuilt herself from the ground up. But it was. God, it was. And she hated herself for it.

She pulled out her phone and took a couple photos of the sky, even though she knew they wouldn’t do it justice. Then, almost instinctively, she opened her messages. Dijonai had texted her again. Something lighthearted, something sweet, trying to make her laugh. Soraya smiled faintly, but didn’t reply.

Instead, she shoved her phone into the back pocket of her sweats, forgetting to lock the screen.

A minute or so passed, the swing shifting in lazy motions beneath her. Then came the faint buzz against her lower back, soft and barely there, but enough to pull her out of her daze. She pulled the phone out, confused, and held it to her ear when she noticed the ongoing call.

“Hello?”

“Finally. What the fuck, Soraya? Why would you call me and not say a word?”

Her heart stopped.

That voice—it struck something deep. Familiar, unmistakable. A voice she hadn’t heard in more than monosyllables all week. A voice she’d almost convinced herself she didn’t miss hearing.

“I didn’t call you,” Soraya replied, a little too quickly. Her tone was flat, carefully neutral, but it carried a tremble if you listened closely. “Must’ve been a butt dial or something.”

There was a pause. Soraya could hear Paige breathing, could feel her hesitation.

Then, “Are you drunk?”

The question caught her off guard. “What? No.” Her brows pinched together. “I’m sober.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, Bueckers,” she said, sharper now, exhaling slowly as she rubbed her palm over her chilled forearm. “I’m sure.”

Another long silence. Then Paige again, softer this time, like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to ask. “Where are you?”

The question shouldn’t have mattered, but something about the way she asked it made Soraya’s chest tighten. She almost lied. Almost told her to mind her business, hung up, put more distance between them like she’d promised herself she would.

But Paige's voice… there was something unguarded about it. Something tentative. Something that made her stay.

“Some playground in Garland,” Soraya finally answered, her voice low, trying to sound unaffected. “Was just... killing time.”

Another pause. Paige didn’t reply right away, and Soraya could picture her now—lips pressed together, trying to play it cool even though she was probably gripping her phone tighter than she meant to.

“It’s dark out,” Paige said eventually. Still calm, still even toned, but underneath it was something else. Something closer to concern.

“Yeah. I noticed.”

“You’re out there alone?”

Soraya shrugged, even though Paige couldn’t see her. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It kind of is.”

That made Soraya pause. The words were simple, but they landed heavier than they should have. She bit the inside of her cheek, eyes drifting to the last fading line of sun as it disappeared behind the trees.

“I’m fine,” she murmured. “Just didn’t feel like being at home.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” Paige replied gently. “I just… I think you should head back. It’s getting late.”

That tone—so measured, so casual—it nearly fooled Soraya. But not quite.

She hated how that did something to her.

“Yeah. I was about to,” she lied, standing slowly and dusting off her hands, pretending like she hadn’t been planning on staying until the stars came out.

There was another stretch of silence on the line, the air now filled only with the faint hum of traffic in the distance and the distant chatter of cicadas.

Neither of them said what they really wanted to say. ‘Are you okay?’ ‘Do you miss me?’ ‘Why does it still feel like this?’

Instead, Paige cleared her throat softly. “Get home safe.”

Soraya let out a quiet breath. “I will.”

And then, for just a moment, she hesitated before ending the call, not wanting to let go of the only warmth she'd felt all day. But she pressed the red button anyway.

The screen went black.

She slid the phone into her pocket and walked toward her car under the darkening sky. For the first time in days, her head was a little quieter.

The drive home was a blur of neon lights, long stretches of highway, and bass-thumping music so loud it rattled her windows. Soraya didn’t care. The volume wasn’t for enjoyment, it was survival. Every beat, every lyric, every thunderous crash of sound was another wall built to keep her own thoughts out.

She gripped the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles ached, veins standing out across her hands like tension made visible. Her jaw was clenched, brows drawn together, eyes fixed ahead, but not really seeing. She was still stuck back there—on that swing, under the sunset, with Paige’s voice lingering in her ear like a ghost she hadn’t asked for.

She didn’t know why it was affecting her so much. Why this, of all things, had cracked another thing open inside her, as if whatever she was currently fighting against, wasn’t enough. It wasn’t like they hadn’t spoken in weeks. It wasn’t like she cared that much. So what the hell was wrong with her?

“Get over it.” she muttered aloud to herself as she pulled into her spot and cut the engine.

But even as the engine died, the storm didn’t.

The silence that followed was deafening, so she moved quickly. Grabbed her bag, locked the doors, and climbed the stairs to her apartment two at a time, like rushing through it would somehow spare her from the weight pressing into her chest.

The second she got inside, she flicked on the lights, tossed her keys somewhere on the kitchen counter, and kicked her shoes off with little care for where they landed. Her shirt came next, flung over the back of a chair, her body now chilled from the evening air but still overheated from the mental war she’d been losing all day.

When she finally collapsed into bed, the ceiling stared back at her, blank and cold and offering no comfort. She rolled to her side, dragging her comforter over her legs, phone still in her hand.

She didn’t want to check it. Didn’t want to invite anything else into her head tonight.

But the screen lit up anyway. One message.

Bueckers: did u get home safe?

It wasn’t a long text. Wasn’t poetic. No punctuation beyond the question mark. No capitalization. So plainly Paige. So casually worded, like it didn’t mean much at all.

Soraya stared at it for a while, the glow of her phone soft against the shadows of her bedroom. She reread it three, four, five times over, fingers hovering above the screen like she wasn’t sure how to respond—or if she even should.

She considered liking it. Just tapping the little thumbs up and being done with it.

But something inside her moved before she could second guess herself.

pretty ice queen: yes.

Simple and distant, but a reply nonetheless.

She didn’t wait for a response. Didn’t even stay to see if the message would get marked as read. She locked her phone and shoved it under her pillow, rolling onto her back with a long, shaky exhale.

The room was still. Too still. Her thoughts began to creep back in almost immediately, uninvited and relentless. She squeezed her eyes shut, tried to slow her breathing, tried to convince herself that everything was fine. That it was just another night before another game.

But she couldn’t shake the tension sitting heavy in her limbs. Couldn’t shake the sound of Paige’s voice from earlier, the concern buried beneath her guarded tone. Couldn’t shake the fact that something about tomorrow felt less like a game and more like a reckoning.

Sleep, when it finally came, didn’t come gently.

And when it did, it came with dreams she wouldn’t remember but would feel like bruises the next morning.

The next morning crept in slower than usual, sunlight slicing through her half open blinds in streaks of pale gold. Soraya stirred beneath the covers, her body aching in that strange way anxiety sometimes left behind, as if dread had settled in her bones overnight and decided to stay.

But she was calmer than the day before. Not okay, not light, but emptied. Like she'd spent the whole previous day wrestling with the weight of her nerves until her body couldn’t carry them anymore. There was nothing left to fight, nothing left to panic about. Just the quiet before the storm.

Acceptance was the only thing that remained. She still didn’t want to face what today held. But she couldn’t undo the schedule. Couldn’t avoid the inevitable.

So she laid in bed for hours, scrolling through her phone, watching the ceiling shift colors as the sun moved across the sky. The stillness didn’t comfort her, but it didn’t scare her like it used to either. It just was.

Eventually, she dragged herself up, moved through her apartment like muscle memory, and got ready. Hair. Light makeup. Her signature jewelry. She didn’t feel like showing up, but she would look like she did.

Dressing for the tunnel walk had always been one of her small joys. One of the few game day traditions she clung to, something that allowed her to feel like herself for a few brief minutes before the noise of the arena swallowed her whole. The cameras, the lights, the crowd—none of it mattered as long as her outfit hit.

Today’s was a little louder than usual. A little more dramatic. A denim halter vest, cropped and hugging her torso just right. A short denim skirt, the waist cinched in with a wide brown belt. Brown heeled cowboy boots that added a good two inches to her already long legs. And, of course, a brown cowboy hat to top it all off.

Texas in a fit. Sharp and soft. Fashionable and dangerous.

And yet, as Soraya stepped out of the car and entered the College Park Center, she felt hollow inside. She heard the sound of cameras clicking before she even reached the mouth of the tunnel. Felt the eyes on her, the quiet murmurs, the usual anticipation that came with her arrival.

She knew she looked good. She knew this outfit would hit every highlight reel, every fashion Instagram and sideline post. But none of it reached her.

She walked, head held high, boots clicking against the concrete floor in a steady rhythm. Her face was stone. No smile, no smirk, no spark in her eyes like usual. She didn’t wave to the staff standing off to the side. Didn’t throw a wink toward the media crew. Just kept walking, shoulders back, chin lifted, as if her armor was stitched into the denim she wore.

She passed the first camera, gave it a small, mechanical nod. A gesture more out of muscle memory than engagement. And then she kept walking, disappearing down the tunnel without another glance, her expression unreadable.

This was her stage, her ritual. But today, it didn’t feel like hers at all.

The locker room hummed with energy, a current of excitement running through the space as the team geared up in their pregame practice clothes. Sneakers squeaked against the polished floor, laughter bounced between walls, and music played softly in the background. A hype playlist looping through the speakers, half drowned by the chorus of voices and half zipped duffle bags. It was a familiar chaos, comforting to most.

But not to Soraya. At least not today.

She sat in her chair, her posture perfectly straight, eyes fixed on her reflection in the long mirror lining one of the locker room walls. She could still hear the music, still hear her teammates hyping each other up, but it all felt far away and muted, like she was listening to everything from underwater.

Her fingers moved with mechanical precision, adjusting her ponytail, tugging it just tight enough to ground herself. Then came the translucent powder, dusting gently over her cheekbones, her forehead, her nose. Lock it in. Set the mask. Don’t let it slip.

Dinonai was beside her, her locker stationed conveniently close, something Soraya was more grateful for now than ever. The older woman kept glancing at her, brow slightly furrowed as she slipped on her practice jersey and tied her own hair up.

“You good?” she finally asked under her breath, low enough not to catch anyone else’s attention.

“Yeah.” The lie was effortless. Practiced. Like brushing her teeth. “Just tired.”

Dijonai didn’t buy it for a second, but didn’t push—she already knew. The blonde just nodded, as if to say ‘okay’, and went back to getting ready. But her eyes didn’t stray far.

As they made their way down the tunnel toward the court, Soraya could feel her heartbeat intensifying with every step. She rolled her shoulders back, cracked her knuckles, tried to center herself.

‘You’re okay. You’re safe. You’ve done the work. You’re not who you were. She can’t touch you now.’

But the mantra felt thin. Like it wasn’t made for this kind of storm.

The moment her foot touched the edge of the court, something in her tightened.

She blinked into the stadium’s lights, the vibrant noise of the arena beginning to swell, and scanned the floor instinctively. Her stomach was already in knots, but it wasn’t until her eyes landed on her that everything inside her dropped.

It was as if time folded in on itself.

Leah Katz.

The name alone hadn’t hurt in a long time. The memory had dulled over the years like old bruises fading from purple to yellow. But seeing her again—seeing the exact line of her jaw, the piercing blue eyes, the unmistakable height and that slicked back blonde ponytail—was like reopening an old wound with a single glance.

Dijonai must’ve seen it. Must’ve felt the way Soraya froze beside her, the subtle flinch in her stance, the way her breath caught too quickly. She reached down without saying a word and took her hand, grounding her. Their fingers linked and she gave it a firm, anchoring squeeze. It didn’t fix it, didn’t erase anything, but it helped keep Soraya on the floor.

And yet, even as Soraya tried to steel herself, tried to return to the composed, unreadable player she’d trained herself to be, the two teams were already gathering near midcourt for their pregame greetings.

It was a ritual, small talk, handshakes, light laughter. A sense of camaraderie before the competition kicked in. Soraya kept her expression flat, her nods minimal, her words nonexistent. Everyone knew she wasn’t the bubbly type. She didn’t hug, didn’t linger, didn’t pretend. They were used to it.

But Leah wasn’t.

She drifted by Soraya at just the right moment, close enough that the scent of her perfume—a faint, expensive floral reached her nose and that alone made Soraya’s feel ill.

“You look good,” Leah murmured, almost offhanded. Then a wink, quick and casual, as if it meant nothing.

Soraya froze, every nerve in her body lighting up like a match had been struck down her spine. She’d forgotten her voice. That smooth, practiced tone. That calculated calm. The trace of a londoner accent curling around each syllable. Hearing it again, so close, so familiar, was like touching a scar that still hadn't faded under her skin.

It brought nausea.

And rage.

She said nothing. Couldn’t. Her body tensed, jaw tight, eyes fixed on a spot just over Leah’s shoulder as Dijonai tugged her away, their joined hands still clasped. Just move. Just get away. Just breathe.

But Paige noticed.

Standing on the outskirts of the huddle, stretching and chatting idly with another teammate, her eyes had drifted to Soraya just in time to catch the interaction—what little of it there was. She didn’t catch the words, but she caught the flicker of discomfort, the unnatural stiffness in Soraya’s body. The way her shoulders, usually squared and proud, subtly curled inward like she was trying to make herself smaller.

And Leah Katz. That name had floated past Paige's awareness once or twice over the years. Few highlight reels, overseas buzz, a few murmured conversations she never cared enough to finish.

At first, Paige chalked it up to nerves.

It wasn’t exactly unusual. First game of the season, a packed College Park Center, fresh off training camp, with half the team still adjusting to the league’s pace. Everyone had something weighing on them. Maybe it was stress. Maybe it was the cuts earlier in the week—Mai and Madison waived last minute. Maybe it was that Soraya didn’t want to be here to begin with.

Or maybe… it was because of her.

She hated that her mind even went there.

But now, watching Soraya from across the court during warmups, Paige knew it wasn’t any of those things. At least, not just those.

There was something different about the way Soraya moved. Jerky, too fast, too sharp. Her body looked like it was trying to outrun something her mind hadn’t caught up to yet. Paige watched her miss three jumpers in a row. Three. Soraya never missed three in a row. Not in warmups. Not without looking like she was about to throw the ball into the stands out of frustration.

She cursed under her breath after each shot, not caring who heard her. And even from twenty feet away, Paige could see it. The tension in her shoulders, the twitch in her jaw, the way she shook her hand out like it wasn’t just her aim that was off but her entire body.

It wasn’t nerves. It was something else. Something deeper.

Paige grabbed a ball and started her own drille, but her eyes kept drifting. She told herself to stop looking, Soraya had made it very clear where they stood. But concern wasn’t a switch she could flip off, not when it was her. Not when she looked like that.

She went up for a layup and landed hard, barely registering the motion. Her eyes immediately flicked to the other end of the court again, drawn like a magnet.

Then she saw her.

Blonde. Tall. Lynx warmup jacket draped over her. And unmistakably watching Soraya.

Paige froze for a second. She didn’t mean to, didn’t want to, but she couldn’t ignore the way that woman’s eyes kept cutting toward Soraya like she had a right to look at her. Like she knew her.

It wasn’t just curiosity. It wasn’t scouting.

It was something else. Familiar. Intimate. And unwanted.

Paige’s jaw clenched. Her palms burned. She bounced the ball once, twice, too hard, letting it smack the hardwood before catching it again. She knew she shouldn’t care. Not about Soraya. Not after everything. But the blonde kept looking over—subtle but persistent. And Soraya hadn’t even glanced back once.

That told Paige more than she needed to know.

It wasn’t a flirtation. It wasn’t nostalgia.

It was fear.

And suddenly, Paige didn’t want to play anymore. She wanted answers. She wanted that woman off the court. She wanted Soraya to stop pretending she was fine when it was clear she wasn’t.

The Wings were holding their own. Barely.

It was a constant back and forth, each time they clawed up a two point lead, the Lynx would rip it away within a possession or two. It wasn’t a bad game by any means. Just… not enough. Not sharp enough. Not her.

Paige had only seen Soraya play a handful of times, two preseason games, a few scrimmages, on the screen of her iPad. But she already knew enough to know this wasn’t it.

This wasn’t the Soraya Mensima she’d been warned about. The one that had mercilessly snatched a championship away from her. The one who drew defenders like blood in water, the one who never backed down from contact or let herself get outpaced. This version was hesitant, distracted. Her offense was clunky, rushed. Her defense worse.

And then it happened during the second quarter. Soraya was guarding Leah. Or at least, she was supposed to be.

Leah cut baseline, slipped through a screen, and laid the ball in uncontested. Soraya hadn’t even moved to contest it, she’d just watched her. Like her feet had been stuck to the hardwood. Like touching Leah in any way would burn her.

Paige clenched her jaw as the whistle blew and halftime rolled around.

She got roped into a short interview near the tunnel, giving rehearsed lines about adjustments and staying locked in. But all the while, her eyes followed Soraya.

She was trailing behind the team, slower than usual. Unfocused.

So the second the cameras were off, Paige handed the mic back and cut across the tunnel, weaving past staff and players until she caught up.

Paige reached forward and caught her arm.

“What the fuck—let—” Soraya twisted, startled, her voice already defensive, until she saw who it was. Her expression shifted, but not to relief. Just less tight. Less guarded.

Paige tugged her further into a quieter corner of the tunnel, her voice low but sharp. “Why are you playing like you’ve never been on a court before?”

Soraya blinked. The line hit harder than it probably should’ve. Her brow furrowed, eyes narrowing like a scolded child. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Paige said. “What’s going on with you?”

Her grip was still on Soraya’s arm, though loose enough to break. She didn’t know what she was doing—this wasn’t her. Not the Paige people expected. But she was pissed. Concerned. Both, maybe.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Soraya snapped, pulling her arm free. “Sorry I’m not playing to your standards, I guess.”

Paige didn’t flinch. She should’ve. But she didn’t.

“Well you’re selling the game,” she shot back. “So stop eye fucking that Katz girl and fix it.”

Silence.

The moment the words left her mouth, she wished she could rewind time. Take them back. Bury them. Anything.

Because the look Soraya gave her—it wasn’t just hurt. It was disgust and betrayal.

Like Paige had peeled back a scar that hadn’t fully healed and poked it for sport.

A sick twist churned in Soraya’s gut. Her shoulders went rigid, lips pressed into a thin line. Eye fucking? She could barely even breathe around Leah, let alone look at her. And now this girl who she’d met less than a month ago was accusing her of shit she had no idea about?

She didn’t speak. Didn’t yell. Didn’t give Paige the satisfaction of a retort.

She just turned and walked.

Down the tunnel, towards the locker room. Shoulders high, spine stiff, but with something undeniably wounded in the way her steps slowed the further she got.

Paige stayed behind, frozen in place, her mouth parted like she wanted to say something—anything—but couldn’t.

She ran a hand down her face, then through her hair, dragging her fingers along her scalp like she could scrape the guilt off. Her jaw clenched hard enough to hurt.

She didn’t know if it was worry. Or competitiveness. Or burning jealousy. Or the fact that she hated seeing Soraya let anyone take her power away.

But whatever it was, she’d just made it worse. So much worse.

extended taglist 🐆 — @thelightknight21 @private-but-not-a-secret @angryflowerwitch @jieysiee @angelliicc @paigebaby5 @ttytttt-gndgnvbm @syraxbigfanfr @forward1212 @niya500 @wosolipa @enchantingesme @everyonewatchesuconnwbb @ksimsplayer @hggbiijj @pupbistro

[sizebrained]

I'm not sure if this is *supposed* to be a pair of giant legs the way the telephone pole and line make it look.

But I love this so much I had a little story idea pop up in my head I couldn't get rid of so I had to write it down.

Also great glow up from the last version, love tofupixel's stuff.

Whoops new g/t universe... CW: None, SFW

Word Count: 2,000

*** The town siren's crying wail filled the air. Easily heard over the increasingly louder and louder wind, even all the way out here. As if the angry sky wasn't enough of a warning of what was heading their way. The cows and horses on Jane's farm knew long before the siren had confirmed it. There was a tornado coming. First one of the season. Jane hadn't wanted to grow bigger before the storms, but the animals had panicked. They kept pulling out of Jane and her mother's grips. Desperate to follow their instinct to run away from the oncoming twister.

At her normal size of exactly 5 feet tall, Jane could never have managed to get them to the barn when they were this agitated. Even with her mother and ten year old littler brother Bobby helping.

Bobby's normally annoying demeanor disappeared in these kinds of situations. He was trying very hard to actually help. But one twist of the cow's head sent the poor boy flying sideways every time.

So she focused, held her breath, and grew. When she was done, she was four times her normal size.

It had been several years since Jane had discovered that her body had this "compunction" to grow bigger. She didn't know if it was nature, or magic, or what. She could just grow bigger. A few, mostly random, townfolk knew about Jane’s compunction too but they promised to keep it secret.

When she was big, Jane provided manual labor for them sometimes that would have either been impossible or very expensive otherwise. It helped ensure their silence.

It started shortly after her father died. Also right after she began puberty, like that wasn't hard enough without this complication. At first there didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason as to what set Jane to growing, how big she would get, or how long it would last.

For lack of a better word, the family doctor had settled on what happened to Jane as a "compunction." There was nothing in any medical text that he had come across to explain it. Other than being a danger to low ceilings and tight places, he said Jane was otherwise a pretty typical, healthy teenager.

When their family doctor made the first house call after her first growth, he found a 20 foot, very embarrassed looking girl in pigtails looking down at him in the barn. He took it rather well. "Not the strangest thing I've seen to be honest," he told Jane's mother. It always made Jane wonder just what he had seen that her being bigger than an elephant didn't register at the top of his list.

When she first started getting her compunctions, she made the animals nervous in their stables. Even though Jane had cared and fed some of them for years, most were unnerved by her newfound size.

Eventually, the animals got used to Jane's bigger version. Now, most of them didn't seem to think it was unusual to be moved around as easily as a child's favorite stuffed toy.

Jane was currently walking with two cows under her arms towards the barn like they needed to be tucked in for bedtime.

Thankfully, Jane's clothes, and anything else that happened to be touching her body at the time, grew along with her when she did. They couldn't afford to go through clothes at the rate of her body's "compunction spells" otherwise.

One time she grew while she was brushing her hair. It ended up being 10 feet long. Jane had never timed it right to be holding it again when she shrank back down. So the 10 foot brush was hidden up in the barn's haystacks till she did.

Over the past several years she had learned to control it. Somewhat.

Better at directing it was more accurate. She couldn't really control it that much or for that long. It was like tensing a muscle or holding her breath. Trying to hold her breath seemed to slow it down sometimes. But sometimes holding her breath also made her grow.

Jane's body would do what it wanted to do whether her mind agreed or not. She felt like her body betrayed her. Sometimes in more ways than just getting bigger.

And getting back down to her usual size could sometimes take days. Jane was thankful to have finally graduated high school. She got tired of coming up with new excuses for missing so much school, waiting to shrink back down to her normal five foot nothing self. Jane's eyes passed by her bedroom's second story window as she made her way to the barn with the cows. Jane's mother had taken Bobby by his hand, heading as fast as she could manage across the open field between the barn and their modest farmhouse.

They passed each other heading in opposite directions. Jane with cows and her mother with Bobby. Jane's mother yelled over her shoulder at her first born. "Jane! Get those two in the barn now! And if you're not fixing to shrink down in the next 5 minutes to fit in the shelter then you need to make sure you're nowhere near that twister!" "Yes mama. Don't worry about me, just get safe in the shelter with the ankle biter."

At this size, Jane only had to speak in her normal voice to be heard over the increasingly louder wind. Her enormous red converse sneakers were making big oblong imprints in the grass with every step. It felt like she was just going outside in a light rain storm at this size. Bobby wasn't quite small enough to be a literal ankle biter.

Jane smirked about that while walking into the barn door. She was glad she didn't have to duck to fit. Jane carried the cows in like house cats, instead of several thousand pounds of beef. She set the cows down in a big pen in the corner with the three others she had wrangled inside. Jane shushed the animals, scattering some feed like spilt table salt in her enormous fingertips. She offered more calming reassurances down at them in her deep booming voice. Jane felt an overwhelming relief that they hadn't lost any of them. While she was distracted by that fleeting thought of gratitude, like she had jinxed it, their old mare Midnight got her stable door open.

The horse made a run for it out of the barn trying to get away from the coming storm. "Midnight! No!" Jane cried and stomped out of the barn after her. Unfortunately, Bobby also saw Midnight emerge from the open barn door. And while his mother was occupied getting the shelter door open with both hands, Bobby also ran after Midnight.

He started towards Midnight in a straight line as his sister emerged out of the barn shaking the earth in pursuit. Jane glared at the boy for his recklessness. "Bobby get your scrawny ass in the basement! I'll get her!" Jane boomed across the field at her little brother.

She grew noticeably bigger while she yelled. The ten year boy old froze in place at the sound of his big sister's much bigger voice giving him orders. Their mother rushed over to Bobby dragging him, slack jawed and staring at his huge sister, back and down into the basement shelter. Jane caught up to Midnight in a few rushed steps. She slid to a stop and scooped the scared horsed up with one hand. Her kicking hooves lifted up into the air frantically searching for the ground. Jane heard the clattering of the shelter's steel door. Her mother was having a hard time getting the shelter door shut. She looked over to the horizon. The tornado was in sight and it was getting closer.

It was a big one. She felt scared.

Then Jane felt the wrong thing.

"Aw crap," she thought to herself. Jane quickly set Midnight down on the ground again. The horse whinnied but stayed put, agitated but loyal. Jane didn't need to deal with an overgrown horse trampling everything on top of what she knew was coming.

Jane looked down at her shoes. She saw the ground racing away around them while the shoes stayed put.

Jane's mother and Bobby stared up at Jane for one long moment before shutting the shelter door and locking it from the inside. Jane felt queasy as the ground swirled below. Except that wasn't what was happening. Jane was getting bigger. And bigger. Jane looked at the 50 foot telephone pole on the side of the road in front of her house on the long dirt road leading into town. At first she was looking up at it. Then she could stare at the top at eye level without having to crane her neck at all.

In a few heartbeats more, Jane was looking down at it.

And down. And down. It got smaller and smaller as she went up and up.

She could feel her feet sinking into the ground as she got heavier and heavier with every passing moment. Midnight trotted around the growing set of shoes. The horse decided the safest place was in the gap between them. She settled there while they continued to get bigger.

Jane could tell this was going to be a bad one. She closed her eyes and grimaced feeling sick to her stomach like she was on one of the state fair's carnival rides. Jane didn't notice the old blue truck rushing into her driveway. It came to an abrupt stop at an odd angle next to the telephone pole. Another girl, the same age as Jane, stepped out of the truck and looked up at the towering figure filling the sky. "JANE?!" the girl yelled up towards the black clouds where Jane’s head seemed to be going, making Jane's name into two syllables instead of one.

To the girl, it looked like Jane was trying to have a grow off with the approaching tornado. It looked like Jane was fixing to win. She'd never seen her this huge before. The girl yelled again cupping her hands around her mouth, hoping it helped. Jane heard her own name like a whisper. She ventured to open one eye and slowly tilt her head down. She didn't feel like she was going to throw up anymore. That meant it was over.

But everything was tinier than it had ever been. Much, much tinier.

That meant she was big. Really big. Jane didn't want to hazard a guess at just how big. Seeing the 50 foot telephone pole barely reach her ankle told her enough. "Uh...Hi Bets..." Jane said looking down at the ground. She saw the girl cover her ears and cower as Jane's few words shook everything.

Her normal speaking voice at this size was as loud as the town siren.

Jane was suddenly thankful there was a tornado to help cover up her compunction. Jane looked over at how much closer the tornado had gotten and sighed.

She recognized her girlfriend's parked truck. It looked like one of Bobby's toy tin cars next to her huge shoe. "What are you...nevermind...there's no time..." Jane apologized while bending down. One huge finger extended from Jane's hand and gently pushed her girlfriend back into her truck's still open driver side door. Then she pushed the car door shut as delicately as she could manage with her finger tip.

Jane picked up her girlfriend's truck between two fingers, with her safely back inside of it, and lifted it. Up and up and up. Betsy screamed, holding on for dear life inside the truck cabin.

Jane reached down with her other hand and also, very delicately, picked up Midnight with just two fingers like she was picking up a house spider to take outside. Jane turned her head to look at the tornado. Luckily, it would pass harmlessly across the field between the barn and house. She got worked up and huge for nothing.

Mom, Bobby, the animals, and all of their earthly possessions were safe.

Jane lifted the truck up to her face and gave her girlfriend Betsy an awkward smile. Jane’s freckled face filled the smaller girl's windshield like the morning sunrise. Betsy waved back, still a little frightened at seeing Jane this enormous.

Then Jane carefully, and slowly, stepped over the telephone lines and dirt road parallel to her house. The enormous 19 year old took a few steps to the side and watched the tornado pass by her.

At this vantage, she could admire just how beautiful it was and was thankful that the tornado would help cover her enormous sneaker tracks a bit. ***

look at my forever wip

[sillyteecup]

Second wind, but make it sweat

Aaron Pierre x black!o.c

Warnings:

18+

Language/swearing

Smut

Fingering

Oral (fem receiving)

P in V sex

Unprotected sex (🗣️ONE CONDOM ONE WHAT?)

Spitting

Hair pulling

Roughly translated Patois

Word count: 2799🧍🏾

A.N: I saw the picture when I woke up, wrote this during my study break (writing Psychology soon). So here’s something cool, calm and short. Also, new o.c unlocked!! If ever I write for Aaron himself again it’s gonna be with Sam, so just in case everybody say “hi Sam!” Anyway, I’m gonna disappear for the next 3 weeks for exams so I really hope y’all enjoy this for now. Thanks for reading❤️

~Tee❤️

If their walls could talk, oh the freaky little stories they would tell. The worst ones being of the days Aaron and Sam went to the gym together. A lovely tale of adrenaline and lust carried by affection.

How there would be no warning before the front door flies open with them stumbling through it. Mental maps guiding their steps through the house while their hands wandered freely on each other’s skin.

Soft hums and light gasps chronicling their desire for one another; the occasional smacking of lips like a little ad-lib. Not much of a word exchanged as Aaron awaits a command of direction.

“Kitchen.”

“Bedroom.”

“Bathroom over the sink.”

“Fuck it, right here,” a breathy word or two from Sam, activating him like a sleeper agent.

Their movements would grow more frantic; rushed. They understand how much time they have. They know they should probably take a shower first. But what’s a little more sweat? And why later when sooner is right there? So he’d hoist her up into the arms she adored so much and take her wherever she asked-we’re going to talk about the bathroom today-and alter her consciousness.

Another door flies open, banging against the wall with a force that would have had them both knocked upside their heads by their mothers. Sam’s usually nimble fingers tug at the hem of his shirt before lifting as far as she can reach. From there Aaron finishes the job, pulling it over his head and tossing it behind him, leaving his chain to gleam against his salty sheen covered chest. He returns her initial favour, but more gently to preserve her hair.

He was horny, not cruel.

His wide, soft palm cups the back of her neck while the fingers on his other hand tug her body closer by the waist band of her black Nike tights. Her honey coloured gaze speaks to him. Tells him she wants this as much as he does. Tells him she needs him. As much as he needs her. It calls him in, and he complies, fingers digging into some of the hair at her nape to angle her head upwards.

Their lips mingle for only a moment before getting comfortable with one another like old friends. Their tongues embrace and their bodies collide. Once again he has her entire weight in his arms, walking towards the large bathroom sink. He gently places her there and trails his lips across her jaw with the occasional soft kiss and tender pull of suction.

Her hands move across his shoulders, fingers trembling in need as she studies the skin of her constant undoing. Her parted lips are an instrument of his unraveling control. His kisses grow desperate, paired with teeth and grunts bordering on primal. Biting into her soft, chestnut skin, his hands make quick work of her tights. She assists with the quick lift of her ass from the granite the small counter space. Soon they’re but a distant memory. All Aaron and Sam can think about is what’s next.

Soon, Aaron is on his knees, soft lips planting a wet trail across her thighs. He doesn’t linger there too long though, as the scent of her arousal draws him to what lies beyond them. Aaron was never really a gentle eater. He was more of a “last supper” kind of guy. His tongue’s attack on titan was nothing new to Sam, yet it never failed to rock her world. The way he’d devour her with his entire face in it would always leave her breathless and numb in the head. 1, 2, 3 orgasms with nothing but the power of the tongue; it’s no wonder it doesn’t take much for her to get dick-dumb.

As the echoes of her desperate cries and her thighs vibrate against the sides of his head, he pulls back. His hazel irises have darkened considerably and his clean shaven chin is drenched in her. Always a messy eater when it comes to her. Slowly, he rises to his full height.

“Get down, let me see you properly first,” what should be a soft whisper, comes out as a gruff rasp. But his accent-oh his accent-keeps it tooth-rotting nonetheless. As she instinctively obeys, she just hopes her needs aren’t too weak.

The low yellow light illuminated her body, hypnotising Aaron. She looked like an angel whose skin was the halo. The mirror behind her reflects his thirsty ass expression and her rounded ass; stretch marks, cellulite and hand prints from 2 nights ago nearly send him into a spiral. The previously solid ponytail holding her goddess braids was looser now. The free curls framed her radiant face; gym days meant no makeup, just an intense glow from the workouts, and now having her thoughts ate out of her. The days didn’t matter much to Aaron though. To him, Sam always looked like a dream he never wanted to wake up from.

A cocky smirk stretched at her lips. “You like?” she teased, her silky voice making Aaron’s nervous system act a fool. Something inside him switches as his throat dries. His dick makes a bit of scene by jumping against his cotton sweats. Although his eyes narrow seemingly like a predator zeroing in on its pray, there isn’t a single thought in his brain anymore. No, that’s not true. There is one thought. Only one.

“I fucking love you.”

Without another breath, his hands plant themselves onto her waist, turning her around. His tattooed arm reaches around her neck. Her chin firmly in his hand, he tilts her head to the side as if creating access. Eyes trained hers through their reflections, he drags his tongue across her shoulder, stopping at the base of her neck. Back across the same shoulder he went, this time by wet, gentle kisses.

“Never forget that.”

Before Sam can respond, the hand cupping her chin is on the back of her neck, firmly folding her over the edge of the granite edge. His fingers find her slick folds and parts them for the pad of his thumb to find her clit. Her body shivers against his as his thumb works her into a pleading mess.

“Aaron-“

“Baby please.”

“Fuck me, please! I need you!” she cries, eliciting a dark chuckle from Aaron who increases the pressure of his thumb. For an extra gift, he inserts 3 fingers inside of her, stretching her sweetly around them. The action pulls out one of the most pornographic noises he had ever heard from her. All it does push him further.

His fingers curl.

They scissor.

They retreat.

They plunge back in.

Orgasm number 4 was more of a splash into his hand. Wetter than the previous 3 that’s for sure. Maybe that explained the tears in her eyes. And suddenly her ignored attempts to grab his wrist make all the more sense.

“You alright over there?” he taunts. Her teary browns met his playful greens, struggling to grasp the audacity of this man. Then her eyes widen in what seems like fear as she detects a certain glint in his irises. His lips curve slightly as a silent response. “What did I say you should never forget?” he asks her, his tone deceptively sweet.

“That you lo-AH!” she cries, her answer being sharply cut off by his fingers plunging right back into her. Two curls against her warm walls is all it takes for a 5th orgasm. And in a way she didn’t even know was possible, it’s messier and wetter than the 4th.

Aaron retracts his soaked fingers with the ghost of a sinister smirk across his features. His dry hand grabs the loose ponytail and wraps it around his fist. As if she weighs nothing, Sam’s back is arched inwards, bringing her face to face with Aaron.

“Hey,” is all he says before shoving his pussy covered fingers into her mouth. His fingers dance over her tongue as he essentially uses it to wipe them off. Right as it seems like he’s about to remove them however, they slide further down her mouth right past her uvula. She gags and chokes mindlessly, catching him wink as fucks the back of her throat with his fingers.

Okay, maybe he is a little cruel.

“You know, I’ve always found it fascinating how you still manage to look this fucking beautiful while being the nastiest little whore I’ve ever had the pleasure of encountering. Absolutely fucking amazing I tell you,” he muses. It’s at this point that Sam fully accepts her oncoming fate. However she still can’t tell you for the life of her what she did to earn it.

His fingers leave her mouth but not before using her spit to paint her lips. “What did I tell you not to forget just now?” Aaron asks again as his fingers run up and down the valley of her breasts.

“That you love me,” her reply comes out as a croak as a result of him treating her gag reflex like a toy.

“And I do, Sam. I really do,” he pauses to lean in and place a soft kiss on her cheek. “But now I’m going to ruin you.”

His hands are on her waist again as he takes a step forward, pressing her front against the sink. He pushes his pants and briefs to his thighs, releasing his impatient looking cock. A few quick strokes and a slight lift of her waist is all the prep she has before Aaron pushes roughly into her. A ragged moan is all Sam has to offer as her man bottoms out inside of her, stuffing her like a garage pie. With no hand holding her up, the pressure folds her right back over and has her hands inching for something to grab. Aaron isn’t having it though; he reaches for her ponytail again and yanks, only this time she’s flush against him. Holding her there is his meaty tattooed bicep, keeping her in what could be a headlock if she finds a way to test him.

With his other hand on her waist, he wastes no time with waiting for her to adjust and instead just rams into her torturingly slow. Each time he pulls out, her brain is tricked by his tongue and lips peppering kisses on her skin and it confuses itself with false relief. Until he slams right back into her, reaching her soul with his girthy tip. “Look at you…such a pretty little slut aren’t you? Mi deh fuck yuh foolish an’ yuh still look perfect, yuh si?” he groans. The pure eroticism in his tone mixed deliciously with the Patois he had taken to using as a weapon formed against her…

Samkelisiwe Pierre never stood a chance.

Aaron’s strokes, although measured and deep, are unrelenting. The precision at which he hits that sweet, sweet spot makes Sam feel like there’s a secret mission afoot. Like there are other forces at hand. If only she had the power to at the very least fight back against them. Never resist or stop them though. Not when they had her seeing stars like this. Not when they had her stomach doing cartwheels around the pressure building up.

“Fuck, daddy…feels so mmh…gonna cum,” she breathes out.

“Is that right? ‘Cause I don’t recall you asking me to.” To the untrained ear, it sounds like an observation, a comment, a note. But Sam’s ears are seasoned. She’s fluent in “Aaaronese” and to her, this is a veiled warning. He’s daring her to do it without asking.

Unfortunately for both of them, she spoke too late and is too close to turn back. There’s nothing she can do to stop the orgasmic freight train that’s coming at her at lightning speed. Nothing she can bite hard enough to quell the guttural scream that escapes her throat. And unfortunately, there’s no amount of clenching that could stop the 6th wave of pleasure pouring from her onto his dick.

All of it happens so fast; so hard, that she can’t even feel the subtle change in pace as she rides it out. He’s going slower, but only so little that she can’t tell the difference. He should be upset…in fact he should be livid at her blatant disregard. But damn, he couldn’t help but be softened by the way her features twisted and relaxed in euphoria. He also understands that there wasn’t much she could do to stop it. Not after a whole workout and…well.

His arm releases her neck, allowing her more breathing room. She places her hands on one of the sinks, using it to brace herself while she takes in their reflection in the mirror. Aaron is still knee-deep inside of her, letting her recover with a more gentle tempo.

“I’m sor-“ she’s quickly cut off by an even sharper stroke. Then another. Then another. All increasing in pace until all it is is just Aaron pounding into her like a mad man. He may have forgiven her last transgression; that doesn’t mean he’s in the mood to hear her lie about her remorse.

The soft grunts painted on his lips accompany her cries of wanton. He’s chasing his own release. He hadn’t originally planned to do it this soon, but Sam derailed his plans. Now he just wants to paint her walls then clean her off in the shower; take care of her for the rest of the night.

He continues to slam into her, pace completely unrelenting but tempo growing sloppy. He’s close, and judging by the way she’s clenching around him, she was too. He leans forward, kissing her along the jaw and her cheek. Her dazed eyes find him through the mirror. There’s drool on the corner of her lip, so he does what any good man would do. He licks it up and lets it mingle with his own saliva before using one of his hands to cup her chin and turn her face towards him.

Almost like she can hear his thoughts, her mouth is slightly open with her tongue sticking out. Little phantoms of his name trail out, waiting on the gift he’s about to give her.

And it comes in the form of a slow, long line of spit, directly on her tastebuds. And like that, the hard earned white ring around his dick grows. Sam’s grip on him warrants one last punishing thrust; one that shakes her to her core and drowns her in powerful tides of pleasure. Her walls hug him tightly and coax his own release out of him. Aaron has no choice but to comply. With a strained groan, his dick twitches, spasms then let’s go, making a complete mess inside of her to match the one outside.

Having emptied himself completely, he pulls out, still leaning on her back. “You know, other couples usually take showers after the gym,” she giggles, back vibrating against his head.

“Love that for them sweetheart. I generally prefer a snack and some cardio,” he teases hoarsely, planting a soft smack on the side of her ass. Sam glares playfully through their reflections, shaking her head at the innuendo. “I won’t hold you though, that shower does sound like a good time right now,” he adds.

“I hear you. But then knowing you, it could turn into you catching your third wind,” she jokes. His head snaps up, mischief shining in his eyes.

“I mean if you don’t mind-“

“Hayi hayi hayi! Mna, I’m tired. Actually, get off my back before you put that thing back inside me. In fact, ingathi I’m going to shower alone,” her tone is firm, but Aaron can hear the humour below. Besides, she hates showering alone so even if he couldn’t, he would know she’s bluffing.

Still, he listens, standing up straight and moving to lean against the sink himself with his back facing the mirror. He pulls her in for a soft kiss, their lips having a tender little slow dance. The taste of her still on his tongue mingles with the taste of litchi flavoured water and his spit.

Sam shifts a little, finding herself in between his legs with her hands against his chest. His hands travel down to her ass, offering a quick squeeze. A sharp gasp escapes her lips and is quickly stolen by Aaron. Her smooth fingers trace his skin, skating down his abs and stopping right where his happy trail starts. Suddenly, he feels her palm him, and it stops him in his tracks.

Surely they can wait 20 more minutes for that shower. He’d even cook for her right afterwards, whatever she wants too. Just one more round-

“Don’t even think about it big boy. You’re not getting another workout out of me.”

[odysseyeurobeat]

Whatever Happened to Eurobeat Brony?

…and what's up with this Vtuber girl on the bottom of the picture?

I'll explain in a moment, though be forewarned: It's less climactic than you may think it is! (Warning: Contains pre-transition photos and footage of me!)

TL;DR

I never really left! I just started making more originals, got really into streaming and Vtubing, and came out as a woman. I've even still made a few Eurobeat Brony tracks in all of that— like I said, I never really left! I've even got a 2025 version of an old track lined up to release TOMORROW! And if the show re-inspires me, I'll release tracks as Eurobeat Brony again.

NOW FOR EXCRUCIATING DETAIL

It's me! I'm Eurobeat Brony!

...or, rather, I should explain how we got there from here, right?

BRONY BEGINNINGS

I've been making eurobeat music and releasing it on the internet for many years— some of the earliest instances of my work specifically in the genre are still up from 2006. So, I've been active as Odyssey Eurobeat for FAR longer than I've been Ken Blast (short for Kendra btw!), and longer still than Eurobeat Brony.

In 2010, my family lost my grandfather on my mom's side to pretty severe malpractice, and I turned towards cartoons and animation to cope during my first semester of classes at SJSU. In that time, I discovered some of the early threads floating around about the first few episodes of My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic. Curious due to the inclusion of Lauren Faust's name on the series, I explored it a bit. In early 2011, I created a remix of "Evil Enchantress" from the episode introducing Zecora, which (to my understanding) is the first documented "brony music" song on the internet in terms of publication date! The rest was history— several remixes of the show's songs, a handful of originals (Luna, Diamond Dogs, Batty, Fly... and, of course, DISCORD!), performances all around the world... dare I say it, I had the tiniest taste of the rockstar lifestyle!

I'd go so far as to say, it felt like the mid-late 2010s were some of the highlights of my career! Performing for huge crowds, collaborating with folks, traveling the world, and all focused on a show that made dark days brighter when I needed that the most.

During this time, for BronyCon 2018 and 2019, I wanted to make a gesture of love and gratitude for folks still supporting my work and shows— in 2018 I created a new version of Luna, and in 2019 I created my best version of Discord to this day, the one I think encompasses my original intentions for the first version… Discord 2019.

Keep that in mind going forward, it'll be important later.

So, where did I go after all that? Did I dramatically depart from the fandom? Did I get bought out by another scene? Did my music interest drastically change?

...no! Honestly, I never left!

FROM 2019 ON

After Discord 2019, my focus shifted back to original works for a while. 2019 in particular was the year I began to work full-time as a musician instead of pursuing digital marketing positions, or driving for DoorDash. It was not for lack of love of the show, but I did feel like I could do a lot more creative work if I wrote about more ideas and concepts than MLP tended to focus on. Besides, these newfangled Vtubers seem to be really cool, perhaps I could get into that!

As well, I had spent a large portion of the 2010s silently battling gender dysphoria, planning multiple times to come out and begin HRT, each time finding excuses or losing my nerve or just plain failing to do so. It took the lockdowns of 2020 and getting Covid in early 2021 to finally impart the fact that I am not owed tomorrow, and that I'd need to fight for it. Once I recovered, I began the work towards starting my medical and social transitions, and on May 26 2021, I came out as a woman live on my Twitch stream (since, well, this would be where I'd be the most visible... they'd see the transformation one way or another)!

SO, EUROBEAT PEGASISTER THEN?

Naw. "Eurobeat Brony" still feels right, somehow.

AH, OKAY. PLEASE DO GO ON.

At any rate, my focus shifted away from MLP for a while, focusing on streaming on Twitch and producing original works. However, this wouldn't last— after a while, I was reached by Step 2 Harmony, the My Little Pony Cover & Cosplay group, about creating an updated version of my remix of Mirai Start (the opening theme for the show in Japan). We worked on the remix... then got to chat further, until I had the honor of joining them on stage to perform the choreography live at Ponyville Ciderfest 2021!

In the next year, TanMansManTan, a long-time host of my earliest brony work, decided to revamp his YouTube channel, which meant delisting the earliest versions of my work. He sent me the video files as best he could, and I hosted the new versions of those videos on my YouTube channel, as well as a new remix of Vylet Pony's incredible anthem "Antonymph", which I designed to contain the spirit of old Super Ponybeat work in the lens of recent production knowledge. If I was going to keep being invited to brony conventions, it felt like the least I could do was throw some love to the scene and its innovators.

(In fact, during this time of fewer releases, I often sought out new releases from other musicians active in the scene to play in my sets!)

OKAY SO... WHY TALK ABOUT THIS NOW?

So.

Remember when I mentioned creating updated versions of my work for BronyCon 2018 and 2019?

This year, I was scheduled to perform at Babscon 2025, but the convention maliciously fired its concert lead three weeks before the convention. In solidarity, every single musician on the lineup withdrew from the convention. Most of that lineup joined her for her amazing Neighhem concert held in nearby Redwood City, and I was honored to be the final act of that show.

...and a little song of mine I had been working on for Babscon up to that point, made it into the show. And now, it's finally fully ready.

At 12:30PM PDT on May 30, 2025, I will release the 2025 version of Batty. I would be honored for you to enjoy this new version of the song, a gesture of love to a scene in which I grew tremendously, and to which I owe a tremendous amount of gratitude.

This song will be available on platforms like iTunes, Spotify, TIDAL, etc... but in traditional Super Ponybeat fashion, the song will be available for free/name-your-price on Bandcamp. Please enjoy the song as much as you want, and support it if you can!

THE FUTURE OF EUROBEAT BRONY

...it sounds so official typing it out, right? 😅

It's here that I make a confession— I never did finish the show. I had a handful of remixes I cancelled or never really got around to, an original idea or two I never built out... and while I was further along in the series than I thought, I still don't have everything from the show. When I have a moment to do so, I'd like to finish the series, and remix any songs that particularly stick out to me

At the very least, I'd like to remix the ending song, "The Magic Of Friendship Grows". However, I don't want to start that until I've watched the series up to that point. I'd like the other songs in the show to catch my interest first so, if I do decided to take a crack at them, I can. I'd like to give the show room to inspire me one more time, y'know?

That said, finding the time for that may be difficult. I've never been busier in my life than I've been lately, and time for consuming media has been a little limited (when I do, it tends to be other Vtubers lately). The possibility of me never getting around to it is nonzero.

But I tell you what gives me hope.

I mentioned Neighhem earlier, yeah?

It was here, not at the final BABSCon, where I reconnected with so many brony musicians, modern and legacy, that I remembered what drew me here in the first place. Spending time with everyone, some I hadn't seen in years, others I hadn't met yet, sparked something in me I hadn't felt quite the same since the early 2010s. It felt like a home away from home.

There's something to this horse business that disarms, that gives us a second to pause and hear others out, to become interested in their lives for a second. It's a feeling I've lacked in the 2020s, and one I've direly missed.

That feeling hasn't left me yet, either. Somehow, I still have that little spark in me from that night. And while it's still here, I want to try.

For some of you, Eurobeat Brony was your introduction to eurobeat (still wild to me to think that!!!); for others, EbB was a fun association with the show or fandom. For a surprising many of you, that name still holds quite a bit of value. It has some for me, too.

So... yeah. That's where I've been. And I'd love to have you with me from here, too. If you're down to see the Vtuber stuff, if you're down to hear my new original work (I just did a hyper techno track with a fantastic rapper friend!), then my central hub (you can choose which socials or other things to check out from here, at least!) would be odysseyeurobeat.com! Or you can check out my Twitch, Twitter, Bluesky, or even the very same YouTube channel I used for Super Ponybeat material all these years.

Whether you're a modern Oddity (Oddities are Odyssey fans!), an old MLP fan, or someone else entirely, I cannot thank you enough for having enjoyed my work for even a portion of your day, week, month, year, life. I genuinely never thought I'd be this far along, that music would be a full-time endeavor that's actually working. I am immensely grateful to you all. 💖

[danysdaughter]

(first off, i adored come home to me so much)

can u pls do one where bucky and the reader knew each other before the hydra thing, but they both ended up in hydra's clutches, and instead of completely dehumanizing the two, zola programmed them to be some form of ally/handler situation, so when they both break out of hydra's clutches it gets very angsty and they argue/hate each other because they don't know if their bond was them or hydra-made. and then the ending's up to you.

no srsly, ur writing is literal art. its like fantastic in ways i cant describe.

i can die happy if u'll take this idea.

did I go a bit overboard? yes. do i have any regrets? no. I really tried to make it as you described, babe, hope you enjoy 💕

The Soldier and The Vixen

pairing | 40s!bucky x fem!reader & winter!soldier x fem!reader & post!tfatws!bucky x reader

word count | 14k words

summary | Once comrades bound by war and affection, two soldiers-turned-weapons are reshaped into monsters by Hydra, their humanity fractured and memories blurred.

Now free but haunted, they struggle to untangle love from programming, grief from guilt, and healing from the wreckage of who they used to be

tags | ANGST! ANGST! and more ANGST! graphic violence, torture, emotional trauma, brainwashing, PTSD, abuse, trauma bonding, psychological manipulation, non-consensual experimentation, abuse, power imbalance, gore, unhealthy attachment, angst/no comfort, miscommunication, mutual destruction (a bit too much?)

a/n | wowww, I am not gonna lie, I actually cried while writing this, also this fic explores dark themes with little to no comfort (we die like men)

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

Village Outskirts, France, 1945

The earth was damp beneath your stomach. Rain must’ve come through earlier — you could smell it in the mud, the churned-up grass, the faint rot of old stone and war.

Through your scope, you watched two Hydra guards lounging outside a crumbling checkpoint. They were smoking and laughing about something in German, distracted, backs too often to each other. Sloppy.

You pressed the button on your radio once, holding it close to your mouth. “Movement. Two guards at the eastern entry. Smoking. Lazy. Easy targets.”

There was a short pause.

Then Bucky’s voice crackled through, “Fox, you always know how to sweet-talk a guy.”

You almost smiled. Almost, “Only the ones who talk less than they shoot, Sarge.”

A muffled laugh came through the line. Morita muttered something you didn't quite catch, probably teasing Bucky again. He was an easy target.

“You got him good,” Dum Dum grinned from somewhere behind you.

Steve’s voice cut in — level, steady. “Enough chatter. Fox, take the lead. We move on your signal.”

But you were already moving.

You didn't need backup for this. The hill rolled down into a slope that gave you full cover, and you slipped down it like water over rock. Quiet. Efficient. Knife drawn. You counted your steps with your breath. When the first guard turned his back, you were already there.

One sharp jab under the ribs. Drag him behind a crate.

The second didn't even turn in time.

Ten seconds. Two bodies. No gunfire.

You tapped your radio again.

“Checkpoint clear.”

As you were climbing back up toward the rendezvous, Bucky was waiting at the top of the ridge, crouched behind a low wall. He glanced at you, smirking.

“Miss me?”

You scoffed, brushing dirt from your sleeves. “I was gone ninety seconds.”

“That’s longer than I like you being out of sight.”

You arched a brow. “Is that concern, Sergeant Barnes?”

“It’s tactical observation, doll.”

There it was — the nickname again. You didn't bite. Bucky flirted with anything that had a skirt, and you were the only girl on the team. You’d learned not to take him seriously.

Behind you, Gabe whispered over the comm, “God, just kiss already.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

Bucky turned sharply and pretended to check his rifle. He didn't say another word. You frowned, completely missing the flush rising in his cheeks.

You shook your head, then returned to the task. The rest of the unit fellin. You walked point. Bucky took his usual position at your flank, and the rest of the squad fell into formation like a well-oiled machine.

The village ahead was half-destroyed from past shelling. Stone walls broken down to the foundation. Trees blackened by fire. The kind of place where shadows hid snipers and death sat behind every door.

You spotted it first — a tripwire buried in the dirt, nearly invisible. You paused, raised your fist to halt the line, then rerouted them five feet to the left.

Dum Dum muttered, “You’ve got eyes like a hawk.”

“I’ve got better things to do than walk into obvious traps,” you muttered back.

You didn't make it twenty feet past the tripwire before you heard the explosion — further down, where another route would’ve taken you.

“Hydra knows we’re here,” you said into the radio. “Get to cover. Rooftops—snipers at twelve o’clock.”

The first shot cut through the air a moment later.

You hit the ground, narrowly dodging the bullet. Dust sprayed over your face. A hand grabbed your vest — yanked you behind a broken column.

Bucky.

He positioned himself between you and the direction the shot came from, body tense.

“I had it under control,” you whispered.

He didn't even blink. “Didn’t say you didn’t.”

He was still too close. Too steady. His eyes flickered to you, just for a second, like he was making sure you were still in one piece. You didn't notice. You never noticed.

You moved past him before he could say anything else.

Firefight erupted in bursts. The unit scattered into cover, returning fire. You darted through the alleys, knife flashing when you came across two patrols rounding the corner. Your blade slipped beneath ribs and across throats. You didn't flinch. You’ve done worse.

Bucky caught your eye across the street — both of you ducked behind separate walls. You tilted your head. He nodded once. You moved again, clearing a side stairwell while he took the main door.

“Tech’s inside that chapel,” Steve said over the comm. “Fox, Bucky, with me.”

You kicked the door open first. Bucky was right behind you.

He tossed a flash grenade �� you shielded your eyes, waiting for the burst, and swept left as soon as it cleared. Two Hydra agents — you took one in the leg, knocked his rifle away, finished it with your knife. The second one came at you with a baton, but Bucky had already taken him down with a clean shot to the chest.

When it was over, the silence was louder than the fight.

The tech was here — something glowing with an unnatural blue pulse. You didn't go near it.

You turned to Bucky instead, breathless. Dust in your hair. Blood on your sleeve.

“Think this’ll finally get me a promotion?”

He was looking at you differently. A flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. Maybe it was the way the light hit your face. Maybe it was the fact you were both still alive.

“You deserve a medal, Fox.”

You grinned, wiping blood from your cheek.

“Only if it’s chocolate.”

────────────────────────

Somewhere in the French Countryside, 1945

The mission had been hell, but tonight, the world was quiet.

The campfire crackled in the middle of a half-collapsed barn, broken beams overhead like the ribs of a long-dead beast. Outside, wind stirred through wheat fields. Inside, there was warmth — not from the fire, but from the laughter.

You sat with your knees pulled up, perched on an overturned crate. Your boots were still muddy. Blood on your sleeve had dried to a dark rust. Dum Dum had found a bottle of something vaguely alcoholic, and it’d been passed around in uneven sips.

Morita was telling a story — probably the fifth exaggerated war tale of the night — gesturing wildly with his hands.

“…and then this guy,” he pointed at Bucky with a dramatic flair, “says, ‘I got this,’ climbs onto the back of the Hydra truck barefoot, like a damn lunatic—”

“I didn’t think they’d be hot-wiring it in motion!” Bucky cut in defensively.

“That’s not even the dumbest part,” Gabe added, smirking. “The dumbest part is that he forgot the explosives.”

Laughter broke out around the fire. Bucky groaned and dropped his head back with a loud, sarcastic, “Thanks, fellas.”

You tried to hold in a laugh — and failed. He shot you a look, mock offended.

“You too, Fox?”

You shrugged, biting down on your grin. “Well. I was the one who had to double back and grab the damn charges.”

“She ran through enemy fire like it was a morning jog,” Steve added with a small, proud shake of his head.

Bucky nudged your shoulder with his. “Guess I owe you another one.”

“You’re keeping score now?” you asked, dryly.

He smirked. “Only when I’m losing.”

The fire cracked again, glowing warm across the faces of your brothers-in-arms. Everyone relaxed in a way they rarely could — backs against crates and sandbags, boots kicked off, dog tags clinking faintly as they leaned into one another’s stories.

Gabe tilted his head toward you, half-grinning. “Alright, Fox. What about you?”

You blinked. “What about me?”

“If you weren’t doing all this,” he said, gesturing vaguely around the barn. “If you weren’t dodging bullets and saving our sorry asses, what would you be doing?”

Immediately, you shook your head. “Nope.”

Cackling broke out around you. Morita leaned forward eagerly. “Oh, come on.”

“Not happening,” you said, waving them off.

“You gotta tell us now,” said Dum Dum. “That reaction alone just guaranteed it’s embarrassing.”

Bucky grinned beside you. “C’mon, Fox. We tell you our secrets. Like how Morita’s terrified of goats—”

“I am not—”

“—and how Dum Dum can’t wink without sneezing—”

“It’s a medical issue—”

“—so it’s only fair we get yours.”

You sighed, shaking your head slowly. “Fine. But if any of you ever breathe a word of this outside this barn, I will personally replace your shaving cream with gun grease.”

They leaned in, like children around a ghost story.

You looked into the fire, picking at the fraying seam of your glove. Then.

“I used to want to be a singer.”

Silence.

Then, chaos.

“No shit?”

“What kind?”

“Like on stage?”

“Do you have a stage name? Wait—please tell me it was Foxy somethin’—”

You groaned again, instantly regretting every life choice that led to this moment.

“It was just something I wanted when I was a kid,” you muttered. “Doesn’t mean I was any good.”

“But like, jazz club singer?” Dum Dum asked. “Torch songs?”

You didn’t answer. The heat in your cheeks did.

And then Gabe — bless him — decided to chime in, puffing his chest out like he had the perfect line.

“I mean… I just can’t picture you doing something that… you know. Girly.”

You turned your head toward him, slow and sharp.

“What?”

The fire seemed to go still.

Gabe blinked. “No—I mean—just like, you’re so good at, you know. The not-girly stuff. Like, killing people—uh—”

You raised a brow, voice flat. “So I’m in the military and that means I’m not allowed to be girly?”

Gabe opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “No! That’s not—I didn’t mean—like, you can, obviously—”

The others had lost it by now. Bucky had his head buried in his arm, shaking with silent laughter. Morita was wheezing. Dum Dum was crying.

You nodded slowly, arms crossed. “Uh huh. That all you got?”

Gabe looked around like someone might save him. No one did.

“I just meant… you seem so… sharp! And you don’t… I mean you never… like, dresses—not that I wouldn’t like if you wore one—not that you need to—”

“Dig up, Gabe,” Bucky offered helpfully.

You shook your head and pointed your canteen at Gabe like a knife. “One more word and I swear I will make you run laps in full gear tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Gabe said, finally surrendering to his embarrassment. “Thank you for your service.”

Once the laughter died down, Dum Dum leaned forward with a mischievous grin.

“Alright, Fox. Now sing us something.”

You stared at him.

“Not a chance in hell.”

“Oh, come on—”

“Absolutely not.”

“Just a few notes—”

“You’d have to drug me.”

“Well,” Bucky said, elbowing you gently, “I do still have some morphine left in my pack—”

You shoved his arm away with a scoff, but couldn’t help the flicker of a smile.

And as the boys erupted into more teasing, and Gabe tried to crawl under a tarp in embarrassment, you leaned back against the crate, warmed more by the people around you than the fire. You didn’t sing, not that night. But Bucky stayed next to you, quietly.

And he didn’t laugh when you said you used to want to sing.

He just looked at you like he really wanted to hear it.

────────────────────────

Moments After Intercepting Zola's Train— Alpine Forest Edge, 1945

The wind had sharp teeth.

It howled between the trees like it was mourning too. Snow swept across the ground in restless swirls, half-covering the train tracks already. Everything was white and still and wrong.

The wreckage lay behind you, steel twisted into the mountainside, black smoke curling up into the gray sky. Arnim Zola had been secured. Hydra’s tech recovered. It was supposed to be a win.

But Bucky had fallen.

The team stood in the brittle silence of it. Steve was turned half away, jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscle twitch in his cheek. Morita and Dum Dum said nothing, eyes fixed on the ground. Gabe was pacing, too angry to stop moving, like stillness would make it real.

You stood near the edge of the embankment, where it dropped into a forest of pine and snow. Your lungs burned with cold, but you kept staring down, searching the white for anything — a shape, a shadow, hope.

Finally, you squared your shoulders.

“Cap.”

Steve didn’t answer at first. You stepped closer, louder now.

“Steve.”

His eyes flicked to you, red-rimmed and hollow. “What?”

“I want permission to go after him.”

Silence.

Then a bitter breath of disbelief. “Fox…”

“You know I’m the best tracker we’ve got,” you said, tone steady, firm. “I know how to read the land. If anyone can follow his path through that fall, it’s me.”

“There’s no way he—” Steve cut himself off. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “No one survives a drop like that. And it’s too dangerous. You can’t go alone.”

“I have to go alone,” you insisted. “A squad would slow me down. I’ll move faster on my own, quieter. Look—”

You crouched down in the snow and started sketching with your glove. “That ridge curves around. It’s a drop, yes, but if he hit snow, or an outcrop, or even slid—”

“Even if by some miracle he lived,” Steve said quietly, “he wouldn’t last long. Not in that cold. Not with the injuries he’d have.”

You stood again, breath quickening with urgency. “If he’s alive, he’s got a chance—but not if I waste time arguing.”

“Fox—”

“If I don’t, he dies. Hypothermia will set in fast — minutes, if he’s bleeding. I might not have long, but I might still have enough time. You give me two days. Just two. If he’s alive, I’ll bring him in. If he’s not…” your voice faltered, just for a second, “then I’ll bring his body home.”

No one spoke. The wind did.

You kept your eyes locked on Steve. Pleading without begging. Heart breaking but hands steady.

“I’ve gone on solo missions before. You know I can handle it. The Colonel trained me for it.”

His jaw flexed again. You could see the battle behind his eyes. Orders versus loyalty. Logic versus love.

And then his shoulders dropped.

“Two days,” he said hoarsely.

Relief hit you like a wave. You gave a quick nod, already reaching for your gear.

But Steve stepped closer, and his voice lowered — gentler, just for you.

“Keep safe out there… alright?” he said softly. “Seriously. And if you need backup, you radio. Doesn’t matter what time. Doesn’t matter what. I’ll come running.”

You paused, swallowing hard. The cold stung your eyes, but you didn’t blink.

“Understood, Captain.”

Steve looked at you for a long moment. Then, softer still — your name. Not your call sign.

“Come back.”

You stood at attention, gave a crisp salute.

“I will.”

Then you turned, and vanished into the snow.

────────────────────────

The snow had swallowed your tracks hours ago.

You ran anyway — boots crushing down through the icy crust of the forest floor, slipping sometimes, catching yourself hard against trees. Your lungs burned with each breath, white puffs turning sharp in the frozen air. You followed the slope of the mountain where the train had disappeared from sight — zig-zagging across ridges, checking every ravine, every indentation in the powder.

It was somewhere along a narrow ledge above a frozen stream that you saw it — the faint suggestion of disturbed snow, barely visible unless you were looking for it. A jagged slide mark. Something heavy had fallen.

Your heart slammed in your chest as you scrambled down the embankment, knees hitting ice, hands out to brace yourself. You moved quick, scanning, scanning—

Then you saw red.

You froze.

Blood in the snow — bright, brilliant, and far too much of it.

It streaked in uneven drags from the edge of a rock face down into the brush, and then—

Your breath caught.

Bucky.

He lay sprawled half on his side, unmoving. Snow clung to his lashes, his uniform soaked through. His left arm — what was left of it — hung at an unnatural angle, nearly torn from the shoulder. His mouth was parted like he’d tried to call out and never finished the sound. Blood had soaked the snow beneath him dark and wide.

You were moving before your brain caught up.

“Sarge?” you gasped, skidding to your knees in the snow beside him. “Sarge— Bucky—Bucky, come on—”

Your gloved fingers hovered over him for a split second, terrified to touch, terrified he’d be cold—

But his chest moved.

Faint. Shallow.

You pressed two fingers to the side of his neck, heart pounding as you felt it—

thud.

...thud.

Faint, but there.

Your voice broke with urgency. “Hang on, James. I’ve got you. You’re okay, you’re not gone—”

You dropped your pack, already pulling out your emergency wrap, trying to stem the bleeding. His skin was ice. His lips had gone pale blue. You leaned over him, shielding him from the wind, fumbling for your radio, trying to think past the adrenaline crashing like waves—

Crunch.

Snow behind you shifted.

You didn’t hesitate — one leg snapped out behind you hard, boot slamming into the weight approaching fast from your blind spot. You felt it connect — a grunt, a body collapsing in the snow.

You twisted, low and fast, grabbing your knife from your belt, coming up just in time to block the arm of a Hydra soldier lunging in. Steel clanged against steel. You shoved back with everything you had, pushing the fight away from Bucky’s broken form.

You ducked a strike, twisted the knife out of his hand, and drove your elbow into his face—

But then another set of boots crunched through the trees.

A second soldier tackled you from the side.

You hit the ground hard — snow exploding under you, your knife skidding out of reach. You twisted, managed to throw him off just long enough to scramble back toward Bucky—

Only for a third shadow to emerge from the trees. Then a fourth.

You swung out with your arm, striking one across the temple, disarming another. You were fast—a blur of movement, rage, and desperation—but even you had limits.

A rifle butt slammed into your ribs. You doubled over. Hands grabbed at you. You kicked out, catching one in the knee—

But something cracked against the side of your head.

A sharp, searing light burst across your vision— And then nothing.

Darkness took you.

────────────────────────

Hydra Facility — Undisclosed Location

Consciousness came back like drowning in slow motion.

First, the cold. It bit deep into your skin, sharp and metallic. Then, the ache — deep in your limbs, like your bones were filled with lead. And then the restraints.

Metal bands across your wrists and ankles. Another across your chest. Your head lolled to the side, sluggish from whatever they’d pumped into you — sedatives, maybe. Or worse. You blinked against the blinding fluorescence above, and the white ceiling bled into sterile silver walls.

Then you heard it.

A scream.

Your pulse lurched.

It wasn’t just pain. It was agony. The kind of sound that tore through a person’s throat, primal and ragged. The kind of scream that told you someone was being unmade.

Your neck turned slowly — every muscle protesting — and you saw him.

Bucky.

His body was arched against the restraints on a second slab just feet away from yours, eyes wide, back bowed, mouth open in a raw, broken scream.

There were wires threaded into his temples. Metal rods at his temples, at the base of his skull. Tubes and cables running into his chest. You couldn’t see what they were pumping into him — only that whatever it was, it was wrong.

“Bucky!” your voice cracked out of your throat, hoarse and half-broken. “James—!”

No response. He didn’t hear you. Or he couldn’t. His eyes didn’t see anything.

“Stop it!” you screamed at them instead. Your voice echoed against cold steel walls. “STOP—he’s not a test subject, you bastards, HE’S A PERSON—”

You thrashed, muscles seizing against the restraints, lungs burning, tears springing from your eyes without your permission.

Across the room, a man in a white coat calmly noted something on a clipboard.

A technician adjusted a dial.

Bucky screamed again — hoarse now. And then it broke off into choking. You watched his body convulse against the slab, chest heaving. His face twisted in confusion, pain, terror—like he didn’t know who he was anymore.

You didn’t care what they were doing to you. You didn’t care if your arms were bound or if the sedatives were still in your bloodstream.

You fought.

You fought like hell.

“Let him go!” you shouted, voice nearly gone now. “Let him go, you motherfuckers!”

Someone finally turned toward you — a man with cold eyes behind round spectacles. Calm. Curious.

Zola.

He stepped closer, glancing at your vitals on a nearby monitor. “Interesting,” he murmured in a thick accent, adjusting his gloves. “She is already… aware. So soon.”

“I will kill you,” you spat. “I swear to God—”

“Oh,” Zola said gently, “I think you will be quite useful to each other.”

And then the world tilted again.

Another needle. Another rush of cold in your veins. And the lights above you fractured into fragments.

The last thing you heard before the blackness swallowed you whole… was Bucky sobbing like a child.

────────────────────────

Time had stopped meaning anything.

It could’ve been days. Weeks. Months. You didn’t know.

All you knew was the burn.

Your veins felt like they were filled with acid — crawling fire under your skin, surging in waves that left your limbs trembling, your fingers twitching, your pulse racing like it was trying to outrun death itself. You’d stopped asking what they were putting in you. Every time they came near, you tensed out of instinct. But the sedation would hit before you could do anything.

They never said what it was.

You didn’t know it was the serum.

You only knew that afterward, your body would spasm uncontrollably. Your mind would short-circuit. You’d hear voices that weren’t there. Remember things that hadn’t happened. Feel your strength surge… and then vanish.

But worse than the pain… was him.

Bucky hadn’t spoken in days.

Maybe longer.

He lay still on the other slab, eyes open but unseeing, lips dry and cracked. His breathing was shallow. His face had gone hollow, sunken in the cheeks and under the eyes — like something was draining him from the inside out. They didn’t sedate him anymore. They didn’t need to. Whatever they'd done had left him... vacant.

His new arm — if you could even call it that — sat like a slab of cold iron where his left one had been. Crude stitches and blackened bruises ringed the place it had been fused to bone and muscle. You could see the puckered scars, raw and inflamed, where metal met skin. It looked like it hurt just to exist.

You doubted he could even lift it.

And yet… they’d called it a success.

Whatever that meant.

Now, finally — mercifully — the room had gone still. No needles. No voices over the intercom. No restraints being tightened. Just… stillness.

A few minutes. Maybe hours. You couldn’t tell anymore.

Your throat was dry. Your body, sore and exhausted. But you shifted — weakly — on the slab beside him, head tilting just enough to face him. The cold of the metal table seeped into your bones, but you ignored it.

“Bucky…” you whispered, voice rasping out like broken glass. “Sarge… can you hear me?”

He didn’t move. His eyes stared at the ceiling, unfocused.

You didn’t care.

You turned more toward him, trembling slightly as your fingers strained to reach across the few inches of space. You couldn’t touch him — the restraints didn’t let you — but you reached anyway, as if the effort alone could bridge the gap.

“I’m gonna get us out of here,” you murmured, voice cracking. “I swear. You’re not gonna die in here. I won’t let them take you like this.”

Silence.

You kept talking. You had to.

“You remember the fire escape outside our barracks? That stupid thing that barely held two people? You used to sneak up there and fall asleep. Said it was the only place quiet enough to think.”

Your throat tightened.

“You promised me, one day, you’d go back to Brooklyn. Fix that bike of yours. Open a little garage. Said I could come help out if I wanted to. You remember that?”

No response.

You felt your heart break, slow and jagged, like a fault line cracking open.

“Please, Bucky… just—just look at me. Just one sign. I need to know you’re still in there. I need you.”

Your voice dropped to a whisper. “You saved me. You always did. So let me do it now. Let me get us out. Just hang on. Please.”

You didn’t cry.

You didn’t have the water left in your body to spare. Just dry eyes, raw throat, and a heart held together by frayed sinew and willpower.

Your arm shook from the strain of keeping it extended.

And still, you kept reaching.

Even when he didn’t move.

Even when the silence stretched so long it pressed on your ribs like weight.

Even when your vision started to dim again from the drugs.

“I’m here, Sarge,” you breathed, barely audible now. “You’re not alone.”

The only sound was the soft hiss of the air vents above. The low electric hum from the lights. And the faint, hollow echo of two hearts still beating.

One stronger than the other.

But still alive.

────────────────────────

Hydra Conditioning Chambers – Months Later

You’d lost track of how many times they brought you in.

They stopped asking questions. Stopped pretending it was about compliance. This wasn’t interrogation anymore. It was reshaping.

It started with pain. Always pain. Electric currents through your skull, your spine, the base of your neck. Your nerves became war zones. Your teeth cracked from clenching. You screamed until your throat was raw, until the air itself tasted like metal and blood.

They were trying to make you forget. Rewire your instincts. Strip you of anything you and replace it with something Hydra. Something obedient.

Something empty.

It worked on Bucky.

At first, he resisted. He screamed. Fought. Raged.

But you saw the moment it broke him. You heard it — the silence that followed a round of electroshock so violent it left him convulsing, slack-jawed, frothing at the mouth. His eyes had gone glassy. His lips trembled, whispering things in Russian that made no sense to him — things they had fed into his brain on repeat. Words he didn’t understand but couldn’t stop.

“Зимний Солдат.”

Winter Soldier.

You heard the way they said it. Like it was sacred. Like it was done.

And you—

You were next.

But you wouldn’t break.

Not like him.

You bit down so hard during one session your molar cracked. They doubled the voltage. You passed out and woke up vomiting, body convulsing on the floor, your restraints slick with blood from split wrists. You couldn’t tell if the screaming in your head was yours or theirs.

Still, they failed.

Still, they couldn’t crack you.

You were fire in frostbite. And it drove them mad.

“Too resilient,” one of the German doctors muttered in frustration as he scribbled notes on a clipboard, his glasses slipping down his nose.

“Willful,” Zola corrected. “It’s in her nature. A Colonel's daughter. Born to take orders, yet somehow defies.”

“And yet she will yield,” said the Russian operative beside them, arms folded, watching you with reptilian calm. “We will make her. The лисица will hunt for us in time.”

Vixen, they called you.

The name they gave your file: sleek, lethal, deceptive. Born to track. Built to seduce and eliminate. A predator with a soft face.

You were their ghost soldier. Their shadow. Their whisper in the dark.

But only if they broke you first.

That session, they left you strapped to the chair, soaked in your own sweat and blood, nerves twitching like wires cut loose. Alone. Left to steep in the pain. Like Bucky had been.

You lifted your head an inch. Just enough to glance across the room.

He was there.

Sitting still.

Not restrained. Just… motionless. Eyes forward. Breathing shallow.

He didn’t even look at you anymore.

They had him.

And you were next.

Your throat burned. Your eyes felt too dry to cry. You weren’t sure your vocal cords worked. But still, out of nowhere — out of a deep, primitive place inside you that remembered being human — you sang.

Softly. Shakily. Croaky and cracked.

“I’ll be seeing you… in all the old familiar places…”

“…that this heart of mine embraces… all day through.”

It wasn’t a melody anymore. Just broken notes wrapped around splinters of memory.

Home. Whiskey laughs. Bucky smiling sideways when you called him “Sarge.” Steve saluting you for the first time. Dum Dum tipping his hat. Warm fires. Rations shared.

“In that small café… the park across the way…”

Your voice gave out halfway through.

But you kept whispering the words. Just for you. Just to remember.

Because even if they hollowed you out — rewired you, broke you — they couldn’t take that. Not all the way. Not yet.

You were still Fox. Somewhere under the blood and static and numbness.

You had to be.

Because if you weren’t… who would save him?

Years Later

They became Hydra’s ghosts. Whispers in the dark. Proof that monsters weren’t born — they were made.

When the war ended, and the world began to stitch itself back together, Hydra burrowed deeper. Quieter. Smarter. And in the vaults of ice and concrete beneath their hidden facilities, they began sculpting legends.

One of steel.

One of silk.

He was not subtle.

Where silence was needed, he brought screams.

Where compromise existed, he crushed it.

The Winter Soldier was Hydra’s enforcer, the blade they drove into the heart of history. He appeared across decades like a fracture — impossible to trace, impossible to stop. A phantom draped in shadow, eyes like glacier glass, grip like a bear trap.

He assassinated presidents. Ministers. Scientists. He sabotaged governments with the pull of a trigger. One shot — a bullet through a man’s skull, or through the spine of a nation’s future.

His missions were clean. Untraceable.

No witnesses. No evidence.

Only death.

Hydra rewired him with electroshock and Russian syllables. They hollowed out James Buchanan Barnes and replaced him with a weapon that did not question orders, did not feel guilt, did not hesitate. A ghost of a man with a new metal arm and no memory of mercy.

Cryogenic stasis kept him sharp, young, lethal. He lived in decades like they were days. A century’s worth of kill orders etched into his hands.

He never left survivors.

Unless Hydra told him to.

If the Soldier was Hydra’s hammer, the Vixen was their scalpel.

She bled behind enemy lines in silence, slipping through borders and barricades like a breath. She did not wear fear on her face. She did not leave blood in her wake — only secrets gutted open and missions left in ruin.

They called her лисица, the vixen, because she was cunning. Patient. Uncatchable. A whisper with teeth.

But it wasn’t always about killing.

She was Hydra’s infiltrator, a master of mimicry and seduction, of dismantling men without lifting a weapon. Where the Soldier brought force, she brought erosion — crumbling fortresses from within.

And to Hydra, she was a triumph of psychological warfare — what the Red Room would later attempt to replicate in their Widows. But she came first. She was the original phantom siren.

They used her face. Her softness. Her voice — when she remembered to use it — like a lullaby over a knife's edge. Where the Soldier was brute force, the Vixen was infiltration. Persuasion. Seduction when required, annihilation when ordered.

Her body was honed to perfection. Her mind, conditioned for silence and obedience — and yet, it never bent as cleanly as they wanted.

Not completely.

At first, it was small things.

Moments of hesitation. A flicker of something behind her eyes. The way her hands trembled after some kills — not with fear, but memory. Recognition.

She began humming to herself between assignments. Little songs from another life. She’d sit still in her stasis chamber before freezing, humming fragments of a tune they never taught her.

“We'll meet again, don't know how, don't know when…”

There were reports she disobeyed a kill order once. Let a target live because he had no evil in his eyes. They punished her for it. Re-conditioned her. Electroshock, isolation, more injections — but the slip had happened, and Hydra never trusted her fully again.

They realized she wasn’t like him.

The Soldier could be overwritten.

The Vixen resisted.

Not in screams or defiance. But in subtle, terrifying cracks.

Hydra scientists began to fear her — not for her violence, but her unpredictability. Her lingering humanity. That sliver of soul they couldn’t seem to carve out.

So they adjusted her protocol.

Where the Winter Soldier was deployed like a machine, again and again, the Vixen was locked away.

Preserved in cryo between missions. Thawed only when absolutely necessary. Only when no one else could do the job.

Only when they were desperate enough to risk the memories bleeding through.

They didn’t trust the leash they’d put on her. They only trusted the chain they wrapped around her throat.

And the serum? The serum wasn’t meant for kindness. It didn’t amplify goodness or nobility.

It magnified potential.

And under Hydra’s hands, that meant war.

The Winter Soldier's muscles knit themselves tighter. Bone density quadrupled. His reflexes reached inhuman speeds. Pain dulled. Healing accelerated. A shot to the chest became a stumble. A shattered femur became a limp for a few hours.

He didn’t stop.

He couldn’t stop.

The serum made sure of that.

And when paired with the metal arm — the marvel of Soviet-German engineering — the Winter Soldier became a force no one could match. Stronger than ten men. Faster than bullets. Unbreakable.

A walking extinction event.

He wasn’t meant to survive.

He was meant to erase.

The Vixen, however… she changed differently.

Hydra never expected the serum to work the same way. She was smaller. Lighter. Delicate in the ways he was brutal. But she was no less a weapon — just… sharper. More precise.

The serum didn’t bulk her up. It refined her.

Her muscles compacted into long, lean coils of strength. She moved like liquid shadow. Fast enough to vanish between blinks. Quiet enough that her footsteps could barely be heard on glass.

But it was her senses that changed the most.

Hydra didn’t know what to make of it at first — the way she would flinch at footsteps down the hall before they ever echoed. She could hear things miles away — the tick of rifle safety on a distant rooftop, the soft breath of a man in a hidden hallway. She could hear heartbeats. Lies. The subtle shift in someone's pulse when they spoke told her more than any interrogation.

They tested her. Over and over.

She could feel sweat in the air.

Taste adrenaline on a man’s breath.

Smelled metal, blood, gunpowder — emotions. Fear had a scent. Anger tasted like copper.

Her eyes could track the fall of a snowflake mid-battle. Her balance was inhuman. Her touch, so precise she could disarm a man without waking him.

Hydra called it a miracle. Zola called it evolution.

She was a new breed of operative — not just fast and strong, but impossibly aware. And that terrified them.

Because if she chose to disobey, to turn on them…

Even the Winter Soldier could not stop her.

They never told her she could overpower him.

They couldn’t risk it.

So instead, they bound her.

Psychologically. Physically. Systematically.

They paired her to the Soldier — not as an equal. As a subordinate. A tool under his control.

Her handler.

Her shadow.

Her leash.

When she failed a mission, when she hesitated, when she lingered too long near a song or a memory — he was the one they sent.

No guards. No scientists.

Just the Winter Soldier.

He’d enter the chamber where she sat — barefoot, arms folded over her knees, breath slow. She never ran. She never fought. Not unless she wanted it to be worse.

And he would carry out the punishment.

His face never changed.

His hands never trembled.

His eyes never closed.

Sometimes it was his fists.

Sometimes it was the silence between them — worse than any bruise.

They trained her to submit to him on instinct. A single word in Russian, a glance, a subtle shift of his body — she would obey.

But it wasn’t fear.

It was conditioning.

They had threaded her loyalty into his silhouette. Turned the man who once bled beside her into a god she knelt for.

The only one who could touch her.

The only one she responded to.

────────────────────────

Hydra’s underground compound groaned with the mechanical cold of concrete and fluorescent hum. Sterile, sharp. The air reeked of antiseptic and gun oil — a scent soaked into every slab of metal, every breath pulled through narrow lungs.

They’d returned just an hour ago from an operation in Prague.

The Soldier had gone first, dragged down the corridor by two guards, silent and compliant. They always processed him first — quick, efficient. He was easy. Slumped shoulders. Dull gaze. Programmed silence. The memory wipe rarely took more than ten minutes anymore.

But she had lingered.

Stripped of her weapons. Her boots left sticky with blood. Hands twitching at her sides like she didn’t trust they were done. Her pupils hadn’t shrunk. Her breathing hadn’t calmed. She stared at the floor like it was moving beneath her.

And when they reached for her—

When gloved hands touched her arm—

She snapped.

No scream. No warning.

The first man’s throat tore open before the others knew her fingers had moved. His blood sprayed up her face — red mist over pale skin — and she didn’t stop to see him fall. She pivoted. Fast. Precise.

A whirlwind of fists and sharp bone and snarled breath. The second scientist’s head slammed into the wall with a crack, spine folded in an unnatural twist as he slumped.

Then the alarms began.

Boots thudded down the hall. Gunfire stuttered from two directions — panicked, wild — and only some of it came from her. The rest came from soldiers firing before they aimed, hands shaking, watching Hydra’s most elegant weapon unspool into a beast.

It was like she could hear the triggers before they clicked.

Bang. Duck. Slide. Elbow to temple. Gun lifted. Two shots — center mass. Next.

She didn’t pause.

Not until there was no one left moving in the corridor but her.

Fifteen seconds of silence.

The floor gleamed with blood.

She stood in the middle of it all, chest heaving, smeared head to toe in scarlet. Her jaw twitched. Her eyes — still dilated — flicked up, wide, unblinking. Animal stillness. No longer in a mission. No longer in control.

Something had broken. Fully. Utterly.

In the surveillance room, a handler shouted.

“Отправьте солдата. Положите Виксен. Сделайте это сейчас—”

(Send in the Soldier to put the Vixen down. Do it NOW—)

Metal boots struck the floor.

He came with no hesitation.

The Soldier entered the corridor through the main blast doors, smoke curling from the edges of spent gun barrels. His face was blank. Cold. His metal arm hissed as it flexed, fingers twitching from a reset.

He stopped when he saw her.

Standing there like a revenant. Covered in blood, chin lifted, hair matted and damp. A raw tremble in her shoulders. Eyes glowing with something ancient, something nameless.

She didn't kneel. She didn't bow.

She just watched him.

The room seemed to shrink. Lights buzzed above them like flies. The blood beneath their boots had not yet dried.

His weight shifted. Right foot forward. Arm lowering slightly — coiled, ready.

Their eyes locked.

Like wolves before the first bite. No orders. No speech. No false names. Just… waiting. A battle written in stare alone.

Then he moved.

And so did she.

He lunged — fast, brutal. A fist like steel screaming toward her temple.

She ducked, slid beneath it, spun her heel into his ribs. He grunted, staggered — not from pain, but from surprise. She was faster. Not more powerful — not quite — but she was sharper. Tighter.

They wove through each other like old ghosts dancing.

His hand gripped her wrist mid-blow, twisted. She hissed, kicked at his shin. He blocked, slammed her into the wall. Her breath shot out. His arm pressed at her throat — but she rolled, broke free, slammed her forehead into his chin.

Crack.

He blinked, dazed for half a second.

She struck again.

Hard. Violent. Chest to chest, elbow to his jaw, knee toward his side — he blocked, shoved her back. They breathed in unison, rapid and harsh. His hair clung to his forehead. Her lip bled from the inside out.

Still, no words.

Just eye contact — burning. Challenging. Grieving.

The stalemate lasted three heartbeats.

Then the blast doors behind him hissed open again — dozens of Hydra agents storming the corridor with tranquilizers, guns, electric rods. The spell broke.

He made the decision.

He lunged — again — but this time not to strike.

Her back hit the floor hard, her limbs twisted beneath her, wrists already bruising. He was on top of her, pinning her down with the weight of a machine, his metal hand locked around her throat, thumb pressed against the pulse of her artery.

Her chest heaved, sharp and slow, like breath was foreign now. Like she didn’t care if she took it.

He should’ve done it already.

Should’ve squeezed harder. Should’ve watched her eyes roll back and her body fall limp like the countless others he’d ended. His expression was carved from granite — unreadable. His face spattered with blood that wasn’t his. But inside, something shook.

His fingers trembled.

It was the first warning.

She didn’t resist anymore. No kicks. No sharp elbows or desperate knees. No flash of canines, no snap of a snarl.

Just eyes.

Looking straight into his.

Open. Unblinking. Empty.

As if she wanted this.

As if the idea of dying — under his hands — was better than returning to the dark. To the chair. To the ice. To the silence.

That was the second warning.

A part of him flinched. Something far beneath the code, beneath the frostbite of his brain, beneath the echo of the Winter Soldier. Something warm. Ancient. Like a bone-deep memory of summer.

He tightened his grip.

He really did.

Muscles flexed. Metal joints locked. His jaw clenched so tightly his teeth ached.

Her skin was warm under his hand. Her pulse soft — waiting.

And she just kept staring.

Her pupils enormous. Dark. Not afraid. Not submissive. Just… ready.

A flicker of her lashes. A twitch in her lip.

And that was when he realized — she didn’t want to fight him anymore.

She didn’t believe he could choose not to kill her.

And she might’ve been right.

Because how many times had his handlers commanded him to hurt her? Punish her? And he had.

With precision. With obedience. With terrifying force.

They’d made him the hand that carved pain into her again and again. Bones broken. Breath taken. Blood spilled — by him.

And yet… she always came back.

Returned to her feet. Returned to him.

The punishments never took her away permanently.

She was still his. Not in name, not in language. But in the way gravity belongs to the planet. She was the only thing he’d ever hurt that didn’t vanish.

And now — he was supposed to end her.

To kill her.

And the Soldier — the one they’d broken, rebuilt, erased a thousand times — felt something crack.

His chest stuttered.

His other hand gripped her forearm like he was trying to tether her to the ground, to him, to something real. His breath began to shake — fast, shallow. His vision swam. He could see nothing but her eyes now. No blood. No ceiling. No walls.

Only her.

Her eyes were the only thing in the world he never forgot.

His fingers began to slip.

His breath rasped in his throat, caught between fury and anguish, and something deeper — something scarier.

His whole body trembled now. His forearm bulged with the strain of holding back. And then — like something finally snapped — he let out a guttural, choked yell, half agony, half animal.

He let go.

His hand released her throat.

He struck the concrete beside her head — hard — the ground splintering with the force, a web of cracks blooming under his fist. The shockwave trembled through her ribs. Dust curled into the air. His breathing was ragged, hoarse, chest rising and falling like a man who’d just outrun death and failed.

He didn’t look away from her.

He leaned down — slow, deliberate — and pressed his forehead to hers.

Not soft. Not tender. But grounded. Desperate.

Like he was anchoring himself to the only thing that still existed in his mind.

His forehead was burning.

Hers was cold.

They stayed like that — a tableau of blood and breath and failure. She didn’t move. He didn’t flinch.

Their foreheads touching.

Their eyes still locked.

Breathing each other in like that was the only way they remembered what it felt like to be human.

And for the first time in all the years Hydra made them into things — weapons, monsters, ghosts — the Soldier’s silence didn’t mean compliance.

It meant defiance.

He would not kill her.

Not her.

Never her.

Even if he didn’t know her name.

Even if he didn’t know his own.

He knew this.

Her eyes.

Her breath.

And her blood beneath his hands.

The blood hadn’t even dried when the reinforced doors slammed shut.

Alarms were finally silenced — but the aftermath echoed louder. Metallic clangs as bodies were dragged. Snapped bones. Severed limbs. The dead Hydra scientists were scattered across the floor like discarded parts. The walls dripped with their arrogance.

She lay on her back, still breathing.

Eyes wide, unblinking, staring at the splintered floor where his fist had broken through. One hand loosely curled at her ribs. The other slick with blood — hers, theirs, it didn’t matter.

He hadn’t killed her.

And that, to the watching Hydra handlers, was the most terrifying detail of all.

They didn’t ask questions.

They just knew she had broken. Completely.

She had killed without permission. Reacted without instruction. Moved through a room of trained guards and armed scientists like they were made of glass.

No trigger words had stopped her.

No handler had calmed her.

Not even him.

Only exhaustion had slowed her.

Only his mercy had spared her.

And that — that was unforgivable.

When they came to sedate her, he was already there. Standing over her like a specter, silent and immovable. The guards hesitated. The doctors murmured. Not a single one would meet his eyes.

His hands remained at his sides, but his presence was a warning.

Don’t hurt her. Don’t kill her.

They could see it in the way his jaw locked, in the way his body coiled like a tripwire. His programming demanded obedience — but something deeper, older, more human, was watching them with predatory stillness.

They kept her sedated through every moment. Through the wipe that never took properly. Through the muttered arguments in clipped Russian and panicked German about what to do with her. Through the decision that the risk was no longer worth the reward.

She wasn’t the Winter Soldier.

She couldn’t be tamed by words and pain.

She was something else. Something worse.

And he watched it all.

Not understanding why his chest hurt.

Not understanding why he remembered her face when everything else turned to static.

When they lowered her into the cryogenic pod, he followed. Shadowed them down the sterile hall without orders. The guards gave him distance — he didn’t look at them, didn’t need to. His eyes were fixed only on her.

She didn’t stir.

The inside of the chamber was lined with reinforced polymer. Her restraints were reinforced. But her expression was blank. Breathing slow. Completely still.

He stood just beyond the edge of the fog as the lid began to lower.

No commands came. He didn’t need any.

He simply stared.

As if some part of him knew that she was the only thing that ever made him hesitate.

The only thing that ever looked back at him — even when he hurt her — and saw him.

And now they were taking her away from him again.

Not killing her. But erasing her again.

He didn’t move until the hiss of the cryo chamber sealed shut. Didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just stood there as the glass frosted over, her face vanishing into the white.

That was the last time Hydra made use of the Vixen.

1989.

Until they could find a better way to control her —

A better cage.

A better chain.

They put her back to sleep.

And that’s where she stayed — frozen, ghostlike, remembered only by the monster who’d once been ordered to destroy her.

2024

Rain lashed the cracked windows of the safehouse, a forgotten building on the edge of eastern Europe that smelled like rust and damp wood. The small desk lamp on the table buzzed faintly, casting long shadows over the spread of maps, photos, and red string that looked like a conspiracy board torn straight from a nightmare.

In the center of it all stood Bucky Barnes, his metal fingers clenched tight around the edge of the table, knuckles pale against steel.

Sam Wilson stood a few feet behind him, arms crossed, surveying the chaos.

“You really think it’s her?” he asked, voice low and measured.

Bucky didn’t answer right away. His eyes were fixed on a blurred photo — a grainy, static-frozen capture from a destroyed security feed. A woman with a mask over her mouth and nose making her face obscured, walking away from a warehouse swallowed in fire. But her posture, the deliberate stillness of her movements — he knew it.

“I know it is,” he said finally, like a fact carved from stone.

Sam let out a quiet sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Buck, we’ve been chasing shadows for six weeks. People say this is a ghost story. Urban legend. Vengeance incarnate. You sure it’s not just... projection?”

“She’s alive,” Bucky said, without even looking up.

The words fell like weight onto the room, pulling the silence taut. Sam studied his friend’s profile — the faint lines of fatigue around his eyes, the way his mouth twitched with restraint, with desperation.

“You say that like you’ve seen her,” Sam said gently. “But that pod in Belarus was dead. Power was out for years. She came out confused, probably didn’t even know what year it was. You think she’s operating on logic?”

“No,” Bucky murmured. “She’s not.”

He thumbed through a series of photos on the table — each one more brutal than the last. A scientist dissected in Munich. A financier found hanging upside down in Prague. Every man in the stack had once had ties to Hydra. However minor, however indirect. And each death had been executed with surgical precision. Silent. Clean. Gone.

Sam stepped forward, pointing at a red pin on the map. “Bucharest hit. Three Hydra affiliates. No alarms, no signs of forced entry. Security feed glitched for thirty seconds.”

“She’s learning,” Bucky whispered. There was no pride in it — only awe. And dread.

“She’s not just surviving,” Sam said, his voice edged with something colder. “She’s hunting.”

Bucky didn’t flinch. He nodded slowly, eyes flicking across the network of red thread. The ghosts of his past. And hers.

Sam hesitated before asking, “What if she’s not just targeting Hydra? What if she’s coming for you too?”

That stopped Bucky cold.

“She has every reason to,” he said after a long moment, the words thick with regret. “I hurt her.”

Sam was quiet. He didn’t need to ask what he meant. The history between them — the conditioning, the missions, the punishments — Bucky had carried them out without mercy. Not because he wanted to, but because they’d made him.

Sam hesitated before asking, “Then why keep looking for her?” His voice was soft, careful.

But something in Bucky snapped at that — not loud or explosive, just sharp. A quiet fracture under pressure.

“Because I have to,” Bucky said, voice low but rough, his hands bracing hard against the table. “Because she’s been frozen for thirty goddamn years, Sam.”

Sam blinked, standing a little straighter.

“I’ve been out for five. Five years free, and that’s not even counting the Blip. Or all the time Hydra dragged me out and used me,” Bucky went on, the words starting to slip faster, heavier. “And during all of that, I was hurting her. Again and again.”

His jaw clenched as he stared down at the mess of papers, eyes tracing her blurry silhouette as if it were some ancient ghost trying to speak back.

“She was always stronger than me,” he said, quieter now, almost like it hurt to admit it. “Mentally. She fought them. She never broke easy.”

He looked at Sam then, eyes rimmed in something not quite anger but something old and burning — a weight that lived in his bones.

“I owe her this,” he said. “I owe her the truth. And if she wants to kill me for it, I’ll let her. But I’m not going to stop until I find her. Even if she wants me to let her go, I will.”

But the truth was carved into his face. He couldn’t. He never would again.

────────────────────────

You sat on the edge of the couch like you didn’t know how to exist in a space this quiet.

Your eyes traced the seams between the floorboards, your hands folded neatly in your lap, unmoving. You hadn’t spoken more than a sentence since Bucky brought you there.

Not when he offered you a glass of water, not when he showed you where the bathroom was, not even when he—hesitantly—told you that you could have his room, while he slept on the couch.

You just nodded.

One, clean nod. Always polite. Always precise.

But not the way you used to be. Not the way he remembered.

In the 40s, you had fire in your voice. You had sharp comebacks, a cheeky grin that curled higher when you got under his skin. You could outrun, outshoot, outthink most of the Howlies, and still managed to hum a tune while cleaning your rifle.

Now, you barely ate. You hadn’t said more than a clipped “fine” or “okay.” You hadn’t looked him in the eye since you stepped inside.

Bucky still didn’t even know how he’d convinced you to come with him as he watched you from the kitchen, leaning his forearms on the counter, gripping the edge like it was the only thing keeping him tethered. His metal hand creaked quietly against the granite.

“You want me to put something on?” he asked, his voice low, worn. “TV, music… white noise?”

You turned your head slightly, the barest flicker. Your lips parted, like you might speak, then closed again. You shook your head, slowly.

He sighed. Not in frustration. Just... helplessness.

“You used to yell at me for humming off-key,” he said gently, like maybe a memory would draw you closer to the surface. “Said I could scare off birds from miles away.”

No answer.

Just your stillness. Just your silence.

And that ache behind his ribs grew sharper.

He stared at you, at your hunched shoulders and distant eyes, and for the first time, truly wondered if this was how Steve had felt.

Always reaching. Always hoping. Trying to pull someone he cared about out of the fog. Trying to bring Bucky back from the brink, even when Bucky had forgotten who he was. Steve had never stopped. Not when everyone else had written him off as a weapon. Not even when he’d fought against him on a damn helicarrier.

Now here Bucky was—on the other side. And he finally understood just how exhausting, how heartbreaking it had been. Watching someone you knew still existed beneath the wreckage, and not knowing if you’d ever reach them again.

He wanted to say something else, but then your voice cracked the quiet—raw, broken, hesitant.

“I remember… my father’s voice. Not his face. Just… how he said my name.”

Bucky went still.

You didn’t look at him when you said it. Your head tilted slightly toward the window, where the last of the day’s light bled across your cheekbone like gold dust.

“I used to hum while I tracked,” you said. “To stay human.”

He didn’t speak. Didn’t dare move. He just listened.

“I think I forgot how to feel warm,” you murmured. “Even when I’m not in the ice anymore.”

Your fingers twitched once, like your body remembered the motion of a weapon, or maybe a tremor from a distant past. The moment was fragile, stretched thin.

Bucky’s throat tightened. God, he wanted to tell you everything—that you weren’t alone, that he would wait as long as it took.

But he knew better. You weren’t ready for comfort. Not from him. Maybe not from anyone.

────────────────────────

It was a quiet afternoon. The sun filtered through the half-drawn curtains in pale streaks, painting long bars of gold and dust across the wood floor of Bucky’s apartment. The television was on, low volume, something benign playing that neither of you were truly watching. A news segment passed with a fleeting image.

Your eyes tracked the screen, not really watching. But then a flash of red, white, and blue passed across it. A helmet. A shield.

Your voice was flat when you spoke, cutting through the silence between you and Bucky like a knife. “I remember seeing him on TV. Cap.”

Bucky didn’t respond right away. You could feel his hesitation more than you could see it. His body shifted from where he sat across from you—still, guarded. You finally turned your head toward him.

“Where is he?”

He ran a hand through his hair, the metal fingers brushing just behind his ear.

“He’s gone,” Bucky said eventually, voice quiet.

You blinked once. Slowly. Processing.

“Gone?”

Bucky sighed through his nose. “Steve went back… after everything. After we won.” He paused. “He went back in time. Lived out his life. Came back… older. Real old. He passed away earlier this year.”

You stared at him. Not blinking now.

“So he left you behind.”

The silence after your words was sharp. Bucky’s brow creased. “No,” he said quickly, too quickly. “He didn’t—he was just—”

“You mean he could’ve taken us both home,” you said, not cruel, just even. Hollow. “Could’ve brought us back. But instead we’re stuck here. In a world that doesn’t know us. Doesn't want us.”

Bucky shook his head. “It wasn’t like that.”

“He gave up.”

“He didn’t give up!” Bucky’s voice rose, sharp with something he hadn’t meant to let out. “He gave everything, you don’t—he did what he thought was right.”

You looked at him, head tilting slightly. That same detached focus, the way your eyes pinned him—not with malice, but with cold fact. You weren’t being emotional. You weren’t attacking. That was what made it worse.

“He was selfish.”

Bucky stood now. Tense. His jaw clenched, his fingers twitching by his sides.

“Don’t say that,” he muttered. “You don’t get to say that.”

You stood up too, slow, unhurried. “He left you. After everything you went through. After everything we went through.”

“Stop it.”

“He took peace for himself and left us with the ruins.”

“That’s not what happened—he thought I’d be okay—he trusted that I could—”

“That’s not trust. That’s abandonment.”

“Stop it!” Bucky snapped, voice rough, cracking, fists clenched so tight his knuckles—flesh and metal—strained. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see how broken he was. What he lost. He earned that life.”

You didn’t flinch. Just stared at him, eyes dim but focused. “And what about what we lost?”

Bucky started pacing, running a hand through his hair like he could scatter the frustration from his scalp. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” you said, tone still maddeningly flat. “What’s not fair is waking up seventy years after your last memory and realizing the only people you trusted are either dead, ghosts, or decided to stay in the past.”

You turned, already walking toward the hallway, not angry — just done with the conversation.

“Don’t walk away,” Bucky said sharply, stepping after you.

His hand reached out — not fast, not forceful — just to touch your arm. Something gentle.

You flinched before he even made contact. The shift in your body was instantaneous — reflexive. A dodge like a breath, like muscle memory. Your spine stiffened as your arm slipped from his grasp, your eyes suddenly sharp.

“Don’t touch me,” you snapped, voice cold and loud and carved out of something ancient.

Bucky froze. His hand still hovered in the air. He stared at you.

You weren’t looking at him anymore. You weren’t really even here. Your eyes had gone somewhere else, farther back. You were breathing too fast, too shallow. Your body stiff, locked down.

And that was when Bucky understood. Really understood.

It wasn’t about him.

It was about him.

The one with the metal arm who used to drag you through concrete floors when you disobeyed. Who'd wrap his hand around your throat when your eyes held too much rebellion. Who struck you, again and again, because someone ordered him to.

Even when Bucky had been free for years, the ghosts still lived in his hands.

And you… you still saw them.

His hand dropped. Guilt flooding every inch of his face.

“I didn’t mean to—” he tried, voice lower now, thick in his throat.

You didn’t answer. You just walked past him, through the narrow hallway, closing yourself into his room, he had given you, without a word.

Bucky didn’t move for a long time. He just stood there. One hand pressed flat over the other. Like he could keep himself from reaching again. Like he could pretend it hadn’t happened.

But the truth was branded now—burning beneath the surface of his skin.

He hadn’t earned your trust.

And maybe he never would.

────────────────────────

You didn’t want to go.

That was the first thing you made clear, arms crossed, jaw set, suspicious eyes watching Bucky like he might lead you off a cliff instead of down the D.C. Metro escalator. You hadn’t asked where he was taking you. He didn’t tell you, either. Just said, “It’s important.” You didn’t like the way that word made your chest tighten.

The museum was too bright.

Too open. Too filled with noise and breath and movement. Everything felt too fast and too slow at once. Your boots echoed on the polished floors, steps cautious and silent like instinct, like old habits that had never really died.

Bucky stayed near but didn’t try to touch you — not since that day. He led you quietly, nodding at the security guards like this was something he did often.

You hated how many people were looking. Even when they weren’t.

When you entered the exhibit, the air shifted. Cooler. Calmer. Reverent.

A bronze plaque on the wall read: Captain America and the Howling Commandos. Beneath it — sepia photographs. Names. Artifacts behind glass. There were curved helmets, worn boots, faded letters.

Bucky paused beside you.

“This was the first place I came after I got out,” he said, voice quiet, like it didn’t want to disturb the ghosts on the walls. “Didn’t know where else to go. Didn’t even know who I was, really. Just… remembered pieces. Faces.”

Your eyes traced the familiar ones. Dumb Dum Dugan, Gabe Jones, Montgomery Falsworth. Jim Morita. Happy grins and tilted hats and the smell of gunpowder you could almost still taste.

Then you saw it.

Your own memorial.

It was set apart, just slightly — not grandiose, but longer than the others. The image they’d chosen was one you didn’t remember being taken. You were young — about twenty two— perched on a wooden crate in fatigues rolled at the sleeves, head turned mid-laugh, hair slicked back but wind-loosened, fingers curled around a rifle too heavy for your frame. Your expression was too soft for war. Your eyes too alive.

You blinked at it.

Above the frame was your name, carved in brass. First Lieutenant, Tactical Reconnaissance. Grey Fox.

And beneath it, the words Presumed KIA, 1945. Missing in Action. Last seen on mission in the Austrian Alps.

You felt your throat tighten and couldn’t explain why.

“Why is mine longer than the others?” you asked, quietly, too still.

Bucky glanced over at you, then at the plaque. “Because you were a big deal.”

You gave him a look, skeptical.

He shrugged, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets. “Only woman in the Howling Commandos. One of the first women to serve actively alongside combat troops. You were kind of… a symbol. They said your service helped inspire the Women’s Armed Services Integration Act in ‘48.”

You scoffed, faintly. “So they threw me on a wall.”

Bucky smiled, just barely. “They honored you. You meant something to people. Still do.”

You stepped closer to the glass. The uniform behind it was familiar. Yours. The same patches, same leather. There was even your knife — the one Howard Stark had gifted you before that last mission. The one you lost in the snow.

You didn’t remember losing it.

Didn’t remember dying.

Your voice was flat. “They thought I was dead.”

Bucky was quiet for a long moment.

“Yeah,” he said at last. “They did.”

You turned to him. “Did you? After Hydra.”

Bucky didn’t look away. “For a while.”

Something in you curled tighter, like a spring wound too far. “When did you remember?”

He shifted, brow furrowing. “Not right away. It was all… fragments. Flashes. And even when I saw your face, I didn’t know if it was real. Steve had to tell me. He said you’d come after me — that the day I fell off that train, you went looking.”

Your breath hitched.

“I don’t—” you started. “I don’t remember that.”

“That’s okay,” he said softly. “I don't either.”

You looked back at the photo — that too-young version of yourself, all spark and reckless pride, before Hydra carved you hollow. You felt something stir in your chest — not grief, not quite. More like the shape of grief, wrapped around something else. Something you didn’t have words for.

It should’ve been easy to keep walking.

To follow the curved path of the exhibit, to drift past the tributes like a ghost among glass and old light. But your steps faltered when your eyes caught it — the photo.

It wasn’t a combat shot. Not a press photo or wartime propaganda. It was a quiet moment. Just the two of you. The Colonel stood in uniform, hat tucked under one arm, and you beside him, barely twenty. The background looked like the docks, water glittering, your dress hem catching the wind like a flag. He had one hand on your shoulder, firm but gentle. You were laughing — head tipped toward him, eyes squinting in sunlight, mouth open in mid-word.

Your stomach turned.

You hadn’t seen his face in decades. Not like this.

People always assumed a man like that — a military father, a colonel — would be stern. Emotionless. Cold. But he wasn’t. He was exacting, yes. Fierce when it came to protocol and discipline. But when it was just you and him? He was warmth and humor and the smell of clean shaving soap. The only one who called you by your full name and somehow made it sound like affection.

He was your favorite person in the world.

You reached out before you realized what you were doing — fingertips hovering above the glass, as though you could touch the edge of the photograph and fall through it.

Beside the picture was a framed newspaper clipping. A headline in bold type:

“Decorated Colonel Honors Missing Daughter in Public Address”

— November 3rd, 1945

Your throat clenched.

You hesitated. Then stepped back.

“I can’t,” you said quietly. “I don’t want to read it.”

Bucky glanced at you, then down at the plaque. “Want me to?”

You nodded once.

But He stepped closer, eyes scanning the plaque. His voice was low, a little rough.

“To say that I lost a soldier would be true. But to say I lost just a soldier would be a terrible injustice.”

“My daughter — the one you knew as ‘Grey Fox’ — was many things. A tactician, a tracker, a fighter more ruthless than most men I’ve commanded. She earned her place in the Howling Commandos not because of her name, or mine, but because she earned it. Day after day. Battle after battle. She was sharper than steel, braver than men twice her age, and she never ran from anything — not even fear itself.“

“She was stubborn from the start — wouldn’t follow the rules if she thought they were wrong, wouldn’t back down from any fight worth having. And yet she was kind. She was soft in the way only the strongest people are. She made people better just by standing beside them.”

“They’ll tell you she was tactical, skilled, a leader. All of that is true. But I want people to remember who she was when the orders were done. She liked swing music. Had too many pairs of shoes. And twice as many dresses. Spoke her mind without apology and carried a silver locket with her mother’s photo, that she thought no one ever noticed.”

You felt it then — the sting behind your eyes. The tears building, slow and traitorous. You turned your head away, lifting your hand as if the simple motion could shield you from what the words were doing to you. But they kept coming.

“And though the world may mark her as lost — let me be clear. My daughter is not forgotten. She lives in every fire lit in the dark, every brave voice in the silence, every young girl who believes she can stand in a place no one thought she should.”

“She gave everything to her country. And I don’t know how to say goodbye to her. I don’t know how to let go of my little girl—”

Then his voice cut off.

You waited. One breath. Two.

And when the silence stretched too long, you asked quietly, “Why’d you stop?”

Bucky didn’t look at you. He kept his eyes on the plaque, jaw locked. “That’s where it ends,” he said softly. “The article says he couldn’t finish the speech. He—” Bucky hesitated. “He walked off the podium, too choked up.”

You turned toward him slowly, scoffing.

“No,” you murmured, voice thick. “The Colonel never cried.”

It came out too genuine to be anything but memory. Something certain. Like gravity.

You shook your head, pressing your hand to your eyes as the tears spilled freely now, silent and hot, streaking down your cheeks without restraint. There was no sobbing. No sound at all. Just that kind of grief that closed in around the chest, so dense it felt like the world had narrowed to a pinhole.

“Thank you,” you said quietly, voice breaking on the edges. “For reading it. For bringing me here.”

Bucky stood beside you, hands flexing at his sides. He didn’t reach out. Couldn’t.

Not because he didn’t want to — but because he knew you wouldn’t let him.

And maybe, in that moment, standing in front of a monument to a life you couldn’t remember and a love you’d buried somewhere deep — that was enough.

────────────────────────

You sat at the window again, the late morning sun slicing through the thin curtains like a scalpel. You didn’t feel it. Couldn’t, really. You were aware of the light, the way it bled over your hands resting on your knees—but it didn’t feel warm. Just… distant. Like everything else.

Bucky was in the kitchen, fumbling with something—probably another attempt to make coffee the way you liked. You didn’t tell him he never got it right. He tried too hard. He always had.

The silence between you two was the loudest part of this place. Even when he tried talking, even when he looked at you like you were a wound he couldn’t cauterize. It made your skin itch.

He thought he owed you. You knew it. That was what this was. This apartment, this half-life, these careful touches and softer tones—this was guilt. This was his penance.

You didn't know who you were anymore, not really. The world had moved on. Your war was over but still echoing in your blood. Bucky was the only familiar thing left, and even he felt warped—like a shadow of something you couldn’t remember clearly. You used to laugh with him. Tease him. Steal his rations and call him pretty boy. Now… you couldn't even meet his eyes for longer than a breath.

You weren’t stupid. You knew trauma bonding. You knew conditioning. You knew how Hydra twisted wires until they sparked like emotion, cracked whips until loyalty sounded like love. What the Vixen and the Winter Soldier had wasn’t a bond. It was survival.

This thing between you and Bucky—whatever it was, whatever it had once been—it was born in the dark, bred in pain, sharpened by orders and obedience. Hydra’s hands were all over it. You felt it every time he looked at you too long. Every time he brushed your arm and you flinched.

This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. And he was too deep in his guilt to see it.

He was helping you because he had to. Because he’d hurt you. Because he'd bruised you in those white walls and watched handlers drag you by your hair. And this… this domesticity—it was the last bullet in his gun, a way to sleep at night.

So you stayed quiet. You stayed small. You tried not to think about the way he used to make you laugh just by cocking an eyebrow. You tried not to remember how you’d watch his reflection in puddles during missions, not because you were tracking him, but because you felt safer when you knew where he was.

That was all conditioning. It had to be.

It had to be.

────────────────────────

She sat at the window again. She always sat at the window.

Bucky stood in the kitchen, palms braced against the counter. The coffee machine groaned, spitting out something bitter. He didn’t look at it. He couldn’t stop looking at her.

Her profile was the same. Sharp. Still. But her shoulders—he remembered them being straighter. Her spine taller. Now they curled inward, like she was trying to fold herself into nothing. And it gutted him.

She hadn’t smiled in weeks. Not the way she used to. Not with that smart-ass grin that used to crinkle her nose and make the whole damn camp warmer. Back in the barracks, before the frost, she used to razz him about his hair. Called him “Sargeant Shampoo” once. He’d laughed so hard he dropped his tray.

That was real. It was. He knew it in his bones.

But she didn’t believe it. She thought he was helping her out of guilt. That their bond was a Hydra artifact. And Bucky could barely look at her without wanting to scream.

Because if that wasn’t real—if her laugh wasn’t real, if her hand in his wasn’t real, if the way she used to stay up for him when he came back from solo missions wasn’t real—then nothing was. Then he wasn’t real. Then everything he'd clung to in that white noise void of the Winter Soldier—every memory, every flicker of light—was a lie.

And goddammit, she wasn’t a lie.

She was the reason he didn’t put a bullet in his own head when the voices got too loud. She was the reason he hesitated in ‘89. The only one who ever fought him like an equal, and the only one who made him feel like he was more than just a loaded weapon.

She thought this was guilt.

Bucky had been guilty a long time. That was nothing new. He could live with guilt. What he couldn’t live with was this—this chasm between them, this damn wall she kept her heart behind. Like he was just another ghost from the operating table.

He closed the distance between them slowly, cautiously. She didn’t look up. Just stared at the sky, as if she was waiting for the war to start again.

“I know what you think this is,” he said finally, voice low. “You think I brought you here because I feel sorry. Because I’m trying to make up for what I did.”

She didn’t say anything.

“But that’s not why I’m here,” he continued. “I remember you. Not just in Hydra. Before. You—”

His voice cracked.

“You used to make fun of how I tied my boots. You once saved our whole squad by yourself. You—You were kind. Brave. And we were real.”

That made her flinch. He saw it in the way her fingers curled.

“I never hurt you because I wanted to,” he said. “I hurt you because I wasn’t me.”

She looked at him then. Her eyes were glassy, but not soft.

“And what if I’m not me?” she asked.

Bucky didn’t have an answer.

He watched her rise, walk toward the bathroom, close the door without a word. He could hear the faucet turn on, even though she never washed her face until after dark. He stared at that closed door for a long time.

And somewhere in his chest, something cracked.

────────────────────────

“This isn’t working,” you said, voice low, raw.

You stood in the middle of the living room, your arms wrapped around yourself as if you were trying to hold your own ribs in place. The quiet stretched, thick and suffocating, like it had weight. Bucky stood across from you, like always—close, but never quite close enough to make it feel real again.

He blinked, as if trying to make sense of the words. As if you’d just spoken in a language he forgot how to understand.

“What do you mean?” he asked, but he already knew.

You didn’t look up at him when you said, “I don’t think we should be around each other anymore.”

The silence after that was devastating. You didn’t mean for it to sound like a kill shot, but it landed that way anyway. He staggered where he stood, barely, but you saw it. Like your words had stabbed him clean through and now he had to pretend it didn’t hurt.

His breath hitched. His jaw clenched. “We can still try,” he said, desperate, his voice cracking like splintered ice. “We’ve come this far. Don’t walk away now. Please.”

Your heart fractured. You wanted so badly to feel what he felt, to be what he needed, to believe this could still be something salvageable. But every moment you were around him, it was like being underwater—your body drowning in silence, your mind screaming against the weight of ghosts.

“I don’t know how to be around you without... without being afraid,” you whispered. “Of myself. Of what this is. Of what it means.”

“You’re not afraid of me,” Bucky said quickly, eyes wide with something that looked like grief. “You never were.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” you corrected softly. “I’m afraid with you. I don’t know how to stop waiting for the other shoe to drop. I keep waiting for the white walls to come back. For someone to scream an order. For the part of me that was me to vanish again.”

His mouth opened, but no words came.

You looked defeated. Not angry. Not cruel. Just tired—of yourself, of this world, of the weight you both carried. The kind of tired that lives in the bones.

Bucky took one small step forward. Then another.

“Just stay,” he begged, broken. “I’ll be better. I’ll—”

You shook your head. “It’s not you.”

He stopped.

“It’s what’s left of me.”

And then—because you didn’t want to leave him without at least one last thing—you opened your arms.

You let him touch you.

His hands trembled as they slipped around you, pulling you in like you were something sacred, something breakable. Your arms went around his neck, slow, unsure. His chin rested against your temple. Your heart raced and calmed at the same time, a contradiction of longing and fear.

You stayed like that longer than you should have. And when you finally moved to pull away, his hands reflexively tightened around your back. You stilled at the pressure—not rough, not painful, just… desperate.

A sad, shuddering sigh left your lips as you rested your forehead against his collarbone. You let him hold you a little longer.

Then, when you pulled away enough to meet his eyes, you looked at him like you were looking through time. As if you saw the boy from the barracks, not the broken man standing before you.

“I’m sorry,” you said, “that I couldn’t save you.”

Bucky’s eyes welled with tears, his throat working around something he couldn’t speak.

“I promised I would,” you continued, barely above a whisper. “Back when they took us. I swore I’d get us both out. And I didn’t.”

His hands loosened. Just slightly.

“I’m also sorry,” you said, voice trembling now, “that I don’t know how to be okay.”

You leaned in, pressing a single kiss to his cheek—a soft, lingering goodbye that clung to him like a fingerprint burned in time.

When you stepped back, his arms dropped, slowly, as if his body refused to let you go even though his mind knew you were already gone.

And Bucky—he didn’t cry. He just stood there.

Frozen.

Watching you walk toward the door like he’d watched so many things slip through his fingers. Like he had all the strength in the world but none of it could stop the fact that this time, he was losing you not to Hydra, not to death—but to your own will. And there was nothing he could do to stop it.

You left him standing in the center of that apartment. Alone. Still reaching.

Still waiting.

Still loving you like it might make a difference.

Welp, if you've actually reached the end and want to read something that will make you feel better, I recommend, Come Home To Me

also:

[escapaldi]

Yeah, the thing that I think a lot of people tend to forget about parenting is that there's a role for people that's not reliant on biological or adoptive family roles that's a lot more transient that fits Law and Cora's relationship extremely well: foster family.

I'm not here to extol the virtues or condemn the flaws of foster parenting systems, but as someone who grew up seeing the good, the bad, and the everything in between, I look at the Law-Cora relationship and very clearly see that relationship, which honestly looks different depending on the people in it. Fostering (at least where I'm from) is only meant to be temporary--anything from a weekend to a few months--but sometimes it turns out longer stays than that. It's meant for kids to have a stable place while their normal adults are working their shit out. Sometimes a foster family turns into an adoptive family, but other times they're just another group in a long chain of situations. It can be the closest thing to a family one has ever had, or just people who you later exchange cards with. Anything from "Mom" or "Dad" to "Ms" or "Mr" to just using given names like weird siblings--it's different for everyone.

Law's biological family was wiped out. He had no one. Then Doflamingo comes along and does the sinister version of adoption. This terminally-ill tween goes from one horror story to another. Say what you will, but Doflamingo was not in the correct headspace to raise children. Look at what he ultimately did to Baby 5 and Dellinger. But Law... Cora learned something crucial about him and decided that he needed to get into a better place, ASAP. He took emergency responsibility and carted his ass all over trying to get him help so that he could one day be stable, because as also ill-prepared to handle the upkeep of a child as Cora was, he had the love and compassion that his brother lacked, which is frankly the key here.

Are there other foster parents in One Piece who do things very different? Yes--I can go on a whole fucking rant about how Dadan was a piece of shit if I wanted to--but that's not the point here.

I do imagine that, should there be a Coco-style afterlife in One Piece, if there is no one waiting to greet Law when he arrives, he'll go searching for his family before all others. His parents, his sister, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins; he'll find the Flevench Trafalgars and they'll be delighted that he's hopefully come back to them old and gray and with a lifetime of stories to tell, of medical advancements, and the proof that he honored them by continuing their practice of medicine. That he took the hands he wanted to use to murder and used them to heal instead, because that's what we're watching Law try to do in canon. He becomes better than the soldiers who razed their home, which is the ultimate revenge.

...but then, on the edge of the crowd of his relatives, he catches sight of blond hair in a red hat and he realizes who it is, and his father urges him to go, and his mother says it's alright because they've already talked, and Law--who left the living as a great-grandfather and stoic patriarch--meets this man who died the same age as a grandkid was at his funeral and fucking loses it, because although he was far from perfect--Nika above he wasn't perfect by a long-shot--he was the first adult who cared anything close to what his parents did... was the one who took care of him until he reached his adopted family (in this case, his brothers Penguin-Shachi-Bepo), and was the one who made sure he lived. Countless people were helped with Law's medical knowledge as he honored his biological parents, but he only lived long enough to do so because of Cora... because both parenting situations were important, even though their relationships were really different.

Do I think that in a canon sense Cora would have tried to adopt Law had he lived long enough? Yeah. Do I think that it would have changed Law's trajectory much, pulling him away from honoring his parents and Flevance and keeping their medical traditions alive? Not at all. It's honestly a given that Law loves and honors his parents, given his chosen profession; what's interesting is that he also honors the one who only had him for six months, because they were just as impactful on him, just in a different way.

I am also sorry about the rant but I have feelings about this.

Poor Law thinks he's hallucinating about his dead father 😭

I already said this over on Blueskye but-

I personally don't really see Cora as a parental figure/dad, if only cuz OP is usually rather overt about those sorts of relationships (Zeff, Bellmere, Whitebeard, etc).

I like them being this weird, nebulous sort of deal that isn't defined by nuclear family roles. Law never refers to him as a father figure or even an older brother. He's just Cora-san.

Law HAD A DAD who was nurturing and loving and patient and taught him a lot of stuff, and Cora is very, VERY different from that, (and also not old enough to be Law's dad either-)

In the end, I just don't like people always needing to put "found family" into hardcut nuclear family roles. Human connection is more complex than that.

He's just Cora-san :y

[goorgeousz]

hotch has feelings for you and decides to deal with it (going to a psychiatrist)

drabble

pairing: aaron hotchner x bau!fem!reader

content/tw: none i think?

a/n: a drabble no one asked for… yet, here i am. idek what is this… anyways… THANK YOU FOR 400 FOLLOWERS 😭❤️ i’m soooo happy sending much love to each and every one of you MWAH MWAH MWAH

dividers by @uzmacchiato

masterlist

“What brings you here today, Mr. Hotchner?” the psychiatrist asks, adjusting her large glasses up on her nose.

Hotch shifts on his seat, a frown forming on his features. The first thing that comes to his mind at that question is you. Your laugh, your glistening eyes, your smart mouth, your legs…

“I’m having a… problem. And I need it fixed.” his mouth barely moved. The psychiatrist stifled a sigh. He’s that kind of patient. Those who want instant solutions to many-decades old problems without giving a hint of what it’s about. Every professional’s personal favorite.

“Okay, then.” she hoped she sounded more excited than she felt “Why don’t we start with symptoms?” he nodded – yes, he could do that – “Are you having trouble breathing?”

“Sometimes.” she nodded, writing it down. It was a start, since there was nothing on his physical exams – which he brought on a fold, all labeled and laminated.

“How is your sleep schedule?”

“Not ideal.”

“Is this a regular thing or do you think your… problem… is causing that?”

“Both.”

The woman nodded, pressing her lips together and scribbling harder on her paper. Aaron fought the urge to ask what she was writing.

“How are your eating habits?”

“Fine. I’m eating less. I'm getting nauseous often.”

“Really?” she leans in, trying to hold onto every piece of information. He scratched the back of his head, not enjoying the attention.

“Yes. It’s affecting my work.”

“Why do you feel that?” she tilts her head to her side, and it takes all of his strength not to snap at her.

“Because it is. I’m getting slower. She’s frequently on my way.”

“She?”

“My coworker. She’s the problem.”

The woman nodded, trying not to sound too relieved to finally get some advance.

“So you’re having problems with a coworker.”

“That’s what I said, yes.” he muttered, trying once again not to be rude.

“Do you feel threatened by her?”

“No.”

“Does she disrespect you?”

“Sometimes.”

“Do you feel angry at her?”

“I’m stressed.”

“Do you feel like getting violent towards her?”

“No, what do you think…” 

She raises a hand, interrupting him “Mr. Hotchner, I’m just trying to understand the root of the problem. I’m not her to judge you, I just need to get you diagnosed.”

He nodded, sighing loudly.

“So, you feel stressed, you don’t feel angry or violent. Can you specify the problem you’re having with her?”

“I’m having work-inappropriate problems.” he manages, his voice barely hearable.

“Mhm.” the psychiatrist hums “And she’s your subordinate?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think about being inappropriate with her?”

He keeps silent, looking everywhere but the woman before him “Yes.”

“Do you feel like using your position as her superior to get her to perform those inappropriate scenarios?”

Hotch frowns “Absolutely not. Everything we ever did was completely consensual.”

“Oh.” her eyes widened at that “So you have a relationship with your coworker. Are you having relationship problems?” “No. We’re not in a relationship, and I’m having problems.”

“You’re having problems with not being in a relationship with her?”

“No. We can’t have a relationship, that’s inappropriate.”

“So what happened between you…”

“It never happened in a work scenario.”

“It happened more than once?”

“Many times. Never in front of other people, especially at work.”

“So you have a casual relationship with her, and no one in your work knows.”

“Again, not a relationship,” he pointed out.

“Understood. So back to those problems you’re having. Trouble sleeping and eating, sometimes breathing. Do you get any other physical symptoms?”

“Sometimes trembling, heart palpitations and occasionally gastrointestinal distress.”

“And tell me, Mr. Hotchner, do any situations trigger those symptoms?”

His mind instantly flooded with images of you.

“She does.”

“She makes you feel like that? She’s causing all of those problems?”

“Exactly.”

The psychiatrist started to smile, her posture more easy going now, which didn’t sit right with Hotch.

“Do you feel stressed when she’s not around?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And nauseous when thinking about or seeing her interacting with any other men?”

“Yes.”

“Does the trouble sleeping have anything to do with you thinking about her?”

“Yes, doctor. That’s exactly what I said.” he sounded incredibly impatient.

She laughed, the sound making him want to stand up and walk out without looking back.

“Something funny?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hotchner. Can we talk more about those feelings?”

“Doctor, with all due respect.” he started, buttoning up his suit as if he was ready to stand. “I’m not here to talk about my feelings. I’m currently under a lot of stress, which is leading to a mental disorientation and it’s causing me physical symptoms. And I came here because I need something to help me.”

“I’m afraid no medicine will help you with that, Mr. Hotchner.” and before his already blushed face could explode like a cartoon scene, the professional explained with a large smile and glistening eyes “You’re in love with her.”

[ducky-women]

Barcelona’s Plan (More like Alexia and Aitana’s)

Alexia Putellas x Reader (platonic), Aitana Bonmati x Reader (platonic), Barcelona femeni x Reader

Sumarry: Alexia and Aitana being lunatics together

Maserlist

Author's note: I know the kit is not the appropiate one for the timeline but that's how I imagine them being at some point in the fic, also hope you like it, remember English is not my first lenguage so I'm sorry if there are mistakes if you see one you can point it out so I can know about it also sorry if it's a little bit shorter than the others, enjoy <3

....

“Ale please go to sleep” Irene muttered while taking her pillow out from under her head and cramming in on top of it, trying to block out the light and the sound of Alexia’s maniac clicking of her iPad

“Can’t, I’m planning and sadly for you my plans come at me in the middle of the night” Alexia grumbled while waiting for a moment and then erasing everything she had written on the Ipad

“This is going to be a long night” Irene muttered sadly

“Why don’t you come and help me instead of being miserable” Alexia said while glancing briefly towards her, Irene counted on her head to five just to prevent herself from strangling Alexia

“Alright what are we doing” Irene muttered while getting up and going towards Alexia in her desk, when she arrived she glanced towards the screen and saw a bunch of plays and positions and statistics being displayed “What is this” she asked Alexia

“I’m trying all of the possibilities and combinations with Alejandra in Barcelona” Alexia told her as if it was obvious “Did you know that she plays multiple positions?” Alexia said excitedly while turning to look at her

“Really?” Consider Irene intrigued, ok sue her, the kids really intrigued her “What positions does she play?”

“Well Salma found old footage of her, from when she played in little tournaments before the national team and she basically plays everything except goalie and defense, but defense only if she can, if she needs to, she can do it”

“Wait Salma? You enlisted a 19 year old to help you?” Irene asked while side eyeing Alexia, her friend was really starting to worry her

“Yes, her, Ona and Aitana helped me find the footage, Aitana has half of it so she can formulate her own tactics and we’re going to compare them during breakfast tomorrow morning” Irene just closed her eyes

“Yeah Ale, my brain is fried, I can’t help you” Irene told the midfielder while rubbing her eyes trying to not fall asleep while standing

“That’s fine, go to sleep” Alexia answered while scribbling something in the screen

“Yeah, I don’t think I will” Irene whispered while walking towards her bed, she waited for a moment and then took her headphones to try and at least muffle the sounds of Alexia writing in her iPad

….

“Look if we move replace her with Oshoala we have a better chance at scoring or if we change her with Mariona she can help Patri on the wing and that will transition into beautiful goals” Aitana muttered to Alexia next morning during breakfast

“Yes but we can also give Lucy more rest and now with Ona as a full back too we can try them together, they are fast paced so they will be able to support you, Caro and anyone else up but still be back if the defense needs help” Alexia whispered giddy, looking up and seeing the same happiness in Aitana’s eyes, Alejandra could really be the answer to some of their problems

“The possibilities are endless” Aitana whispered happily and looked down at her sheet of paper, full of scribbles and tactics and options of formations

They were both seated in a little corner away from prying ears and eyes, their plates left untouched to the side and the warm food has long since gone cold

“Girls please you look like a pair of lunatics straight out if the psych ward” Irene muttered at the pair as she arrived at the table with her own breakfast being followed by Jenni, Mariona, Ona and Misa

“What are you doing” the Real Madrid goalkeeper asked curious and Alexia and Aitana reacted as if they just got shot, straightening in their seats and pulling their sheets of paper out of sight

“Nothing” They both answered while hiding their sheets like naughty kids who just got caught with their hands inside the cookie jar

“Really?” Jenni said teasingly towards both midfielders while lifting an eyebrow enjoying a little watching them squirm in their seats

“Oh look, Salma is calling for me” Aitana said quickly while getting up from her chair and going around the table as fast as possible “Come on Ona, let’s go” as she passed she grabbed her friend’s arm who was just setting down her plate and getting ready to sit down herself 

“Wait my food” Ona whined trying to free herself but Aitana was so much stronger than her

“Come on you can grab another one” Aitana said not willing to slow down in her pace of going away

“Seriously Ale, what are you planning?” Jenni asked while sitting down next to the midfielder who instead of answering her retrieved Ona’s plate full of warm food and started eating it

“Mmmm delicious breakfast don’t you think” Alexia tried to diffuse while looking up at Jenni and batting her eyelashes acting confused

“That might have worked some time ago Ale, not now” Jenni laughed while getting a bit of cream from her coffee into Alexia’s nose who scrunch it in response

“Don’t know what you’re talking about” Alexia denied while wiping her nose clean

“Mmmm are you sure you’re both definitely not talking about Alejandra Mendoza’s possible signing for Barcelona?” Jenni asked with a knowing smirk and full on belly laughing once Alexia choked on her juice

“What” Alexia said between coughs accepting Irene’s napkin to clean her chin from the juice that dribbled free form her mouth

“You’re not as slick as you think Ale” Jenni laughed in a teasing manner “Beside I’m sure you’re not the only player plotting in snatching her up before anyone else” the striker shrugged her shoulders innocently when the midfielder turned to look at her with wide eyes

“Real Madrid is preparing a juicy offer” Misa singed the words making Alexia cringe

“That would be a terrible loss for the football world” Irene muttered while shaking her head

“Oi we’re not that bad” Misa said indignantly

“You’ve never one a) a classico and b) a trophy” Alexia reminded her

“That’s exactly why the offer duhh” Misa rolled her eyes as if it was obvious

“Yeah, they’re not the only ones” Jenni said while taking a sip from her coffee “I’ve heard rumors that all of the Mexican teams are pulling out her big guns”

“I think every single team on the planet is doing it, they’d be fools to not at least try” Irene shrugged

“Her parents inbox must be going crazy right now” Jenni said while whistling at the end

‘Yeah…..but hopefully Barcelona comes through’ Alexia thought while looking up and finding Aitana already looking at her as if they were having the same thoughts

[goosewithtwoos]

SPIT IN MY FACE!

summary: a short continuation of my previous post cause i couldn’t stop thinking about it 🤭

pairing: hangman x reader, rooster x reader, bob x reader

Hangman

“You’re such a good fucking girl.” Jake groans, wrapping a hand around your hair and pulling your head back.

He had come home pent up after a bad day on the flight line and immediately had you on your hands and knees. You were ashamed to admit how much his frustration turned you on.

“Taking everything I give. God, I love how you feel when you’re like this.” Jake got slightly mouthy when he was really feeling good. While his actions were harsh his words would always be so sweet.

His abuse on your cervix was nonstop as he repositioned you from doggy into missionary. He put a pillow under your hips and the new sensation made you see stars.

“Oh my God,” you cried, throwing an arm over your eyes. It was too much and not enough all at the same time. You needed him to slow down and speed up at the same time.

He leans down, lips pressing against your neck. Bites, licks, and kisses were all being pressed to your jugular and that one spot near your jaw. He was saying something but you couldn’t make anything out. It had been a while since he’d fucked you like this and it was always such a treat when he did.

You hadn’t realized the drool slowly making its way down your cheek until Jake felt it against his.

“I’m fucking you that good, huh?” His eyes were dark and hooded. “Making you feel so good around me you’re drooling.”

You would be embarrassed if you could feel anything other than pleasure at the moment. He was fucking you that good, always did. You’d never been with a man who could make you cum this quickly before. And he always made sure you came.

“Such a messy girl.” He coos, thumb running across your lips. You try to take it but he pulls back quickly. Before you could whine about it - he would always give you what you wanted once you whined - he was licking up the side of your face, taking all your drool with him.

He pulls back ever so slightly, letting a string of saliva drip from his mouth.

You didn’t even think, you couldn’t even think, before opening your mouth wide, trying to catch what he was giving you. Your tongue stuck out, catching the first bit, and the taste of it almost made you finish right then and there. Your heart was racing and you were throbbing before he finally just spit the rest.

It was in your mouth, on your face, in your hair. It was the hottest thing that had ever happened to you.

You’d swear you’d seen stars when you came.

Rooster

“I have a 6mg and an 8, which one do you want?” You ask Rooster as you were walking back from the flight deck. You were the smart one who brought Zyns in your flight suit, he was the dumb one who left them in his car to bake in the sun.

“Fuck, give me an 8, that was the worst practice run I’ve done in a while.” He sighs, putting out his hand.

You pop the top off and pass one to him, quickly dipping your tongue in to get one for yourself. The familiar wintergreen flavor immediately enveloped your senses and it was like an instant calm fell over the both of you.

You pushed yours up to the top left while he left his down on his lower. Once you’d made it back into the highbay, you already felt ten times better. Your head was lighter and all the stressors from earlier had melted away.

That was of course - until you swallowed and that particularly nasty first taste hit the back of your throat. It was always the worst, you were aware, the burning sensation that made you wish you had quit years ago. You had to stop yourself from gagging but couldn’t stop the face you made.

“God, I need a fucking water bottle or something.” You groan, knowing the next two times you swallowed were going to be just as bad.

You turn into the storage room that had been repurposed as a lounge and throw yourself onto the couch. It was old and held together by more duct tape than fabric but it still had some foam inside and no one was going to throw it out.

Bradley throws you a water bottle from the mini fridge and sits down next to you. You look at it quizzically for a moment before realizing he hadn’t quite understood what you meant.

“I mean to spit in. First few bits make my jaw hurt.” You explain. He finishes chugging his water before raising a brow.

“You’re a spitter?” You smack him in the arm in mock fury. He laughs, eyes crinkling.

“Shut up, stupid. You know what I mean.”

“No, no, I don’t know. Enlighten me. Our great wing leader is a spitter?”

“I’m gonna put your mouth to better work if you keep talking like that.” You tease. You’d always had a playful relationship with Rooster, always making jokes that had others questioning the nature of your relationship.

“Spit in it then.”

You stopped. You look at him, waiting for him to admit it was all just a joke and you’d go back on your merry way. He didn’t.

“Come on,” he urges. “More nic for me.” He leans his head back, mouth open with a shit eating grin across his face. His eyes are closed and you’re grateful for it so when you quickly straddle his waist it catches him completely off guard.

“You really want it?” You try to muster as much sexual prowess as one could in a flight suit.

He nods, adam’s apple bobbing as he looks at you through hooded eyes.

“Good.” You wrap your fingers around his neck, keeping his head from moving as you spit all the buildup into his awaiting mouth. You can feel his throat contract as he swallows and the reverberations from the low groan he makes.

You lean back, still sitting on his lap, moving your hand from his neck to his shoulders. He was panting slightly, a pleased look on his face.

“God, do that again?” How could you say no?

Bob

You were riding him like it was your job. The Kentucky derby had nothing on you in this moment.

He always looked so pretty underneath you, glasses askew and jaw slack. His hands gripping your hips like a vice as you moved up and down.

“Ugh-ugh, feels so good.” He always got spacey when you took charge like this. A true power bottom in the making at this point.

His lids were drooping as his grip tightened and you could tell he was trying not to come too quickly.

“You like that? Feels good for you, puppy?” You mock.

At the praise, he groans, back arching beautifully and head rolling to the side. He makes some sound of acknowledgement but he’s too far gone to have really understood what you said.

You rake your nails down his chest, feeling how his muscles tense. You’d left marks all over his back before but his chest was something you never dared to destroy. It was too perfect, too beautiful.

He kept making little noises of agreement as his grip on your hips tightened. You knew he was going to cum soon and you loved the sight of him when he did.

You lean forward, shifting the angle even deeper inside you. Pressing your chest against his, it was like you could feel him in your throat. You were his service top through and through and it was your pleasure to drive him insane with his.

“You gonna cum?” You tease, rolling your hips and bouncing ever so slightly. He came quickly when you started to talk dirty. “Gonna fill me up? Such a good boy, Bobby, fuck, you feel so good inside me.”

His mouth was open, bits of drool running down the side. Oh, that just wouldn’t do.

You lean even further down, zero distance between your bodies.

Grabbing him by the chin, you force his head straight. Your mouth was already watering from how delicious he looked so licking the drool from the side of his face was only a raindrop in an ocean.

Using your thumb to pull down his bottom lip, you spit everything into his mouth. He came the moment he swallowed, hips jerking and grip tightening more than you thought possible.

You came quickly afterwards, watching him come undone like that was always such a pleasure. You press a soft kiss to his spit covered lips, grinning softly. He couldn’t do anything more than pant, eyes closed and completely pliant under you.

You’d successfully fucked him dumb.

[hoonieyun]

the apple ₊ ⊹

pairing: park sunghoon x reader genre: angst, romance, sorrow, lovers to exes warnings: religious themes, kissing, profanity, skin ship, cheating but its just a misunderstanding, mentions of death and suicide, yn and her mom get slutshamed by the church, talks of an arranged marriage, yn and sunghoon both have daddy issues, a lot of internalized trauma and mental issues, major character death, 18+, not proofread lol pls lmk if i need to add anything

synopsis: if life was anything like an apple, it'd be sweet, crisp, and bloomed on your tongue. being with sunghoon started off like that but after one incident, you find yourself teetering at the edge, a rotten apple staring back at you with a singular chunk bitten out of it.

wc: 10595

you’re sitting in a grassy field, leaning against a large tree, fingers grazing past the ink on the worn out pages of your bible. your eyes are attentive as they take in every word on the page, absorbing god’s graces and holding it close to yourself. 

you were always taught to follow in our lord’s footsteps, that his guidance alone will lead you on the right path, and that you’ll find salvation. 

but no matter how long you spent in the church, how long you spent reading the bible, and how long you spent on your knees praying at night– none of it ever stuck to you. 

“yn!” your mother calls your name from the trunk, you hadn’t even realized the car stopped, indicating that you had arrived to where your mother has been driving the two of you for the last 13 hours. “honey, come help me, please. stop daydreaming.” she says with a grunt as she pulls out one of several suitcases from the trunk. 

you blinked several times as a way to ground yourself, taking in your unfamiliar surroundings, the new neighborhood that had white picket fences, cars that were squeaky clean, and well kept lawns. it was something out of the movies; a picturesque neighborhood– the only thing was that usually in those movies when they show these perfect neighborhoods, there was almost always something wrong with the people that lived there. you pushed open the car door with a sigh as you walked to the trunk of your mom’s car to help unload your belongings into your new home. 

the decision that came with moving to a whole new state was all your mother’s. she didn’t really consult you about her decision, just told you that you guys would be moving in one month and to start saying your goodbyes to everyone. 

not that you knew that many people that would care about you were moving away. 

except for your old neighbor, mrs. carol. she was the old lady that lived next door, 3 cats; all of them well fed and you can tell because they wobble when they walk, she had pretty bad eyesight so you often helped her with chores and things during the weekends. she’d always thank you with a freshly baked apple pie, a squeeze on your cheek, and then send you off– but not before she asks if you’ll be going to church that following sunday. 

you nodded in response and left, but the both of you knew that you were lying. 

the last time you saw mrs. carol was the wednesday before you moved. she had noticed your mom was giving away a lot of the things in your apartment and she thought it was just a simple spring cleaning but when she saw you with moving boxes she instantly knew you were moving away. 

“you’re moving away, darling?” she asked, hunched over as she peeks through her front door; her three cats lingering around her ankles. you give her a half smile and nodded, mrs. carol doesn’t do anything but nod back. you thought you wouldn’t see her again but as you and your mom were putting the last of your things into her car, mrs. carol appeared at the top of the stairs at the front of the old and slightly rundown apartment building. 

“yn, sweetie. come here.” she said softly. you quickly excused yourself from your mom and walked over to mrs. carol, telling her goodbye and thanking her for her company whenever you were lonely. “oh, dear. i should be thanking you, you’re such a blessing.” she says, pulling you into a hug. she was like your grandmother in many ways but also not like her at all because it was just you and your mom. 

you didn’t have any other family besides each other so mrs. carol felt like family to you. she subtly places something in your hands before curling your fingers over it, “keep this with you at all times and you’ll never be alone. okay, dear?” she says and you nod, tightening your grip on the item surrounded by your fingers. you couldn’t quite tell what it was but you could feel the metal in your hands. 

she gives you one last hug and sends you off. your mom was standing by the car waiting for you, a small smile on your face as you walked down the steps, “thank you for taking care of my daughter, mrs. carol. i promise to write to you for the holidays.” your mom says as you get into the passenger seat, shutting the door behind you. 

you wave at mrs. carol through the window as the car begins to drive away, a bittersweet smile on her face as she watches your mom’s car get smaller and smaller in the distance. mrs. carol also didn’t have a lot of family. she was an orphan who was brought to the US and when her adoptive parents passed away, she didn’t have anyone else. the extended family of her adoptive parents didn’t claim her, she never married and had no kids, and she was also an only child. 

mrs. carol saw herself in you and oh how she prayed you wouldn’t end up like her. she prayed for you to have a happy and fulfilling life and as sad as it was to see you leave, she continued to pray and hope that this new place would bring you joy unlike how your life was in the town you had grown up in. 

you’re carrying the last box from your mom’s car when you see a boy on a motorcycle pull into the driveway next to yours. the roaring of the motorcycle catches your attention and you find your footsteps slowing down as you watch him park his bike and remove the helmet off of his face. his hair is windswept as the helmet reveals his face, a sharp nose paired with an even sharper jawline. his brows are thick and eyes filled with allure. 

so much so, you find yourself accidentally tripping on a pebble, groaning and the sounds of pots and pans clanking together as you drop the box in your arms. your clumsiness catches your handsome neighbor’s attention and he’s running after you to help you up off the ground. “hey, you alright?” he asks, gently grabbing your arms to pull you up. you wince slightly as you get back on your feet, watching as his hands leave your skin and move to pick up the box you dropped. 

“uhm– yeah. thanks, sorry about that.” you huffed, dusting off the dirt from your jeans. 

“you guys just moving in?” he asks and you nod, telling him that you literally just got there and it’s not starting off as good as you would’ve liked. “oh– i can take that, thanks.” you muttered as you attempted to grab the box from his hands but he refused, walking over to your front door so you have no choice but to follow him so you could open the door for him. 

he follows you around your new house and the two of you wander around a bit too long before one of you says anything else, “hey, i don’t wanna complain but this is kind of heavy.” he says and you start to panic because you couldn’t remember where the kitchen was in your new house. the two of you had walked through the foyer, living room, and dining room but you just couldn’t find the kitchen. 

“shit, sorry! you can just set it down right there.” you say and he squats to put the box down. “sorry, i’m not entirely sure where the kitchen is.” 

“honey! did you grab the last box, i think it’s the pots and pans– oh! who is this, hon?” your mom says, emerging from the back of the house. she walks up to the two of you and you aren’t completely sure how to answer her as you didn’t even know him. 

“oh– hi, i’m sunghoon. i live next door, um i saw her fall and trip so i thought i’d come and help bring the box in. sorry if i’m intruding.” you finally learn of sunghoon’s name as he introduces himself to you and your mom. she thanks him for his help and spots the box of pots and pans she was looking for. she attempts to pick it up but because it’s so heavy she decides to just push it through the house with her foot. 

she returns to wherever she was, somewhere in the back of the house where you assume where the kitchen is. 

“thanks by the way, i’m yn and that was my mom.” you inform sunghoon as the two of you walk back to your front yard. “don’t mention it.” he mumbles and you’re both walking in an awkward silence for a moment until a deep voice calls from a few feet away. 

“sunghoon! dinner is almost ready, your mother is waiting.” the man calls as he stands, hands on hips waiting by the front door of what you assume is sunghoon’s house. “i’ll see you around, yn. let me know if you need someone to show you around town.” sunghoon says with a small smile, before walking back to his house. he sends you one last glance as he walks inside and his dad lingers just a bit longer, menacingly watching you retreat into your home. 

great, not even 24 hours in your new town and you’ve embarrassed yourself in front of your handsome neighbor and now his dad seems to be suspicious of you. 

“did your friend leave already?” your mom asks as you enter the kitchen, leaning on the counter and taking a look at your surroundings. the kitchen was practically the size of your old apartment, you were absolutely baffled at the stark difference of your old life in the city to this new one in some small town you didn’t even bother looking up before you moved. 

“he’s not my friend, just some guy who saw me trip and eat shit on the pavement.” you muttered, fidgeting with the knifecase your mom had unpacked onto the kitchen counter. your stomach suddenly grumbles and your mom sends you an amused look, “hungry?” she asks with a chuckle as you pull your hoodie tightly around your body. 

“a bit, are you cooking anything?” 

“not tonight honey, i don’t think we’ll have everything unpacked for me to cook and i still need to find the market in town. why don’t you take my car to that pizza place we saw just a few blocks away? grab a box of pizza and maybe some wings if they have it?” 

you nod at her instructions and do some finger guns, catching her keys as she unhooks them from her jeans and tosses them over to you. “drive safe! just let me know how much it costs when you get home.” 

the air has gotten much colder since you were last outside just a few minutes ago. weird, you thought. it was spring, damn near summer, but this little town seemed to send chills like it was winter down your back. you throw on the hood of your jacket and jog to your mom’s car, sliding into the driver’s seat and buckling up before starting the engine when a knock on the passenger door window startles you, “shit!” you exclaimed as a hand flew to your chest in shock. 

you look over to see sunghoon hunched over with a smile on his face as he waves at you from outside. “can i help you? you fucking scared me.” 

sunghoon laughs at your remark before answering, what a nice laugh you thought to yourself, “heading somewhere? want company?” he asks and you narrow your eyes at him. was it a good idea to let a complete stranger into your car and drive around a town you hadn’t even been in yet for more than an hour or so, maybe not– but since you knew where he lived and he didn’t give you any reason to doubt him, you unlock the car and sunghoon smirks when he hears the car unlock, pulling the door open and plopping down in the seat next to yours. 

“where to?” 

“pizza, i’m starving.” 

“perfect, i’ll show you where to go.” sunghoon says, smiling even wider when he hears the word pizza. 

“holy shit, this pizza is really good.” you say after swallowing a bite. you notice sunghoon stiffening up after what you said, contemplating on whether you should ask him about it because you were worried of offending him. “did i say something wrong?” 

sunghoon wipes his mouth with a napkin before responding, “no, you didn’t. i just have never heard anyone say holy shit before.” he responds, whispering profanities like he was a small child speaking in secret, afraid he’d get caught by his parents. 

you tilted your head to the side at his words and soon realized that he must come from a religious family, one so religious that those types of profanities weren't something he had ever heard uttered– and considering that he looked like he was in his 20s, that was a really long time. you muttered a small apology and he shakes his head, telling you that it’s fine and he doesn’t really mind. sunghoon explains that he comes from a church family, his dad was the deacon and his grandfather had founded the local church in town. 

sunghoon found himself telling you more about himself than he had anyone else in his life, maybe it was because you were a complete stranger or maybe it was the fact that sunghoon felt instantly connected to you, he’s not entirely sure. 

“wait, so you sound like you come from a picture perfect family but why am i getting the feeling that’s not entirely the case?” you asked. 

sunghoon laughs and nods at your question, “there’s honestly nothing wrong– well, aside from the fact that my father wants to control everything in my life including who i marry; nothing really wrong.” he jokes and now it was your turn to laugh. 

“and the motorcycle?” 

“ah, that was just to piss off my dad because he was pissing me off.” the two of you laughed as sunghoon recalled the story. his dad originally gave him his credit card to buy his first car and usually his dad would’ve been there but he was preoccupied with the church so he trusted sunghoon to go alone. 

bad idea. 

sunghoon was already mad at his dad about an argument before that but because his dad kept nagging him about the type of car to buy, what color, what model, making sure that the license plate didn’t have any sort of resemblance to anything blasphemous– sunghoon decided he’d buy a motorcycle instead. 

and because the bike shop doesn’t do returns– he got to keep it. 

that was just a lie he and the shop owner came up with to ensure that sunghoon got to keep it. 

“i should probably get going, i need to bring this box to my mom for dinner.” you say, wiping your hands with the napkin before scooting out of the booth, box of pizza in hand. “here, i’ll carry it.” sunghoon offers and you let him because a part of you feels like he wasn’t going to take no as an answer since the two of you got into a fight on who would be paying for the pizza. 

you eventually agreed that he’d buy you a slice but you’d be the one to pay for the box of pizza you were taking home to your mom. sunghoon agreed reluctantly and all you could do was smile at his friendly eagerness. 

“thanks for the pizza, sunghoon; and for welcoming me into town.” you muttered as the two of you got out of your car. the sun had dipped past the horizon and the moon was now high in the sky when you returned home. you checked your watch to see that it was only half past 8, but it felt so much later. 

“no problem, welcome to edenville yn. enjoy your night and the best pizza in town.” he smiles before walking off and slipping through his front door. you smiled at sunghoon as you watched him enter his home but your eyes traveled to the window in the far side of the home, slightly startled when you see a figure watching you from behind the curtains. 

you recognized him as sunghoon’s dad and as his gaze bore into yours, you duck your head low and rush back into your home, fidgeting with the keys so you could unlock your door and get inside– away from his dad’s piercing gaze. “creepy..” you muttered and your mom suddenly rounded the corner in her pajamas.

“what’s creepy– ooh, pizza. finally.” she says, eyes beaming at the box of pizza as she grabs it from you, taking it into the living room where she’s already got the tv setup with a random show playing it on it. you follow behind her and take a seat on the floor next to the couch, leaning your body and resting your elbow on the cushion. 

“ooh– what’s this?” she asks, pulling out a piece of paper when she flips open the pizza box. “i think someone at the pizza shop likes you, that why you took so long?” she asks, handing you the slip of paper that had a phone number on it with a note that reads, “thanks for hanging out with me, i’ll show you some more spots. text me?” 

you smiled at the note and knew who it was from. 

“well?” 

“uh– no, it’s from sunghoon. the boy next door, he ended up coming to get pizza with me, told me about the town and stuff.” your mom smiles at you teasingly and you’re instantly rolling your eyes at her, telling her that it’s nothing and he was just being nice. 

“yeah.. sure, hon.” she says before taking a bite of pizza, not believing a word you say– and perhaps you don’t believe yourself either. sunghoon was sweet and kind, made you feel welcome and something about him being a complete stranger drew you to him even more. 

him living next door didn’t help your natural curiousity to want to get to know him more. 

and you just might. 

settling into your new home was pretty easy, a few neighbors would stop by at random times to introduce themselves and it was nice– however it just made you think of mrs. carol, hoping that she was doing fine and hasn’t forgotten your reminder of making sure to turn off the stove whenever she was done heating her kettle. 

you learned that the family to the left of your house was the kim family, they had a son named sunoo around your age and assumed similar to sunghoon’s as well. the house across the street from yours was the sim family who you learned had a cute dog named layla and a son named jake, who you later learned is sunghoon’s best friend. 

it was nice that people took the time out of their day to introduce themselves and welcome you and your mom into town but they all had a shocked expression when they’d see the two of you and you knew it was because you and your mother looked close in age. she had you during high school and because her pregnancy came as a surprise, your biological dad told his parents and they put him into boarding school in a whole other country– leaving your mom alone to raise you on her own at just 16 years old. 

you didn’t care what people thought of you and your mom, but you could tell it bothered her so you tried your best to protect her when you could. it also didn’t help that it seems everyone would ask where your father was when they meet you and you’d just have to awkwardly smile before telling them he wasn’t in your life. 

sunghoon’s mom had stopped by very shortly to introduce herself, sunghoon awkwardly standing behind her as he waved at you, cheeks slightly puffed out making him look like his face was made of bread. you couldn’t help but laugh at him. 

“this is my son, sunghoon, he’s told me you’ve already met?” she says, pulling herself forward as he greets you and your mom. you explain to sunghoon’s mother that he helped you move a heavy box into your house and then you two got pizza afterwards. 

she smiled at your words but it wasn’t one of amusement, the smile was more one of irritation that she tried to mask with joy. “didn’t know you liked that place, sunghoon. we’ll talk about that over dinner with your father. speaking of my husband, sorry he couldn’t be here to introduce himself; he’s very busy with the church but i’ll extend his welcome to you both… 

uhm, welcome to edeville.” she says, another fake smile on her face as she walks down the stairs to go back home, turning around and tugging sunghoon’s sleeve when she realizes he doesn’t instantly follow her. 

you and your mom go back inside the house but you watch the two of them walk away from your window, you can faintly see sunghoon’s mom scolding him as they got closer to their house, sunghoon’s head hanging low as his mother scolds him, her pointer finger directed at him with so much aggravation you could almost feel it. 

“what a strange lady.” your mom mumbles, shaking her head before walking to the kitchen to start preparing dinner. you silently agreed and followed her, telling her about how you saw sunghoon’s dad a few times when you first moved in, leaving out the part of when you saw him staring at you menacingly from the window. 

you tell your mom you were going to freshen up before dinner but she stops you before you could leave, “oh, by the way. we’re going to church tomorrow so don’t be up so late.” and you weren’t really sure why you were going to church. it wasn’t until high school when you stopped attending a religious school that had a church open 24/7. that was where you learned of things in the bible like salvation, adam and eve, when god said let there be light, and the garden of eden. 

it’s been maybe 6 years since you’ve last stepped into a church and because you weren’t sure why your mom suddenly wanted the two of you to start attending again, you chose not to question and decided to just see it through. 

observe your mother at church and see why for yourself. 

church the following day was filled with awkward glances and short greetings as your mom introduced the two of you to random churchgoers. you smiled and nodded, keeping it cordial as you didn’t want to cause any problems while at church even if you could tell they were all judging you. 

you spotted sunghoon sitting at the very front of the seat and you could see his mother to his right; you were wondering where his dad was but when he emerged from behind a statue of jesus, bible in hand, you remembered that he was the deacon. 

sunghoon briefly stretches his neck and sees you from the corner of his eye, eyes widening as he waves over to you. a smile on his face that revealed his sharp canines. you waved back at him but his attention is quickly averted to the front of the room when his mom nudges him to straighten up and focus. 

this was going to be one long sunday service. 

you and your mom are walking back to your car when you hear a faint whistling sound, so you look around to see where it’s coming from and you see sunghoon hiding behind a brick wall, waving you down when you finally spot him.

“oh, mom. i think i forgot something inside, i’ll be right back.” you tell her, running off before she could even respond. you round the corner and find sunghoon pacing back and forth, thumb in his mouth as he anxiously bites on the nail. 

“mysterious… is there a reason we’re hiding behind this random brick wall right now?” 

sunghoon looks up when he hears you speak, a smile on his face when he sees you; “hey..” he breathes out. “sorry, need to hide from my parents.” he explains and you nod in response, puckering your lips at the awkward silence. 

“why haven’t you texted me?” he suddenly asks and you giggle at his cute expression. looking up at you through the strands of hair blocking his eyes, a small pout on his lips. “sorry, i guess i’ve just been taking it all in.. why? did you miss me already?” you tease and from the way you could see the blush creep on his cheeks and the way sunghoon shyly turns away from you, you had guessed right. 

“my mom is probably looking for me but i’ll text you tonight, ok?” 

“wait– meet me at this place at 9? ok?” 

he grabs your hand suddenly and pulls a pen out from the pocket on the front of his dress shirt. he quickly scribbles an address on your palm and blows on it briefly to dry it so the ink doesn’t smear. “please come.” he says and you smile, nodding your head before walking back to your mom’s car. 

smiling to yourself as you look at the writing on your palm but before you could get to your mom’s car, a figure stops you in your tracks. you look up to see who was standing in front of you and crane your neck upwards to see sunghoon’s father. 

“yn! how nice of you and your mother to join us for sunday service. welcome to edenville.” he says, a somewhat sinister smile on his face. you returned with a smile of your own, yours much smaller than his. “i know you and your mother are new to town so here’s some advice.” he says before leaning down and getting closer to your ear. 

“i know the kind of girl you are, stay away from my son.” he whispers and it sends a shock to your system, his breath tickling your skin in the most uncomfortable way possible. when sunghoon’s father pulls away, he’s got the same wicked smile like he was trying to put on a face for those around who may be watching the two of you as anyone outside of this conversation would just be seeing the kind deacon of the church welcoming the new girl into town. 

you swallowed the lump in your throat before walking off and staring at the address on your palm again, only now it feels less exciting and more unnerving. 

you had been contemplating on whether or not you’d go out and meet sunghoon at this address. you decided to write it down in your phone just in case the writing on your hand would smear and become unreadable. you had looked up the address and found out it was a waterfall just a few minutes on the outskirts of town. 

it was around 8:30PM and you still hadn’t decided if you were going to show up or not. you stared at the ink on your hand and then back at sunghoon’s contact in your phone. you weighed the options and the warning from sunghoon’s father weighed heavily on your mind, on the other hand; a part of you naturally gravitated towards sunghoon and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t want to see him. 

that’s how you found yourself telling your mom that you were going out for a quick drive and that you’d be back soon. sliding into the driver’s seat and inputting the address into your phone so you could follow the GPS. it was only 15 minutes away so you’d definitely get there by 9PM, you just hoped that you could find sunghoon quite easily. 

before you drove off, you took note that there was only one car in sunghoon’s driveway, his motorcycle nowhere to be seen so you assumed that he was already there. you made the drive to eden falls silently, wondering about what the night will bring and how you were really hoping sunghoon’s father wouldn’t catch wind of your secret rendezvous with his son. 

the drive doesn’t take long before you’re pulling onto a dirt path, your headlights shining over a boy leaning on his motorcycle, he uses his hands to block the lights and you quickly shut it off before stepping out of the car. 

“you came.” sunghoon says enthusiastically and you can’t help but smile at him. you jogged over to sunghoon and are surprised to see him extend his hand out for yours, so you accept it. he gently wraps his hand around yours and guides you to a small bench just a few feet from the falls. you could see the large waterfall to your left and assumed that below would be a large pool of water where the waterfall led to. the loud rushing of the waterfall fills your ears but not enough to drown out sunghoon. 

“i almost thought you weren’t going to show up..” 

you shyly look away for a second before turning back to him, “i almost didn’t…” you confess and sunghoon looks at you, urging you to elaborate. you weren’t sure if you should tell sunghoon about what happened with his dad but because he didn’t give you any reason not to trust him and given his relationship with his dad that he’s told you, you decide to tell him what happened. 

sunghoon was shocked to find out the news and he’s shaking his head in disappoint when he listens to what you have to say. he’s profusely apologizing and explaining to you that his father had previously mentioned not approving of the new neighbors because your family was incomplete– meaning he didn’t like you and your mother because you didn’t have a dad present. 

you scoffed at his words but couldn’t be too mad when sunghoon rubs the back of your hand with his thumb. “im sorry… but if it makes you feel better i definitely don’t feel the same way as my dad. as a matter of fact, i think you’re probably the best person i’ve ever met.” sunghoon doesn’t know why he’s telling you this, his naturally shy demeanor melting away whenever he’s with you. 

“sorry– i don’t know why i said that, please forget what i just said.” 

you laugh at him, squeezing his hand slightly, “don’t apologize– it’s cute. plus, you’re also probably the best person i’ve met in this town, by a large margin might i add.” 

you and sunghoon spend the next hour or so learning about each other. you learn that he was a figure skater as a child but had to stop when he turned 18 because his father told him it was time for him to man up and follow in his footsteps, it irritated you that everything you’ve learned about sunghoon’s dad was something terrible and it hurt you to know that sunghoon had to deal with such an overbearing father. 

outside from the daddy issue’s that you and sunghoon bonded over, you also learned that he really like tiramisu, he had a small dog when he was little named gaeul, and he also had a small interest in fashion but it never went anywhere because he knew his dad would just shoot it down. you frowned at his words but sunghoon seemed to be optimistic regardless. he came off as shy at first but he warmed up to you fairly quickly, whenever he laughed it was hearty, he loved to crack corny jokes, and he had a habit of zoning out randomly. 

“we should get going, it’s pretty chilly.” 

sunghoon agrees and the two of you walk hand in hand back to your vehicles but not before he quickly shrugs off his coat and wraps it around you. once again you try to refuse but sunghoon insists on you wearing it because you mentioned being cold. you smiled at him with a small thank you and he smiles at you, eyes crinkling as he watches his large coat cover up most of your body. 

“thank you for tonight, sunghoon. i had a lot of fun.” 

“me too. i’m glad you showed up.” 

“i’m glad i did too..” 

you and sunghoon part ways as you walk over to your car that is parked just a few feet away. as you’re turning the key in the engine and starting the car, you’re startled when you hear a knock on your window, jumping at the sound. 

sunghoon laughs to himself when he sees your reaction, apologizing when you lower the window down, “you really gotta stop doing that..” you chuckle and he apologizes again. “don’t show anyone this spot, ok? it’ll be our own little oasis.” sunghoon says while he sits on his bike, helmet hanging from his arm before he slides it over his head. 

your own spot with sunghoon. you liked the sound of that. 

two months into living at edenville and everything seems to be normal. the judgemental glances have died down for the most part, you only noticed it most when you went to church with your mom since church was only one day out of the week for only an hour, you choose to just ignore them. plus, seeing sunghoon in his sunday’s best was a great way to balance out the awkwardness at church. 

“man, my dad was on one today.” sunghoon huffs as he takes a seat on the bench. the two of you would text each other every day and fall asleep on the phone every night, sunghoon was becoming a regular part of your routine and you would become the highlight of his day. you weren’t necessarily one for relationships, the only boyfriend you’ve ever had was the boy who gave you candy during valentine’s day when you were in the 4th grade but aside from that, you weren’t ever interested in dating. 

being with sunghoon felt so innocent and calm yet he revitalized you and made your days brighter. whenever the two of you needed to relieve some stress or just wanted some time alone together, you and sunghoon would send each other a water emoji, indicating to meet at your spot at eden falls in the next 10 minutes– and every sunday after church, you’d meet there too. 

“his service was extra long today, thankfully i had some coffee beforehand or else i probably would’ve snoozed through all of it.” you muttered, kicking around a pebble on the ground with your shoe. sunghoon hums in agreement, you could tell there was something on his mind and you wanted to tell him that he could tell you anything, that you'd listen and be there for him no matter what. 

“cmere.” he says, offering his hand out to you and you take it eagerly. sunghoon’s hand basically covers yours as he takes your hand in his and it surprises you when he pulls you into his lap instead of the empty spot on the bench next to him. you fall into his lap with a small hum and he laughs in admiration. scanning your face, sunghoon’s eyes trailing from your lips to your eyes that were already planted on his. 

“you look so pretty..” he whispers, slowly brushing some of your hair behind your ear so he could get a better view of your face. he smiles at you when you get shy but he holds you firm but gently to stop you from hiding away from him. “your lips look really soft.” sunghoon says, causing you to bite down on them momentarily and you can feel and hear sunghoon take in a sharp breath. 

“ca– can i kiss you?” 

your lip falls from in between your teeth and sunghoon’s eyes are glued to them, almost like he was studying their shape, every line and engraving on your lips– his eyes flutter upwards to yours and you blink several times at him before nodding.sunghoon’s hands travel from your waist to the back of your neck and he pulls you closer, connecting your lips with his. 

soft. 

sunghoon was right, your lips were soft. incredibly soft. 

as humiliating as it may sound, this was your first kiss– but as your lips matched sunghoon’s rhythm and as your mouths melt, and blend, and fit into each other's, all you could think about was the fact that you’re pleased to have sunghoon as your very first kiss. 

when you pull away from sunghoon and your eyes flutter open, you find that sunghoon has a dazed expression on his face– like he was in some dreamland while he relished the feeling of your lips on his. a string of saliva keeps the two of you connected for a brief moment before it eventually breaks as sunghoon sighs at the absence of your lips. 

“i was wrong..” he says and you furrow your brows at him. 

“your lips aren’t just soft, they’re really soft.” you laugh at his remark, playfully slapping him on the chest as the two of you laugh. he holds you close to him for just a moment longer before you both decide to go home for the day. since it was still sunday, sunghoon’s dad would be expecting him for dinner. his family had dinner every night but on sunday’s it was mandatory for him to be there per his father’s orders. 

as you’re walking away, sunghoon quickly grabs your wrist and pulls you back towards him, your hand lands on his chest again and he kisses you some more. lips dancing together with more passion than before– “hoon, come on. your dad’s probably gonna be upset.” you say after pulling away. 

“fuck that guy.” he huffs and you laugh in amusement at his use of profanity. sunghoon wasn’t one to use them often but you found it funny that when he did use them, it was to damn his father, the deacon of the church. 

you shoot him a wink before getting into your mom’s car and driving off, sunghoon riding on his motorcycle in front of you. his broad shoulders covered by his black leather jacket, his long legs straddling each side of the bike, and the feeling of your lips lingering on his face. you couldn’t tell because of his helmet, but sunghoon had a smile on his face the whole time he was driving home. 

sunghoon gets home before you do because you’ve decided that you guys can’t arrive home at the same time to avoid suspicion, specifically from his parents. you get home about 5 minutes after he does when he sends you a text that he’s arrived home. you send him a heart emoji before pulling into your driveway and heading inside. 

you spend the rest of the night just lounging, doing minor house chores and having leftover soup for dinner. your mom was working overtime so she wouldn’t be home until much later in the night but you didn’t really mind because it was nice to be home alone every now and then. 

it’s around 10pm when you’re suddenly awoken by someone yelling outside, their voices were loud enough that you could hear it but still faint that you couldn’t fully comprehend what they were saying. you were planning to just go back to sleep until you hear a string of profanities followed by the sound of a door slamming. you decide to look out the window and find sunghoon’s dad pacing back and forth in their backyard pulling out a cigarette and lighting it, irritation clear in his actions. 

you could only assume that sunghoon must’ve been arguing with his dad and that’s where all of the noise was coming from and from what you’ve heard about his dad from sunghoon himself, you were worried for him– but you didn’t want sunghoon to know that you were basically eavesdropping on him and his father. you ultimately choose not to do anything about it but you keep it in the back of your head all night.

over the course of the next few days, your interactions with sunghoon have decreased to just short stolen glances and the occasional text message. whenever you ask if he wants to talk on the phone when you go to bed or meet at your spot, he gives you some excuse of why he can’t, one that you don’t fully believe but choose not to argue over. 

you’re chewing on your bottom lip as sunghoon’s father is going over the service, extending god’s praises to everyone at the church as they all hail in his words. you weren’t paying attention because all you could think about was how it’s been a whole hour of being in this church and sunghoon has not once turned around to glance at you, even when you sent him a text saying that he looked handsome, he just looked down at this phone and quickly stuffed it into the pocket of his trousers. 

you weren’t sure what was going on with him but it was getting to a point where it bothered you more than it should. you and sunghoon weren’t official but you spent so much time together that it felt like those moments were special enough to mean something. it did to you but you weren’t sure if it did to him. it also didn’t help that it seemed like sunghoon was suddenly distancing himself to you right after you kissed, it was humiliating honestly– to have your first kiss with a boy that you were starting to really like and all of a sudden he’s barely even speaking to you anymore. 

sunghoon sat upright, face forward, and shoulders back as the service was ending. you were going to talk to him one way or another, just not here. you couldn’t risk causing a scene at church of all places, you weren’t religious but you had enough respect not to start any problems there. 

you weren’t sure how you were going to get sunghoon alone to talk but the opportunity arose when you saw him head to the back of the church once service was over. you figured that if you could quickly slip away before his parents were to find him then you could quickly talk about what’s going, maybe figure out what’s been going on with him and get clarification on the distance that’s been created between the two of you. 

you tiptoed towards the back of the church, glancing behind you to make sure there wasn’t anyone following or watching you. you pick up the place slightly out of fear that you would be caught or the small window of privacy would slip away but you’re halted in your steps and crouching behind a wall when you see sunghoon standing there. 

for a second you think he’s alone but when he shifts slightly, you can see him crouch downwards and hug someone. a girl. you didn’t really know her but you recognized her from church. she was always there every sunday, sitting in between her parents as she wore a white frilled dress with matching shoes. 

you’re left speechless at the sight before you and you didn’t know what to think. were they dating? just friends? but your mind went to the worst possible option as you come to the conclusion that sunghoon has probably stopped talking to you because he no longer found interest in you now that he was with this new girl. she was beautiful, her skin appeared as soft as silk, her hair was done perfectly, and her smile could rival the sound of an angel singing. 

she was perfect and you were far from that. 

you’re about to run away when your body collides with someone behind you, sunghoon’s father. you fall to the ground with a grunt as the gravel pinch into your skin– gathering sunghoon and the girl’s attention. 

“yn?” he asks, letting go of the girl in his arms. 

“what are you doing here? are you ok?” he asks, running over to you in an attempt to help you off the ground much like he did the first time you met– but this time his father stops him. putting out his hand to prevent sunghoon from getting any closer as they all watch you. 

your eyes bounce from sunghoon to his father, a scoff leaves your lips as you stand onto your two feet, dusting the dirt off of your clothes. you couldn’t be there any longer so leave, pushing past the deacon and ignoring sunghoon’s attempts at calling your name to stop you from leaving but his dad holds him back. 

“let me go!” he shouts, snatching his arm away from his father. 

“why do you insist on going after that girl? she’s nothing!” his father yells and thankfully you’re far enough that you don’t hear any of it, which also means you don’t hear sunghoon’s defense. 

“i don’t give a damn. she’s everything to me even if i have nothing.” sunghoon says, jaw tightening as he glares at his father. sunghoon and his dad have gotten into arguments several times but lately it’s gotten more frequent as he’s noticed you and sunghoon have become closer even in your attempts at hiding it. 

the argument that you had faintly heard between him and his dad before all of this went down was about you and the girl that stood just a few feet away from all of this. she didn’t play a part in any of this, at least not willingly. when sunghoon got home that night he and his dad got into an argument because sunghoon was late to dinner, now it would’ve been fine if it was just any other dinner but this wasn’t just an ordinary dinner. 

sunghoon’s father had invited a good friend of his and his family to have dinner with them. this man was of high status as he was the town’s mayor and with his attendance came the attendance of his wife and daughter. the dinner was filled with tension as sunghoon would attempt to push back at his dad whenever he could to try to embarrass him in front of his uptight friend but that was when his father dropped the bomb on sunghoon. 

“sunghoon, mayor kim here and i have been talking and we think it would be a good idea if you and his daughter were wed. we’ve gone over all of the details already.” those words were ringing in sunghoon’s ears, vision beginning to be tainted red as he could feel his blood boiling. marriage? with a random girl? when he had you? he wasn’t about to let that happen. 

he looked over at the girl who seemed to be just as shocked as he was but before sunghoon could fully process everything, he abruptly slid out of his chair, the wooden piece of furniture slamming to the ground as he left the room without a single word, his mother apologizing on his behalf. his actions at dinner, although justified, is what led to the huge argument with his dad that you had witnessed and what would eventually lead to him distancing himself from you when his dad ends their argument with a few simple words. 

“if you don’t stop seeing that girl, i’ll make sure you don’t see her ever again.” 

sunghoon didn’t know what his dad meant by those words but he had never seen his father so angry before. his eyes bore into his son’s with a type of fury that instilled fear inside of sunghoon. so much so that he decided to stop talking to you out of fear that he’d lose you completely if he did, at least this way he could admire you from afar. 

“sunghoon if you follow that girl you’re only damning yourself. she’s corrupt and i refuse for my son to be corrupted by some whore.” his dad says and this sets something off inside of sunghoon. his vision turns red again and before his dad could react, sunghoon’s left fist is connecting with his dad’s face, a cracking sound emitting from the contact. 

his father stumbles back onto the back of the church, leaning on the wall for support as he clutches his jaw in shock. the girl standing to the side gasps and runs over in shock, making sure that sunghoon and his dad are okay. 

“sorry, you had to see that.” sunghoon mumbles to the girl. 

“it’s fine… go..” she says, pulling out the handkerchief from her purse. sunghoon furrows his brows at her words for clarification. 

“go after her.” she says, giving sunghoon an encouraging smile. 

so he does. sunghoon runs after you, knowing exactly where he could find you. he wished that he brought his bike but his dad insisted that they all arrive together to church in the same car so that they appeared to be the perfect and well put together family that they tried so hard to look like. 

sunghoon had been running through so many things in his head while his father was at the front of the church doing his usual service. all sunghoon could think about was you and how guilty he feels for ignoring you and how hurt you must’ve felt but because he was afraid of his father and wasn’t sure what he’d do to you if he continued to see you, you chose to silently protect you– but he was growing tired of it. 

he craved you more than you could think. he missed the way you laughed at his stupid jokes, the way you smiled at small things like seeing a caterpillar scooting across the surface of an apple, and how your lips felt against his. 

sunghoon wanted to feel the softness of your lips against his so badly and he’d make sure that your kiss from before wasn’t going to be the last. when the service ended, sunghoon hurriedly rushed out of the church and told mayor kim’s daughter to meet him back there. he was planning to apologize to her and tell her why he acted that way and surprisingly enough, she understood him. 

she mentioned how her father was setting them up for an arranged marriage because both of their fathers didn’t approve either of their lifestyles and who they fell in love with. sunghoon, who fell in love with a girl from an incomplete family but found a way to complete the missing puzzle pieces in sunghoon’s heart and kim minjeong, the daughter of the mayor who had fallen in love with yoo jimin, the chief of police’s daughter. 

sunghoon was relieved to hear that minjeong was as opposed to the idea of an arranged marriage as he was and they decided to hug it out in solidarity with each other– and that’s when it happened. sunghoon’s father somehow had seen you creeping behind the church and was going to put a stop to whatever you had planned and eventually that’s how it all played out. you saw sunghoon hugging a girl and paired with his father’s intimidating aura, you felt so small and could feel yourself crumbling under all of their gazes. 

sunghoon’s lungs were burning as he continued to run, the pavement under him made his feet sore with each step he took but he didn’t care. he was going to get to you no matter what, he was going to explain everything, and he was going to kiss you and show you how much he loves you. 

his father was wrong. you weren’t corrupting him, you weren’t a bad seed or the temptation of the apple that the snake gave to eve. you were his salvation, his light, and you’re the only person who has shown him true happiness. 

and he wasn’t going to let that go. 

you had made it to eden falls fairly quickly, your mother not questioning on why you wanted to take the car but she could tell something was bothering you and decided that she’d talk to you about it once you’ve had some time to clear your head. your mom wasn’t privy to all of the whispers of the people in town and especially not to those in the church. 

she heard their comments about how she was a slut or a whore because she didn’t have a husband and it didn’t help that people took notice of your closeness in age; adding more fuel for them to judge you and your mom when they figured out that not only did you not have a dad, but your mom also had you when she was a teenager. 

but your mom didn’t care. sometimes it would bother her but then she thought about you. her beautiful daughter who smiled through adversity and the mundane, you were an inspiration to her and when she heard about your budding romance with sunghoon she was elated. she gave you the usual mother daughter talk when it came to boys but she pushed you to go after what you loved. 

she wasn’t going to stop her daughter from finding love just because she didn’t have someone to call husband. you didn’t deserve to live in the mistakes that she made but if you heard her call these things a mistake you scold your own mother and tell her that everything is the way it should be and you were happy to have her as a mother. 

you’re wiping the tears off of your face as you sit on the bench, letting the loud rushing sounds of the water drown out your thoughts but your heart is pounding too loud and your head is aching too hard for any of it to be drowned out. 

was this what heartbreak felt like? 

but no matter how hurt you felt, you couldn’t just let sunghoon go like that, you refused. your mother told you to fight for what you believed in and for those you loved; your mom was a testament to that as she showed you day in and day out how much she cared for you, going as far as working so hard that she was able to move you out of your small one bedroom apartment to the house you lived in now. 

you decided you would fight for sunghoon, show him how much you loved him and wouldn’t stop at anything to get him back, not even if his father or anyone else at the church tried to keep the two of you apart. sunghoon came into your life like a miracle. everyday was the same back in your hometown and you were starting to think it would be like that for the rest of your life but when you moved to edenville and met sunghoon, everything changed. 

you smiled more, you laughed more, and for the first time ever; you felt what love was like from someone other than your mother. 

that feeling was too good to let go of and you sure as hell weren’t going to let go of it. 

with a deep breath in and out, you close your eyes to gather yourself before deciding you’d take the car to find sunghoon and tell him everything you’re feeling; but the sound of a soft thud catches your attention. your head turns toward the sound and you find no one there and just as you’re about to get up and leave, you see an apple fall from a tree just a few feet away. 

you hadn’t noticed that there was an apple tree at eden falls but since you were usually engrossed with sunghoon you hadn’t really paid attention. you looked around to find that there was only a single apple tree in all of eden falls. you find yourself walking over to the apple tree but are careful in your steps because of it’s closeness to the edge of the falls. 

the tree seemed to be calling to you as the wind that blew past sounded like a song. the apple in your hand snapped off as you lightly tugged on it, like it was ready to be pulled off and eaten. you weren’t sure what came over you but you found yourself shutting your eyes as you brought the apple to your lips and took a bite. a crunching sound from the bite filling your ears as you chew on the apple. it was sweet and crisp, almost blooming on your tongue. 

however, when you open your eyes and look down at the apple in your hand, a horrendous gasp leaves your lips as you see the inside of the apple was black and rotted, maggots crawling throughout the crevices of the fruit. you spit out the apple in disgust, wiping your mouth of the feeling as the idea of the rotten fruit and worms cause you to gag.

you drop the apple in a startle and before you could react, your feet are slipping on the mud that surrounds the base of the tree and you feel yourself falling over the edge of eden falls with nothing to hold onto to pull yourself back up. 

the fall is slow, you can hear the water in your ears before you can feel it but the impact of the freezing cold water was enough to shock you out of your trance. you flailed underneath the water, fighting to get out and poke your head through the surface before you ran out of air but it seemed like eden falls led to an endless pit of water and despair. 

they say when you die that your life flashes before your eyes and when you take your final breath as your eyes close shut, all you could see was sunghoon and his smile. a smile appears on your face as your body continues to sink lower into the body of water. your body is dragged around until it couldn’t be moved any further, leaving you floating in the basin of eden falls. 

when sunghoon arrived at eden falls, his eyes lit up at the sight of your mom’s car, it gave him enough energy to run even faster to your spot at the bench but when he got there; you weren’t anywhere to be seen. 

he looked around, yelled out your name, called and texted your phone, but nothing. 

maybe he was too late but your mom’s car still being there left more questions than answers. he dropped his head in disappointment but not in defeat, he was going to fix all of this but he just wasn’t sure how. when he finally opens his eyes, tears begin to fall onto the dirt below him and that’s when he sees an apple with a single bite taken out of it. sunghoon looks at the fruit and wonders where it could have come from since there weren’t any apple trees in all of edenville. he wipes his eyes with the sleeve of his blazer as he sniffles, picking up the perfectly good apple that glistened under the sun. 

no maggots or signs of rotting to be found. 

for the next week or so sunghoon does everything he can to get in contact with you but they all fail. he eventually walks over to your house to talk to you but your mother answers the door with tears streaming down her face. 

when he asks her if everything is alright she goes to explain that she hasn’t seen you since last sunday. it’s now saturday afternoon and sunghoon realizes that the car isn’t in the driveway, meaning it’s probably still at eden falls, but where were you? 

he extends his care and worry to your mother before going back inside his house to grab his phone and call you once more, but something on the tv catches his attention as the newscaster’s voice boldly says, “breaking news: deceased body has been found at the edge of eden falls on the other side of town.” 

sunghoon easily recognizes the sweater of the deceased girl, it was you. 

his world is instantly crumbling and he blinks at the tv, hoping that it would just miraculously disappear and that the news wasn’t true. he can hear your mother wailing from outside as she runs out of your house, running over to where they had mentioned you were found. 

this can’t be true.

you were gone and it was his fault. 

the next day at church, sunghoon is forced to sit through his father spewing some bullshit about your passing. your mother hadn’t shown up to church because she was in too much pain dealing with your death. sunghoon could barely stand to listen to his father and his lies, telling the people of the church of how much he prays for your mother, that you were a good girl even though he said you were corrupted, but it isn’t until his father says a certain thing that sunghoon finds himself storming out of the church. 

“she was broken… and she’s in a better place now.”

“what the fuck did you know about her?” sunghoon spits at his dad, the people of the church gasping at him. “you didn’t know anything about her, you called her corrupt and said she’d ruin me and look what fucking happened. 

you drove her away from me and she’s gone! it’s your fucking fault!” he shouts, veins protruding from neck and forehead as he yells at his father. “i loved yn. i still love her and that isn’t going to change, even if she’s gone.” sunghoon grits his teeth as he stares at his dad with so much anger his ears were turning red and his jaw would start to tremble as the anger surged through him. 

sunghoon’s father was making it seem like you had killed yourself because you were “broken” and “corrupt” and whatever bullshit he knew that townsfolk would believe but sunghoon wasn’t having any of that. sunghoon knew you had your fair share of issues but you never showed any signs that would lead you to killing yourself, he just knew you wouldn’t but there was no way to prove him wrong. 

he knew that he was to blame for some of this, that if he didn’t distance himself away from you and if he just fought for you harder then none of this would’ve happened. that you’d still be here, he’d be able to hold you in his arms, feel your soft lips, and tell you just how much he loved you. 

sunghoon’s father made it seem like you were the apple that was used to tempt adam and eve but he knew better than that. you were eve, a beautiful woman who held the world in her heart and sunghoon was the apple and your eventual downfall. 

the garden of eden

copyright 2025 - present © hoonieyun all rights reserved all writing here is fiction & not in any association with characters mentioned. if you enjoyed reading this please consider reblogging and following <3

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[norrissm]

⌗ everything warm survives — ln4

barista!lando x reader. fluff. slight angst.

summary. a storm takes over the city just as you’re about to leave and lando has an amazing idea to make the night better :) • BARISTA!LANDO • LIBRARY

the thing about loneliness is that you rarely ever feel it.

rarely feeling it creeping into your veins before it paralyses with you an existential dread that sweeps you into a void.

it doesn’t arrive like a meteor or a freight train or a grand, sweeping gesture. it slips in quietly. like a drip.

like someone asking how you are and you almost crying because no one’s asked in a while.

and lando notices it. you hate that he notices, but you love that he doesn’t point it out.

he’s the kind of person who looks at people like he’s reading a book he’s already fallen in love with. carefully. slowly. like he knows there’s something important in every sentence.

you’ve known him for three months. which is long enough to memorize the shape of his smile but not long enough to figure out what it means when he looks at you like he wants to say something and doesn’t.

you’re a regular at his café now. not by design, but because it’s warm and soft and smells like cinnamon and lando. and in a world that often feels like it’s on fire, those are good enough reasons to stay.

“cafes are like a third place,” lando had said once. “somewhere in between our house and our work. a place that feels entirely different but home at the same time.”

the night it happens, the night the city is folding into itself with a storm threatening to push you over the brink of the void you’re battling, you’re at the cafe. you shiver with the cold creeping in. having been there for over two hours while lando worked at the back ready for closing. the lights go off.

you shoot him a text.

if your espresso machine survives the apocalypse, can i crash at the café?

he texts backs immediately.

already getting the goods ;)

and so he does. emerging from the back with a handful of candles and a slight smile accompanied. the cafe is empty. people filtered out an hour ago.

thankfully lando made the warm lights work on batteries and not the main switch.

that’s when you really take in the cafe at night. warm bulbs strung across the ceiling. an old record player humming a jazz track that doesn’t know the name of. the storm outside like static—loud, chaotic, distant.

back in the booth of the cafe near the window littered with rogue raindrops, lando sits in front of you. having made two cups of coffee. a latte for you. with a heart.

“ever did this before?” you ask folding yourself into the cushioned chairs, the cold hitting you deeper now as the storm rode high.

“have a storm sleepover at the cafe?” he says. “nah it’s my first ever. but it seemed you needed to be here more than me.”

not knowing how to respond you sip on the drink and let the silence hold this moment, hoping to do it justice.

you sit inside and talk about things you usually don’t: his family back in bristol. your inability to finish books with sad endings. how silence used to scare you. how he doesn’t believe in soulmates but he does believe in timing.

“this place,” you say, voice barely above the hum of the fridge, “feels like what safety would taste like.”

lando laughs softly. “hazelnut and cinnamon?”

you nod. “with oat milk.”

at 2:43 a.m., you’re lying side by side under the fort. (lando built you one with spare sheets. “it’s for the ambience.” he said.)

lando whispers, “do you think we’re just… coffee in different mugs? all bitter and sweet and confused about temperature?”

you laugh, tired and cracked open in a way you haven’t let yourself be in months.

“i think,” you say, “you might be a little too philosophical for someone who sells banana bread.”

he grins. “says the girl who cried over latte art.”

you throw a pillow at him.

the morning arrives kinder than the night. showing mercy the world has gone delicate, people looming around the remnants of the storm. the birds are back at their daily routine and so is the cafe.

a whiff of cinnamon brews in the air and in front of you a note with banana bread. the bread fluffy and aromatic.

stay as long as you like. i’m in the back making you some cinnamon latte. — lan

you do.

and suddenly, the café isn’t your third place anymore. it’s your first.

because something about that night taught you: everything warm survives. even the little fire underneath our skins keeps us going.

and sometimes, someone hands you a drink that tastes like being wanted.

reblog and follow <3 all rights reserved ©️norrissm please do not copy, save, or translate my stories.

[evansbuckle]

Mechanic!SingleDad!Bucky Barnes AU.

This is my first time writing a fic since like 2021, but I haven't been able to get this out of my head for the entire day, so please, enjoy. Likes & reblogs are always appreciated <3

Word Count: At least 20 for sureeeee!

Warnings: There's brief swearing, brief mentions of death and parental abandonment. Reader is referred to as y/n, with she/her pronouns, and has curly hair. Bucky's a dad? I'm pretending I know how cars work + bad grammar (i have a creative writing degree and still can't tell if the full stop goes after a speech mark or before)

masterlist link Part 2

Grease, Part One.

It was one thing to have a car breakdown on you. It was another thing for it to happen at half eleven. In the evening. Outside a garage. That was shut. 

“C’mon don’t do this to me, man,” I begged the car as I hit the steering wheel, and tried the engine again to no prevail, “I’m gonna sell you, I swear.” 

I looked at the garage my car broke down outside of, eyes narrowing in on the “CLOSED” sign on the door. I could see a faint light inside, and there was a nagging in the back of my head that drove me to knock on the door. It was barely thirty seconds before a greased up man opened the door. 

“We’re closed.” He gruffed out, wiping his hands on what looked like a vest.

“I know, and I swear I usually wouldn’t do this but my car just stopped and I don’t really know what’s wrong with it and I’m here, and please?”

“What are you asking me to do exactly?” The man asked, amused.

“Well, realistically what can you do with it right now?”

“I can push it into the garage and ask you to come back in the morning, where I’ll be able to tell you what’s wrong with it.”

“Are you serious?” I looked at him with a level of shock in my eyes that he clearly wasn’t expecting, as he sort of grimaced at me, like he was uncomfortable. 

“Nine in the morning.” His tone was stone-cold, so I thanked him again, gave him my car key, got my bag and left, walking home. It didn’t take long to get back to my apartment, twenty minutes, ten if you run because it’s the middle of the night and you’re scared. I was greeted by a series of barks and leg rubs as I walked in, leaning down to pet the giant dog that was at my feet, “Hi Cheryl.” 

It didn’t take long to get ready for bed either, I speed-ran feeding the dog, getting changed and brushing my teeth, not really wanting to waste time considering I had work in the morning. As I lied in bed, I couldn’t stop thinking about the man who opened the door.

I didn’t realise I’d fallen asleep until my alarm rang, signalling it was time to get ready for work. I walked into my kitchen to the smell of my coffee machine doing Gods work, and the dog asleep on the floor. I reached over to pet her head as I poured myself a cup, downing it almost instantly. It wasn’t nice when drank all at once, but the energy boost was always welcome. I brushed my teeth, got changed, fed Cheryl, and left for work. 

Opening shifts at the coffee shop were always my favourites. Me on my own, and the music I choose, having a slow hour before the day. I opened the cafe, letting the few early-waking elderly come in and order their usual pots of tea and pastries, taking my time with them. The time flew by, as it often does when old ladies are recounting their youth to you, and I left my coworkers on their own to go see a man about a car. 

*

The bell above the door gave away my presence as I walked into the garage, the smell of grease and petrol almost knocking me clean out. I scan around the room before I see the brunette from last night, making my way over to him. 

“Uh, hi,” I said, awkwardly waiting for him to turn round.

“Oh,” he checked his watch, “right on time.” All I could think to do was nod at him, waiting expectedly. 

He cleared his throat before carrying on, “so, the problem is your engine. Can’t tell the main cause, but it seems like it overheated. You also need your brake belt replaced.”

“Right, sure.” The far off look on my face must’ve given away my cluelessness as he carried on.

“I’m gonna replace your engine, because it short-circuited basically. Got too hot and broke which meant your car couldn’t start.”

I opened my mouth to reply before I felt a little hand poking my leg. I jumped a little, entirely focused on the man in front of me to notice the carbon copy of him, just with blonde curly hair, standing at my feet. 

“Hi! I’m Becky!” The little voice called out next to me. I crouched down next to her, “Hi Becky, I’m Y/N.” I offered my hand, she didn’t hesitate to take it in hers and give it a shake. “Wow, Becky, gotta say I think that’s the firmest handshake I’ve had in a while. You clearly mean business.” She nods at me, then runs over to the man in front as I stand back up. 

“Daddy, she’s got hair like me.” She whispered to him. The man looked up at me, taking in the curls on my head that I hadn’t bothered to try with today. He nods, “Yeah, sugar, she’s got curly hair like you.” She turned back to me, holding out a colouring book, “Do you wanna see my colouring? It’s princesses.” 

The man looks at me taken aback, “You can,” he says, “I’ve gotta fill out some paperwork for your car anyway.” 

Becky leads me into a little office in the back of the garage, the place covered in scribbly drawings, all signed “Rebecca Barnes” at the bottom. We sit on the floor and she flicks through the book, showing me her favourites.

“Becky, what’s your dads name?” I ask her while she points out a green unicorn. 

“Bucky.” She giggles.

“Yo-your dads name is Bucky? And he named you Becky?”

“Technically, I named her Rebecca. And my name is James,” Bucky smiles at his daughter from the doorframe he’s leaning on, “my middle name is Buchanan, so everyone calls me Bucky.”

I snort, “your middle name is Buchanan?”

“Don’t laugh,” he chuckles, “my parents were old fashioned.” I can’t help but let out the laugh building in my chest as I take in the attractive man standing a few feet away from us. Easily six foot, and covered in grease, it made sense he’d have a daughter by now. My thoughts weren’t finished fully forming before Becky runs off to another mechanic.

“She’s sweet,” I say, watching her potter about, “how old is she?”

“Too old,” he looked at her with a soft glimmer in his blue eyes, “she turns six in a couple months.” He turned back to me now, “you know she doesn’t take to strangers often. Usually takes her, like, three interactions with someone to warm up to them.”

There’s something warm blooming in me at the thought of this girl taking kindly to me and it makes me smile. “I used to work at a kindergarten, maybe that’s why.” He chuckles, a deep sound, raspy, “yeah maybe she can smell the teacher-vibe.”

He walks around me, going to sit at the desk, grabbing a form and quickly scribbling on it before standing in front of me again. “So, technically this was just a consultation, ‘cuz I didn’t do any actual work on it so I’m not charging you for this,” he thrusts the form toward me, “I do need you to fill this out though so I can start on it today. It’s just basics, phone number, email, all that.”

I nod at him, my face scrunching up at the price written at the bottom of the paper, and I don’t get a chance to voice myself before he interrupts. 

“It’s steep, I know. But we need to buy you a whole new engine.” 

“No I get it, it’s just, you know, it doesn’t make it any less scary.” I lean forward on the desk, filling out the rest of the form, handing him the paper. 

“It should be around a week, but I’ll keep you updated as I go.” 

“Thanks,” I say, looking him in the eyes “Not just for this but for taking it in last night, I think you literally saved my life.”

He chuckles again, “I don’t know if I’d go that far.” A faint blush creeps up on his cheeks. 

“I would Bucky, seriously. I think a lot of people would’ve just told me to fuck off and come back in the morning, so, thank you,” I turn around to start leaving, “you should come by Cafe Cloud sometime, have a coffee on me, you know, if you want.” 

I don’t give him a chance to reply, waving bye to Becky and walking back to work. 

*

Getting settled back into work was nothing short of horrid. Two machines broken, the register jammed, and the staff bathroom in  disarray. The next seven hours sped by, but not in the good way, in the way that left your head pounding and your feet burning. We were open still, but by now the crowds had gone, and the only people left were students who had their faces buried in laptops. The little bell above the drew my attention, as I watched Bucky walk up to the counter.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough, “I’m taking you up on that coffee if it still stands.”

“Course it does, what would you like?”

“Filter’s fine, thanks.”

I nod, “take a seat I’ll bring it out to you.”

It doesn’t take long for the filter to brew, and while it does I bring Bucky his cup and saucer, setting it down. While I grab the carafe, I grab him a blueberry muffin too. Filling up his coffee, I set the muffin down in front of him. 

“Oh I didn’t-”

“I know, but it’s end of day. It’s either give them away or throw them out. They’ll be getting some too,” I nod around to the other 3 people left in the cafe. “Shout if you want more.”

“Actually, I uh,” he starts, looking pained at the fact he’s speaking “I wondered if you wanted to sit with me, if you’re not busy or anything.”

“Sure, just give me a second.” I turn around and walk back behind the counter, pouring myself a cup and making sure my co-worker was okay on her own, before sitting down with Bucky. 

“I just, I don’t know, what I’m doing here actually.”

I raise my eyebrows at him, laughing at his facial expression, looking like he’d rather be anywhere but here.

“I wasn’t going to come, but then I thought, Becky’s at a friends for dinner, and I don’t really wanna sit at home on my own, so I’m here now and I’m blabbing your ear off.” He laughs a little at himself, taking a sip of his coffee, “Shit this is good, what the hell?”

I laugh at the change in his attitude as I watch him take another sip, “On your own? Becky’s mum not home?”

His face contorts into something unreadable while he splits the muffin in half, pushing one half to me, keeping the other for himself. “Ah no, she uhm, she’s not really around, anymore. Not for a while now.”

My face scrunches up at his revelation, “Damn, I’m sorry. Is she still with us?”

Bucky chokes on his coffee, “Yeah, yeah she’s still kickin’ somewhere. She just,” he shrugs, wiping at his mouth with a napkin, “decided she didn’t want anything to do with us so she left.” 

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“That must’ve been awful, I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head, “Honestly she’s been gone for longer than she was around. It feels a little like it’s always just been me and Becky against everything else.” His face lights up a little at the mention of his daughter, the corners of his mouth lifting into a smile. “I don’t think she really remembers her mum anyway, or at least she’s real good at pretending she doesn’t.” 

“How long has it been just you two?”

“About four years.”

I think for a second, “If Becky does remember her mum then it’s probably very little anyway. Don’t think kids really start having conscious thoughts until they’re about two. You tried asking her?”

He shakes his head no, and finishes off picking at his half of the muffin, “I keep meaning to, I just, I don’t want to make her sad, make her feel like she’s missing out on what other kids have, you know?” He looked at me then, his stormy-blue eyes looking mine. 

“I don’t think you’d make her sad, as long as you were careful about the reason why her mum left. As for the missing out, she’s going to feel like that anyway,” I hold my hands out in front of me at the horrified look on his face, “Maybe not now, and hell maybe I’m incredibly wrong and she’ll never feel like that, but when I was a teenager and I didn’t have my mum around, I was so jealous of my friends it was ridiculous.”

“Your ma leave you too?”

“Not voluntarily. She passed when I was about ten. So when I was a little older and discovering literally everything, it made me angry at the world, ‘cuz why did everyone else get a mum that lived but me? You know?” 

“I’m sorry, Y/N. I lost my parents too, a while ago. It’s not easy.”

I shake my head, “no it’s not, but my point is it’s probably going to happen to Becky too. I just wonder if it would be any consolation to her if you talked about her mum more. But again, it’s not really my place to say, so please, ignore me.”

By now the last of the customers had gone, and it was just me, Bucky and my coworker Morgan left in the place. Bucky and I had  spent the last two hours talking about nothing, and I ended the day feeling like I’d made a new friend, even if he was almost twenty years older than me. He sat and watched as Morgan and I closed, laughing here and there at our music choices and berating us when we got distracted. 

“Alright, I’m ready to go,” I say to Bucky, my work apron now off, bag on my shoulder.

He opens the door for me, letting me out first. 

“So, I’m up a couple blocks that way,” I point up the road. “It was nice to see you again, and please, come by anytime.” I start to walk off but I don’t get very far before a strong hand wraps around my arm, stopping me in my tracks. 

“What are you doing?” He asks, his eyebrows furrowed.

“Going home?”

“You’re walking?”

“Well my car is under your care so unless you’d like me to somersault home.”

“I’ll drive you.” 

Bucky doesn’t give me time to respond, placing one arm softly on my back, barely perceptible, as he guides me across the street to his jeep. He opens the passenger door, and gives me his hand as he helps me in, shutting the door and walking round to his side. I give him the address, and we drive off, but not before he grumbles about the part of town I’ve chosen to live in.

It takes us all of three minutes to drive back to my apartment.

“Do you wanna come up, for a glass of water or anything?”

“Yeah. That’d be nice.”

He opens my car door, letting me step out and walk us over to the building. I lead him up the stairs and down the hall to my door. I wince as I realise I’d forgotten about the St Bernard currently waiting for me.

“Any chance you’re scared of dogs?”

“Not at all. Why?”

I smile as sweetly as I can, opening the door and walking in to meet Cheryl, the dog currently jumping up and down at the sight of her owner. I pet her, holding her by the collar as Bucky shuts the door. 

“Bucky, meet Cheryl. Cheryl,” I kneel down, scratching behind her ears, “You be the good girl I know you are, this is Bucky, he’s no danger.”

Cheryl tentatively walks to Bucky, who’s holding his hand out for her to sniff and get used to. She sniffs for a few seconds, before flopping down onto her back, inviting Bucky to rub her belly. I laugh at her, but the sight of Cheryl getting along with Bucky makes my chest feel oddly warm. I go to pour him a glass of water and leave it on the kitchen island. 

“Hey sweet girl,” he talks to Cheryl, “You’re gorgeous aren’t you?” Cheryl barks playfully, 

“Yeah you are, attagirl.” He pets her head again before standing up and walking back over to me, taking a sip of the water.  

“Cheryl?”

There’s a sheepish smile on my face as I say, “I used to love Cheryl Cole. It felt right.”

He laughs then, the lines by his eyes evident when he does. He puts the glass of water down as he walks around the apartment, taking it in, the dog trailing behind him, tail wagging furiously.

It isn’t fancy, by any means. The kitchen and living room were right there when you walked in, and there was one bedroom and one bathroom. But after a few coats of a warm yellow paint, a few days of bookshelf building, and hours of various trinket organising, it had become home. 

Bucky stood by a shelf of records, taking his time looking through them. “Radiohead?” he scoffs playfully, rolling his eyes, “Let me guess, you’re a creep? A weirdo even?”

I can’t help but laugh at him, walking over to stand by his side. I take the vinyl out of his hands and put it back on the shelf, “leave me alone, I think they’re good. There are literal millions of people who agree with me.”

He turns to face me, arms crossed over his chest. “There are also millions of people doing crystal meth. That doesn’t make it good.” He laughs at my reaction then, tipping his head back and placing his hand on his stomach. 

When he finally composes himself, his gaze settles on my face. I physically watch his eyes as they take in all my features, from my hair to my eyes, to my nose, my lips. His gaze doesn’t drop any further, but it takes a while for him to look back into my eyes and when he does, his own have grown darker.

“I should go,” he says, clearing his throat. “It’s getting late and I still need to pick up Becky so,” his voice trails off as he walks to the door. 

He opens it, then turns around, “thank you for tonight, I needed that.” 

I offer him a smile as he leaves, and I move to lock my door. Cheryl runs up to me, panting and her tail wagging. I kneel down to give her a kiss, whispering to her “I think I may have just met your dad.”