#'are we cool' yes we are freezing

[deeply-embarrassing]

This particular scene at the party in the pilot episode drives me insane

[crypticpatterns]

atsushi’s trying his best

[neeeooon]

Hiii, I loved your "when they find out they have a kid" work, so I was wondering if you can do a part 2 with other characters? Itoshi brothers and Reo + any characters you'd like. Thank you <3

YES thank you sm!! i have another req for isagi so i’m combining those (ty both for requesting) 💙💙

when they find out they have a kid, pt 2

ex-husband!bllk x fem!reader. angst, cursing, mentions of sex (no smut), rin and ness’s kids have names

itoshi sae

-> you cried the first time you saw sae on your television, because you’d just finalized your divorce, and you were four months pregnant

-> he stated specifically that he had no time for you. that marrying you was a mistake, and that he was better off on his own. you’d yelled at him then, blaming him for wasting years of your life when he knew he’d leave you eventually. he didn’t argue back, just grabbed his things and left you alone with the positive pregnancy test in your back pocket

-> three years later, you’re working on reports at the kitchen table when your son yells, “daddy!” frazzled, you jump into the other room to see what he’s watching when your blood freezes in your veins. sae. on television. doing an interview for his team. how was your son watching soccer? you’d left him with cartoons!

-> “that’s not your dad,” you tried, but your son was adamant. “we look the same, mama! he’s so cool! why doesn’t he live with us?”

-> realizing how unfair it was for you to keep a secret like this any longer, you contacted sae’s team to get his number when you identified yourself as his wife. his call came too quick, and you could hear how agitated he was to be pulled away from work

-> “what do you want, y/n?” “wow. three years since you practically abandoned me, and i don’t even get a hello?” “what do you wa—“ he repeated, cutting himself off when he heard a little voice in the background of your call. “who was that? y/n?”

-> you swallowed hard and sank into the couch, where your son was playing with a toy robot. “mama! is that daddy? hi daddy!” he tried to pull the phone from your hand, but you tightened your grip and cleared your throat into the speaker. “we have some things to discuss, next time you’re in town.” “i’ll book a flight tonight.”

itoshi rin

-> itoshi rin wasn’t made for marriage, but you thought you could change him. you practically forced his hand, and while you know you were wrong looking back, you thought marrying you was the only way for him to prove that he loved you

-> you were together a little over a year before he broke, telling you he wasn’t happy and that he didn’t want to be your husband anymore. after hearing him out, you realized there was no point in denying his request. you were divorced a week later, and found out you were pregnant a month after that

-> by that point, you thought keeping his child from him was for the best. he was clearly overwhelmed and didn’t want anything to do with you; adding a child to the mix would devastate him and his career. so you never told him

-> it took several years, but rin was one of the top strikers in the world. all the while you were raising his daughter in secret, though those closest to you could tell by her teal eyes that she wasn’t born through a one night stand, and you claimed

-> on your daughter’s sixth birthday, one of your so-called friends took a photo of you and emi and posted it, tagging rin. you tore her a new one when you found out and cut her out of your life, but the damage was done

-> we need to talk. was all his text said, and you knew there was no point in lying any further

-> “i don’t want anything from you,” you clarified as soon as you opened the door. rin had a dazed look in his eyes, eyes that matched your daughter’s perfectly. “not your money, not your time, nothing. she deleted the post and i’ve cleared it as a joke, so no harm will come to your name—“

-> “can i meet her?” and you halted at the sound of his crackling voice. you shuffled your weight. “y.. you want to meet emi?” he pulled a small plush owl from his bag that made you choke on a laugh. “i didn’t want to show up on her birthday empty handed…”

-> your daughter was a bit shy, unsure of how to react around the strange man that looked like her, and you could tell rin was just as awkward. it took a little while, but once the ice broke, the two were sharing little stories and cracking jokes that made you wonder if maybe emi could have a relationship with her father after all

mikage reo

-> you married reo on impulse, blinded by love and the belief that you’d live happily ever after together. his parents hated you since you didn’t come from wealth, but reo didn’t care. and then you got pregnant

-> you’d been excited to tell him until his parents found out. you wanted to believe that you’d never pick money over love, but reo was gone most days due to his soccer career, and you were young and stupid

-> 10 million dollars, tax-free. the only catch? you had to cut contact with their son and never tell him about his child; the next heir to mikage corp

-> you debated telling him, but again… you were young and stupid. his parents told him they’d stop supporting him financially if he stayed with you, and you worried about the future if his career didn’t take off. in tears, you took the money and blocked him on everything

-> years later, the news of reo’s marriage to a woman his parents approved of hit headlines, and you cried until your little son tried to heal you with butterfly stickers and kisses. you debated telling reo then, but what was the point?

-> you were with your son at a doctor’s appointment when a young woman arrived with three young children at her ankles. your son was older than them by at least three years, but the four wanted to play together while you and their mom drank tea in the waiting area

-> when the receptionist called “mikage?” your heart dropped. the young woman herded her kids together, who you now realized look strikingly similar to your son, and gave you her card before leaving. “so our kids can have a play date sometime! it was nice meeting you, y/n!”

-> reo’s number was on her card, next to her work cell. you knew you were breaking your nda, but your mind was running too fast as you typed in his number and pressed the phone to your ear. “this is reo.” “i… you—we have a son.” “y/n?” and you told him everything

-> he asked you not to tell his wife, and you were in agreement. “i want to meet my son.” “… okay.” and upon reo’s request, you meet with a lawyer present. your son immediately loved reo’s purple hair, and you could tell that your ex-husband’s heart broke at the sound of your son’s laughter

-> once you were alone, reo handed you a sheet of paper that made you nauseous. “i want partial custody.”

isagi yoichi

-> you and isagi were together for years, dating with no issue, but the moment you got married… everything changed. you fought constantly over everything: finances, trust, communication, everything

-> it got to the point where you were living apart more than together, and when the divorce papers arrived in the mail, you sent the back signed. you didn’t know you were pregnant, and with how unknowingly far along you were, you figured telling him wouldn’t change anything in your relationship

-> so, you raised your daughter as a single mother. you never did see isagi since that day in court, where you finalized your divorce. despite how much you argued over finances, isagi let you keep the house and everything in it as a parting gift. the same house your daughter took her first steps in

-> “oh, um.. sorry, kid! i thought this was isagi yoichi’s place—y/n?” you pushed your five year old behind you, hoping bachira didn’t get too good a look at her. your hopes died when he met your eyes, a bit amused. “hm. i didn’t know isagi had a daughter.” “who’s isagi?” “.. i guess he doesn’t, either. y/n?”

-> bachira was in town after years and decided to visit his old friend on a whim, not realizing that isagi no longer lived with you. you knew there was no point in telling him to keep this from your ex, but your daughter absolutely loved “uncle” bachira

-> he told you he’d be over again today, but your smile fell when you opened the door and came face to face with isagi. he didn’t say anything as he shoved his phone in your face, revealing a selfie of your beaming daughter holding a peace sign next to bachira

-> “y/n, what the fuck? how could you… is she mine?” he didn’t know why he was asking; your daughter was the spitting image of her dad. she even had his little cowlick, which she named “bernice” for reasons beyond you. “she’s yours.” “how could you not tell me? i know things didn’t end perfectly, but there was a time where you were my best friend, y/n. the love of my life!”

-> bachira appeared after that and took your daughter to play outside and away from her arguing parents. “and then you tell bachira before me. the fuck?” “i didn’t tell bachira, he found out on his own,” you shouted back. “maybe if you cared enough to check in at least once in the past five years, you’d have figured it out, too!”

-> “i want to meet her.” “no. you’re too riled up right now. go home, get some rest, come over in the morning. i won’t spring you on her without a warning.” “spring me on her? i’m her father!” “you’re a stranger!” “and whose fault is that, y/n?”

alexis ness

-> ness was so scared of ruining his marriage to you that he ran away from the responsibility and took a backseat ride in your relationship. one thing was certain from day one, though. neither of you wanted kids

-> your job demanded a lot from you, and that paired with your co-dependent husband overwhelmed you. you felt that you’d die in your marriage, and though he begged you to stay, you were able to convince ness to divorce you

-> you were going to tell him the moment you found out you were pregnant, but when you found him, he had thrown himself into his career to manage his grief and was thriving. more than that, he looked happy. though you didn’t want to take that away from him, it would be a lie to say that you didn’t have selfish reasons for keeping your child secret, too

-> “come on, mila,” you called for your four-year-old as you fastened her car seat. you should have checked to see where bastard münchen was playing before leaving the house, especially since the aquarium was close to the arena

-> when your daughter didn’t respond, you glanced back and gasped. mila was tilting her head at the man across the street, who was doing the same at her. she waved, he waved back. you would have freaked out if you didn’t recognize the magenta dye in the guy’s brown hair

-> grabbing your daughter, you hoisted her up into your arms and locked eyes with ness. he looked so incredibly sad, but flashed you a slow, almost kind smile. then, before you could stop and think, you were at the crosswalk

-> “lex,” you greeted, voice sounding foreign in your ears. “it’s been a while.” “hi, lex,” mila greeted in a soft and sweet voice, and you watched as ness’s eyes began to sparkle. “hi, um…” “mila.” “hi, mila. i like your nose.” mila giggled. “me too. it looks like yours!”

-> “could i buy you coffee?” you asked, tossing the olive branch out. ness didn’t hesitate long before replying with a cracking, “yes.”

pt 1 // pt 3 // reo pt cont..

[kisses4reid]

criminally hot | ·˚ ༘ spencer reid ,,

summary - you get wrongfully accused by a sheriff, and it isn’t you who’s angriest. it’s your boyfriend who has to expose your relationship in order to clear you.

genre - spencer x bau!fem!reader, fluff, slight angst if u squint, angry reid x calm reader

wc - 1.2k

warnings - reader uses she/her pronouns, handcuffs, violence, a weird white man i know id be fucking scared as well, oh swearing as well.

a/n - i love u you’re so awkward i am doing so well bc of ur request, keep requesting things your brain is crazy. ummm anyways this is my first time writing this kinda thing omg how exciting okay start reading it wtf you still doing here?

request - ( from @babyoureahauntedhouse ) omg hii!!! :3 this is my first time requesting, so please excuse the awkwardness 😭😭😭😭 first of all, how are you????? i hope you’re doing amazing!!! absolutely no pressure, but can you do one where reader gets falsely arrested (not a huge thing, maybe in a police station at a small town or something) and spencer absolutely **loses** his shit at how she’s being treated????? like, she’s freezing and the sheriff or somethjng keeps pushing her and then he just bursts into the interrogation room and uncuffs her and it’s just very fluffy???? thank you!

Emily handed you your coffee with a smile, receiving a small thank you in return. It was warm in your hands and created a comforting contrast to the cool chill of the police precinct you were set up in.

Things were going well given that you’d only been in the small town for half a day. The team debriefed on the plane, but Aaron had been on the phone with the leading detective for at least an hour now asking him where he was.

Emily headed off to the restrooms when a slender hand made its way to your waist. You turned and felt your cheeks heat, knowing exactly who is was.

“Hi Spencer.”

“Hi Y/n.” His eyes held sweetness in the chocolate swirls, and you felt like a kid who had been given candy. Spencer and you had been dating for a few months, but somehow in a team of profilers you both kept things under wraps, even with Spencer’s clumsy touches and your lingering stares. “I wish we were home,” he whispered.

You glanced around for anyone who could witness your interaction and get suspicious, but you were mostly alone other than Hotch and some officers who were weirdly taking a lot of attention to you.

“Yeah me too. I’m feeling oddly popular and not in the good way.”

Before you could talk more or offer him a sip of your coffee (even if you know he doesn’t like it), Aaron calls his name and the slim tall boy scurries away with a straight face.

You turn to find something to do. To reread a case, to help someone fill out papers, to talk to Morgan or Garcia. You would’ve opted to huddling in your cardigan if a tall man didn’t interrupt.

“Y/n L/n?” He asked in monotone. His arms were at his sides, one hovering above a pair of cuffs that hung from his police belt. Furrowing your eyebrows you answered,

“Yes? What’s wrong?”

“You’re under arrest for the robberies of…”

His voice pounded into the background of your head, thoughts attacking your eyes through a sudden headache as the words registered before you could help it. The room was silent except for the man’s voice, yet all you could hear was the furrow of eyebrows and quick approach of your boss, Aaron Hotchner.

“What’s going on here?”

“Your agent has been seen…”

You stood still as another officer came behind you and forced handcuffs onto your arms, gripping your wrists with unnecessary force that would surely leave bruises. You winced and looked between your boss and the officer, and then at Spencer, who was being pulled back by Morgan. He yelled your name in worry, witnessing the hardened grips on your body and rough pushing you were being subject to. Your coffee splattered on the ground, staining your white shoes.

There was only mumbles and white noise, as your eyes met with Spencer’s. The large officer behind you kicked your leg to get you moving, the shock glueing your shoes to the rubbery floor. And you almost didn’t even notice the hand on the back of your neck pushing you towards a dark room with a desk and two chairs.

You were so familiar with these rooms and yet it felt so different.

Of course, you didn’t actually do anything. And of course you attempt to clear that up to the officers who are slamming their hands on the table and screaming as much as they could, in a poor attempt to intimidate you.

Aaron was in the corner with a scolding face and hard hand to his chin, observing the situation with an intensity you barely ever see.

“Last month, you were seen at one of the houses that got robbed over night. You left a few days later, after also being seen at two of the other houses-“

“So she was seen at three of the ten houses robbed and you arrest her?” Aaron spoke up, bringing the men’s attention to your boss instead of you. You took the opportunity to look outside of the window.

Though it wasn’t clear, you could make out the outline of a tall boy you wished would just break into the room and save you.

And he did.

“Your evidence is illogical and childish. She’s an FBI agent for gods sake-“

“Anybody can be a suspect Agent Hotchner, even federal agents.” The tall one replied with a stubborn mumbled.

Suddenly, the door was slammed open and you were met with a disheveled Spencer panting with a red and severe face. He didn’t even bother looking at you before he starting schooling the men in blue, who at that point were glaring at him and attempting to look more intimidating than they actually were.

“I’ve read your files on this case and nothing links to Y/n L/n, not one-“

“There’s no way you read our-“

“I can read more in a minute than you can in a day, dickhead. Y/n was meeting old school friends when she was in town, we went to the Diner Inn afterwards and we met with her parents who have receipts for the meals because they’re-“ he turned his glance at you,” “sorry Y/n- they’re hoarders. You have nothing against her other than some positively reported visits and some photos of her hugging the house owners.” Spencer had slowly pinned the officers to the opposite wall unconsciously. It was hot. “I was there, I’m her receipt. And like her parents, she loves keeping those. So if you want to insist she’s your culprit, go for it. But your going against a man with eidetic memory and a lot of evidence.”

And while he was logical and correct, he was also a little too truthful.

The officers blinked in fear. Spencer definitely didn’t seem the type to yell or swear, so this clear, concise and undermining approach to the situation was somehow even scarier.

“Spencer,” you began, “thank you.”

He looked at you, his expression softening into empathy and care, “Of course.” His hands found a key in his back pocket as he approached you, starting to promptly uncuff you.

As Aaron continued to speak with the officers of their major mistake, Spencer took you outside of the room and into a private office. Your heart was racing, but it seemed Spencer was more stressed than you. He paced as you leaned onto the front of a wooden desk, hands over your chest as your eyes trailed Spencer.

“I’m sorry, Y/n. I should’ve reacted faster, then you wouldn’t have been..” He stopped closely in front of you, his breath hot on yours as his gaze scoured over your body for injuries or bruises. “Are you okay?”

You smile calmly, “I’m fine. My leg hurts, and I think my wrists will be bruised, but I’m fine.”

He took your hands and rubbed his thumbs on your wrists carefully, causing butterflies to explode in your stomach.

“Thank you Spencer.” Your eyes dance with each others. “You were really hot. Maybe I need to get arrested more often.” You joke with a lift to your voice and a smirk, causing him to look down with a smile and shake his head.

“If being angry makes me hot maybe you should reevaluate what you-“

Your lips found his, you hand going to his bicep and his going to the back of your neck, before a clearing of the throat took you both out of your trances. It was Hotch.

“I’ve got some paperwork you both need to sign. About the arrest and,” his hand waved between you two, “this.”

Morgan stood behind Aaron with a smirk, leaving quickly to go tell Garcia that she had lost their bet.

taglist: @jeffswh0re @reap3erslov3 @candyd1es

[black-fist-order]

THIS WAS ON A FRIEND’S PAGE: An anguished question from a Trump supporter: ‘Why do liberals think Trump supporters are stupid?’

THE SERIOUS ANSWER: Here’s what the majority of anti-Trump voters honestly feel about Trump supporters en masse:

That when you saw a man who had owned a fraudulent University, intent on scamming poor people, you thought "Fine."

That when you saw a man who had made it his business practice to stiff his creditors, you said, "Okay."

That when you heard him proudly brag about his own history of sexual abuse, you said, "No problem."

That when he made up stories about seeing Muslim-Americans in the thousands cheering the destruction of the World Trade Center, you said, "Not an issue."

That when you saw him brag that he could shoot a man on Fifth Avenue and you wouldn't care, you exclaimed, "He sure knows me."

That when you heard him relating a story of an elderly guest of his country club, an 80-year old man, who fell off a stage and hit his head, to Trump replied: “‘Oh my God, that’s disgusting,’ and I turned away. I couldn’t—you know, he was right in front of me, and I turned away. I didn’t want to touch him. He was bleeding all over the place. And I felt terrible, because it was a beautiful white marble floor, and now it had changed color. Became very red.” You said, "That's cool!"

That when you saw him mock the disabled, you thought it was the funniest thing you ever saw.

That when you heard him brag that he doesn't read books, you said, "Well, who has time?"

That when the Central Park Five were compensated as innocent men convicted of a crime they didn't commit, and he angrily said that they should still be in prison, you said, "That makes sense."

That when you heard him tell his supporters to beat up protesters and that he would hire attorneys, you thought, "Yes!"

That when you heard him tell one rally to confiscate a man's coat before throwing him out into the freezing cold, you said, "What a great guy!"

That you have watched the parade of neo-Nazis and white supremacists with whom he curries favor, while refusing to condemn outright Nazis, and you have said, "Thumbs up!"

That you hear him unable to talk to foreign dignitaries without insulting their countries and demanding that they praise his electoral win, you said, "That's the way I want my President to be."

That you have watched him remove expertise from all layers of government in favor of people who make money off of eliminating protections in the industries they're supposed to be regulating and you have said, "What a genius!"

That you have heard him continue to profit from his businesses, in part by leveraging his position as President, to the point of overcharging the Secret Service for space in the properties he owns, and you have said, "That's smart!"

That you have heard him say that it was difficult to help Puerto Rico because it was in the middle of water and you have said, "That makes sense."

That you have seen him start fights with every country from Canada to New Zealand while praising Russia and quote, "falling in love" with the dictator of North Korea, and you have said, "That's statesmanship!"

That Trump separated children from their families and put them in cages, managed to lose track of 1500 kids, has opened a tent city incarceration camp in the desert in Texas - he explains that they’re just “animals” - and you say, “Well, OK then.”

That you have witnessed all the thousand and one other manifestations of corruption and low moral character and outright animalistic rudeness and contempt for you, the working American voter, and you still show up grinning and wearing your MAGA hats and threatening to beat up anybody who says otherwise.

What you don't get, Trump supporters, is that our succumbing to frustration and shaking our heads, thinking of you as stupid, may very well be wrong and unhelpful, but it's also...hear me...charitable.

Because if you're NOT stupid, we must turn to other explanations, and most of them are less flattering.

- Adam-Troy Castro

(To all who agree with its content, I ask that you PLEASE SHARE IT on your own post, and ENCOURAGE OTHERS to do the same.)

[haunted-phantom-student]

Forever haunted by the knowledge that if I was to attend the high school from Glee, I would still have been a loser like I was in real high school, but there I would have also been rejected by the Glee Club because I can't sing and/or dance. Like, if I were to audition for the school's designated loser club, I wouldn't get in. That's haunting.

[shaiyasstuff]

the marriage contract | rafayel

synopsis : When your mom said, “Come out for dinner.” You expected just a normal meal, filled with laughter and your mom’s usual sarcasm. Not her dropping an atomic bomb on you—she already signed your marriage to the playboy of the century, the Lemurian Heir. content : comedy, fluff, implied smut, arranged marriage!au, model!reader, rich heiress!reader, wealthyaf!rafayel, and just, rafayel being rafayel

“You’re getting married to the Lemurian heir.”

You blink.

Once.

Twice.

Surely, you misheard. It’s the only reasonable explanation.

Maybe it’s the soft clink of silverware, the low hum of jazz from the restaurant speakers, or the fact that your mother said it like she was commenting on the weather.

She flips the menu with one manicured hand, as if she just told you the risotto was good tonight.

A beat passes.

Then another.

“What??” you blurt, half-standing in your seat so suddenly that your thigh bumps the table and nearly sends your water glass toppling.

Your mother doesn’t even flinch. “Sit down. You’re drawing attention.”

“I am attention,” you hiss through gritted teeth, hastily steadying the glass and sinking back into your chair. “What do you mean, I’m getting married? To who?”

“I literally just said—to Rafayel. The Lemurian heir. Don’t make me repeat myself, darling. It’s exhausting.”

You stare at her, your mind screeching to a halt like stilettos on marble. Rafayel.

You know that name. Everyone knows that name.

Playboy. Arrogant. Insufferable.

That Rafayel.

You’ve seen his face plastered across magazine spreads—smirking, shirtless, probably whispering lies into someone’s ear.

He’s the definition of a tabloid headline.

A scandal waiting to happen.

The man has an entire section on social media dedicated to his worst quotes, and a separate one for his abs.

You, a model with a rising career and a deep love for routine, green tea, and sanity, are apparently now contractually obligated to marry the human embodiment of chaos.

“No,” you say flatly.

Your mother finally glances up, her brow lifting with polite disbelief. “No?”

“No,” you repeat, more firmly this time. “I’m not marrying a man who once got banned from a yacht party on his own yacht.”

“That was blown out of proportion,” she replies, waving a dismissive hand. “He was merely expressing himself artistically.”

“By setting fire to the dessert table?”

“Flambé is fashionable now.”

You gape.

“This is a joke,” you say, reaching for your phone. “Is this one of those weird publicity stunts? Did he put you up to this? Is there a hidden camera—?”

“It’s real,” she cuts in, her voice cool and clipped. “And finalized. Our lawyers signed the agreement yesterday. The ceremony is in a month. Try not to look so surprised; this sort of thing used to be standard practice among noble houses. We’re just… reviving tradition.”

You press your fingers to your temples. “We own resorts, Mom. Not kingdoms.”

“Same thing these days,” she murmurs, glancing at the wine list.

You pause. “Wait. Is he even okay with this?”

Your mother’s lips twitch. “He said—and I quote—‘She’s pretty. I can work with that.’”

You nearly fall out of your chair.

“He can work with that?!”

“That’s what he said, yes. I found it charming. Shows he’s open-minded.”

“Mom,” you say, through what you’re sure is a burgeoning aneurysm, “he’s been photographed with a different woman on his arm every week.”

“And now he’ll have just one,” she replies, taking a sip of her water. “Progress.”

You stare at her, chest rising and falling like a storm tide. “I don’t even know him.”

“Perfect,” she says. “No baggage. A clean slate.”

You inhale sharply, about to launch into a very eloquent monologue about autonomy and personal choice when your phone buzzes. You glance down at the notification—and freeze.

Unknown Number.

You free tomorrow at 4? Let’s get this doomed romance started. I’ll bring flowers. Or bribe you with dessert. Whatever works.

You don’t even have to ask who it is.

Your mother looks immensely pleased with herself. “He got your number from his assistant. Isn’t that romantic?”

You turn your phone over and look at her, horrified. “This is blackmail.”

“No,” she says. “This is high society.”

She flags the waiter with a perfectly timed smile.

Meanwhile, you lean back, mind spinning with visions of silver-haired smirking heirs and one very unwanted bouquet.

So this is how it starts.

An arranged marriage.

With him.

You’d rather fight a swarm of seagulls in six-inch heels.

But still…

You glance at the text again, at the cheeky way he signed it off.

—R.

Trouble.

Wrapped in silk and flames and smirking punctuation.

And somehow, despite yourself, the corners of your lips twitch.

Just a little.

—•

Rafayel is attractive, no doubt.

But it’s his insufferable playboy attitude that really irks you.

The door swings open, and there he is—leaning against the frame like this is a cologne commercial, not your new apartment.

One hand in his pocket. Shirt slightly unbuttoned.

Expression set to come hither, like he didn’t just waltz in fifteen minutes late to your very first meeting as an almost-married couple.

“Didn’t know models kept such tidy homes,” he says, gaze trailing over your minimalistic living room. “Where’s the chaos? The broken champagne glasses? The disgruntled photographers?”

“Where’s the punctuality?” you shoot back, arms crossed.

He grins, sharp and unapologetic. “You’ll learn I like to make an entrance.”

“Maybe next time make it through the door on time.”

He steps in, unbothered, and takes a casual look around like he owns the place.

He probably does.

His family has enough wealth to casually purchase countries, let alone condos. He flops onto your sofa, long legs stretched out, hands behind his head.

“So,” he says, eyes flicking to yours, “how do you want to do this?”

You blink. “Do what?”

“This whole marriage thing.” His voice is smooth like honey left too long in the sun—sweet, but dangerous.

“We pretending to be in love for the cameras? Sneaking off with secret lovers behind closed doors? Scheduling monthly dinners so our families don’t throw a fit?”

Your nostrils flare. “That’s your idea of marriage?”

“It’s the practical one. Less risk of broken hearts. Or broken dishes.”

“Thanks, but I’m not interested in being one of your PR arrangements.”

“Ouch,” he says, pressing a hand to his chest. “And here I thought you were the soft-spoken one.”

“Not when I’m being married off like a parcel.”

There’s a beat of silence, and for the first time, something flickers across his face. Not mockery. Not amusement.

Something quieter. Maybe even guilt.

“I didn’t ask for this either, you know,” he says, eyes drifting to the window. “My family’s been trying to clean up my image ever since I lit that cake on fire.”

You raise a brow. “So the rumors were true.”

He smirks. “Technically, the flambéed cherries caught the tablecloth.”

“Very dignified.”

He chuckles. “You should’ve seen the flames. It was glorious.”

Despite yourself, a laugh nearly escapes.

You clamp it down. Hard.

“We’re not doing this,” you say, shaking your head. “I need rules. If we’re stuck with each other, there needs to be rules.”

“Rules?” he echoes, as if the word is foreign.

“Yes. Boundaries. Expectations. Terms and conditions.”

“Like a contract?” he asks, amused. “How very unromantic of you.”

“Call it self-preservation.”

He sits up, intrigued. “Alright then. Lay them on me.”

You grab a pen and your planner from the table—because yes, you’re that person—and start scribbling. He watches, bemused.

You hold it up.

Rules of Engagement

1. No touching.

2. No flirting.

3. No overnight guests.

4. Shared public appearances only when necessary.

5. No falling in love.

Rafayel whistles low. “Number five. That one hurts.”

“It’s for both our sakes,” you say firmly. “We don’t do feelings.”

He leans forward, taking the paper from your hands. His fingers graze yours. You pretend not to notice.

“Fine,” he says, folding it neatly and slipping it into his coat pocket. “But if you break a rule first, I get to choose the honeymoon destination.”

“We’re not having a honeymoon.”

“We are now.”

You open your mouth to argue—but stop. Because somehow, he’s already standing, heading for the door like he didn’t just derail your entire week.

“Wait, where are you going?”

“To buy toothpaste. If we’re living together, I’m not sharing yours. I draw the line at dental hygiene.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

Leaving you standing in your spotless living room, rules in hand, reality crashing down around you.

You’re engaged to Rafayel. Heir of the Lemurian dynasty.

Public menace.

Serial heartbreaker.

And now, your flatmate.

You sigh and flop onto the couch, staring at the ceiling.

Rule Number Five echoes in your mind.

No falling in love.

Easy enough.

Right?

—•

You’d like to clarify—this is not a date.

You were tricked. Lured.

Bribed with lunch and the vague promise of an stress-free afternoon.

Also, he said dessert was on him, and you, tragically, are only human.

So now you’re walking beside Rafayel, trying very hard not to look like someone who willingly spends time with a lilac-haired demon in designer sunglasses and a smug attitude.

Which is difficult, since he keeps flashing that perfectly calculated I-don’t-care-but-I-look-good smile.

“People are staring,” you mutter.

“They’re always staring,” he replies breezily. “The key is to give them something worth photographing.”

As if summoned by his own ego, a girl in oversized glasses practically skids to a stop in front of you.

She clutches her phone like it’s a sacred relic and looks between you and Rafayel like she’s about to faint.

“Are—oh my god—you’re—can I—?”

“Of course,” Rafayel says, already tilting his head for optimal lighting.

The girl shoves her phone toward you. “Would you mind taking a picture of us?”

You blink. Smile. Take the phone. Absolutely do not roll your eyes.

He drapes an arm over the girl’s shoulder, leans in with that practiced grin, and you snap the picture—twice, because she begs for one ‘candid’ and Rafayel, never one to waste an opportunity, dips his chin like he’s starring in a fragrance ad called Sins and Champagne.

“Thank you!” she squeals, bouncing away.

You hand his sunglasses back wordlessly.

“What?” he says as you start walking again. “It’s good PR. Plus, she’ll post that with some ridiculous caption like ‘he’s even hotter in person’ and we’ll both benefit.”

“From your cheekbones?”

“From my brand,” he corrects, slipping the glasses back on. “You should try being nicer to my fans. Builds character.”

“I have character,” you mutter. “I just choose not to market it on sidewalks.”

You arrive at a rooftop café—his pick, obviously.

Something about the natural lighting and imported oysters.

You’d been hoping for sandwiches. Maybe fries.

This place looks like it charges extra for butter.

The waiter seats you, and Rafayel slouches into his chair like he owns the skyline. “Order whatever you want,” he says, tossing the menu aside. “My empire can afford it.”

“Oh good,” you say sweetly. “I’ll take the most expensive dish and two of whatever you hate.”

He laughs—actually laughs.

Not the smug kind. Not the flirtatious chuckle.

A real, amused sound that makes you pause, just for a second.

“You’re not what I expected,” he says.

“Let me guess. You thought I’d be some breathless heiress desperate for your attention?”

“I was hoping for breathless,” he says, smirking. “The desperation was optional.”

You flick a sugar packet at him. He catches it.

The food arrives—too pretty to eat, but you dig in anyway because being around Rafayel burns calories in emotional energy. A few bites in, the conversation unexpectedly… shifts.

“I hated it growing up,” he says, sipping his wine. “The pressure. The expectations. Every move watched. They groomed me like I was some… polished statue to roll out at galas.”

You arch a brow. “So naturally, you set things on fire.”

He grins. “Exactly. They wanted a prince. I gave them a wildfire.”

You study him, fork paused mid-air.

For a moment, he’s not the Lemurian Heir. He’s just a guy raised in a glass cage, throwing stones for fun and freedom.

“What about you?” he asks. “You’re not exactly low-profile either.”

You shrug, suddenly more relaxed than you expected. “Modeling wasn’t supposed to be a career. I did a few gigs to annoy my parents. Then I actually liked it. Go figure.”

“Why did it annoy them?”

“They wanted me in finance,” you deadpan. “Crunching numbers. Marrying someone boring with a yacht and a title. Instead, I wore latex on magazine covers and dated a drummer who spoke exclusively in song lyrics.”

He chokes on his wine, laughing. “You’re full of surprises.”

“So are you,” you admit. “Unfortunately, most of yours are lawsuits waiting to happen.”

He leans back, watching you with an unreadable expression. “You know, you’re different when you’re not trying to strangle me with your eyes.”

“And you’re tolerable when you’re not being a narcissist.”

There’s a pause.

A comfortable one, oddly enough.

The sun’s lower now, painting his purple hair in warm light.

For a moment, the city noise fades and it’s just the two of you, seated between who you were and who you’re pretending to be.

You don’t swoon.

You just… notice.

Briefly.

He reaches for the dessert menu.

“Rule-breaker,” you say.

He smirks. “I promised you dessert, didn’t I?”

You raise a brow as Rafayel waves down the waiter like he owns the establishment—honestly, at this point, he probably does.

“You realize ordering dessert is a clear violation of Rule Number Five,” you say, watching him flip the dessert menu like he’s reading War and Peace.

“Rule Number Five was about feelings, not fudge,” he says, without looking up. “Unless you’re telling me a slice of tiramisu is going to make you fall in love with me.”

You level him with a look. “You’re not my type.”

He grins. “Not yet.”

The waiter returns, and Rafayel orders two desserts without consulting you.

You don’t even protest.

You’re too full and mildly annoyed and slightly curious what dessert a Lemurian heir thinks will ‘win’ a lunch date that was never a date to begin with.

“Why do I get the feeling you do this often?” you ask, drumming your fingers on the table. “Lunch with models. Public flirting. Slow seduction via sugar.”

“I don’t do public flirting,” he says, affronted. “It’s vulgar. My seduction strategy is much more refined.”

“Oh, forgive me.” You roll your eyes.

“You’re forgiven,” he says smoothly. “Though you should know—this is the first time I’ve taken someone to this place.”

You snort. “You expect me to believe that?”

He leans forward slightly, resting his chin on his hand, smile still present but softened around the edges. “Actually… yes.”

Something in his voice changes—just a shade quieter, a little more honest.

“I usually avoid these places,” he continues. “Too many cameras. Too many expectations. But I thought maybe… this time, it could be different.”

You pause.

Not because you’re swooning—obviously—but because you weren’t expecting him to say that.

And because it’s unnervingly close to something real.

“I didn’t think you were capable of sincerity,” you mutter.

He shrugs. “I fake a lot of things. But not everything.”

You look at him for a long moment, unsure what to do with the sudden shift in temperature.

He’s still smirking, still smug—but there’s something else underneath.

Something quieter. Like even he doesn’t know how to hold it properly.

The desserts arrive, thankfully breaking the moment.

Yours is a delicate slice of pistachio cake with honey drizzle.

His is a dramatic tower of chocolate and edible gold leaf because of course it is.

You pick up your fork.

He watches you. “What?”

“You ordered this just to show off.”

“I ordered it to see if you’d smile.”

You almost choke. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs again, biting into his mountain of sugar and ego. “You’re always so put together. All edges and clever comebacks. I wondered what you’d look like if you actually enjoyed something.”

You stare at him, stunned.

And, annoyingly… flattered.

Which is worse.

“You’re exhausting,” you say.

“And yet, here you are.”

You do not dignify that with a response.

Instead, you take a bite of the cake—and damn it, it is good. Soft, rich, and just the right amount of sweet.

You glance at him and catch him watching you like he’s won something.

“I’m not impressed,” you lie.

“Of course not,” he says, licking chocolate from his fork. “That’s why you’ve finished half your plate in two minutes.”

You narrow your eyes. “You are a menace.”

“I’ve been called worse. Usually by people who later invite me back.”

“Don’t hold your breath.”

He laughs again—deep, genuine—and you hate how easily it fills the space between you. Hate that, for one stupid second, you don’t hate being here.

That the sun feels warmer, the silence feels easier, and the sarcasm feels more like a shared language than a wall.

And maybe you let yourself relax. Just a little. Maybe you let your smile slip out, crooked and fleeting.

Not because of him, of course. Because of the cake.

Definitely the cake.

—•

Three weeks.

That’s how long it’s been since your life turned into a weirdly expensive soap opera.

Three weeks of shared living arrangements, awkward press appearances, passive-aggressive coffee orders, and one increasingly complicated non-relationship with the Lemurian heir.

It’s not like you’re counting, of course.

You just happen to know how many times he’s left his socks in the hallway.

Or how many times he’s fallen asleep on the couch after some late-night meeting, suit jacket draped over the armrest like he’s auditioning for a melancholic perfume ad.

You’ve settled into a rhythm. Of sorts.

Which is exactly why the shift—when it happens—feels like slipping on a patch of black ice in heels.

It starts with a knock on your door. Not the loud, arrogant kind Rafayel usually delivers when he wants to borrow something—more like annoy you.

No, this one’s soft. Hesitant.

You’re already annoyed.

“Yes?” you call.

The door creaks open.

He steps in, a little more disheveled than usual.

His tie is gone, shirt half-buttoned, hair a wind-tousled mess.

You blink. “Did you get in a fight with a hurricane?”

“Dinner ran late,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Some board meeting with my uncle. Lemurian politics. Very thrilling stuff. Would’ve invited you, but I figured you’d rather stab yourself with a breadstick.”

“You’d be correct.”

He doesn’t leave.

You glance up. “Something else?”

He hesitates. “You didn’t answer my texts.”

Ah. So that’s what this is about.

You slide your phone out and wave it. “I was working.”

“You left me on read.”

“I didn’t realize I owed you a response to ‘Is the curry still in the fridge or did you emotionally eat it all?’”

“That was a serious question,” he mutters. “I had a long day.”

“And I’m not your personal food tracker.”

His brows knit, and for the first time, the familiar teasing spark isn’t there. Just quiet frustration.

“You’ve been shutting me out lately,” he says. “Every time we talk, it’s like I’m… irritating background noise.”

“Maybe because you are.”

He flinches—just barely. You almost feel bad.

Almost.

There’s a beat. You think maybe he’ll walk away. But instead, he does something worse.

He sits on the edge of your bed.

“I’m trying here,” he says, voice low. “I know I’m not… easy. Or conventional. Or whatever it is you want. But I show up. I stay. I’m not out there making headlines anymore, I’m here—with you. And sometimes it feels like you’re still waiting for me to screw up.”

You cross your arms, defenses rising on instinct. “Don’t act like you’re some martyr. You signed the same contract I did.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t expect to actually like you.”

That stops you cold.

The air goes still. Your heart trips over itself. You hate that it does.

You laugh—short, sharp, sarcastic. “Well, that’s your mistake.”

He stares at you. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“This. Pushing me away. Acting like none of this matters.”

“Because it doesn’t,” you snap. “Because the second I start thinking maybe you’re not the egotistical headline I assumed—maybe you’re real, and messy, and sincere—you’ll remind me exactly why I should’ve kept my distance.”

He’s quiet for a moment. When he speaks again, his voice is softer.

“Has someone hurt you like that before?”

You look away.

“That’s not your business,” you say, but it sounds thinner than you meant it to.

He nods slowly, like he hears what you didn’t say.

“Well,” he says, standing, “I’m not here to be another person who lets you down. But I’m not going to spend the next six months proving I’m harmless just because you’ve decided I’m a walking red flag.”

“Don’t worry,” you say, biting the inside of your cheek. “I don’t expect anything from you.”

He exhales.

And for the first time, you see him really tired.

Not in the usual I partied too hard way.

In the I don’t know what else I can say way.

He turns to leave. Stops at the doorway.

“For what it’s worth,” he says without looking back, “I didn’t touch the curry. Even after the board meeting. Because I thought maybe… you’d want to share it.”

And then he’s gone.

The door clicks softly behind him.

You stare at the space he left behind.

Empty plate. Empty room.

And for the first time, your chest feels just a little too full.

You don’t move for a while.

The room feels quieter without him in it. Like his absence took something with it—heat, maybe. Or air.

You stare at your phone for a moment, then at the door.

Then at the fridge.

Dammit.

You find him where you always seem to, sprawled on the couch like he owns the universe, remote in one hand, eyes half-lidded.

The TV is on, muted. A documentary about space or fish—hard to tell.

He doesn’t look up when you step into the living room, barefoot, bowl of reheated curry in your hands.

“I didn’t come to apologize,” you say flatly.

“Didn’t think you did.”

You hold out the bowl. “You were right. I ate half. But I saved enough for two.”

He glances over.

“You didn’t have to.”

“I know.”

He takes it anyway, and for a while, you eat in silence.

Shoulder to shoulder on the couch, knees brushing. You tell yourself it’s nothing.

Just shared proximity. Shared food. Shared silence.

And yet.

“You don’t really like curry, do you?” you ask after a moment.

“I like that you made it.”

You glance at him, only to find he’s already watching you. The light from the TV flickers across his face, casting shadows across the sharp line of his jaw. His silver hair is tousled, eyes softer than they have any right to be.

You look away first.

“Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“That.”

“Looking at you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because it feels like you’re trying to see me.”

“I am trying to see you.”

You set your bowl down on the coffee table, suddenly tense. “Don’t.”

He leans back, mirroring your posture. Still close. Still too close.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he says softly.

You laugh—dry and a little bitter. “You think I’m afraid of you?”

“I think you’re afraid of what it might mean to actually trust me.”

The silence stretches like thread pulled taut.

And then—softly, so softly—you ask, “Why are you trying?”

It’s not sarcastic.

Not accusatory.

Just quietly, achingly sincere.

He pauses.

“I don’t know,” he says after a beat. “Maybe because this—you—is the first thing in my life I didn’t win by being charming or rich or reckless. Maybe because, for once, I want something that doesn’t come easy.”

Your chest twists. You hate how much you feel it.

You shift, meaning to stand. Or move. Or just get some space.

But then he catches your wrist.

Not hard. Not demanding. Just… there.

You freeze.

His fingers are warm against your skin. His touch gentle. Uncertain, even.

Your eyes meet.

The moment hangs.

And there it is—that unbearable closeness. That electric, breath-stealing almost.

You hate that your pulse stutters.

That your throat goes dry. That something unspoken curls beneath your ribs like smoke.

“I’m not going to kiss you,” he murmurs. “Not unless you want me to.”

You swallow.

Hard.

And then, deliberately, you pull your hand away.

His face doesn’t fall—but you see the flicker of something retreating. The door he cracked open quietly swinging shut again.

You stand.

Smooth your hands down your shirt like it matters.

Like it helps.

“I’m going to bed,” you say.

He nods. Says nothing.

You make it halfway to your room before you stop.

“Rafayel.”

He glances up.

“Thanks for saving me half the curry.”

His mouth twitches. “Anytime.”

You close your door gently behind you, back pressed against the wood, heart pounding a little too loudly in your chest.

You didn’t swoon.

You didn’t.

But god, you almost did.

—•

It starts with a harmless visit.

Or at least, that’s what Rafayel tells himself when he shows up at the studio, hands shoved in his coat pockets, sunglasses perched like armor, and a single iced coffee balanced in the other hand.

The assistant at the front desk gives him a look that says oh god, it’s him again—but hands him a visitor’s pass anyway.

He doesn’t know why he came.

He just… wanted to see you.

Maybe bring you coffee.

Maybe tease you about how serious you get during fittings.

Maybe catch another one of your rare, unguarded smiles when you’re not being ‘the model’ or ‘the reluctant fiancée’ or whatever it is you pretend to be when you’re not curled up beside him eating leftover curry.

But then he sees you.

And you’re not alone.

You’re smiling—laughing—with some guy who’s tall and objectively handsome in a ‘men’s fragrance ad’ kind of way.

Shirt unbuttoned just enough for it to be indecent.

He’s standing too close, helping adjust a clasp on your dress, his fingers brushing the back of your neck.

It’s innocent.

Of course it is.

Rafayel knows that.

But logic is no match for jealousy.

He turns around before you can see him, coffee forgotten on the edge of a table, his jaw clenched tight enough to ache.

When you get home that night, the first thing you notice is the silence.

The second is Rafayel.

He’s sitting on the edge of the kitchen counter, arms crossed, eyes dark.

And glaring.

No sign of the boyish, playboy grin that he usually dons.

You blink. “Hi?”

No answer.

“Okay,” you say slowly, dropping your bag by the door. “Did someone die or did you burn another diplomatic dinner?”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t move.

You narrow your eyes. “What?”

“I came by your shoot today.”

That stops you cold. “You what?”

He uncrosses his arms, pushes off the counter. “I thought I’d surprise you. Bring you coffee. Be supportive, or whatever it is couples are supposed to do.”

Your heart stutters. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

He’s pacing now, hands raking through his hair.

You’ve never seen him like this—tense, clipped, frustrated in a way that’s not performative.

“I saw you,” he says. “With him.”

You blink. “Who—? Oh my god. Leo? The other model?”

“Is that his name?” Rafayel snaps. “Fantastic. Now I know what to engrave on the urn.”

You stare. “You’re jealous.”

“No,” he lies. Terribly.

You blink again, slowly. “You thought something was going on?”

He says nothing.

You fold your arms. “Seriously? You’ve been photographed half-naked with actresses for years, but the moment a guy helps me zip a dress—”

“It’s not the same,” he growls.

“Oh? Because I’m supposed to be the good one?”

“No,” he says, stepping closer now. “Because you matter.”

The words hit like a punch.

Your breath catches. “What?”

“You matter,” he says again, softer this time. “And I hate that I care. I hate that I see you smile at someone else and feel like I’m about to lose something I never even had.”

You can’t speak.

“I didn’t want to fall for you,” he says. “But here I am. Completely wrecked.”

Silence.

It stretches between you like a live wire.

And then you say the stupidest, bravest thing you’ve said since this whole arrangement started.

“Then kiss me.”

His eyes widen.

“Rafayel.”

You step closer. “If you mean it. If you’re not playing. Then kiss me.”

A second passes.

Then another.

And then he does.

He surges forward like a man starved for something he didn’t know he needed, hands cupping your face, mouth crashing into yours with enough heat to burn.

It’s not sweet.

It’s not careful.

It’s weeks of tension unraveling in one breathless, heated pull.

You gasp against him, fingers fisting in his shirt.

He presses you back against the wall, lips trailing down your jaw, your throat, before coming back up to kiss you again, slower this time.

Deeper.

Like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard. His forehead rests against yours.

“No more rules,” he says.

You nod, dazed. “No more pretending.”

He laughs, breathless and shaky. “God, I’m in so much trouble.”

You kiss him again.

Because yes—so are you.

And you don’t care anymore.

Your back hits the bedroom door.

You don’t remember walking there.

Or maybe he carried you.

Or maybe time just folded in on itself the second you kissed him.

Either way, the world’s a blur and he’s the only thing in focus.

“You sure about this?” he asks, voice husky, lips brushing your jaw.

You smirk, breathless. “Is this the part where you ask for written consent?”

“I like to be thorough.”

You curl your fingers in the front of his shirt and tug. Hard. “Consider this my signature.”

“Very professional,” he murmurs, leaning in again.

His kiss deepens—hotter now, lazier.

Like he’s savoring it.

Like he has all the time in the world to learn the shape of your mouth and exactly what makes your breath catch. His hands find your waist, thumbs sliding under your shirt like he’s tracing a map.

“You know,” he murmurs against your lips, “I expected you to resist a little longer.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Oh, come on. I’m irresistible. It’s in my genetics.”

You laugh—actually laugh—while he fumbles with your top, cursing under his breath when it gets stuck halfway over your head.

“You undress like a man who’s never taken a bra off without summoning a priest,” you tease.

“It’s a complicated mechanism!”

“Is it though?”

You reach back, unhook it yourself, and toss it onto the lamp. He pauses, visibly impressed.

“Show-off.”

“Amateur.”

He grins—wolfish, cocky, entirely himself—and you hate that it only makes you want him more.

The bed hits your knees.

Then you’re down, tangled in sheets, heat blooming across your skin like wildfire. Rafayel moves like he’s memorizing you with his hands, like he’s collecting data for some unholy research project titled Ways to Ruin Her on a Tuesday Night.

And okay, fine, you’re definitely not not enjoying it.

“You’re staring,” you murmur as he hovers above you, breath uneven.

“I’m admiring.”

“Same thing.”

“Not when it’s you.”

For once, the sarcasm fades. Just a flicker.

Because the way he’s looking at you right now—like you’re something rare, something his—makes your chest ache.

You reach up, fingers tracing his jaw. “You’re so smug.”

“You like me smug.”

“I tolerate you smug.”

“Mm.” He kisses your collarbone. “Let’s see what else you tolerate.”

What follows is a blur of heat and friction and whispered curses—mostly yours.

He’s infuriatingly good at this. Predictably. And yet, somehow, every touch feels more like discovery than performance.

No games.

No roles.

Just him. Just you.

And the sharp, dizzying ache of something that might be real.

Later, when you’re tangled together under your ruined sheets, the room heavy with silence and post-storm warmth, he says, “You know I’m never letting you go now, right?”

You hum against his shoulder. “Good thing I’m contractually obligated to stay.”

He snorts. “Romance. Alive and well.”

You grin. “Just wait until I start stealing all the covers.”

He laughs quietly, arm tightening around you.

And for the first time since this whole mess began, you think, maybe this won’t end in flames.

Maybe, just maybe, you’re already home.

—•

You wake up to an empty bed.

For a second, it feels normal.

The way sunlight filters through the curtains, the warmth lingering on the sheets, the scent of something distinctly Rafayel—cologne, mischief, and sandalwood.

But then the silence registers.

And the fact that his side of the bed is cold.

You sit up, heart doing that annoying thing where it tightens even though nothing is technically wrong.

You find him in the kitchen.

Leaning against the counter, mug in hand, hair mussed, jaw tense. He’s staring out the window like he’s waiting for the apocalypse or a dramatic soundtrack to kick in.

“Hey,” you say, voice still rough with sleep.

He doesn’t look at you.

You pad in barefoot, wrapping one of his shirts tighter around your body.

“I checked the mirror,” you add. “Still stunning. You can stop brooding now.”

Nothing.

That’s when the dread creeps in.

“Okay. Are we pretending last night didn’t happen? Because I’ll need time to emotionally detach from the blanket fort we made with our bodies.”

His jaw clenches.

You stop teasing.

“What happened?”

He finally looks at you.

And it’s not the same look he gave you last night—hungry and tender and slightly awed. This one’s guarded. Cold around the edges.

“You got a call.”

You blink. “Okay?”

“From Leo.”

You frown. “The model?”

He nods once. Tight.

“Oh my god, are you still on this?”

“He called you babe.”

You stare. “He calls everyone babe. He calls his cat babe.”

“You smiled.”

“I smiled?”

“You were different with him.”

You set your mug down with a sharp clink. “Do you hear yourself right now?”

“I let myself believe it,” he says, voice low. “That this was real. That maybe we weren’t just playing house until our families got what they wanted. But maybe that’s all this is. A beautiful lie.”

You freeze.

It’s not what he’s saying—it’s what he’s not saying.

It’s the fear in his eyes. The old wound resurfacing in a prettier suit.

“You think I’d sleep with you, laugh with you, fall asleep in your arms—just for show?”

“I don’t know,” he says. And that’s worse than if he’d said yes.

The silence feels colder than his words.

You exhale shakily. “You don’t trust me.”

“I don’t trust myself,” he corrects. “I’ve ruined everything good I’ve ever touched. Why would this be any different?”

Your voice is quiet. “Because I’m not them.”

He looks at you like he wants to believe that.

But can’t.

Not yet.

“I need air,” he mutters.

You move aside as he brushes past.

The door closes behind him.

And for the first time since all of this started—since the first headline, the first sarcastic quip, the first rule scribbled in your planner—you feel completely and utterly alone.

Hours pass.

You don’t call.

You don’t text.

You want to.

God, do you want to.

But some stubborn part of you—some still-bruised fragment—refuses to be the one to chase him.

If he wants to walk away from this, from you, he can.

You’ve survived worse.

Right?

…Right?

—•

The door creaks open just past midnight.

You’re on the couch, pretending to read a magazine.

You don’t look up.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment.

Then.

“I’m an idiot.”

You flip a page. “We agree on something.”

“I panicked.”

You close the magazine.

He steps further into the room, looking wrecked. Hair windblown, shirt rumpled, regret in every inch of him.

“I saw something that scared me,” he says. “And instead of asking, instead of trusting you, I lashed out.”

You stand, arms folded. “You think that fixes it?”

“No,” he says. “But maybe this will.”

He pulls something from his pocket.

Your planner.

The one with the Rules of Engagement.

He opens it, flips to the page with your old list, and crosses out the last rule.

“No falling in love,” he reads aloud. Then draws a thick, dark line through it. “Too late.”

Your heart skips.

He looks up at you. “I’m in love with you.”

It’s not smooth. Not polished. Not smirking or smug.

It’s raw.

Vulnerable.

Terrified.

You cross the room slowly.

Take the pen from his hand.

And next to where he crossed it out, you write, “Me too.”

When you look up, he’s already pulling you into his arms.

This kiss isn’t fire—it’s gravity.

Like you were always meant to fall.

And finally, finally, you stop fighting it.

—•

The wedding is in three days.

The guest list is ridiculous.

The venue is twice as ridiculous.

There’s a seven-tier cake named after constellations and an entire chandelier that had to be flown in with a crane.

And you? You’re on the windowsill, veil forgotten, staring at your phone like it might offer clarity.

It doesn’t.

The door creaks open behind you.

You don’t look. “Nice of you to show up.”

“Thought I’d be mysterious,” Rafayel says. “You know. Add drama.”

“You’re late.”

He steps beside you. “I was going to call it off.”

That gets your attention.

“What?”

“The wedding,” he says. “I didn’t want you marrying me out of obligation.”

You stare. “I wasn’t.”

“I know. But I panicked. Because this is the first time I actually care what someone thinks of me.”

He pauses.

“I love you,” he says. “And it scares the hell out of me.”

You take a slow breath.“I choose you, Rafayel. Not for the headlines. Not because I have to. But because somehow, you’ve become the only place I feel like myself.”

He looks like you just handed him the stars.

The wedding was pure chaos.

Too many cameras. Too many roses.

Rafayel’s suit shimmers ever so slightly—he claims it’s subtle.

A drone nearly crashes into the flower arch during your vows.

But none of it matters when he squeezes your hand and says, loud enough for the world.

“I choose you. No matter how many rules we break.”

You can’t help smiling.

“Even when you leave your socks everywhere?”

There’s laughter. There’s confetti. There’s a signature cocktail named after your first public argument.

You slip away from the reception to breathe, heels dangling from your hand.

Of course she finds you.

Your mother, dressed immaculately, holding a champagne flute like it’s part of her anatomy.

“I told you so,” she says, smug as ever.

You groan. “Seriously, Mom?”

“I told you you’d like him,” she says. “Eventually. Once you got over your tragic taste in musicians.”

You stare. She sips. And walks off, victorious.

You shake your head, grinning despite yourself.

Then Rafayel appears—tie undone, hair a little messy, smile all soft edges.

He holds out his hand.

You take it.

And just like that, everything falls into place.

“Do you like curry now?”

“No.”

masterlist

[p1astr81]

what are we? - mv33

in which: Max gets romantically involved with Red Bull’s new hire, changing his life for better and worse.

pairing: Max Verstappen x co-worker!reader

warnings: smut 18+, Christian Horner, cursing, time jumps, angst, not proof read, a little longer

wc: 6.9k

an: ib this fic

‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ ‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ ‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ ‧ *‧₊˚ ⋅* ۶ৎ ‧₊ ‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ ‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ ‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ ‧ * ‧₊˚ ‧

The conversation came in late September. The air outside his Monaco apartment was cool. It drifted in gusts through the open window. His grip around your waist tightened when a particularly cold breeze creeped it’s way over his naked figure. His limbs, intertwined with yours, sought the warmth radiating off your skin. Legs mindlessly brushed against yours.

“If you’re cold, you could always put your clothes back on.” He chuckled lowly at your suggestion. The sound traveled smooth and slow through the air, like molasses. A verbal response never graced your ears. He settled for a small shake of his head, his face hid in the curve of your neck.

The scene, while grossly domestic, had your stomach curling into knots of guilt and despair. A feeling of inevitable calamity. The exact timing of it, you were uncertain. But it was sure to come, if not now then soon. Tomorrow morning, maybe. You knew putting it off would make it harder. Executing it was just as difficult, though.

It’s why you were both devastated and relieved when Max’s voice filled the air with the question. It forced you to have the conversation here and now.

“What are we?”

₊ ‧ *‧₊˚ ⋅* ۶ৎ ‧₊ ‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

The first day on a job was never easy, especially when you’d been promoted from a simple marketing position at a small company to the manager of the marketing department at Red Bull Racing.

It was mid-January. Freezing cold outside. Your breath converted to a visible fog while you entered your new place of work.

The tour of the building was being given to you by a secretary. He was quiet. Only spoke when he needed to or to answer a question of yours. He led you to an empty office, nothing in the room except for a desk and a chair. Your first and last name engraved on a plaque glued to the door. Your fingertips ran over the lettering, feeling the ridges. Head of Media and Marketing engraved right above your name.

The secretary informed you that someone would be with you shortly, his voice mere mutters. You thanked him and he was on his way.

The room was spacious enough. Plenty to not feel claustrophobic but not enough to not feel vast. A small couch could be a nice edition. Floor to ceiling windows allowed for natural sunlight to illuminate the area. The view was okay. The street and parking lot to the left and a small patch of grass—currently coated by a thin layer of snow—right ahead of you.

A question of your name was called from behind you. You turned with a smile. “Yes, hello.”

Christian Horner. The team principal at Red Bull Racing. Of course, you’d heard what he’d done, read the leaked messages. You nearly didn’t take the job because of it. But it was your dream job, formula one. So a few morals had to be broken.

He smiled. “Good to finally meet you face to face.” He held his hand out to you. You shook it to be polite. “Christian Horner, team principal.” He formally introduced himself.

You remained polite as you followed him through the halls once more. His footsteps stopped outside another office space. A laugh was muffled through the wall. A man’s laugh.

Christian opened the door, allowing you to walk in first. Upon entering, the two boys in the room stopped their conversation, eyes boring into you. You knew who they both were. Liam Lawson and Max Verstappen.

Liam stood first, teeth shining as he smiled. He held a hand out to you and introduced himself. Polite. Max stood, but hovered behind Liam. He studied your form, your face, the way you nervously fiddled with the ends of your hair and tucked a strand behind your ear.

Only when your conversation with Liam ran dry did Max step in to introduce himself.

“Will you be traveling with us to races, then?” His voice was level, unreadable. His gaze jumping between Christian and yourself. Christian answered for you. “No. She won’t be needed. Most of her work will be done here.”

Max’s brow twitched, a faint line appearing between his two brows for less than a second. “Shame.” Was all he said, eyes drifting from your own to analyze the other details of your face. You tried your best to ignore it.

₊ ‧ *‧₊˚ ⋅* ۶ৎ ‧₊ ‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

The following weeks consisted of introduction and the drafting of ideas. Your colleagues would filter in and out of your office, presenting vague ideas and handing you long winded proposals. Working in formula one was not nearly as thrilling as you expected it to be.

Your routine shifted one day. Your fingers were dashing across the keyboard, responding to an email sent from another in the marketing department. The door had opened, but assuming it was one of your colleagues you didn’t acknowledge them right away. You were too focused on finishing the email to even realize your visiter had made himself comfy on the small sofa.

Only after you hit send did you look up, slightly-irritated smile embellished on your lips. “Hi, sorry I was-“ the face registered in your mind, though it made the synapses in your brain backfire momentarily, your speech inhibited. Your expression bordered on confusion. When your brain finally caught up, the words that came out of your mouth were, “do you need something?”

You cringed when your own voice hit your ears, your tone suggesting he was bothering you. You fell into quick apologies. “I’m sorry I didn’t mean it like that just… I didn’t know if you came in here for something from me or… yeah.”

There it was again. The anxious action of playing with your hair. His own face shifted. Amusement. He shook his head. “Just came to ask you how you’re settling in.”

The nod that came to you was like a foreign action. Delayed and not quite a smooth gesture. The prospect of Max Verstappen coming to casually check in on you was a little inconceivable, so forgive you if your motions weren’t quite fluid. “Yeah.” You blinked, then realizing that wasn’t really an adequate response, you continued, “It’s nice. People are nice.” You nodded. You found it difficult to keep your eyes on his. Perhaps it was the intensity of it. The way it felt like he was trying to dissect your every thought.

Max hummed. “Well if that changes…” the rest of his sentence hung in the air, but you could finish it yourself.

You nodded again, swallowing the lump of nerves in your throat. “Okay.”

₊ ‧ *‧₊˚ ⋅* ۶ৎ ‧₊ ‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

Max continued to pop in your office every now and then, at least once a week. You’d gotten more and more comfortable with each encounter. Conversation flowed easily now.

It was the end of February, the beginning of the season drawing close. Papers collected in a small stack on your deck, ones you had to look over before the media team left in two weeks.

“Come in,” you responded to the knock on your door, focus still on the paper in front of you. The paper was torn from your desk, your focus traveling with it. Your eyes caught Max’s blue ones and you scoffed. “Max! I need to finish that,” you complained loudly, reaching for the paper but Max pulled away.

You stood, rounding the desk. Max put his hand out to stop you while he read from the proposal. “…to improve engagement—hey!—and increase—im helping here!” Max laughed, arm extended with the paper out of your reach. “That’s not funny, I need to have that read and responded to by the end of the day!”

Your sides were flush against each other, your hand inching its way up his arm. Subconsciously, he pressed a hand to the small of your back to stabilize you while you stood on your tip toes. Max chuckled. “They’re all the same anyway. Boring for you to read and torture for me to do.”

Your eyes fell from the paper to meet his own. You became aware of the proximity then. Far too close for a couple of colleagues. You stepped back, cleared your throat. Max silently held the paper out to you. Graceful fingers pulled it from his hold.

As you sat back at your desk, Max remained standing in front of it. “I don’t think it’s fair.” He commented out of the blue. Your eyes found his once more, brows knit together. “What’s not fair?”

“Well, you do all of this for the team, and you don’t ever get to see the track.”

Your expression loosened, a breath falling past your lips, sounding like a laugh. “‘Cause my job is here.” You shook your head, finding his judgement a little silly.

A raised brow of his. “So you don’t want to go to the races?”

You dropped your pen, leaning back in your chair. “It sounds fun and all, but that’s not where I’m needed.”

“But if you had the choice, would you want to go to the races?”

You didn’t even need to think about it. “Yes.”

The next morning, as you set foot inside your office your whole body froze. On your desk sat a jar of chocolates. Passed for the weekend in Australia hung from the shoulders of the jar. You analyzed them, just to make sure they were real.

“Of course.”

₊ ‧ *‧₊˚ ⋅* ۶ৎ ‧₊ ‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

Max won that first race in Australia. A hard fought victory against Charles Leclerc. After the race you settled in the hospitality. People were packing up around you but you were stationary, answering emails upon emails.

You jumped when your shoulders were squeezed from behind. The sight of Max had you relaxing on instinct. He maneuvered his way around the table, taking the chair across from where you sat. “You should go out with me tonight.” He proposed.

Brows shot up, you choked on air. “Sorry, what?” Your laughter was out of control. Continuous breathy, nervous chuckles.

Max seemed to have caught his mistake, laughing to himself. “I meant— I’m going out to celebrate with some of the team. You should come with.”

“Oh, oh yeah.” You laughed. “Maybe not, though. I’ve got a lot of work to catch up on, yknow?”

All it took was one little teasing “come on,” and a dazzling smile to convince you.

Party was certainly Maxs thing. One too many gin and tonics and he was drunk out of his mind. He clutched onto your shoulder, yelled something close to your ear. “That’s great, Max!” You responded, a tap of your hand to his chest, though the topic of conversation was completely lost on you.

“Great?! No ‘thank you, Max! You’ve got a beautiful face too!’? Wow ego much!” Drunk max was a hassle, and drove you to drink with every teenage-girl-esc sentence that spilled from his drunk, scrambled mind. “Sorry, didn’t quite hear you! I’m gonna get a drink!” Max wiggled his brows, remembering how you swore you wouldn’t drink tonight. “Looks like someone’s going back on her word!” He laughed. You shook your head, turning your back on him to make your way to the bar. Max clutched desperately onto your arm.

In hindsight, drinking wasn’t your smartest idea. Because one drink led to two, and two led to even more.

The very next morning you woke up with a raging headache. The curtains of the hotel room weren’t pulled closed. The morning light invaded the room, and you pulled a pillow over your head to block the rays that desperately tried to bypass your thin eyelids.

The smell of the pillow filled your nose. But it wasn’t your own perfume, or the fresh scent of a five star hotel. It was cologne. Still smelling fresh. But undoubtedly cologne. The scent strangely familiar, but you couldn’t place it.

Your heart raced. You could feel as the thrumming of it pulsated up to the surface of your skin. The headache was fought off as you opened you opened your eyes, slowly and anxiously.

Eyes meeting the figure, a small gasp left your lips. You’d never identified a person so quickly in your life.

You began to panic when you spotted your shirt from last night, thrown messily over the back of a chair. A quiet chant of no, no, no fell from your lips as you scanned the room with a frantic, unfocused gaze. And the shirt you wore wasn’t yours. Red Bull branded. But not yours. “Fuck” you whispered, tears springing to your waterline.

Careful not to wake Max, you slid from between the sheets, gathering your clothes from around the room. While you slid your pants on, Max stirred. One leg in and one leg out, you froze in place. Thankfully, he went back to sleep, his breath returning in a shallow, even rate. You placed Max’s—now neatly folded—shirt of the television stand.

On the tips of your toes and as quietly as you could, you slipped into the hallway. You could only hope that his memory was lacking as much as your own.

Once back in the security of your own room, you fell onto the bed, closing your eyes with a sigh.

The next time your eyes opened was because of a harsh series of knocks on the door. The sun was brighter now. You’d fallen asleep again.

Tired legs carried you to the door, which once opened, had you frozen in place.

A claw clip was held out to you. “I think you forgot this.” Max grinned, letting himself into the room.

“That’s not mine.” You dismissed, though it was definitely yours. Max chuckled. “You left.” He stated the obvious, eyes drilling into yours. You leaned against the door. He stood across the room.

Your head shook. A mindless movement. “I didn’t think you’d remember either.” You muttered, facing your crossed feet below you. He blinked. Brows furrowing just slightly, complementing his small frown. “Are you saying you don’t remember anything?”

You stood up straighter, back still supported by the door. “Well… bits and pieces.” Your voice was small and you forced yourself to face him. His mouth fell open, gasping out a breath, his hand falling over his face.

Seeing his reaction, you quickly tried to ease him. “I’m not going to tell HR if that’s what your worried about.”

Max froze. “You think I’m worried about HR? No I’m worried about you.” He took a few steps in your direction before stopping himself.

Your eyes widened. Shock. You laughed. “Why would you be worried about me?” You were nervous now. Max seemed to be more confused than ever. “You… because we had sex, and you don’t remember it.” He started to pace. “I though you weren’t that drunk. You swore you weren’t that drunk. I’m an idiot, obviously you were that drunk.” He rambled to himself, feet pacing back and forth along the length of the hotel room.

“Max,” you called. He froze, face meeting yours. Concern etched on every feature. “Did I consent?” He blinked before nodding. “Then it’s fine. You have nothing to worry about” You shook your head

He became confused. “Nothing to- I practically took advantage of you, and you’re saying that’s ‘fine’?”

“Yes because I trust you and I know you and I know that’s not you.” You sighed. “It’s like you want me to be mad at you.”

Max turned away from you, silent. He ventured over to the open window, a distant view of the ocean. Perhaps he did want you to be mad at him. Perhaps then the inner turmoil would be easier to face. Perhaps then he wouldn’t feel so conflicted about you.

“I just think you should value yourself more.”

You looked up from your hands, gaze only finding his backside. “What, you think I don’t value myself just because I won’t be mad at you? We made a stupid mistake, that’s all.” You bit back.

A brow of his lifted, body halfway turned to face you. “No, that’s not what I meant.” He chuckled nervously.

The nod that followed was subconscious as you stared down at your hands once more. “You should go. I need to pack.”

He called your name, a tone that suggested protest. A look from you silently told him off, and he left without another word.

₊ ‧ *‧₊˚ ⋅* ۶ৎ ‧₊ ‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

The following week you were back in your office. Max was meant to be away at a race. He placed second in China. You didn’t care. Sure it was a tiny spat, but it was easier to ignore him than face the repercussions of what you’d done. Max hadn’t reached out since that morning. So neither had you.

The day had droned on. Another Monday spent sitting in your office for hours on end. The tenth knock of the day interrupted your flow of work. “Come in,” you muttered, head rested in the palm of your hand while you read over your presentation for the thousandth time.

You hit the arrow button once again when a cough took you from your focus. You glanced up at the person, body straightening when you saw his blue eyes.

“Is there something I can help you with?” You remained polite and professional. You mentally questioned why he was not still in China, or why he was here at all. He wasn’t needed at the factory today. The question never surfaced, though.

Max let out a small sigh, standing across the room. “Look, I’m sorry.” He started sincerely.

“It’s alright.” You brushed it off, turning your attention back the the screen and hoping he’d fuck off.

“No, it’s not. I don’t think you deserve to just be a hit and run.”

“It doesn’t matter. I hardly remember it.” Your eyes refused to meet his.

“That’s exactly my point.”

You sighed deeply. “And what do you want to do about it? It’s in the past.”

The room was silent for a minute. Max thought it over, his proposal on the tip of his tongue, but he struggled to find the courage to say it. You studied him, eyes narrowed, trying to pick his brain apart.

“What about a date?” He managed to ask.

And you laughed at him. Right to his face. “You’ve lost your mind, Verstappen.”

“That’s not a no.” He grinned.

You huffed. “That is a no.” You shook your head, your words holding some finality to them. You returned to your work, thinking he’d leave after that.

But Max Verstappen is nothing if not persistent. “Why no?”

You looked up once more. The third time during this conversation. “Because it’s an HR nightmare. The second anyone gets wind that I went on a date with you, I’m fired. And I just got this job so I’d really like to keep it.” The eye roll that followed was a natural instinct.

“Then no one has to know.” He negotiated quickly.

“Why are you so persistent about this? I told you it wasn’t a big deal.”

Max swayed on his feet. He didn’t have an answer for that. At least, not one that he was willing to share with you.

“I’ll make a reservation at that stake house, cove’s, for 7. You can choose to show up or not.”

₊ ‧ *‧₊˚ ⋅* ۶ৎ ‧₊ ‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

It may have bothered you a little. Knowing that Max may have been sitting at the restaurant all by himself. The clock reads ten past the nineteenth hour. You’d been staring at the blank wall for fifteen minutes.

The two halves of your brain were at odds. Arguing for and against joining Max at the restaurant.

He’s all alone.

That’s his own fault.

Yeah but he might be upset.

His emotions aren’t my problem.

But it’s a nice restaurant, and he’s paying. A good meal won’t hurt.

You groaned, throwing the blanket from off your lap and making your way over to the closet. You picked a simple dress. Nothing too showy or extravagant. Attention wasn’t what you desired.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” you grumbled, looking yourself over in the mirror. The small imperfections were screaming at you, a small frown adorning your lips. You closed your eyes. A deep breath and a sigh. A shake of your head. “It’s not even a real date.”

You got there forty-five minutes late. Max could be clearly seen from across the restaurant. A glass of water sat in front of him, only half full. Fingers tapped the glass in a rhythmic manner, intense eye contact with the contained liquid.

It’s not too late to turn around, you told yourself. And you actually considered it. But the thought of getting ready just to turn back outweighed any other thoughts.

When you approached the table, Max glanced at you, an uninterested look. Then as if the image registered late in his mind, he stood. The chair was pulled out for you before you had the chance to do it yourself. “I didn’t think you’d come.” He spoke in a hushed voice, almost like he was embarrassed by the fact.

“I didn’t think you’d still be here.”

And that’s how it started.

₊ ‧ *‧₊˚ ⋅* ۶ৎ ‧₊ ‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

April passed quickly. Max tried taking you out on regular dates, though you argued. “It would be too suspicious. Everyone knows you like in Monaco.” He worked his way around your fears. He drove your car, which was not nearly as flashy. He covered his face as best he could to blend into the background. He stopped trying to convince you to go with him to races with his guest passes. “People will catch on, Max. Your fans are smart.”

So Max convinced Horner that you would be much more of use at the weekends. “It’s a much quicker flow of information, and she can be there to make changes on the spot. It only makes sense!” And somehow, Horner listened.

The first race of May, in Miami, you were there. Not just as a guest of Max Verstappen, but as a critical part of the team.

You never found out it was Max’s doing. He let you believe the promotion was for your hard work. You deserved that.

The Red Bull car, adorned with a big red number 1 on the wing of the car, was out in front. It would be his first win since the season opener if he could hold onto the lead. You were stressed, fingers twisting up in the ends of your hair. The strands moved like liquid between the gaps of your fingers.

Later that night, you happened to end up in a club, Max’s hands glued to your hips while you twirled around on the dance floor. “You won again!” You shouted over the music, arms tightening around his neck. “I think you’re my good luck charm!” He grinned. You shook your head, laughing. A sound he wished he could keep on file in his brain so he could listen to it on a bad day. “No, I think you’re just that amazing!”

“Fuck, you’re so amazing.” Max groaned, his entire cock sheathed inside of you. Of course you found yourselves back in his hotel room, making a mess of the sheets.

“Ah, Max,” You whined. His thrusts perfectly measured, hitting the deepest parts inside of you. “Faster, oh please Max, faster!” Words were a struggle to get past your panting. Your nails dug into his bare shoulders. He hissed, but the pain quickly morphed with the pleasure and spurred him on.

His teeth scraped along the curve of your neck as he sucked marks into the skin, trying to quiet his noises. “So good. Fuck,” he mumbled against your skin, a hand guiding your thighs to wrap around his waist. The noises you released at the feeling of the new, deeper angle had Max thrusting his hips into yours harder than before. Thank god the headboard was bolted to the wall. Any consideration for the next door neighbor—probably a team member—flew out the window.

“Fuck! Fuck, I’m so close!” Your hips started meeting his, searching for a release. “Please,” the word fell from your lips on instinct.

“So good. So perfect. So perfect for me.” Max continued to mutter praises, his hot breath fanning over the marks he’d just made. His hand ventured down your body to land harsh circles on your clit. “Come on, come for me.”

A high pitch moan added to the sinful noises already infiltrating the room, your back arched up from the bed, pushing your body into Max’s. “That’s it, come on.” He encouraged.

You came with his name on your lips, repeated over and over again like it was the only word you knew. “Fuck,” he grunted, you squeezing him, pulling him right to the edge. “Inside me, fuck, I’m on the pill.” That’s all it took for him to be spilling everything he had inside of you.

You whimpered when he pulled out, still sensitive. He apologized. Noting your closed eyes and your blissed out state, he carried you off to the bathroom and sat you down on the toilet.

“You know, I’m noticing a trend here.” You joked after you’d recovered, back in the bed and lying against his chest. Your fingers idly played with his, fingertips running along his knuckles. Max frowned, though you couldn’t see it. “This is more than just physical for me. I really do like you.” His lips met the top of your head. It brought a small smile to your lips. “I know,”

₊ ‧ *‧₊˚ ⋅* ۶ৎ ‧₊ ‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

Things were going well for you and Max. You kept it on the low. No one in HR had caught on. Of course, the fans speculated, but they had no real proof.

It was the end of June now. All day, Max had been praying to anyone who would listen, begging for a good result. It was Austria. Red Bull’s home race. He couldn’t let the team down.

Prior to the race, you stood in his driver’s room with him. He was all suited up already, you were only there to wish him luck.

Your hands ran down the front of his suit, palms settling on his stomach. “Have I ever told you that you look so good in this suit?”

Max chuckled, the sound a low rumble. “Only about every time I wear it.” His eyes, reflecting such deep admiration, worked their way over your own figure. The tips of his fingers dug into your hips, bottom lip scraping between his teeth while he drew you impossibly close. “And speaking of outfits, you look like a dream.”

You scoffed a laugh. “Really? In my business casual?”

He looked at you like you were crazy for second guessing him. “Oh, Absolutely.” He grinned, his hands coming up to move the hair from your face.

Just as his lips were about to collect yours, a knock interrupted the moment. Max jumped back, creating space on instinct. He looked at you with wide eyes, but you held up a single finger, your mind working fast to make up an excuse.

“Max? Can I come in?” His trainer spoke through the door.

You scrambled through your camera roll. You were sure there was some stupid media video you could use and pretend you were searching for his approval.

“Yeah come in,” Max answered, just as you were shoving your phone in his face. The video was just a stupid tiktok, one saved for future reference.

“So what do you think?” You asked as Rupert stepped into the room. The trainer looked surprised to see you, gaze flitting between the two of you. “Oh, hey. Wasn’t expecting you in here.”

“Last minute media duties. You know how it is.” You laughed innocently, causing Max to have to bite back a smirk. Rupert didn’t know how it was, but he nodded anyway, laughing with you.

“I wouldn’t mind it. Definitely better than some of the other ideas.” Max finally answered your question, a bit of a bite to his response. “Great, I’ll run it by the media team.”

Later that night, after the race—which Max wanted to forget all about, having gotten a puncture due to debris—you recalled the interaction. “You were jealous!” You insisted, laughing while he shook his head adamantly. “You didn’t see how he looked at you!” He insisted.

“Oh come on, that’s in your head.”

“Is it really? Because I’m almost certain he watched your ass as you left.”

You smiled, leaning into him. “You’re quite cute when you’re possessive.” Max cocked his head, trying to figure out if it was a compliment or an insult. “Thank you?” He said hesitantly.

“You’re welcome” you hummed, pecking his lips.

₊ ‧ *‧₊˚ ⋅* ۶ৎ ‧₊ ‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

Summer break. It was much needed for the both of you. Somehow, you managed to take two weeks off of work. The time was spent with Max, somewhere remote and private where eyes wouldn’t be able to pry.

The air smelled of salt water, the strands of your hair soaked in the same water. The white boat floated not far from you, Max standing on the end of it, hands rested on his hips. He observed you with a fond gaze while you swam around, head dipped under the water and a snorkel peaking up out of the water.

You resurfaced, eyes alight with excitement. You pushed the goggles to your hairline. It made your hair look like a mess, but Max found it cute. You waved him over. “Come join me!” And then noticing his hesitation you added, “there’s so many fish! And some are so pretty!”

A smile creeped up on him seeing your enthusiasm. He grabbed his own snorkel from the cushioned seats and joined you. Who was he do deny your request when you were so animated about it?

You’d already ducked back under the water, too impatient to wait for him to join you. He understood your enthusiasm quickly. While it was no coral reef beneath you, fish still swam by, scampering along when one of you made the slightest movement.

A punch was landed on Max’s arm, your movements languid due to the water. He followed your pointed finger to find a turtle at the end of it.

His eyes found yours, crinkled in the corners from how hard you were smiling.

The same smile found it’s way back on your face hours later back on the boat. Max lounged against the cushioned seats, your body right next to his, upper body rested against his.

“I told him, I said, ‘Max is not going to like that idea, you won’t get the result you think you will’ and he replied with, ‘well then maybe max shouldn’t be such a baby about everything.’” You laughed, shaking your head as you recited a conversation from a meeting last week.

Max scoffed, feigning offense. “A baby? I’m not a baby about media duties!” He defended himself.

“Oh you absolutely are. You’re a pain to do media with, to everyone except for me. But it’s okay ‘cause I still love you.” You turned your head to face him, leaning up to capture his lips in a sweet kiss. But a sour taste infected your mouth as your brain caught up with the words your lips had just spewed.

The contact was broken abruptly by you, sitting up and staring at him with wide eyes. Max just looked at you, his own gaze flicking between focusing on each of your eyes, one at a time. His brows were raised in interest, mouth slightly parted.

You found it difficult to meet his eyes, so you focused on the blue-green color of the ocean, watching as the waves folded over one another. “I don’t know where that came from.” You shook your head, voice small. “Just-“

“From your heart, I hope.” Max joked. You turned to him, seeing a cheesy grin on his face to match the equally cheesy comment.

A small yelp slipped past your lips when Max pulled you down again, his face inches from yours. “I love you, too.” He whispered against your lips.

₊ ‧ *‧₊˚ ⋅* ۶ৎ ‧₊ ‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

You’d truly never been happier. It was like you were living in heaven on earth. The smile on your face was permanent, just like how Max was permanently on your mind.

It was early August, the air warm but not hot enough to be unbearable. Your vacation just ended. Despite the fact it was an early Monday morning, you were smiling to yourself while entering the factory.

The first person you saw upon entering was Christian himself, standing in the foyer, leaning against the receptionist desk. “Morning, Horner.” You greeted, walking past him.

“Ah, just a second.” He halted your movements, voice sounding stern. Your heart rate spiked. “Come to my office with me.” It wasn’t a suggestion. You had no choice.

“Have a seat.” He instructed, an outstretched hand. You swallowed hard, trying to level your breathing. Your smile was harder to maintain now.

He sat across from you, at his desk, and pulled out a laptop. “How was your break?” He made small talk, but there was too much tension in the air for you to be comfortable. Your gut told you something was wrong.

“Great, thanks.” 

“And you traveled with Max, correct?”

Your heart stopped, breathing halted. His gaze was on yours. A borderline glare. You blinked. Lying was an option that turned over in your mind, but it was evident he already knew. It would put you deeper in shit.

“Yes.”

Christian smiled wickedly. “So you will be honest with me, then.” He said to himself. “And am I correct in saying that there’s something more than professional business going on between the two of you?”

It was easy to predict what would happen next. The very thing you feared prior to diving into this with Max. But he insisted everything would be fine. It was stupid to believe him.

“Yes.”

Christian nodded slowly. “I’ve worked out an agreement with Mercedes and Toto. At the end of the season, you’ll transfer to Mercedes as their head of Media and Marketing. That is, only if you put an end to whatever is going on between you and my driver. If not, then I’ll make sure you never get another job in formula one.” His voice was eerily calm, but the demanding undertones of it was what really put you off.

You nodded, a silent agreement to his terms. He waved his hand. “You may leave now.”

The door was as far as you got before he called your name. “And a bit of advice,” he started, a nasty grin on his face. “Don’t sleep with Wolff’s drivers, too.”

He thought he was being funny. A blatantly misogynistic comment, and he thought it was funny. You desperately wanted to chuck something at his head, but that surely would ruin your career. So you nodded once again.

You made quick work of getting to your office, hardly breathing to contain the tears. It felt like you were suffocating. The world was crashing down around you. You’d just achieved everything you wanted in life, and now it was being pulled out from underneath you like some tablecloth magic trick gone wrong.

Once in your office, you sat at your desk. Palms flat on the table while you took deep breaths. Trying to ground yourself wasn’t working. So you let it flow. You locked the door and cried into your hands. Your palms collected the droplets into salty little puddles.

And then there was Max. God, how were you going to tell Max? It would break his heart, maybe even more than it’s breaking yours.

₊ ‧ *‧₊˚ ⋅* ۶ৎ ‧₊ ‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

You pondered for weeks how to go about telling him. No way seemed good enough. No way seemed gentle enough. So you resorted to slowly pulling yourself away from from. The thought process was that perhaps you could ease him into your leave. That way, it wouldn’t be nearly as painful.

The constant distancing didn’t go unnoticed by Max. He questioned you about it multiple times, but you brushed it off every time. In the past weeks, you’d declined every date. You only talked to him when necessary. And even answered his messages with short responses.

Which is why he felt the need to drag you back to Monaco with him after Baku. You stayed in his flat for the week, so you couldn’t escape him even if you wanted to.

The very last night in Monaco, you allowed Max to have his way with you. Any position he liked, however he liked. You knew you’d end it the following morning. If anything, it was a farewell gift and he didn’t even know it.

The conversation came sooner than expected. His question had your heart jump to your throat.

“What are we?”

He wanted a label. Confirmation. You knew that. But you couldn’t give it to him, only to tear it from his grasp in a few hours time. That would be ten times more painful than what you answered with.

“We aren’t anything.”

Max sat up quickly, your head falling to the pillows. He scanned your face for any sign that would tell him you were joking.

But your face was cold, stoic. He became angry, face twisted in rage as he stood from the bed. “You don’t mean that.” While his face may have reflected anger, his voice broke like a small child’s.

Max thought you had something special going on. Something more than just a fling. But with the confirmation of your words, it seemed it was only that. A fling.

You felt vulnerable under his burning gaze, but you remained expressionless. “You don’t-“ he choked on his words. “you don’t tell someone you love them and then…” he shook his head. He couldn’t understand. “Tell me you don’t mean that.” He demanded, feeling totally defenseless, small, pathetic.

You blinked, finally an emotion coming to the surface of your face. Total despair. “I can’t.” Your voice broke, your head shaking on impulse. Tears began to bloom in your eyes.

Max turned his back on you, his shoulders heaving from the deep breaths he was taking. “You said you love me.” His voice was a near whisper, back still facing you. “Did you lie?”

You’d never stood faster, and you were in front of him in seconds. He stared ahead refusing to meet your eyes. You could see the collection of tears on his waterline. It broke your heart to know you were doing this to him.

Two hands reached out to him. He took a step back, avoiding your touch. “Max I swear to you, I do love you.”

Confusion and hurt filled his eyes when they met yours. “Then why are you doing this?”

“I-“ you stumbled over your words, struggling for an explanation. His brows furrowed. “You don’t even know, do you?” His tone was accusing, creating more distance between the both of you.

You turned the accusation down quickly with a shake of your head. “No. I just- promise me you won’t let it affect your work relations.” Red Bull was his home. You weren’t sure if you would be able to sleep at night if Max hated them after you explained everything to him.

His confusion didn’t lift. “What do they have to do with this?” Max hated feeling like he was in the dark, and right now, the world around him felt pitch black.

“Just promise me.” You begged him.

He nodded. “Okay.”

“I don’t know how, but Christian found out. He told me if I didn’t end things that he would make sure I never got another job working in F1.” You breathed a shaky breath. “I promise you Max, I do love you. So much. And you mean so much to me.” You sniffled. “But I just can’t give up my dream job.”

Max blinked, his expression softening. He understood you completely. If the roles were reversed, he suspected he would’ve done the same thing. Now the only thing that could be read on his face was great sorrow.

He sat on the end of the bed, the influx of information causing his legs to feel week. “How long ago was that?”

“Beginning of August.” You confessed.

“Christ.” His voice was a whisper, head in his hands. He put the pieces together on his own. It was the sole explanation for your distance, he concluded. “I don’t think I can function knowing you’re going to be there every weekend.”

The spot on the bed beside him was no longer available, having been occupied by you. When you put a comforting hand on his arm, didn’t move away this time. “Well, I’m moving to Mercedes next year.”

He looked up, mouth parted. “That’s… good- yeah I’m really happy for you.” He congratulated, and he meant it.

You laid your head on his shoulder. “Let’s just enjoy the time we have left, yeah?” You suggested.

A warm sensation bloomed across Max’s shoulder. Your tears, he quickly realized. He let his own flow free now, and agreed with you, whispering out a, “yeah.”

[umbrella-show]

𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞

I know I've been doing a lot of Shadow Milk stuff but I wanna give Burning spice cookie some love for a moment bc hes so cool ❤

The clang of clashing metal filled the open space. You swung your axe repeatedly in a frenzy, desperate to at least graze the dough of the Beast of destruction. Yet, he dogged every single one of your sloppy swings with ease. Trained onto the way you haphazardly swung the smaller axe over and over again, his eyes were narrow. Not in concentration, but in an expression of disappointment. Sweat dripped down your forehead as you stumbled forward in exhaustion, but continued to attempt to attack him. His axe met yours halfway, and with ease, he hit your axe out of your hands. The axe flew out of your hands and lodged into one of the nearby red stone pillars. A spice servant just so happened to be walking past and was nearly impaled by the weapon as it landed inches away from their head. They quickly scurried away, not sticking around to find out if there were any more flying axes that would pose a threat.

With no weapon and no way to defend yourself, you helplessly looked up at the Beast cookie. You heavily panted, your adrenaline immediately dissipating and the exhaustion causing your body to tremble. You began to finally recognize the overwhelming heat present in the training room from the natural environment of the dessert you were in. His sharp glare sent shivers down your spine and you found yourself freezing on the spot. His silence was greatly unnerving. He wasn’t known to be quiet in the slightest. Yet, he was staring down at you with a prominent scowl.

“That was pathetic.”

Burning Spice cooke spat out, his low and harsh tone making you flinch. You said nothing and only continued to look up at him. His towering stance caused you to shrink further, desperately wishing you could disappear and escape his disappointed gaze. You feared he would dispose of you. Reduce you into crumbs. Your gaze wandered to his own axe, practically as tall as him. One swing of that and you would be crumbs, and your dust would be left to travel into the air and join the rest of the spices who had fallen to the Great Destroyer's hands.

“Yet, I know you are capable of much more. That spark. That flame in your eyes. I have not forgotten it.”

His voice was gruff as he lectured you, making sure to look directly in your eyes. He was searching for something. Probably that so-called ‘spark’ he claimed he had once seen. You didn’t know what he meant by that. He soon continued, resting his battle axe over his shoulder.

“Fanning that flame, it will grow into an inferno that can scorch the most impenetrable civilizations and can snuff out the strongest of flames with a single blow.”

A faint smile pulled at his lips, revealing more of his sharp yellow teeth. The sight intimidated you greatly and made your feet shuffle underneath you. He didn’t seem to care about you uncomfort, his smile only growing as he seemed to be thinking deeply.

“Yes. You shall get there, in time. We will continue later. Retrieve the axe.”

Burning Spice cookie left the training room without another word. You hobbled over the axe stuck into the stone pillar. Gripping the handle, you heaved with all the strength you had left to pull it out. It remained lodged in the stone.

You only continued to stubbornly tug at the small axe. However, no matter how hard you tried, it didn’t budge. It wasn’t like you were at your full strength, you thought as you continued to pull. You had just spent a while overexerting yourself in your fierce training with the Beast cookie. You still persisted, leaning almost your whole weight back as you pulled.

Burning Spice cookie returned with a ceramic bowl in his hand. He noticed your difficulty in reattaining the axe in the pillar, and sighed in annoyance. He placed the bowl on the floor and strided over to your struggling form. At his arrival, you got the hint and stepped away from the axe and let him handle the work. With one swift tug of the handle, the axe was released from the wall. He called for a spice servant, demanding they sharpen the small weapon. Cowering, they quickly fled to fulfill his orders. 

Burning Spice cookie ordered you to follow him to the bowl, sitting on the floor with crossed legs and prompting you to do the same. In the bowl, you saw some fruit. Mostly berries hanging on short, thin vines, though you could see some cantaloupe mixed in as well. You glanced at the appetizing looking fruit before looking at him. He looked at you expectantly. After a few seconds of silence, with an annoyed sigh, Burning spice cookie took one of the cantaloupes and dropped it into your hands.

“Eat,” he impatiently demanded. “In order to train harder, you need sustenance.”

You eagerly obliged, and began tearing into the cantaloupe with fervour. You didn’t realize how starving you were until you had taken that first, juicy, delicious bite and continuously ate more. You ravenously ate everything in the bowl, the juices of the cantaloupe and berries messily staining your mouth. You finished the bowl in a matter of minutes.

Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you took a moment to close your eyes and relax for just a few seconds. Of course, you could never fully be at ease, as you could feel Burning Spice cookie’s judgmental stare at your sudden tranquility. Yet, he gave you a full minute to decompress before grunting impatiently and getting up from the ground.You soon followed after you opened your eyes to his expectant glare.

“You may not rest. Rest can wait until you’ve reached your full potential.”

Before you could ask what he wanted you to do next, he suddenly turned his back to you, began walking, and ordered you to follow. Wordlessly, you walked behind him, your face displaying a visible expression of confusion and shock when he led you out of the temple and into the desert. Your attention averted to him as he muttered in a low voice. You were unsure it was directed at you or if he was speaking to himself.

“Now, let us do a new type of training.”

The wind kicked up spice into your face. Covering your eyes with your arms, you didn’t dare to open them in the middle of the Spice storm. Taking a step forward, you forced your body to move against the wind and further into the storm.

“How is this part of training-?!”

You coughed violently as you felt your throat burn from the specks of spice you accidentally swallowed. Burning Spice cookie stood, unbothered, in the hazardous storm. In fact, he smiled and laughed without a care as he watched you struggle. He stood in front of you at a distance, monitoring your every step. With crossed arms, he surveyed, entertained, at your scared expression and difficulty adjusting. He was waiting for you to reach him. Yet, you knew he could easily continue forward and leave you behind if he chose too, considering his calmness in such a hazardous storm.

“You need to get accustomed to the weather. That is part of your training. You must be prepared to fight in any conditions. Even in the eye of a Spice Storm.”

You took another step forward, leaning your weight forward to prevent the wind from pushing you back. You caught a glance at Burning Spice cookie through your blurred vision. He was still there, you confirmed. Watching you. You could still feel his piercing glare through the wind. 

“Keep going.” He yelled, his hair widely whipping around him. “Ignite that spark. Fan the flame!”

A grunt left your throat, forcing your body forward. Step after step, your pace quickened. You continued to cough, but you ignored that and pushed forward. You came closer and closer to him. He seemed absolutely delighted by this, thoroughly entertained. He egged you on.

“Yes! YES! Keep going! FAN THE FLAME!!!”

“I-I can’t!”

“DO IT!!!”

Tears brimmed in your eyes as you compelled your body to continue. Step after step took incredible effort, but the fear of being swept away by the storm if you faltered for even a second compelled you to heed Burning Spice cookie’s orders. You shrieked as you felt the wind fiercely rush past you, your hair flying into your face. You pushed and pushed forward. You were only a few feet away from him. 

He held a wide, toothy smirk as you inched closer. He could see it! That spark of determination began to grow into a powerful flame the more you continued forward. Your body trembled in exhaustion, but your eyes held that familiar look of determination. 

That same look he had seen when you had gotten yourself between Golden Cheese cookie and him. The way you looked up at him, with pure anger and furry. Despite how fearful of him you obviously were, he could see it clearly through your body language. It was completely unwise to stand up to him so boldly. He knew you knew fully well he could easily crush you. Yet, you had tried to push him away, pathetically hitting your fist against his firm chest in an attempt to protect your dear friend. Pathetic and foolish, he had thought, and he returned your pointless punches with a blow of his own. Of course, you had flown back and were sent tumbling across the ground. The dough on your side and arm has slightly cracked, making it painful to move. Golden Cheese cookie had called out your name in utter horror at your condition.

Burning Spice cookie found satisfaction in her pain. Staining one of her most precious treasures with his destructive hands. His satisfaction, however, was unmatched to the pleasure he felt when he demanded her to fight him. The thrill he would experience by bringing about destruction to her precious treasures, and then her in the end, would be unmatched to anyone he had ever rivaled. 

Yet, a sudden harsh poke at his back had caused him to look over and see you. You had hurled a stone at his back, your trembling form attempting to stand up straight and tall with difficulty. What really caught his attention, however, was your expression of complete and utter rage. Your jam was boiling, he could see it clear as day. Your eyes had held a mix of emotions, all burning inside you to create a powerful inferno that dared to rival his. You glared at him in pure and utter rage. He only stared back, momentarily stunned, before a wide smile came across his face. You, he had realized, could make you a worthy opponent.

After he had captured Golden Cheese cookie, he immediately began to train you as he waited for her to recover. Not only would it pass the time while he waited, but he could simultaneously still get some entertainment by pushing you to your limits and beginning to forcefully drill his teachings into your mind. He was going to mold you into the perfect soldier with brute force. He could see you were capable of being a worthy opponent. In fact, it seemed he was succeeding as he watched you persist through the storm. He could already see a part of himself in you. That passion in your eyes, he felt, could almost match his own. Almost. It would eventually get there if he continued training you. And he planned to do just that.

Once you had reached him, he wordlessly picked you up, slung you over his shoulder and calmly walked out of the Spice storm. The armor of his shoulder dug into your abdomen uncomfortably. 

“With enough training, you’ll be able to FIGHT in a Spice storm with no issue.”

You could feel the wind calm over time as you walked further and further from the Spice Storm and towards the temple. You were completely exhausted, yet, you knew he wouldn’t let you rest. He repeated to you, as your eyes drifted from closing to opening, that rest could only come when you were pushed to your very limits. You silently forced your eyes to stay open. You dared not disobey him. The last thing you wanted was to die like this, by his hands. You needed to stay strong and wait until Golden Cheese cookie came back. You prayed to the witches, that she would.

You stood in the middle of the now abandoned temple you had trained in. The temple was annihilated. You did your best not to step on all of the ruble and broken pots, as well as the crumbs littering the floor. In the chaos of it all, the small metal axe you were familiar with was laying on the ground, under a large piece of the crimson rock. Slowly, you grasped the handle and lifted the axe to your face. The metal showed evident signs of use, some dents present from the training that you hand endured. Dust covered the metal weapon. Unconsciously, you wiped the metal with your hands, revealing your blurry reflection on the clearer surface. You examined your eyes through the reflection. Your dough held a few scratches, but over all, not much damage was physically done to you. You assumed even the Beast of Destructions knew to limit his power when training you, as he could easily crumble you or leave some nasty scars had he not been so mindful. You realized some of the remaining crimson dust made your eyes look redder on the metal. 

You let your arm fall to your side as soon as you heard the call of the golden goddess herself, stronger and greedier than ever. She impatiently yelled for you in a loud, prideful tone that was clearly heard in her voice. You shouted out a short response, your hand tightening around the handle of the weapon. You weren’t sure why, but you decided to take it with you. Letting go just felt.. wrong. In a way. You began to briskly walk to meet Golden Cheese cookie and Smoked Cheese cookie observing the destruction of the temple. They were eager to get back to the kingdom, and you couldn’t deny you felt the same way. 

With an unreadable expression, and a mix of complex emotions weighing heavily in your chest, you took one last long look at what remained of the temple. You turned away and departed with Golden Cheese cookie and Smoked Cheese cookie by your side. You had a feeling you’ll see Burning Spice cookie cookie again. When and where that meeting would take place, you were unsure. Yet, you were convinced that he would eventually hunt you down.

[s4kura-tr3]

Reader does "the calling my husband my boyfriend" prank to jjk husband

(I did it backwards..but it’s fine! 😓)

Gojo - Gojo freezes. Like, actually freezes. The bag of snacks he was about to toss onto the counter slips from his fingers, hitting the register with a soft thud. His infinity may as well have been activated because for a moment, it feels like time itself stops.

The cashier, oblivious to his internal crisis, keeps scanning your items. Meanwhile, Gojo slowly turns to you, his usually playful blue eyes now wide with shock—and unmistakable delight.

“H-husband?” His voice cracks, and he immediately clears his throat, trying (and failing) to play it cool. “Oh? Ohhh?” A smirk creeps onto his lips, but his ears are definitely turning red.

You pretend not to notice. “Yeah. My husband,” you repeat nonchalantly, passing him a drink to hold.

Gojo clutches the bottle like it’s a lifeline. “Say it again,” he demands, practically vibrating with excitement now. “No, wait! I should’ve recorded that—say it one more time, please.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t get used to it.

“Oh, but I will.” He drapes an arm around your shoulder, leaning in close, voice dropping to a teasing whisper. “In fact, I think we should make it official. What do you say, darling? A fancy wedding? Vows? Me sweeping you off your feet—literally?”

You laugh, shoving him off. “We’re not married, Gojo.”

“Not yet,” he corrects with a wink.

Geto - Geto pauses mid-stir, the spoon in his cup clinking softly against the porcelain. His dark eyes flick to you, a hint of amusement dancing in them, but he doesn’t say anything right away. Instead, he takes a slow sip of his tea, as if giving himself time to process what he just heard.

The barista finishes your order and moves on, leaving the two of you alone at your table. That’s when Geto finally speaks.

“My husband, huh?” His lips curve into a small, knowing smile. “That’s a bold claim.”

You shrug, feigning nonchalance. “You don’t like it?”

He hums thoughtfully, setting his cup down before resting his chin on his palm. “No, I love it.” His voice is smooth, deep, laced with something unreadable. “It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

You scoff. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Oh, but it’s too late for that.” His smirk widens, and he leans in slightly, his fingers brushing against yours on the table. “I could get used to hearing that. Maybe you should start practicing it more often.”

You roll your eyes, but the warmth creeping up your neck betrays you.

Geto chuckles, satisfied. “Careful, sweetheart. Call me that too many times, and I just might make it a reality.”

Nanami - Nanami stops in his tracks. His grip on the shopping cart tightens just slightly, knuckles flexing. He doesn’t react outwardly right away—no dramatic pauses, no teasing smirks—just a slow, deep breath as he processes your words.

The employee gives you directions and walks away, leaving an unusual silence between you and Nanami. When you turn to look at him, he’s already gazing at you, brow slightly raised.

“My husband?” he repeats, his tone as even as ever, but there’s something dangerous about how smoothly the words roll off his tongue.

You blink. “What? It’s just easier than explaining.”

He exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “I see.” He pushes the cart forward, resuming your shopping trip like nothing happened. But you notice the way his free hand reaches up to adjust his tie—a telltale sign that you’ve flustered him more than he’s willing to admit.

After a few minutes, he finally speaks again. “If you’re going to call me that, you should at least do it properly.”

You glance up at him. “Properly?”

His gaze meets yours, calm but unwavering. “Yes. With a ring.”

You nearly drop the box of pasta in your hand. “Nanami—”

“Hm?” He continues pushing the cart, utterly unfazed. But you swear you see the corner of his lips twitch—just barely.

Sukuna - The entire room goes silent. The curses scatter like roaches, instinctively sensing the sudden shift in energy.

Sukuna, who had been lazily reclining on his own throne, stiffens ever so slightly. Then, he lets out a low, rumbling chuckle that echoes through the space, filled with something dark and unreadable. His crimson eyes lock onto you, sharp and predatory.

“My husband?” he drawls, voice dripping with amusement—and something more dangerous. “You’ve got some nerve saying that so casually.”

You stretch, feigning indifference. “What? You don’t like it?”

He’s in front of you in an instant, moving faster than you can react. One of his clawed fingers tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. His smirk is wicked, teeth bared just enough to remind you exactly who you’re dealing with.

“Oh, I love it,” he purrs. “But tell me, brat—do you even understand the weight of what you just said?” His grip tightens just slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to make your pulse spike. “Calling me your husband… You think you can handle what that truly means?”

You hold his gaze, refusing to back down. “Maybe I can.”

His smirk widens, eyes gleaming with something dark and possessive. He laughs again, low and dangerous. “Then prove it.”

And just like that, you know you’ve awakened something you might not be ready for.

Choso - Choso stops mid-step. You don’t notice right away, too busy paying for your snacks, but when you turn back, he’s just standing there—wide-eyed, frozen, looking like his brain short-circuited.

“My… husband?” he echoes, almost like he’s trying to make sure he heard you right.

You tilt your head. “Yeah? You don’t like it?”

Choso’s mouth opens slightly, but no words come out. He just stares at you, his grip tightening around the bag he’s holding like it’s the only thing grounding him. His face, usually calm and composed, is now deeply flushed—his ears burning red.

“I…” He swallows hard, looking away for a second before sneaking another glance at you. “I like it. A lot.” His voice is quieter now, almost shy.

You smirk. “You’re blushing.”

He immediately looks away, ears turning even redder. “No, I’m not.”

“You so are.”

Choso exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair in an attempt to compose himself. But his fingers tremble just slightly. “You can’t just say things like that without warning.”

“Why not?” you tease.

His dark eyes finally meet yours again, and there’s something serious in them—something sincere. “…Because if you do, I’ll start wanting it to be true.”

And just like that, your heart skips a beat.

Toji - Toji freezes mid-action, a sly smirk tugging at the corners of his lips as he slowly turns his head toward you. His dark, calculating eyes never leave your face as he tilts his head, considering you.

“Husband, huh?” he repeats, voice low and dangerously amused.

You shrug nonchalantly, trying to act unaffected. “What? You seem like the type.”

Toji steps closer, his presence towering over you in that signature way of his—unrelenting, like a storm ready to break. He lowers his voice, his breath brushing against your ear as he leans in. “You think I’d make a good husband, sweetheart?” His hand drifts to the small of your back, the touch deliberate but not forceful.

You swallow, suddenly feeling the weight of his gaze on you. “You never know. You seem… capable.”

His smirk deepens, the challenge clear in his eyes. “Capable, huh?” He laughs softly, a dangerous sound. “Is that all I am to you? A capable man?”

Before you can respond, he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze directly. “You call me husband again, and I might just make it a reality. And when I do, darling, don’t think I’m going to play nice.” His eyes darken just slightly, the playful edge replaced with something more possessive.

Your heart skips, and for the briefest moment, you wonder if you’ve just opened a door you might not want to close.

Megumi - Megumi blinks at you, clearly not expecting that. He freezes mid-sentence, his eyes wide and slightly confused, as if he’s trying to process what you just said.

“H-husband?” he stammers, his voice sounding a little too soft and unsure. “Did you—did you just call me that?”

You grin, watching his face flush slightly. “What? You don’t like it?”

Megumi glances away quickly, rubbing the back of his neck, looking anything but confident now. “No… I just wasn’t expecting it,” he admits, trying to brush it off, but his ears are definitely a little pink.

You chuckle, leaning closer, sensing the slight shift in his mood. “What, you don’t think you could be a good husband?”

He tenses up, his gaze flicking to you for a split second before he looks away again. “I… I guess I could be.” His voice drops a little, and there’s a small, almost shy smile tugging at the corner of his lips, though he tries to hide it by turning back to his books.

“You could?” You tease, knowing you’re pushing him out of his comfort zone.

Megumi nods, but then his expression turns more serious, his eyes finally locking with yours. “I wouldn’t want to be anyone else’s.” His tone is softer now, almost vulnerable, but there’s a definite sincerity behind it.

You blink in surprise, feeling your heart beat a little faster at the unexpected response.

“Maybe you should say it more often,” he adds, looking a little shy again but holding your gaze. “It’s… nice to hear.”

And just like that, you realize you’ve flustered the stoic, composed Megumi more than you thought possible.

Yuji - Yuji stops in his tracks, a wide grin on his face, but his eyes immediately widen in complete surprise. “Husband?” He repeats the word like it’s the most exciting thing he’s ever heard, almost stumbling over his feet in his shock. “Did you—did you just call me that?”

You try to keep a straight face. “Yeah, what’s wrong with it? You’re always looking out for me, so why not?”

Yuji’s face lights up, and his usual enthusiasm kicks into overdrive. He starts bouncing on his heels, his grin growing even wider. “Wait, seriously? Husband?” He grabs your shoulders and spins you around dramatically, his voice practically shaking with excitement. “That means—we’re married now, right?! I’ve got a wife! Oh man, this is amazing!”

You laugh, trying to push him off gently, but his grip is stronger than expected. “Yuji, I was joking! Calm down.”

“Joking?” He pulls back, staring at you with a mock-serious expression. “You can’t just say something like that and not mean it! That’s like—like—a huge deal! You can’t just call someone your husband and not—”

“Yuji!” you laugh, cutting him off. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

But Yuji’s eyes are sparkling with joy, and he’s barely containing his excitement. “But what if we do make it real? You know, I’m down! I’m totally ready for the husband life, wifey!” He gives you a big, goofy grin.

You roll your eyes, but the way his face lights up makes it hard to keep a straight face. “We’ll talk about it later.”

“No need to talk,” he says, pulling you into a dramatic side-hug. “You’re already stuck with me now. Husband and wife, baby!”

[urno1luv]

Pussy drunk Loser!Karina please🙏😭

No Hands ~ ♡

kinda long before we get to the point i was in the zone🤒reader is a pink lover btw

cw: overstimulation, cunnilingus, anal, i think i mentioned the word "panty" like 50 times here idk

reader speech: pink + bold

karina speech: white + bold

♡ karina LIVES for making you happy🙂‍↕️and making you feel good. she would not be physically able to get off of you once you let her touch you🫂

♡ she’s so quiet about it in public. so well-behaved. your perfectly polished, chic, elegant girlfriend... but the second you get home and that door clicks shut? she’s not subtle anymore.

it starts innocent kinda...

she’s helping you get dressed - “i’ll zip it for you, babe” - but her hands linger.

fingers brushing the backs of your thighs, her palms smoothing over your hips.

she hums, low and thoughtful, like she’s admiring art. "this skirt’s short."

"so?"

"... well... i l-like it."

♡ she loves when you sit on her lap, she’ll pull you into it even when there’s a perfectly good seat next to her, saying that it’s because you’re warm, but you feel the way her grip tightens around your waist and know what she wants.

♡ and when you’re changing in the room and think she’s scrolling on her phone, think again🤥bc karina’s watching from the mirror. eyes flicking up the backs of your legs, teeth sinking into her bottom lip. "why won't you do it slower..." she’ll murmur when you change out of your clothes, and when you glance back at her, wide-eyed, only to see her facing the other way🙂‍↔️

♡ she absolutely has favorite pairs. soft cotton ones in pastels, and the little silk ones she bought you!! but honestly? she doesn’t care what you wear. she’s obsessed either way, especially when she can run her hands along the waistband and feel you shiver under her touch. "you don’t even realize what you do to me," she’ll murmur when laying her head in your lap, face smothered in your legs. "you’re so soft. so warm. all mine."

and then she’ll press a kiss just below your belly button and look up at you with those eyes and turn away in embarrassment, she can't believe she's doing this.

"don’t hide your face," you’ll whisper when she gets shy. "i want to see how much you like it when you touch me🥺"

♡ she tries so hard to keep her cool. she really does, e.g. when she pretends she’s focused on her laptop or some sci-fi novel she’s halfway into but the second you walk past in your little pajama shorts? her screen goes dark because she hasn’t typed a single word in ten minutes.

"babe…" she’ll mumble, eyes locked onto the shape of your ass in your panties like she’s being hypnotized. "do you-uh-do you have to wear that around the house?" and you’ll just raise your brow and smirk like "why? you don’t like it?"

and she’ll go bright red, shaking her head so fast her glasses almost fall off: "no! i mean-yes! i mean... i just…" poor girl can’t even finish a sentence.

♡ she studies your underwear drawer when you’re not looking. not in a creepy way (okay maybe a little) but she’ll be folding laundry and pause every time she comes across your panties like she’s trying to memorize them. "the light pink ones with the little bow," she whispers to herself. "my favourites," while slipping them into her jeans.

♡ she’s always saying things under her breath like: "i don’t get how it’s possible to look that good just walking across the room," "she literally has no idea what she does to me," and when you catch her, she freezes like a cat in headlights. "i didn’t say anything!" she lies, already turning red.

♡ you’ve definitely caught her staring before. like… just staring. you’re standing in front of the fridge and she’s on the couch behind you, notebook in her lap, eyes glued to your legs.

and when you turn around she jolts like you threw ice water on her. "i-i was just admiring your… calves. for anatomy reasons. art stuff." (she is not an artist)

♡ when you let her touch you, when you guide her hands under your skirt and whisper, "don’t be shy," she short circuits. her palms are warm and shaking. her breath catches in her throat.

she can't believe that her wet dreams are becoming a reality!!

it's safe to say that you didn't know that your little loser rina was gonna be THAT good when pleasing you... because she's always practically running away from you when you were kissing you expected her to be some sort of a prude but she definitely surprised you tonight.

♡ as soon as you take your clothes off she wouldnt get off at all. she wouldn't even get up for air. she just kept licking long stripes, before changing to just sucking your clit. she wouldnt use her hands (heh... the title...) because there was no need to. her mouth was enough🙂‍↕️

♡ she wouldn't let you run away from her, ignoring your pleas as you came over and over again, her arms interlocking your thighs, keeping them from shutting.

♡ she loved it the most when she ate it from the back, forcing you on your knees while she licked between your folds, collecting your sticky cum, inhaling the scent of your cunt while one hand was in her pants rubbing herself to your broken moans😵‍💫

♡ she would slip a finger into your ass, and as your knees gave away, she knew you were close, thrusting in and out, keeping the same rhythm with her tongue squeezed by your gummy walls, trying to extract as much cum from you as she could.

♡ if you were able to pull her off of you, she would let out a LOUD whine and would only say one thing: "y/n... hmmph.. i'm not done..."

♡ "i’ve dreamed about this," she'd say without thinking, then clapping a hand over her mouth like: "i didn’t mean to say that out loud."

and you make sure to tease her for it from now on, after finding out how obsessed she is with your pussy🙂‍↕️sit in her lap during study sessions, trail your fingers up her arms while she’s trying to focus.

and when she lets out a soft, pitiful "please…" you tilt your head and whisper, "please what, baby?" she nearly combusts, and the cycle continues <3

[bunniboythoughts]

big brother who comes inside my room, jingling his car keys. he asks me if I want to go for a spin in his new car, so of course I say yes. even though we don't talk a lot, and he's distant, I want to spend time with my big bro!

when we get into the car, he suggests we put on music. it's slightly dirtier than what I'm used too, as mam says I should only listen to ‘appropriate’ music.

my big brother is a lot louder than me, and my parents don't approve of him and his transition. but I think he's super cool!!

we drive around town for a while, laughing and joking around before he suddenly parks in an abandoned part of town. I'm confused so I ask, "big brother, where are we...?"

I don't go out often to other sides of town. My mother keeps me at home, safe and warm.

I feel his hand on my knee before he leans over the driver's seat to whisper to me.

"you fucking golden child. sucking up to mam and dad like that. being soooo innocent."

I'm confused, and rather scared but I feel weird and warm.

"big bro, what's happening?"

He forces me into the back seat before pinning me down on my stomach and rubbing me through my trousers. He laughs when I shudder and cry. I don't understand this. What's happening to my body?

"the perfect kid mam and dad could ever want but I fucking know what you are. I know deep down what you want and what you think."

I'm lost. I moan, feeling his fingers graze over my clit.

"what do you mean...?"

I'm anxious, but I freeze up when I hear his belt unbuckle.

"you're a boy. a pretty, slutty little boy who needs to be corrupted."

"i- I'm not—"

He palms me through my trousers, grinding against me and kissing along my neck. He's my brother, it's wrong. I know it's wrong. but I buck into his hand.

"big brotherrr..."

"yeah? you like that? good boy. that's what you are. a boy. a boy who needs to be filled by his older brother in his car. be a good bunny and let me have you."

[carnalcrows]

CLASS PRESIDENT PRIVILEGES - JOONYEONG

pairing: oh joon yeong x top male reader

synopsis: The real infection here is horniness pt.3

content warnings: 18+, semi-public sex (?), zombies, dry humping, no actual smut (they get interrupted lol), reader smokes, reader is the class president.

word count: 1.5k

The rooftop was cold. Not just a little chilly, not just “bundle up and you’ll be fine” kind of cold—the kind of cold that made you question all your life choices up to this point.

And the worst part? The idiots you called classmates couldn’t even get a simple fire going.

"I’m telling you, it worked in the movie," Cheongsan insisted, aggressively striking two rocks together.

"It’s been twenty minutes," Wujin deadpanned. "All you’ve done is make a weird clicking sound and piss me off."

"You think you can do better?"

"Yes, actually!"

"You two can fight after we figure out how not to freeze to death!" Onjo snapped.

Daesu, shivering violently, let out a dramatic groan. "I’m gonna die. I can feel my organs shutting down. Someone tell my parents I loved them."

"You’re not gonna die, Daesu."

"How do you know, huh?" He pointed a trembling finger at you. "You’re not the one slowly becoming a human popsicle!"

You sighed, feeling your patience wear thinner by the second. Your classmates were useless. At this rate, you’d be thawing out in the stomach of some undead freak before anyone even thought about fire.

Wordlessly, you reached into your pocket, pulled out a lighter, and flicked it open with one hand. The small flame flickered in the darkness.

The group went dead silent.

Then—

"You—" Joonyeong squinted at you like you’d just pulled out a live grenade. "You smoke?"

You raised a brow. "And you have a big mouth. What’s your point?"

The silence grew thicker. Wujin looked personally offended, Onjo blinked at you in stunned confusion, and Cheongsan opened and closed his mouth like he was trying to solve an advanced math problem.

"Since when do you smoke?" Onjo finally asked, brows furrowed.

"Since before the apocalypse. Why?"

"BEFORE?" Daesu gawked. "Since before?"

"Why is that the shocking part?"

"You were supposed to be the responsible one!" Wujin yelled.

You stared at him, unimpressed. "Well, you were supposed to light the fire, and yet—" You gestured dramatically to the still-unlit pile of sticks.

Cheongsan muttered, "Damn, he’s got a point."

Shaking your head, you flicked the lighter closed and tossed it to Wujin. "Do better."

Then, with no further explanation, you turned on your heel and walked away.

"WHERE ARE YOU GOING?" Wujin called after you.

You didn’t answer. It was getting too loud, and if you spent one more second listening to their collective incompetence, you might actually start throwing people off the roof.

It was time for a break.

As the night dragged on, exhaustion weighed down on the group, conversation dwindling as the reality of their situation set in. You, as always, preferred your solitude, so you wandered to the farthest corner of the rooftop, away from the others. The cool breeze nipped at your skin as you lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply.

Footsteps approached.

You didn’t need to look to know who it was.

"You followed me," you said, voice flat.

Joonyeong stuffed his hands into his pockets, eyes flickering to the cigarette in your hand. "Didn’t peg you for a delinquent."

"Didn’t peg you for a stalker."

He huffed a small laugh, but his gaze was elsewhere—on the city, the fires burning in the distance, the moans of the dead below.

"I thought I hated you," he muttered.

You raised a brow. "Good to know."

"I was jealous," he continued. "You’re everything I wanted to be. Smart. Respected. Strong. You always acted like nothing could touch you." He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "I thought it was just resentment. That I just wanted to be better than you."

You glanced at him. "And?"

His jaw tightened. Then, before you could react, he turned to you fully, hands gripping the front of your jacket, and—

Pressed his lips against yours.

You froze.

Of all the things you were expecting tonight, this was not one of them.

Your cigarette dropped, forgotten, as his lips moved against yours—clumsy, hesitant, but desperate. Your hands hovered at your sides for a moment, your brain catching up with reality.

Then something clicked.

Your grip tightened on his jacket, yanking him closer as you took full control of the kiss, tilting your head, deepening it. Joonyeong made a noise against your lips, surprised, but he didn’t pull away. If anything, he melted into it.

Without thinking, you lifted him.

"What the—!" Joonyeong barely got the words out before his legs instinctively wrapped around your waist. His breath hitched as you pressed him against the ledge, pinning him between your body and the cold concrete.

"Holy shit," he breathed.

You smirked against his lips. "Didn’t expect that, huh?"

"Not even a little bit," he admitted, voice already breathy.

Then you kissed him again—deeper, rougher, completely taking over.

His lips parted under yours, and you didn’t hesitate to take advantage of it, your tongue sliding against his in a way that made his fingers tighten in your hair. The little stuttered breath he let out sent a thrill down your spine, and you liked the way he melted into you, the way his body tensed and relaxed all at once.

His hands, uncertain at first, slowly grew bolder, fingers fisting in the fabric of your jacket before slipping under the hem, pressing against your back. The cold contrast of his fingertips against your skin made you shiver, but you didn’t let him take control for even a second.

Instead, you rolled your hips forward—just slightly, but enough that Joonyeong made a strangled noise against your lips, his legs tightening around you.

"Fuck—" His head fell back against the ledge, his breath coming out in short, uneven bursts.

You didn’t let up.

You kissed along his jaw, trailing down to the side of his neck, feeling the way he tensed under the attention. Your teeth grazed the sensitive skin, and when you bit down—not too hard, but just enough to make him feel it—Joonyeong gasped, his back arching slightly.

"God," he muttered. "You’re—"

"What?" you murmured against his throat, already knowing the answer.

"Nothing," he said quickly, but the flush creeping up his neck betrayed him.

You smirked, sucking a mark just below his jaw, feeling the way his breath stuttered against your shoulder. His grip on you tightened, and you knew—knew—he was barely holding himself together.

"You're so loud," you teased.

"Shut up," he shot back, voice shaking slightly.

You just grinned, licking over the mark you’d left. "Make me."

Joonyeong's breath hitched as you pressed him harder against the ledge, your hands gripping under his thighs to keep him exactly where you wanted him. His legs were locked around your waist, and you could feel how tense he was—every muscle in his body coiled tight like he was trying so hard not to lose himself completely.

"You’re shaking," you murmured, dragging your lips along his jaw, feeling the way his breath shuddered against your cheek.

"Shut up," he bit out, but his voice wasn’t nearly as sharp as he wanted it to be.

You rolled your hips forward—slow, deliberate, just enough friction to make Joonyeong jerk in your hold, a strangled sound escaping his throat before he could stop it. His fingers dug into your shoulders, and you felt his legs instinctively tighten around you like he was trying to pull you closer, even though there was no space left between you.

"Fuck," he breathed out, barely audible. His forehead dropped against your shoulder, and you felt the warmth of his panting breaths against your neck. "Why are you—"

"Why am I what?" you teased, tilting your head slightly to nip at his earlobe.

"So—" His words cut off as you ground against him again, harder this time, and he whined.

You smirked. "That’s what I thought."

His fingers clenched in the fabric of your jacket, his body practically trembling from the effort of keeping himself together. But you didn’t want him to keep it together. You wanted him unravelling in your arms, forgetting about everything else—about the apocalypse, about survival, about whatever the hell he thought he felt about you before this night—until all he knew was you.

You dragged your lips down his neck, sucking just enough to make him squirm. He let out a shaky exhale, tilting his head back ever so slightly, like he needed more, like he was completely at your mercy.

"You like this," you murmured against his skin, voice low and knowing.

"I hate you," Joonyeong gasped, but the way he clung to you said otherwise.

You just chuckled, rolling your hips one more time—slow, and deep, hitting all the right spots. "Yeah?" you whispered against his throat. "Then why are you holding on so tight?"

Somewhere behind you, the grill door creaked open.

"What’s taking him so—OH MY GOD!"

A loud thud followed.

"DAESU’S DOWN! MAN DOWN!"

You turned just in time to see Wujin standing there, looking horrified, while Daesu lay collapsed on the floor, his soul probably leaving his body.

Joonyeong let out a strangled noise, trying to scramble out of your grip, but you only smirked, tightening your hold.

"Did you guys need something?" you asked, completely unbothered.

"I NEED THERAPY!" Wujin screeched.

Joonyeong buried his face into your shoulder with a groan. "Kill me. Just kill me now."

You chuckled. "Not a chance."

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

[illbegottenfaith]

bad day - theo nott x reader

a visit from your boyfriend perks you up even on the most frustrating of days

a/n - my first theo nott fic! I’ve written for other fandom(s) so this was a nice change, hope you enjoy :

tropes/warnings - established relationship, a pet name here or there, nothing overwhelming, fluff, comfort, nothing 18+ but a brief alluding to it

word count - 1k

“Off.”

As a general rule of thumb, you were typically the clingier half of your relationship with Theo. There was something about the feel of his skin against yours and the way his touch grounded you that made you feel safe and cared for in ways you were still too embarrassed to express out loud. Theo was always happy to indulge, casually draping an arm across your shoulders and rubbing soothing circles on your shoulder.

However, like all rules, it came with its exception - particularly, when you were studying. You needed to focus on your work, and that wasn’t exactly possible with the delicious warmth of Theo pressed against your back or hip. For the most part, he stayed well away when you needed him to, but something about the adrenaline of Quidditch practice made him extra excitable. Which was how you found yourself pouring over a hellish Charms essay in the Slytherin common room late one night, when you felt a pair of strong arms wrap around your middle and a familiar weight rest in the crook of your neck.

“Theo, I mean it,” you whined as he slid into the seat next to yours, refusing to relinquish his hold on you, effortlessly dragging you onto his lap. Your irritation evaporated at the sight of his boyish blue eyes and his sloping smile. It was a problem, really, how you could never stay mad at him. Merlin knows his ego is bad enough as it is.

“Hey, doll.” His nose nudged yours and you finally relented, wrapping an arm around his neck as he kissed you. His face felt cool against your warm forehead, and he smelt pleasantly of some non-descript yet refreshing soap. 

“My neck is killing me,” you mumbled against his lips as you broke apart. Theo leaned back to get a better look at your wan face, distractedly running a hand down your spine.

“Have you had dinner yet?”

“Yes,” you frowned, “with you. Remember?”

Theo stared at you blankly. “Y/N. I’ve been at Quidditch practice for the past four hours.”

“What are you talking about? We had dinner, then we came up to the common room, and it was, y’know, freezing, and I said I needed to buy more fleece-lined tights, and you started saying something about liking me best without any tights, but then those fifth-years started wrestling each other over that game of -“

“- Gobstones?”

“Exactly!”

“Babe, that was last Thursday.”

Your face fell. “…it was. Merlin.” Theo watched, amused, as you let out a string of curses under your breath as you flipped through your planner, scowling. “It’s this stupid Charms essay that’s doing me in. I haven’t had my head on straight all week. Remember when I wore my earmuffs to breakfast on Tuesday?”

“Mhm.”

“Made a proper arse of myself at 8 in the morning. And I genuinely thought I saw you just an hour ago. I don’t know what came over me.” 

“I didn’t know I was so forgettable of a boyfriend,” Theo teased, as you buried your face into your hands. 

“Stop. I feel awful enough already,” came your muffled voice. Laughing, he took your hands in his own, his features softening at the exhausted look on your face.

“Rough day, baby?” You groaned, burying your face into his chest as he wrapped his other arm around you. Before meeting Theo, you took pride in how fiercely independent you were. Even now, you were more than capable of handling your daily stresses just as well as the next guy, but you still had the tendency of being tightly wound more often than not, and sometimes it just felt nice to have someone hold you while you cried about how awful life was. No one could help you or get you to decompress the way Theo did.

“Rough week, more like,” you mumbled into his collarbone. He hummed sympathetically, hand still running up and down your spine.

“You didn’t say a word.”

“It could have been worse. I thought I’d just…you know. Deal.”

You could hear the amused lilt to his voice. “Deal?”

“Deal with it. On my own, I mean.”

His hold on you tightened a fraction. “Have dinner with me.”

“Didn’t you eat before practice?”

“Hm. Have supper with me.”

“Theo.”

“What?”

You sighed. You were never one to turn in an assignment late but, Merlin - he didn’t make things easy for you. 

“I really need to get this essay done.”

“So you’ll get it done. After supper. I could take a look at it for you. Or your neck. Or both.”

You snorted. “Yeah, sure, because a distraction is just what I need now. You don’t even take N.E.W.T level Charms.”

“So you find me distracting?”

You pressed your lips together, biting the inside of your cheek. “Let me put it this way. If I, um, ‘have supper’ with you now, this essay will not reach Flitwick’s desk by 10 am tomorrow.”

Theo didn't look too happy about anything you were saying. “So what do you want me to do?”

You fought the urge to roll your eyes. Like any other guy, Theo could only sympathise for so long before he was bursting with advice or solutions. You glanced at the clock, getting the distinct impression that he was valiantly trying to stifle a yawn. 

“Go, leave, shoo. Get some rest, read a book, start a fight with some fifth-years, I don’t know. I just need to bully myself into finishing this. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“But I don’t want to start a fight with some sticky-fingered Gobstones-playing fifth-years.”

Still, he reluctantly slid you off his lap, pressing a kiss to your forehead before briefly disappearing. He returned with a huge, ancient book whose weathered cover seemed somewhat related to Potions. He arched an eyebrow as you made a face at it.

“What’s that?”

“What’s that?” You shot back, looking greatly repulsed by the gnarly volume.

“Some light bedtime reading material,” he quipped. You watched his face nervously, the tell-tale signs of fatigue knitted into the creases of his achingly beautiful face.

“I mean it, Teddy. You really should go to bed.”

“Can’t. I’ve got a date in an hour.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah. I’m taking this really pretty girl out for supper.”

You rolled your eyes as Theo settled into his seat, cracking the disfigured tome open.

“Smooth-talker.”

[reminiscingtonight]

Just Friends

Jana Fernández x Reader

Word Count: 1.4k

[WOSO Masterlist]

The arms that wrap around your waist should shock you. They come out of nowhere, entrapping you in a mini-prison that smells like the perfect blend of vanilla and coffee. 

You’ve never been an overly touchy person, even the slightest brush from your national teammates often resulting in a hole being burned into their face. 

So yeah, the arms that wrap around you should shock you. 

But they don’t.

Jana’s grinning your way when you turn your head, the older girl giving you an affectionate squeeze that nearly lifts you off your feet before she lets go. 

“Are we still having dinner tonight?”

You nod, her smile infectious as the corner of your lips tick upwards. “Of course. You still dropping by like seven-ish?”

“Six. You said you were going to teach me how to play… what was it…” the Spanish girl falls silent as she thinks hard about a conversation the two of you had late after a game the other day. “Ah yes! Play speed!” She blinks. “Whatever that means.”

You bite back a giggle and nod, waving the older girl goodbye when Vicky tugs at her arm for attention. Jana looks conflicted for a second but you give her a goodhearted shove, shooing her off to entertain Vicky's burning questions before training starts. 

You trail slightly behind, taking your time walking out onto the pitch. There’s a slight haze already settling in as you begin tying your hair up. It’s a slightly warmer than normal day, the sun up and blazing already. You’re not used to such temperatures, regular rainy skies plaguing the skies back home. But you’re not one to complain. Anything’s better than having to figure out the logistics of lugging water clogged tops, soggy shorts, and anything in between back home after training. 

Your brief period of solace is broken by the presence of another body sliding up next to you. 

“So you and Jana, huh?”

Lost in thought, it takes you a second to realize Patri’s talking to you, a soft smile breaking on your face when you finally do. “Jana? Oh yeah, she’s been great. I don’t think I’ve ever made a friend so quickly before.”

There’s a scoff before the older girl is nudging your shoulder. “Just a friend?”

You frown. “Yes? I mean, I hope she thinks of me as a friend. She’s so cool.”

There’s a second where Patri freezes. Then she’s looking at you strangely. She seems to ponder her choice of words before settling with a simple, “Chica, she likes you.”

Your face brightens. “Really?”

Patri has to bite back her groan at the clear misunderstanding painted all over your face. The pure joy that can only come when finding out your “coolness” status rather than romantic interest. 

“Si. She likes likes you.”

A beat passes. 

Patri watches as your eyebrows furrow together, trying to decipher her words.

“You know. Like more than a friend?”

“What?” Your head jerks up, eyes growing wide. “Jana doesn’t like me like that! She’s just being nice!”

You frantically turn your head, checking to see if Jana could hear your conversation. The last thing you’d want is Jana hearing Patri’s conspiracies and writing you off as a crazy follower.

The defender’s on the other side of the pitch, clearly nowhere close enough to hear a single thing Patri’s said to you. But almost as if she could sense your gaze on her, Jana raises her eyes to meet yours, shooting you a smile before turning back to her conversation with Vicky.

“See?”

“See what?” You shove Patri’s arm off your shoulder, making a point to slap the teasing finger she raises to poke at your forehead. “Jana is being nice. Nice people smile when others look their way!”

Patri rolls her eyes. “Well you don’t see Jana offering to cook me dinner now do you?”

“You’re an adult. I sure hope Jana’s not offering to cook for you. You should know how to do that yourself.”

“You’re missing the point,” she groans, hands reaching out as if to shake some sense into you before quickly deciding against it. Instead, she sighs before giving your shoulder a couple awkward pats. “You know what, forget it. Just… never change.”

There’s a couple muttered words you fail to catch, words that sound suspiciously like ‘stupid’ and ‘idiot’, but Patri’s gone before you can question her. Shrugging, you don’t think much about it, chalking the conversation off to Patri being a weirdo. 

At least you don’t think too much about it until suddenly it’s night and Jana’s in your place and then it’s all you can think about it. 

“Jana?”

The older girl hums, stirring the pot she’s been working on for a while. 

Whatever she’s making smells heavenly. Your card game has long been abandoned in favor of cooking dinner. And by cooking dinner you mean Jana doing absolutely everything and you just giving her moral support. 

It’s honestly quite impressive how you’ve managed to survive this long being a professional footballer. Cooking has never been your forte, jumping from teammate to teammate who were willing to feed you back at your last club. And in Spain? Yeah, that was all Jana.

“Do you like me?”

Jana laughs, eyes crinkling adorably when she tilts her head to meet your gaze. “Yes? Why? What have you heard?”

You shrug. “Patri was just being silly today.”

Jana rolls her eyes. “Whatever Patri said she was probably lying.”

Her response gets a frown, your feelings of elation quickly turning to confusion. “So you don’t like me?”

There’s a slight pause as Jana blinks, fixing you with a confused look. “What? No, I do.”

“But you just said Patri lies.”

“She told you I liked you?”

You nod timidly. 

Jana’s got that look on her face again, the one that tells you she’s thinking really hard about something. You’re not sure exactly what that means, but then Jana’s slowly nodding. “Okay. Well I… Yes. I like you.”

You let out a long breath. It feels like relief but at the same time it doesn’t. You’re not sure how to describe the icky feeling that starts to grow in your chest. 

“I told Patri she was being stupid.”

It’s clear Jana’s completely lost the direction of the conversation, the older girl now looking the most perplexed you’ve seen in a while. “Why was she stupid?”

“Well she, er--” your brain grinds to a halt, not having thought this well ahead. All you wanted to do was prove Patri was just pulling your leg, but you didn’t actually want to bring to Jana’s attention the contents of your conversation. Really walked yourself straight down a hole it seems. “Well Patri thought that you might like me. Like, romantically.”

Jana doesn’t say anything, hands coming to a still on the stove. The longer the silence drags on the more antsy you become.

“But she was just being stupid. You know Patri, always a joker.”

Jana’s frown deepens. “What? No. She’s right. I like you. A lot.” Her eyes widen suddenly, everything clicking all at once. “Wait, you didn’t know that?”

Your mouth drops open. “What-- what do you mean you like me?”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“What-- How was I supposed to know?”

Jana gives you a look. 

You feel like you’re on a different planet, thoughts getting all jumbled up in your brain. 

Jana likes you? 

She likes you. 

She likes you a lot. 

Oh god, Jana likes you and you’re pretty sure you like her too. 

You must have been quiet for too long because Jana’s grabbing your hands to pull your attention back to her. 

“Hey, where’s that head of yours at?”

You shrug, trying to fight the blush that’s threatening to rise to your cheeks. Because now that you’re thinking about it, Jana actually likes you and you like her and she’s really, really, really pretty. 

“So I’m going to assume you didn’t realize those three dates we’ve been on were actually dates?

You look at Jana. 

She looks right back. 

You blink. 

She blinks. 

Silence. 

Then,

“I’m sorry, we’ve what?!”

[deliciousangelfestival]

You're the One - 1

Summary: A daughter uncovers the wild, untold story of how her parents’ marriage began—and it’s way better than any romance movie she’s ever watched.

Character: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Genre: Romance, Comedy

Words Count : 2,100

Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 ,-

Main Masterlist || If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee on Ko-fi 🙏🏻

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

Having a cool dad like Bucky is a blessing. For Jade, it definitely is. Her friends, after meeting him, always say things like: “He’s so cool!” “He’s so funny!” or even, “Can we trade dads?”

Jade could only roll her eyes. Sure, Bucky’s pretty chill and easygoing about most things, but there’s one thing that drives her crazy.

It’s not a big deal for her, but for Bucky, it’s a huge one.

Romantic movies, especially where the bride runs away from the wedding.

That’s why their house only has action and mystery movies.

But tonight, Jade wants to watch one of her favorite genres at home. Why? Because their home theater is amazing, a special project Bucky built for his wife and daughter.

Unfortunately, her dad’s silly rules mean she can’t enjoy it.

But tonight is different. He’s heading out to pick up her mom from the airport.

Jade is sitting on the kitchen counter, waiting for her dad to leave.

In the hallway, Bucky stands in front of the mirror, fixing his hair and shirt while whistling a tune. Through the mirror, he notices Jade watching him.

“Don’t have a house party,” he says, pointing at her with mock sternness.

“Yes, yes,” Jade replies, hopping off the counter. She walks over, pushes him toward the garage, and tosses him the car keys. “Go pick up Mom.”

Bucky chuckles as he stumbles slightly. “Alright, alright. You’re awfully eager to get rid of me tonight.”

She smirks. “I just know how much you missed her. You two will probably go straight to dinner or something. Now, go!”

Bucky shakes his head, amused, and heads to the car. But as he opens the door, he suddenly stops.

“Wait… my wallet.”

He heads back inside.

“Jade?” he calls out. No response.

On the counter, his wallet sits neatly next to the fruit bowl. Grabbing it, he pauses. The house feels… too quiet.

“Jade!” he calls again, louder this time.

Still no answer. Frowning, he checks the living room and kitchen before heading upstairs. Knocking on her bedroom door, he’s met with silence.

“Did she sneak out?” he mutters. That didn’t seem like her.

Then it hits him. The home theater.

As he walks back downstairs, the faint smell of buttered popcorn wafts through the air. His suspicions confirmed, he pushes open the theater door.

“Jade!”

Startled, Jade nearly drops her popcorn but manages to save most of it. “Dad!”

She fumbles for the remote, pausing the movie and quickly turning off the screen. Her heart races—the scene on display had been the bride in a wedding dress.

Bucky strides forward, picks up the DVD case, and reads the summary. With a single glance, he knows exactly what it is.

“Jade, how many times have I told you? No romantic movies like this in my house.”

“But why?” she groans, flopping dramatically into her seat. “We have the best home theater! I just want to use it!”

Bucky crosses his arms, his expression stern. “Because they’re predictable. It’s always the same: someone’s crying, someone’s chasing, someone’s kissing. And the bride always runs away for some cliché reason.”

Jade huffs. “Why do you hate them so much? It’s not like Mom ever ran away from a wedding or something.”

The moment she says it, Bucky freezes.

Jade stares at him, her eyes widening. “Oh my God. Wait—she did, didn’t she?”

Bucky doesn’t answer. He turns and heads toward the door, but Jade jumps up, running after him.

She wraps her arms around his waist, trying to hold him back. “Dad! Is it true? Did Mom run away? How did you chase her? Why am I just finding out now?”

“I’m going to be late picking her up,” Bucky mutters, dragging himself forward with his daughter clinging to him like a koala.

Then, a notification chimes.

Both father and daughter glance at the phone on the counter.

The family group chat reads: “The flight’s delayed three hours. 😔”

Jade grabs the phone and shows him. “Look, Dad! Mom won’t be here for another five hours.”

Bucky sighs, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Please tell me!” Jade begs. “I promise I won’t watch the movie. This is way more interesting. Why did Mom run?”

Bucky turns to her with a serious expression. “She didn’t run away.”

“Huh?” Jade tilts her head, confused.

“She didn’t run away,” Bucky repeats. “I kidnapped her on her wedding day.”

The room goes silent.

Jade’s jaw drops as she points an accusing finger at him. “You… you stole Mom from someone else?! You're the bad guy!"

Bucky rolls his eyes and pushes her hand down. “If I hadn’t, she wouldn’t have had a happy life.”

He heads to the kitchen, grabs a cold bottle of water from the fridge, and takes a long drink.

Jade, now buzzing with excitement, follows him like a shadow. “Tell me! Tell me everything! How did that happen?”

Seeing her curiosity, Bucky sighs and gestures to the couch. “Fine. Sit down. I’m only telling this story once.”

Jade darts to the couch, grabs her popcorn, and settles in, eyes wide with anticipation.

Bucky clears his throat and leans back against the counter. “Alright. It was 15 years ago…”

💍🔔💍🔔

15 Years Ago

The changing room in the chapel buzzes with excitement. Your bridesmaids gather near the mirrors, giggling and chatting as they adjust their dresses and share jokes.

“Oh, did you see the flower arrangements?” one of them exclaims. “The Jordans really went all out!”

“They’re stunning. Just like this wedding,” another adds with a dreamy sigh.

Their energy fills the room, but you sit quietly in front of the mirror, staring at your reflection. The white wedding dress you’re wearing is nothing short of a masterpiece. Designed by a world-renowned fashion house, it fits you perfectly, every intricate detail exuding elegance. The lace, the pearls, the veil—it’s flawless.

But it doesn’t feel like yours.

“You’re so lucky,” one of the bridesmaids says, leaning toward you with a knowing smile. “Everything about this wedding is perfect. And Clark? He’s an absolute catch. You’re living a dream!”

You force a smile, your lips twitching just enough to look convincing. “Yeah… lucky,” you reply softly, though your voice lacks conviction.

In truth, you don’t feel lucky. You feel trapped. This wedding isn’t about love; it’s about business. The Jordans—one of the wealthiest families in the country—are securing an alliance with your family. It’s an arrangement, a deal sealed with vows.

It’s not that you dislike Clark. He’s kind, patient, and honest—a good man by anyone’s standards. The wedding is happening with your consent, after all.

Still, your heart feels heavy, uneasy. Marriage is forever. And with Clark? The problem is, you don’t love him. Not yet.

You hope, maybe after the wedding, the love will grow. Maybe with time, you’ll learn to love each other deeply. But right now, your heart is stuck in the past.

It doesn’t belong to Clark—it belongs to someone else.

Bucky.

The thought of his name makes your breath hitch. That wild man who once turned your world upside down. He was nothing like the calm, dependable Clark. Your parents couldn’t stand him, but you didn’t care. You chose him. For a while, you and Bucky were unshakable, inseparable—until life threw challenges your way, and the weight of it all broke you apart. He was the one who ended it, leaving you shattered.

Your gaze drifts to the window. You wonder where he is now. Is he happy? Did he achieve his dreams? Has he found someone else?

You shake your head and whisper to yourself, “Why am I even thinking about him?”

Pressing your palms to your cheeks, you try to push the thoughts away. It’s your wedding day. You should be focused on Clark, not your ex. You give yourself a light tap on the forehead. “Stop it,” you mutter.

But just as you’re about to take a deep breath, the door to the changing room bursts open with a loud bang.

Startled, you whip your head around, your eyes widening.

“Bucky?!”

There he is, standing in the doorway like he’s just stepped out of a different world. His leather jacket looks completely out of place among the pristine suits and elegant dresses. His dark jeans and worn boots carry the same rugged confidence you remember.

“What are you doing here?” you stammer, rising to your feet, your heart pounding so hard it feels like it might leap out of your chest.

He steps closer, a familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Isn’t it obvious?” he says, his voice low and teasing. “I’m here to steal the bride.”

Your breath catches, and your mind races. “Huh?” is all you manage to get out.

Before you can process what’s happening, he closes the distance between you. In one swift motion, he grabs you and hoists you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“Bucky!” you shriek, pounding your fists against his back. “Put me down! Are you insane?!”

He chuckles, his grip firm as he carries you toward the door. “A little, yeah. But you’re not staying here.”

Your bridesmaids are frozen in shock, their mouths agape. One finally breaks the silence with a panicked, “Somebody stop him!”

But no one moves. Maybe it’s the sheer audacity of the moment, or maybe it’s the dangerous confidence in Bucky’s eyes. Either way, you find yourself being carried out of the room, your heart racing in a way that feels strangely familiar.

“Bucky!” you shout again, your voice laced with equal parts anger and panic. “You can’t do this!”

“Oh, I can,” he replies smoothly, “and I am.”

As he strides down the hallway, you struggle to free yourself, but his grip doesn’t falter. Despite the chaos, there’s a part of you—a small, buried part—that feels alive in a way it hasn’t in years.

And that terrifies you.

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