#without knowing the weight that comes with them

[carlyraejepsans]

The 'their both as bad as each other! Neither of them are good parents' shit pisses me off so bad. At least one of them is idk ACTUALLY BEING A PARENT??? miss me with that 'oh toriel hasnt noticed anything wrong with kris' bullshit when if you talk to people around town the biggest thing that comes up is how she IS worried about them and talks about them constantly. You can miss pretty much all of asgores scenes by just. Not triggering them. The only one you cant miss to my memory is the one in chapter 4 and people expect me to belive that HES somehow noticed somethings wrong with kris???? The man who's introduction in chapter 1 Is him forgetting kris doesn't like hugs???? If you play the game a certain way kris could go a half a week without seeing him! But noooo toriel not being attentive and caring for one scene and being downplaying in a few other scenes means she's just as bad as him!

-side note I really don't like the language people are using with her. People are way to excited to have an excuse to call her a drunk. Like yall let's stop some of the addiction=bad person language yall are using-

no literally speak your shit, the more people try to convince me they're doing ~nuance~ the more of a cunt i become. if people gave a shit about nuance they'd know that this was something toriel needed as a person, someone new to be friends with who didn't behave insanely, a chance to have fun and let loose, but at the same time it inherently put her at odds with what kris needed from her as their mom. which wouldn't be a problem to begin with if toriel had the time and support network to be anything other than their mom 24/7, but guess who's too busy being her stalker to pull his fucking weight!!

[revelboo]

I send this upon you, to cash in at any time:

💣

Inbox Nuke. So you may close and do another inbox wipe should you so choose. No request or anything.

🤣 at this point, it’s morbid curiosity to see how bad it can get. I wish the inbox had a search feature, because it would definitely make my life easier. 🔞 🌶️

Cybertronian Relationship/Intimacy Headcanons

Let those Cybertronians make noises, delve into details and sensations, into the fact that they’re not human. They act human enough, their expressions so like our own, that they lull you into feeling comfortable and it’s easy to forget. The first time they growl when you’re touching them and it’s a vocalization underlaid with the rev of their engine. Hearing them rumbling with the soft click of their fan cycling on. Trying to climb in their lap and digging a knee into mesh inside a seam, both of you startling at the unexpected blare of their horn. A seeker getting too warm during and their turbines kicking on with a whine, if you have longer hair you look like a very small, benign tornado got you afterward.

The first time Ratchet, Red Alert, or Prowl get head, their lights and sirens go off. They’re mortified and you’re laughing too hard to keep going. The bots getting too warm during sex. Having to stop in the middle to hit the washracks and cool off because they’re not burning you, but your skin is flushed red from the contact and it’s uncomfortable. Trying to get some space from your bot after sex because they’re too hot and you’re sweating only to get dragged back into them because they want to cuddle. It’s like getting spooned by a space heater.

Pressure lines on your skin from the edges and seams of their plating when you lay on them. So many bruises on your hips and thighs. The ambient thrum of their spark sinking into you, getting so used to it that you can’t sleep without it. The random revs, whirs, and clicks of noise their internal systems make all the time becoming white noise after a while. The heat and breathless, electricity of their spark when you run your fingers through it. Feeling it pull at you, teasing yourself and them with every touch, bombarded with bits of them, emotions and memories sinking into you in little prickles until you want to drown yourself in it. In them. Wanting to lose yourself to them completely and feel them cradling you in warmth knowing you’re safe. Addicted to that sensation of being seen and accepted.

When they slip up and start murmuring sweet nothings in their own language. Confessing the things they’re too nervous to just say to you. The cultural misunderstandings. Innocent things to one partner confusing the other. Sharing a meal an act of intimacy for Cybertronians. Energon so scare that the act of giving their fuel or ration to another becomes an act of love. Giving up fuel that was hard to come by to make sure their partner had enough even if they go without. Driven to feed you because they need to take care of you, to prove you matter to them.

Elaborate or simple conjunx gifts made from bits of themselves to adorn you. Mostly made by themself, but sometimes they might ask for help for complicated designs beyond their skill level. A physical show of their commitment that should be given before bonding but might even be given before intimacy. If it’s not explained to you, it’s just a pretty bit of metal in your bot’s colors. And you can’t understand why your partner becomes irritated if you don’t wear it at all times, but the mech might be too embarrassed to explain why it’s not just jewelry. They also might just pinch the clasp closed to prevent you from removing it altogether to avoid explaining.

The shockingly, humbling intimacy of you riding in their alt mode. Of having someone inside them, touching parts of them that have never been touched. The reassuring warmth and barely there weight of you tucked inside them trusting yourself to them. Not understanding how big a deal it is, but the bot is losing it if you actually fall asleep inside them on a long ride, curling up in their seat. Trusting them completely.

Unconsciously pulsing or cycling their biolights for you trying so hard to telegraph what they want without just saying it. Almost coming undone at the feel of soft, human fingers tracing their biolights because they’re pretty and not understanding that you’re flirting back now. Human hands on wings, chevrons, and antenna. Just lazily exploring without realizing those are all so sensitive, loaded with sensory arrays and you might as well be caressing their modesty panel. Warm mouths on neck cables and mesh, biting softly, those blunt nails dipping into mesh between seams while your partner’s venting raggedly.

Being reluctant to pull out after, curling themself around you, your head tucked under their chin. Wanting more, wanting everything and unsure how to just ask instead of taking. Worrying in the quiet after if the differences between you both are insurmountable. If there’s no way to overcome them in the long run. Servos toying with soft hands, lazily playing with your fingers while you drowse against them. Not recharging even as your breathing evens out with sleep, kept up by their own worries. Knowing they’re not safe, that being with them when they’re actively at war puts you in danger and that the kind thing would be to let you go. And unable to, needing your warmth to fill out the empty places hollowed out by a millennia of fighting and death. Wanting to feel something real. Something that isn’t hate, anger, or fear. Wanting to be allowed this.

[bronzealchemy]

just keep falling, part 6

⋆. 𐙚˚ you miss gideon and get a nightly visit from caleb

you went to work. you went home. you cried. you slept horribly. then it began again. work. home. crying. bad sleep.

you tried to reach gideon, but he didn’t pick up. he didn’t want anything to do with you – that was more than clear. it was as if someone put a knife directly through your chest. a feeling you were way too familiar with. 

the next night, you were half asleep … when caleb returned. you didn’t know how he got into your apartment – but you heard his footsteps in the hallway. a noise you had known for years. there was a part of you that still hoped, this was a dream. the other part longed for him, missed him so much your soul was broken into pieces. 

the door opened. you squeezed your eyes shut. the bedsheets rustled. he sat on the corner of the bed, reaching for you. a slight touch on your arm.

„don’t pretend you’re asleep, honey.“ his voice was hoarse as whiskey and melodic as ever. you couldn’t believe he was here. couldn’t believe he really was alive.

you jerked up – and there he was, violet gaze fixed on you. „I hate you“, you spit out. then you shoved him. „I hate you.“

he smiled at your words. „didn’t seem that way when you begged me for my cock.“

your body reacted on it’s own – your hand collided with his cheek. the echo of your slap and your breathing were the only noises in the room. you stared at each other, your chest heaving, his smile wiped from his lips. 

„you left me for over a year. you let me believe you were dead. and then you played mind games with me and gideon to the point of us doubting reality. give me one reason … one reason not to pull my weapon right now and shoot you.“

there it was again, his slight smile. it was different than the one you were so familiar with. this smile had an edge to it. a different side to the caleb you once knew. „do it, honey. I invite you to.“ the smile faded slowly. his brows furrowed, the violet in his eyes turning cold. „because it wouldn’t hurt less than what you have done to me already.“ 

your cheeks flushed, angry heat creeping into them. „I thought you were dead!“

„you couldn’t wait for gideon to …“ 

you didn’t let him finish the sentence. in one swift movement, you grabbed your gun from the nightstand, then you were on him, straddling him, gun pointed right to his head. „one more word and I’ll make sure you die for real this time.“

caleb leaned back on his elbows, looking up at you. „are you sure you’re ready for that, little apple?“ 

„you have lost every permission to give me a petname“, you snarled, pushing the gun deeper into his skin.

caleb grabbed your wrist, holding you in place. „can gideon give you a petname?“, he sneered. „what does he call you, huh? baby?“ he laughed without any humor. „I heard him call lots of girls by that petname at the DAA, you know. we had fun times together. or rather gideon had a lot of fun. with a lot of girls. there were times where he fucked several in …“ 

without letting him finish that sentence, you yanked your hand back, ready to strike – but he was faster. in one swift motion, he spun you around until he was the one pinning you down, forcefully grabbing both of your wrists. you held on to your gun, grinding your teeth together. 

„stop talking about him!“

„why? I thought you loved talking about him.“

you hooked your legs around his, shoved your elbow up, and managed to throw his weight off you. the two of you tumbled off the bed and hit the floor hard, but you had the upper hand again, with your arm pressed down his neck.

„you don’t even have the decency of telling me the truth. of explaining anything.“ your voice started to shake, so did your arm. 

„I couldn’t come back to you.“ suddenly calebs voice was softer. „I wanted to, but I couldn’t. even now … being here is a safety risk for you.“

you tried to wrap your head around his words. „I … I don’t understand.“

„there’s so much I want to tell you, but I can’t. but trust me – if I would have had the choice, I would have never left you. never. I promise you that.“ 

your grip on him faltered. your shoulders started to shake. even though you weren’t sure this was enough, you started to question whether your anger was right. it was a start, at least. 

you gulped. „I still want to kind of shoot you.“ 

„and I would like to shoot gideon. and you. sooo … we’re kind of in the same boat, right?“ 

you pressed your lips together, so the laugh didn’t slip out. then you sank on him, not being able to choke him anymore. caleb wrapped his arms around you. your bodies seemed to melt into one in one earth shattering, all consuming hug. it wasn’t like the last time, where you both claimed each other. it was like in the past – with him hugging you so tight as if you were his anchor and he yours. for a second, all of the horrible months of grief disappeared, all your anger, all the pain and you only felt him. the rise and fall of his chest. his heartbeat, steady and very much alive. 

„I missed you“, he whispered.

You couldn’t answer. „I missed you, too“, didn’t even begin to cut it. but there was a little voice inside your head, whispering another name. 

gideon. 

„I’m not the only one you should explain yourself to, caleb“, you whispered.

suddenly he got stiff. „yes, you are.“

you pulled away slightly to look into his face. „gideon has a right to know, caleb.“

his jaw was tightened, his eyes dark. hurt crossed his face. „you were with him.“

„I was“, you replied. „and I don’t regret it.“

he avoided your gaze, but you grabbed his chin, forcing him to look at you. „I love you. I have never stopped loving you. I’m angry, because you left me. I’m heartbroken that you kept these secrets from me. but I wouldn’t have survived the last year without gideon. I … he‘s important to me. and he was important to you once.“ 

„that was before he …“ he didn’t finish the sentence and it lingered between the two of you. 

„gideon didn’t betray you. and I didn’t either. we didn’t plan for this to happen. I know it hurts you, and I understand … but please know that it would never had happened if you didn’t die. we grieved you, caleb. we bonded over that. and that bond … it won’t ever disappear.“ 

he cupped your cheek, his thumb softly stroking your cheek. „I hate that it had to come to this. but … I think, with time, I’ll be able to understand.“

you leaned your forehead against his, until you shared your breath, his hand never leaving your skin. 

„you need to talk to him.“, you whispered.

caleb only answered with two soft spoken words. 

„I do.“ 

[theegoldenchild]

Chapter Two: The Lamb And Her Wolves

The next morning Sera could feel a shift in the air as her fathers land came alive with unfamiliar motion. Engines grumbled low like beasts waking from hibernation ready to consume everything in its path. And the winding dirt road leading to the entrance stirred with heavy wheels and the stomp of boots thick with city dust.

From her bedroom window on the second floor, Sera watched them come. One by one, dark cars rolled in all sleek, glossy, and foreign against the humble backdrop of worn fences and cotton fields. Then came the men; strong, sharp-jawed and some with cigarettes tucked between their gold-ringed fingers. She didn’t understand everyone’s fascination with wearing gold in a flashy manner but she secretly loved seeing the contrast of shiny yellow on melanated skin. Her father called it sinful and bodacious behavior that’s blasphemous towards God. She didn’t question him about it. She never questions him. Instead, she just tucked his words into a memory bank of worldly behavior to avoid if she didn’t want to burn for an eternity.

The men moved like monsters dressed in silk with their tailored coats and shoulders wide with beaming confidence. And at the center of it all stood two identical figures dressed in matching suits, one with red details and one with blue details that cut through the morning light like blades.

Even from this distance, she could feel it… the weight of their presence made her skin prickle beneath her modest yellow sun dress. They stood close to the nearby farmhouse, flanked by hired men who unloaded crates and tools with mechanical precision. The preacher’s north field was being transformed and piece by piece it was shifting into something else. A fortress? Maybe? Or a war room? Possibly?

She pressed her fingers into the windowsill, breath catching as her eyes followed the one who stood still. Smoke barely moved, only nodded every now and then while others worked around him. He had the kind of stillness that didn’t come from peace, but from control. She couldn’t see his eyes from here, but she didn’t need to. She knew they were cold and sharp as he watched everything and missed nothing. When she saw his head slightly turn in the direction of her window she looked away quickly, but not before her heart gave a little thud against her ribs.

Downstairs, the front door slammed and Sera quickly made her way to where she assumed her father would be. Pastor Samuel had returned from meeting with his appointed deacons and the meeting didn’t go as planned. Everyone has been warning him against getting involved with the SmokeStack twins, but he believes they are his only option if he’s going to keep his land and scare the Klan away. With his face taut and unreadable he pulled off his hat before briefly looking over to Sera and letting out a disgruntled sigh. “You’ll stay inside,” he said flatly, without preamble.

Sera looked up from where she stood by the stairway and nervously toyed with the fabric of her dress. “Yes, daddy.” She gave no rebuttal, just blind obedience like how her father taught her.

Even though she didn’t question her father, today was the first day Sera ever saw him seem so… frazzled. Like he knew more than what he wanted to know but didn’t know how to put his thoughts into words. Shifting his eyes away from Sera, Pastor Samuel spotted his Bible on the kitchen table and grabbed it before speaking again. “Don’t go getting any ideas. They’re not here for tea and Sunday songs. They’re here to keep your daddy alive and that church from bein’ burned to ash. You won’t speak to them. You won’t look at them. And you’ll keep to your damn chores, understood?”

Sera nodded, quietly. “I understand.”

He didn’t soften. “They ain’t good men, Seraphim. This is your only warning. Stay away and let them work.”

She offered a final, “Yes, sir,” and turned on her heels as she made her way to the kitchen. Being the only woman in the house she knew it would be her responsibility to feed these men after a long day of work. Her father said not to interact with the men that are turning the land into a combat zone ready for war… But he technically didn’t say anything about not keeping their bellies fed.

The verbal warning from Samuel kept Sera in line while she worked on cooking a hearty meal… but… her fathers warning didn’t stop him. It started with a creak on the back porch. A slow, familiar sound that was typically harmless on most days. But today wasn’t one of those days. Then the screen door pushed open and Sera stiffened at the sound before she even looked up.

Stack stood in the doorway and leaned against the frame like he was posing for a photograph. One hand tucked into his jacket pocket, the other holding a cigarette he hadn’t bothered to light yet. Today his hat was a rich ruby red and he had it tilted back just enough to show all of his face and that grin. That damn grin. Wide, lazy, full of bad intentions and bold promises.

“Well, now,” he drawled, voice slow and syrup-thick, like molasses simmering over fire. “Ain’t you the picture of Southern hospitality? Whatcha cooking little dove?”

The sound of Stacks' voice made Sera turn too quickly causing the hem of her summer dress to catch on her calf as she spun around. While turning, her elbow nearly knocked the pot of greens from the stovetop.

Her mouth parted to speak but initially no sound came out as she swallowed a nervous lump in her throat and tried again. “You… um… You shouldn’t be back here, Mr. Stack. My daddy said I’m not supposed to speak to you.”

The grin on his face faltered for just a second, letting a flicker of something unknown peak through. Regaining his composure, Stack straightened just slightly and tilted his head at her. “Mr. Stack?”

His voice was quieter now. Still teasing, but edged with genuine curiosity. “You sure ‘bout that, sweetheart?”

Sera nodded, both hands wrapped tightly around the wooden spoon she was using to stir her greens like it might keep her grounded.

Stack pushed off the frame and let the screen door softly shut behind him as he stepped fully inside the kitchen. His boots made almost no sound across the worn floorboards. “Well I’ll be damned,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “You really can tell.”

There was another flicker in his expression. This time it was a flash of disbelief in his eyes as he squinted slightly like he was trying to see straight through her. “We only properly met last night, at dinner,” he said as his iconic smile came back slower and more thoughtful. “Folks we known’ our whole lives still get it wrong. Hell, Stack and Smoke… they say it like it’s one name.”

He let out a breath and a quiet huff of laughter, like he didn’t know what to make of her. “Your daddy tell you which one’s which this mornin’?”

Sera shyly shook her head. “No, sir.” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “I just… knew.”

Not knowing the weight of this revelation, Sera simply stared at Stack with an inquisitive yet cautious expression. Stack said nothing as he blinked once. Then after a few seconds of silence his smirk widened before letting out a low whistle, the sound sliding between his teeth like sin in the dark.

“Well, that’s somethin’, ain’t it?”

He took another step closer. Not threatening. Just… circling. Like a man drawn toward something shiny he didn’t expect to want. “Don’t worry,” he said, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “I ain’t here to cause trouble. Just came for a drink of water… and maybe…” His eyes raked over her, slow and appreciative, lingering far too long. “…a glimpse of heaven while I’m at it.”

Sera’s face flushed instantly and she could feel her ears ringing. She turned too fast again and began fumbling for a glass in the cabinet. But the tremble in her hands betrayed her, no matter how still she tried to be.

Then she felt the air around her become heavy as she heard him shift behind her. Not too close. But close enough. Close enough for the heat of him to find her back. Close enough for her to breathe in the heady mix of cigarette smoke, worn leather, and sandalwood cologne clinging to his skin.

“You always this obedient, pretty girl?” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper now. “Bet you’d let a man do damn near anything if he said please real nice.”

Sera paused her fumbling and scrunched her brows in puzzled expression. “I… I don’t understand what you mean,” she said, her voice so honest and pure it could’ve broken something inside a softer man.

But Stack wasn’t soft. Stack was stone with a smile carved into it and even she managed to make him go quiet. Then he chuckled silently to himself.. Not in a mocking tone towards Sera but more like he’d just been handed a puzzle piece he didn’t know he was missing.

“You really don’t,” he said, almost in awe. “You really… don’t.”

Sera shook her head and wordlessly passed the now filled glass of water back towards him without turning. He took it gently from her hand and made sure his digits brushed against hers.

“I was taught not to entertain wickedness,” she said quietly, like she was reciting it from memory. “Daddy says it creeps in soft. Real sweet-like. But it always leaves stains.”

Stack stared down at the glass of water in his hand but he didn’t bother to drink it. No, right now he was thirsty for something a simple glass of water couldn’t quench. “That why you so stiff right now, pretty girl?” he asked, stepping closer behind her. “’Cause you think I’m wicked?”

He leaned in just enough to let his breath kiss the curve of her neck. “Or is it ‘cause some part of you wonders what wicked tastes like?”

His voice was a combination of dangerous velvety temptation. He let his eyes travel the slope of her back and the tight draw of her waist before biting back a groan. “I’ve tasted it,” he whispered. “And it’s sweeter than a ripe peach on a July morning… but I think you would be sweeter than that.”

Sera froze. Her hands went still against the kitchen counter as the silence wrapped around her shoulders like a heavy shawl. Her eyes stared straight ahead at the sink, unblinking and unfocused with Stack’s words echoing in her ears. A heated riddle laced with something unholy that made her spine prickle. She didn’t understand all of what he meant—not fully. Not with her mind, anyway. But her body… her body heard him loud and clear.

There was something about the way he spoke. The tone of his voice, the bite behind it and the promise that lingered. The air around her suddenly felt heavier and warmer, as if his words had turned to steam and crawled beneath her dress.

Then suddenly an unfamiliar tension coiled low in her belly. Not pain. Not fear. But something that made her thighs press closer together on instinct. And then she felt it. A second heartbeat. Not in her chest where it should be, but pulsing gently and rhythmically between her thighs. It was soft at first but as the seconds ticked by it grew to a loud drumming and her brows furrowed. She didn’t waste any water on herself, it wasn’t time for her monthly, and she definitely didn’t pee on herself.

She was wet.

Not soaked, but wet enough to make her shift uncomfortably. Enough for a warm drip to settle into the cotton of her panties as her cheeks burned with shame. And instead of trying to rationalize what she was feeling, Sera cleared her throat and gently shook her head.

Maybe it’s nothing, she told herself. Maybe I just need to drink a little tea and pray it away.

Yes. That’s what she’d do. She would drink something calming like Chamomile or maybe her grandmother’s old lemon balm blend. A hot cup of tea and a hot bath. That’s what good girls do. That’s what church girls do. That’s what she would do.

Before Stack could say more, she was saved only by the shift of a shadow lingering behind them.

Smoke stepped onto the porch, still as stone and Stack turned at once, glass still in hand and an expression like a kid that almost got caught stealing candy by their father. “She was just givin’ me some water,” Stack said easily.

Smoke said nothing. His eyes didn’t go to his brother. They went to her. And Sera slightly tilted her head to meet his gaze just for a breath. It held her in place like a hand at her throat. He didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. His stare was unreadable, but it wasn’t cruel. It was curious. Like he was trying to figure her out. A woman so tightly wound in rules, yet soft as sin beneath it all.

He looked away just as quickly and turned without a word before vanishing back down the steps. Stack lingered for a moment longer, the tension between them thick and intimate. Then he tipped his hat. “Thanks for the drink, sweetheart. Don’t let ya Daddy’s rules keep you from livin’.” And just like that, he was gone too.

When he finally left, Sera stood alone in the kitchen with her heart pounding and hands shaking. She didn’t know what they wanted from her. But something about their presence excited her and deep down, under the linen and Bible verses, a small part of her wondered what it would feel like to stop being good. Just once.

Smoke stood alone at the edge of the north field, one boot resting on a stump as he lit a cigarette, slow and steady. He watched his men work without needing to say much since his presence did the talking. All around him hammers struck wood, metal scraped against metal, and the morning air filled with the scent of pine shavings, dirt, and the quiet tension of men preparing for war.

Behind him he could hear footsteps crunch over the dry grass and he didn’t need to look to know it was his other half. Stack walked up with that same rolling gait, loose shoulders, cocky stride, and a grin that hadn’t faded since he left the kitchen. But there was a slight shift in how he walked. A restlessness and a subtle discomfort.

Smoke didn’t bother to turn around. “You took too long to get a fuckin’ glass of water. We came here to work.” he said, his voice gravel-dry.

Stack huffed a laugh and came to stand beside his twin. “It was a realllll tall glass.” He leaned forward, bracing his hands on his thighs briefly before adjusting himself through the fabric of his slacks with a wince and a satisfied sigh. “Damn,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Didn’t think a girl that sweet could make me this hard just by blushin’.”

Smoke exhaled a slow curl of smoke through his nose. “She’s the preacher’s daughter,” he said flatly.

Stack chuckled and looked out onto the field with his brother and sighed, long and dramatic. “So serious already. You sure you ain’t still wound up from last night?”

Smoke’s eyes narrowed. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

“You know what I’m talkin’ about! That little redhead preacher girl,” Stack grinned, and elbowed him with a smirk. “You ain’t even touch your chicken, and you damn near crushed your glass just watchin’ her scrape plates last night.”

Smoke’s voice was low and sharp. He wasn’t in the mood to discuss his feelings and he definitely didn’t feel like discussing them with Stack. “Drop it.”

But Stack wasn’t done. Not by a long shot. “C’mon,” he drawled. “You really gonna act like you didn’t get stiff just sittin’ at that table last night?”

Smoke turned his head, slow as a hinge rusted with tension. “Don’t start with me.”

“Don’t start?” Stack scoffed. “Nigga, YOU started it. Stared her down like she was already on her knees beggin’ for mercy.”

“She’s a child.”

“She’s twenty-five and a grown ass woman.”

“She’s naïve,” Smoke snapped. “Doesn’t know what men like us are.”

Stack snatched the cigarette away from Smoke's hand and walked away from his brother before leaning against a nearby fence post while flicking ash to the ground and grinning like he’d won a round in a fight they hadn’t even agreed to have. “Maybe that’s what’s so tempting about her.”

Smoke said nothing. He looked back toward the house, where the white curtains fluttered faintly behind the kitchen window.

Stack followed his gaze.

“She was shakin’,” he said quietly, like a confession. “Not ‘cause she was scared. I said a few words and she turned red all the way down to her collarbone. Like she didn’t even know her body could react like that. Can you believe that? Her pretty chocolate ass turned red like a damn tomato.” He paused for a second while biting down on his bottom lip. “I wonder where else she turns red…”

Smoke’s nostrils flared. “That’s exactly why you need to leave her be.”

“You jealous?” Stack’s grin sharpened.

“Careful,” Smoke warned.

Stack gave a lazy shrug, unbothered. “I ain’t touched her… Yet. Just asked her a question.”

Smoke didn’t speak, but the tension in his shoulders said more than words.

Stack smirked wider, then stepped in front of him, real close now, so their eyes locked like gun barrels.

“She got under your skin too, Smoke. Don’t act like she didn’t. You think I ain’t notice how you lit a cigarette the second we stepped outside that house last night? And how you needed to ‘take a piss’ foe’ heading back home? What kind of peein’ you doing that take 15 minutes?”

Smoke’s jaw ticked. He had heard enough and didn’t need Stack pointing the truth out to him. “I said drop it.”

“She’s soft,” Stack said, voice lower now, his grin fading into something more dangerous. “Like nothin’ we’ve seen before. You saw her. No rough edges. No lies in her smile. And you—” he poked a finger into Smoke’s muscled chest, “Nigga, you think you’re above wantin’ that?”

Smoke grabbed his baby brother's wrist, hard, but Stack didn’t flinch. He just held that stare full of teeth and defiance.

“I’m not gonna let you ruin her,” Smoke said, voice low and deadly. “She’s not some speakeasy girl you can laugh with and forget by morning.”

“I ain’t forgettin’ her,” Stack said quietly. “That’s the problem.” His devious smirk grew wider as he playfully let his eyes wander down to his slacks and then back up to his twin's serious expression. Smoke held his brother’s wrist a second longer before letting it go, shoving him back just enough to make Stack stumble a half-step.

Stack didn’t retaliate. Just adjusted himself again, another sly grin tugging at the corner of his lips as he muttered, “She makes it hard for a man to walk straight, that’s all I’m sayin’.” He turned away, but his voice floated back like smoke in the breeze. “Tell yourself whatever you need to, Smoke. Just remember this ain’t the kind of girl either of us forgets.”

Smoke said nothing. But as his eyes drifted back to the window where the curtain fluttered again he caught just a glimpse of brown skin, a yellow dress, and gentle movement… and he knew Stack was right. They were both caught.

And neither of them had any goddamn clue how to set themselves free.

The fading sun was starting to bleed across the treetops, painting everything in a golden hue. The muggy air still clung to everyone’s skin, heavy with the scent of churned earth, engine smoke, and hot oil. But now it was overlaid with something richer, something holy: roasted pork, cornbread fresh from the oven, and collards swimming in smoked pork fat.

Dinner tonight was being served on the long porch that wrapped around the back of the preacher’s house. Men who’d worked themselves raw all day from hammering fences, rigging traps and guarding the land with rifles slung across their backs were now lined shoulder to shoulder on picnic benches while waiting with heavy boots and hungrier eyes.

Sera moved among them like a soft breeze through swamp reeds. Quiet, graceful, and oblivious to everything except the task of servitude. She carried a heavy bowl of fresh cornbread to the table and the weight of it made her arms tremble slightly. Her yellow dress had been ruined earlier, stained with oil and butter so she’d changed into the only clean one she had left.

A white cotton-thin dress that was still a little damp when she slipped it on. Sera hadn’t realized it clung until the resting sun hit it. And she definitely didn’t notice how the dress curved over her hips, hugged the round of her thighs, or stretched just enough across her chest to outline what no man had yet touched.

To her, it was just a modest, unwrinkled, and high-necked dress that any obedient church girl would wear. To the men on the porch, it was heavenly temptation. Their conversation thinned to silence when she stepped outside with the bowl. One man muttered something under his breath. Another chuckled. Then one of them leaned forward and whispered just loud enough for the others to hear, “Lord have mercy… if that ain’t a slice of heaven—”

He never got to finish that sentence.

Smoke was on him in a heartbeat, moving so fast the bench scraped across the wood as the other men flinched back. The high roller’s gun swiftly knocked against the man’s nose with little to no effort causing it to bleed. “You think you can say that about her?” Smoke growled, low and venomous. “You open your mouth about her again, and I’ll sew it shut with piano wire. You understand me, nigga?”

The man sputtered, wide-eyed. “I—I didn’t mean—”

“You did,” Smoke snapped. “And you’ll regret it.”

Not even five seconds later, Stack was already checking the rest of the porch. His hands were in his pockets, but there was no mistaking the threat in his mischievous smile. He leaned in close to another worker, whispering like a devil on a man’s shoulder. “You want to keep those pretty fingers, don’t ever look at her like that again. You’re here to build fences and fight the klan, not catch feelings.”

Sera, meanwhile, was too focused on not spilling the food to notice any of it. She was humming a hymn from last Sunday service. Her voice was so soft it barely rose above the hum of insects in the trees. She set down the last dish with a content little sigh, brushing flour from her cheek with the back of her hand. “Y’all eat now,” she said kindly, eyes lowered in modest warmth. “I made plenty.”

Stack watched her like she was something sacred draped in cotton, some creature no one deserved to touch. His smile fell into something almost reverent.

Then—

“Seraphim.” Pastor Samuel’s voice cracked like a whip through the air. Sera was startled by the sound of her fathers voice and wondered what she did wrong to be on the receiving end of his anger tonight.

“What are you wearin’?” he demanded, his voice booming through the still evening.

Her hands went to the bottom of her dress instinctively as she started trying to smooth out unseen wrinkles. “It’s just my white dress, Daddy. My yellow one got dirty—”

“You look naked!” he spat. “What man you tryin’ to tempt lookin’ like that?”

“I—I didn’t mean—”

He stormed up, pointing toward the back door to the house. “Go inside and cover yourself up. Now! I won’t have my daughter paradin’ around like some alley girl while men sit down to eat in my home.”

Sera’s cheeks flushed hot. “I didn’t know—I wasn’t—”

“Now, Seraphim.”

She bowed her head and hurried back inside without another word before anyone could see the tears spilling from her eyes.

Silence filled the air and then Stack’s voice, calm and sharp as a butcher knife cut through the tension, “You ever talk to her like that again in front of me… preacher or not… I’ll knock your goddamn teeth down your throat.”

Pastor Samuel’s spine stiffened as he whipped his head around to glare at Stack. “You best watch your tone, boy.”

“I ain’t your boy,” Stack said, smiling without warmth. “And she sure as hell ain’t your property.”

Smoke didn’t speak, but his eyes hadn’t moved from the door. This battle wasn’t just about land anymore. It was about her. And God help anyone who stepped out of line when it came to her.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Tag list:

@nahimjustfeelingit-writes @theethighpriestess @imagining-greatness @hearteyes-for-killmonger @blackpantherismyish @theogbadbitch @queenofklonnie22 @underated345-blog @bxrbie1 @harleycativy @hermyowney @kcundercover0

[thetrasha]

Hi! I'm the one who asked for the Straw Hats' ideal types. I'm here to ask the same for other characters: Law, Ace, Sabo, Shanks, and anyone else you want; honestly, I'd read about anyone. Thanks for feeding me <3

Hello anon, thank you so much for your continous interest (●ˇ∀ˇ●) 💕 Glad you like my writing so much and shower me with compliments LOL And I'm so sorry for not replying sooner. I've been sick since Monday morning 🤡I'm still kind of feverish, but I'm recovering

Anyway, this was a lot of fun!!

Ideal Types

feat. LAW, ACE, SABO, SHANKS, BUGGY

Straw Hat crew's version here

LAW

Law needs someone who…

is honest, intelligent and kind

puts more weight behind their actions rather than their words

has a nerdy or geeky quirk

is willing to let him have his space and demands some independence of their own

Law can help you cope with these character flaws:

self-doubt

feelings of inadequacy

seeming cold-hearted (to others)

An absolute dealbreaker would be…

clinginess and being too emotional

Law sees you and knows, because you resemble him so much, that you’re misunderstood. You aren’t cold or arrogant, you’re just a little too… reserved. You naturally distrust people who haven’t proven themselves and he finds comfort in that, eager to do just that. And just like that, the image you’ve wrongfully earned yourself just melts away. Like him, you’re a deep thinker, introspective and self-critical without even trying but nonetheless very much skilled and a valuable addition to any crew. Law feels lucky to have you because it’s validating to have someone around who gets him, who understands every precarious situation and who’s able to see the bigger picture. You trust in his ability to make the right call, assisting him in every step of the way. You watch over him without expecting anything in return, you’re just loyal to a fault and want to show your gratitude. Your actions make him do a double take and he starts talking to you more often. And once your walls crumble, he realises that you’re actually… incredibly cute and kind of… what he’s been waiting for.

ACE

Ace needs someone who…

values family a lot; they need to love the Whitebeard Pirates and Luffy (and Sabo) unconditionally

lives in the moment, but regularly thinks about the past and the “what ifs” of life

wants to prove themselves or others wrong/ wants to achieve great things

is self-aware, caring and compassionate

Ace can help you cope with these character flaws:

self-loathing

impulsivity

people pleasing

An absolute dealbreaker would be…

arrogance and dismissiveness

Ace sees you and, at first, views you as a threat. Deep down, he still cannot come to terms with who he is, and thus believes that you’re the upgrade. You don’t carry the same baggage he does, which means being around you is actually pretty great – and Whitebeard thinks so, too, that’s why you’re on the Moby Dick and not just some random member aboard the grand fleet. Yet… once Ace digs deep and tries getting to know you, he feels terrible for treating you so horribly; you’re unlike anything he’s ever seen. Your hardships are a part of you, but you don’t let the past define who you are, you use it as a tool to improve the present. On top of everything, you don’t push him away after he’s opened up. If anything, you pull him even closer. He’s so, so grateful to have found you. Maybe – just maybe – he’ll learn to like himself… after all, if someone like you can love him so dearly, he cannot be so bad, right?

SABO

Sabo needs someone who…

lives freely without constraints, doesn’t care what other people think about them

pursues a deeply humanitarian dream

is just, hard-working and unique

thinks rather than feels

Sabo can help you cope with these character flaws:

being too idealistic

sorrow

perfectionist tendencies

An absolute dealbreaker would be…

different political ideology and laziness

Sabo sees you and knows you have what it takes. You’re unafraid of tension and you’re quite abrasive when it comes to the intolerable… and your track record is just as impressive. You’re a rare gem who doesn’t sell their principles to get ahead in life – you chose this path out of conviction, not due to a lack of options. Maybe that’s why he recommends you for a position much higher up the ladder where your potential would be seen, where your voice would be heard and matter… Eventually, Sabo would notice a dangerous flutter in his chest every time you worked together. He would linger around you longer than necessary and try to get you to talk about your personal life just to get closer to you. Your story is fascinating, he cannot help but be angry at the world for throwing you away. Well, kind of – you’ve landed right in his arms, so it’s not that bad now, is it?

SHANKS

Shanks needs someone who…

wants to go about life at their own pace

is outgoing, emotionally intelligent and warm

has the street-smarts and strength to defend themselves if it came down to it

hopes for peace and believes in equality

Shanks can help you cope with these character flaws:

procrastination

bottling up negative feelings

stubbornness

An absolute dealbreaker would be…

being too fragile and selfishness

Shanks sees you and doesn’t know why he’s suddenly so eager to be taken care of – you just sniff him out like a hound dog and nag at him about his terrible habits constantly. He thinks it’s sweet that there’s someone amongst his loyal crew members who still believes he would change his ways. They all let go of it at some point.

…Until you don’t let go of it at all. You shadow him and relentlessly pursue his heath and happiness. At first, Shanks wrongfully assumes that you’re trying to be the captain’s favourite, but he could only watch in astonishment as you pull the same stunt on all the others. “Benn, you smoke too much. Roux, why in the world are you lifting that crate by yourself, let me help. Yasopp, you will cook these beans before eating them or so God help us all.” – he hears your voice in his head echoing his own sentiments towards his friends. It suddenly feels too real. You’re just… like this. It’s in your nature to be warm. And you offer the same warmth to… Shanks. Larger-than-life, mythical, legendary Shanks. He’s just another man in your eyes… It makes him nervous.

BUGGY

Buggy needs someone who…

feels rather than thinks

engages in creative activities and has something that fulfils them

is loving, direct/ straightforward and clingy

reassures him and would be his anchor in life, an unshakeable constant

Buggycan help you cope with these character flaws:

deep insecurity/ self-pity

abandonment issues

competitiveness

An absolute dealbreaker would be…

being distant and indifference

Buggy sees you and knows that you’re different from the rest. Not unlike him, to be honest, but that might be wishful thinking. He just feels inexplicably drawn to you; he revels in your proud smile whenever he praises you for a job well done. Sometimes he thinks that you crave his approval just as much as he craves yours… once you tore down his walls, you’re all up in Buggy’s business. Worst thing is that he doesn’t mind at all. He likes having you around, you’re not half as much of an idiot as all the other troglodytes he keeps around. The thing that he doesn’t get is, though… you actually don’t think quite as highly of yourself. It’s not humility, you’re plenty humble, but it reeks of insecurity… and believe him when he says that he knows that stench all too well. Well, you might just need a proper hype man to tell you that you’re the most amazing person to ever walk this wretched Earth, darling! One day you’ll wear that title with pride.

[cayleeuhithinknott]

✿ — breathin . . . softdom!matt

in which . . . a panic attack hits, and matt knows just how to calm you down.

warnings . . . smut , unprotected p in v , creampie , praise kink , mentions and effects of anxiety and panic attacks , making out , missionary , not proofread

𝑺𝑾𝑬𝑬𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑬𝑹 𝙒𝙍𝙄𝙏𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝙈𝘼𝙍𝘼𝙏𝙃𝙊𝙉 𝙁𝙄𝘾 #8

you’re already crying by the time he walks in.

the front door shuts, the keys hit the bowl by the entryway, and you freeze like you’ve been caught. you wipe your face quick, like that’ll erase the redness around your eyes or the tight, panicked twist of your throat. your breath stutters in your throat—fast, uneven, messy—and your hands are still clenched in your lap like they’ve been stuck there for hours.

matt knows the signs the second he sees you. he doesn’t ask if you’re okay. he knows you’re not.

“baby,” he says gently, already walking toward you. he drops his bag without looking and crouches in front of where you’re sitting on the couch, warm hands cradling your face. “look at me.”

you do. barely. your eyes flutter over to meet his and they’re already glassy.

“i’m right here, okay? i’m home.” he thumbs away a tear that slips down your cheek. “breathe.”

you try. your chest rises too quick and your breath catches again, shaky.

“no, no, not like that,” he whispers. “in through your nose. come on, with me.”

his hand presses lightly to your chest, grounding. his forehead dips to yours.

“breathe with me, baby. just me and you right now. nothing else.”

you close your eyes. it’s hard. your lungs still fight against it, still catch on invisible panic, but his voice and his hand, steady over your heartbeat, makes it easier. just a little.

“there you go,” he murmurs. “just like that.”

you let out a broken little exhale, and he kisses your forehead. then your cheek. then your jaw.

“rough day?” he asks.

you nod.

“do you wanna talk about it?”

you shake your head.

he doesn’t press. he never does.

he just cups your face again, thumbs brushing your cheeks like he’s trying to wipe the panic away entirely. “you’re safe. you’re with me. i’ve got you.”

his voice is lower now. more certain. and you believe him.

he pulls you up from the couch, guiding you with a hand at your back. “come on. let me take care of you.”

you follow him. you always do.

he walks you to the bedroom like he’s afraid you might fall apart on the way there. maybe you will. but not with him.

“arms up,” he says softly, tugging your shirt over your head once you lift them. he doesn’t rush it. he doesn’t stare. he just undresses you like he’s unwrapping something breakable, something fragile, something he loves. he follows by peeling off his own shirt.

his hands trail over your sides as he helps you out of your shorts and panties. kisses your shoulder once you’re bare. “you still with me?”

you nod, quieter than before. “mhm.”

“good. that’s my girl.”

he strips slowly too, letting you watch him, letting you keep your eyes on something steady while your mind is still trying to find solid ground. when he’s down to just his boxers, he leans in and presses another kiss to your forehead. then your lips. then your neck.

“lie down for me.”

you crawl onto the bed, skin cold against the sheets. he follows, settling between your legs but keeping his weight off you, his body warm and familiar and so close.

his lips brush yours, barely. “can i touch you?”

you nod again. “please.”

“say it,” he whispers, voice firmer now, grounding again.

“yes, y-you can touch me. please, matt...”

“there she is,” he murmurs, kissing you soft, slow, deep. “i’ve got you, baby. just breathe.”

his hand slides between your legs, slow and patient. his other hand stays on your chest, feeling your breath, guiding it. his lips never leave yours for too long. he keeps you tethered, steady, here.

you sigh into his mouth. his fingers are gentle, his touch firm, his voice always right there when you need it.

“you’re doing so good,” he tells you. “just let me take care of you.”

and you do.

he makes it feel easy.

he slides his boxers off and hooks your legs around his waist, pressing your foreheads together again, one hand cupping your cheek while the other stays firm on your chest.

he doesn’t rush. doesn’t push.

just holds you there, completely bare beneath him, breathing together like it’s the only thing that matters.

and maybe it is.

because with your chest rising under his palm and his body wrapped around yours, the world finally starts to slow down. the static fades. your thoughts quiet.

he brushes his nose against yours, lips barely grazing. “still with me?”

you nod, breathing steadier now. “yeah.”

he kisses you again, deeper this time—unhurried and warm and full of everything he can’t say all at once. it’s not just affection. it’s a reminder. of who you are. of where you are. of who you’re safe with.

“good girl,” he murmurs, barely pulling away. “keep breathing for me.”

his hips settle between yours, but he doesn’t move yet. doesn’t grind or thrust or even tease. he just stays right there—close enough to feel every shaky breath you take and match it with his own.

his hand glides from your chest to your jaw again, thumb brushing just under your lip. “you’re okay. i’ve got you.”

your hands curl around his biceps, grounding yourself the same way he’s grounding you. skin to skin. chest to chest. his weight, his voice, his warmth—every inch of him is calm.

safe.

you shiver, and he leans in closer, wrapping both arms around you now, like he’s tucking you back into yourself. his forehead presses to yours again, lips brushing your cheek. “tell me what you need, baby.”

you exhale. shaky, but honest. “you.”

he kisses the corner of your mouth. “you’ve got me.”

his hand slides down your side, fingertips light over your waist, over your thigh, until he’s guiding himself against you—slow, patient, waiting.

“i’m right here. i’m not going anywhere. i need you to trust me, okay?”

you nod, breath caught in your throat. “i do.”

“good.”

his hand moves to the back of your thigh, lifting it just a bit higher, anchoring you even closer. “wrap your legs around me tighter, baby.”

you do, and his chest presses flush against yours again. your skin feels warm everywhere he touches, and it’s not even about the sex yet—it’s about him being there. being real. being steady when everything else isn’t.

“breathe,” he says again, lower now. softer. “match me.”

and you do—your lungs syncing with his, your body trembling a little less now.

“that’s it,” he whispers. “i’m right here.”

his hand moves between you, guiding just the head in the slightest bit—just enough to make you gasp—but he pauses there, keeping you grounded, held.

his other hand slides back to your face, cradling your cheek like it’s the most precious thing in the world.

“i’ve got you,” he says again, firm this time. “all of you. you’re safe.”

his hips tilt forward, just enough to nudge you open.

your lips part, your body curling closer to his.

and he whispers it one more time, low and certain.

“just breathe.”

and that’s when he pushes inside you fully, stretching your slick walls around his throbbing length. you whimper softly, which urges matt to comfort you. “i know, baby. just breathe, i’ve got you.” he repeats, trying to be encouraging despite his shaky voice. it’s always been hard for him to control himself when he’s inside you.

he’s deep. so deep. his hips roll against yours, grinding himself inside you. “this what you needed?” matt coos, pressing a kiss to your cheek as he starts slowly thrusting into you, his movements languid. you know that won’t last long, though. you know that because you involuntarily clench around him, causing a gasp to leave his lips. “fuck, you’re—you’re so tight, sweetheart.”

“feels—feels so good, matt. d-don’t go faster yet…” you sigh in pleasure, enjoying the slow, deep feeling. you know this’ll be momentary. you know you’ll want it faster in at least 2 minutes. but why not cherish the moment?

“yeah, okay, baby. slow’s okay, yeah? we’ve got time.” he mumbles, keeping his gaze trained on your flushed face. he notices the tears beginning to dot your lash line. damn, he’s already fucking you that good? matt knows neither of you are going to keep that ‘slow’s okay’ mindset. because he’s starting to notice things.

starting to notice how you’re falling into bliss. how you’re already letting out the prettiest little whimpers. and he takes it as his sign to go faster. send you deeper into the ‘head-in-the-clouds’ state.

he starts to move a little faster, just slightly. his thrusts are deeper now, more deliberate, like he’s chasing the soft moans you keep spilling for him.

“that’s it,” he whispers, dragging his lips across your cheek. “just like that, baby. takin’ me so well.”

you gasp as his hips meet yours again, your legs tightening around his waist. he groans at the feeling—your body wrapped around him, clinging to him like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

“you’re doing so good for me,” he murmurs, voice low and breathy as his pace begins to build. “so perfect. so pretty. my good girl.”

your hands slide up his arms, gripping at his shoulders for support. you can barely think with the way he’s filling you—stretching you, rocking into you steady but with purpose now.

“m-matt—” you cry, barely able to form words.

“i know,” he breathes out, kissing your temple. “i know, baby. i’ve got you.”

he presses his forehead to yours again, watching every little reaction on your face like it’s the most important thing in the world. and to him, it is.

your lips part in another shaky moan as his thrusts pick up even more. you can feel how deep he is, how full he’s making you, and it’s all too much and not enough all at once. you let out a louder, higher-pitched moan as the head of his cock kisses your cervix, bruisingly delicious.

“you like that?” he pants, voice a little rough now. “feel good, sweetheart?”

you nod, whimpering out, “so good, i—i need more—please—”

that’s all it takes.

he slides one of his hands down to your thigh, pulls you tighter against him, and starts to really move—a faster rhythm now, strong and needy and just a little desperate. still careful. still loving. but no longer slow.

“fuck, you’re everything,” matt groans, hips snapping against yours. “you feel so good—so warm—so perfect.”

your nails dig into his back. your body arches beneath him. he leans down to kiss you, messy and hot and open-mouthed, and it’s like your whole body melts into him again.

“you’re mine,” he growls against your lips. “my good girl. you hear me?”

“yes—yes, yours,” you gasp, eyes fluttering shut. “always.”

his hand slides up your chest and cups your face again, like he’s trying to keep you tethered to this moment—to him.

“look at me, baby,” he pleads softly. “stay with me.”

you force your eyes open, and the second you lock eyes with him again, your chest heaves and your stomach clenches.

“that’s it,” he whispers. “that’s my girl. just keep breathing. i’ve got you.”

he keeps the delicious pace—fast, deep, controlled—for as long as he can, until your legs are trembling around his waist and you’re moaning his name like it’s the only word you know.

his lips never leave your skin. your jaw. your shoulder. your cheek. his voice stays low and steady in your ear, anchoring you even as your body starts to fall apart underneath him. a tear drips down your red-tinted cheek, the pleasure becoming too much.

“that’s it, baby. let go for me,” he breathes, his hand still pressed flat to your chest, feeling every flutter of your heartbeat. “cum for me. come on, sweetheart—i’ve got you.”

your body tenses and tightens—and then it happens. your orgasm crashes into you in waves, overwhelming and warm and so full of him, you almost forget the rest of the world exists.

“matt—oh my god—”

“i know, i know, i’ve got you,” he whispers, kissing your temple, rocking you through it even as your thighs shake around his hips. he looks down to see the creamy white ring forming at the base of his cock, and it sends him straight over the edge.

you’re still trembling when he follows—his rhythm stuttering as his own release takes over, his breath catching in your ear as he groans your name, soft and desperate, his cum spurts inside you, painting your walls white.

his hips still. his body stills. his forehead drops to your shoulder as he breathes you in, completely wrapped up in the feeling of being with you. really with you.

you both stay like that for a moment—chests pressed together, skin damp, the quiet sound of your breathing slowly syncing up again.

and then he lifts his head just enough to kiss you. slow and warm. not lusty—loving.

“you okay?” he asks, voice hoarse and gentle.

you nod, exhausted but peaceful. “mhm.”

“yeah?” he kisses the corner of your mouth. “you were perfect. so good for me.”

he eases out of you with care, like he doesn’t want to make you any more sensitive than you already are. and then he’s pulling the blankets up over you both, wrapping his arms around you, drawing you into his chest.

you curl into him immediately, nose brushing his collarbone, skin still flushed and tingling.

his fingers trace up and down your back in lazy, soothing lines.

“thank you,” you whisper.

“no, baby,” he says, kissing your hair. “thank you for letting me take care of you.”

you let your fingers lightly trace over his chest and murmur, “i’m not gonna be able to walk tomorrow…”

he chuckles low, smug but still soft. “guess i did my job then.”

you swat at him playfully, but you’re smiling now—finally. and that’s all that matters to matt.

he just holds you tighter, tucking his chin over your head and letting you melt into him completely. safe. warm. his.

and for the first time today, you breathe easy.

author’s note . . . uhm im sorry this is late and it’s awful i just have lost motivation because i’ve had things really taking a toll on my mood and mental health recently. but i’m going to try to get everything right for the rest of the marathon.

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

© cayleeuhithinknott

[prapaiwife]

"A friend, someone you know, a close one, roommate assistant"

It's the way he said all those things that he feels about kenta and what he feels he is to him at this moment. And the way kenta was obviously like tussling with him but looking at kim hearing him say all these words to him because he couldn't believe what he was hearing. Like he obviously understands what those words mean but it's also like he couldn't take in or have it process to grasp what he means to someone. After all he's someone who didn't grow up with any love to have someone tell him that so openly and easily.

I just love how all in kim is he has such a protective nature towards kenta. Like their bond is already an emotional one but it's going to be more of a sentimental one as time passes. Like with these two it's all about the control vs autonomy because kenta spent much of his life under Tony which we know has caused a lot of trust issues and being manipulated constantly. He was conditioned to suppress his feelings which makes it hard for him to be vulnerable. Before he opened up to Kim about his feelings he was keeping them to himself. All that he's endured and encountered will make it really challenging for him to assert any of his feelings. Kenta's struggle with his autonomy will be an obstacle.

Like kim has a lot of patience and understanding when it comes to kenta's reluctance to open up to him about anything. He knows that his upbringing has really shaped him and how he views people how he views the world how he especially looks at himself. But Kim gives him that really good gentle encouragement for him to feel like he can talk to him. Make him feel safe at least with him so he can express whatever he's feeling without any hesitation and fear of being punished for it. And we all know that Kim is very protective especially if kenta pushes him away his persistence is to just protect but also gives kenta space as well. But that doesn't mean he doesn't ever get frustrated with him because of how Kenta is so shielded from everything and anything that it gets in the way when he wants to get closer to kenta and wants to understand him more.

I feel Kim being so observant he can see that Kenta doesn't like loneliness but he's been isolated since he was a child. He doesn't even necessarily hate ppl or have a disdain for them (except tony) but he's been told and believed that everyone hates him. I think Kim can tell that kenta wasn't born cruel and aggressive it's just the world he was thrown into has been very cruel to him. It's like kenta doesn't want the weight of the world on his shoulders but asking for help and letting ppl in is foreign to him.

With everything that Kenta has been through since he was a child it was like as if his age has stopped. But his body kept growing but his brain has been forced and or used to skipping certain stages of things in his life that he's meant to experience and to feel. It's like his mind is frozen and his feelings are very limited he doesn't really know what he's capable of when it comes to love to love someone fully. And the fact that he will get to experience that with Kim even though it might not be right away I do think as time goes on within their relationship he'll know what it's like and that's going to be just so great for him to witness to see that he is meant to be loved.

[odilesgrimoire]

I Can’t Sleep Unless You’re Here

Pairing: Gojo Satoru x Reader

Tags: fluff, dramatic boyfriend behavior, clingy Gojo, soft cuddles, established relationship, long-distance (but only for one night)

Summary: Gojo Satoru has survived cursed spirits, assassins, and political meetings—but Gojo Satoru has known suffering.

⊹ ࣪ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ๋࣭ ⭑⊹ ࣪ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ๋࣭ ⭑⊹ ࣪ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

He has faced cursed spirits the size of buildings. Watched friends die. Carried the weight of the strongest on his shoulders since he was fifteen.

But nothing could have prepared him for the bone-deep agony of spending a night without you.

9 hours and 36 minutes. That’s how long it’s been since he left for Kyoto.

His hotel room is too quiet. Too sterile. The sheets smell like laundry detergent instead of you. The thermostat is set to the perfect temperature, and yet he’s freezing. Inside.

He lay spread-eagled on the bed, silk robe, damp hair, sunglasses on. The shower hadn’t helped

The group chat with Nanami and Shoko is left on read. He’s already called you twice. You said you were going to sleep. You sounded tired. You sounded adorable.

He replays your voice in his head like a junkie going through withdrawal.

“I miss your dumb face.”

He clutches his chest.

“You better be resting and not seducing the entire Kyoto branch.”

He lets out a soft whimper.

“Goodnight, baby. I love you.”

He rolled over and screamed into the pillow

12 hours in. He can’t do this.

He sends you a photo of himself dramatically laying across the bed, captioned:

“Empty. Like my heart.”

No response.

He texts again:

“If I die tonight, know that I loved you with all the passion of a thousand suns and the recklessness of a man who’s seen your thighs in shorts.”

Still nothing.

He leaves a voice message.

“Hey… it’s me. Again.”

“I just… I tried. I really did. I fluffed the pillow. I cuddled the hotel robe. I even sprayed your perfume on a towel and slept beside it… like some lovesick stalker. Nothing worked.”

“It’s not the bed. It’s not the blanket. It’s you.”

“I can’t sleep unless you’re here. And that’s not even the worst part.”

“The worst part is that I did sleep. For five minutes. And I dreamed you were holding someone else’s hand. And when I woke up, I cried. Real tears. I saw a bellboy. He looked concerned.”

“I think I’m unraveling. Come back. Or let me come home. I swear I’ll behave. I’ll even stop stealing your chocolate… Even the fancy ones you hide behind the cereal box.”

He stares at the message, debating whether to delete it.

He doesn’t.

You blink awake in the dark, glance at your phone, and roll your eyes. He’s lost it. Fully lost it. You set the phone back down—and smile.

God, you love that idiot.

18 hours.

He cracks. He packs his things in a flurry. Leaves a note for Nanami:

“Tell them I had a curse emergency. (The curse was my loneliness.)”

Nanami will kill him.

He doesn’t care.

He books the earliest train, dressed in your hoodie and yesterday’s sweatpants, looking like a sad anime protagonist halfway through his redemption arc.

4:36 AM.

You open the door to find a very tired, very clingy Gojo Satoru standing in your hallway with a suitcase and a 7-Eleven bag of snacks.

He stares at you like you’re salvation. Like you’re sunlight. Like he’s been through a war zone made entirely of cold pillows and too much silence.

You blink. “Satoru…”

“I came back,” he says. His voice cracks. Cracks.

“You… left the summit?”

“I almost died,” he says solemnly. “I was slipping into madness. I heard voices. One of the hotel pillows whispered your name.”

“…Are you on drugs?”

“Only the drug of love.”

You drag him inside.

He throws himself into your arms like a soldier returning from war. Clings to you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. Smushes his face into your chest and lets out the most pitiful groan you’ve ever heard from a grown man.

“I’m never leaving again,” he mutters. “Not unless you come with me. Not even to the convenience store. We’re attached at the hip now. Fused. Merged.”

“Satoru, it was one night.”

“A lifetime. In heartache years.”

You collapse into bed, and he’s on you in an instant—arms around your waist, legs tangled with yours, his entire 6’3 frame practically melted into your body like a clingy marshmallow.

You run a hand through his hair.

He lets out a breath. “See? That’s it. That’s what I needed. Your fingers in my hair. Your breath on my neck. Your weird little sleep grumbles. That’s home.”

You smile, soft and sleepy. “You’re such a drama queen.”

“I’m your drama queen.”

⊹ ࣪ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ๋࣭ ⭑⊹ ࣪ ───

The next morning, your phone buzzes.

Shoko

“Tell Gojo the elders are putting together a formal complaint. And Nanami wants to punch him.”

You glance over at your boyfriend—passed out, hugging you like a body pillow, one sock missing, face buried in your shoulder.

You text back:

“He says it was worth it.”

And then he rolled over and said he dreamed of me holding his hand at our wedding.

So. Worth it.

₊✮⊹.₊⋆⭒˚𓇼.‧⋆⊹⋆.✮𓇼✩‧₊˚₊✮⊹.₊⋆⭒˚𓇼.‧⋆⊹⋆.✮𓇼✩‧₊˚₊✮

(ෆ˙ᵕ˙ෆ)♡ If you enjoy my writing and wanna support me (or my milk🥛 addiction), I’m on [Ko-fi], writing and sipping milk!

[shiny-jr]

SUGAR, SPICE, AND NOT SO NICE: prologue

– Summary: You're the person everyone wants. Money makes the worlds go round, and you have the money. As one of the wealthiest people in the galaxy, you've grown accustomed to the suitors sniffing about for a chance to strike it rich, and you reject every one of them. However, one day a stranger from off world arrives, penniless but hell-bent on meeting you.

– Warning: Yes, this is a yandere thing. Female reader.

– Note: Just dropping this idea here. I have a few drafts for the first chapters. Will this actually go anywhere? Probably not. I just thought I would share it though. I was kinda going for like a space western theme. Think extraterrestrial cowboy kinda deal, but, that's subject to change if I do continue this. Anyways, let me know your thoughts.

– Pages: 1.5

prologue | ???

Under a star-speckled sky, millions of laborers emerge from their clay-dwellings like starved venatas burrowing out of the sand to venture on a nightly hunt. Sand lies as far as the eye could see, vaster than any ocean on this planet. There was a saying, that the plant Amuy’s sand was worth more than pure gold, due to what lay deep beneath the surface hidden by layers of earth: spice. 

Amuy breathed and ran on the spice trade, these little particles reaching the farthest corners of the galaxy. Just one jar of the purest spice can fetch a person’s weight in gold. Spice was harvested from the deposits, but harvesting didn’t come without its dangers. Despite the hazards that were explicitly listed under the job description, folks from all across the galaxy and beyond came to try their hand at making a fortune whether it be in the spice trade, the planet’s famed casino that served as a playground for space’s ultra-rich, or the only beach resort this side of the galaxy where countless off-planet travelers flocked to for their summer getaways. 

The planet was almost entirely owned by a congregation of multiple families which built this floating rock into a heavenly body worth a spot on the star maps. The most famous of which were the Yunes. The Yunes were like Amuy’s royalty. 

Azona Yune, the youngest of a trio of siblings, operates on the friendlier side of business at the massive resort. There, Azona ran various properties scattered along the coast as numerous as shells. It was perhaps the safest place for offplanet visitors. For years it has been the recipient of high praise from visitors that chose to spend their days in this tiny slice of paradise. 

Ehan Yune, the middle child, manages the casino that served as the business hub where all the bigshot names frequented. Anyone who was anyone was there, gambling away fortunes at spinning wheels and racing tracks as they sipped sparkling wine and partake in a fancy feast. Royalty tailed by their small flock of flustered servants and fellow playboy billionaires in the arms of extraterrestrial beauties.

(Y/n) Yune, the eldest of the three, ran what was the most dangerous of all three: the spice trade itself. It was her job to overlook the production and transfer of every single grain, whether it led to local sources or off-planet ones. Her duty was the blood that ran through Amuy’s veins, kept the entire system, casino, resort, and all other things alive. Due to spice being highly valuable, it was often sought out through illegal methods whether it be through flat out daylight robbery or a mole within the ranks of laborers, she dealt with each case. Although Amuy’s desert was the harshest, it was the people she was most concerned about. 

In her line of work, especially dealing first hand with the many members of the workforce that originated from off-planet, she witnessed firsthand how they awed at the spice and eyed her as she passed by. Hungry eyes sunk in her form, greedily glaring at her bangles, heavy gems encrusted in earrings, and the bulge of her fat purse. If given the opportunity, they would tear into her and her wealth, strip away everything that was hers and other’s until her home, Amuy, was nothing but a barren husk hollowed out of its resources. 

That was something she would simply not allow.

[myrleius]

unscheduled — aizawa s.

aizawa s. x detective fem!reader│wc: 4k

synopsis: It's late. You're working. And Shota brings fast food.

cw/tags: fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, established relationship

The office is quiet, save for the low hum of your laptop, the occasional creak of old plumbing, and the steady scratch of your pen across paper.

The overhead lights are off, replaced by the soft glow of your desk lamp and the blue light of open tabs—city surveillance footage, license plate databases, a paused video from a bodega robbery.

You’d been reorganizing your notes for the last hour, half out of necessity, half to keep your mind from spiraling after thirty-two hours with little sleep.

You’re mid-sentence, scribbling something about time discrepancy, when you felt it. A warmth at your back, a slow exhale ghosting over your neck.

Arms eased around your waist. Familiar. Strong. And oh-so gentle.

You stiffened for a breath, instinct prickling—but then you melted.

“Detective,” Shota murmured, voice low against your ear. “A word?”

You sighed, letting your eyes flutter shut as the pen slipped from your fingers. “Mmm… you’re going to say two,” you murmured back, your lips quirking into a smile. “Probably ‘go’ and ‘home.’”

“Funny,” he said, pressing a kiss to your nape. “I was going to say ‘come’ and ‘here.’”

A quiet laugh bubbled from your throat. You slowly turned in his arms and there he was—tired eyes, dark circles, hair tied back loosely. Stupidly handsome, as always.

You leaned up to kiss him, soft and quick, before wrapping your arms around his waist. Tucking your face in his shoulder, you breathed him in. He smelled like clean soap and night air.

It had been two months since you last saw him.

Your gaze caught on a plastic bag resting on one of the tables behind him. That hadn’t been there before, and the red logo was unmistakable.

“You brought dinner?” you asked, knowing full well it’s past 2 A.M.

He shrugged, the barest of smiles tugging at his mouth. “I figured you hadn’t eaten. Or slept. Am I wrong?”

You pinched his cheek, shifting slightly to at least pretend to hide the chaos on your desk. “You haven’t either,” you muttered, gaze flicking to the shadows under his eyes.

He chuckled, then nodded toward the couch in the corner. “Come on. Before it gets cold.”

The couch creaked beneath your combined weight as the two of you settled in. Shota set the takeout bag on the coffee table, unwrapping its contents. He handed you your portion without a word.

You accepted it with a small smile, the wrinkle of wax paper loud in the quiet room. “So,” you started, peeling back the wrapper of your burger, “what’s the occasion?”

You took a bite before he could answer, humming in content. It was only then that you realized how hungry you were.

“Your cholesterol wasn’t high enough,” he replied dryly, popping a nugget into his mouth.

You laughed, stealing one for yourself. “How romantic.”

“I try.” He smirked, nudging the nugget container closer to your side.

“But seriously, didn’t you have patrol tonight?” you said around a mouthful. “And it’s a school day tomorrow too.”

“I switched shifts,” he said. “And I’m not staying long. Just for a few hours.”

Your heart warmed at that. Of course he’d trade rest for this. For you.

You ate in silence for a few minutes, but you didn’t mind. It felt nice to share a meal like this again, a sliver of normalcy in your sleepless world. You didn’t realize how much you’d miss this. How grounding it was to just be next to him.

As you chewed, a few strands of your hair slipped loose, falling over your eyes. You tried blowing them away with a breath, though unsuccessfully. Then, without a word, Shota leaned forward. Fingers brushed your hair back behind your ear, the backs of them lingering against your cheek for a beat too long. You felt the warmth trail after them like a tide pulling back, slow and reluctant.

You glanced at him.

“What?” he said, but his mouth curved into that lazy, knowing smile.

“Nothing,” you murmured, and turned away.

Your eyes dropped to his mouth and found a smudge of ketchup near the corner, barely noticeable.

Without thinking, you reached over, wiped it away with your thumb, and licked it clean like it was second nature.

And it was. You’d done it before, countless times.

But the way he looked at you, you’d think it was the first time.

“That was kinda hot,” he murmured, voice amused but soft.

You huffed a laugh, gently nudging his shoulder. “That’s all it takes to get you going? You’re more sleep-deprived than I thought.”

His chuckle vibrated against your palm, but that look—that wasn’t him getting turned on. Not even close.

Then, without warning, he said, “I missed you.”

You paused, the words landing somewhere deep.

Shota never said things like that first. 

You usually had to tease it out of him, pull it loose behind a wall of dumb jokes and half-hearted grumbling. And even then, he’d deflect, tossing some excuse like, “The cats keep looking for you,” or “The bed’s too cold.”

Yet, here he was, handing it over without a fight.

You put your food down slowly, more carefully than needed, as if sudden movement might startle the moment away. After a pause, you wiped your fingers with a napkin and shifted closer to him.

Then, you leaned in, resting your head against his shoulder. The fabric of his shirt was warm, soft from too many washes.

Your eyes fluttered shut as you exhaled, long and quiet, letting go of something you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

“I missed you too,” you murmured, cheeks warm. “Even when you’re here right now.”

There was a brief silence. Then came the low rumble of his voice, deadpan and almost fond.

“You always get like this when I say nice things.”

But he didn’t pull away. If anything, his shoulder stayed steady beneath your cheek. He tilted his head, just enough to rest his cheek against yours. The bristle of his stubble scraped your skin, and something fluttered low in your stomach.

You snorted. “Wow. Groundbreaking observation. What’s next? ‘Water’s wet’? ‘Sky’s blue’?” 

You leaned back just enough to meet his eyes, already rolling yours. “Yes, Shota, when you’re nice, I like it. I know. Shocking.”

His lips twitched, trying to hold back a grin. “Damn. With this level of skill, I think I deserve a promotion.” 

His hand slid up your shoulder and gently pushed, guiding you back into the cushions as he shifted to hover above you. His weight didn’t press—but the suggestion of it was there.

“What’s above a detective again…?”

You burst out laughing, half at awful innuendo, half at the ridiculous way his eyebrows wiggled. “Oh my god. That was so bad.”

He didn’t budged, still caging you in, but his smirk softened. “Worked on you, though, didn’t it?”

“Barely.” You shoved at his chest—half-hearted and not really trying. His presence was solid, familiar. And oddly comforting. “And the answer is nothing, because you’d be a terrible boss.”

“Oh, really?” he murmured, dipping his headcloser. “You weren’t complaining when I bossed you around in bed last time.”

You squinted. “Perv.”

But you didn’t move. And neither did he. Until his mouth found yours.

The kiss started slow, gentle. His lips moved with unhurried certainty, like he had nowhere else to be, like this was the only thing on his list tonight. You curled your fingers into the front of his shirt, already halfway to dragging him closer when—

Your stomach let out a loud, traitorous growl. It sounded halfway between a snarl and a dying cat.

Shota froze, lips still hovering close. “... Wow.”

“Shut up,” you groaned, pressing a hand to your face. “I’m hungry, okay?”

“Clearly.”

He stayed where he was for another second, intentionally putting his weight on you just to be difficult. And your stomach made another dramatic complaint.

He chuckled, finally easing off you and helping you sit up. “Alright, alright.”

He reached for the abandoned takeout, pressing it back into your hands like it was a peace offering.

“Here,” he said. “Eat. Before you start chewing on me.”

You rolled your eyes but took the burger anyway, biting into it with a vengeance. Then, as if on instinct, you kicked him lightly in the shin. He didn’t even flinch.

As you both settled back into the food, the conversation drifted easily into life updates. You told him bits about the case, nothing sensitive, just the parts that frustrated you most. He listened the way he always did, never offering solutions unless you asked for them. Just letting you talk, until you didn’t need to anymore.

In return, he gave you updates from U.A.—small things, subtle milestones, the kind of stories that made you realize just how far you’d slipped from the normal rhythm of life. And how much you’d missed it.

“Oh, right,” you said as the last of the wrappers were balled up and tossed into the bin.

You crossed the room to your desk, rummaging through one of the drawers until your fingers closed around a white envelope. It was pristine, elegant, embossed with delicate swirls that shimmered faintly in the light.

“Kaede and Ren got engaged,” you said, offering the envelope as you returned to the couch.

The words came out too carefully, like you were reciting a report rather than sharing news.

Shota raised an eyebrow, fingers brushing over the embossed edge. “Really?”

“Yeah. Sent us an invite. It’s next spring,” you said, watching him too closely as he opened it. “She says she’s thinking of quitting the field too. Maybe start a consultancy firm instead.”

He nodded slowly, skimming the invitation before sliding it back into the envelope and leaving it on the coffee table.

You bit your lip. Why was this so hard? You weren’t asking for a promise. Not even a plan. Just a thought. A possibility.

But the fear was there, coiled tight in your stomach.

What if he hadn’t considered it at all? 

What if you were the only one letting your mind wander there?

You didn’t talk about these things. Not unless they were buried under sarcasm or deflection. And even then, only when you were brave enough to pretend you weren’t serious.

But tonight, with that envelope glowing white against the dark wood, and with his warmth pressed beside you after too many nights apart, the words just hung on the tip of your tongue, desperately wanting to be said.

You glanced at him sideways, heart hammering. “Does that… ever cross your mind? Stuff like that?”

He didn’t answer right away. 

But he didn’t look away either.

“Sometimes,” he said at last. “Lately, more often.”

You nodded, your fingers toying with a napkin, twisting it slowly. 

“I never used to think about it,” you said. “I was always focused on work. And I thought… what we have, it’s enough.”

And then, with a rush of panic, you waved your hands in front of him.

“And it is,” you rushed to say. “It still is. I just—”

You exhaled shakily. “I’m starting to realize how temporary everything is. How one day you’re this invincible twenty-something and the next you’re watching everyone move forward while you’re still…” 

The sentence crumbled under its own weight, the rest of the thought too vulnerable to voice.

Your gaze dropped, voice softer. “I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder if wanting more than what we already have—on what we agreed on—makes me… selfish.”

The word tasted bitter in your mouth.

You hadn’t meant to say any of it. These were just silly thoughts, the kind that came in waves after too many hours at your desk, when you passed a bridal shop and your reflection lingered in the glass, or when you found yourself staring at high chairs in restaurants, imagining a tiny hand reaching for yours.

Just stupid yearnings you tucked away before it could take root.

You shook your head, trying to laugh. “No, forget it. That was dumb,” you muttered. “I’m probably just missing you too much.”

The attempt at humor didn’t land, not even with yourself.

Shota shifted closer. His hand found yours, threading your fingers together.

“I don’t think wanting more is selfish,” he said, his voice low but certain. “And it’s not dumb.”

You stared at your hands, at the way his thumb moved in circles against your skin. “But we agreed—”

“We agreed on what made sense then,” he cut in. “That doesn’t mean we can’t want something different now.”

You fell quiet. And then, softly, almost as if he wasn’t sure you’d believe it—

“You’ve never asked for more than I could give. Not once. Even when you should have. So… be selfish. It’s okay.”

Your chest tightened. 

Of course he knew. 

Of course he’d noticed all the ways you held back. The weekends you gave up without complaint. The way you buried your feelings when his schedule didn’t align. The way you told yourself—and him—that you didn’t need anything else.

You thought you were being understanding. Strong. Low-maintenance. 

But he’d seen you. All of you.

And now, hearing it out loud, hearing him say it, had you remembering all the words you’d swallowed. But for once, they didn’t taste so bitter.

He exhaled. “I know I’m not easy. My job, the hours, the unpredictability… And yours is just as bad.” His eyes searched yours, steady and dark. “That’s why we told ourselves this was enough. Because we used to think people like us weren’t meant for that kind of thing.”

His fingers curled tighter around yours, guiding you gently into his arms. He pulled you in, tucking you beneath his chin.

“But right now,” he murmured, “it doesn’t sound so far away anymore. Doesn’t sound so foolish. Even if it’s messy. Even if we’re scared sometimes. If it’s with you… it’s something I’d want. And—”

He hesitated, the words catching in his throat.

You felt it in the way his fingers stilled, in the subtle shift of his breath. For all the steadiness in his voice earlier, this part had been harder for him to say.

Your heart softened. 

Shota never fumbled his words, not even under pressure. Apparently even he had his limits.

So you tilted your head toward him, voice no louder than the hush between heartbeats. “And?”

He looked down at you, gaze steady. Open. “And I wonder,” he said quietly, “if it’s something you’d want… with me.”

You almost laughed, but it came out as a shaky breath instead.

Not because it was funny, but because the weight you’d been carrying—years of quiet yearning, careful restraint—suddenly felt so light.

All that time spent tiptoeing, stuffing those dreams into the corners of your mind, convincing yourself not to need too much… and he’d been thinking the same things all along.

You’d both been afraid. Overthinking the same silences.

But here you were.

Asking the same question.

And finally wanting the same answer.

“Of course I do,” you whispered, words thick with emotion as you hugged him tighter. “I always have.”

Something in you finally let go.

It hadn’t broken anything. Saying it out loud hadn’t made it fragile. If anything, it had stitched the two of you closer—tightened something that had already been strong for years, but now felt even more solid. More real.

“I mean,” you added, blinking quickly to fight the sting behind your eyes, “I wouldn’t stick around for eight years with your grumpy ass if I didn’t want to.”

That earned a small huff against your temple. The tension in his shoulders eased all at once, and you felt the exact moment his smirk formed.

“Grumpy, huh?” he murmured, mock-offended.

“You scowl, like, constantly.”

“I’ve saved cities with this face.”

You pulled back, snorting. “Yeah, by making villains think you’re one of them.”

His hand dragged lazily up your arm, warm and familiar. “You’re not exactly sunshine yourself, detective. Didn’t you threaten to arrest me the first time we met?”

You scoffed, indignant. “You were covered in blood and refused to answer any questions.”

“I did answer,” he said. “I told you it was mine.”

“After fifteen minutes of silence,” you shot back. “And only when I blocked the exit.”

You could still remember that moment with startling clarity—the way his capture weapon had twitched when you stepped into his path, the way your quirk had hummed under your skin, ready to activate. A standoff between two overworked, underslept people with too much pride and no patience.

“I was trying to avoid paperwork,” he muttered, but there was no edge to it now. Only warmth and a hint of amusement.

“And I was doing my job,” you said. “Some scruffy stranger ducking out before forensics arrived? Covered in blood? Yeah, forgive me for finding that suspicious.”

A beat. 

Then you both cracked.

Soft laughter spilled out between you, warm and unguarded.

He shook his head, his eyes crinkling faintly at the corners. “We’re so stupid.”

“Mmm. Speak for yourself,” you said, smirking. “I’m delightful.”

Shota rolled his eyes, but his grin gave him away. “Sure. That’s why I keep coming back. For the delight.”

“Damn right.”

Your smirk barely had time to settle before he leaned in. His lips ghosted over yours, not kissing, just letting you feel the possibility of it. It was enough to steal the smugness right off your face.

“Oh, screw you,” you muttered, and kissed him first.

He chuckled against your mouth, the sound low and warm, vibrating between your lips as you tugged him in by the collar. It started off soft, familiar, but the way he gripped your waist told you exactly where this was headed. There was no rush, but no hesitation either.

“I love you,” he murmured in between kisses, just barely.

Your breath hitched. Fingers stilled against his shirt.

But before you could say anything back, he took advantage of the pause—your lips parted and your guard down. He kissed you deeper, rougher. Tongue sliding in, stealing the words right out of your mouth.

By the time you pulled back, flushed and breathless, his hands had already started roaming. One arm circled your waist, pulling you flush against him; the other palmed your chest through your blouse. He gave a squeeze, and you let out a startled snort, half scandalized, half amused at the sheer nerve.

“Are we really doing this on my couch?” you breathed, not quite stopping him.

He glanced around, casual. “There’s a desk right there.”

“You’re unbelievable,” you mumbled, swatting at his arm.

“What?” he said, unbothered. “You were complaining.”

“Shota—”

“So the desk thing’s a no?”

You narrowed your eyes, already fighting a grin. “I thought you already knew I like it when you take charge.”

He laughed hard, his hand sliding beneath your thighs. 

You barely had time to react before he lifted you, strong and steady, his breath brushing your cheek as he carried you the short distance across the room. Mischief burned in his eyes. You could’ve walked, but that wasn’t the point.

He set you down on your desk with a soft thud, knocking over a pen holder in the process. Neither of you cared. Not when his fingers were already working open the buttons of your blouse, slow but practiced, like he knew the exact rhythm that would drive you just a little crazy.

The fabric slid open and his mouth followed—shoulder, collarbone, a scrape of teeth that pulled a quiet sound from your throat.

You arched into him, gasping, and tugged at the hem of his shirt in return. Your hands slipped underneath, dragging your nails lightly up his back.

He shivered. And you smiled.

You loved that. How easy it was to unravel him. How willingly he let you.

You tipped forward, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “I love you too,” you whispered.

And just before things went further—before more clothes hit the floor, before the night dissolved into heat and motion—you cradled his face in your hands. 

You kissed him one more time. Gentle. Devoted. 

A seal on all the things left unspoken yet deeply and undeniably present.

Whatever the future held, you’d figure it out.

Together.

The lights were off, save for the faint glow of a desk lamp behind them—left on, probably, as an afterthought in the mess they’d made of the office.

The couch cushions shifted beneath his weight. 

Yn lay draped over him, her bare skin warm against his, cheek pressed to his chest, her breath slow. One leg curled between his. A hand rested lazily over his ribs. She was heavier now than she’d been an hour ago.

He wasn’t tired. Not yet.

His fingers moved through her hair, slow and steady. She liked that, or at least, she didn’t ask him to stop. Maybe she was asleep. Maybe not. He didn’t move to check, not wanting to disturb her. 

The silence was soft here, and they didn't get much of it.

He closed his eyes for a moment, just breathing with her. Letting the heat between them fade. Letting his body cool and settle.

She smelled like him now. Like night air and sweat and something sweet beneath it all.

He liked that more than he probably should.

They’d done this before, more than a few times. On couches, in beds, cheap hotel rooms. Hell, once on the floor of the dorms, curled up in his sleeping bag after she’d shown up past midnight with exhaustion in her voice and dirt on her boots. They were good at this—at catching up, making space, carving time out of whatever cracked hours they had left.

It always meant something.

But tonight felt different.

Not because of what they did.

Because of what they said.

His eyes opened again and he looked down at her.

Her lashes cast faint shadows across her cheekbones. Her lips were slightly parted, breath brushing warm against his chest. She looked… relaxed. Completely.

That was new.

Even asleep, yn was usually tense—wired from caffeine and adrenaline, her body half-braced for whatever new emergency might pull her from rest. But now… now, she was still. And Shota wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her this peaceful before.

His hand slipped from her hair, tracing slowly down the line of her spine. Not sexual, he’d done that plenty earlier. This was just… feeling her. Like he was mapping something fragile and didn’t want to leave a mark.

She shifted slightly, murmuring something in her sleep he couldn’t quite hear. Her face nuzzled further into his chest.

And that’s when he saw her hand again, splayed over his ribs. Unguarded and vulnerable.

He reached for it gently, cradling it on his own.

His thumb brushed over her knuckles, then down toward her ring finger.

And paused there.

Shota had never been a romantic. He wasn’t built for that kind of thing. Marriage had always sounded like too much noise, too many expectations. He didn’t think he had space for it in his life, and he didn't want to be someone else’s obligation.

He knew what it meant to be loved with conditions.

And worse, what it meant to love in spite of them.

But yn… she never asked him for more than he could give.

Never once made him choose.

And now, with her asleep on his chest, her hand in his, her ring finger bare beneath his thumb—he wondered, not for the first time, if maybe he could give her more.

Not because she asked.

Because he wanted to.

Not now. Not tomorrow. But someday.

When the world was a little quieter. When the nights weren’t quite so short.

He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to that ring finger. A soft, fleeting brush. Nothing she’d feel. But maybe something he’d remember.

She stirred faintly, but didn’t wake.

He exhaled through his nose, then tucked her hand to his chest. His other arm came around her, drawing her in closer, as if to shield her from the weight of everything outside this room.

He closed his eyes.

Sleep came easily now.

[suunani]

extra practice [ jung sungchan ]

sungchan confesses his crush after practice, and you totally flirts him into a flustered mess.

❛ content 1.5k words, flirty top! male reader, fluff, sungchan is a big awkward loser, heavy tension, requested here!

the gym was always quieter after the team cleared out. you liked it that way.

the echo of sneakers had faded. so had the locker room banter and the clatter of weights. now it was just you and the cool silence of the mat, under the flickering hum of ceiling lights that had probably seen better days. this was your space — your hour to breathe, stretch, run drills at your pace without someone barking orders or showing off in the background.

but you weren’t alone tonight (again). you didn’t have to look to know who it was.

sungchan.

he wasn’t subtle. not even a little bit.

you could hear the awkward shuffle of his feet by the bleachers. the uneven breathing. the way his water bottle crinkled just slightly every time his hand squeezed it too hard. he was trying to look casual, pretending to dig through his duffel bag or check his phone — but you weren’t stupid.

he’d been doing this a lot lately. lingering after practice. hovering. always within a few steps of you, never saying much, always looking like he was building up the courage to ask something before chickening out and leaving with a stiff nod and a mumbled, 'good practice'.

you’d be lying if you said you didn’t notice.

and maybe (maybe) you kind of liked it.

you finished your set of sprawls and finally looked over, towel draped around your neck, shirt clinging to your back. sungchan jerked upright like you’d caught him stealing.

“hey,” you said easily, breathing a little heavy.

he blinked. “h-hey.”

you raised an eyebrow and offered a lazy smile. “you lost or something?”

“no—i just, um—” he cleared his throat and ran a hand through his sweaty hair. “forgot my—uh—thing.”

“thing,” you echoed, amused.

“yeah,” he said quickly. “important thing. very important.”

you bit back a grin. “right.”

sungchan just stood there, awkward and tall, his long limbs stiff like he didn’t know where to put them. his ears were red, which matched the tips of his cheeks. his eyes were darting everywhere — anywhere but directly at you.

he tugged at the hem of his compression shirt, then let go. then tugged again. it was already riding up just slightly over his waist, showing a glimpse of lean, toned skin that had your gaze lingering maybe a second too long. you tossed your towel over your shoulder and walked toward him, slow and easy.

“so…” you started, stopping just a few feet in front of him. “you just here to stand there looking pretty, or did you actually need something?”

sungchan’s mouth opened. closed. opened again. then he made a soft, helpless sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a whimper and dragged a hand down his face.

god, he was such a disaster.

“i wanted to talk to you,” he finally muttered, barely audible.

“you’re doing great so far,” you teased gently.

he laughed nervously, eyes finally flicking up to meet yours. and you saw it there — the way they lingered on your collarbone, then your jaw, then quickly darted away like he’d been burned.

“you stay late a lot,” he said suddenly, blurting it like it had just escaped his mouth before he even could think better of it.

you raised a brow. “you stalking me now?”

“no! no, i mean—i just noticed, that’s all,” he looked away again. “you work really hard. you’re always the last one out. i think that’s… cool.”

you took another small step toward him, invading his space just enough to make him shift his weight awkwardly. he wasn’t backing away, though.

“you’re cute when you ramble,” you said, your voice dropping just a little.

sungchan looked like he forgot how to breathe. “i—uh—thanks?”

you tilted your head with a smirk. “so what did you really come here for?”

“i…” he hesitated. then, finally, with a breath like he was ripping a band-aid off : “i like you.”

the words just dropped between you like a stone. he looked like he immediately regretted them.

“i mean—not like just like. i really like you. and not just, like, because you’re hot—well, okay, that too—but i mean, like, i’ve liked you for a while and i didn’t know if i should say something but i figured i should even though this is probably the worst timing in the world and i sound like a complete idiot and—”

you reached out and gently placed a hand on his chest.

he froze.

“breathe,” you said, smirking.

he sucked in a breath like he hadn’t done that in the last five minutes.

“god,” he mumbled. “i rehearsed that in the mirror like fifteen times and i still sound like a damn middle schooler.”

you shrugged. “well, middle schoolers don’t usually look like this.”

his face flushed bright red. again. you could feel the way his heart was pounding under your palm, fast and unsteady, like a nervous rabbit.

“seriously though,” you added, softer this time. “why were you so nervous?”

“because you’re you,” he said, not even thinking about it.

that made you pause.

“okay,” you said slowly, amused. “gonna need you to clarify that.”

“you’re confident,” sungchan said quickly. “you’re good. like, really good. on the mat, off the mat—you just walk around like you know exactly who you are, and people notice that. i notice that. and i just…” his shoulders slumped a little. “i always feel like i sound stupid when i talk to you.”

you took your hand off his chest, only to rest it lightly on his side. he didn’t flinch this time — just stared at you with those wide eyes, frozen in place, like he couldn’t believe you were touching him at all.

“sungchan,” you said, voice low and a little playful. “you really think i don’t notice how cute you get when you’re around me?”

he looked like his soul briefly left his body.

“i—cute? me?”

you laughed under your breath. “you literally drop everything you’re holding whenever i talk to you.”

“that happened one time—”

“twice.”

“okay, maybe three times—”

“and you tripped walking past me in the locker room last week.”

“that was because i wasn’t looking where i—damn it, okay, fine,” he groaned, covering his face with both hands.

you gently pulled them away, holding his wrists.

“i think it’s adorable,” you said simply.

that made him stop. he just stared at you like he wasn’t sure if you were being serious. but you were. completely.

you liked him like this — unguarded, flustered, the complete opposite of how he looked when he was wrestling. on the mat, he was agile and sharp, fast on his feet. but off of it? around you? he crumbled. and it was kind of perfect.

“you don’t have to act cool around me,” you added, thumb brushing along his wrist. “you’re doing just fine.”

sungchan swallowed hard. his voice was almost a whisper. “so you’re not… freaked out?”

you leaned in just slightly, your nose almost brushing his. “why would i be freaked out that the prettiest guy on the team has a crush on me?”

he laughed again — short, nervous, but real. “you really think i’m pretty?”

you ran your eyes over him, slowly. from his damp hair, the soft curve of his jaw, to the line of his throat and the way his shirt clung to his chest and abs — like he was built to be held.

“i think you’re hot,” you murmured, voice dipped low. “but yeah. pretty too.”

his breath caught in his throat.

you let the silence sit for a moment. let him feel the weight of your gaze, your closeness, your confidence. then, with a teasing grin, you added :

“wanna stay and ‘practice’ a little more?”

sungchan blinked, clearly rebooting.

“you mean like… drills? or, uh—”

you gave him a look.

“oh,” his ears turned red again. “o-okay.”

you gently guided him toward the center mat. his steps were unsteady, like he wasn’t really sure what he’d just agreed to.

“you okay?” you asked, tone light.

“i think so,” he said, voice cracking slightly. “i just… i’ve never done this before.”

you paused, looking at him.

“what, like flirted?”

he nodded miserably. “yeah. that.”

you stepped in close again, hand brushing down his arm. “you’re doing great, baby.”

his entire face lit up like a christmas tree at that.

and that was it. you were hooked. you were absolutely going to destroy this man with affection.

[ild-rllrcstr]

Offline, Online part 1

Lando Norris X You / slow burn / 3.1K

part 2 (coming soon)

Summary Online, you know him as your constant racing rival and friend who talks about everything. Unawareingly, offline, he's Lando Norris, the charming, frustrating driver you’re assigned to style, who somehow makes every workday a challenge. At work, you don’t like him. He doesn’t take you seriously. But behind the screens, you both vent about each other without knowing who’s who. Slowly, late-night races and shared secrets start to blur the lines between friendship and something more. As reality and virtual worlds collide, feelings sneak up when you least expect them.

Warnings swearing A/N Had this idea for a while, just was trying to figure out how I can make it work, that's why it's taking me a while, hope you like this!

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Growing up with two older brothers obsessed with cars, your childhood was shaped by the sound of engines and the thrill of competition. Your favourite family pastime? Sim racing. From clunky old Nintendos and chaotic rounds of Mario Kart, to the sleek playseats that came later, your childhood home even had a room dedicated just for it. Glowing screens, the occasional shouting match, it was your version of bonding.

Now that all three of you have moved out, the playseat came with you. It sits proudly in the corner of your apartment, slightly scratched, a little worn, but updates throughout the years have made it special, it’s yours. Whenever life lets you breathe between lectures, meetings, or deadlines, you’re in that seat, headset on, world off. It’s the only place where your brain quiets down.

Every vacation, like a sacred ritual, your family meets for real karting. Nothing fancy, just cracked helmets, adrenaline, and way too much post-race trash talk over greasy burgers. 

That same energy followed you online. What started as a few family Discord races evolved into a tiny, anonymous sim racing community, just a handful of players, most of whom you've never met, but know like clockwork. You race together. Chat late at night. Share playlists. Sometimes vent. No real names. No real identities. Just usernames, shared laps, and the comforting hum of familiarity.

Hanging behind your name on the ranking is always @mclateagain4, You don’t know who he is, not really.

His voice always crackles through your headset most nights like static and safety, confident, teasing. Always one second behind you, always threatening to beat your lap. 

He’s funny, in that low-effort way that feels real. He never pushes. But when he really talks, there’s a weight to it. Like someone who spends too much time pretending he’s fine. But lately, you're starting to think about him more than you used to.

Not in a crushy, hearts-in-your-eyes kind of way, at least that’s what you keep telling yourself. It's just... he’s always there. Same time. Same lobby. Same teasing drawl and last-minute overtakes. You’ve started noticing things. You noticed the way his voice softens when he’s tired, how he breathes heavier when he’s frustrated. He somehow always knows when you’ve had a rough day, even when you say nothing. It should be weird. But it’s not.

You don’t even know his real name. He only ever said to call him “Late.”Just Late.

Which you did, until one night, maybe out of tiredness, maybe just to see how he’d react, you called him Lando.

There was a pause. Then a low laugh.

“Do I really sound that much like him?”

“Exactly like him,” you replied, with a small smirk he couldn’t see.

“I’ll take that as a compliment, I guess. He’s kinda hot.”

You snorted. “Your favourite driver is going to get all flushed if he hears that.”

“Well, I think he’ll graciously accept that compliment.”

And that was that. A joke. A deflection. But still… something lingered.

Even your brothers brought it up once or twice, half-serious, half-mocking.

“If that is Lando, you could technically say you beat a Formula 1 driver three nights in a row.”

“If that is Lando,” you rolled your eyes, “he should be embarrassed.”

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You weren’t supposed to care.

This was a job, just another freelance gig. High-profile of the year, sure, but temporary. You’d worked events before, styled minor names, built up your portfolio. This was no different.

Except, it was.

Because the second you saw his name on the call sheet, your stomach flipped. Lando Norris. The same driver whose race wins you’d cheered, whose Monaco onboard laps you’d rewatched more times than you’d admit. He was a big part of your journey watching F1. But now, none of that mattered.

Because now, you were here to work.

You remind yourself of that as you step into the studio with your clipboard in hand. Your job? Coordinate styling for an event he’s part of for the quarter of the year. Keep everything on schedule. Be precise. Be professional.

No fangirling. No mistakes. You kept it professional. That’s what mattered.

But he showed up twenty minutes late, hoodie half-zipped, sunglasses on indoors, and laughing at something on his phone. He apparently overslept.

Even if he acted like it was no big deal. Like everyone would wait. Like time bent for him.

You’d worked with big names before. Actors. Models. Musicians. But something about Lando Norris, the real, in-person version of him, rubbed you the wrong way.

It wasn’t his fault, really. Not completely. He was polite enough. He said “Good morning” to everyone when he walked in. Smiled when the assistant handed him water. Made a joke to the lighting guy that had everyone laughing.

Everyone but you.

Because this wasn’t a joke. You were here to make sure he looked camera-ready. That the angles matched, the pieces sat right, and the vision stayed intact. That meant time. Precision. Focus.

And Lando, apparently, focus was not his best strength outside of that car.

He slouched during fittings, fidgeted during test shots, messed with his hair between takes. When you gently asked him to sit up straighter or stop undoing buttons, he just grinned, like it was a game.

You didn’t argue. Didn’t complain. Just kept your head down and finished the job.

"All good?” he asked once, noticing your silence while you fixed a collar.

“Yeah,” you said. “We’re on track.”

He nodded, but something in his expression flickered, like he noticed your tone and wasn’t sure how to read it. You didn’t clarify. You weren’t here to make friends. Just clothes fit.

That night, you finally kicked off your shoes, sit onto your race seat, and threw your headset on like it was armour.

Late was already in the lobby. His little car was idling on the screen like always.

"You sound tense today." He heard your sigh.

"I had the longest day with the most unbothered human alive."

You hit the track. The familiar hum of engines instantly started quieting your thoughts. But not enough.

"What happened?" He asked, the both of you warming up for the game.

You sighed again, "I’m on a new project working with this guy today, he was the main person for a campaign. Shows up late, makes jokes like it’s a school play, just seemed to be very unserious."

"So… like, main character syndrome?"

"Exactly. I get it, he’s the star. But damn, the world doesn’t gravitate around you."

"Maybe he was nervous and covering it," he laughed a bit.

"If nervous looks like flirting with the interns and ignoring directions, then sure. Olympic-level nerves."

He laughed in that quiet way of his, like he didn’t want to admit he found it as funny.

"Sounds like he brought the whole circus with him."

"You’d think. But honestly, I think he just… performs too much. It’s like no one’s ever told him he doesn’t have to be “on” all the time."

"Huh." You could almost hear him thinking on the other end of the headset.

"Funny. I had the opposite kind of day. Worked with someone who made it feel like I was talking to my grade 3 literature teacher every single time."

You blinked at his description.

"I’m assuming you didn’t like your grade 3 literature teacher very much."

He chuckled. "Yeah. She hated me like I was stupid or something. The person today was just like that, ice cold. Super tight up. Like, painfully professional."

"Maybe she didn’t want to blur lines."

"Sure. But I wasn’t asking her to braid friendship bracelets. I just try to make a good atmosphere at work, and she looked like I kicked her cat."

"Maybe you’re not as funny as you think you are."

"Ouch, but you love my jokes."

"I do." You laughed for real this time, and he did too, like some weird balance had been restored.

You both raced in near silence for a while after that. Just engine sounds, key clicks, and the occasional breath shared through static.

He beat your lap time. You called him a menace. He called you a tyrant.

You didn’t say anything about how your chest felt lighter.

Neither of you knew you’d spent the whole day silently bristling at each other… only to find comfort in each other later, under different names, different masks.

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The next shoot was scheduled for Friday.

You’d already blocked it out on your calendar, triple-checked call times, and re-reviewed Lando’s sizing notes, though he probably wouldn’t wear half the things on the rack. You made your peace with that. It’s how the work is.

What you hadn’t made peace with was the fact that your stomach still flipped when his name showed up in your inbox. That same twist of nerves. Not from awe anymore, no, that had been crushed beneath a stack of moodboards and missed cues. Now, it was just tension.

You kept your head down all day.

You’d learned that trick early on. When things fall apart, stay quiet, stay useful. Control what you can.

Still, it didn’t stop the sting when the creative director barked that your notes were confusing, while it was obvious that he didn’t read any of your notes. Someone messed up the order of looks, but you took the blame. It didn’t stop the embarrassment when Lando, in front of half the team, cracked a joke about how tightly you clung to the schedule like it was life support.

You didn’t respond. Just gave a clipped nod, pretended your throat didn’t feel tight.

It wasn’t his fault. Not directly. He didn’t know what kind of morning you’d had. Didn’t know about the last-minute changes that no one told you about. Didn’t know that your work, your planning, your precision, was the only thing keeping the entire shoot from unravelling. And maybe that was the point.

He didn’t see you. Not really.

Later, you overheard him laughing with the photographer. Something about “people who take things way too seriously.” You didn’t stick around long enough to hear the punchline.

You left quietly without saying goodbye.

That night, your fingers hovered over your keyboard for a long moment before you typed.

You: Longest. Day. Ever.

"That bad?" His voice went through your headset like soothing

"Have you ever have one of those days where nothing technically explodes, but it still feels like you got run over emotionally?"

"Like a passive-aggressive train? Yeah."

You hesitated. Then just… let it spill.

"I got snapped at in front of a whole team for something that wasn’t my fault. Got told I was too ‘rigid’ when I was the only one holding things together. The person I was working with basically made me the punchline of the day."

There was a pause from him. "That sucks. I’m sorry."

"Yeah, well. That’s what I get for trying to be good at what I do."

"They sound like a bunch of arses."

"I don’t think they meant to be. He was just… doing his thing. Being chill. Everyone else liked him. I just… I don’t know. It made me feel small. And stupid in front of everybody."

There was a longer pause this time.

"That’s the worst. When someone makes you feel invisible but doesn’t even realise it."

You didn’t say anything for a moment. Just let his words sit there, heavier than you expected.

"I kinda feel that, had a crap day too." it was his turn to sigh.

"Yeah?"

"Worked with someone who I’m pretty sure hated my entire existence. Like, I was annoying just by breathing. Kept things cold, clipped. Acted like I was wasting their time just by showing up."

You blinked. Sat up straighter.

"That person sounds like an ass too."

"Maybe. Or maybe I was just too much. That happens sometimes." It was rare for you to hear the inconfidence in his voice.

You stared at the screen. 

"You’re not too much."

"You don’t even know me."

"For the times that we’ve raced together, I know how you race. I know how you talk when you’re tired. I know how you listen. I know you never miss when someone’s off. That’s not 'too much.' That’s human."

It took him a while to reply.

"Thanks. That means more than you think."

And something shifted after that.

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The next time you Lando has a shooting, he was fitting with the director, laughing about lightening and something that has nothing to do with you. You were just arranging the space, folding pieces that had just come back from set, when the project manager approached.

“What happened with Lando’s jacket?” she snapped, not even lowering her voice. “That collar looked ridiculous in the wide shots.”

Your heart sank.

You had adjusted that collar three times. Each time, he’d shifted, moved, joked, then finally waved off the last touch-up before cameras rolled. But you didn’t say that.

You just stood there, mouth opening, then closing. Heat crawled up your neck.

“Seriously, wake up,” the manager added, already walking away.

You turned back to the rack slowly, biting the inside of your cheek. You stayed there longer than you needed to, pretending to refold a sleeve.

Lando was half-turned, frozen mid-step, having returned to grab his water bottle from the table. Watching the whole thing from the corner of the room. His face wasn’t playful anymore.

He didn’t say anything. Not yet. Not then. But he saw.

Later that night.

He hadn’t brought up the moment, didn’t mention the manager, didn’t say your name. But something in the way he spoke was different, more hesitant.

"Have you ever felt like… You missed something important? Like, you saw it too late?"

You blinked.

"All the time. Why?"

"Just wondering."

You didn’t push. Instead, you let the silence settle. And in the quiet, you started drifting further into something fragile. Not a fall. Just… a shift in gravity.

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The event for one of the campaigns was running late.

The sun was brutal, the lighting was acting up, and the team was running on three cups of coffee and nerves. You were adjusting wardrobe pieces under the canopy tent, double-checking changes for the next setup. Nothing was sitting quite right on the new looks, and with how behind they were, everyone was snapping.

“I told you this was supposed to be a navy tone!” one of the creative leads barked, tossing a fabric swatch onto the table where you were laying out backup pieces.

You inhaled through your nose. Slowly.

“That's the navy one we talked about,” you said, as calmly as you could. “Lighting’s off because of the clouds, but under studio…”

“Don’t give me excuses, just get it fixed.”

You blinked. Opened your mouth. Closed it.

Lando had been off to the side, chatting with the photographer and sipping his iced drink. But the moment the words were thrown in your direction, you saw him pause. Look over. Then, surprisingly, walk over.

He didn’t make a big scene of it.

He just stepped beside you, picked up the swatch, and said, “This is the exact one we agreed on in pre-prod. I remember it. You even showed me. Let me try it on, it seems fine…” He smoothly put the watch on. “It’s perfect, see, right guys?” He looked around, asking, and people just nodded along.

You turned to him, caught off guard. You hadn’t even thought he’d noticed that moment, and barely anyone else had paid attention during those early meetings.

The creative lead faltered. “Well, we’re going with that then.”

“Maybe we can adjust the lighting before we blame the clothes,” Lando replied smoothly, his tone light but edged.

That was the thing about him. He didn’t yell. He didn’t need to.

He looked back at you, and for a split second, there was something different in his eyes. Not just amusement. Not just surface charm. It felt like recognition.

“I’m ready, let’s try it,” he said, and walked off toward the camera again, unfazed.

Your chest tightened. You didn’t know what to say. You just turned back to your rack, fingers suddenly a little shakier than before.

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡

The late-night sim racing banter stayed. The usual trash talk and late-night race sessions didn’t stop. But somewhere between lap times and playlists, the space between you and Late started to feel… tender.

He sent you a song once and said it reminded him of your voice. You saved it. You started typing longer messages, shared pictures of your setup, and a photo of your karting helmet. He told you once he liked hearing your laugh in his headset. You never said it out loud, but you started smiling more around him.

You weren’t falling. Not really. You were just leaning, ever so slightly, toward someone you didn’t even know. Or thought you didn’t.

Which is why it stung a little too much when one night, somewhere between qualifying heats and midnight, he asked "Can I ask you something a bit random?"

"Sure, we already know how weird you are, don’t think I’ll be any more surprised."

You both chuckled.

"Is it weird to be attracted to someone you don’t really know that well?"

Your pulse jumped. "I think it can be. Why?"

"Just… there’s this girl. I think I misunderstood her. I think the more I pay attention, I’m starting to understand why she did the things the way she did."

You stared at the screen for too long. Long enough that he sent a follow-up.

"Sorry. That was probably weird."

"No, not weird. Just… is that the girl at work?"

"Ehhh… yeah."

You swallowed. You stared at the message so long, your screen dimmed.

Of course it was someone else.

Of course this was just banter to him. Jokes and playlists and soft 2 AM confessions, just part of the game. You thought maybe, just maybe, it was something else. Something quieter and slower and real. Like every other time in your life, you thought something good was going on, well, it’s not.

But apparently, he had someone in real life. Someone he was trying to understand. It just further frustrates you that the person happened to be the person he’s been complaining about. And you supported him, you always support each other.

You took a breath. Decided to go with something sarcastic, something defensive.

" I think it’s not weird at all. If you’re starting to understand her, that’s probably a good thing."

"You think?"

"Yeah. Sometimes people don’t show who they are right away. Doesn’t mean they’re not worth trying to know."

There was a pause, he was letting your words sink into his mind..

"I knew you’d say something smart like that."

"Someone’s gotta balance out your dumb."

He laughed, his usual, low one that always made you smile. But tonight, you didn’t. Not quite.

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡

[snowstormarts]

Hi!! Since you’re taking Date Everything requests, could you please do some cuddling headcanons for Jean Loo, Cam, and Tony?

[I will try my best, I sadly have only gotten Cam's Friendship route and the other two I have gotten the hate routes sadly ú^ú But I am confident that I can write something up for all of them, especially our dear Trashcan!]

Cuddling Time 2 [Date Everything x GN Reader]

[Feat; Jean Loo, Cam & Tony] [Divider Credit]

🗑 Cam 🗑

- He acts rough and tough, even leaning on mean on some occasions but once you two get to know each other? He's a real cuddle bug, he loves having you close by and on hard days he asks to be the little spoon for the night. Don't tease him about it, it's a sensitive topic for him to be vulnerable just hold him close and enjoy having him there

- He pulls you on top of himself, arms wrapping around your hips as he lets you use him as a personal mattress. Which is the perfect opportunity to play with his face or poke his face, he will huff and playfully try to bite your fingers until you tire yourself out

- He smells quiet nice actually for someone who's a Trashcan, he would never admit it but he is a bit self-conscious over his smell. Especially since some others be it in your home or outside would complain about it often, so he always makes sure to get some perfume or get a shower if Johnny lets him

- If you ask him about it he will answer honestly, though it might take some time to convince him even a little that you aren't that bothered by his natural smell (which is often a mix of take-out, papers & the occasional deodorant/perfume bottle, it oddly enough smells quiet nice actually?)

🚽Jean Loo 🚽

- He's very busy with his rapping career, be it from working on another rap for his album or because of an upcoming performance but do not fret, Jean Loo always makes sure to have time for you even if it means sneaking in when you've already fallen and asleep and cuddle up to you, holding you from behind until you wake up the next morning to find him drooling onto the pillow

- But when he has time get ready to sit somewhere comfy and have him between your arms as he tells you his upcoming rap ideas for hours on end. If you wanna stop it just kiss him on the cheek and watch the master of crap freezes up for a minute but be prepared, Jean Loo never goes down without a fight, especially if it's a fight of affection and love

- When he's a big spoon he will take off his jewelry, even his trusty necklace with the Ballcock. He wants to make sure his muse is comfortable in his arms as you both hold onto the other, eyes closed as your foreheads gently collide against one another with a shared short laugh, he will whisper sweet nothings in french to you

🛠 Tony 🛠

- He thought for sure that he would nail your first cuddling session but to keep it short, he got a bit too excited and confused a gentle hold with an intense bear hug, say what you will but his arms truely are strong and muscular

- And speaking of them, he will carry you to a spot to cuddle with you if you even so much hint at it, nothing will stop him to share some quality time with you (except maybe if someone needs fixing immideantly and even then it's only if it's an emergency. But while he reluctantly goes he will make sure everyone hears his long sighs as he promise to come back soon as fast as he can)

- Tony in general is very muscular, his arms aren't the most comfortable to rest again but his chest? A perfect spot, especially when his arms snake around you and he holds you in such a secure grip. You ever need a slight, gentle squeeze? He can give you it and it feels almost like a weighted blanket but better since you can hear his heart speeding up whenever he hears you sigh and relax further into his hold

[sylus-shivanika]

This is where you grew.

Sylus x fem!reader.

Trigger warning: This story contains themes of self-harm, emotional trauma, betrayal, and healing after abuse. Please read with care. If you're in a vulnerable place, prioritize your mental well-being first.

You never meant to let anyone see it.

The faint scars on your lower forearm weren’t just lines. They were echoes. Memories etched into your skin. Each one a quiet scream, a night soaked in tears, a betrayal that shattered you so violently it felt like lightning splitting glass.

Someone had taken your softness, your trust, your light... and crushed it under the weight of lies. And for a long time, you convinced yourself that maybe you deserved it. That maybe you were the one who wasn’t enough.

But you had survived.

And survival never comes easy. It doesn’t come without scars. Without silence so thick, even the sound of your own breath felt too loud. It doesn’t come without the kind of invisible pain that sits behind every smile.

Even now, even with Sylus, who somehow made the world feel safe again, you still wore long sleeves like armor. Not out of shame. But to protect that part of you that once begged the world not to look too closely. That fragile part that whispered, please don’t see me. Please don’t ask.

Until that summer afternoon.

You hadn’t expected him to visit.

You hadn’t expected the gentle knock on your door, the warmth in his smile, the way his presence filled the room like sunlight seeping into a place that hadn’t felt warm in years. You were caught off guard. Your walls weren’t up. You hadn’t had time to prepare.

And when he pulled you into a hug, arms wrapping around you like home, your sleeve shifted. Just slightly. Just enough.

Just enough for him to see.

He stilled. His hand, resting on your arm, paused.

But he didn’t pull away.

He didn’t tense. Didn’t panic. His thumb brushed lightly along your forearm, pausing where the scar revealed itself to him like a soft whisper.

His eyes lifted to meet yours. They were wide, full, but not with shock.

They were full of ache.

Of something so deep, it made your knees feel unsteady.

“...Baby,” he said softly, the word barely making it past the lump in his throat. “Are you okay?”

You froze.

Every instinct screamed to retreat. To mask. To laugh it off.

So you smiled too fast. Too fragile. “Yeah. It’s nothing. Don’t worry.”

But he didn’t believe you. And he didn’t push either.

He stepped forward just a little, slow like approaching a wounded bird. His voice softened to something that wrapped around your heart like a blanket.

“It’s okay if you’re not ready. You don’t have to tell me anything. I just want you to know… I’m here. Every version of you is safe with me.”

Something in you cracked.

Not because of pity.

But because of his kindness. Because of how gently he held your pain, like it was something precious, not something ugly. Because he didn’t look at your scar like it was damage. He looked at it like it mattered.

Your throat closed. You tried to hold it in. But your lips trembled. Your vision blurred.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, the words escaping before you could stop them. “I didn’t want you to see me like… that.”

Sylus’s brows knit together, not in confusion, but in heartbreak. His jaw clenched slightly, and his eyes glistened.

He reached out slowly, letting his hand hover before gently cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing a tear from your skin like it was something sacred.

“Don’t ever apologize for surviving,” he said, his voice low but steady. “Don’t apologize for carrying something someone else broke. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out. Just a breath. A stuttering inhale. And finally, in pieces, the truth rose.

“I just… I hurt myself because someone I once loved cheated on me. And I thought it was my fault. I thought… I wasn’t enough.”

Sylus exhaled sharply, like the pain in your voice had physically reached into his chest. But he didn’t explode with anger. There was no rage in his eyes. Just grief.

His hand moved gently, brushing your hair behind your ear with such tenderness it nearly shattered you all over again.

“He broke your heart,” he murmured. “And you thought the blame belonged to you. God…”

His voice cracked.

“You were never not enough,” he said, pressing his forehead to yours. “He couldn’t see your worth. That was his failure. Not yours. These scars… they aren’t shame. They’re proof.”

Your voice trembled. “Proof of what?”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his own brimming.

“Proof that you stayed. That you chose to keep breathing, even when it hurt. That your heart still believes in love, even after everything.”

Then, without a word, he reached into his shirt's pocket. His fingers curled around something small and delicate. He brought out a tiny white flower.

From your garden.

He took your hand, slowly, as if asking permission with every movement. He guided your forearm into his palm, his fingers trembling slightly as he placed the flower over the scar. His gaze never left yours.

“This,” he said gently, “is from where you grew. Even in the dark. Even when everything told you not to.”

And then he leaned in, lips brushing the pale line so softly it didn’t feel like a kiss. It felt like a prayer.

His voice was barely audible. “Whenever that ache creeps in again, remember this flower. My kiss. And my voice telling you… you didn’t just survive. You bloomed.”

The tears came like a flood. Your fingers clutched the fabric of his shirt as sobs wracked through your chest. But it wasn’t from pain anymore.

It was from release. From being held in a moment you never thought someone would stay for. From being seen.

Really, truly seen.

And loved.

Sylus held you tighter. Not to trap you. Not to fix you.

But to surround you in the safety you had always deserved.

He pressed a kiss to your temple. “Repeat after me.”

You nodded, barely able to find your breath.

“I’m strong,” he said.

Your voice cracked. “I’m strong.”

“This scar is my sign of bravery.”

You touched it lightly. “This scar is my sign of bravery.”

“And I always deserve the best.”

Your lips trembled again. “And… I got the best.”

A soft laugh escaped him, laced with tears. He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes.

“What’s the best?” he asked, voice thick with emotion.

“You,” you whispered. “You’re my best, Sylus.”

He cupped your face, his eyes shining, his thumbs brushing your cheeks with reverence.

“And you,” he breathed, “are the most beautiful warrior I’ve ever had the honor to love.”

In that moment, your scar wasn’t a secret. It wasn’t a wound to hide.

It was a part of you that had been met with love. With gentleness. With a touch so soft it rewrote every moment of pain that had come before.

It had finally… been given peace.

[charliegyrth]

Your Wonderful Boyfriend

An Extreme Weight Gain Story

Hi, everyone! I wanted to add a warning here. This story's a lot darker than my usual stuff.

***

You’re sexy and you know it. After two years of almost-daily workouts, you’ve sculpted yourself into an absolute adonis. People stare as you pass. Guys throw their numbers at you left and right. You’re perfect.

And then you meet me.

I’m not like the other guys who ogle you at the gym. I treat you like a person instead of an object. I actually like your personality.

Sure, I’m a bit skinny for your taste, and I expect you to do everything in bed. I’m not as masculine as your past boyfriends, but I’m kinder. Funnier. With me, you never feel pressured to be perfect. I’m such a wonderful boyfriend.

So you skip your gym routines a bit. You’d rather hang out with me. At times, this feels intentional, like I’m purposely scheduling dinner dates when I know that you were planning to work out.

But oh well. It’s more fun to be with me anyway.

You start spending every night at my place, snuggling together and watching movies. I always have snacks handy, which is great. It’s fun to cheat every once in a while.

But after a month, you realize that your gym time has really diminished, and you’re snacking more than ever before. You start to crave the brownies and muffins that I always keep on hand. You even buy some for your own apartment, something you never would’ve done before.

It takes you two months to notice that your body’s changing. Your abs have smoothed over and your waist has thickened.

This scares you, but you don’t say anything. I haven’t even noticed.

You realize that everything we do in the bedroom is just getting better. I seem more determined now, more forceful. I even top sometimes. Little me taking you from behind. You're surprised how much you like that.

By our third month together, you have to buy new pants. You’re not fat or anything, but your thighs have expanded a bit. I really like this change, and you sort of like it, too. There’s an increased sway to your walk that feels pretty great.

Then your shirts stop fitting. You have a slight belly now. It's been curved for a while, but now it’s noticeable through all your clothes. This is when you realize that you need to head back to the gym.

But when you try your old sets, it’s a lot harder. It used to be fun, but now working out feels like actual work. And you don’t have guys ogling over you anymore. That used to be a big motivation to show off.

You finish your workout early and head home. You promise yourself to try again on Thursday, but you don’t.

You finally have a talk with me. You say you’re getting out of shape.

I assure you that you look amazing. And I ask if you’re happier now.

You are. You can’t deny it.

I convince you to move in with me. It doesn’t take much convincing, though. You’re already spending most nights at my place.

Because I live so much farther from the gym, I convince you to let your membership lapse. You tell yourself that it’s okay. After all, I have some free weights in my apartment.

You use them periodically, but you really don’t have the motivation anymore.

I’ve always been a great cook, but you really start to look forward to my dinners. You crave them now. At work, you feel your mouth watering as you pack up your stuff to leave. Either I’ve changed the ingredients or you’ve just gotten used to my food. You notice I’m making bigger portions now, but you never complain. You love how hard I work in the kitchen to keep you satisfied.

One day, you catch your reflection in the living room window. (The bathroom mirror is only big enough to show your face.) The image shocks you. How could you not have noticed your love handles? And your pecs are definitely drooping now.

You pull out a scale from the closet and finally weigh yourself. You’ve gained 50 pounds without even realizing it.

Panic fills you as you wait for me to come home. When I do, you tell me that you’re fat, as if I hadn’t noticed.

“Of course you are,” I say. “And I love it.”

You don’t like that answer, but as soon as I grab you by your soft waist and lead you into the bedroom, all your panic is gone.

I fuck you again. I’m particularly forceful, and you love every thrust. I grab at your chest, jiggling it. Why does that feel so good?

You realize that our roles in the bedroom have completely changed. You can’t even remember the last time you were on top. I’ve completely taken over.

As I erupt inside you, I whisper in your ear. “Take it, fatty.”

I’ve never called you that before. And you freaking love it.

After that, I’m more open about what I’m doing to you. I even show you the extra butter and cream that I’ve been adding to your half of the meals. Well, more than half, really. I serve you double what I serve myself.

At work, you have an existential crisis. Your boyfriend is making you fat, and I’m really damn good at it. You’re scared, but you keep thinking about how happy you are, and how much you love me, and you convince yourself that everything’s okay.

You outgrow your clothes again, but I’m prepared. I’ve already ordered you bigger shirts and stretchier pants. They’re not as fashionable as what you used to wear, but they feel so much more comfortable.

As you look at your reflection in the window, you notice that your hips have widened dramatically. Your belly droops more, but it’s nothing compared to your lower half. You feel your sides, noticing the edges of cellulite. You don’t like that at all.

You try to find the scale to weigh yourself, but I hid it somewhere.

As we eat dinner together, you tell me that you’ve gone too far. You don’t want to gain any more weight.

I understand. I kiss you and tell you you’re beautiful exactly like this. I even offer to start cooking more reasonable meals for you.

That doesn’t work. The hunger is inside you now, and after three days of small dinners and no snacks, you tell me that you give up. I smile. I've been waiting to hear that.

Months pass, and you’ve become a completely different person. You don’t feel satisfied unless you’re snacking. Your office is filled with boxes of donuts and muffins. Sometimes, I surprise you with a package on your desk.

People are staring at you again, but this time, they look at you with pity instead of lust. Your coworkers all remember what you used to look like, and they feel so sorry for you. On one level, this bothers you. But on another, deeper level, you like the pity. You don’t know why it feels good, but it does.

You waddle when you walk now. You become much slower-moving. And every step you take causes your legs to rub together painfully. You complain to me, and I start applying ointment to your inner thighs. You like that. It turns into foreplay. I cream you up and then I take you into the bedroom.

I feel so much stronger now. You love how easily I can overpower you. At times I’m gentle, but most of the time, I’m really not. I know that’s what you want.

I stop calling you by your name. Just “fatty” now. Or “my pig.” You didn’t like that at first, but now you really do.

After a while, I pull the scale out of its hiding place and ask you to step on. You can’t see past your belly, so I read the number. “377.”

You don’t know how you feel.

“Would you like to keep getting bigger?” I ask.

You want to say no. You want to scream it at me. But as I run my hands down your bare, dimpled thighs, you whisper, “Yes.”

And now years later, here you are, sprawled out on the bed while I sit on your belly. I’m careful not to press too hard. You’re already full of lasagna and spaghetti. I kiss you, then feed you a brownie. I alternate. Kiss then brownie, kiss then brownie.

You fill the whole bed now, your stomach oozing over the sides, your legs spread out to accommodate the roll of fat over your crotch. You’ve buried yourself in fat, and it’s much, much too late to ever go back.

I tell you I love you, and you know that’s true. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have grown you into immobility. I wouldn’t have allowed you to quit your job so you could stay at home and eat.

You touch my face, but it’s pretty hard to raise your arm these days. I ask how you feel, probably because I want to see if I need to clean you again.

“Happy,” you mutter. You don’t really speak in full sentences anymore.

“Me, too,” I say as I slide in another brownie.

“Itchy,” you add. You have a cluster of fresh stretchmarks on your side fat that are really bothering you.

I get your cream. Then I lather up my hands and rub your sides. I know exactly what areas are bothering you.

I’m such a wonderful boyfriend.

The End.

You can find all my stories here. And if you like this one, I'd also recommend You Ruin Your Perfect Body.

[theseh00perscanh00p]

10 Moments That Led Me Back to You : Part 1

paige x azzi

a/n: This is just the intro so it's short but I promise the rest of this story will be much longer we just laying the foundation here. Summary this is a AU story primarily written from the POV of Paige and her reflection on several years post break up with Azzi the one who was always the right person but felt like the wrong time...

word count: 1.5k

Introduction

The text came in at 2:43 a.m.

I didn’t open it.

Not because I didn’t want to.

Because I knew that if I did, I’d begin writing back — and if I began writing back, I wouldn’t stop until I’d rewritten the whole narrative.

And we both know I’ve done too much rewriting.

Instead I turned on my side, buried my face in a pillow that didn’t smell like you, and I reached for my phone with that instinctive dread I only feel when I know it’s you on the other side of it.

I opened the Notes app.

New note.

Blank page.

10 Moments That Led Me Back to You...

I just kept waiting for the blinking cursor, it staring right back at me, sitting there, as the weight of everything I haven’t been able to say just built up.

Because nobody likes to talk about what happens after the breakup when, once lovers keep meeting in bypass through shared friends and life events that lead you both back to ending up in the same room.

No one tells you how long you’ll hold your breath.

How the air never quite returns the same.

You know how they say your 20s are for figuring shit out:

Who you are. What you want. What you’ll stand for.

But no one tells you that “figuring it out” can also involve breaking your own heart, intentionally, and then spending the next several years pretending that you’re O.K. with that.

I knew it to be the right thing.

That when I chose basketball over you, I was choosing my future.

And maybe I was.

But what I didn’t know at the time is that the future gets lonely real quick when you build it without the one person who made you feel like you could actually live in it.

So here I am.

Sitting in a vast apartment, in a city I once loved, staring at a blank note I’ve rewritten 100 times.

Ten things.

Ten lessons.

Ten unsuccessful tries at moving on from you.

Ten gentle reminders that I did not.

This isn’t a love story.

It’s a map.

Moments that hadn’t made sense until they suddenly connected back to you.

I start to type...

The Failed Blind Date

The Wedding Plus One’s

The Championship Game

The Funeral

The Baby Shower

The Oil Change

The Engagement

The Fair

The Letter

The You

Now my finger drifts over the screen. I almost delete it all.

But instead, I tap Save.

Because maybe I am finally ready to quit pretending I didn’t remember you.

Maybe this time…

I’ll follow the map of us all the way back.

I really had no intention of writing about the night we stopped.

But it keeps circling back, loud in my chest as if it just happened.

People assume breakups involve yelling. Crying. Something large, and expensive, and stunning enough to signal the moment.

But not us.

We faded away slowly.

Flashback: Seven years ago

We were packing our on-campus apartment, or at least pretending to.

Cardboard boxes half-filled. Textbooks we’d never return. A flapping edge, already curling at the corners, featuring a loose photo strip of us at the summer state fair that I found in a drawer.

The kitchen was almost bare. Nothing but a steamer, a half-stale bag of chips, and two mugs, each of which had our initials.

You had a pile of towels on the bed and you were folding them and I knew the way you folded them meant you didn’t want to talk. I leaned on the windowsill, doing that thing I’d always done when I wasn’t sure what to say (we had learned young that my mouth was quicker than my brain at times) I was spinning your old spare house key between my fingers, as though it might be the one to start saying something first.

We hadn’t said it yet. Not out loud. But the room sensed it was coming.

It was how we wouldn’t look each other in the eye. How we touched things, as if they were fragile. The way we were passing in the halls like strangers in the space we used to fill with noise, stupid dance parties and inside jokes we didn’t even have to explain.

I cleared my throat, once. Twice.

You didn’t look up. You just kept folding.

That’s when I said the thing I’d rehearsed in my head 100 times, and still got wrong after all.

“I think I need to take on this next part of life by myself.”

You didn’t flinch. Not really. But then your hands stopped folding. As if the towel you were holding had suddenly become something alien.

“What part?”

Your voice was quiet. Too steady. The slow kind, that only comes when you don’t feel like you can edge one more step out of yourself.

“All of it,” I said. “The draft. The league. The pressure. The schedule I can’t control. The media. The expectations. All of it.”

I inhaled, but it was not enough.

“I don’t know who I am in the thick of it all. And if I bring us with me…”

I couldn’t look at you.

“I’m scared I’ll lose both.”

That��s when you turned your head and looked at me.

You blinked, slowly, as though giving yourself a chance to feel it.

And then you spoke and it was softer than I thought. More honest.

“You really think I’d hold you back?”

“No,” I said immediately. “God, no. That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it, Paige?”

You weren’t angry. You weren’t crying. You were just… there. Open.

And that hurt worse. Because it would have hurt less if you’d been cruel.

“It’s not about you,” I said under my breath. “It’s about me.”

“That’s the thing,” you said. “It was always about you. And I was okay with that. I wanted to be there for it: the madness, the late nights, the big wins. I wanted all of it with you.”

“But what if I mess it up?” I asked, voice cracking. “What if I attempt the juggling act and drop you in the end?”

You shook your head.

“Then you talk to me. We figure it out. That’s a part of what people do when they love each other.”

For a moment there was a silence that hurt. I looked down at the key in my hand. Your key. Our key. The one you gave me from sophomore year when I kept falling asleep on your couch.

“I love you,” I said. And I meant it. Every syllable.

“You know that, right?”

You nodded. Too fast this time.

“Yeah. I know.”

You gazed at the half-folded towel in your lap, the last thing anchoring you to the room.

“So this is what you have decided?”

I nodded.

“I think so.”

“Okay.”

And that’s when it hit me you weren’t going to fight me.

You weren’t going to beg for me to stay.

You didn’t want to ask me to choose.

And I hated you for that, at least a part of me did.

’Cause if you did maybe beg, ask, or fight I might have stayed.

Perhaps I needed a reason to not believe my own thoughts.

Perhaps I needed to hear that I was worth staying for as well.

But you said nothing more. You simply got up, came over to the sink and lifted my chipped mug off the counter. You threw it in one of the towels like it mattered. As if it was still yours to care about.

You crossed back over and placed it on the box near the door.

Then down you went, and you’d kissed me on the cheek like it was nothing at all. Not a goodbye. A surrender.

“I hope you get everything you’re chasing after,” you said.

I closed my eyes.

Shielding myself from the words I should’ve said.

What I didn’t allow myself to say.

You were everything.

Back to Present

I swallow hard.

The apartment is quiet, too quiet — the sort of quiet that makes your thoughts seem louder. My phone gives a single buzz against the mattress and I know without looking that it is still there.

The text.

Still unopened. Still waiting.

It’s not long. Not dramatic. Most likely written in a burst of late-night confidence that you hoped I wouldn’t notice until I woke up in the morning.

"Was thinking about you today. Hope you’re well, miss you.”

That’s all.

Just ten words.

But they unravel me.

Because delusion is no longer something you wonder about. You don’t express the hopes “call me” or “can we talk?” You just leave little, soft, tiny breadcrumbs, like you’re maybe not sure yet if you are even allowed to want an answer.

Seven years.

Ten things.

A hundred versions of almost.

A thousand missed chances.

And yet … we continue to orbit. Still stuck in this… whatever this is. Whatever we never finished.

I think about opening it. Typing something back. Anything.

But, instead, I put the phone down face-down like I used to, and I stare at the ceiling like it knows the answer.

We both moved on.

But only sort of.

We both grew up.

But never out of each other.

And maybe this time I finally say all the things I wish I would have said.

And maybe this time I let myself finally come back home to you.

But first let's rewind and think about the 10 moments that led me here...