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The Professionals - S3E02 - Backtrack.
Doyle in the clutches of the indomitable Marge Harper (Liz Fraser)
"Nice boys like you are few and far between!...LOUTS are everywhere!"
PS. this episode might have inspired me to write a little thing...
#Marge is a powerhouse and a feral animal and I respect the heck out of her for that!#this series is ridiculous but amusing#I only wish I liked Bodie more#for the most part he only annoys me and I like the scenes with just Doyle better#which is why Marge was such a blessing#and so relatable!#the things I do for Martin...#Martin Shaw#Ray Doyle#my gifs
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Back from paint.
#honda s2000#s2000#ap1#ap2#honda#ホンダ#jdm#japanese cars#tsukuba#tokyo auto salon#amuse legalo#amuse r1#amuse powerhouse#mugenpower#mugen#volk racing#ze40
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DCxDP Fic Idea: Lex Luther's annoyance
Vlad Masters is....a pain. Not in the usual elite way Lex is used to. Not the empty-headedness of wealthy men like Bruce Wayne or annoyingly humanitarian like Oliver Queen.
Masters was annoying in the confusing kind. He was new money who danced around Lex's manipulations as if they were mere flies. He never gives Lex a reason to take him out but always leaves the bald man feeling weary.
Unsettled. Unsure.
The effect Masters had on him was irritating. Lex Luthor doesn't get unsure.
Luthor's family money came from his father, but it was Lex who turned the moderate company into one of the biggest powerhouses in the world. He was ruthless, always three steps ahead of his peers, using his clever mind to his every advantage.
Lex prides himself in being the danger in plain sight. He charmed kings and politicians alike, carefully placing a controlling hand on the back of their necks with each casual joke or helpful investment. Wherever Lex went, it wouldn't be long before he gained control of the floor and moved his pieces on the board to his liking.
That was if Vlad Masters wasn't in attendance.
Masters rarely join in high-class events- why should he? He was wealthy, of course, but nowhere near Lex's level. He just didn't run in the same circles- but whenever he did, it was like a rock being thrown in Lex's clam river. No matter where he was, Lex found his eyes tracing the underwhelming cut of Masters's suit (Easily one of the cheapest ones there) or catching the man's gaze that hid barely concealed amusement.
That was another thing. All social rules and etiquette indicated that Masters should be chasing after Lex's attention and approval or, at the very least, feel nervous in his presence. Masters acted like Lex was a part of the background, never impolite but never dazed or impressed.
Equals in a way that made Lex's stomach lurch in anxiety.
He has met some people who thought themselves better than Lex through arrogance, but none have taken one look at him and deemed him unimportant. It was as if Lex were just another man walking down the street who was only worthy of getting a passing greeting.
As if the man had a presence at all. Lex was often the man of the hour, and Masters was the guy nursing a drink by the wall, watching the crowd with a calm, nearly detached expression.
Masters was known for being a rather dull wealthy man, only seemingly interested in conversations if it was about his precious football team or random scientific discoveries. Seeing as he made his wealth through scientific discoveries, it was understandable that he knew an awful lot about them.
However, besides being a fantastic investor and stock buyer, Masters didn't have a single social bone in his body.
Lex had witnessed him flout through galas, parties, art galleries, and political rallies without a hint of displeasure or pleasure. Always engaged in conversations, but only if someone approached him first. He would often be seen admiring the decor, as though he was visiting a museum rather than networking or losing himself in a vice-like alcohol or bed partners.
It was almost as if these grand events that others killed to get an invitation were mere walks in a lovely garden for him. A break from whatever hectic life he lived.
Except that after having his people look into it, Masters didn't have a hectic life. He barely had one. No matter how much Lex dug into his background, besides that one accident that landed him in a hospital in college, Masters's life had been a pretty average rise from rags to riches through his hard work and intelligent mind.
A wealth that would likely only be passed down two generations with no hints of wanting to raise it like Lex had. No hints of ambition for something greater. No hints of nefarious schemes or back-alley deals. No hints of any sort of crime.
Just a man who wasn't amazed by Lex's world of wealth.
Lex hated how utterly boring he found the man and yet, how his eyes always followed him through the room, fascinated by how Masters didn't make any sesne. It was irritating how Masters didn't even have to do anything to grab Lex's attention; just walking by had him nearly tripping over his own two feet to watch him.
He didn't even know why he wanted to watch Masters. He wasn't even that handsome! His long silvery hair tied in a perfect tail, his slightly dry-looking skin, the dark circles under his eyes, and that teeth-gritting accent of his.
He didn't even know why Masters sounded like an upper-class British man. He was born in Wisconsin!
What did he take voice acting lessons to craft an accent? (Lex's checked. He didn't. Masters is just like that. It made his heart beat like Superman was about to burst into his office. He called his doctor to check if he's developed a heart condition)
The worst part was the way Master lingered in his mind, sitting at the back of it with inane questions like: What was he doing? Does he like chocolate or vanilla more? Why has he tried to buy the Parkers from Green Bay ninety-five times?
It made him look like a fool. No one made Lex Luthor look like a fool.
In a fit of madness, Lex had ordered Mercy to blacklist Masters from any parties they would host. He could not stand to have that man throw him off his game a second longer.
It worked for about three months, and Lex did not have to suffer from stomach twisting or heart hurting due to the sudden increase in heart rate. Then he ran into Masters at a Wayne Gala of all places where the man was dressed like an idiot with his pure black-on-black outfit only to throw on a Packer's scarf.
It looked so stupid that Lex had to hide in the men's bathroom for an hour after spotting the man chatting quietly with Wayne's butler. He could not describe why that stupid green and gold scarf had nearly brought him to his knees.
According to Mercy, who had eavesdropped, Masters' mother was from England, which explains his odd accent. She didn't quite judge him openly, but Lex could read the subtext of her stare as she reported everything Masters did at the gala.
He danced to one song with Bruce Wayne. Lex had nearly broken his hand when he punched the way to the bathroom.
The night after Waynes' gala, Lex lifted Masters' ban because he missed the rather dull man's presence. This gala had been the season's highlight, and compared to the other various parties, Lex had found himself feeling something besides boredom or contempt.
The next time Lex saw Masters was at a charity five months later. Once again, Masters was wearing his black suit, but this time, he had a silver undershirt and a ridiculous red bowtie. Lex had spent five hours changing outfit after outfit, trying to find the most flattering one, and Masters had the audacity to wear a red bowtie.
"He looks good," Lena says, eyes drinking in Masters, leaning on a wall with a blue drink in hand and gazing over the dancers. Lex felt like hurling up when Masters' lips twitch up into a grin as a man stumbles by with his unimpressed dance partner. "You should ask him to dance."
"No," Lex bites out, feeling sick. "Why would you even say?"
Lena shares a look with Mercy before muttering, " It's almost pathetic how he doesn't know how to handle his feelings."
"What was that?"
"You're pathetic," She says with an eye roll. She grabs Mercy's hand and drags her to the dance floor, though his bodyguard sends him a look, asking for permission. He waves his hand, knowing his sister would bite his head off if he stopped her from dancing with her girlfriend, even if she was currently on the clock.
" I'm not pathetic. I can make a living clone with my own DNA." He grouches, glaring at her as she twirls under Mercy's arm.
"You can?" The familiar accent has Lex jumping a foot in the air. He spins around only to look down into Master's blue eyes. Lex had always noticed that he was a head taller than the other man, but it was one thing to know on paper and another to see in person.
He felt like Masters' blue gaze had grabbed him by the throat. "What?"
"You make clones?" Masters repeat, eyes alight with delight. "I've dabbled in that technology myself. I have a daughter, thanks to it."
Lex stares, feeling off-footed. "You're married?"
"Oh no, no." Masters laughs, though Lex can pick up a hint of anger from the curve of his jaw. "I'm a single father. My daughter happens to have some characteristics of her DNA donors, but she's mine entirely."
"I see." Lex suddenly feels like every social skill he's ever developed has evaporated. Or, at the very least, all of his brain cells because why else would he have blurted out, "I have a son. He's my clone with another man."
"Oh, congratulations. You and your husband-"
"No! I'm single. I mean, I'm not married. I was never married. In fact, it's been a long time since I've been in a relationship. So long I think I forgot how they are supposed to go." Lex cuts in, nearly spilling his drink as he shakes his hand. Masters' fae clouds with amusement, and Lex realizes he's been talking for too long.
"Well, it's hard to date while being a single parent." Masters hums before smiling, and Lex feels like Superman has just punched him through a wall without wearing his power suit. "Science is a wonderful thing, isn't it? To allow us to have our children."
"I suppose"
Masters ponders something before he holds out a card. "My daughter has always wanted to meet others like her. Would you and your son care to join us for dinner if it's not too much trouble?"
Lex thinks he makes a sound of confirmation, and just as he appears, Masters vanishes. He walks into the crowd, disappearing from sight, taking his mind-numbing, amused eyes and his stupid bow tie.
It takes him a moment to realize the card has Masters' phone number. Lex stares at the seven digits, feeling like he's freefalling and he's seconds away from being sick. He stumbles to a chair, falling into it without his usual grace.
Mercy is at his side in seconds, eyeing him wearily as Lena touches his shoulder. "Lex? You okay?"
"I have...to make a call." He hears himself say, stumbling for his phone. With shaking hands, he taps on a contact, bringing the device to his ear and listening to it ring. It takes five rings before it's picked up, and a voice bites out.
"What?"
"Conner." He starts, hands still shaking slightly. "Are you free this Friday?"
#dcxdpdabbles#dcxdp crossover#Lex Luthor's annoyance#Part 1#Lex has a crush on Vlad#He just doesn't know it yet#Vlad looking at rich people and going “I rahter be in the ghost zone”#Vlad and Dani have a better relationship#Conner is the child of diviorce#Vlad/Lex#What's thier ship name?
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Heyyy! I had this rlly funny idea but the TF 141 separately (and maybe König, you can decide if you add him w/ the 141 fellas or not) with a reader that's like 4'11-5'4 (maybe shorter) who's really sassy and a big smart mouth, but is just so sweet to them, but will absolutely bite someone's head off if they tried something (they do say dynamite comes in small packages lol) I hope ur having a good day and if you don't wanna do this u can ignore meeee luv ur work <3

Small but Mighty
Pairing: Task Force 141 + König x Short Sassy Protective Reader
Warnings: Strong language, threats of violence (but mostly comedic), reader is a menace but soft for the boys, fluff, crack, mild innuendos, reader is short but acts like a guard dog.
Author’s Note: I relate to this, I’m short and sassy so this request was so fun. I loved it so much-
Summary: You may be small, but your attitude is huge. You’re fiercely loyal to the team, the first to bite someone’s head off if they so much as look at them wrong. But with the boys? You’re their sweet, doting little powerhouse—when you’re not threatening to fight them for teasing you, of course.
Masterlist
MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+
Simon "Ghost" Riley
Simon first met you during a mission briefing, and it was like watching a rabid chihuahua getting ready to tear into someone. You were barely scraping 5’2” in combat boots, standing next to a man twice your size who had just questioned your skills.
"Listen here, you oversized fuckin’ tree stump," you snapped, arms crossed as you glared up at the guy. "I may be small, but I can still take you down in two moves, so shut your damn mouth before I put you on your ass."
Ghost, standing behind you, simply tilted his head in mild amusement. He expected the guy to laugh in your face. Instead, the man hesitated, clearing his throat before muttering something about just joking.
That was when Ghost knew you were dangerous.
But what surprised him even more? How goddamn sweet you were to him.
"Si, did you eat today?" you asked one evening after a mission, voice softer than usual. You were sitting beside him, legs tucked beneath you, hands busy cleaning your weapons.
Ghost barely had time to answer before you shoved a protein bar into his hand.
"Eat. Now."
He looked down at the snack, then back at you, unimpressed.
"You’re bossy for someone I could put in my pocket."
You scowled, jabbing a finger at him. "And you are grumpy for someone who clearly needs food."
Despite himself, he found himself smirking beneath his mask. He peeled open the wrapper, taking a bite while you nodded in satisfaction, muttering, "Damn right."
Yeah. You were something else.
——
John "Soap" MacTavish
Soap loved that you were a walking contradiction. One second you were cussing someone out for looking at him wrong, the next you were fixing his hair with the gentleness of a mother hen.
He thrived off riling you up.
"Oi, short stack," he called one day, smirking as you turned around, already glaring.
"What did you just call me?" you demanded, hands on your hips.
"Short stack," he repeated, grinning. "Like a pancake. Wee but fiery."
You stomped right up to him and jabbed a finger into his chest. "Listen here, Johnny, I may be short, but I can still take you—"
Before you could finish your sentence, he scooped you up and threw you over his shoulder.
You let out an indignant screech, kicking your legs wildly. "PUT ME DOWN, YOU MUSCLE-BRAINED MANWHORE."
Soap was cackling, patting your thigh. "You’re cute when you’re angry."
"I’M GONNA KILL YOU."
He eventually set you down after getting a few light punches to his back. But later that evening, when you checked in on him, making sure he was hydrating, making sure his injuries were tended to, he couldn’t help but grin.
You were his little menace, and he wouldn’t trade you for the world.
——
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
Gaz thought you were the funniest person alive. He wasn’t sure how so much attitude could be packed into someone your size, but it worked.
Especially when you went feral on his behalf.
It happened at a bar, where a stranger had started getting way too handsy with Gaz. You, standing nearby, immediately clocked the situation and marched over, eyes blazing.
Gaz barely had time to react before you inserted yourself between him and the stranger, glaring up at the taller man like a pissed-off gremlin.
"Take your hands off him before I break all ten of your fingers," you snapped.
The man blinked. "And who the hell are you—"
You grabbed the dude’s wrist. Twisted just enough to make a point.
"I said," you growled, voice low, "take. Your hands. Off."
The guy yanked his hand back and bolted.
Gaz just stared at you, shook. "Damn," he muttered. "Didn’t know I had my own personal attack dog."
You turned to him, smile sickly sweet. "Only for you, babe."
The whiplash was insane. But he wouldn’t trade it for anything.
——
Captain John Price
Price thought you were adorable.
He’d never say that to your face—he valued his life too much—but he thought it.
You had this habit of defending him when you thought someone was being disrespectful.
One day, some new recruit made the mistake of talking back to him. Before Price could even react, you stepped up, arms crossed, expression like a storm cloud.
"That’s Captain Price to you," you said coolly. "Show some respect before I have to teach it to you."
The recruit, visibly confused about being threatened by someone a foot shorter than him, just mumbled an apology and scurried off.
Price chuckled, shaking his head. "You’re a menace."
You shrugged. "Just looking out for my old man."
His eyebrow twitched. "Old?"
You grinned up at him, innocent as a damn angel.
He sighed. You were gonna be the death of him.
——
König
König was, at first, terrified of accidentally crushing you. You barely reached his chest, and he swore you had to be some kind of mythical creature because how could something so small be so loud?
But then he saw you threaten someone for him.
It was during a mission when someone made a snide remark about his size, thinking he couldn’t hear. You did, though.
"Hey, dipshit," you snapped, whirling around. "Say that again, I fucking dare you."
The guy stammered, confused. "What—"
"You heard me. You got something to say about König? Say it to my face."
The man immediately backed down.
König stared at you, stunned. "You… defended me?"
You turned to him, expression soft. "Course I did, big guy. Nobody talks shit about my team."
His brain short-circuited.
Later, you noticed him being extra gentle with you, like you were something precious.
"König," you asked, squinting up at him.
"Yes, kleine maus?"
"…Are you petting my head?"
"Ja."
You sighed. "Fine. But only because you’re my favorite giant."

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜
#x reader#141 x reader#tf 141#task force 141#tf 141 x reader#cod 141#mw2 141#simon ghost riley x reader#ghost x reader#task force 141 fanfic#141#tf 141 x you#tf 141 headcanons#konig x y/n#konig x you#konig headcanons#johnny mactavish x reader#john price x reader#john mactavish x reader#captain price x reader#kyle gaz x you#kyle gaz x reader#kyle gaz garrick x reader#price x reader#johnny x reader#simon ghost x you
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I have a requesttttt lately I’ve been thinking about Lando and I kinda think it would be so fun if he was with someone totally opposite to him SO my vision is:
Badass girlboss Reader (I personally imagine an Elle Woods-esque corporate trial lawyer or something) and Lando have been sneaking around but out in public they look like just friends and they’re kind of dating around but they end up getting jealous bc Reader thinks Lando wants the influencer/models he’s surrounded by and Lando thinks Reader wants a serious academic type. How it ends is up to you — maybe they work it out or maybe they just belong in different worlds :’)

➵ Pairing: Lando Norris x Corporate Lawyer! Female Reader.
➵ Warnings: Mild miscommunication, mild angst with a (very) happy ending and jealousy (mutual, a little petty).
➵ Word Count: 3.601k.
➵ a/n: Ahh, I just loved your vision so much! It was really easy to write and play with this dynamic (I don't think I've ever had so much creativity to write something so fast, but I ended up staying up all night writing this because I was genuinely so entertained 😅) but anyway, thank you for the request and I hope it meets your vision in the best way possible and that you like it! ☺️🧡
By day, she was the powerhouse trial attorney — the kind who walked into courtrooms in heels that could kill and left with verdicts that made headlines. The fashion magazines loved her almost as much as Forbes did. She was the youngest partner in her firm, a Harvard Law alumni with a Chanel addiction and a sharp tongue. Men underestimated her. Judges respected her. And juries? They adored her.
By night — well, lately, her nights often involved sneaking out of an apartment in Monaco, wearing one of Lando’s hoodies over her silk blouse.
Lando knew what the world thought. That they were “just friends.” That maybe she was his lawyer or his PR advisor or some business connection. The paddock shots of her standing beside him, sunglasses on, whispering something that made him smirk? Oh, the fan theories were relentless.
But behind closed doors? Their situationship was toeing the line of something real. No labels. No pressure. But a lot of stolen glances, late-night phone calls, and moments that felt too intimate for friends.
The problem? She was the type to keep her heart padlocked. Lando was used to people chasing him — but she didn’t chase. She leaned against his car in the McLaren garage and made fun of his post-race hair. She kissed him like he was hers, then told him she had court in the morning and disappeared in a plane.
Still, she wore his hoodie in her post-run selfies. And he kept saving seats for her in the paddock.
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They met at a charity gala in London — her firm was sponsoring, McLaren was donating, and neither of them wanted to be there. She was bored out of her mind, cornered by a finance bro pitching her crypto nonsense, when Lando swooped in like a cheeky, curly-haired lifeline.
“Sorry, mate,” Lando had said, slipping an arm around her waist with perfect ease. “I promised her the next dance.”
She had raised an eyebrow, amused and intrigued. He was only a year older than her, maybe a little cocky, but charming in that boyish, slightly-messy way. She didn’t dance, of course. Not at galas. But she let him lead her away anyway.
“You don’t look like a lawyer,” he’d said under his breath once they were out of earshot.
“And you don’t look like someone who reads contracts,” she fired back, her smile sharp.
That was the start of it. Flirty texts turned into late-night calls. Then came dinners in quiet places where no one recognized them. Then weekends in cities where she happened to be trying a case, and he happened to have a break in the calendar.
There was no official talk. No defining the relationship. But every time she passed through the paddock, Lando’s eyes would find her like muscle memory. And every time he showed up at her apartment with coffee after a red-eye flight, she didn’t send him home.
They didn’t owe each other explanations. Not when she was knee-deep in legal warfare Monday through Friday. Not when he was crossing continents chasing trophies. But there was something magnetic about them. Something they didn’t touch too closely for fear of setting off fireworks they couldn’t control.
He brought chaos into her perfectly curated life. She brought calm into his whirlwind. They weren’t each other’s type, and yet — they were exactly what the other kept coming back for.
Addictive in the best way. Dangerous if it ever tipped too far.
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It had been a week since the last time they’d spent time together. She was in New York for a deposition, Lando was in Italy for the race. Their texts had been sparse — just the typical “miss you” and “good luck” messages, but nothing too personal. It was their thing, keeping things light when the world was heavy.
But tonight, something felt off. She had just wrapped up a ten-hour workday and was about to dive into a pile of case files when she got a text from him:
Lan:
Can we talk?
She frowned at the screen. It wasn’t unusual for him to reach out like this, but there was a seriousness in the tone that made her stomach churn.
She stared at her phone for a few moments before typing back:
Y/N:
Of course, what’s up?
Seconds later, the phone buzzed again, this time with a FaceTime request. She hesitated, then answered, putting on the usual mask — cool, composed, business-like.
Lando’s face filled the screen, but it wasn’t the warm, mischievous grin she was used to. His brow was furrowed, eyes heavy, like he hadn’t slept well in days. She sat up straighter, her lawyer instincts kicking in, trying to gauge the situation.
“Hey,” she greeted, her voice carefully neutral.
“Hey,” he said, his voice tight. “I’ve been thinking.”
Her heart rate spiked. Thinking wasn’t good. When Lando thought, things got complicated. And she didn’t need anything complicated.
“About what?” she asked, her tone even but laced with caution.
“About us.”
There it was. The words she had known were coming, but hearing them still felt like a slap.
She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms in front of her, the walls going up instinctively. “What about us?” she asked, her eyes narrowing, though she tried to keep the edge out of her voice.
Lando sighed, rubbing his hand over his face. “You know this whole thing… whatever it is… it’s killing me, Y/N.”
Her jaw clenched. “What are you talking about? You knew what this was when we started. No labels. No promises. Just… us. And if you didn’t like that, you should’ve said something earlier.”
“That’s the thing,” he snapped, frustration creeping into his voice. “I never wanted it like this. I thought maybe… maybe we could actually figure it out. But you’re so damn cold. You keep me at arm's length, and it’s like I’m not even real to you when we’re not together.”
Her breath caught. She was used to the cold, used to compartmentalizing her emotions, but this wasn’t a courtroom. It was Lando. And as much as she hated admitting it, it stung.
“I’m not cold,” she said, her voice tight, but the walls were beginning to crack. “I just… I don’t do messy. I have a career to focus on. And you have the entire world chasing after you. I’m not the type to play these games.”
“Games?” Lando repeated, his eyes flashing with frustration. “This isn’t a game, Y/N. I don’t get it. One second, it’s like I mean something to you. The next, I’m just some guy who’s filling space until the next big thing comes along.”
Her chest tightened. “You think I’m stringing you along?” She could feel the heat rising in her face. This wasn’t just an argument. It felt like it was unearthing something deeper — something they hadn’t dared to look at yet.
“I don’t know what I think anymore,” Lando shot back, leaning closer to the screen, his expression hard. “I’m asking you to be honest with me for once. What the hell is this? Because I’m not just gonna sit here pretending like it’s nothing while you keep everything locked up.”
Her pulse raced, the words threatening to spill out before she could stop them. “You think I’m the one who’s afraid of this? Of us? Lando, I don’t have time for games. You want someone who’s all in, someone who will follow you around and pretend that this is normal? It’s not. And I’m not some girl who’s gonna throw my life away for—”
“For what?” Lando interrupted, his voice sharp, cutting through her words. “For someone who you don't even give a damn? For someone who you treat like a casual fling when everyone’s watching?”
She froze, the hurt in his words hitting her harder than she expected. “That’s not fair,” she whispered. “You don’t get to do that. You know what my life is like. You don’t get to judge me for how I handle things. I’ve worked too damn hard to get where I am, and I won’t throw that away for anything or anyone.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched long between them, heavy and tense. Finally, Lando broke the quiet, his voice softer but laced with frustration.
“You don’t have to throw it all away. I just… I just want to know if I matter, Y/N. If I mean anything to you.”
Her throat tightened, the words suddenly stuck. “You do,” she said, barely above a whisper. “But it’s not that simple.”
“Then make it simple,” Lando pleaded, his eyes searching hers through the screen. “Stop hiding from me.”
She stared at him, her heart racing, the emotional walls crumbling faster than she could rebuild them. “I can’t promise you what you want,” she said finally, her voice shaking just a little. “But I’m not walking away. Just… just give me time.”
Lando sighed deeply, his expression softening. “Time. Yeah. Okay. But I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending I’m fine with this.”
She didn’t have an answer for that. Not yet.
────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──────
The next couple of weeks after their argument were… strange. Awkward. Almost like both of them had hit a wall they didn’t know how to scale.
She kept herself busy. Ridiculously busy. Court cases, meetings, contracts — anything to keep her mind off the tension that still clung to her thoughts. She buried herself in work, refusing to admit to herself that something about Lando was starting to haunt her, even if she wasn’t ready to admit that out loud.
Lando, on the other hand, was everywhere. In the paddock. At fashion shows. With influencers, models, and people who seemed to have everything in the world but didn’t seem to be doing anything. They laughed, they posed for the cameras, they made it look easy.
It drove her insane.
She wasn’t supposed to care. She wasn’t supposed to get jealous over him. But when she saw a photo of Lando and a famous Instagram model sharing a laugh at a recent charity event, it felt like a punch to the gut.
It wasn’t that she was jealous. No, of course not. She wasn’t like that. But… they were so perfect for each other. Gorgeous, carefree, and living in a world where appearances were everything. The kind of world she didn’t belong to.
So, she did what she did best: she pretended it didn’t bother her.
She posted a few pictures from her latest trial, looking fierce in a tailored suit, with her caption reflecting the confidence she wanted to project: “Court’s in session. Winning isn't a choice. It's a guarantee.”
Her phone buzzed almost immediately with messages — friends, colleagues, even a few family members. But the one that made her stop was from Lando.
Lan:
Looking good in court. You know, you should wear a suit more often…
She stared at the message, blinking as the words sat in front of her. Was it a compliment? Or was it just a casual comment, like he always sent? Either way, she couldn’t ignore the gnawing feeling in her gut that told her he was distracted by something — or someone — else.
So, she ignored his text. Just for a few hours. Maybe she was being petty. But she couldn’t help it.
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Meanwhile, Lando had his own demons. He’d been thinking about the conversation they had, replaying it over and over in his head. Make it simple. She’d said that to him. But the more he thought about it, the more complicated it seemed.
He'd been surrounded by people, sure, but all these models, influencers, and socialites? They didn’t fill the space she left behind. They never could.
Still, seeing her posts — those posts — with all her academic accomplishments, her sleek, polished persona… it made him second-guess everything. He knew she was fierce. She was a force. But sometimes, he wondered if he was the right match for her. Was he really what she wanted? Or was she just pretending, keeping him at arm's length like she had from the start?
He'd seen how she interacted with the serious academics — those suave lawyers, those well-dressed business types she surrounded herself with at galas. People who played the game of life like it was a chess match, making calculated moves every step of the way. People who probably looked better on paper than he did. Lando couldn’t help but think, Does she need someone like that? Someone more… professional? More grounded?
The thought twisted at his insides.
A couple of days later, his answer came when he saw her with one of those very types at an event — a tall, dark-haired man in a crisp suit. He was talking to her, laughing at something she said, clearly enjoying her company.
Of course she likes someone like him, Lando thought bitterly, as he watched from across the room. The man was everything Lando was not — serious, calculated, and mature. He didn’t need to be the center of attention, and he certainly didn’t have to make himself a spectacle for people to notice him.
Lando’s grip tightened around the flute of champagne in his hand. He turned away, trying to shake off the unease bubbling in his chest. But the feeling stuck with him. All night.
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The next day, he texted her again, his message half-accusatory, half-playful:
Lan:
So, who’s the guy? Looks like a lawyer from here. Thought you were into people who could keep up with your… complicated life.
She read the message and snorted. Was he really going to throw that at her? The jealousy card? Really?
She quickly typed back, biting her lip.
Y/N:
He’s just a colleague. Someone from work. You know, not everyone revolves around F1 or the latest influencer trends.
The words stung even as she typed them. She hated that she was putting walls up, but she was so tired of constantly second-guessing herself.
Lan:
Right. And I suppose I’m the one who’s into those trends?
Y/N:
I mean, you’ve been hanging around them enough.
There. She said it. She was being petty, but jealousy was eating at her.
Lando’s response came quickly, almost instantly.
Lan:
Yeah, because that’s exactly what I want, more Instagram followers and pretty girls with no substance.
Her eyes narrowed at the text. She read it twice, the sharp edge in his words cutting deeper than she expected.
Y/N:
Then why do you keep surrounding yourself with them?
His response came even faster this time.
Lan:
I don’t know, Y/N. Maybe because I’m tired of wondering if you even want to be with me or if you’d rather be with someone who looks like he has it all together.
She froze, her heart dropping.
The tension between them had reached its peak. It was a tangled mess of insecurities, unspoken fears, and silent accusations. They both thought the other wanted something they weren’t ready to give. They were both fighting to keep a part of themselves that the other couldn’t touch.
But maybe… just maybe, it was time to tear down the walls and face it.
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Monza had been a whirlwind for Lando — racing, media events, and the pressure that always seemed to come with the spotlight. But that wasn’t what weighed on his mind. No, it was her.
He had tried to act like he was fine, ignoring the nagging feeling in his gut, but deep down, he knew things were slipping. Every moment without her felt like they were growing further apart, despite how hard they tried to convince themselves otherwise. The jealousy, the silence — it was building up, and he couldn’t take it anymore.
So, without a second thought, he packed his bags and boarded a plane. Destination: New York. The city that never sleeps, or so they said. But for him, it was the city where he would finally have it out with her.
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Lando stood outside her apartment building, his heart racing. He wasn’t sure how he got there, just that something in him had snapped. The confusion, the doubt — it was all consuming. The thought that they could end like this, with all the words left unsaid, made him angry. Angry at himself. Angry at the situation. And angry at her for shutting him out, even if she didn’t realize it.
He hit the buzzer.
A moment later, her voice crackled through the speaker. "Yes?"
He didn't even give it a second thought. "It's me. Lando. Open the door."
There was a pause. He could almost hear her hesitation through the intercom. Then the lock clicked, and the door swung open.
She stood there in front of him, looking stunned, her hair disheveled from a long day of meetings and calls. But despite the exhaustion, the moment their eyes met, everything else seemed to disappear. The anger, the confusion, the jealousy — it all melted away in that instant. But she didn’t move. She didn’t speak.
Lando stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. “We need to talk,” he said, his voice tight with emotion.
She crossed her arms, not backing down. “I didn’t think you’d show up.”
“You didn’t think I would?” Lando’s voice cracked, and the rawness of it hit her like a punch to the chest. “I’ve been standing on the edge of this whole damn mess for weeks. Watching you pull away, acting like I don’t even exist. And then I see you with some guy at that gala, acting like I’m nothing but a distraction. So yeah, I came here to figure this out once and for all.”
Her face flushed, but she refused to back down. “You think I want to be with you, Lando? You think I’m the one pulling away? I saw you with all those models and influencers. You think I can’t see what’s right in front of me? You want someone who fits your world — someone who doesn’t have a career that takes up all her time, someone who doesn’t get tangled up in complicated lawsuits and corporate contracts.”
Lando shook his head, walking toward her, his frustration mounting. “No! That’s not it at all! I don’t want someone like that. I want you.” He stepped closer, his voice rising. “But you keep acting like I’m not good enough for you. Like you don’t want someone who’s just... here. You want someone serious, someone who can sit in boardrooms and talk numbers and contracts all day. I’m just some guy who drives cars.”
“Lando…” She started, but he cut her off, his words tumbling out faster now.
“You don’t get it, do you? I’m in this world, yes, but I don’t care about that crap. I care about you. I care about us. But every time I try to get close, you push me away, like you’re afraid I’ll screw it all up. And you’re right, I’ve been surrounded by people who don’t care about anything. But you— you’re different. You’re smart. You’re ambitious. You’re real. And that scares me, okay? It scares me because I’ve never had someone like you before. And I don’t want to lose you because I’m too scared not being enough.”
She stood there, silent for a moment, the weight of his words sinking in. Her gaze softened, the tension in her shoulders releasing as she let out a long breath.
“I’m scared too,” she admitted quietly, almost in a whisper. “Scared that I’m not the kind of person you need. I’ve seen how you are around those people— how easy it is for you to just... slip into that world. And I thought, maybe, that’s what you wanted. Someone who can play that game better than I ever could.”
Lando shook his head vehemently. “No. No. I don’t need that. I need you. You’re the one who makes me want to get out of bed every morning, who pushes me to be better. Not some model or influencer with a perfect smile and a million followers. I need someone who knows who they are and isn’t afraid of what the world thinks. And that’s you. I don’t want to pretend anymore.”
Her lips parted as if she was about to argue, but something in his eyes stopped her. She took a step forward, looking up at him.
“Lando... I don’t know how to make this easier. But I can’t keep pretending that everything’s okay when it’s not. I’ve been so wrapped up in what I think you want, and I forgot what I need. I want us. I just need to figure out how to stop being so damn scared.”
Lando reached for her hand, his voice softer now. “Then let’s figure it out together. No more pretending. No more games. Just us.”
She smiled, the weight lifting off her shoulders. She finally closed the space between them, letting her arms wrap around him.
“I’ve never been good at this,” she murmured, her face buried in his chest. “But I want to try.”
Lando squeezed her tighter. “Me too. I’ll do whatever it takes, even if it means figuring out how to play the long game with you.”
They stood there for a long time, just holding each other. The silence between them felt different now — like they were both finally on the same page, after all the chaos.
And as the city buzzed around them, they finally understood: sometimes, the best relationships weren’t the ones you planned out. They were the messy, complicated ones you couldn’t live without.
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His Prize
I seem to have the Cregan Stark Fever-
NSFW
Masterlist
The Northmen returned to Winterfell with their King, excited to see their families again.
But it wasn’t all in vain, Cregan Stark returned with a promise that was fulfilled on both sides. He would help the Queen in return of a marriage.
Queen Rhaenyra offered a marriage to her daughter, an alliance this strong would ensure their loyalty for eternity.
I sat upon the back of a gorgeous black mare, a silky black mane contrasting with your long, silver locks, matted in her ceremonial braids after a long ride to Winterfell.
Her large, string frame, built for work, strode in line with the Northmen, your newly wedded husband riding beside you on a beautiful white gelding, your powerhouse of a bourse towering over Cregan’s race-battle horse.
He looked relaxed and comfortable on top of his smaller horse, his gaze fixed on the trail infront of him but often breaking off to glance at your face from time to time. 
Winterfell was a large place, not as big as Dragonstone or Kingslanding but still large enough to intimidate anyone crossing or passing it’s threshold.
As they passed through the castle gates, the guards look at you with a look of recognition, not one you were use to back home but a curious recognition as they acknowledged the princess’ beauty.
Your once confident demeanour was replaced with embarrassment as every man, woman and child’s gaze was fixated upon you, your arrival bringing shocked looks to their faces.
Cregan noticed your demeanour change and he chuckled, a smirk forming on his face as he slowed down his horse and leaned towards you slightly, despite the height difference of your horses, you seem to be the same height.
“What happened to that fierce confidence you used to carry around, little princess?”
Your eyes flickered towards the large, bulky man that you now called your husband, your eyes raking up his body and landing on his face before replying,
“It’s just such a change from my home your grace, everyone who knows my name isn’t used to my presence unlike back at home.”
He chuckled softly, taking in your gaze as it roamed over his body, before he reached out a gloved hand to her, offering her a small smirk.
“You don’t have to call me ‘your grace’, darling. We are equals here.”
A shiver rose up your spine as you locked your eyes onto his gloved hand,
“I can’t help it your grace, it’s always been a habit of mine to respect others and use their titles.”
He continued to smirk, taking your hand in his and bringing it in the middle of them, his thumb gently rubbing over your knuckles. His body leaned in further towards her, his voice dropping to a lower, huskier tone,
“The I suppose I’ll just have to break you out of that habit, darling.”
A warm blush came to your cheeks, you tore your hand away from his in shyness and looked up infront of you and saw men signalling where to stop and get off our horses. You stopped at a halt and waited for the Northmen to fetch the steps for you to climb down.
But as I was waiting, Cregan had exited his horse and walked around your mare, he offered his left hand for you to grab as his right hand gripped your hip, helping you down.
Cregan stood there with a shit eating smirk, his eyes roaming over her body before looking up at your face, his smirk softening into a more gentle expression.
Once you were fully off the horse, he still didn’t remove his hands from your hips, still holding you close to him as he tilted his face to the side and studied your blushing face.
“My, my, what a lovely shade of pink on your cheeks, darling.”
Your eyes widened at his statement, you quickly diverted your eyes and let your silver locks flow over your face, covering your cheeks.
He chuckled again, amusement shining in his eyes as he watched you try to hide your blushing face. His hand gently rubs your hip through the fabric of your dress. He took a step closer to you, his body practically pressing against yours as he reached forward with his other hand and gently pushed the hair out of your face, his fingers tracing your jaw.
“Now, now, darling, why try to hide such a pretty blush? Hmmm?”
Your breathe hitches in your throat as he touches your jaw,
“My Lord, we really should get inside, my cheeks are merely flushed due to the coldness of the outside. It is freezing out here and it’s only going to get colder. We can warm up inside.”
You made up any excuse you could muster to get out of the situation. It’s not like you didn’t like having the King in the North doting on you, he was well mannered but quite forward, not that you necessarily minded, but you can’t handle others eyes on you, especially in intimate moments.
You enjoyed Cregan’s touch, he was a handsome and compelling man. A Stark. He had these eyes that could either make you shake in fear or knock your knees as you melt in his gaze.
He was attractive in every single sense possible. But you had just been wed off to him without a second thought from your mother and step-father, your own brother didn’t even protest.
You couldn’t give into his gaze just because he was your attractive husband.
He raised an eyebrow at your excuse, not fully believing it but he decided not to make a big deal out of it. He withdrew his hand from your jaw and took a step back, giving you some space as he took in your face once more, a hint of disappointment in your eyes.
“Hm, I suppose you’re right, it is rather could out here little dragon.”
He turned on his heel and began leading the way inside the castle, not glancing back to see if you were following.

You followed Cregan inside, his long legs taking fast strides and putting your legs to work to try and keep up with his fast pace. Eventually we had reached the large double doors.
Cregan pushed open the doors and led you inside , the sounds of the castle instantly filling your ears. Servants and guards hurried about, doing their assigned tasks.
Cregan walked with purpose, his steps large and strong as he walked towards the Lord’s chambers.
You looked around the hall briefly before you followed Cregan to a small corridor. Where was he going?
“Uhm.. my Lord? Where are we going? We walked through the hall and feast.”
Cregan didn’t stop walking, his pace still steady as he turned his head slightly to look at you over his shoulder, a smirk gracing his lips,
“Impatient, aren’t you, darling? I’m taking you to your new chambers.”
He turned his head forwards again as we had reached a big door, a servant stood outside the room and told Cregan that the room and a hot bath was prepared for him inside.
Cregan turned to the servant and nodded his head in thanks, the servant scurrying off and left the two of you alone.
He turned his gaze to you, his smirk widening as he looked you up and down.
“This will be your room from now on, darling. You’ll be living with me. Alone.”
You stuttered as your head shot up, my eyes staring into his, a mischievous glint dancing around his eye.
“Are you really sure we should be sharing chambers so soon my Lord? We have known eachother all but 2 years and in those two years we’ve only had a handful of interactions before we were wed, are you sure you’re comfortable with us sharing a room together?”
His smirk turned into a full blown smile, his eyes fixated on your face as he toon you in. Oh, you were feisty, he could tell that much.
“Oh, absolutely, darling. I assure you, I’m more than comfortable with it. Very comfortable, in fact.”
He took a step towards you, his smile never wavering as he continues speaking,
“Besides, we’re already married. I see no reason to delay such matters any longer.”
“If you truly wish, your grace.”
You looked up at him with large doe eyes, your lavender iris’s searching his metallic ones.
“Perhaps we should go inside the room and freshen up my Lord, it’s been a long trip and I feel as if I’m caked in dirt.”
You but your bottom lip out and shuffle on your feet, your arms now hugging yourself.
He chuckles, his gaze softening slightly as he took in your adorable expression. He could see right through your little act, you were using your pout and innocence to your advantage, and he found it both endearing and amusing.
He placed a gentle hand on your lower back, feeling how small you were compared to him.
“You’re not completely wrong, darling. You do have a little bit of dirt on your face.”
He raised his other hand, gently wiping away some of the dirt on your cheek with his thumb.
Your eyes focus on his hand, your breathe hitching in your throat. You move your face from his grip and diverted your gaze. You too a few steps towards the door and reached your hand out to grab onto the handle but paused before your fingers could graze the metal.
You turned your head to Cregan. Silently asking for permission to open the door.
Cregan chuckled again, noticing your hesitation and your silent question. He took a step closer to you, closing the gap between you, now standing directly behind you.
He place his hands on your hips, his breath lightly tickling your ear as he leaned his head down closer to you.
“You don’t need my permission to open the door, darling. This is your room too, remember? You can do whatever you wish.”
“I just want to make you happy my Lord” you replied.
He hummed as he felt your small body pressed up against his, his hands staying on your waist. He enjoyed having you so close, he relished the feeling of your curves in his grip.
He moved closer, his chest now flush against your back as he lowered his head once more, murmuring in your ear,
“And you already do, darling. You make me very, very happy.”
“And how is that my Lord?”
He chuckled, his hot breath still caressing the side of your face, sendings shivers down your spine.
“I have a beautiful, feisty and loyal wife who I will now be spending every night with for the rest of my life. What more could a man ask for?”
“How about we enter our room first my Lord, I still need to bathe.”
“Hm, of course, darling.”
He nodded in agreement and toons step back , allowing you to push open the door. He gestured for you to walk in first and followed close behind, his eyes roaming over your body once more before he shut the doors, locking it behind him.
You looked around the large room. A bed stood stoic in the middle of the room, covered with layers of soft and fluffy furs. There was a large two person table with wooden chairs, on top the table there was a jug and two glasses, and on the other side of the room there was a large tub filled with water and steam radiating off it.
Cregan watched your eyes rake over the room, a smirk on his face as he took in your expression.
He found your your innocent curiosity endearing, and he knew that you had probably never seen a Lords chambers before.
He walked over to one of the wooden chairs and began taking off his gloves, placing them on the table.
“Do you like it darling?”
“Very much so my Lord, the bed looks so inviting, it seems like it can keep me warm during the winters,.. like you my Lord..”
You turn towards the bath as he chuckles behind you. Your body was practically begging you to let it relax in the soothing water.
“Uhm, my Lord? Is there a curtain of the sort to cover the bathing area while I soak?”
Cregan chuckled, watching as you admired the bed and the tub of hot water. His eyes lingered on your form for a moment before he spoke again. He leaned against the table, a smirk slowly forming on his face
“Yes, darling, there is a curtain. But…”
He paused, his smirk widening at the thought of what he was about to request
“I have a request of you, first.”
“What do you request of me your grace?”
He pushed himself off the table, slowly walking up to you, his smirk still in place. He stopped when he was right in front of you, towering over your small frame, your face looking up at him with curiosity. He reached out a hand and gently touched your chin, tilting your face up even more.
“I want you…”
He paused, his smirk turning into a smile as he looked down at you.
“To undress for me. Slowly.”
Your eyes widen at his request, chest enlarging as you take in a deep breath.
“I’m not sure what you mean my lord. You want me to undress for you?..”
You stare into his eyes and part your lips, going to speak but the words don’t leave.
He chuckled again at your surprised expression, finding you innocent act to be quite amusing. He kept your chin tilted up, his fingers still lingering on your skin as he looked down at your face.
“I think you know exactly what I mean, darling.”
He lowered his other hand and placed it on your hip, his fingers gently rubbing your waist through the fabric of your dress.
You lick your lips and contemplate your next move, you end up grabbing his hands and pushing them off you and spinning on your heel. You stalk towards the tub, your back facing Cregan. You stop a few inches infront of the tub of water. Pausing before reaching up to unlace the front of your dress, slowly pushing it off your shoulders and exposing your slender arms.
Cregan watched as you walked towards the tub, his eyes fixated on your back as you began to undo the laces of your dress. He couldn't help but smile as you pulled the dress off your shoulders, revealing more and more of your bare skin to him. He took a few steps closer, crossing his arms over his chest as his eyes slowly roamed over your bare shoulders, admiring your slender arms.
“Keep going, darling.”
His voice sent a shiver through your spine.
“Whatever you desire my lord.”
You whispered breathlessly as you pushed the fabric down your torso, exposing your chest to the wall and your back to Cregan.
Cregan's breath hitched in his throat as he watched you slowly unveil your body to him, his eyes roaming over your bare back and your slender torso, his knuckles turning white from how hard he was clenching his fists.
“That's it, darling. Keep going.”
He was so close behind you now, he could reach out and touch your bare skin if he wanted to, and he desperately wanted to. He wanted to run his hands all over her body, feel your soft skin beneath his rough hands.
The slender fingers paused, deciding wether you should expose yourself towards your new husband. It is duty to do anything he pleases. So you decided against your better judgement and pushed the dress down, going over the curve of your ass and down your plush thighs. The dress pooled at your feet as you stepped out of it, your hands gripping the bath before going to step inside.
Cregan stood there in a daze, his eyes slowly raking over your almost fully naked form. Why would we was even more beautiful than you imagined, your body more exquisite than he could ever have imagined. He was at a loss for words, his mind was completely blown by the sight of your bare torso and thighs. He took a step closer, his hands itching to touch you, to feel your soft flesh under his palms.
He snapped out of his daze when you moved to step into the tub. He quickly reached out and grabbed your wrist, stopping you from getting into the water.
Your eyebrows furrow as your head snaps towards his wrist and then go his face,
“My Lord, is something wrong? Did you want to bathe instead?”
He chuckled and shook his head, his eyes drifting back down to your body, taking in your slender frame and your bare thighs. He swallowed hard, his pulse quickening as he continued speaking.
"No, darling. I want you to get in the water, but I have another request."
He took a step closer, his body now pressed up against your back. You placed hip hands on hips, his fingers gently gripping your bare skin.
Your voice comes out warm and soft as you reply to him,
“And what request would that be my Lord?”
He smiled at your response, relishing the feeling of your body pressed up against his. He moved one of his hands down to yor belly, slowly rubbing his fingers over her skin.
“I want you to let me wash you, darling.”
He leaned down and nuzzled his face into your neck, his breath warm against your skin as he spoke again.
“Every inch of you.”
“Whatever you desire, i will fulfill my lord. And if that’s to wash every, single inch of my body as i bathe, then I will allow it. But you’re looking quite dirt ridden too my lord, perhaps you want to bathe after me.. or with me.”
You do admit, it was brave of you to say this but if you were going to make this man happy, you guess being in his chambers might be the right place to start.
Cregan chuckled and hummed against your neck, his breath tickling your skin. He loved the sound of you submitting yourself to him, your words, as bold as they were, made his chest surge with satisfaction.
“Oh, darling, are you suggesting that I undress and take a bath with you?”
He nibbled at your neck, placing gentle kisses along your skin as he spoke again,
“I like that idea, darling. I like it a lot.”
“If you truly like it then you’ll join me my lord”
You step into the water before Cregan can stop you, turning to face him, your breasts exposed to him before you sink into the water and stare at him, waiting for him to join you.
Cregan cursed under his breath as you stepped into the water, you body sinking down and disappearing underneath the water, only your head remaining above. He stared down at you, his eyes raking over her bare neck and your shoulders, his gaze moving lower and lower down to your covered chest.
He swore again, muttering something incoherent as he began pulling his tunic over his head, tossing it on the floor without a care. He quickly began undressing, stripping off each piece of clothing until he was bare chested, his pants still on.
“I thought you wanted to join me my Lord, but you’re still not bare?”
You teased him as you shuffled with anticipation in the water.
He chuckled, his hands moving down to his pants as he slowly began pulling them down, taking his time as he continued looking at you in the tub, the water covering her body up to your collarbones.
“Be patient, darling. I don't like to do things quickly.”
He pushed the pants down and stepped out of them, kicking them to the side and standing there in front of you, completely naked and unabashed. He smirked as he saw your eyes roam over his body.
“I see why the girls fawn over you my Lord, should I consider them my enemies?”
He chuckled and stepped into the water, hissing as the warm water enveloped his body, the steam slowly rising and filling the air.
“Hm, is that so? And what makes you say that, darling?”
He moved closer and grabbed onto your hips, pulling your towards him until your body was flush against his, your back now against his chest.
“Well for one I’ve heard your not shy of training without your shirt on, in fact I’ve heard you prefer it. I’m sure the local girls must be falling at your feet because of your stocky, protective build and your defined features.”
Your hand reaches up from the water to reach behind you and stroke his face.
He hummed in agreement as he felt your hand on his face, your fingers gently tracing along the lines of his jaw. He chuckled at your words, a proud smirk slowly forming on his face.
“I like to keep my body in prime condition, darling. And yes, it does help when I have lovely ladies watching me train, drooling over my body.”
He smirked even more as he spoke, feeling your body pressed up against his. He could feel the way your curves molded perfectly against his chest and abdomen.
“Cregan..”
Using his name was natural even though it was the first time you had used his name in his presence.
Hearing his name come out of your mouth for the second time caused his chest to tighten, his heart skipping a beat at the sound of your sweet voice saying it.
“Hmm, that's better darling. Say my name again.”
He let go of your chin and instead moved his hand to your hair, gently cupping the back of your head and running his fingers through the soft locks.
“There are no other women who I am interested in. There is only you, my wife.”
You look at his lips, seemingly entranced by them.
“Only me?”
You look up at him.
“You are yet to prove this my Lord.”
He smirks, his eyes narrowing as he picks up on the hint of teasing in your tone. He moves his hand down to rest on your lower stomach, pulling you even closer until there was hardly a breath of space between your bodies.
“Is that so?”
He says, his voice low and seductive.
“And what do you expect from me, darling? How do you want me to prove it?”
“You haven’t even bathed your wife yet dear husband, you promised.”
His smirk widens, his eyes darkening with lust and desire as he heard your reminder. He reached over and grabbed the soft cloth from the edge of the tub, and began rubbing it over your skin, the steam from the water making the air feel thick and heavy between you.
“You're right, darling. I promised to wash you, and that's what I plan to do.”
He began running the cloth over your shoulders and back, his touch gentle but firm as he cleaned every inch of your skin.
You leaned your head back against his shoulder and let out a sigh, feeling his hands explore your body.
He continued running the cloth over your skin, his hands moving slowly and deliberately as he cleaned you. His eyes roved over your body, taking in every inch of your exposed skin as he bathed you.
“You're so beautiful, darling.”
He whispered, his mouth close to your ear as he spoke. His voice was low and husky, filled with a mixture of desire and reverence. He couldn't help but let his hands wander, tracing over your curves and caressing your soft skin.
“I think you’re missing a spot husband.”
He chuckled and playfully nipped at your ear, his hands pausing their slow movements as he hummed against your skin.
“Is that so? Which spot am I missing darling?”
You grabbed his hand and dragged it up your body, up your torso and landing on your chest, letting him fondle your tits as you bite your lip.
He chuckled lowly, his fingers gently caressing your soft flesh as he teased your sensitive nipples.
“Is this the spot you wanted me to wash darling?”
He whispered into your ear, his voice rough and sultry as he spoke. His touch was firm but gentle, his hands slowly moving over your mounds as he washed you.
“Mhmm..”
You moaned out through your lips, your teeth still biting your bottom lip as you whine and whimper.
“You’re very good with your hands Cregan.”
He hummed in agreement, his hands continuing to move over your body, gently massaging your soft flesh as he washed you. He liked the way you were responding to his touch, the way your body was shivering and trembling under his hands as he touched you.
“I'm glad you think so, darling. I enjoy using my hands, especially on you.”
He spoke softly into your ear, his lips skimming over the sensitive skin of your neck and shoulders as he washed you.
You turn your head to face him as you shuffle your hips.
He could feel your hips moving against his as you shifted, and it sent a jolt of heat through his body. He pulled you even closer, his chest pressing against your back as he continued to wash you, his movements growing more deliberate and intimate.
“Darling, you're being a tease.”
He whispered, his voice low and rough as he spoke into your ear. His hands were moving lower now, slowly trailing down your stomach and over your hips.
“You’re contradicting yourself dear husband. Your hands are teasing my body while your words and teasing my mind.”
He chuckled lowly and nipped at your ear again, his hands continuing to roam over your body, exploring every inch of your soft flesh. He could feel your trembling and shivering under his touch, the fire between you growing hotter and hotter.
“Maybe I do it on purpose, darling. I like seeing you squirm and whimper, begging for me to touch you.”
He whispered into your ear, his voice laced with a hint of darkness and dominance.
You squirm on his lap, staring I to his eyes.
“Your words are like honey, my Lord. But does your mouth taste like it I wonder?”
You subconsciously open your legs and push your face a little closer to his.
He grins, his smirk growing wider at your words and the way your body is reacting to him. His eyes dart down to the space between your legs, his gaze lingering on your exposed skin as he slowly moves his hands up your thighs, stopping just short of touching you where you crave it most.
“You want to find out, darling? Is that what you want?”
He looks up and locks eyes with you, his gaze full of heat and desire as he waits for your response.
“I was my mothers most curious child for a reason.”
He chuckled and pressed a gentle kiss to your bare shoulder, his lips lingering against your soft skin as he spoke.
“You are a curious one, aren't you? Always wanting to explore and learn more.”
He moves his hands further up your thighs, his fingers skimming over your skin and closer to your core. But he stops short, his touch just shy of where you want it most.
“And are you curious to taste my lips, darling? To see if my words taste as sweet as they sound?”
“It’s my most desired question at this moment in time. But maybe you could put that hand to use while your putting your mouth to use?”
You suggested seductively. You wanted him to touch you. To circle your most sensitive part and make you writhe in his grip.
He smirked against your skin and nipped at your shoulder, his lips grazing the spot as he spoke.
“Such impatience, darling. But I suppose I can indulge you.”
He moved his hand up even higher, his fingers brushing against your core, but still not quite touching you. His thumb gently caressed your skin, teasing you, as his lips moved to your neck, slowly trailing kisses along your skin.
“If you are to indulge me dear husband, then you will kiss me and be more confident with your hands, I need your touch husband.”
He chuckled against your skin, his smile growing wider as he teased you some more with his hands.
“Is my little darling getting desperate for my touch? Wanting me to kiss her and touch her the way she wants me to?”
He moved his lips to your ear, his tongue flicking out to tease your lobe as he spoke.
“You need my touch, darling? You crave it, don't you? My mouth and hands all over you, touching you and pleasuring you.”
“If you don’t touch me soon Cregan I will get the Seven to chastise you. Please just touch me husband…”
You whimper out as you ouch your hips into his fingers.
He chuckled and pressed a kiss behind your ear, his fingers finally, finally, finding your core and gently circling the sensitive bud. His breath was hot against your skin, his breathing becoming heavier as he spoke.
“You're so impatient, my little darling. You want my touch so badly, don't you? You want me to touch you and make you feel good, don't you, darling?”
“Fuck.. yes dear.. Cregan… please kiss me…”
You manage to mumble out through your whines and gasps.
He hummed against your skin, his fingers continuing to work over your core, gently rubbing and teasing you as you whimpered and writhed in his lap.
“That's it, darling. Moan for me. Say my name.”
He shifted your body in his lap, pulling you even closer as he nipped at your neck.
You grabbed his face from your neck and lifted it up. You pulled him down and pressed his lips against yours, moaning into his mouth as he continued rubbing his calloused hands over your sensitive bud, overwhelming you.
He moaned against your lips, his tongue delving into your mouth as he kissed you passionately. His fingers continued to work over you, his touch firm and deliberate as he teased and pleasured you. He could feel you trembling and shaking in his arms, your moans and gasps sending a thrill through his body.
“You taste so good, darling. So sweet, just like I imagined.”
He mumbled against your lips, his voice rough and hoarse with desire.
His left hand continued to work on your sensitive area as his right hand caresses your breasts. You bring you right hand down to press his hand into his core and lifting your hips up into his fingers while your left hand is tangled into his thick, dark hair.
He groaned against your lips as he felt you pressing his hand against your core, the gesture driving him wild. His fingers continued to work over you, his touch growing more confident and possessive as you writhed against him. He broke the kiss and moved his mouth to your neck, his lips and tongue trailing over your skin as he spoke.
“That's it, darling. Take what you want. Use my hand, use my body.”
You whine and moan out loudly.
“Husband please.. Cregan..”
Whimpering, you lazily move your hips back and forwards, both on his hand and his crotch, making him squeeze your nipple tight and roll it in his fingers, heightening your pleasure.
“Please Cregan.. make me feel overwhelmed by your touch..”
He moans into your neck, his breath coming out in ragged puffs as he feels you grinding yourself against his hand and hip. Your whimpers and whines are driving him wild, and he can't help but grow more dominant and possessive as he hears your pleas.
“You want me to overwhelm you, darling? You want me to make you beg and squirm and whimper for me? To make you forget your own name as I touch you?”
“Please Cregan… I’m begging you..”
He grins against your skin, his voice dark and possessive as he speaks.
“You're so needy, darling. So desperate for my touch. And you're begging me already?”
He nibbles at your neck, his teeth grazing against your skin as he continues speaking,
“Do you want me to touch you more, darling? To make you feel good? To make you feel so overwhelmed with pleasure that you can't think straight?”
“Yes! Yes Cregan.. please make me fall apart on your fingers.. please..”
He groans against your skin, your words and pleas driving him wild. His fingers continue to work over you, his touch firm and confident as he does his best to overwhelm you.
“You're begging for it so nicely, darling. You want me to make you fall apart on my fingers, don't you? You want me to tease and pleasure you until you can't think of anything but my touch?”
“Mhmm”
You bite your lip as you feel yourself throbbing as he stroked you. You reached to his hands and pushed further down, needing his fingers to focus on your entrance while his thumb strokes your clit.
He chuckled and bit your ear, his voice rough and hot against your skin.
“You're so impatient, darling. So desperate for more.”
“I’m so desperate for your touch Cregan. Give me more. You said for me to use you and that’s what I’m doing.”
You guide his fingers inside you. Resting your head against his chest as you breathe out a moan.
He groans into your ear as you guide his fingers inside, his breath ragged and heavy as he feels your heat around his digits. Your words and your touch are driving him wild, making him even more possessive and dominant as he speaks.
“That's right, darling. Use me. Take what you want from me. Let me make you feel good.”
“Gods Cregan..”
You clench around him from his words, he had this affect on you, he could make you soaked with just a stare.
He grins against your neck, his words coming out in a low, possessive growl as you clench around him.
“You're so wet for me, darling. So needy and desperate for me and my touch.”
He leans down and bites your shoulder, his teeth scraping against your skin as he continues working his fingers inside you.
“You're mine, darling. All mine. Every inch of you.”
“Please Cregan… faster.. I’m so close..”
You grabbed his face and forced his forehead against yours, staring into his eyes as you roll your hips against his hand.
He chuckles, his eyes locking onto yours as you force your foreheads together. You’re so close, he can feel it in the way you’re moving against him, in the way your breath is coming out in short, ragged pants. His fingers move faster inside you, his touch firm and deliberate.
“Cregan.. fuck..”
You moan out, your pussy pulsing as your eyebrows furrow and your mouth forming a large O, you were so so close, you just needed that extra push to reach your peak.
He can feel you pulse around him, your body trembling with the build up of pleasure as you get closer and closer to the edge. He can see the look of ecstasy on your face, your mouth open in that perfect little 'O' as your moan and whimper for him.
“Come for me, darling. Let go and come for me.”
He whispers into your ear, his fingers moving even more quickly as he tries to push you over the edge.
“Fuck.. fuck! My Lord, I’m cumming! Fuck.. Cregan!”
With one last shout of his name your back arches off him as your legs tremble and you basically scream a moan as you come, enjoying the wave of ecstasy wash over you as you clamp your legs shut on his hand and forced his mouth onto yours, containing your moans.
He grins and kisses you passionately, swallowing your moans and screams as you cum. He can feel your body trembling and shaking in his arms, your legs clenched around his hand as you ride out the waves of pleasure. He continues to press his fingers inside you, prolonging your orgasm as he whispers praises into your ear.
“That's my good girl. Let go and let me feel you come apart like that.”
He mumbles into your ear, his voice rough and possessive as he holds you against him.
“I love you so much dear husband. So so much. Cregan, you complete me.”
You manage to breathe out after your orgasm rattles your frame.
He smiles down at you, his expression full of affection and devotion as he holds you against him. Your words fill him with a sense of pride and joy, and he feels a deep sense of love and protectiveness for you.
“I love you too, darling. You're everything to me. My world would be empty without you in it.”
He kisses the top of your head and gently pulls you to his chest, holding you close as he continues to speak.
“You're my everything. My heart, my soul, my very essence.”
———————————————
Tag list: @thethreeeyed-raven @lost-in-fiction-like-ur-mom
#Cregan stark#creganstark#cregan stark x reader#cregan stark smut#Cregan stark hotd#hotd#house of the dragon fanfic#house of the dragon smut#house of the dragon#hotd smut#hotd x reader#got#got x reader#got smut#game of thrones#stark#Cregan
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SUMMARY: As an agent, secrecy is your second nature. After all, it binds your entire life together—going as far as your marriage with Jaemin. It shouldn’t be so hard to improvise, right? With your double life on the line, Foxglove just needs to keep her secrets… a secret. Even if it means pulling off the biggest lie of your life—except this time, without double-sized mercenaries, ticking bombs and high-security buildings to break into. GENRE: Romance, fluff, action, comedy, secret agent au, doctor!Jaemin WORD COUNT: 10k WARNINGS: Cursing, suggestive themes, depictions of violence NOTES: The second installment of my NCU series is finally here! My first Jaemin fic, inspired by Charlie’s Angels and Alex & Jason’s relationship. Please let me know what you think!! It’s gonna make my day!!
Agent Foxglove had spent the last two months tracking the key code’s location.
It’s the reason why you’re currently avoiding the spotlight at this pompous, extravagant fundraising gala at the most luxurious hotel of the city, where its elite is sipping champagne while idly promising million-dollar pledges to charity as if they’re not at fault for half of the country’s problems.
Barbara Lim is your focus tonight.
More specifically, the high-security key code in Barbara Lim’s possession.
As the head of a major hospital chain, she’s one of the very few women in the city with a firm grip on her business operations. Barbara is a powerhouse in a world full of men, leading the field with a long list of accolades to back her up. Still, beneath her polished, well-crafted exterior, lies something far more interesting—a direct connection to government-funded projects involving bioweapons and illegal medical experiments.
The mission is as cliché as it comes.
Since Barbara has full clearance to one of the most secure storage vaults in the city, all you have to do is to extract the right information out of her, then let the agency take over her unofficial operation before someone else beats to it.
At first, it seems easy enough.
It’s not the hardest mission you’ve had, and even if you’ve had to grit your teeth and fake-smile at a few filthy pick-up lines from men old enough to be your grandfather, at least you’re enjoying the expensive free booze and the silky, designer dress the agency had sorted just for the gala.
You spend the night watching from a distance, blending in effortlessly by mingling in between the socialites, making small talk as if you’d ever need plastic surgeries and high-society club invitations. Having scoped the security rotations, camera locations and possible exit points, all you need to do is wait.
As you sigh for the nth time of the night, Renjun mimics the action in your ear, sounding exasperated enough to tug an amused smile at your lips.
“If you’re that bored at a high-end party, imagine how I feel being locked up in here having to babysit you.”
The words make you laugh, your brain painting a perfect picture of your ever grumpy handler—part reluctant co-worker, part begrudging friend—hunched over the multiple monitors at the operations center.
“You’d get bored without me,” you tease quietly, still smiling as your eyes follow Barbara across the venue. “Remember when the agency switched seats and paired you with Donghyuck?”
“Please, don’t remind me,” Renjun groans, his dramatic eye-roll almost audible through the comms in your ears. “That was the worst experience of my life. I don’t know how Mark does it.”
Reaching for a flute of champagne from a tray nearby, you take a few steps to follow Barbara as a snort escapes from your mouth. “He doesn’t,” you deadpan, tone somehow still humorous. “Mark just panics while Haechan wings everything and somehow gets away with it.”
Ignoring Renjun’s sassy remarks about your peculiar co-worker, your attention is suddenly captured by Barbara and the young man she’s currently chatting with, a wide smile on her face as he acknowledges a pair of businessmen accompanying her.
Unaware of your sudden interest, Renjun continues his rant about Donghyuck in your ear. “Have I told you that he keeps asking why I pretend to not like him? As if I have to actually pretend—”
“Junnie,” you cut in, frowning at the scene of Barbara beaming at the guy, her laugh ringing loud enough it reaches over the music. “Can you identify the guy that’s talking to the target right now? The cute one in glasses?”
The handler scoffs at your unnecessary quip, the sound of his keyboard soon replacing his Haechan hate discourse.
A sound of surprise escapes from Renjun’s mouth, slowly skimming through the guy’s file. “Jaemin Na, head doctor at New Frontier Hospital,” he reads, a hint of surprise in his voice. “He’s the youngest surgeon in the Neurology Department. Apparently Barbara scouted him herself.”
You hum, eyes subconsciously narrowing at the doctor, still making small talk to his crowd. “What do you think?”
“Well… there’s nothing out of ordinary in his file,” Renjun starts, his initial skepticism fading while scrolling down the doctor’s medical and university records. “He’s got a pretty solid career, actually. Maybe that explains Lim scouting him?”
“Maybe she likes pretty boys,” you say, taking a sip of your champagne to mask a grin over the handler’s half-hearted annoyed grumble. “Keep digging for me, will you?”
As pretty as he looks, Jaemin Na definitely stands out in the crowd—but not in a way that you’d expect for a good-looking guy like him.
In a room full of people wearing fabricated masks for a show, the doctor seems to be the only one who looks discreetly, almost politely unimpressed by it all, even as the Barbara Lim bats her eyelashes at him.
Along with his boss, since Jaemin’s a good few decades younger than most attendees, it doesn’t take too long for you to notice other several lingering, enamoured eyes over him. The crisp, all-black tuxedo paired with the squared glasses does look heavenly good on him after all, an ironic contrast for a doctor.
Renjun is still listing the information on Jaemin’s file when you see it.
A faint, almost imperceptible glint of metal against the massive glass windows of the venue, just barely there before it vanishes into the dark again.
“Renjun,” you interrupt again, urgency now slipping through your voice despite the discreet whispering. “I don’t think we’re alone tonight.”
It takes a second before the handler’s voice finally comes through your earpiece, clearly confused. “What?”
“I think I saw something outside the venue,” you continue, casually walking closer towards your target, a chill creeping up your spine with each step. “Check the perimeter’s CCTV, please.”
You already know what you saw, but you need a confirmation in order to act upon it.
As your pulse quickens in anticipation, you instinctively follow the angle, calculating the possible shot with ease. In your ear, Renjun just confirms your suspicions—a sniper is set up just across the street from the venue, at a high vantage point, waiting for the right moment to strike.
The problem isn’t just that Barbara is the target, but also that Jaemin is standing directly in the line of fire too, unknowingly shielding the woman.
If there’s one thing you know about snipers, it’s that collateral damage means nothing as long as the job gets done.
The champagne flute is long forgotten as you weave through the crowd with smooth, practiced steps. Attentively watching the pair, your initial plan is discreet, carefully thought as to not raise any unnecessary eyebrows. Given you’re not the only one on the clock tonight, sending the gala into disarray is probably the least productive scenario for both of you.
The sniper doesn’t seem to share the same thought.
As soon as you spot the red dot flicker on Jaemin’s back for a millisecond, you can’t help breaking into a run, heart thumping against your throat.
Then—the shot’s fired.
Renjun is frantically calling your name through the comms, but the noise barely registers as you slam into Jaemin’s back, taking Barbara down with you. The three of you crash onto the polished floors just as the bullet cuts the air above. The venue immediately erupts into screams, the orchestra screeching to a halt as the guests fearfully surge towards the main entrance.
Barbara’s security guards are quick to act, spotting her fast enough to scout the woman away by disappearing into the swarm of panicked bodies.
Turning your focus back to Jaemin as you move over, you keep his body pinned to the floor as a second shot rings out, the marble column right behind you taking the hit.
“Stay the fuck down!”
The order sounds more like a hiss, Jaemin’s body tensing beside you, breath sharp as a deep frown settles between his eyebrows.
The mission’s already ruined.
Though Barbara is still very much alive, your chances of extracting any intel about the damn key codes out of the woman are clearly blown. After tonight, you know that her security detail will probably be tighter than ever—there’s no way you’ll get close to her again soon, as far as the agency’s influence can go.
“Foxglove,” Renjun calls loudly, the codename sounding foreign in his voice, yet laced with an unusual hint of worry. “You need to leave. Right now.”
“I know,” you mutter, eyes scanning the chaos for a quick second, gaze lingering over the building outside the cracked windows. “Do you have a location for the sniper?”
“That’s a problem for another time,” he snaps, his characteristic impatience slipping through a loud scoff. “The cops are coming, just fucking leave.”
Despite the chaos, your mind’s already running through contingency plans, not expecting an easy escape under both the police and Barbara’s security. Turning back to Jaemin one last time, his brown eyes are attentively observing you.
There’s something in the doctor’s gaze that surprises you—a hint of amazement? Confusion? Maybe annoyance, if the furrowed eyebrows are anything to go by?
Before pushing yourself off the floor, you shoot him a wink, biting back smile at the look on his face. “You should stay put, alright?”
Through the comms, Renjun exhales loudly, again leaving you to picture the handler rolling his eyes at your antics. “Are you seriously flirting with him? Are you purposefully trying to get caught or something?”
Taking advantage of the now empty back-of-house, you follow Renjun’s instructions through the quietest exit route. Given it’s an employee-only, no businessman or socialite would ever dare to set foot in that area, making it the perfect escape for you.
The clicking of your heels echo over the corridor, almost giving the moment an eerie vibe.
You don’t listen to his steps, nor feel his presence behind you before a hand suddenly reaches for your wrist.
“Hey—wait—”
Acting purely on instincts, you’re quick to whip around, effortlessly swinging your leg with a forceful kick against the attacker. It takes a second for Jaemin’s legs to be swept out from under him, the doctor crashing to the floor for a second time that night, except this time you realize your mistake a second too late.
A gasp immediately escapes from your lips as you meet the attacker’s eyes, only to find a certain doctor groaning on the floor. “Oh my God, Jaemin! I’m so sorry!”
Renjun groans in your ear, very much exasperated by another interruption. “What the—why are you talking to that guy again?”
Jaemin pushes himself up on his elbows, blinking at you with a hint of both disbelief and amazement. “You know my name,” he says, pausing for a second before huffing an incredulous laugh. “What the hell was that? You just… tackled me out of nowhere.”
Moving closer, you crouch down beside him with raised eyebrows, reaching out to fix the crooked glasses on his face. “Would you rather have been shot?”
A grin curls the doctor’s lips, his expression suddenly doing a complete 180 as he chuckles. “Wow, you’re really pretty.”
Ignoring the choking sound of your handler in the comms, you can’t help grinning at the guy, doing your best to mask your surprise. “Am I?”
“Yeah,” Jaemin hums, regarding you with attentive eyes as the grin on his face widens. “Also a little terrifying, but mostly pretty.”
Amused by his unexpected reaction, a laugh escapes before you can stop yourself. “You’re really funny, Jaemin,” you mutter, offering an apologetic wince as Renjun calls out again. “I have somewhere to be, though. Unless you want to end up in an interrogation, you should also—”
“No can do,” Jaemin counters, shaking his head with an easy, almost brattish chuckle. “You don’t get to save my life and then just disappear like that.”
You smirk, intrigued by his teasing despite the urgency of the moment. “Are you challenging me?”
The doctor only tilts his head, raising an eyebrow at you with a teasing glint to his eyes. “Am I?”
Before you can fire back, your handler’s voice cuts in again, his tone sharper than usual. “The police are outside!” Renjun snaps, frantically clicking away at his keyboard on the other side. “Just fucking leave, Foxglove! That’s an order!”
It’s rare for Renjun to outright bark orders at you, even as your handler. If he’s taken the exception of doing so tonight, then you know that he absolutely means it and you’re probably pushing your luck by staying a second longer. Still, despite every warning blaring inside your head, you just can’t bring yourself to leave Dr. Jaemin Na behind.
“I’m taking Jaemin with me!”
As you blurt the words, a second of silence lingers between the three of you for a moment before both Jaemin and Renjun break it in unison.
“What?”
“Oh, you want me to come with you?”
Their voices overlap in a comic contrast, one laced with a flicker of annoyance, the other with pure amusement. While Renjun sounds half-confused, half-aggravated, as if he can’t decide whether to yell at you, work with Donghyuck instead or start drafting a resignation letter, Jaemin just looks and sounds oddly entertained by your entire ordeal.
Taking the doctor with you is a reckless, dangerous decision—and if you’re completely honest with yourself, there’s really no need for Jaemin to actually run from the authorities or Barbara’s security guards.
Yet, something tells you that he has to.
So as you rise to your feet again, offering a hand to pull him up, a knowing smile takes over your face.
“Come on, pretty boy.”
As an agent of a private intelligence agency, being in high-risk situations is almost second nature to you by now.
A regular day on the job for you usually means slipping into new identities for undercover operations where Renjun is your only company, extraction missions that always seem ready to go sideways no matter how careful you are, and intel gathering in places where a wrong move can easily put a target on your back.
Yet, sitting across from Jaemin in his apartment, trying to skirt around a conversation about… whatever the both of you are, this particular situation somehow feels like one of the riskiest, most nerve-wrecking things you’ve ever done.��
The thing is, while you’re exceptionally skilled at deception, survival and strategy, talking about your feelings unsurprisingly isn’t your forte—an absolute contrast to the doctor who’s always been ridiculously open about his feelings and emotions about you, more often than not wearing his heart on his sleeve.
You don’t even realize the turn that the conversation’s taking until it’s too late.
One moment, you’re having dinner together. Taking advantage of a rare break in between your missions, you’d caved to Jaemin’s incredibly persuasive requests to spend the night at his place, watching him cook as he narrated every step of his five-star meal as if a host of a cooking show. Now, you’re sitting on his couch. Holding a glass of your favorite wine between your fingers, the air feels heavier than it was five minutes ago.
That is, before Jaemin asks the question that’s been lingering over you for months.
“So, are we doing this or not?”
As you take another sip of wine, only half-pretending not to understand the question, your silence stretches for a beat longer. “Are we doing… what?”
Jaemin instantly gives you a look, somehow caught between impatience and amusement. “You know exactly what,” he starts, eyes squinting in your direction. “You, me, and the very obvious relationship that you’ve been trying to skirt around like I’m one of your targets.”
A soft, almost too heart-felt scoff escapes from your mouth as you frown at his words. “I don’t treat you as one of my targets.”
“It’s not the end of the world, you know,” Jaemin continues, ignoring your little deflective quip with a knowing grin. “We’ve been fine so far and I’m serious about this. I’m really serious about us, Bunny, you know that.”
The nickname—a silly callback to the time the doctor had shown up at your place unannounced, only to find you fresh off a mission and still wearing a Playboy bunny costume—draws warmth to your cheeks, a reaction far too uncharacteristic for a seasoned agent like yourself.
Despite his sweet words, you can’t help the heavy sigh, setting the wine glass away before moving closer to Jaemin’s side. The doctor immediately makes room for you, humming in delight as you cup his face, seemingly ignoring the more serious touch that the conversation’s heading.
“My life is anything but normal,” you argue, tone as careful as the way your fingers brush against his cheeks, holding him gently. “Nothing about me is normal, Jaemin.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” he answers, pressing a kiss to your palm as his grin widens, eyebrows playfully wiggling at you. “My girlfriend is a badass secret agent.”
“Nana, please.” You sigh, rolling your eyes before purposefully squeezing his face for a second. “Are you listening to what I’m saying?”
Instead, Jaemin just chuckles, pulling away from your hold to wrap an arm around your shoulders. “Have I told you that I talk about you to my patients sometimes? They think I’m making you up.”
Caught off-guard by his sudden confession, your mouth parts in disbelief. “First of all, I am not your girlfriend,” you chide, pointing an accusatory finger at his chest. “Second, you should not be talking about me to your patients. Are you crazy?”
“About you,” he corrects smoothly, clearly enjoying himself despite your half-hearted outburst. “Don’t worry, I just tell them that I know someone who can take down five men in under a minute and still look good doing it.”
You sigh, struggling to hold back a smile.
“Jaemin—”
“What? They love it.”
“This is serious.”
Jaemin nods, the teasing edge of his voice suddenly softening for a bit.
“I know, Bunny.”
In the short time you’ve grown closer to each other, the doctor has grown awfully aware of the way you work. As someone who’s used to secrecy and half-truths in order to survive, vulnerability doesn’t come easily to you—it takes time, caution and safety. As annoying as it can be, this is Jaemin’s roundabout way of coaxing you into opening up.
“I don’t think you understand what being with me actually means, Jaem,” you say, your fingers now unconsciously tightening around the fabric of his shirt. “This isn’t some spy fantasy movie, it’s really dangerous for you. I know people who would really use you against me if they found out how much I—”
Jaemin raises an eyebrow at the sudden pause, immediately reaching for your face so his eyes meet yours. “How much you what?”
You look away, rolling your eyes. “It’s not relevant.”
With a teasing hum, he brushes a thumb against your cheek. “Hm, I think it is.”
A sigh escapes from your lips, a hint of mock annoyance flickering on your face. “Nana.”
Amused by your little act, Jaemin chuckles, leaning in just a bit closer with a smile. “I get it, baby. I know,” he answers, his voice carrying a touch of finality as if he’s made up his mind long ago. “I know it’s dangerous. I knew that when you saved me from getting shot by a sniper months ago.”
As you frown, your eyes immediately snap back to his again, though with a hint of uncertainty. “That’s not—”
“I didn’t finish,” he cuts in, furrowing his eyebrows despite the softness in his gaze. “You’ve trusted me with your life. Why wouldn’t I trust you with mine?”
At his words, your mind immediately flickers back to the particular night—one with a mission gone wrong and a knife slicing too close for comfort. Though you’d managed to escape mostly unscathed, the deep gash on your side not stopping you from finishing the job, somehow you’d still found yourself at Jaemin’s doorstep, bleeding through the layers of tactical gear and avoiding the agency’s questions and reports.
The doctor hadn’t asked for an explanation, not hesitating even for a second before ushering you into his apartment in apprehension and half-hearted frustration.
Jaemin had patched you up with the utmost care, cracking flirty lines here and there as a distraction to the pain despite his gentleness. As the rest of the night followed in a similar fashion, he’d simply waited until you were ready to talk. It was the first time you realized that maybe—just maybe—Jaemin was someone you could trust.
“I just… worry about you,” you admit, rolling your eyes at the tenderness in your voice, as if trying to downplay the weight of your words. “I don’t have the best track record when it comes to relationships, either.”
“Well, they weren’t me,” Jaemin counters, a smile on his face that looks both confident and reassuring. “Remember what I said? You don’t get to run away after saving my life.”
As your resistance falters, shifting into something fiery, a second realization strikes you.
Jaemin isn’t backing down.
It’s the first time in your chaotic, unruly life, that someone’s standing their ground—not just against you, but for you. The doctor’s stubbornness can rival your own sometimes, so it really shouldn’t surprise you that he isn’t one bit fazed by the danger of the complications of your relationship.
Maybe that’s why, despite every logical argument screaming at you to keep him at arm’s length, you still find yourself giving in.
A sigh escapes from your lips as you frown at him, his unwavering gaze growing triumphant. “If we’re really doing this, then you have to know that I won’t be your regular girlfriend. I lie to people for a living and I disappear for missions and—”
“That’s hot,” Jaemin cuts in, completely unfazed by your half-hearted exasperation with a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “What?”
“You’re impossible,” you mutter, shaking your head at the doctor before cradling his face in your hands again, a little more forcefully now. “Do you really want this? Are you sure?”
His grin stretches wider, eyes twinkling with mischief as he leans in just a little, as if sharing a secret. “You think I’d turn down the chance to date a literal action movie lead?”
You roll your eyes, but the faintest hint of amusement curls your lips. “You cannot tell your patients anything about dating a spy, Jaemin.”
Jaemin hums, pretending to be in deep thought for a second before shaking his head. “Now, that’s just boring.”
Before you can reprimand him, the doctor closes the small distance by pressing a firm, lingering kiss against your lips. Jaemin’s hands settle on your waist, tugging you closer until you’re smoothly swinging a leg over him, sitting on his lap as your arms close around his neck. As if sealing an unspoken agreement between you, he deepens the kiss, fingers tracing slow, soothing circles against your hips.
Pulling away despite his resistance, you rest your forehead against Jaemin’s, smirking against his lips. “Okay, Na Jaemin,” you exhale, a teasing touch to your voice. “You’ve got yourself a girlfriend, then.”
With a flicker of his fingers against your chin, the doctor just chuckles, ultimately shaking his head.
“You’ve always been mine, Bunny.”
Foxglove has faced armed, double-sized mercenaries, defused bombs under pressure, retrieved classified, critical intel, and more than once broke into high-security government agencies and buildings.
Yet, none of those… activities prepare you for the moment your father’s name suddenly flashes the phone’s screen on a random Thursday morning.
As the only daughter of two very devoted men, you’d most definitely grown up in a home built on love and unwavering support. Alan and Andrew truly raised you as their own—the first, as a professor that filled your young, but scarred world with knowledge and imagination, and the second, as a military lieutenant that built the strength and confidence you’d eventually channel to become an agent.
Though you’d never once questioned how deeply they cared for you, there’s still a few traces of your past that keep you from sharing everything with them—maybe exactly because of their love and support, you can’t help hesitating sometimes, trying your best to keep them from worries and disappointment.
You love both of your parents fiercely, and they sure love you just the same.
That’s exactly why you’re nothing but an ordinary civilian, just an accountant graduated with honors with a nine-to-five job, living in the city as a young, single woman.
To them, that is.
As the phone rings for the nth time, leaving you to stare at it like it’s counting to an explosion, your husband steps into the kitchen with a frown on his face, though it quickly shifts to a delighted one as soon as he reads Andrew’s name on the screen.
“Good morning, Bunny!” Jaemin greets, pressing a kiss to your cheek before walking past you, headed to the coffee machine with a knowing grin. “If you don’t pick up, he’ll keep calling.”
You sigh, picking up the phone from the counter and staring at it for a moment. “I know.”
The doctor gives you a pointed look and you finally swipe the screen to answer, subconsciously schooling both your expression and your voice as if your father would actually see you.
“Princess! We have great news!”
Andrew’s booming voice echoes through the kitchen of your apartment, warm and familiar despite your apprehension. Even through your stress, it still feels good to hear your father’s voice, the nickname—result of one of your childhood obsessions—tugging a smile at your lips.
“Hey, Dad,” you start, raising an eyebrow as you try to keep up with his cheerful tone, Jaemin watching you thoroughly entertained. “Oh, really? What kind of news?”
The line hustles for a moment until Alan suddenly chimes in with a curse, his usual dry amusement laced to a quick greeting before continuing. “The kind you’ll have to pretend to be excited about, darling.”
You can’t help frowning at his words, your unease growing tenfold over the ominous tone of his voice. “What do you mean I’ll have to pretend?”
With an excited laugh, Andrew seemingly beams through the line. “We’re visiting you next week!”
Jaemin immediately chokes with a sip of his decaf.
An internal nuclear meltdown explodes in your head.
“You’re… visiting?” you croak, clearing your throat in a poor attempt to mask your surprise, heart hammering against your chest. “Why?”
“Why are we visiting? Alan, did you hear that?” Andrew chides, sounding nothing but disgruntled at your lacking reaction. “Do I need a reason to visit my daughter? A daughter that I haven’t seen in way too long because her job keeps her hopping from city to city?”
It feels like you’ve forgotten how to function for a moment, staring at Jaemin with alarms blaring in your head post the meltdown.
Andrew and Alan are visiting their daughter, one that they haven’t seen in way too long because of her very high-demand, all-over-the-place job—visiting their daughter who they think works as an accountant, living a very normal, stable life, having absolutely no idea that she’s married to a whole beefy, health freak husband while occasionally beating people up at night for her actual job.
As you swallow, scrambling for a response, the doctor just grins at your predicament. “No, you don’t need a reason, Dad,” you answer, wincing at how artificial the words sound. “It’s just really short notice, I thought you guys were coming in the summer.”
“That was the original plan, princess,” Alan explains, sighing apologetically on the other side. “I was asked to take over a summer course at the university, though. We’re really sorry about springing this on you.”
“We’re just a couple of dads checking in on your favorite daughter!” Andrew beams, the smile on his face almost visible through his voice. “We’ll be there for a week, so clear your schedule for us, alright? I can’t wait to see what your life is like!”
Yeah, the life you’ve been lying about for years.
A highly classified, off-the-books life that involves facing armed, double-sized mercenaries, defusing bombs under pressure, retrieving classified, critical intel, and breaking into high-security government agencies and buildings.
Also, the life that got you a man you’ve been married to for nearly three years now.
As you force something vaguely human-sounding as a reaction, Alan confirms their travel details with tidbits of small talk before excusing himself in a sudden rush, seemingly having lost the track of time to leave for work.
About to end the call, Andrew calls out your name for the first time in the entire conversation. “I’m really excited to see you, princess.”
Though it’s a little choked from both distress and fondness, you can’t help smiling at his words. “Me too, Dad.”
The moment you put the phone down, slumping against the kitchen’s counter, Jaemin’s grin grows wider. If the doctor didn’t look like he was having the time of his life listening to the call, maybe you’d actually worry about his feelings over being a well-kept secret.
Approaching you, Jaemin steps closer and wraps an arm around your waist to pull you up. “This is fun,” he starts, pursing his lips to muffle a short laugh at your expression. “It’s not the end of the world, Bunny.”
The familiar words make you groan, forehead falling against his shoulder dramatically. “No, it’s worse than that.”
Jaemin rubs a slow, soothing hand up and down your back, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “You could just tell them the truth, princess.”
“Yeah, only if you want me to give both of them a heart attack,” you retort, a scoff following as you look up to shoot him a sharp, pointed glance. “Also, I am not a princess. Erase that from your memory right now.”
As he chuckles at the cute, sour frown on your face, Jaemin teases you by pinching your nose. “Don’t be like that, baby.”
You swat his hand away with a huff, crossing your arms as you lean back slightly. “This is really bad, Jaemin.”
“I mean, it’s not that bad,” he muses, brushing his fingers against your cheek with a nonchalant shrug. “It’s just your parents.”
“It is that bad,” you snap, an incredulous laugh escaping from your lips. “My parents don’t even know I’m married. Is that not bad enough for you?”
The doctor pauses for a moment, a glimmer of mischief still lingering in his eyes as he hums thoughtfully, hands now resting on your waist with his fingers tracing lazy patterns against the bare skin peeking through your sleepwear.
“Alright, let’s assess your situation,” he says, seemingly deep in thought despite the playful touch in his voice. “You told your parents you’re an accountant. They think you have a normal life. They’re coming to visit for a week, and in that time, you have to pretend to be a very boring office worker and somehow explain why your very sexy husband exists.”
“Don’t summarize it like that,” you groan, closing your eyes with a deep sigh. “It makes me feel worse about lying.”
He chuckles, raising an eyebrow at you. “What’s the worst thing they could ask for?”
You shrug, frowning at the unexpected question. “I don’t know, seeing where I work, maybe?”
As his lips twitch for a second before curling into a grin, Jaemin shoots you a pointed look. “So, you’ll need a fake office.”
A sound that resembles a snarl escapes from your lips, gaze hardening at the amusement on the doctor’s face. “Jaemin.”
“Bunny,” he mimics, eyes narrowing at you with a pout playing on his lips. “Think about it. If you’re an accountant, you need a boring office. We’ll throw some fake papers around, make a business card with your name on it—”
You scoff, begrudgingly amused by his proposal. “I think being in a relationship with a secret agent is getting to your head, baby.”
Jaemin just continues his spiel, shaking his head at your words. “—and Renjun can be your secretary—”
“Now that’s the craziest thing you’ve said so far,” you joke, chuckling at the thought of your fiery handler as a regular, ordinary office worker. “Renjun would rather babysit Haechan for a month than do anything clerical. Why do you think I’m always the one filling the reports?”
As if he’s trying to jolt you into agreement, the doctor playfully tickles your sides, snickering as you push him away with a punch to his chest. “Well, I think it’s a brilliant plan.”
Honestly, if you really think about it—it’s not that much of a bad idea.
Out of all the things you’ve done in your life, building a fake office to fool your parents definitely wouldn’t be the craziest point on the list.
All it would take is a call to the agency, cashing in a few favors here and there from Haechan and maybe Jeno. The agency’s got so many front businesses across the city, at least one of them ought to have an office to be borrowed for a day. Though Renjun would definitely laugh at your face for even considering dragging him into… whatever this should be, Mark is gullible enough to possibly play a fake co-worker, if needed.
It’s not exactly a brilliant plan, but… it’s a possible one.
Something must shift on your face as your brain plays out the situation, mostly out of habit than actual intent. Jaemin immediately clocks the change, unbothered and completely entertained by your reaction.
He watches you with a flash of amusement in his eyes. “You’re actually gonna do it, aren’t you?”
“No, I just… considered it for a second,” you retort, rolling your eyes before pulling away from him with a step back. “This is your fault!”
As Jaemin feigns a frown, his bottom lip jutting out in a dramatic pout, his voice drops to a grouchy tone. “What? How is it my fault?”
“You put the idea in my head,” you accuse, poking his chest with a glare that lacks any real bite, especially as your hand traces over the fabric of his tank-top right after. “You know that I’m crazy enough to agree with whatever you say.”
The doctor grins at the admission, pulling you into his arms again with a hum of delight. “Is that so?” Jaemin teases, dipping his head to press a featherlight kiss to your neck. “Isn’t that your own fault, Bunny?”
You scoff, fingers instinctively tangling in his hair, giving it a light tug. “Sometimes I really want to punch your pretty face, Jaemin.”
“Hm, that’s not what you said last night,” he mumbles against your skin, his smile evident in the lazy kiss to your collarbone. “Plotting a fake office visit and a background story for your husband. Iconic behavior from my Bunny, honestly.”
You roll your eyes, though the corner of your mouth twitches upward. “It would be fun, actually.”
Jaemin lifts his head, eyes sparkling with a familiar mix of mischief and pure affection. “Say the word and I’m in,” he says, knowingly winking at you. “We can make a whole operation out of it. Operation Accountant Bunny. Renjun can supervise.”
You laugh despite yourself, offering him a half-hearted warning glance. “Nana.”
His grin widens. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
You raise a teasing eyebrow in his direction. “I thought that was me.”
Without missing a beat, Jaemin playfully amends himself. “The second best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
As you roll your eyes at his little quip, the faint smile tugging at your lips betrays you. With a quiet sigh, you just let yourself lean further into him, the weight of the situation momentarily forgotten as his embrace tightens around your frame.
Your eyes are closed in both dread and confort as the question slips.
“Ready to meet my parents?”
Jaemin is more than ready to meet your parents.
As you sit stiffly in the passenger seat of his car, watching him sing along to whatever song currently playing on the radio, there’s no doubt in your head that your husband is thoroughly ready to meet your parents, even if you’re discreetly, controllably panicking inside.
While Jaemin effortlessly looks like the perfect picture of a trophy-husband—the simple glasses and white button-up combo working wonders for him—you’re looking the part of your fake life. In your best accountant professional outfit, the black dress is passable enough as long as no one notices the few faint bloodstains the washing machine couldn’t get rid of.
It doesn’t take long until he’s parking outside the restaurant, though you make no move to unbuckle your seatbelt just yet. Instead, you stare out the window for a moment, trying to catch any glimpse of either your parents inside the posh restaurant.
Beside you, Jaemin watches your obvious stalling with an amused smirk, his laid-back demeanor ridiculously contrasting against your own.
Turning to him, you offer the doctor an eye-roll. “You’re enjoying this.”
Jaemin frowns, feigning innocence with a half-hearted pout. “Enjoying what?”
As you narrow your eyes, the smile on his face quickly returns. “The impending disaster that’s about to happen.”
“You’re so dramatic, Bunny,” he coos, a hand reaching over to pinch your cheek with infuriating fondness. “A week ago I was patching you up from a street fight. Having dinner with your parents isn’t that big of a deal, is it?”
You glare at him, resisting to melt against his touch by pulling away slightly. “I hate you.”
Jaemin clicks his tongue, tilting his head at you with an arched eyebrow. “When did you get so mouthy?”
With a scoff, you flash him an unbothered smile, way too sweet for the bite of your tone. “Don’t act like you don’t like it.”
The corner of his lips betrays a smirk before he leans closer, voice immediately dropping to something softer, a touch taunting. “If anyone can handle chaos, it’s you,” Jaemin starts, shooting you a playful wink. “We’ve got this. I’m a great husband and your parents adore you, it’s going to be fine.”
Taking another look outside, you exhale an exasperated sigh. The place looks nothing but extravagant with its polished floors and dim lighting, leaving you to silently pray that the news of your two-year marriage won’t send your parents into a meltdown—especially not in front of the high-end crowd.
Inside, your parents are already seated, their contrasting personalities on full display.
Andrew practically leaps from his seat the moment he spots you, his grin stretching from ear to ear. Meanwhile, Alan just looks as if he’s about to judge one of his student’s presentations, barely acknowledging your entrance with his sharp gaze locked onto Jaemin instead.
The lieutenant is the one to reach out first, pulling you into a tight hug that lifts you slightly off your feet. “There’s my princess!” Andrew beams, giving you a firm squeeze before setting you back down. “I was starting to think you bailed on us!”
Behind you, Jaemin chuckles.
Just like that, you’re not the focus anymore.
Andrew’s eyes are quick to shift towards the doctor, his grin faltering for a second before he sizes Jaemin up with an exaggerated squint. Alan leans back in his chair, adjusting his glasses with a frown—not exactly hostile, but definitely the kind that can probably make his students second-guess themselves.
“Princess,” the lieutenant starts, offering you a side-eye as a sly smile grows on his face. “Who’s this?”
Flashing an award-winning worthy smile, your husband holds out a hand, smoothly stepping into the sudden tension. “Na Jaemin,” he introduces himself, taking your father’s hand with a gentle hold. “It’s nice to finally meet Bunny’s parents.”
Alan, still frowning, narrows his eyes at the nickname. “Bunny?”
“Are you a co-worker?” Andrew asks, his curious gaze flickering from Jaemin to you in visible excitement. “Are we finally meeting your friends?”
As Jaemin places a hand on your lower back, just slightly pulling you closer against his side, the words slip as casually as the grin that grows on his face. “Oh no, I’m her husband.”
Silence.
You watch as your parents’ brain short-circuits, nothing but shock on their faces.
Alan recovers first, clearing his throat as he moves forward on his seat. “I’m sorry—your what?”
“Husband,” the doctor repeats cheerfully, still grinning as he politely holds his hand out again, your father promptly taking it despite the sudden blow. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
Andrew blinks at you slowly, seemingly still processing the information. “You’re married.”
You wince. “Yeah.”
The lieutenant’s face crumbles into something melodramatic. “Since when?!”
You glance at Jaemin, then back at them. “Two years?”
Andrew makes a choking noise. “How long have you known each other?”
Offering a guilty smile, you shrug. “Two years and a half?”
As he clutches his chest like you’ve wounded him, Andrew slumps dramatically into his chair. “I need to sit down.”
“You are sitting,” Alan points out dryly, watching his husband in a mix of exasperation and amusement before waving a hand at you, offering a wary glance to Jaemin. “Both of you. Sit. Explain yourselves.”
A single peek at the doctor’s face tells you everything—as Jaemin moves to pull out your chair like the perfect gentleman he is, you can practically see the amusement dancing in his eyes, thoroughly enjoying your parents’ dramatic reaction. Under their watchful scrutiny, he’s quick to take a seat beside you, a hand resting lightly on your knee under the table as a quiet, secret reassurance.
“So,” Alan starts, adjusting his glasses as if about to start teaching one of his classes. “Let’s start with the basics. How did you two meet?”
Jaemin leans back, draping an arm over the back of your chair like he’s settling in for a fun story, a grin stretching on his face again. “Oh, it’s a great one—”
You shoot him a warning look. “Nana—”
“You see, it all started with a little breaking and entering—”
Your eyes widen in horror as you whip your head toward him. “Jaemin!”
Andrew immediately chokes on his water, coughing violently as he pats his chest. Alan just stares unimpressed like he’s trying to decide whether he’s hearing things or if his daughter has truly lost her mind.
“I’m kidding, by the way,” Jaemin says easily, chuckling as his voice drops a tone. “Mostly.”
You groan, shooting him a sharp look before turning back to your parents again. “It was not breaking and entering,” you intervene, exasperation lacing your tone. “We met at a work gala. The company I work for manages the hospital’s finances.”
Andrew narrows his eyes, still looking very much suspicious. “Hospital?”
“I’m a doctor,” your husband explains, the revelation immediately softening the hard edges of your parents’ expressions. “I work at New Frontier’s Neurology Department as a surgeon.”
Alan raises an eyebrow, visibly impressed. “That’s… nice.”
“How about the fact that you’ve been married for two years and we’re just finding out?” Andrew asks, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “What happened to letting your parents know what’s going on in your life, princess?”
“It just kind of happened,” you counter, digging at the corners of your brain for any passable excuses. “We weren’t really planning, but Jaemin asked and so I just…”
“That was my fault,” Jaemin continues, raising a hand to his chest with a half-hearted guilty chuckle. “I admit that I dropped it on her out of nowhere. I was lucky she said yes, actually.”
A beat of silence takes over the table for a second, only for Alan to chime in with a deep, resigned sigh, drawing all eyes to him. “Honestly, we should’ve known this was a possibility when you said you’d rather become a witch than having a wedding party at ten years-old.”
Momentarily stunned, you blink at your father before a laugh of disbelief escapes from your lips. “Dad!”
Andrew immediately lights up in sudden realization. “At Minsu and Anne’s wedding! You threw a whole tantrum over the flower girl dress!” He laughs, shaking his head at you. “For a little girl that loved princesses, you sure knew how to compartmentalize those stories.”
Well, turns out that’s a skill you can still master even as an adult.
Judging by the amused look Jaemin throws your way, he’s probably thinking the exact same thing.
“So, do we have any pictures of… whatever you guys did?”
Alan’s question snaps both of you out of your reverie, Jaemin’s face immediately lighting up as he fishes for his phone, soon scrolling through his gallery for the few pictures of your whirlwind elopement, witnessed by a grumpy but touched Renjun, a confused and slightly shocked Mark and Haechan, who mostly only attended for the free dinner you’d promised to the very short-list of guests.
As the night carries on, a strangely comfortable rhythm settles over the table during dinner, the initial shock of your revelation replaced by childhood stories and laughter with Jaemin unsurprisingly winning both of your parents over his charm and witty answers.
While the lieutenant repeatedly remarks how well-matched you two are, noting every little thing Jaemin does for you, the professor stays on a quieter note, though just as taken by your husband’s knowledge—even if offering a little sarcastic quip every now and then, Jaemin taking in stride despite your protests.
Whenever you catch his eyes, a mix of pride and mischief flashes across Jaemin’s face, as though he knows exactly what’s going on in your mind.
A few hours later, as you step into the cool night air to bid your parents goodbye with warm hugs and promises of an upcoming brunch, you feel like you can breathe properly, the weight of one of your secrets finally off your shoulders.
At home, you’re quick to toe off your heels with a relieved sigh, rolling your shoulders to shake off the tension as Jaemin locks the door behind you, tossing his jacket onto the couch.
“I told you, Bunny,” he starts, flopping down to the cushions with his arms stretched over the backrest waiting for you to join. “Told you it’d be fine. They loved me.”
A huff escapes from your lips as you settle beside him, head falling against his shoulder. “Sure, keep telling yourself that,” you mumble, closing your eyes for a moment as exhaustion settles. “We’re never doing this again, by the way.”
“What do you mean?” Jaemin scoffs, mocking a frown despite the playful glint in his eyes. “It was fun, I had a great time.”
“You were interrogated, Jaemin,” you deadpan, lifting your head just enough to shoot him a half-hearted glare. “Is being married to a spy seriously affecting you this much?”
“They were lovely,” he counters, a grin soon growing on his face. “I completely charmed them.”
“You shocked them,” you correct, sighing quietly. “I still can’t believe how well this entire thing went.”
Jaemin hums, his gaze flickering through your face for a second, eyes sharp despite his easygoing tone. “What’s that look on your face, hm?” he asks, nudging you lightly. “Don’t think I didn’t notice how quiet you were on the ride back.”
You exhale, fingers playing idly with the buttons of his shirt. “Have you ever felt bad?”
Jaemin tilts his head, confusion flickering across his features. “About what?”
“I keep you separate from a lot of my life,” you admit, voice dropping to a quieter note. “I don’t really talk about you to people. My own parents didn’t know about us for almost three years.”
He blinks at you, a chuckle escaping from his lips with a touch of obviousness. “You keep me safe.”
“I know!” you sigh, nodding as one of your hands reaches to cup his cheek. “I know, but… it’s not fair to you, I guess.”
The doctor leans into your touch, eyebrows furrowing slightly. “I don’t need people to know about us, Bunny,” he says, shaking his head softly. “I just need you. Do you need me?”
You nod again, heart clenching at his words as your lips threaten a smile. “Yeah.”
“Then you have me,” Jaemin answers, a mischievous grin suddenly taking over his face before pulling you closer, pressing an exaggerated kiss to your cheek. “I’m not letting you back out of this, remember?”
As you roll your eyes, you surrender to his antics with a groan. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“You know, if you really feel bad about keeping me a secret, you could always start posting me on your social media,” he jokes, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Maybe an appreciation post? I have a lot of husband pictures, if you want.”
“I don’t have social media,” you note, your blank expression soon shifting to a teasing one as you raise an eyebrow at him. “Besides, I wouldn’t want people actually knowing how sexy my husband is.”
“Right,” he says, playfully nodding in agreement. “Let’s keep my insane levels of attractiveness classified.”
You scoff.
“You’re insufferable.”
Jaemin grins.
“You married me.”
Right.
So you can’t resist pulling him closer, fingers curling around the collar of his shirt as your lips finally meet his for the first time that night. The kiss slowly grows deeper as his arms wrap around your waist, though you’re quick to pull back before Jaemin tugs you to his lap, a peeved frown settling on his face at the sudden interruption.
“Why’d we stop?”
The look on your face only adds to the answer.
“You deserve more than our couch tonight.”
The first thing you notice once stepping out of the elevator is your apartment’s door slightly ajar.
To anybody else, it would probably look like a slip of your mind when leaving, but Foxglove knows better. You’d only been gone for an hour—just a quick trip to the market to pick up fresh fruits upon Jaemin’s insistence of eating healthy and giving your parents a deserved in-law hospitality experience.
Thoroughly used to your modus operandi, especially being the main focus of your safety measures himself, Jaemin also knows better than overlooking such a small detail.
The hallway is too quiet.
Inside, you can barely hear low voices.
Moving without hesitation, you drop the grocery bags at the doorstep, quietly pushing it open just enough to slip inside with featherlike steps.
It takes a second for you to take in the scene of your living room. Jaemin’s sitting on the couch, wrists bound by a pair of handcuffs on his lap. Looking entirely too relaxed for someone in a hostage situation, there’s a subtle shadow of arrogance on his features as he glares at the intruders. Across from him, your parents sit in a similar fashion, except their wide-eyes are barely concealing their panic over the three black-suited men watching them.
As one of the men steps forward, carelessly tossing a folder at Jaemin’s face, you can’t help the quiet, dangerous anger from simmering in your chest. The man takes a seat on the table across from your husband, exuding a kind of arrogance that makes your blood boil as he glares at Jaemin.
“We have reason to believe you’re operating under a false identity, Dr. Na.”
Jaemin just laughs.
Sounding nothing but amused, his lips curl into something dangerously close to mockery, sharp eyes meeting the man’s gaze in nothing but unbothered defiance.
“You’re even dumber than I thought,” he starts, a scoff escaping from his lips. “Not only did you break into an agent’s home, but you also think I’m the spy?”
It takes a second for you to move into the living room, stepping behind the men and hooking an arm around the shortest’s neck, yanking him backward in a chokehold. He doesn’t even get a chance to react before you’re slamming him into the shelves, Jaemin’s books falling to the floor with the impact.
The second man reaches for his gun, not fast enough as you reach for his arm with a twist, disarming him in a quick move. The gun clatters against the hardwood, a kick from you sending it underneath the couch.
The last man—the one who had been questioning Jaemin—freezes as you turn to him.
Alan and Andrew are gaping.
Jaemin, on the other hand, looks nothing but delighted.
The man suddenly lifts his hands, unmoving as you step beside him. “Wait—”
A single punch sends him to the floor with a thud.
You wince, shaking your hand as the impact spreads through the fingers. “Ouch.”
Jaemin lets out a low whistle, grinning at the scene as if you just didn’t destroy half of your home. “Yeah, remind me to never piss you off.”
As his wide eyes flicker back and forth between you and the half-awake man by your feet, Alan snaps out of his daze first. “What the hell just happened?”
Andrew just blinks at your husband, still lounging comfortably on the couch as if this is a regular week day for him. “Did I just watch my daughter just throw a man against her bookshelf?!”
“Oh, yeah,” Jaemin answers, nodding enthusiastically with a chuckle. “Wasn’t it amazing? I do think she went easy on them, though.”
“I’ll explain everything in a bit,” you say, throwing a quick, apologetic glance at your bewildered parents. “I just need to finish this before calling Renjun.”
Alan raises an eyebrow at the new name. “Renjun?”
As he hums casually, Jaemin nods as if they’re having an ordinary brunch conversation. “That’s her handler.”
Ignoring them, you step over the man still groaning on the floor, grabbing the front of his shirt before yanking him up to eye-level to meet your gaze. Tilting your head as you study the man in front of you for a second, your voice drops to an alarmingly calm, too relaxed tone.
“Talk.”
The man’s jaw tightens, his silence stretching.
You lean closer, the words shifting into something razor-sharp now. “Are we doing this the hard way?”
His defiance cracks a little, a flash of doubt crossing his face.
Behind you, an amused snort escapes from Jaemin’s mouth. “I’d answer if I were you. My Bunny’s not exactly known for her patience.”
The man swallows nervously. “We thought he was the agent.”
“Are you telling me that you broke into my home and threatened my husband because you thought he was the agent?” you ask slowly, unimpressed. “My husband, who just happens to be one of the top surgeons in the city, an agent?”
The doctor lets out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Damn, Bunny,” he starts, a grin tugging at his lips. “You’re the one with a double life, and I’m the one accused of being a secret agent first? That’s crazy.”
“You’re a government operative, aren’t you?” you press further, not resisting an eye-roll upon the man’s stiff, short nod. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
The second punch sends the man into dreamland.
In no time, your practiced efficiency kicks in and Foxglove’s quick on securing the intruders—zip ties, a few well-placed kicks to keep them in line, clean and controlled. As you finish binding the last one, Renjun’s already on speed dial.
“Junnie!” you greet, keeping it as light-hearted as you can so it doesn’t piss him off. “What if I tell you that three idiots just broke into my apartment thinking Jaemin was an agent?”
The line stays silent for a second before Renjun sighs exasperatedly. “Are you for real?”
“Unfortunately,” you reply, glancing at the men scattered over the floor of your living room. “Can you send a team, please?”
“ETA’s around ten minutes,” he announces, his tone then shifting into something more focused, a touch softer. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah,” you reassure, sparing a glance at Jaemin, who gives you an easy grin and a nod from the couch. “We handled it.”
Renjun exhales sharply, almost relieved if you trick yourself into it. “Call me as soon as they’re done with the clean-up.”
As the call disconnects, you finally turn to your husband, relief settling deep in your bones. You sit beside him on the couch, working the handcuffs off his wrists with one of your tricks. The moment it clicks open, Jaemin rolls his shoulders, twisting his wrists with a small wince.
Before he can say anything, you take his face into your hands, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones as you press a lingering kiss to his lips.
“Hi.”
Jaemin grins, his voice sounding nothing but warm. “Hey.”
You sigh, hands sliding from his shoulders down to his chest. “Are you okay?”
“I’m peachy,” he assures, lips curling into a grin before taking one of your hands into his own, pressing a kiss to its back. “You look the prettiest beating people up. Also, your chapstick tastes like bubblegum.”
Though the tension in your chest is still to ease up, you can’t resist a chuckle at his unwavering behavior. “You really scared me, Jaemin.”
The doctor shakes his head, leaning forward to brush a kiss to your cheek. “You got here before they could do anything. I knew you would.”
The adrenaline’s still running through your body as you take a deep breath, moving on to help your parents. Before you untie them, you meet Jaemin’s eyes for a second, a quiet reassurance passing between you before you muster the courage to address the shocked silence in the room.
“I don’t work in accounting.”
“My God,” Alan starts, blinking at his husband in disbelief. “We raised a secret agent, Andrew.”
Andrew frowns, visibly trying to process everything. “A secret agent?” he asks, giving a short pause before a surprised sound escapes from his mouth, eyes wide towards you. “Holy shit, princess, do you kill people?”
Jaemin perks up, raising an eyebrow at your father. “Oh, that’s a good question.”
Andrew turns to him, eyes wide as he pieces the details together. “Jaemin! Did you know?”
Your husband shrugs, nonchalant as always despite the grin on his face. “The breaking and entering thing wasn’t entirely a lie,” he admits, sounding remarkably relaxed. “Bunny actually saved me from getting shot by a sniper.”
You turn to him, ready to scold him for the unnecessary details of your unusual first meeting. “Nana.”
As he winces, Jaemin offers a half-hearted guilty smile. “Sorry.”
While your parents process the second shock of their week, you move closer to finally untie them. “I need to get you two somewhere safe, okay?” you explain, making quick work of the zip-ties around their wrists with an apologetic glance. “There’s no time to explain all the details now, but I promise to tell you guys everything soon.”
Something in your expression gives you away—whether it’s the lingering tension in your shoulders or the tip of apprehension in your eyes—because the moment they’re free, both Andrew and Alan lean forward without hesitation, wrapping you in a firm, reassuring embrace.
For a second, you freeze.
Caught off guard by their warmth, you hadn’t quite realized how much you were bracing for their disappointment, or anything other than the soft, quiet understanding that settles over you now.
“We’ll talk later, princess,” the professor starts, squeezing your shoulders encouragingly with a nod. “Don’t worry, alright? You’re still our daughter, no matter what.”
“A secret agent,” Andrew mutters, shaking his head between pride and exasperation, an amused sigh leaving his mouth. “Jesus, you could’ve warned us before dropping that bomb.”
You exhale a laugh, a relieved breath escaping from your lips as you hug them back. “I know.”
Jaemin sighs fondly, watching the scene with soft eyes. “Man, I should’ve recorded this.”
Taking in the chaos as you step back—the bound intruders, the wrecked bookshelf, the lingering stress in your veins—you know that the day’s far from over. There’s a mess to clean up, questions to be answered and reports to be written, a lifetime of explaining to do.
Still, if there’s one thing you know for certain is that everything’s going to be fine now.
The smile on your husband’s face is enough proof of that.
The new apartment still smells faintly of fresh paint and cardboard, the last few moving boxes scattered across the hardwood floor.
It had taken you longer than expected to make the move—between your missions, Jaemin’s shifts at the hospital and the aftermath of your parents’ visit, life flew by a whirlwind in the following months.
Now, being in a new place means a fresh start with a lot of more space, brand new safety measures at every corner and plenty of room for Luna, Lucy and Luke, the latest additions to yours and Jaemin’s chaotic daily routine.
As you stack the last box of Jaemin’s books into the shelves, the sound of his voice easily echoes through the half-empty living room.
“Bunny?”
Turning around, out of all things you’d expect your husband to be currently doing, finding him kneeling on the floor with a small, pink velvet box in hands would definitely be the last on your list.
“What the f—”
“Wow, Bunny!” he cuts in, grinning as he shoots you a look. “Language!”
Noticing the ring sitting inside the little box, your breath immediately hitches. “Jaemin, what on Earth are you doing?”
“Well,” Jaemin starts, huffing a small laugh that almost sounds uncharacteristically nervous. “I just figured it’s time for us to do this properly.”
You blink, still caught between shock and disbelief despite your amusement. “Do what properly?”
“I know we’re already married but with everything that’s happened, I thought we could do this one more time,” he says, looking up at you with playful sincerity, a touch teasing. “You still wanna stay married to me?”
A laugh escapes from your lips, a mix of exasperation and affection as you take a step closer, taking his face in your hands with a fond smile. “You’re ridiculous.”
The doctor grins. “You love me.”
The words are barely a whisper against his mouth as you nod, chuckling at the way his grin widens. “Yes, Nana,” you murmur, fisting his jacket before hastily pulling him up. “I still want to stay married to you.”
As he stands up, slipping the second ring on your finger, Jaemin’s quick to press an eager kiss to your lips, expertly hoisting you up in his arms despite your protests.
“Are you sure you’re not backing out of this?”
The answer is easy.
“Never.”
. ˚。 MASTERLIST . ˚。
#na jaemin#jaemin#na jaemin x reader#jaemin x reader#nct fic#nct dream fic#na jaemin fic#jaemin fic#nct fanfic#nct dream fanfic#neocitylights
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𝙳𝚛𝚎𝚠 “𝙸’𝚖 𝙷𝚘𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚍” 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚢


𝚂𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: 𝚈𝚘𝚞’𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝙳𝚛𝚎𝚠 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚢’𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚔𝚢𝚛𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚀𝚞𝚎𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚎. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚊 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚞𝚙𝚘𝚗 𝚃𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝙳𝚛𝚎𝚠 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍, 𝚞𝚗𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚞𝚗 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚢𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍.
𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: 𝚜𝚖𝚞𝚝 (𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚢, 𝚍𝚘𝚐𝚐𝚢, 𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐)
𝙰/𝚗- 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎. 𝙸 𝚛𝚎𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚞𝚣𝚣𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚘 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗. 𝙿𝚕𝚞𝚜 𝙸 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜! 💗
𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍
It was late in the evening, the golden glow of the sunset fading into the soft twilight spilling through the window. You sat cross-legged on your shared bed, phone clutched in your hand, grinning like a fool. Drew had been away for a few days, caught up in press junkets and interviews for Queer, the film that had just solidified his status as a powerhouse actor. It was all anyone could talk about, and you couldn’t help but revel in it.
For the last three years, you had been Drew’s partner in every sense of the word—his anchor, his confidant, and his biggest cheerleader. And now, seeing the world finally recognize what you’d known all along, you felt a swelling pride that had butterflies stirring in your stomach. It was intoxicating.
You had spent hours scrolling through Instagram, TikTok, Twitter—hell, you even Googled him to read every article, fan comment, and review. Some may think it’s obsessive. No. It was love. And joy. And pride.
Then, a curious link to Tumblr caught your eye. Clicking it, you discovered a treasure trove of fanfiction. Some of it was about his Outer Banks character, Rafe, but most of what you found centered on him. The words were vivid, raw, and dripping with the kind of unfiltered adoration you felt but never could articulate.
You devoured the stories, one after another. Heat crept up your neck as the authors painted vivid, intimate pictures of Drew—or Rafe. Hours later, your phone’s low-battery warning flashed. You didn’t even care.
It wasn’t until Drew’s voice broke through your concentration that you realized he was home.
“Hey, babe,” he called, stepping into the room. He looked every bit of a movie star—broad-shouldered, a perfect mix of rugged charm and boyish mischief in his eyes. You hadn’t even noticed the sound of the front door earlier.
Startled, you straightened up, quickly adjusting to sit with your back against the headboard. “You’re home early,” you said, your cheeks flushed.
“Caught you off guard?” he teased, stepping closer. “I missed you. What are you doing?”
You patted the space next to you. “Come here. You need to see this.”
Curious, Drew sat beside you, his thigh brushing against yours. “What is it?”
You handed him your phone, biting your lip as he started to read the story you’d just finished. His eyebrows lifted in surprise, and then a slow, amused chuckle escaped his lips. He ran his thumb and pointer finger down his mouth, shaking his head.
“That was, uh… interesting,” he said, his voice laced with amusement and just a hint of something else.
You couldn’t help the grin spreading across your face. “Right? They’re so good. Better than any of those smutty novels you tease me about. But only because they’re about you. I don’t have to drown out the descriptions of the characters to picture us.” Your voice dropped and you moved in close to his ear, your breath hitching slightly. “I don’t even have to imagine you. It’s you.”
Drew’s eyes darkened slightly as he registered the shift in your tone. His turned his head to look towards you, gaze flicked down to your lips, then back up to your eyes.
You moved quickly, straddling his lap. His hands instinctively settled on your hips as you leaned in, your lips grazing the edge of his jawline. “I’ve been reading these all day,” you whispered against his skin, your breath warm and tantalizing. “And they’ve got me… worked up. If you know what I mean.”
You pressed down against him, your arousal unmistakable. Drew’s hands tightened on your waist as a low groan escaped him.
“You’re unbelievable,” he murmured, though his voice was full of amusement and lust.
You kissed along his neck, your fingers threading through his hair. “Mmm, but you like it,” you teased, rolling your hips ever so slightly. “I want to have some fun.”
Drew tilted his head back, his grin laced with heat. “I’d say you’ve earned it.”
As you continued to tease him, Drew's hands slipped under your shirt, his fingers tracing the curve of your spine. You shivered at the touch, your lips finding his in a hungry kiss. He deepened the kiss, his tongue tangling with yours as he stood up, lifting you with him.
"I've been thinking about you all day, didn’t think you were too. I couldn’t fucking wait to get home." Drew growled, his voice low and husky. "I've been thinking about fucking you, about making you scream my name."
You moaned, your body responding to his words, wrapping your arms around his neck. "These stories had me thinking about you too," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "I've been thinking about your cock inside me, about feeling you fuck me senseless. Just like the one you just read.”
Drew smiled, his eyes burning with heat as he undressed you and laid you down on the bed. "Get on top of me now. Please, Drew," you whispered, your voice filled with desire. "I want to feel you inside me, I want you fuck me like you mean it."
Drew followed, undressing and positioning himself between your legs, his cock pressing against your entrance. "You want me to fuck you like I mean it?" he repeated, his voice dripping with filth. "You want me to make you feel like a slut?"
You nodded, your body trembling with anticipation. "Yes," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "I want you to make me feel like a dirty little slut, I want you to make me feel like I'm yours."
Drew smiled, his eyes burning with heat as he entered you. "You are mine," he growled, his voice low and husky. "You're my dirty little slut.”
He bottomed out in you and immediately began his ravishing pace, the pads of his fingers found your clit, rubbing against it in a gentle, teasing touch. "You like that, don't you?" he whispered, his voice dripping with filth. "You like feeling like a dirty little slut, you like feeling like you're being fucked senseless."
You moaned, your body responding to his words. "Yes," you whispered, your voice barely audible.
“Tell me then.”
"I love feeling like a dirty little slut, I love feeling like I'm being fucked senseless."
As he continued to move, his hands grasped your hips, holding you in place as he pounded into you. "All fours baby," he whispered, "I want you to feel me fuck you from every angle, I want you to scream my name."
Drew pulled out, flipping you over onto your hands and knees. "I want to hear you fucking scream when I fuck this pussy," he repeated, his voice dripping with filth. "You want me to make you feel like filthy whore?"
You nodded, your body trembling with anticipation. "Yes," you whimpered, your voice barely audible. "I want you to make me feel like I'm yours to use and abuse."
Drew smiled, his eyes burning with heat as he entered you from behind. "You are mine to use and abuse," he growled, his voice low and husky. He was always good in bed, but between how hot and bothered you were from all the reading and Drew taking these fantasies out on you that you just became obsessed with, you didn’t know how much longer you could last.
As he moved, his hands grasped your hips, holding you in place as he pounded into you. You felt yourself building towards a climax, your body tensing as the pleasure grew. Drew reached his arm around you, his fingers finding place on your clit again.
He thrusts into you hard, fingers working in quick circles. You find yourself meeting his thrusts and it became hard to keep yourself up on your hands. “You scream out his name when you come and your upper half goes limp on the bed. He gives you a few minutes to come down from your high and catch your breath before he speaks again.
"We’re not done yet, ride me," Drew whispered, his voice is deep with desire. "I want you on top of me, I want you to use me to fuck yourself.”
You pick yourself up, moving towards him at the head of the bed as you straddle his hips. You sink down on his cock, it stretches you wide open, you sat for a moment as he peppered kisses along your neck. You began to move, your body bouncing up and down. He lifted his hands to your breasts, squeezing them as his fingers played with your nipples. The sensation was exhilarating, the pleasure building again as you moved.
As you continue to ride him, your legs began to tire and he could tell. Drew's hands moved and grasped your hips, guiding your body up and down keeping the momentum, you grew closer to climax and began clenching around him again.
"Fuck you feel so fucking good," he moaned out, his voice dripping with filth. "You're so beautiful, and tight, and so wet for me baby.”
You smiled, your lips curling up as you continued to move. It being the only thing you could do. No words seemed to be able to form. The heat inside you was building, growing with each move. You felt yourself getting closer and closer to the edge, your body tensing as the climax approached.
And then, in a burst of pleasure, you came, your body shuddering as you collapsed onto Drew's chest. He held you close, his arms wrapped tightly around you as you caught your breath.
"I love you," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the sound of your own ragged breathing.
"I love you too," Drew whispered back.
As you two settled in for the night you grabbed your phone and downloaded Tumblr immediately.
When I think of this, these are SOME fics flashing through my mind:
This blurb by @starkeyisthelastname
This blurb by @starkeyisthelastname
Trailerpark!Rafe by @starkeyisthelastname - clearly I’m in love with you
behind closed doors by @httpsdrewstarkey
the annual christmas sorority date auction by @starkeysprincess (and basically anything else she writes)
swipe, fuck, leave by @cameronsprincess (again, everything else she writes too)
breathe, baby by @rafescokewhore (including every other writing and her Drew series flights, I’ve read it 4x and still can’t get enough)
Taglist (including some moots 💞)- @rafestoothbrush @weluvwbb @itsforeverandalwayz @megiiite @percysley @siredbtches @bigenergy777 @aupernatural-teenwolflover @slut4you @rafegf-real @skywalker0809 @kieeslove @snowtargaryen @angelicameron @maybankslover @etheraltides @cooper8224 @hockeybabe87 @xdaughterofpersephonex @leather-n-velvet @mima116 @urbrunettebombshell @pogueprincesa @purplerose291 @frankoceanluvr11 @ivysprophecy @starsmoonn @akobx @rafestify @marleymarleymarleymarley @littlelamy @diasnohibng @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @carolineisdelusional @rafeysangelbaby @nemesyaaa
#drew starkey obx#drew starkey outer banks#drew starkey fluff#drew starkey one shot#drew starkey fanfiction#drew starkey imagine#drew x reader#drew starkey#drew starkey x reader#drew starkey smut#drew starkey x gf!reafer#drew starkey x female reader#drew starkey x you#rafe smut#rafe Cameron
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Hi Ti!!!! I love your work 🙃. While your inbox is open I thought I’d pop in w a request! So I was thinking that the main character is a corporate baddie (law or smth idk) who meets Lewis (dealers choice how?), and they have a nice convo and he expresses interest. She’s a bit guarded and doesn’t trust his intentions, so she turns him down and keeps doing so until he eventually wins her over and it gets fluffy, ik this is like a mix of other stories you’ve done, but I really liked how you wrote them, so here I am. Thanks so much!!!!!!!!!

𝒪𝒷𝒿𝑒𝒸𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃, 𝒴𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝐻𝑜𝓃𝑜𝓊𝓇. 𝐻𝑒’𝓈 𝒯𝑜𝑜 𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓇𝓂𝒾𝓃𝑔
Authors Note: Hey lovelies! Thanks for the support. Back with another one-shot and let’s be honest, I can’t get enough of relentless flirt Lewis. I seriously don’t know how I’ve made it through a whole week without F1. Sending lots of love your way xx
Summary: A corporate powerhouse tries to resist Lewis Hamilton's charm, but his persistence eventually wins her over.
Warnings: none
Taglist: @piston-cup @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr @cosmichughes
MASTERLIST
࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊
You were the kind of woman whose name wasn’t just whispered in courtrooms but it echoed through every corner of the corporate world. New York polished and London scorched. You’d carved your reputation with titanium precision, litigating antitrust suits against multinationals before you were thirty and orchestrating transpacific mergers that made stock tickers stutter.
You weren’t just a lawyer, you were an institution. The kind of strategist CEOs called before calling their boards. Your signature came with clauses more powerful than legislation. When you walked into a room, interns corrected their posture, partners rechecked their spreadsheets, and competitors rethought their strategy.
You’d earned your place in this world by mastering the art of control. Control of language, leverage and narrative. And most of all control of yourself. There was no vulnerability allowed behind your tailored suits and subdued jewellery. Your life was a fortress of NDAs and deeply sealed instincts. Trust? That was a luxury. And luxuries were for people who didn’t make partner by 34.
So when you felt the heat of his gaze at the gala, you didn’t flinch. You assessed.
The event was one of those grand exercises in corporate vanity, thrown by Harlan Chase Bank to celebrate a landmark merger. You’d brokered the deal silencing regulators, arm twisting investor groups and ghostwriting the chairman’s public statement over a single weekend. Tonight was your reward, apparently. Floor length black gown instead of a power suit, glass of Dom instead of cold brew. You hated it. These parties were all mirrors and masks.
But then came the disturbance. Lewis Hamilton.
You didn’t need introductions. You’d seen his name emblazoned across luxury brand campaigns and sustainability think pieces, popping up in tabloids beside heiresses, models and venture capitalists with too perfect teeth. Lewis didn’t just win races - he won attention. That kind of spotlight had never interested you. You were a shadow player. Influence was most effective when it was invisible.
He appeared beside you like he’d strolled out of a dream someone else had. Crisp tux. Rolex glinting. That unmistakable walk of someone who knew every eye in the room bent toward him. You looked up from your champagne mid-sip, hoping he was heading for the exit. He wasn't.
“Quite the crowd,” he said, voice low and effortlessly melodic. “Is this what corporate celebration looks like pretending to enjoy canapé pyramids and questionable jazz remixes?”
You turned, expression as dry as your champagne. “This is what success looks like. Or at least, its overpriced costume.”
He laughed full bodied and unguarded. “I like that. Lewis,” he said, offering a hand like you were supposed to care.
“And I’m immune,” you replied, not taking it.
That got you a raised brow, a hint of amusement sparking behind dark brown eyes. “Immune? Haven’t heard that one before.”
“Then you haven’t met the right lawyer,” you murmured, turning slightly to regain control of the conversation you hadn’t asked for.
He cocked his head. “So you’re the one behind the Harlan merger?”
“I am,” you said simply.
“Impressive,” he said. “They say the woman behind that deal made four billion dollars move like ballet.”
You shrugged. “Money dances for anyone with the right choreography.”
He grinned, leaning in slightly, voice softer. “And you choreograph billionaires. Now that’s sexy.”
You gave a cool smile. “Flattery is a weak currency here.”
“Not trying to flatter. I’m genuinely intrigued. You walk like you own the building.”
“Probably because I underwrote it,” you said, gesturing to the penthouse ballroom without breaking eye contact.
He laughed again, eyes alight. “I like you.”
You sipped your champagne. “Lots of people do. Doesn’t mean I let them.”
“Now I’m curious.” He stepped closer. “Is there anyone who does?”
You studied him, the world champion who’d spent his career inching ahead of the pack, never settling for second. The irony was delicious. “That depends. Can you negotiate like a sovereign wealth fund?”
“I race cars, I build portfolios, I partner with fashion houses. I'm versatile,” he said with a crooked smile. “And you haven’t walked away yet.”
You raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t walked away because I’m debating whether rejecting you publicly would cause a scene.”
“That sounds like a yes with extra processing time.”
“And that sounds like a woman doing cost benefit analysis.”
Another pause and this time Lewis crossed his arms, tilting his head with that grin he probably perfected somewhere on a Monaco balcony. “Have dinner with me. Not because I’m charming. Because I want to know how someone dismantles boardroom politics before dessert.”
You laughed a rare sound, even to yourself. “Lewis, charming men don’t get past the appetiser with me.”
“Then we’ll skip straight to strategy. I’ll bring a term sheet.”
You shook your head. “I don’t date celebrities.”
“And I don’t chase anyone. Yet here I am.”
“And here you’ll stay.”
He looked genuinely entertained. Not frustrated. Not annoyed. Just intrigued. “You know, in a race resistance only makes the win sweeter.”
You smirked. “In law, resistance is the reason you win at all.”
Another pause. This one deeper. He straightened, brushing a hand along his collar. “Alright,” he said, “I’ll admit defeat. For now.”
You gave him a sidelong glance. “You’re used to loops, aren’t you? Maybe you’ll circle back.”
“Only if the track’s worth it.”
That earned him a flicker of something. Not approval. Not interest. But acknowledgment. Then your phone buzzed. A silent summons from your associate about a leaked clause in an acquisition contract. You glanced at it, then back at him.
“Well,” you said, voice crisp. “Looks like duty calls.”
“Just promise me you won’t bill me for this conversation,” he quipped.
“You couldn’t afford me,” you said with a small smile.
He watched as you walked away, leaving behind champagne, a half-smirk and the unmistakable scent of someone who doesn’t bend for anyone.
And somewhere between the beats of bass-heavy lounge music and champagne toasts echoing through the chandelier light, Lewis Hamilton the man used to winning wondered if he’d just met the one challenge that couldn’t be outpaced.
It was mid-morning when the message pinged your phone, cutting through the tightly orchestrated chaos that defined your Thursdays. You were elbow-deep in briefing notes for an arbitration between two pharmaceutical titans each armed with legal teams more aggressive than Wall Street brokers in a downturn and a licensing dispute so convoluted it made medieval land treaties look straightforward.
Your desk, a shrine to high functioning obsession, was cluttered with annotated contracts, half drunk coffee and a glowing laptop screen projecting tabs in double digits. You had three internal meetings on the horizon, a tax division update that would require tactical diplomacy, and a phone call you were already dreading from a CEO who’d recently misused the term "fiduciary duty" in a pitch deck and then doubled down.
When your assistant slid the triple-shot espresso into reach, you gave her a barely perceptible nod of gratitude and reached for your phone with one hand, the other already flipping through a sub-clause in an indemnity provision.
That’s when you saw it. A message from an unknown number.
So, I didn’t win you over yet. Can I try again? - Lewis
You stared at it, caught somewhere between irritation and something harder to name. It was bold. Brazen. Undeniably Lewis. Subtlety wasn't in his arsenal. Of course he didn’t fade quietly into the background after your very deliberate dismissal. He showed up again this time in your notifications.
Part of you wanted to ignore it. Another part toyed with a more dramatic route: you could reply in classic litigator fashion, perhaps a line like Cease and desist from unsolicited emotional overtures forthwith. Or maybe include citations to precedents involving professional boundaries and emotional entrapment. But you didn’t need theatrics. You were concise by design. Tactical in tone.
You typed two letters.
You: No.
That was it. Surgical. Like slicing through a frivolous defence argument in a courtroom.
The response came back with infuriating speed.
Lewis: Noted love, I’ll be back for round two ✌🏾
You groaned out loud an involuntary sound that prompted your associate, seated nearby, to glance up with concerned curiosity before wisely returning to her own screen. You rolled your eyes, muttering under your breath as you set the phone aside. Who did this man think he was?
Apparently someone who didn’t understand that “no” in your vocabulary wasn’t a challenge it was a doctrine. A statute. Unshakable.
You dismissed it. Filed it away mentally like an unsolicited LinkedIn message from a recruiter who didn’t read your bio.
You figured that would be the end of it.
But you figured wrong.
A few days later, you found yourself on a rooftop at dusk, swathed in warm orange light and surrounded by the low hum of laughter and clinking glasses. It was your friend Maren’s birthday an event she’d branded “fiddler chic,” which involved whimsical folk music, locally sourced cocktails and a guest list that somehow included two of her exes, three artists and at least one person you were fairly sure worked in yacht restoration.
You were halfway through a story told by someone detailing an unfortunate tequila-fuelled tattoo incident when that unmistakable shift in atmospheric pressure brushed across your senses. A gravitational pull. A tilt in equilibrium. You didn’t turn immediately. You didn’t need to.
You felt him before you saw him. Lewis.
He was stationed at the far end of the rooftop, leaning against the bar like the universe had placed him there as an aesthetic disruption. No tux this time this wasn’t a gala.
He wore a leather jacket with casual arrogance, baggy jeans that somehow still flattered him and boots that looked hand stitched and wildly impractical. He was laughing, of course head thrown back, teeth flashing, posture loose. As if he belonged everywhere. As if this was his track and he was just waiting for the lights to go green.
You immediately looked for an exit. Unfortunately, your hostess had chosen a rooftop with limited escape routes and an open floor plan something you now resented.
His eyes met yours. And just like that, he was moving. He approached at a steady pace, hands tucked into his pockets like he had all the time in the world. Like he wasn’t deliberately upending yours.
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, stopping close enough for you to feel the whisper of his cologne a blend of something clean and expensive and dangerous.
You didn’t flinch, but your body stiffened slightly, instinctively realigning into that no-nonsense stance you wore like armour. You were in silk instead of wool, but the courtroom energy was intact.
“You don’t give up, do you?” you said coolly, crossing your arms.
“I don’t,” he replied with a disarming smile. “But you’ve got to admit it’s kind of impressive, isn’t it?”
You gave him a long look. “I’ve seen more restraint from litigation funding teams during a hostile takeover.”
He tilted his head, that familiar amusement dancing in his eyes. “That’s the thing about world champions,” he murmured, his voice slipping into something low and conspiratorial. “We’re trained to push past resistance.”
“And yet,” you said, unblinking, “this is not a podium. It’s a boundary.”
“Sure,” he said with a shrug, “but boundaries shift with the right leverage.”
“You really do think you’re the exception to every rule, don’t you?”
He stepped just half a breath closer, his gaze unwavering. “Only when the rule keeps looking at me like she’s seconds away from laughing.”
Your lips twitched. Involuntary. You hated that. You hated how fast he noticed.
“Like what?” you asked, tone sharp.
“Like she secretly enjoys being chased,” he said.
You stared at him, caught in that maddening moment of static where attraction and irritation did a little waltz. You could feel your composure rattling not cracking, just vibrating.
“You’re too cocky for your own good,” you muttered.
“And yet,” he said, folding his arms with exaggerated confidence, “you’re still talking to me.”
“Talking isn’t consenting, Hamilton.”
He smirked wider. “But it’s not ignoring either.”
You sighed, your gaze flicking to your half-finished cocktail like it might offer you sanctuary. “Why are you doing this?”
He leaned in again, not invasively just enough to speak where only you could hear. “Because you intrigue me. You don’t melt. You push back. You say no without apology. And I want to know what makes you say yes.”
You narrowed your eyes. “I say yes to logic. To facts. To airtight contracts.”
“Perfect,” he said, straightening with that easy swagger. “I’m prepared. Want a dossier?”
You stared at him, long and unmoving, watching as the confidence in his expression shifted tilting from performative to earnest. He wasn’t joking anymore. Not entirely. There was something quieter behind all the charm. Something hopeful.
“You’re ridiculous,” you said.
“And you,” he replied instantly, “are magnificent.”
Your fingers curled tighter around your clutch, the urge to walk away battling the impulse to lean in. But you held your ground. You always did.
“I’m not going to fall for you,” you said, voice like glass.
He nodded, mock solemn. “Understood. I’ll just keep showing up until you trip.”
You scoffed. “Not likely.”
He winked. “I’ve beaten worse odds.”
You turned then, heels clicking against the rooftop tiles with decisive precision. You didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t look back.
But later, hours after the music faded and the city settled into its quiet breath, you sat in the back seat of your car as it pulled into your driveway. You pulled out your phone with a sigh. His message still sat there like a stone in water.
Lewis: Can I try again?👀
You didn’t reply, not tonight. But you didn’t delete it either.
The weeks that followed unraveled like a series of expertly timed interruptions each one gently pulling a thread from the tightly stitched tapestry of your well ordered life.
It began innocently enough. You had a routine, after all. Precision was your lifestyle. The coffee shop downstairs was an extension of your command centre.
You arrived at 7:45 sharp, every weekday, bypassing the crush of morning suits and interns trying to look important and were greeted with a steaming cup of black coffee no sugar, no milk, no sentimental nonsense. Just how you liked it. The baristas had stopped asking for your name months ago. You were her. The one with the posture too perfect for someone that caffeinated.
But that morning, he was there. Lewis Hamilton. Hoodie pulled slightly off one shoulder, cap tucked low, sneakers that probably had their own stylist.
He turned just as you stepped up to the counter. “Still not interested?” he asked, like it was the question of the hour. His voice had that velvety ease to it, like he already knew the answer but enjoyed hearing you say it.
You didn’t lift your eyes from your phone. “Still not subtle?”
He smirked, already paid, already holding his tea like it was a trophy. “You say that like you haven’t been counting how many times I’ve shown up.”
You snatched your coffee without a word, brushing past him with all the elegance of a woman whose entire existence hinged on maintaining her margins. But he didn’t miss it your pause, the way your shoulders didn’t quite tense the way they usually did.
From there, things escalated. If you could call charm warfare an escalation.
You spotted him again three days later at a green tech press event one you were attending on behalf of a boutique client your firm had recently acquired. You weren’t there to mingle. You were there to be quoted: “Innovation must serve sustainability, not threaten it.” You had the phrase memorised, rehearsed with two different inflections.
And then you saw him, leaning against a partitioned wall, nodding along to someone’s pitch like he’d walked into the wrong room and stayed for the drama.
He caught your eye immediately.
This time, he didn’t speak. Just mouthed the words still not interested? with such theatrical flair that the founder beside him actually turned to see who he was performing for.
Your smile came unbidden. You let it live for three seconds exactly three before slipping it away like a trade secret.
But your stomach betrayed you. A flutter, a spark. The kind of reaction you hadn't permitted yourself in years. The kind you usually suffocate beneath layers of logic and ironclad self-control.
And then came the gifts.
Nothing ostentatious. Just intentional. The kind of gestures that made it clear he wasn’t flinging charm at you hoping something would stick he was building something. Slowly. Thoughtfully. Annoyingly.
A single white peony one Monday morning. Left on your desk in a tall glass vase. You nearly dismissed it as client gratitude until you spotted the card. Elegant script. No logo. Just a line -
Not asking for yes. Just here to admire the no. -L
You raised a brow. Your assistant gasped. Your associates? Utterly useless. The peony sparked a full-blown debate about floral symbolism.
The next gift was a bouquet eucalyptus and deep crimson roses that made your office smell like a forest masquerading as a luxury lounge. Another card.
Resistance is your fragrance. Thought I’d bottle it for the week. - L
You didn’t smile. But you didn’t not smile.
Then came the truffles. Belgian. Arranged like art. Wrapped with a velvet ribbon that made even your receptionist blush.
The fourth delivery made you pause.
A signed first edition of Justice Is Personal your favourite legal memoir, hard to find and wildly expensive. You ran your fingers across the cover like it was porcelain. You even Googled the market price. Not for cost concerns, but curiosity. That night, you read the first three chapters again, sipping your evening tea a little slower than usual.
Your junior associate couldn’t contain herself. “Okay, he’s not just interested. He’s curating your affection.”
You didn’t dignify that with a response. But you did slip the note into your desk drawer instead of the bin.
On Thursday, the showpiece arrived.
A bottle of aged Scotch. Your favourite. The label engraved.
For the woman who closes billion-dollar deals and opens zero doors. One day, I’ll earn the key. - L
You scoffed. Loudly. But you also opened it that night, the amber liquid warming your throat as you skimmed a merger clause that suddenly seemed less urgent.
His timing was surgical. He didn't bombard. He punctuated. Little moments, peppered with wit and an impossible understanding of how your mind worked. No cliché. No grand sweeping gestures. Just persistent, precise nudges at the wall you’d built years ago and reinforced through heartbreak, promotions, relocations and one particularly disappointing winter.
You hated that he was becoming part of the rhythm. That your heart gave a traitorous skip when your phone buzzed. That when the barista called out your name, you braced not in dread but in anticipation.
And worse? The warmth of his attention was starting to feel...earned.
He hadn’t cracked you. Not yet.
But he was circling your defences like a man who knew the terrain.
Not reckless. Strategic.
And maddeningly magnetic.
You told yourself it was all amusement. Flattery. A well timed distraction. But when the elevator doors opened one morning and there he was holding a tea for himself and a coffee for you and that ridiculous grin though you didn’t roll your eyes. You reached for yours. Quietly. And let him walk with you the rest of the way to your office.
It didn’t crumble. It didn’t splinter. The walls you’d constructed didn’t collapse under pressure or fracture from some dramatic epiphany. They softened. Weathered. Like old stone gently reshaped by the persistent tide.
It started with a feeling you couldn’t name subtle, almost imperceptible. And then a thought: You weren’t tired, but you weren’t entirely yourself either.
That Tuesday evening stretched into night while the city exhaled softly beneath your office windows, the city lights blinking like scattered thoughts you hadn’t yet gathered. Everyone else had left hours ago - the associates, the analysts, the senior partners and the silence felt strangely personal. You sat in your leather chair, back straight out of habit, hands resting on a stack of shareholder dispute documents that no longer held your attention.
Your eyes drifted to the bottle on your desk. The Scotch. His Scotch.
The label still caught the light engraved, deliberate, impossible to ignore.
One day, I’ll earn the key.
And just like that, you poured a glass. Not because the day demanded it, but because his words did.
There was something about how he wrote to you. How he offered pieces of himself wrapped in wit and wrapped again in patience. Each note, each gesture, was carefully curated not to charm you into submission, but to show you that affection could be unguarded and intentional. That it could be kind.
You sipped slowly. Let the warmth bloom from your chest outward, and for the first time in longer than you cared to admit, you felt still.
A few days later, you were heading to Singapore for a corporate ethics summit another strategic appearance, another stage to remind the world you weren’t just exceptional, you were unshakeable.
Your assistant handed you the itinerary as you approached security, and inside the folder was a folded magazine page. Your face stared back at you from the cover: immaculate tailoring, professional poise, headline trimmed with reverent praise. It should’ve felt satisfying.
But tucked beneath the page was a note.
I hear the hotel has a rooftop bar. Try not to dominate the entire skyline ;)
You didn’t need a signature. You knew the handwriting. You knew the timing. You knew the grin he’d wear if he were standing beside you half-serious, half-challenging and all heart.
You laughed softly to yourself, a sound foreign and slightly raw. It wasn’t calculated. Wasn’t for effect. It felt like the kind of laugh you’d had before the accolades, before the boardroom battles and the endless tightrope walk between excellence and expectation.
And that was when it started the quiet, insistent internal tremor. The questions that didn’t come as attacks, but as whispers. Gentle, curious, and unrelenting.
What was the cost of being unapproachable?
Why had you fused professionalism with impenetrability?
When did warmth become synonymous with weakness?
You thought back.
Law school, where you were told to leave emotion out of legal strategy, as if empathy diluted intelligence. Internships, where confidence was admired in the men but dissected in you. Performance reviews full of praise wrapped in caution. “You’re brilliant, but intense.” “You’re strategic, but difficult to read.”
And romance? That was even messier. There were lovers who adored your intellect but resented your schedule. Who mistook your ambition for arrogance. Who asked you to “just relax” without realising that safety had never come easy for someone like you.
So you built walls. Out of experience. Out of necessity. Out of survival.
But Lewis didn’t scale them. He didn’t hammer them down with declarations or promises. He just lingered. Sent warmth where no one had bothered. Made you feel seen in a way that felt like recognition, not analysis.
He didn’t want to fix you. He wanted to know you. And for the first time, you let the idea linger. Let the possibility swell.
What if vulnerability didn’t mean exposure? What if it meant relief?
What if letting someone in didn’t fracture the foundation but made it stronger?
You didn’t have the answers yet. But you didn’t shut the door on the questions either. That alone felt revolutionary.
First of all, it wasn’t a date.
At least, that’s what you’d told yourself when you agreed. A drink after the leadership panel wasn’t a contract. It was a courtesy. He’d asked so casually slouching a little in his seat with that infuriatingly magnetic ease, murmuring under his breath that your thoughts on corporate transparency had “fried a few vital neuron’s” and he needed hydration to recover.
You should’ve said no. You always said no. You were excellent at it refusal was practically your native tongue. But you didn’t.
Which is how you found yourself seated at a corner table in a restaurant that knew how to hide its elegance under understated lighting and velvet shadows. Nothing about the evening followed your rules. You hadn't reviewed the menu beforehand, hadn't mapped out an exit strategy. You hadn’t even arrived in a power suit just a silk blouse, a bit of lipstick and the vague notion that maybe, just maybe, this didn’t need structure.
He’d picked the place, reserved the table, and somehow, magically, already knew about your weakness for sticky date pudding. It arrived, warm and rich, garnished with vanilla bean ice cream and a caramel glaze so perfect it should’ve been a crime. You stared at it, stunned. He just winked.
“What?” he said, stirring his drink. “I did research. I’m persistent and resourceful.”
You raised a skeptical brow. “That sounds like a polite way of admitting to low level stalking.”
“I prefer strategic investigation,” he replied. “Very high-level. Ethically questionable. But worth it.”
The conversation veered from there into the ridiculous favourite films, guilty TV binges, the absolutely criminal state of your Spotify playlist. When you confessed that your favourite movie was quiet and emotional, he nearly dropped his glass.
“Wait, that one?” he said, dramatic horror written across his face. “That is way too soft for you.”
You leaned back, smirking. “And what do you think I watch? Tarantino on loop?”
“I mean...” He narrowed his eyes. “You do give off major Kill Bill energy.”
“Oh? Should I take that as a compliment or call HR?”
He leaned in, elbows on the table, grin cocky and ridiculous. “Compliment. Definitely. You're like Uma Thurman in boardroom heels.”
You laughed. Loudly. Shockingly. And it didn’t feel wrong.
The sticky date pudding sat between you half eaten, now forgotten as conversation melted into something slower. Intimate. The kind that unfolded like silk rather than paper. And somewhere between discussing terrible sequels and childhood pets, he paused.
“So,” he said, his voice low and rich. “You’re finally warming up to me, huh?”
You hesitated. Just slightly. Your fingers still toyed with the spoon, like they weren’t sure if they wanted the last bite or to create distance.
But he wasn’t just the man you’d dismissed in passing weeks ago. He was still infuriatingly confident but it had softened. Sharpened. Like he’d learned your cadence. Like he’d started speaking in your language.
“I might be,” you said slowly, letting the words settle. “But I’m still not convinced you’re the real deal.”
That earned you a tilt of the head, a glint in his eye less amusement, more promise.
He leaned in, close enough that you could count the gold flecks in his eyes. “Then let me show you.”
It could have been a line. But it didn’t land like one. It was lower. Slower. Meant.
The rest of the evening blurred.
Laughter rippled between you with increasing ease. You teased him about his perfume commercials; he called you terrifyingly impressive. He told you about the time he crashed a golf cart on a corporate retreat. You confessed hesitantly that you used to dance as a teenager, before law school suffocated whimsy. His reaction was devastating: genuine delight, wide smile, and a ridiculous “I need to see that immediately.”
And when his fingers brushed yours not deliberately, not forcefully you didn’t flinch. You didn’t pull back.
You wanted it.
You felt it.
By the time you stepped into the cool night air, you were no longer uncertain. He walked beside you hands tucked into his pockets, shoulders relaxed, smile lingering and the silence wasn’t awkward. It was full. Tense, but tender. And when he turned to you at the car and said, “Don’t shut me out again. Not tonight,” something inside you shifted.
You didn’t challenge him.
You didn’t retreat.
Instead, you smiled a real one. Not the kind you wore for board meetings or courtroom declarations. The kind that belonged only to this moment. To this man.
And in that tiny, terrifying sliver of vulnerability, you admitted the truth:
He wasn’t going anywhere.
And, god help you, you didn’t want him to.
Days later the air was thick with engine fumes, media chatter and the scent of imminent strategy. The paddock pulsed with high stakes choreography technicians weaving between garages with carbon fibre components, PR teams whispering into earpieces, flashes popping from cameras faster than reflexes. Formula 1 wasn’t just racing. It was politics on wheels. And you, naturally, were at the centre of its quieter drama.
You hadn’t come for speed, not really. You came for the meeting.
Your firm had been looped into Red Bull’s legal orbit a minefield of NDA disputes, brand rights entanglements and an internal investigation that Christian Horner wanted navigated with surgical finesse. You were the scalpel in question. Lead counsel. Strategist. Unflinching executor of truth. Your presence here was tactical. Professional.
But beneath all that precision there was something else.
Because as you stepped onto the grid-adjacent lounge, eyes still skimming the dossier tucked inside your folder, your gaze was pulled. Dragged, really. Across the expanse of bodies and engines and sponsorship banners to the unmistakable silhouette leaning against the Ferrari garage.
Lewis.
Dressed in a fitted Ferrari team jacket, black with flashes of scarlet that made the stitching on his shoulders look like fire. His arms were crossed, casual. His aviators perched like armour, reflecting the gleam of overhead lights and the blur of motion around him. He looked like he’d arrived ten minutes early purely to smoulder. And when he saw you? He pushed off the frame like gravity itself had handed him your name.
You didn’t even pretend to be surprised.
He was walking toward you now, weaving through journalists and engineers like they were props. His smile bloomed with that maddening mixture of charm and certainty, the kind that always made people believe he belonged wherever he landed. You were already bracing.
“Let me guess,” he said, stopping just short of your personal bubble close enough to make the space hum. “You came here just to see me again?”
You raised one eyebrow, not even bothering to mask your smirk. “Please. You wish.”
“I do,” he replied, grinning wider. “And unlike some people, I’m not afraid to admit it.”
He looked absurdly good. The jacket sculpted him, the fitted black jeans somehow both polished and reckless, and that grin? A trap disguised as a tease.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he added, voice lowering like velvet. “And just so you know this time, I’m not letting you out of my sight. You’ve been dodging me long enough.”
“I’ve been working,” you replied coolly, clutching the folder as if it might remind you of why you were still pretending to resist.
“And yet,” he murmured, tilting his head with deliberate amusement, “you still made it to that gala last week, looking entirely too expensive to be ignored.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And you’re breathtaking. Terrifyingly so.”
You felt it. That pulse in your throat. The slow heat blooming somewhere uninvited. But you didn’t flinch. He leaned in just a little, enough for his scent citrus and leather to fill the space between you.
“You’ve got no idea,” he whispered. “But trust me I’m this close to wearing you down.”
You parted your lips. Ready to respond. Except you didn’t.
Because that blush traitorous and unmistakable was already crawling up your throat. And he saw it. Of course he did. His smile shifted, just slightly. Less playful. More reverent.
You glanced down at the folder in your hands Red Bull logos, legal briefs, bullet points in your own handwriting. You had work to do. The meeting with Horner was scheduled in ten. But somehow, standing here, you didn’t hate the interruption.
Not like before.
“Maybe one day, I’ll win you over,” Lewis said, voice softer now. There was no dare. Just promise.
You tried for sarcasm. “Don’t hold your breath.”
But the words lacked the sharpness they once had. They bent, slightly. Warmed.
And he caught that too.
“I’ll take my chances,” he said.
From behind, your associate materialised muttering about briefing summaries and Horner’s location. You nodded without looking away. Not yet.
Because Lewis was still standing there. His Ferrari badge catching the light. His grin steady. And for once you didn’t want to leave. Not the moment. Not the man.
Not anymore.
The meeting had begun like most high-stakes corporate negotiations slick surfaces, veiled glances, and conversation measured not in sentences but in subtext. You were seated at a polished glass table that reflected the tension more clearly than any face in the room. Christian Horner sat across from you, posture immaculately poised, surrounded by an entourage of Red Bull legal advisors and PR sentinels who looked like they'd sooner bite their tongues off than let something slip.
Documents were stacked in front of you in symmetrical piles. You had marked every clause in advance, your handwritten notes a roadmap of surgical intent. Language surrounding active sponsorship frameworks had eroded into ambiguity, and your job today was to anchor the drift to offer clarity without compromise, control without aggression.
You were good at that.
The room leaned into you not with deference, but calculation. They respected your mind because it was undeniable. Sharp as cut glass, measured, and terrifying in its elegance.
But beneath the sharp lines and professionalism, something stirred.
You knew it before you saw him. Once again Lewis.
He wasn’t meant to be there. You weren’t here for him. This was Red Bull business, not Ferrari flair. And yet, through the panelled glass separating the meeting room from the heart of the paddock, there he was leaning against a support beam like it belonged to him.
Dressed in his Ferrari team jacket, the scarlet stitching glinting against matte black like racing stripes on flesh. His aviators perched low, catching the light with a flash of controlled arrogance. You almost hated how well he wore his confidence.
Almost.
The corners of his lips tilted when your eyes met his. Just once. He mouthed something you couldn’t hear but you didn’t need sound. You knew it was nonsense. You knew it was meant to rattle you, just enough to make you wonder.
You fought the curve of your own smile with the discipline of a seasoned litigator.
The meeting carried on forty-five minutes of verbal ballet. Contractual terms floated between parties like currencies. But the moment it ended, the moment you slid your materials back into your folder and nodded coolly to Horner’s team, you felt it: the pulse of anticipation.
And sure enough, as you emerged through the corridor, he was there. Still leaning. Still waiting. Still wearing that look like he’d already won something you didn’t even know you were offering.
“You survived,” he said, falling into step beside you like he belonged in your orbit. “Tell me no one threw a clause at your head.”
“Only metaphorically,” you replied, sharp. But your mouth betrayed you. It twitched.
He studied you like you were more interesting than the chassis he raced in. Then, with a fluidity so effortless it felt practiced, he slid one arm around your shoulders. It wasn’t possessive. It was grounding.
You froze for just a fraction. It wasn’t rejection. It wasn’t discomfort. It was surprise.
“Come on,” he said gently. “You’ve suffered enough. Let me show you the real Ferrari garage. Not the one with press kits and cameras. Mine.”
You turned your head slightly, the folder still clutched in your hand like armour. “You’re escorting legal counsel through restricted territory?”
“I’m escorting someone I like,” he replied simply. “Consider it high-priority access.”
You should’ve rolled your eyes. You should’ve objected. You didn’t.
He guided you through the labyrinth of scaffolding and sponsor signage like he’d paved it himself. Mechanics paused and nodded, some with amused glances. One even offered a low whistle, prompting Lewis to murmur, “Don’t be jealous she’s here for the engines, not me.”
That earned him a soft laugh. From you. You didn’t mean it, but it didn’t feel wrong.
Inside the garage, it was dim and humming. Controlled chaos. Steel, carbon, fire.
“This is where the magic happens,” he said, stopping beside a chassis stripped of glamor and glory, gleaming like machinery made of muscle. “No suits. No spreadsheets. Just velocity.”
You stepped forward, fingers ghosting over the edge, eyes following the lines like they held secrets. “I thought civilians weren’t allowed in here.”
“I don’t bring civilians in,” he said quietly. “But you’re not one of them.”
You turned. And he was closer than you remembered. His eyes didn’t smirk this time. They waited.
“I mean it,” he said. “You let me in piece by piece. Every ‘no’ was its own kind of welcome. And I waited. I didn’t push. I just wanted to see if you’d ever look at me the way I looked at you.”
Your breath caught, gently. Unexpectedly.
You realised, in that moment, how soft the edges had become. Not weak. Just open.
He held out his hand. Not demanding or dramatic. Just there.
You stared at it and then took it his hand, fingers laced which was warm and real. You weren’t letting him win. You’d already started wanting him to.
Soon enough, a week later it began with a message. Simple. Direct. Brazenly mischievous.
Lewis: Okay, counsellor. No more circuit detours. I’m asking properly this time: dinner with me?
You read it three times.
Then once more, just to be sure.
It was late, past midnight. Your apartment glowed in that hazy, golden light reserved for the lives of busy women who only unwind when the world’s asleep. Legal briefs spilled across your coffee table in a chaotic mosaic evidence you’d conquered another week of shareholder sparring, contract revisions, and long calls with clients who never quite understood the difference between “urgent” and “existential.”
Still, the message pulsed softly at the top of your screen, like it was breathing.
You replied, eventually.
You: If you actually cook, I’ll consider it.
He didn’t miss a beat.
Lewis: Not only do I cook, I’m letting you choose the soundtrack. So pick wisely. I take culinary inspiration from Marvin Gaye.
You blinked. And smiled. Slowly.
By Saturday evening, you were standing curb-side, watching a matte black Ferrari hum into view like it was auditioning for a role in your carefully curated life. Sleek. Sinful. And loud enough to turn heads, despite Lewis managing to pilot it with the ease of someone who tamed chaos for sport.
He stepped out with flourish jeans hugging him in ways that should be illegal, black tee fitted like a second skin, and that grin. God, that grin. The one that had slowly painfully chipped away at your resolve over the past few weeks.
“I promised dinner,” he said, walking toward you like you were both the destination and the delight. “And a soundtrack. I assume you brought something sophisticated to counter my Marvin Gaye tendencies?”
You slid into the passenger seat, amused. “You did say you cook. I’m holding you to that. And for the record Marvin stays.”
He grinned as he pulled away. “Bold choice. You’re already trying to seduce me.”
“You wish.”
“I really do,” he murmured, almost to himself.
The drive curled through the hills, conversation gliding between teasing and tenderness. Jazz bled from the speakers, interrupted only by your occasional commentary on his driving which he argued was “poetry in motion” while you labeled it “barely legal ballet.” By the time you reached his home a clean-lined architectural daydream tucked behind oversized hedges you felt disarmed. Giddy. Like you’d accidentally walked into someone else’s life and liked the view.
Inside, the place was warm in a way you hadn’t expected. Soft lighting, textures instead of gloss, and a record player spinning something smooth and aching in the corner. The kitchen gleamed. Almost suspiciously.
You turned, arms crossed. “So. Let’s see this culinary talent.”
It should’ve been chaos.
That’s what you expected, anyway flour clouds, smoke alarms, some catastrophic misuse of saffron. You’d braced yourself for something between comedy and rescue mission. But when Lewis opened the door to his home barefoot, hair slightly tousled, sleeves pushed up like he was auditioning for a cooking show filmed in a luxury resort you were met with something entirely different.
The kitchen was spotless. Jazz floated from the speakers. The counters glistened under soft pendant lighting. And the man himself stood amid it all like he’d been preparing for this moment longer than he’d admit.
He exhaled theatrically and grabbed a pan with ceremonial flair. “Full disclosure,” he announced. “I’ve been exiled from many kitchens. I’ve burned rice. Set off three smoke alarms. And one time, I accidentally made concrete instead of pancakes.”
You arched a brow. “And you invited me to witness this redemption arc?”
“You’re a lawyer,” he shrugged, chopping basil like the knife offended him. “Worst case scenario you sue me for emotional damages and I throw myself at the mercy of your court.”
He paused, pointing at the garlic now resting on the cutting board. “This one’s judging me. I can feel it. It knows.”
You couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out. “Are you narrating your own meal?”
“I find it therapeutic,” he said gravely. “Besides, I’m cooking for a woman who closes billion-dollar deals before lunch I need dramatic flair.”
But here’s the thing he wasn’t bad. Not even close. The kitchen slowly filled with the intoxicating aroma of garlic warming in olive oil, fresh lemon zest, and the kind of basil that only lives in farmers market fever dreams.
The pasta he tossed was delicate yet bold - al dente, glistening in a sauce that tasted like intention and a man desperate to prove he’d read the recipe at least twice.
“You’re actually good,” you said, not bothering to hide your surprise as he plated the food with suspicious steadiness.
He straightened, faux offended. “How dare you. I’m exceptional. I watched seven YouTube tutorials, took one cooking class in Milan, and panicked about this for the last two days.”
You slid into the seat across from him as he poured the wine Italian, because of course and the conversation followed naturally. Silly and sweet. Real.
He told you about the time he tried to impress a girl in high school and stalled his car mid-turn, rolling gently into a rose bush. You shared your first courtroom win a case you barely slept through, terrified and electric. Between twirls of pasta and soft sips of wine, the air shifted.
The space between you narrowed. Slowly. Naturally. A hand resting near yours. His thumb grazing the rim of your glass when he leaned in, listening.
After dinner, he led you outside. Not to leave. Just to breathe.
The stars above his hillside home spread wide, sharp and indifferent but the moment below felt tailored. Designed. He stopped just as the path curved. Moonlight touched his jaw, highlighting the quiet sincerity in his gaze.
“You know,” he said, voice low and certain, “I’ve waited a long time to ask like this. Not over contracts. Not at galas. Just us.”
“You did,” you said softly.
“And you said yes.”
“I did.”
Then he stepped closer. There was no smirk. No tease. Just Lewis.
The space between you vanished not in a rush, not with hunger but with the quiet certainty of gravity finally obeyed. Lewis stepped closer, his gaze tethered to yours like the moment belonged to no one else. His movements were slower than expected, deliberate, his breath soft and warm against the cool night air as he reached up.
His hand cupped your cheek, palm gentle, thumb grazing your skin like he wasn’t just touching you he was telling you something. That you were wanted. That you were seen. That the woman who never flinched and rarely yielded had, in this moment, become the reason he didn’t need speed.
Then he kissed you.
At first, you barely registered the touch. Featherlight. As if he was asking permission even while knowing you’d already given it. His lips fit against yours with subtle precision no urgency, no performance. Just intimacy. He tasted of lemon zest and lingering wine, sweetness wrapped around quiet restraint.
But then you responded.
Your lips parted, and the connection deepened not wild, not messy, but slow and intoxicating. Like warmth unfurling inside a winter shell. His other hand ghosted across your waist, then settled with reverence, pulling you infinitesimally closer. The stars above faded into the periphery and for once, time stopped counting.
You could feel him exhale through the kiss, the tension he’d carried in every tease and smirk finally melting. The way he kissed wasn’t just romantic it was worship. Like he’d waited his whole life to earn this moment and had no intention of wasting it.
When he finally broke the kiss, he lingered close. His nose brushed yours, breath still mingled with yours. He rested his forehead gently against yours as if afraid stepping away would break whatever spell had wrapped around the two of you.
“Worth the wait,” he murmured, voice husky and reverent.
And you, brilliant, guarded, impeccably in control you smiled, heart open, walls quiet.
“Lucky for you,” you whispered, “I’m ready to be chased and caught.”
The moment hovered like mist fragile and suspended in soft moonlight, every breath shared between you slow and deliberate. His grin reappeared, but it wasn’t the usual courtroom-worthy smirk that had teased you from across press lounges or glittering gala ballrooms. No, this smile was softer. Unmasked. As if even he couldn’t believe the verdict you’d finally handed down.
It curled at his lips with quiet reverence as though he'd spent the entire chase wondering what it might feel like to reach you not with swagger, but with certainty.
He looked at you no longer the woman he’d flirted with, bantered against, or outmanoeuvred across red carpets and paddocks. He saw you in full: layered in resilience, forged by ambition, guarded by necessity. And still he saw you. The silences between your sharp retorts. The softness beneath your fire.
You stared back. Open in a way you hadn’t been in years. Your smile came slow. Real.
Not the one sculpted for press releases or boardrooms. This one was the kind born in private places warm kitchens and post-midnight laughter. The kind you hadn’t worn since long before your name became synonymous with legal powerhouses and billion-dollar closings.
Just above a whisper like confessing something fragile you said, “You’re lucky I’m starting to believe in second chances.”
His laugh was immediate, but not performative. It curled through the air like silk, low and intimate.
“I won’t need a third,” he said, eyes fluttering shut.
And before your reflex could summon sarcasm or distance, he leaned in - but this time, you beat him to it. You kissed him first.
The motion was instinctive. Affirming. A gentle crash between trust and want. His hand slid into your hair, reverent and slow, his thumb grazing the line of your jaw like he was memorising you not the version the world watched, but the one he’d earned.
Your palm flattened against his chest, catching the rhythm of a heart no longer chasing but arriving.
The kiss deepened gradually. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t cinematic for the sake of spectacle it was cinematic because it meant something. Two voices finding harmony. A pause between years of witty objections and failed tactics. A moment, finally, where everything made sense.
It was the kind of kiss that wasn’t about winning. It was about surrender.
And when he finally drew back forehead resting lightly against yours, breath shared between you in the hush of starlight he smiled.
This time, so did you.
No walls. No caution. No deliberation. Only him and only you.
And the kind of love that made one truth ring louder than any closing argument: Objection, Your Honour. He’s Too Charming. And this time? You were letting the record show.
#lewis hamilton#lh44#lewis hamilton x reader#f1 x reader#lh44 x reader#lewis hamilton imagine#f1 imagine#x reader#lewis hamilton x you#lh44 imagine#lewis hamilton x y/n#f1 one shot#lewis hamilton one shot#f1#f1 fic#team lh44#f1 fanfic#formula 1#f1 drivers#formula 1 fanfic#formula one
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I can fix you



Hockey AU Simon 'Ghost' Riley
Pairing: Hockey player Simon Riley x data analyst fem!Reader.
Summary: Tention rises as you try to improve his performance. Spoiler alert- he's not a fan at first.
Word count: 4,100 something.
Warnings: Light smut.
Note: I might be making more of this AU, because I am kinda back on the Hockey fanfics at the moment. (Might not really be Hockey accurate though.)

You weren’t supposed to be here.
Your job was simple: analyze the numbers, track player performance, and keep your head down. You were a data analyst, not a coach, not a player, and certainly not someone who should be arguing with Simon Riley in the middle of the rink.
But here you were.
"You skate like you're afraid of breaking something," you snapped, arms crossed against the biting cold of the arena.
Simon—Ghost, as he was known on the ice—tilted his head, eyes glinting under the shadow of his helmet. "And you talk like you know what you’re on about."
Your jaw clenched. The man was infuriating. He was also one of the best enforcers in the league, a defensive powerhouse with a reputation for being impossible to get past. He was ruthless, strategic, and, unfortunately, absolutely terrible at taking advice.
"Your speed's down this season," you said, stepping closer. "You're holding back."
Ghost huffed, a short, unimpressed sound. "And what? You think your little spreadsheets can tell me how to play?"
"Yes, actually," you shot back. "And if you weren’t so damn stubborn, you’d listen."
He smirked— just the barest hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. It was almost worse than his usual blank stare because it meant he was enjoying this.
"Alright," he drawled, voice low and edged with challenge. "Show me."
Your pulse jumped. "What?"
"You think you know how to fix my skating? Prove it." He tapped his stick against the ice. "Get your skates on."
Your stomach dropped. It had been years since you'd been on the ice properly, but there was no backing down now. Not with Ghost watching.
And definitely not with the way his gaze lingered, like he already knew you were going to fall—and was waiting to catch you.
You weren’t sure what was worse—the fact that Simon Riley, had just called your bluff, or the fact that you were actually considering going through with it.
You stared up at him, his smirk carved into his face like he already knew you’d back down. Like he was daring you to try.
Shit.
"Fine," you said, your voice sharper than you felt. "But if I prove you’re holding back, you listen to me."
Ghost’s smirk deepened. "Deal."
Your skates cut into the ice as you glided forward, adjusting to the familiar but slightly awkward feeling of being back on your blades. It had been years, but muscle memory kicked in fast. You weren’t a pro, but you weren’t half-bad either.
Ghost skated a slow circle around you, watching. "Didn’t think you’d actually do it."
"You should stop underestimating me."
He let out a low chuckle, barely audible over the distant echo of a puck hitting the boards. "Alright then. Show me."
You took a breath, planting your stick against the ice. "You’ve been pulling up too early on your stops," you started. "You’re bleeding momentum before you need to, which slows you down in transitions."
Ghost raised an unimpressed brow. "Or maybe I just know how to control my movement so I don’t go crashing into people like a bloody wrecking ball."
"That’s literally your job, though."
He grunted, but didn't deny it.
"Watch," you said, skating ahead.
You picked up speed, your movements steady but aggressive, before shifting your weight and digging your blades into the ice. You came to a clean, sharp stop, sending a spray of ice in Ghost’s direction.
His mask did nothing to hide the way his eyes flickered with something unreadable.
"Now, your turn Ghost." You said, turning your attention to him, while trying to catch a breath and don't make it too obvious. His stance was wide, solid, but you could see where he hesitated just a fraction of a second before his stops, just enough to take the edge off his speed.
"You're compensating for something," you said, "Left knee?"
Ghost’s expression darkened.
Bingo.
"Not injured," he muttered. "Just... old habits."
You skated closer, your fingers flexing around your stick. "You trust me yet?"
He just watched you, his jaw tight, something unreadable behind his gaze.
"You always this stubborn?" he finally asked.
You smirked. "You always this difficult?"
Ghost exhaled through his nose, like he wanted to be annoyed but couldn’t quite get there. "You’re trouble," he muttered.
You weren’t sure if it was the cold or the way Ghost was looking at you that made your pulse pick up speed.
"Alright," he muttered after a long pause. "Say you’re right—say I’m slowing down."
"You are."
His eyes narrowed. "Then fix it."
That caught you off guard. You blinked up at him, breath still coming a little faster from skating. "You actually want my help now?"
He exhaled sharply, like he wasn’t quite ready to admit it. "You’re a pain in the ass, but you’re not wrong."
Coming from him, that was the closest thing to a glowing endorsement.
"Alright," you said, shifting your grip on your stick. "We’ll start with edgework. If you can get more confidence on tight turns, you won’t instinctively brace as much."
Ghost made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a scoff. "I don’t brace."
You tilted your head, letting your smirk show. "Then you won’t mind proving it."
Something flickered behind his gaze and suddenly he was moving—fast. Before you could react, he cut a tight circle around you, his skates carving clean, efficient arcs into the ice. He was controlled, powerful, and when he stopped—right in front of you—the spray of ice nearly hit your face.
You stumbled back half a step, startled.
Ghost caught your wrist before you could fall.
The contact was brief but solid, his glove warm against your sleeve, his grip unyielding. You inhaled sharply, eyes snapping up to his.
He was too close. Close enough that you could see the way his breath misted in the cold air, close enough that you could catch the faintest hint of something—cologne, sweat, a lingering sharpness of the rink.
His fingers flexed around your wrist before he let go.
"You alright?" he asked, voice lower than before.
You swallowed. "Yeah."
Liar.
His head tilted just slightly, like he could see right through you. Like he knew exactly what effect he had.
Then, as quickly as it happened, he skated back.
"Try to keep up, then," he said, his smirk making a slow return.
Your pulse was still racing by the time practice ended. You weren’t sure if it was from the skating or the way Ghost had looked at you when he let go of your wrist.
You tried to shake it off as you made your way through the tunnel, past the locker rooms. The team had filed in already, and the distant sounds of showers running, sticks clattering, and voices arguing over game footage filled the air.
You weren’t supposed to be in here. But you also weren’t supposed to be coaching one of the most stubborn players in the league, so at this point, what was one more bad decision?
Ghost’s locker was near the back, separate from the others. He wasn’t one to linger, always the first to leave after, rarely talking unless absolutely necessary. But tonight, he was still there, taping up his stick with slow, methodical movements.
He didn’t look up when he spoke. "You lost?"
You crossed your arms. "I don’t get lost."
Ghost huffed out something that could have been a laugh. "Right."
The air in the room was warm from the showers, a stark contrast to the cold rink. You ignored the heat creeping up your neck as you leaned against the wall. "You were faster by the end of practice."
He didn’t respond, just tore another strip of tape and smoothed it over the blade of his stick.
"You gonna pretend that wasn’t because of me?" you pushed.
Ghost finally glanced up, his gaze unreadable. "You want me to say thanks?"
You shrugged. "Would be nice."
He made a low sound, somewhere between amusement and disbelief. "Don’t hold your breath."
You rolled your eyes, pushing off the wall. "You really are impossible."
"Yet you keep coming back."
Your steps faltered for half a second. It wasn’t just what he said—it was how he said it. Like he knew something you didn’t. Like maybe, just maybe, you weren’t the only one feeling the pull between you.
You opened your mouth, ready to argue, ready to shut it down before it could turn into something more. But before you could speak, another voice called out.
"Oi, Riley! You done brooding, or what?"
You turned just in time to see Johnny MacTavish rounding the corner, towel slung over his shoulder, still damp from the showers. His gaze flicked between you and Ghost, brows raising slightly at the tension in the air.
Ghost sighed, rolling his shoulders. "Yeah, yeah. I’m coming."
Soap smirked, clearly picking up on something. "Didn’t mean to interrupt."
You felt your face heat. "You weren’t."
"Sure, sure," he said, grinning like he absolutely didn’t believe you. "See you ‘round, then."
He clapped Ghost on the shoulder before heading out, leaving you standing there, still caught in the moment you weren’t sure how to walk away from.
Ghost exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face. "You really that determined to fix me?"
Your stomach twisted. "I don’t think you’re broken, Riley."
Something flickered in his eyes—something quick, unreadable. Then, just as fast, it was gone.
"Get out of here," he muttered, reaching for his duffel. "Before you start thinking I might actually listen to you."
You smirked, stepping back toward the exit. "Too late."
You told yourself you weren’t thinking about him.
You told yourself you weren’t replaying that moment in the locker room—the way Ghost had looked at you, the way his voice had dipped just enough to make your breath hitch.
You told yourself a lot of things.
But then the road trip happened.
The team bus was packed with gear, exhausted players, and the hum of pre-game tension. You had claimed a seat toward the middle, laptop open, reviewing analytics for the match against Dallas.
You were not paying attention to the man sitting across the aisle.
Ghost had his hood up, arms crossed, a pair of headphones resting around his neck. He wasn’t asleep, but he also wasn’t acknowledging anyone—classic Ghost behavior.
You tried to focus on your work. You really did. But then Soap, sitting in the seat behind you, leaned forward with a shit-eating grin.
"So," he said, voice low enough to not attract too much attention. "You and Riley, huh?"
You kept your eyes on your screen, fingers stilling over your keyboard. "I have no idea what you’re talking about."
Soap chuckled. "Aye, sure you don’t. Just sayin'—never seen him listen to anyone the way he listens to you."
Your lips pressed into a thin line. "He doesn’t listen to me."
"Noticed he’s stoppin’ cleaner, though," Soap mused. "Movin’ faster. That’s you, yeah?"
You didn’t answer.
"Relax," Soap said, clapping your shoulder before leaning back. "Just don’t break his heart, alright?"
Soap just laughed, shaking his head like he knew something you didn’t.
And across the aisle, Ghost’s fingers tapped once against his knee—just once, barely noticeable. But you saw it.
Like maybe he’d heard everything.
The game had been brutal. Hard hits, dirty plays, and a one-goal lead that had come down to the final seconds.
Ghost had been a force, shutting down every attempt on net, getting under the other team’s skin until fists started flying. You weren’t sure if it was the strategy sessions or the sheer stubbornness, but he’d been faster tonight. More aggressive.
More himself.
The team was celebrating in the hotel bar, but you weren’t drinking. You were tucked into a booth in the corner, reviewing the game footage. You were so focused you didn’t notice him until he sat down across from you.
"You’re avoiding me," Ghost muttered.
You looked up, caught off guard. "I’m working."
He huffed, shaking his head. "Bullshit."
You tensed. "What’s your problem?"
Ghost leaned forward, forearms braced on the table. "You got in my head."
Your breath caught. "What?"
"You heard me." His gaze was heavy, unreadable. "Every time I skated, every time I stopped, I heard your voice. You sure you’re not tryin’ to fix me?"
Your mouth felt dry. "I told you. You’re not broken."
Ghost exhaled slowly, like he wasn’t sure what to do with that.
And then, before you could stop yourself, you said it, "You were better tonight."
His fingers curled into fists on the table. His jaw tightened, like he was fighting something back.
Then, without a word, he stood up.
The hotel was quiet.
Most of the team was still downstairs celebrating, but you had slipped away, the weight of the game and whatever the hell was happening with Ghost pressing down on you.
You told yourself you were just tired. That you weren’t replaying the way he looked at you in the bar, like you had gotten under his skin in a way he hadn’t expected.
But then—a knock at your door.
Your stomach flipped.
You already knew who it was.
You took a slow breath before opening the door.
Ghost stood there, still in his hoodie, hands shoved into his pockets. His mask was gone, leaving his face shadowed in the dim hallway light. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—God, his eyes.
You swallowed. "Ghost—"
"Simon," he interrupted.
You blinked. "What?"
His jaw clenched, "Call me Simon."
He never let people use his real name. Not teammates, not coaches, no one.
And yet, here he was, standing in your doorway, demanding it from you.
You felt lightheaded. "Simon."
His eyes darkened.
Then, suddenly, he was inside.
You barely had time to step back before he pushed the door shut behind him, crowding into your space. You should have been nervous—he was so close, his presence so overwhelming—but you weren’t.
"You got in my head," he muttered. "You’re still in my head."
Your breath hitched. "Simon—"
"You’re pissin’ me off," he growled. "But I—" He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "I can’t stop thinkin’ about you."
The words hit you like a body check against the boards.
"What do you want me to say?"
His eyes flickered down to your lips.
"Tell me I’m not losin’ my mind," he muttered.
You swallowed hard. "You’re not."
Something snapped.
Then—his mouth was on yours.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was desperate, all sharp edges and frustration, like he had been holding back for too damn long and finally let himself break.
You gasped against him, but he didn’t let you pull away. His hands braced against the door, caging you in as he kissed you like he had been waiting for this since the moment you first challenged him on the ice.
You didn’t know who moved first, but suddenly your hands were in his hoodie, grabbing at the fabric, pulling him closer.
Simon groaned—actually groaned—into your mouth, pressing harder, like he was trying to prove something. Like he was trying to make sure you knew this wasn’t just a mistake.
Like he was staking his claim.
And God help you—you let him.
Simon kissed like he played—hard, relentless, and with no intention of letting you walk away unscathed.
His mouth slanted over yours, demanding, pushing, devouring. His hands, huge and impossibly steady, bracketed your face, fingers threading into your hair as he backed you up against the hotel door.
You should have slowed down. You should have stopped. But the way he kissed you—rough and unyielding, like he had been starving for this—made it impossible to think about anything but more.
A gasp slipped from your lips as he moved lower, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw. His breath was ragged, his stubble scraping against your skin as he pressed against you, all muscle, all heat, all Simon.
"You have no idea," he murmured against your throat, "how long I’ve wanted to do this."
Your legs nearly gave out.
But Simon was already there, catching you, pressing you against the door like he didn’t trust himself not to tear you apart right there.
"Bed," you managed to whisper, you grabbed his hoodie and yanked it over his head.
His shirt went next, and—fuck.
You had known he was built—obviously—but seeing him like this, bare, scarred, solid, was something else entirely.
Simon didn’t give you long to stare. He was already on you again, kissing you deeper, rougher, guiding you backward until your legs hit the bed.
Then—you were falling.
Simon followed, his body covering yours, heat pressing into you, his hands already working your clothes off. Every inch of skin he revealed, he touched. Every inch of you, he claimed.
You weren’t sure who moaned first when he finally got you bare beneath him, but it didn’t matter.
"You sure about this?" he rasped, voice strained, like he was holding onto the last thread of his control.
You pulled him down, lips brushing against his.
"Shut up and fuck me, Riley."
His control snapped.
Simon wasted no time. One hand gripped your hip, the other slid between your legs, finding you soaking, ready, desperate for him.
"Jesus Christ," he muttered, nearly losing it right then and there. "Look at you."
Your back arched as he teased you, dragging his fingers through your slick, his breath hot against your ear.
"You want me?" he rasped, pressing against your entrance but not quite giving you what you needed.
"Simon," you gasped, nails digging into his arms.
"Say it," he demanded, voice low and dangerous, like he needed to hear it just as bad as you needed him.
Your head fell back against the pillows. "I want you."
That was all he needed.
In one smooth, powerful thrust, Simon buried himself inside you.
You cried out, legs wrapping around his waist, nails scraping down his back as he stretched you, filled you, ruined you.
"Fuck," he groaned, forehead dropping to yours, fighting for control as your body squeezed around him.
But you didn’t want control.
You wanted him raw, reckless, gone.
"Move," you whispered.
Simon set a brutal pace, his hips snapping into yours, taking you apart one deep thrust at a time. Every movement, every sound, every ounce of tension that had been building between you for weeks, months, longer than either of you wanted to admit—it all exploded into this moment.
He fucked you like he played—ruthless, unstoppable, and completely, devastatingly yours.
"Mine," he growled against your throat, his hands gripping your hips so tight you knew there would be bruises.
You barely managed to gasp out, "Yours."
His rhythm stuttered, his breath came ragged, and his hands pinned you down as he chased his high—dragging you with him.
And when you shattered—when pleasure tore through you so hard you thought you might break—Simon was right there with you, cursing, groaning, burying himself deep as he spilled inside you.
For a long moment, neither of you moved.
Your chest heaved, your body still trembling, every nerve burned raw from him.
Simon stayed inside you, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath hot and uneven.
"You," he finally muttered, voice hoarse, "are the biggest fucking mistake I’ve ever made."
You swallowed, trying to steady yourself.
"But?" you whispered.
His fingers brushed over your jaw, his lips ghosting against your temple.
"But I’m not sure I give a shit anymore."
You were fucked.
Not just because you had let Simon Riley break you apart in a hotel room last night—more than once. Not just because you could still feel the ache between your legs from the way he had taken you like he had something to prove.
But because now, by the ice at morning skate, you couldn’t stop looking at him.
And worse—he was looking at you, too.
It had started the moment you walked onto the rink.
Simon was already there, stretching near the bench, looking every bit the same as always—broad, unreadable, perfectly in control.
Except he wasn’t.
Because the second you walked in, his eyes snapped to you.
It wasn’t obvious. Not to anyone else. But you felt it.
And then—he smirked.
Smirked.
The bastard knew exactly what he was doing, standing there like he wasn’t the reason your entire body was still on fire from last night.
You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to focus, forcing yourself to act like nothing had happened. But it was impossible. Because every time he moved, every time his voice rumbled across the ice, you remembered.
You remembered the weight of him, the way he had growled your name, the way he had—
"Hey data girl."
Simon had skated right up to you, stopping by the boards, just close enough that you felt the heat radiating off him. His face was unreadable, but his eyes weren’t.
You swallowed hard. "Riley."
His lips twitched. "You look tense."
Oh, this fucker.
"Stretching helps," he murmured, low enough that only you could hear. "Wouldn’t want you getting all stiff."
Your brain short-circuited. Last night. His hands. His mouth.
Nope. Nope, nope, nope.
You forced a neutral expression. "You here to skate or run your mouth?"
Simon’s smirk deepened.
"Both."
Fucker.
You should have expected it.
Simon had always played hard, but today—he was on a mission.
And apparently, that mission involved driving you insane.
Every time he came near the bench, he would stop just close enough to make you notice. He’d glance at you, barely smirking, his gaze dark and knowing.
But the worst part?
He was playing better than ever.
Faster. Sharper. Completely in control—unlike you.
And then—the hit happened.
It was mid-scrimmage, a full-contact drill, but when Simon slammed an opposing player (who, by the way, was trying to hit you up before the game) into the boards with enough force to shake the glass, you knew.
That wasn’t just a hit. That was territorial.
The other player groaned, shoving at Simon's chest. "Jesus, Riley, calm the fuck down."
But Simon barely acknowledged him. He was already skating away—backward.
Looking at you.
Only you.
And you knew, without a doubt, that the hit had nothing to do with the play and everything to do with last night.
Your grip on the boards tightened. Fucker.
The second the final whistle blew, you were already moving.
You didn’t wait for the team to clear the ice. Didn’t wait for the knowing glances from Soap, or the way Simon had skated past you one last time with that same infuriating, cocky smirk.
You just walked.
Straight to the locker room.
You barely had a second to catch your breath before he was there.
Simon stepped inside, shutting the door behind him, his skates slung over one shoulder.
You spun to face him, still fuming. "What the hell was that?"
His expression was maddeningly blank. "What was what?"
Oh, you wanted to hit him.
"The hit," you snapped, crossing your arms. "The staring. The smirking. The—"
"The fucking?" he interrupted, tilting his head.
You froze.
Your pulse skipped.
And he knew it.
"Careful, love," he murmured, stepping closer, invading your space like he had every right to be there. "People might start to think you actually enjoyed yourself last night."
Your jaw clenched. "You’re an asshole."
Simon hummed, reaching past you to set his skates down on the bench. The movement brought him so close you had to fight the urge to back up.
Or worse—to close the distance yourself.
"You’re not mad about the hit," he muttered, voice dropping. "You’re mad because this time I got in your head."
He was right.
And he knew it.
You squared your shoulders. "I’m mad because you can’t keep your shit together on the ice."
His gaze darkened.
"Can’t keep my shit together?" he repeated, stepping even closer. "Right. Because you weren’t in the stands, watchin’ me. Because you weren’t picturing my hands on you the whole time."
You hated that he was right.
But you hated even more that your body betrayed you.
Your breath came quicker. Your pulse pounded. And Simon—fucking Simon—just smirked.
"You liked it," he murmured.
You swallowed hard. "Shut up, Simon."
His eyes flickered. Something changed.
"Say it again."
You frowned. "What?"
"My name." His voice was rough. Low. "Say it again." his fingers were flexing at his sides like he was seconds away from grabbing you.
And God help you—you wanted him to.
But not here. Not like this.
So you did the only thing you could.
You took a slow breath, tilted your chin up, and said—
"Try to keep up, Simon."
Then you turned, pushing the door open, leaving him standing there.
Breathing hard.
Watching you go.
And if you weren’t mistaken—
Smirking.
#hockey au#writers on tumblr#simon ghost riley#simon ghost riley x reader#simon ghost x reader#simon riley x oc#simon riley x reader#simon riley x you#simon ghost riley x female oc#simon ghost riley x female reader#simon riley x female reader#hockey player simon riley#hockey au Simon Riley#hockey#hockey player x reader#hockey player au#hockey player ghost#hockey!simon#hockey!ghost#hockey!au#hockey!simon riley#simon riley hockey au arcadia
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Terms & Conditions
Loki Odinson x Stark's Daughter Smut Warning 18+
The sound of her stilettos was a warning.
A threat wrapped in red soles and patent leather. Every step down the hallway of Avengers Tower was deliberate, measured, and entirely for show. She wasn’t just Tony Stark’s daughter. She was a legal powerhouse in her own right. Stark Industries' corporate counsel. Avengers' in-house attorney. And the only woman in the building who made Loki Odinson feel utterly human when she pinned him in place with a look.
Her office door closed behind her with a soft hiss, locking automatically.
“I told you to wait until after five,” she said, not looking up.
“And I told you I don’t follow rules.” Loki’s voice was dark velvet, already behind her.
She glanced over her shoulder, smirking. He was leaning against her desk like he owned it, that familiar arrogance in every line of his tall frame. Dark slacks, black button-down rolled to the elbows. The god of mischief made it all look criminally good.
“You’ll get us caught,” she murmured, setting her files down. “Pepper’s two offices down.”
Loki moved like smoke—silent, dangerous. Suddenly he was behind her, warm breath teasing her ear. “Then keep your voice down.”
His hand slid up her thigh, under the hem of her skirt, palm rough against her stockings. She closed her eyes for a beat, exhaled through her nose. He always started slow, teasing, until she was grinding against his palm like she had no pride.
“Loki,” she warned.
“Yes?” That amused tone. That deadly smirk in his voice. “Should I stop?”
She didn’t answer. Just tilted her hips into his hand.
His fingers brushed the thin lace of her thong. “Already wet,” he murmured, pleased.
“Shut up.”
“Oh, Starkling. You love it when I talk.”
He pushed the thin fabric aside and ran his fingers through her slick folds, slow and deliberate. Her hands gripped the edge of the desk. She bit her bottom lip hard.
“If you get slick on my briefs again,” she said through her teeth, “you’re buying me new ones.”
He chuckled. “Gladly. I’ll pick red. Like those perfect little heels you click across the floor like a war drum.”
He dipped one finger inside her, then two, curling them just right. Her legs buckled slightly, and he caught her with an arm around her waist, fingers never stopping. Her soft gasp made him grin against her neck.
“You’re always so professional,” he growled. “All polished and untouchable. But in here…”
He thrust deeper, twisting his wrist, and her knees gave out. He held her up easily, lips grazing her ear.
“In here, you’re mine.”
She turned her head, lips finding his in a kiss that was all teeth and heat and hunger. His free hand gripped her jaw, holding her still as he kissed her like a punishment. She bit his lip and he moaned low in his throat.
Then she shoved him back, turned, and climbed onto the desk.
“Pants off,” she commanded, crossing her legs slowly. “Now.”
Loki arched a brow, eyes devouring her from her tousled hair to the flash of red sole she deliberately showed. “So bossy,” he said, already unbuckling his belt. “Just how I like you.”
She slid her blazer off, revealing the silk camisole beneath. Her nipples were already hard through the fabric. No bra. He groaned when he realized it.
“Desperate today, are we?”
She didn’t answer. Just spread her legs.
He stepped between them, hard and ready, the head of his cock already leaking. She grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand to her mouth, licking her arousal off his fingers while holding his gaze.
Loki swore in Old Norse.
“Need to be quiet,” she whispered as he lined up. “You make me loud.”
He thrust in with one hard stroke.
Her head fell back, mouth open in a silent cry. Loki’s hands gripped her hips, bruising. She was tight and wet and perfect, and the desk creaked beneath them.
“I’ll make you scream anyway,” he muttered, starting to move.
He fucked her like he didn’t care who was outside that door. Like he owned her office, her body, her moans. She clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders, heels locked behind his back as he pounded into her again and again.
Papers scattered. A framed photo tipped. Her phone buzzed on the desk and she slapped it away.
“Faster,” she begged, voice hoarse. “Please.”
He growled, hand slipping between them to rub her clit in hard circles.
“Come for me,” he hissed. “Now.”
She shattered.
Her whole body shook, a cry catching in her throat as her climax tore through her. He followed a moment later, hips stuttering, holding her tight as he spilled inside her.
The room went silent but for the sound of their breathing.
After a moment, she pushed him back with a weak hand to the chest.
“Get cleaned up. We have a team meeting in ten.”
Loki smirked, still catching his breath. “You’re adorable when you pretend I didn’t just fuck you stupid.”
She fixed her hair in the reflection of her office window. Found her blazer. Reapplied lipstick.
Loki was pulling his shirt back on, utterly unfazed.
As he walked to the door, she said without turning around: “Lock it behind you.”
He did. Of course he did.
Because they had rules.
And even gods knew not to cross a Stark on her turf.
#avengers#mcu#marvel#loki of asgard#jotun loki#loki odinson#loki laufeyson#marvel loki#loki series#loki#thor odinson#loki fanfic#loki marvel#loki x reader#loki x y/n#loki x you#loki x oc#loki x ofc#loki x original female character#loki x female reader#loki x f!reader#loki odinson x you#loki of jotunheim#loki odinson x reader#mcu loki#loki odinson x y/n#loki laufesyon x reader#loki smut#loki fanfiction#loki fic
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Heyyy:D can you alucard fluff headcanons with a fem reader
Haiiii! ;D ! Yes, I can!
Requests Announcement.
1: Okay, so you know how cats yawn, right? I genuinely believe that that's how he yawns when he wakes up from a particularly good sleep session. [Name]'s giggling at the exposure of his fangs, finding him similar to one as he stretches. He's quick to question her amusement to which she answers with a loving look on her face.
2. Alucard gifts [Name] roses twice or thrice a week to avoid wasting these precious flowers, but he's always sure to change their colour. She could be gifted pink roses on Monday, burgundy on Wednesday, purple on Saturdays; who knows? Maybe he'll even go with a holiday theme on a certain day.
3. Valentines. I'll be honest, I don't think he took keen to do anything special on that day, but now that [Name]'s around, he'll surely be keen on doing whatever ensures that she has a pleasant day. Given his troubled past and choice of career, he understands the happiness a holiday can bring to troubled individuals, even if it's just for a couple of hours, so he'll be detailed on pleasing you, even going to the extent of watching keen lovers as they do what they can to prepare for the day. Knowing him, he may strike a conversation with one, bonding over their lovers without much detail on you.
4. "This man is adapting to being adored, especially after being touch-starved for many, many, years." I sung to the knowing choir. He appreciates a moment of quiet and his darling's thighs while he rests on her. This must happen AT LEAST once a week.
5. [Name]'s a human: Can I say he's educated on women's cycles? Yes, yes I can. Thinking back to the lack of understanding of women's cycles, the war days and the decline of supplies for women, he's grateful for the modern day of information and easy access to a lot of resources. Also, I have a distinct feeling he did have to take the mantle of 'doctor' on one or two occasions. [Name]'s so lucky to have this powerhouse of information, finding his help great whenever she's in any of her phases. He observes her too, understanding her actions whenever she's close or in any of them. If she's likely to need something, it's within her grasp.
6. Maybe this has the energy of succumbing to gender stereotypes, but I do feel that he'd slightly lean towards them when it comes to [Name]. He just wants to take care of her, alright? It's not that he finds you weak, quite the opposite- it's just that he's had a specific view of women which a majority just seem to share. [Name] should be protected, loved and taken great care of. You could impress him with multiple kills, but he'll still have an urge to be your protector.
7. If [Name] gets emotional, Alucard will provide comfort. It could be be lifting her into his arms, covering her in his darkness to provide her with confidence to sob into him while he manifests in a secluded area. He whispers reassurances and names that make her swoon. He knows she will confide in him in time. He's her comfort and she is his.
#𝐂𝐃𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐒!✮𖦹#hellsing#hellsing ultimate#hellsing fanfiction#hellsing alucard#alucard x reader#alucard hellsing x reader#alucard x you#x reader#reader fic#hellsing headcanons
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‧₊˚✧ ❛[ pocket powerhouse ]❜
━━━ .°˖✧ requested by @klerns-birdie ˚₊ ⊹
ft. logan howlett x f! reader x wade wilson — xmen, marvel
╰₊✧ entering the void with their tiny, mighty companion┊1.4k words
setting: deadpool & wolverine (2024) worst! logan contains: canon typical blood & violence (and murder lol), reader is described as short & cute, super strength mutation, reader is the one who kills sabertooth in this one, fourth-wall break
➤ author's note: this was funnier in my head
they had you surrounded on all fronts, some standing before you and others on armored vehicles, holding their weapons and fists up ready to strike at any moment. if they didn’t clearly have bad intentions, then you would have been flattered at this little welcome party gathering together after only a few minutes of being sent into the void. they probably heard the ruckus wade and logan were making since they simply couldn’t keep their hands off of each other.
meaning, they couldn’t stop beating each other up and using any means necessary to shed blood or break bones despite it all being healed within the span of seconds.
you find the only successful way to get them to stop trying to kill each other is by threatening to kill them first, throwing a punch into the ground to destroy it under you as a means to grab their attention while shouting that you’ll decapitate them if they continue.
they listen to you most of the time and drop the mini battles, not because they believe you would actually do it, but because they believe they are humoring you by doing so (and because they know to sit down and shut up when a pretty woman tells them to). with super-strength as your mutation, you could do it with ease, they know you can— it’s just so difficult to think that such a cute little thing who pouts when ignored and is frequently used as an armrest due to short stature would ever do anything of the sort. you still have yet to act on your warnings, only depending on bloodlust-filled glares to settle them down much like a teacher waiting for her noisy class to be quiet.
logan thinks you all bark and no bite, wade compares you to an angry bunny, it’s safe to say they take what you say with a grain of salt, exchanging amused looks and admiring how cute you are when yelling profanities and gory details of how you’re going to maim them. (blah, blah, blah, proper name, place name— backstory stuff)
the three of you cringed at the failure of johnny storm, grimacing when his balls probably got crushed on a metal pole and every time he hit his head before getting captured. his end goal was clearly to escape, but you didn’t quite know how he was planning to get there when he set himself alight and started flying.
“i know you!” a large man with flowing blonde hair jumped off the tank, landing with a heavy thud on the compacted sand.
“oh my god, that’s sabertooth, peanut’s brother,” wade explained.
“brother? they don’t really look anything alike aside from being… uh… feral?”
“well you see, apparently there are some discrepancies about that. the author isn’t sure about anything because her bitch-ass still hasn’t watched any of the x-men movies or done her research. something about ‘being too busy with real life,’ can you believe that?”
“okay, you lost me when you started talking about ‘an author,’ but lay off her!”
sabertooth growled at logan, “ready to die?”
“hey, don’t threaten him! i don’t care if he’s your brother, he’s my friend!” you interrupted, walking up to him, acting nonchalantly like he was a teddy bear when he was truly a grizzly. he was much taller than you too, towering over you and leaving you in his shadow.
“get outta my way, girlie” he barked, extending his claws, prepared to sink them into your flesh. “you’re lucky you’re cute, or else i already would have killed you.”
“aww, thank you! but i can’t accept compliments from someone who wants to kill my friend, so to that, i say ‘fuck off!’”
before he could let out a roar about how you should know who you’re talking to or swipe his claws at your face, you lifted your hand and slapped him across the face. it was much like a dramatic slap from television shows where the girl finds out her boyfriend is cheating on her or something, except his head went flying off into the distance and sprayed blood everywhere. it happened so quickly that his body stood there for a second before flopping over.
“oh my god!” wade exclaimed, cupping his face in his hands from surprise before excitedly clapping them together, “oh my god, that’s my girl— that’s our girl! see, that’s what happens when you enlist a y/n on your team, i told you that it was a good idea to take her with us!” he picked up the decapitated head and waved his arms around, paying no mind to the dripping red iron spilling on his costume, “you bitches saw that? she’s cute ‘n tiny but mighty, and she’ll absolutely fuck you up!”
the victory was short-lived as they took advantage of logan’s adamantium skeleton and other large pieces to scrap to trap all of you to a magnet. normally, this would be a breeze for you to get yourself out of, but you got hit in the head and quickly fell unconscious for them to ship you all away to cassandra.
when you finally woke up, you’re tied back-to-back with johnny and find your two companions in a similar position. “are you guys okay?”
“they’re asleep, but i’m okay,” logan answered, voice uncharacteristically amiable. despite being just as annoying as deadpool, he liked you a whole lot more and never spoke to you as roughly as he did to him. you were sweeter, more empathetic and understanding that he needed his own space, and, he isn’t going to lie, very easy on the eyes. “and you?”
“i’m okay! my head really hurts though…” you winced and shook your head a few times, trying to get the pounding sensation out. “god, this place is crazy. first we get teleported to this junkyard and then—”
“did you really mean what you said back there?”
“what did i say?”
“well… you…” god, he felt stupid, he was about to back out and say ‘nevermind,’ but he knows that you wouldn’t have let him go so easily. “you said that i was your friend…”
“yeah! you are! i mean, i killed your brother for you even though you could have done it yourself, putting myself in danger just so that you didn’t have to— you better consider me a friend too!”
he should tell you that you shouldn’t call him that nor think of him that way since nothing good ever comes out associating with him, but he can’t bring himself to say the words he’s routinely told others to successfully push them away. something about the look in your eyes, the way they sparkled when you looked at him. something about your smile, toothy and full of hope for the future to make up for his lack of. something about you makes him keep his mouth shut.
instead, he looks away, muttering a quiet word of thanks.
you tilt your head in slight confusion, not understanding the depth of your statement yet and how it managed to pull a word of gratitude out of a man who was in a constant state of irritation, but it made you irrationally happy and giddy inside.
wade was murmuring a few unintelligible sentences before coming to, and despite wearing a mask that covered his entire face, you could envision the mild look of disgust behind the leather as clear as day. “ew, why are you smiling like that??” he took a glance at you and then back at him, repeating the process a few times. “what the fuck? you guys can’t have a love story and leave me out of it! i’m the reason you two even met—” he finally seemed to process the situation from the close proximity with logan, looking him in the eyes through the white fabric of his mask and trying to find a way to loosen it to no avail. “how long have i been asleep?”
“not all of you was asleep.”
johnny seemed to wake up as well, beginning to tell a whole bunch of exposition about this place you were trapped in, something about a monster that would swallow you up and a “her” who runs this entire place. he laughed at the notion of evading this woman’s grasp, but wade thought otherwise.
“nah, we can take her! i have a pocket powerhouse and the wolverine on my side, i’m not scared of anything!”
no one quite believes him, but it’s nice to see that your optimism has rubbed off on him.

#📜. her works#logan howlett#logan howlett x reader#wade wilson#wade wilson x reader#wolverine#wolverine x reader#deadpool#deadpool x reader#deadpool and wolverine#deadpool 3#marvel#marvel x reader#x men#x men x reader
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Setting the Standard
English is not my first language, so if you find mistakes, feel free to contact me!
Synopsis: Atsumu Miya, known for his cocky and competitive nature, slowly shifts from his usual show-off demeanor to genuine efforts to impress his team’s new manager. As their relationship develops, she struggles with whether his actions are sincere or just another game.
warnings/content: Miya Atsumu x fem!reader, fluff, 9.683 words
The gym buzzed with the sharp rhythm of sneakers squeaking against polished wood, the familiar thud of a volleyball echoing through the space. Inarizaki High's volleyball team wasn't just known in their prefecture—they were a powerhouse, feared for their precision, coordination, and ruthless energy on the court.
But inside the gym, where banners hung high and sweat clung to skin like a second layer, the atmosphere wasn't always warm.
"Oi, Suna, stop dragging your feet like we're playin' in a retirement league!" Atsumu Miya barked from his side of the net, spinning a volleyball in his hands.
"Maybe if you didn't call for a set every five seconds like a spotlight-loving maniac," Suna deadpanned, not even looking up from where he was stretching.
Atsumu rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath, but didn't push it further. The rest of the team barely blinked. This was just how Atsumu was—sharp-tongued, endlessly competitive, and, in the words of most of his teammates, an exhausting bastard.
But no one could deny it: he was brilliant.
He moved like the game was built for him, each set an extension of his instinct, each serve a threat to the scoreboard. He demanded perfection, and when he didn't get it—well, his temper was just as famous as his skills.
Most of the team tolerated him. Few liked him. But they accepted him, in that quiet, unspoken way athletes do when someone's skill earns them a place whether they deserve it personally or not.
Truthfully, most of them found it easier to get along with Osamu.
The calmer, quieter Miya twin was kneeling by the ball cart, checking equipment while casually dodging one of Atsumu's careless serves that had rocketed across the court.
"Ya gonna start a fight before warm-ups are done, or can we have one practice without you yellin' at someone?" Osamu drawled.
"Not my fault they can't keep up," Atsumu muttered, bouncing the ball again, shoulders tense.
Captain Kita walked into the gym then, clipboard in hand and expression unreadable as always. His presence had the immediate effect of a cold breeze—cutting through the heat, settling everyone into place.
Practice was about to begin. There was no need for a pep talk. Inarizaki didn't need motivation.
They had skill. Power. Purpose.
What they didn't have—at least, not yet—was someone to balance the sharp edges they all carried.
But that would change soon.
Practice began with its usual rigor. Kita stood at the sideline, calling out the rotation. The team moved without needing much direction, the routine drilled into them after months—years—of relentless training.
But halfway through warm-ups, Kita raised his hand.
The ball bounced to a stop. Conversations cut short. Even Atsumu turned mid-jump, freezing in place.
"Before we continue," Kita said, his tone as calm and commanding as ever, "there's something I need to tell you all."
A few glances exchanged. It wasn't like Kita to interrupt unless it was serious.
"We might be getting a new manager."
A beat of silence followed.
Then—"Might?" Atsumu asked, tossing the ball up and catching it lazily. "What, are we test-drivin' her or somethin'?"
Kita gave him a look that shut him up immediately.
"She's volunteering to help, not auditioning for your amusement."
Several heads turned towards Atsumu with knowing smirks. He huffed, looking away, muttering something under his breath.
"She should be arriving soon," Kita continued. "When she does, I expect all of you to treat her with respect. She's not here to clean up after you. She's here to support the team. If anyone causes her to quit before she's even started—"
His eyes swept across the gym, settling briefly on a certain setter before moving on.
"—you'll be running laps until your legs stop working."
A low whistle from Ginjima broke the tension. "Got it, captain."
Kita's voice dropped a little, thoughtful now.
"I won't be here next year. When I graduate, this team is going to need someone to hold it together. Not just on the court."
The weight of his words settled like a quiet echo. Everyone respected Kita—not just because he was talented, but because he carried the team. The unshakeable presence, the calm in chaos. The idea of Inarizaki without him felt... unfamiliar.
"I don't see anyone here ready to lead the same way yet," he added bluntly, eyes sharp but not cruel. "Which means, until one of you proves otherwise, we need someone who can keep the rest of you in line."
Atsumu let out an exaggerated yawn, arms stretched overhead. "Tch. Dunno what you're talkin' about. I'm very manageable."
Osamu snorted from behind him. "Yeah. Like a wild dog's manageable."
Before Atsumu could respond with something snarky, the gym doors slid open with a quiet clack.
Everyone turned.
There you were—standing a little hesitantly at the threshold, in a neat uniform, clutching a clipboard against you chest. Your expression was open, bright, a little nervous but unshakably warm.
Kita nodded towards you. "That's her."
You stepped inside, bowing politely, your voice clear but gentle as you introduced yourself.
"Hello, everyone. I'm Y/N, your new manager—if you'll have me."
Atsumu raised an eyebrow, arms crossed.
Kita didn't smile often, but there was the faintest, approving shift in his posture as he turned to the team. "Don't scare her off. That's an order."
The gym smelled like sweat and determination, the kind of sharp air that clung to ambition and effort. It felt oddly… welcoming. Or maybe that was just how you chose to see it.
The team offered a mix of responses: a few nods, a polite chorus of "nice to meet you," and some curious glances. They didn't seem unfriendly—just unsure.
You could work with that.
One boy, with half-lidded eyes and a tired expression, gave you a lazy wave. "Hope you know what you're getting into."
"Suna," Kita said warningly, to which he just smirked.
Another one—tall and broad-shouldered with short hair—smiled. "I'm Ginjima. Don't worry, we're not all scary."
"Speak for yourself," a shorter player muttered under his breath.
You laughed softly, tucking your clipboard to your side. "I've managed worse. Or at least, I like to think I have."
That's when you noticed him.
Blond hair. Golden eyes. A subtle scowl like it had made itself a home on his face. He was leaning against the ball cart, watching you like he was already two steps into trying to mess with you.
You offered a smile.
He didn't return it.
"Don't mind him," a voice murmured from your side.
You turned to see a boy with the same face—but a different energy. Calmer. Colder, but not unkind. This must be the twin.
"Osamu Miya," he said, offering his hand.
You shook it. "Nice to meet you."
He leaned in a bit, his voice low. "That one's my brother. Atsumu. He's an idiot."
You blinked. "Direct."
"Just a warnin'," Osamu said. "He's gonna test ya. Push your buttons. Loud, demanding, and convinced the sun shines right outta his own ass."
You choked back a laugh.
Osamu went on, sounding like he'd said this a hundred times before. "Don't let him get away with anythin'. Or next thing you know, you're doin' his errands and cleanin' up his ego."
You glanced at Atsumu again. He was still staring. Like he expected you to trip over yourself any second now.
You raised your eyebrows at him.
He narrowed his eyes.
Game on.
Kita gave you a quick rundown of your responsibilities—tracking water bottles, keeping an eye on injuries, managing towels and uniforms, updating the schedule board. Nothing too overwhelming, especially since you were used to staying organized and multitasking.
You got to work immediately, weaving around the players during drills. You handed Suna a fresh towel before he could ask. Noted a small scrape on one of the first-years and pulled out a bandage. Jotted down the updated practice match date Kita mentioned offhandedly.
Quiet efficiency. That was your strength.
And Atsumu noticed.
He watched from across the gym as you moved, graceful but grounded, all warmth with a spine of steel. You weren't fawning over anyone. You weren't flustered. You didn't bat an eye when someone cursed under their breath or bumped into you.
And when he finally walked up, cocky grin in place, spinning a ball in one hand, you barely looked up.
"Hey, Manager-chan," he said, dragging out the title like it was a joke. "Think ya could grab my knee tape from the locker room? My legs are worth protectin', after all."
You looked up slowly, smiled politely, and said:
"Sure. Right after I get everyone else's stuff. You're at the bottom of my list right now."
The smirk froze on his face.
You turned and walked off before he could reply.
The team went quiet for a second before Suna burst out laughing and Osamu let out a low whistle. "That's gonna be interestin'."
Ginjima nudged Atsumu with his elbow. "Did you just get manager-zoned?"
Atsumu stared after you, mouth slightly open, and for once in his life, speechless. But you didn't even notice the way his gaze lingered. You didn't care about his reaction. Or about him at all, it seemed.
— — — — —
It didn't take long for you to feel like you belonged.
Maybe it was because you worked hard. Maybe because you didn't treat anyone like they were larger than life. Maybe it was because you knew when to be serious and when to just let the boys be dumb high school boys.
Whatever it was—within a few weeks, you weren't just the manager. You were their manager.
They still cursed under their breath when Kita's drills got too intense, but they made sure to thank you after every match, accepted your help without grumbling, and even started competing over who could make you laugh more during water breaks.
You were part of the team. On and off the court.
And somehow, you ended up becoming the unofficial tutor too.
"I'm tellin' ya," Osamu groaned, flopping down at the desk in the empty classroom, "this teacher's got it out for me. I swear. There's no way this many trick questions is legal."
You stifled a smile, passing him a worksheet. "It's not a trick question, Osamu. You just need to actually study the formulas instead of trying to wing it on vibes."
He grumbled something incoherent in response.
Across from you, Suna leaned on his arm, lazily scribbling down answers as you explained a concept again. "She's right, you know. You've got vibes and snacks, that's about it."
"Least I ain't a roach who copies homework five minutes before class."
You laughed, turning the page in your textbook and pointing something out to Osamu. "Focus. Midterms aren't going to pass themselves."
"Yeah, yeah…"
The sound of footsteps in the hallway drew your attention.
Atsumu walked by the open door, pausing when he spotted the three of you inside. His brows knit slightly as he leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.
"Since when did this turn into a cram school?"
Suna didn't even look up. "Since Osamu started failing math."
"I'm not failin'," Osamu defended quickly. "Just… hoverin' on the edge."
You smiled at Atsumu. "You can join, if you want."
He scoffed. "Tch. No thanks. I ain't need help from someone who treats quadratic equations like they're a fun hobby."
"Suit yourself," you said calmly, turning back to the notes. "But when you bomb the test and Kita finds out, don't come crying to me."
Osamu smirked.
Atsumu opened his mouth like he wanted to snap something back, but then he paused. You weren't even looking at him anymore. And that bothered him more than he expected.
Later that night, Osamu and Suna were packing up their things while you erased the board.
"She's scary," Suna said casually, bumping Osamu with his elbow. "In a responsible, 'please do your homework' kinda way. Like Kita."
Osamu chuckled. "Yah, but she's good. Real good. Kinda weird how she puts up with all of us."
You pretended not to hear that part as you grabbed your bag, flipping off the lights.
But just outside the room, you found Atsumu leaning against the wall, phone in hand, doing a terrible job pretending he wasn't waiting for something—or someone.
You quirked an eyebrow. "Lost your way to the gym?"
He glanced up, shoved his phone into his pocket. "Just makin' sure you didn't fall asleep with all that nerd talk."
"How thoughtful."
His tone was light, but something in his expression was… unsure. Like he wasn't used to being left out of something and didn't quite know what to do about it.
He walked beside you, hands in his pockets.
"Ya really like doin' all that stuff, huh?" he asked after a beat.
"What, managing? Tutoring you slackers?"
He shrugged. "Yah. I dunno. You don't get paid or nothin'. You're just always there. Like ya actually wanna be."
You looked at him. "I do. That's kind of the point."
He didn't answer right away.
"…Don't ya get tired of it? Babysittin' everyone?"
You smiled at that, a little softer. "I don't see it as babysitting. I just like helping where I can. And besides…" You looked ahead again. "You guys aren't that bad."
Atsumu didn't reply, but he stole a glance at you, something unreadable in his eyes.
He wouldn't admit it, not even to himself yet—but something was shifting.
And it had started with the realization that he didn't like the way you smiled at Suna and Osamu like that.
Not one bit.
— — — — —
Atsumu Miya was used to being watched.
Whether it was by opponents sizing up his infamous serve, coaches noting his sharp instincts, or girls peeking through gym doors just to catch him wiping sweat from his brow—he'd always had eyes on him.
He liked it. Thrived on it.
So when you joined the team and didn't even blink the first time he landed a flawless jump serve, he chalked it up to nerves.
The second time, he figured you just missed it.
By the third time—when he purposely aimed it just right to send the ball singing past the receiving line, then glanced your way to see… nothing?
He started getting annoyed.
You were talking to Suna. Smiling. Laughing. Not even pretending to be impressed.
So naturally, he doubled down.
It became a pattern. Atsumu would do something ridiculous—throwing extra power behind every serve, calling for tosses he didn't need, fixing his hair more times than seemed physically necessary—and then glance at you out of the corner of his eye.
And every time?
Nothing.
You'd cheer for the whole team equally. You'd compliment a clean receive from Akagi or a good dig from one of the first-years. But when it came to Atsumu?
You gave him a polite nod. Maybe a quiet "nice work" if he really earned it.
That was it.
No gushing. No lingering glances. No obvious signs of awe. You treated him just like everyone else.
And it drove him insane.
"Is she broken?" he asked Osamu one day, half-whispered, after you'd walked past without even looking at his perfectly styled bangs.
Osamu didn't even glance up from his rice ball. "Nah. She just doesn't fall for bullshit."
Atsumu bristled. "It ain't bullshit."
"You fixed your hair with your phone camera during warm-ups."
"So what? Presentation matters!"
Osamu just gave him a look—the kind that said: you're making a fool of yourself, and I'm not stopping you—before taking another bite.
You weren't mean to him. That's what really messed with Atsumu. You weren't cold, or rude, or dismissive. You still offered him water after drills, reminded him to rewrap his fingers when he forgot, and even once told him his tosses had been looking tighter than usual.
But you didn't treat him like a star. You treated him like a teammate.
And he didn't know how to deal with that. Every other girl acted like being around him was a privilege. Like they had to earn his approval.
But you? You didn't act like he had anything to prove.
Which, in a completely frustrating twist of fate, made him want to prove himself anyway.
After about a week of failing to dazzle you with the usual Miya Special™—perfect serves, hair flips, smug grins, and enough shirt-adjusting to rival a modeling shoot—Atsumu realized something horrifying.
You didn't care.
Not about his float serve. Not about the way he rolled his sleeves up before practice. Not about the slightly-too-tight compression shirt he "accidentally" wore.
And he didn't get it.
Everyone cared. Everyone always cared.
But not you. You treated him the same as the other players and the same as his brother, who he was definitely better than (in his opinion). And that felt… wrong.
So he tried something new.
The next day, you arrived at the gym to find a bottle of your favorite tea sitting neatly on your clipboard. No note. No explanation. Just there.
You looked around.
Osamu was stretching. Suna was half-asleep. Ginjima waved at you. Nobody seemed to claim it.
But you accepted it with a small, confused smile and a quiet, "Thanks…?"
From across the court, Atsumu flushed and looked violently interested in re-taping his fingers.
From there, the gestures started coming.
Small things. Clumsy things. Things he clearly thought would go unnoticed but that the entire team immediately caught onto.
You: "Who organized the ball cart today?" Atsumu: (pretending to be indifferent) "Dunno. Ghost, maybe." Osamu: "You even labeled the towels with her name, dumbass." Atsumu: "IT'S CALLED BEING THOROUGH."
Atsumu casually "dropped" a bag of fresh melonpan on your desk like it meant nothing.
You narrowed your eyes. "Is this a bribe?"
He scowled. "What?! No! Just... I was there. Thought you might want it."
You took it. "Thanks, but uh… I'm allergic to melons."
Atsumu deadpanned. "Shit."
The team took notice. Immediately.
Suna started keeping score. "Day 5 of the Atsumu courtship ritual," he murmured during practice. "New move: setting the net up early."
"I always set the net—"
"No, you don't."
Ginjima had a running bet with another second-year about how long it would take you to catch on.
Aran pretended not to hear the gossip, but his amused glances said otherwise.
Even Kita, when he overheard Atsumu volunteer to sweep the gym, blinked once and asked: "…Are you sick?"
Atsumu glared. "I'M FINE."
And you? You noticed. Of course, you did.
But you also knew better than to react too quickly to anything Atsumu Miya did. He thrived on attention. On knowing he'd gotten to someone. So, you played your part: polite, unbothered, immune.
Even when he tied your shoelaces before practice with a smug little wink. Even when he stood outside your class holding your forgotten clipboard. Even when he "accidentally" dropped his lunch tray next to yours in the cafeteria.
You didn't give him what he wanted.
Because he wasn't showing himself, not really. He was still showing off.
The tea was sweet. The bread was thoughtful.
But all of it felt like performance. Like he was still trying to win you over with the same tricks he used on everyone else. And you weren't interested in the mask he put on for crowds.
So, you kept treating him the way you always had. Kind. Firm. Fair. Unimpressed.
It drove him crazy.
And that's exactly when Atsumu Miya, king of confidence, started to panic.
It started innocently enough, as these things tend to do. Atsumu had decided that if the usual flashy displays of skill weren't working, he needed to try something smarter.
His idea?
Charm you with sheer thoughtfulness. Or at least, what he thought was thoughtful.
"Hey, I noticed ya were carrying a lot of stuff this morning," Atsumu said, suddenly appearing next to you with a somewhat strained grin, holding out his bag. "Want me to help carry that for ya?"
You raised an eyebrow, glancing at the bag. "...It's just a few notebooks and a water bottle. I'm fine."
Atsumu's smile faltered a little. He quickly recovered, tossing the bag back onto his shoulder. "Right. Right. Well, I'm just sayin'—I can always be more helpful. Y'know, I'm good at this stuff."
"Okay, good to know," you said, already looking back at your phone to check the time for the next practice.
His attempt was so clumsy that even Omimi, who was standing nearby and pretending to be busy with his own stuff, shot a glance your way. Atsumu hadn't even tried to make it look natural.
"Yeah, no, we're good," Suna chimed in lazily from the corner, barely lifting his head. "Atsumu, you're really not fooling anyone."
Atsumu, not one to back down easily, tried again.
"So," he began a few days later, during a water break after an intense drill. "Ya thinkin' of tryin' any new moves at practice? I've been workin' on some real advanced stuff—might show ya later."
He tried his best to sound mysterious, but when you glanced up from your clipboard, his attempt at a smirk felt just a little too forced.
You thought about it for a moment. "Nah, I think I'll just watch. I'm sure you'll be great," you replied without a hint of sarcasm, but still not giving him the kind of attention he craved.
"Are you really doin' this?" Osamu asked, shaking his head as he came over to sit beside you.
"Do what?" you replied innocently, knowing exactly what he was referring to.
He waved vaguely in Atsumu's direction. "He's been tryin' to win you over since day one. He thinks you're gonna fall for this." He made a vague motion with his hand, mimicking Atsumu's gestures. "But we all know it's just Atsumu being Atsumu."
"Yeah, he's a pain," you said with a small chuckle. "But he's not a bad guy. Just really… extra."
Osamu shot you a sly look. "Extra? That's puttin’ it lightly."
You glanced over at Atsumu, who was dramatically holding up the ball as if he were preparing for a grand performance. You raised an eyebrow as he turned your way, smiling confidently like he had just unlocked the secret to the universe.
"Alright, you ready for this?" Atsumu called over to you, motioning for you to watch as he stepped into position. "Prepare to be impressed."
He launched into the air with the sort of flair you usually saw from celebrities, executing a near-perfect serve that would've made anyone in the gym gasp… if they weren't all so incredibly unimpressed.
You casually took a sip of your water bottle, completely unfazed, and gave him a small, polite clap when he finished.
"Nice one, Atsumu," you said with a blank smile, not even trying to hide your lack of enthusiasm.
Atsumu stared at you, dumbfounded. "Did… did you just…?"
You shrugged. "What? You asked if I was impressed. I said nice serve. You're not the only one who can do a good one, you know."
Ginjima snickered from the sidelines. "Busted."
That night, as practice ended and the gym cleared out, Atsumu went to extreme lengths to salvage his pride.
After a long, loud discussion with Osamu—who had pretty much given up on helping him at this point—he came up with a plan. A bold plan. A plan that, frankly, he wasn't sure would work.
He waited until you were about to leave the gym, collecting your things from the sidelines, and casually strolled over.
"Hey," he said, as if the conversation had never been anything more than totally normal.
You looked up, half-expecting another round of awkward "Hey, look at me" displays.
But this time, he seemed… different.
"I was thinkin'," he continued, scratching the back of his head. "You've been helpin' the team out a lot, so I figured maybe we could, I dunno… grab some dinner? I'll treat, since you've been working your butt off, and all."
Your eyebrows lifted, surprised by the sudden shift. He was actually asking—not performing.
You looked at him, deciding to throw him a small bone. "Dinner, huh? You sure you're not just trying to impress me again?"
Atsumu blushed, muttering something under his breath. "You're… not makin' this easy, ya know."
You gave him a friendly grin, the faintest hint of amusement in your voice. "I never said I would."
The rest of the team watched the exchange from the corners of the gym, all the while silently rooting for the sheer trainwreck they were witnessing.
But for once, Atsumu didn't feel like he had to impress anyone.
— — — — —
That night, you found yourself sitting across from Atsumu at a small, cozy restaurant a few blocks from school. It wasn't the kind of place he would normally choose—he would usually go for something flashier, more attention-grabbing—but you'd picked it, and to your surprise, he'd agreed without complaint.
Atsumu fiddled with the chopsticks, clearly nervous. He was trying, but the old, cocky Miya charm was still lurking beneath the surface.
"So," he started, trying to sound casual, but there was a slight tension in his voice. "I was thinkin' about what you said earlier… y'know, that I should be less flashy. Guess I... might've gone overboard."
You raised an eyebrow, taking a sip of your drink. "You think?"
He shot you a look, and for the first time in forever, you saw him a little less certain of himself. His usual arrogance was still there, but it was cracked. "Well, yeah, I guess," he said. He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. "I've always kinda been the show-off. Guess I didn't realize I was overdoing it."
You shrugged, setting your glass down. "I don't mind. You do you."
"But I wanna do you," he muttered under his breath.
You didn't respond right away, choosing instead to poke at your food, trying to ignore the little twinge of surprise at his words.
"Alright," he continued, trying to recover. "Let's talk about somethin' else. You're from a different class, right? Osamu always talks about how you're a genius in history or something. Got a secret for it?"
You couldn't help but laugh at how casually he asked. "A genius? No. I just study."
"Yeah, study." Atsumu tilted his head, clearly not buying it. "I can barely get through the first chapter without my brain deciding to take a nap."
You smiled, leaning back in your chair. "Well, maybe you should stop making history a competition and just focus on understanding it. That's what works for me."
Atsumu sighed dramatically, pushing his food around on his plate. "You make it sound so simple. But like, I'm more about making history than studying it." His grin was back, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.
There was a pause in the conversation, and Atsumu took a deep breath before continuing. "Look, I know I'm not really your type." He said it so matter-of-factly that it made you stop mid-bite. "I know I come off as… well, let's be real, kinda an idiot sometimes."
You blinked, surprised by the sudden vulnerability in his voice. "Where is this coming from?"
"I've been trying too hard. I'm always trying to show off, y'know? I thought I could just impress you. But you're not the type to fall for that stuff, and I—" He hesitated, running a hand through his hair. "I guess I didn't think this through."
You set your chopsticks down, considering his words. "Atsumu... you don't have to impress me. You're already you."
He paused. "And what if me isn't good enough?"
"Then you're doing it wrong," you said, your voice calm. "If you're going to be anything, just be real with me. I'm not asking for perfect serves or a flashier personality. I'm just asking for you to show up and not try so hard to be someone else."
He stared at you for a long moment, a little surprised. Then he gave a slow nod, the cocky smile returning to his face, but softer this time. "Guess I'll try that," he said, his voice almost shy now. "So… no more showing off?"
You smiled. "No more showing off."
Atsumu leaned back in his chair, clearly processing. He let out a soft laugh. "Well, this is new. Me, being the one who's tryin' to figure you out." He grinned, though it lacked his usual bravado. "You really don't want the 'Miya Atsumu Experience,' huh?"
You shook your head, amused. "I don't need an 'experience.' I just need a teammate who shows up, someone who's... not acting like they're on a reality show."
He chuckled, looking more at ease now. "Guess I'm just gonna have to stick with the basics, huh?"
"Pretty much," you agreed, your smile genuine.
The meal went by a lot smoother after that. Atsumu relaxed a little more, and the conversation drifted from volleyball to school and even to the more personal stuff—family, friends, and the things that made him tick outside of sports. It felt... oddly normal. Not like a date, but like two people finally being real with each other for once.
You even found yourself laughing at one of his ridiculous stories about Osamu stealing his socks.
At the end of the meal, Atsumu paid the bill without a second thought, though he tried to hide it behind his usual swagger.
"You know, next time, you can pay," he said, leaning back against the chair with a cheeky grin. "I'll let you treat me."
You rolled your eyes, standing up. "I'll let you buy me dinner next time when you stop acting like a drama queen every time you step onto the court."
He chuckled, tossing a couple of bills on the table. "Deal. But don't think this means you've won."
You didn't need to look at him to know his grin was back in full force, that unmistakable confidence returning. But there was something different this time—something less forced, less like he was trying to get your attention and more like he was just... enjoying your company.
As you both walked out of the restaurant, there was a strange sense of calm between you two. You weren't sure if this was the start of something else—something deeper—but it was the first time you saw Atsumu as more than just a showoff.
— — — — —
Days went by after the dinner, and things between you and Atsumu took on a quieter, more nuanced tone. He wasn't flaunting his skills in your face anymore, nor was he bombarding you with overly flashy gestures. Instead, he seemed to pay attention to the little things—things you'd mentioned casually in passing, without even realizing how much they mattered to you.
It started with a bottle of water. Not just any bottle, but one that was your favorite brand—a specific one that you liked when you were working on homework or practice. It appeared on your desk during practice, next to your clipboard, no note, no words exchanged. You paused, staring at the bottle for a second.
It wasn't the showy kind of gesture you'd grown used to—like the melon pan he thought would impress you by bringing you food. This time, though, he actually paid attention to what you liked. There was no fanfare or big entrance, just a simple action.
The next time you mentioned you had a tough test coming up, Atsumu quietly handed you a study guide he'd apparently found from a tutor he knew. You blinked, looking at the paper, then up at him. His usual confident smirk was softened, like he was uncertain whether you'd appreciate it or not.
You raised an eyebrow. "You… studied for this test?"
He rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, no. But I figured you'd want something more than just a couple of notes scribbled on a napkin." He shrugged, trying to sound casual, but the slight blush on his cheeks betrayed him. "Just thought you might find it useful."
You couldn't help but be a little surprised. Atsumu Miya—the guy who always seemed to care more about his image than anything else—was actually being thoughtful. And you had to admit, you did appreciate the gesture. But you couldn't shake the feeling that he still wasn't being fully genuine. Maybe it was too soon to trust these small acts.
So you gave him a small nod, a quiet thanks, and went back to your work. He smiled, but it didn't have the usual smug edge. There was a subtle warmth in it that he hadn't shown before.
As the weeks passed, it became obvious to everyone else that something was different between you and Atsumu, even if neither of you acknowledged it outright.
Atsumu still acted like his usual self around the team—loud, teasing, and always being an idiot—but now, he was more mindful of you. He kept his distance, but not in a way that felt forced. He didn't crowd you like he used to, didn't demand your attention in the same over-the-top way. It was like he was waiting for you to decide if you were going to engage with him on your own terms.
One afternoon, after a grueling practice, Atsumu approached you while you were packing up your things. He wasn't as loud as usual, his voice softer, a little less confident, and his posture more reserved.
"So, uh, y'know how you said you like ramen?" He began, rubbing the back of his neck.
You looked up, puzzled. "Yeah?"
He fumbled a bit before pulling out a small coupon. "Well, the place across the street's got a deal going today. I thought maybe, uh, if you wanted, we could go grab some. You know, after practice. You're always working hard and… well, I figured you'd like it."
The awkwardness was almost palpable, but for some reason, it didn't feel uncomfortable. It just felt honest.
You smiled slightly, but you didn't jump into the invitation right away. "I've got homework. Maybe some other time?"
He blinked, clearly disappointed, but masked it with a shrug. "Right. Gotcha. Just thought it might be nice." He smiled awkwardly before stepping back, trying to act casual again.
Despite yourself, you found your thoughts lingering on him more than usual. It wasn't just the ramen invitation. It was how he'd been subtly weaving his way into your routine—quietly watching, listening, and trying to show that he cared. You'd never seen him like this before, and it made you wonder: Was he really changing, or was he playing a game with you?
You had to admit that Atsumu's recent gestures hadn't gone unnoticed. They were kind, thoughtful in their own way—but every time you started to soften toward him, a voice in the back of your head reminded you that he was the same guy who had tested you when you first became the manager. The same guy who'd tried to impress you with tricks and superficial gestures, hoping to win your attention. And now? Now, he was acting like he cared.
But was it real? Or was this just another game for him?
You weren't sure.
That night, as you lay in bed, thinking about his offer, his gestures, his almost sheepish smiles, you couldn't help but feel torn.
Was he just trying to break you—testing your boundaries, seeing how far he could go to get under your skin now that you weren't interested in his flashy exterior?
It had been so easy to dismiss his behavior at the beginning. He was loud, cocky, too full of himself. But now… now it was harder to read him. Was he still playing games? Or was he actually serious?
You sighed and closed your eyes, knowing deep down that you weren't ready to take the next step until you figured out his true intentions. The last thing you wanted was to get hurt by someone who was still playing the same old game.
A few days later, Atsumu couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.
He'd been trying, hadn't he? He'd done everything right, at least according to his logic. Subtle gestures, paying attention to what you liked, being patient. He had even held back when he wanted to show off. He wasn't acting like the Atsumu everyone knew.
But you weren't giving him the time of day. You were polite, but distant. He'd seen that look in your eyes—the one that said you weren't sure about him.
So, with that nagging feeling pushing him forward, Atsumu approached you after practice, when everyone else was busy packing up or getting ready to leave.
You were just finishing up putting your things away when Atsumu stood in your path. For once, there was no teasing grin, no cocky remark—just the usual, brash Miya Atsumu, but with something more vulnerable underneath.
You didn't look up immediately, but you could feel his presence. "What's up?" you asked, a bit distracted as you zipped your bag.
"Hey," Atsumu started, his voice more serious than you were used to. "Can we talk for a sec?"
You froze, glancing up at him. There was an intensity in his eyes that made your chest tighten, as if he'd been carrying something for a while, and now it was finally about to spill out.
"Sure," you said quietly, setting your bag down.
Atsumu hesitated for a moment, as if trying to find the right words. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking like he was unsure whether he should even ask. But then he just went for it.
"I don't get it," he admitted, his usual confidence nowhere to be found. "I've been trying, haven't I? I've been—well, doing what I thought was right. Subtle stuff, the little things you like, not... not showing off anymore." His eyes met yours, searching for any sign that you understood. "But... you're still acting like I'm just... another guy trying to get your attention." He looked away briefly, his frustration evident. "I'm not just messing around. You've gotta know that."
You exhaled slowly, your heart pounding in your chest. This was the moment you had been avoiding, the one where you had to be honest with him.
You shifted on your feet, trying to gather your thoughts. You could feel the weight of his gaze on you, like he was silently asking you to give him an answer.
The truth. The one thing you had been keeping hidden from him.
"I—" You stopped yourself, struggling to find the words. You didn't want to hurt him, but you couldn't lie anymore. "I'm just... not sure, Atsumu."
His expression faltered, and you felt a pang of guilt. He took a step closer, trying to read you. "Not sure about what?"
You swallowed, gathering the courage to finally speak what had been weighing on you. "I'm not sure if you're being serious. You've always been the type to show off, to get attention. And I—I just don't know if this... you, now, is real. Or if it's just another game to you."
Atsumu's eyes widened, and for a moment, he looked taken aback. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, as if processing your words. "You think I'm playin' you?" he asked, his voice quieter now, like the wind had been knocked out of him.
"I don't know," you said softly, almost whispering, "I just... after everything, it's hard to tell. You've never shown interest in anyone like this before. You always go for the easy wins, the attention. And I don't know if I'm just another one of your... challenges." You glanced away, biting your lip. "I don't want to be that."
The silence between you two was thick, almost suffocating, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was raw, honest in a way neither of you had expected.
Atsumu finally exhaled slowly, his shoulders slumping just slightly. "So you think I'm just messin' with you," he said, more to himself than to you. It wasn't a question, but a statement of disappointment.
"I don't know, Atsumu." You shook your head, feeling the weight of everything that had happened between you two. "You've done all these little things—things that are... nice. Really. But I don't know if it's real. And I don't want to get hurt if it's just a game to you."
Atsumu stood there for a moment, processing your words, his usual bravado slipping away entirely. He wasn't the cocky, showy Miya Atsumu in this moment. He was just a guy, trying to figure things out.
"I see," he finally answered, his voice quieter than usual, before turning around and leaving the gym.
You watched after him with a surprised expression, having thought he'd try to talk to you further, maybe attempt to make you understand that you were wrong. But just leaving like that? That wasn't a reaction you had anticipated.
— — — — —
The rest of the day passed by in a blur of routine for the team, but Atsumu couldn't focus on anything. He had spent the entire evening locked in his room, the door shut tight as if the world outside didn't matter anymore. His usual cocky smirk, the confidence that defined him, had been replaced by something entirely foreign to him—confusion and frustration.
He replayed your words over and over in his mind: "I'm just not sure."
Atsumu had tried, hadn't he? He had made a real effort. But now, all of a sudden, he was second-guessing everything. Was it all just a game to him? Had he been too reckless in the past to even know how to be real with someone?
Osamu, as always, pretended to not care, but even he could tell something was off. Atsumu had locked himself away, barely responding to anyone. Osamu gave him a few hours of space—figured his brother would bounce back like usual, maybe work out his own thoughts—but it was clear that Atsumu was brooding, far more than normal.
After dinner, Osamu couldn't take it anymore. He pushed open Atsumu's door without knocking, ignoring the annoyed grunt that followed.
"Atsumu," Osamu said, not bothering with pleasantries. "Get out of your room."
Atsumu didn't even bother looking up from where he lay sprawled on his bed, staring at the ceiling with an unreadable expression. His arms were behind his head, his legs tangled in the sheets.
"Go away, 'Samu," Atsumu muttered, his voice flat, like he hadn't slept in days. "I'm fine."
Osamu stood in the doorway, arms crossed, unimpressed. "Yah, you look real fine. You've been sulkin' in here like a goddamn child."
"I'm not sulkin'," Atsumu replied with a sharp, defensive edge, though his tone lacked the usual fire. "Just thinking."
Osamu was silent for a moment, his gaze scanning his twin, then sighed. "You've been 'thinking' for hours. Something's wrong. I know ya, Atsumu. You're actin' like... well, not like you."
Atsumu didn't respond. The silence hung thick in the air between them, and Osamu could see how much his brother was struggling, even if he refused to admit it. Atsumu wasn't one to let things bother him, to let anyone see him vulnerable, and this was the first time in ages that Osamu could sense something was off.
Osamu leaned against the doorframe, his arms still crossed. "You wanna talk about it or do I need to drag ya outta here kickin' and screamin'?"
Atsumu let out a frustrated sigh, finally sitting up on the bed. "I don't get it, man," he said, his voice almost too quiet, like he didn't want to admit the confusion he felt. "I thought I was doin' the right thing, ya know? Like, with her. I—I've been tryin', but… She doesn't believe me."
Osamu raised an eyebrow. "Y/N doesn't believe you?"
"Yeah," Atsumu replied, running a hand through his messy hair. "She thinks I'm just playin' her. That I'm not serious, that it's just another game."
Osamu stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. He didn't say anything at first, just walked over to the bed and sat down next to his brother. He could tell how much it bothered Atsumu, even if his twin wouldn't admit it.
"So, what exactly happened?" Osamu asked, his voice more patient now.
Atsumu turned to face him, his expression open for once. "I told her I was serious. That I wasn't messin' around. But she thinks I'm just... I don't know, playing some game with her. She doesn't believe I can be real."
Osamu sat there for a moment, processing the words. He could understand why you'd feel that way, considering how Atsumu had always been. He'd never shown interest in anyone for real before. His confidence, the way he flaunted his skills—those were just part of the show, the persona he hid behind.
But Osamu knew his brother better than anyone. He had seen the way Atsumu had changed around you. And as much as he didn't want to admit it, Osamu understood that Atsumu wasn't just messing around this time. He was trying.
"That's what happens when ya treat everything like a joke," Osamu finally said, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "You build a reputation for being all flash, no substance. People don't know how to tell if you're serious or not." Atsumu's face twisted with frustration, but Osamu continued, not letting his brother off the hook. "You want her to believe in ya, huh? Then you gotta show her. For real. No more games. No more pretending to be someone you're not."
"I am showin' her!" Atsumu snapped, but there was no fire in his words, just a hint of desperation. "I've been trying, 'Samu!"
Osamu cut him off with a shrug. "Just keep tryin' then."
"Seriously?"
"Yes," Osamu said with a small, knowing smile. "You don't have to do anything extraordinary. You just gotta stop hidin' behind the act and show her you're serious. You wanna show her you care? Then start actin' like it, not like some show-off tryna get a reaction."
Atsumu leaned back against the headboard of the bed, exhaling deeply. "I don't know if I'm ready for that."
"Well, you're gonna have to figure it out," Osamu said, standing up and heading toward the door. "If you want her to take ya seriously, you've gotta start being the person you really are. And I'm not talkin' about the Atsumu Miya everyone knows. I'm talkin' about the guy who cares about her."
Atsumu stayed silent as Osamu left, his twin's words sinking in. Maybe Osamu was right. Maybe he had been so wrapped up in trying to impress you, he forgot what really mattered.
He wasn't used to this kind of vulnerability. But if he was ever going to get the chance to prove himself, he'd have to start somewhere.
— — — — —
The next day, you arrived at practice feeling the weight of everything that had happened. Atsumu had left without a word, and though you tried to put it out of your mind, you couldn't shake the feeling that you had said something wrong, something that might have pushed him away for good.
As you were walking through the gym's entrance, you caught sight of Osamu leaning casually against the wall, arms folded, watching you as if he'd been waiting for something. You tried to avoid his gaze, but of course, he noticed.
"You're looking a little tense today," Osamu said, his tone casual but with a slight edge of curiosity. "Everything okay?"
You hesitated. There was no way to lie to Osamu—he saw through everyone's facades, especially when it came to his brother. "I—uh, yeah. I guess I just… I don't know."
Osamu tilted his head, the usual smirk on his face replaced by something more serious. "I know what happened yesterday. With 'Tsumu."
Your heart skipped a beat. You didn't know if you were ready to have this conversation. "I didn't mean to upset him."
Osamu pushed himself off the wall and took a step toward you, the look in his eyes softening. "You didn't upset him. He just…" He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Look, Atsumu's a pain in the ass. He's always been a pest, always tryin' to get under everyone's skin. But he's also honest, in his own weird way."
You furrowed your brow, not entirely following. "What do you mean?"
Osamu's expression shifted, his usual carefree demeanor replaced by a kind of quiet seriousness. "I mean that when he's messing around, trying to get your attention, that's just his way of testing things. He doesn't know how to do things differently, not when it comes to someone he actually likes. He's used to people reacting to his tricks or his charm—because that's all he's ever done. But when he actually tries... when he's being nice, doin' little things for ya, paying attention to what ya like—he means it."
You blinked, surprised by the sincerity in Osamu's words. "I… I didn't know."
Osamu shrugged, a little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Of course you didn't. You probably think he's just playin' some game, right? But if he's not showing off, if he's not tryin' to impress you with his serves or his looks, then that's him being real. And if you don't notice that, it's not his fault. But it's also not your fault. He's not exactly the easiest guy to read."
You glanced down at your feet, guilt creeping in. Had you been too harsh? Had you been too quick to judge him as just another show-off?
Osamu's eyes softened as if reading your thoughts. "Ya have to understand something. Atsumu doesn't know how to be subtle. He's got this big personality, and when he likes someone, he doesn't know how to make it easy. But if he's actually tryin' to be nice to you? You can trust that it's real. He's not doin' it to play games."
You nodded slowly, taking in his words. "But what if he just thinks I'm a challenge?"
Osamu shook his head firmly. "If he thought you were just a challenge, he wouldn't be so damn persistent. He would've moved on to someone else by now. Trust me, you're not just another conquest. You've got him thinkin', and that's something he's not used to. If he wanna impress you, it's not because it's easy. It's because he actually wants ya to see him for who he is. All of him."
Your mind raced as you processed Osamu's words. You had underestimated Atsumu, assumed he was just another player trying to win over a girl with flashy gestures. But if Osamu was right, then maybe there was more to his actions than you had originally thought.
"And you're sure about that?" you asked, still unsure.
Osamu nodded, his usual teasing grin returning. "I'm sure. Like I said, Atsumu's a pest, but he's never been anything other than honest when it counts. If he's tryin' to be nice to ya, then it's because he means it."
You stared at him for a moment, trying to decide if you were ready to believe it, to trust in Atsumu's sincerity. Finally, you exhaled and gave Osamu a small, uncertain smile. "Okay. I'll think about it."
Osamu's smile softened, and with a knowing wink, he clapped you on the shoulder. "Good. Now, go make sure my idiot twin doesn't mess up any more of his attempts to win ya over. You're the only one who can make him figure his shit out."
You laughed softly, the tension that had been in your chest easing just a little. Osamu was right—Atsumu's way of showing interest might be messy and confusing, but maybe that was just part of who he was. And if he was trying to be real with you, maybe it was time to stop questioning it and start paying attention.
The training had just ended, and the gym was emptying out. The usual post-practice chatter filled the air as players gathered their things, but you couldn't shake the thought of Atsumu from your mind. Osamu's words from earlier kept replaying in your head: "If he's trying to be nice to you, then it's because he means it."
You waited a few moments until most of the team had already dispersed, and then, with a deep breath, you stepped outside the gym, making your way to the back. You had decided it was time to talk to Atsumu.
It didn't take long to find him. He was leaning against the side of the building, his arms folded, staring at the ground with his usual smirk nowhere in sight. He looked like he'd been waiting for something—waiting for you, perhaps.
He didn't notice you at first, and when he did, his posture stiffened, and he turned away slightly, as if unsure of how to act. You stopped a few steps away from him, taking in the scene. The air was cool, a gentle breeze brushing your hair, but the silence between the two of you felt heavy, like there was more to this moment than just a simple conversation.
Atsumu cleared his throat first, breaking the quiet. "What do you want?"
You hesitated. There was so much to say, but you weren't sure how to start. Finally, you spoke, your voice soft but steady. "I wanted to talk to you. About what happened the other day."
Atsumu shifted, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. "You sure about that? 'Cause I'm pretty sure you already made it clear what you think."
You shook your head quickly. "It's not that. I didn't mean to make you feel like… like you were just playing around. I just didn't know if you were serious about any of this."
He straightened, looking at you more fully now. There was a flash of vulnerability in his eyes, a rare sight, but you didn't miss it. "Yeah?" He took a slow step closer, but not too close—just enough to bridge the gap between you both, as though testing the waters. "So you thought I was just messin' with you?"
You nodded slowly, taking a deep breath. "I did. But Osamu said something to me today. He made me realize that… maybe I've been looking at you all wrong."
Atsumu's brow furrowed. "Oh yeah? What'd he say?"
"He said that when you try—when you actually put effort into something—it's because you mean it. You're not just playing games." You met his gaze, holding it for a moment before continuing. "And I guess… it was just easier to keep my distance and assume you were playing around. That way, the risk of me getting hurt was lower. I'm sorry."
Atsumu didn't respond at first. His lips twitched slightly, as though he was trying to hide his emotions. "So, what? You think I'm actually serious about this?" he asked, his voice quieter now, less teasing.
You nodded, feeling the weight of the moment settle around you. "I do. And I'm sorry for not seeing it earlier."
There was a beat of silence before Atsumu stepped a little closer, still keeping a bit of distance. He scratched the back of his neck, looking slightly awkward. "You know, I didn't expect you to just fall for me or anything. But when you... didn't react the way I thought you would, I didn't know how to handle it. I guess I tried harder, and..."
"And?" You encouraged him softly.
Atsumu looked at you directly now, his usual cocky smile replaced with something more genuine, more open. "And I guess I just wanted to prove that I could do things differently. I'm not perfect, but I'm tryin', okay?"
Your heart gave a little jump at his sincerity. This wasn't the Atsumu you'd seen before—the brash, overconfident one. This was someone who was actually putting himself out there.
"I believe you," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "I just wasn't sure if it was real, you know?"
Atsumu exhaled deeply, running a hand through his messy hair, and for the first time, he looked more vulnerable than ever. "Yeah. I get that. But I'm not the guy who does things halfway. So… if I'm sayin' this, then I mean it."
Before you could respond, he took another small step forward. His eyes searched yours, as though waiting for your permission, and you felt your heartbeat quicken in your chest.
There was something electric in the air between you two—something unspoken. It wasn't about the showy gestures or his usual antics. It was about the quiet honesty that had been there all along, the part of Atsumu you hadn't seen until now.
And without thinking, you reached out, placing a gentle hand on his arm, giving him the smallest of smiles. "Then… let's see where this goes."
Atsumu's expression softened, and without a word, he closed the last gap, his gaze flicking down to your lips for a brief moment before meeting your eyes again. Slowly, carefully, he leaned in.
The kiss was brief, chaste, and soft, as if both of you were still unsure of the new ground you were treading. It wasn't passionate, but it was real—no tricks, no games, just two people who had finally taken down their walls and decided to be vulnerable with each other.
When you pulled back, you found yourself smiling, and Atsumu mirrored it, his usual smirk returning but with a softness you hadn't seen before.
"So, this is what it feels like when you're not acting like a complete idiot," you teased lightly, your heart still racing.
Atsumu chuckled, his hand gently brushing your cheek. "Yeah, guess I'll have to get used to it, huh?"
You laughed softly, feeling the tension melt away between you two. For the first time, things felt simple—real.
Masterlist
#haikyuu#miya atsumu#atsumu x reader#miya atsumu x reader#miya atsumu fluff#miya twins#inarizaki volleyball team#atsumu fluff
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Part 2 of the Tokyo Rev. Occupation Series!
tw: mentions weight/body type, insecurity/self-consciousness, slight age gap—I imagined the reader in her early 20’s & Taiju is 7 years older, gym owner!taiju, personal trainer x client, riding. mdni
૮꒰ྀི⸝⸝> . <⸝⸝꒱ྀིა Personal Trainer!Taiju ૮꒰ྀི⸝⸝> . <⸝⸝꒱ྀིა
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Personal Trainer!Taiju’s whole personality is being strong lmao, it’s only right he spends his days making others who are willing strong too. Nearing thirty and he still has the body of a god and his confidence is through the roof, a powerhouse of a man, he is. Whether he’s training someone or working on his own physique, he’s in the gym Monday through Saturday. Sunday’s are for church of course, and that’s his day to unwind.
He remembers the first time you showed up at his gym, excited and eager but still too timid. You looked so cute with your pink gym bag and matching gallon water jug. A shy, chubby little thing who knew not a damn thing about fitness, but you finally decided to get on your zoom. Your words, not his. You weren’t looking for much more than someone who could get you ready for a ‘hot girl summer.’ Again, your words, not his.
In all honesty, you looked just fine to him—sexy and plump with some belly for him to grab. You’d definitely look good in a string bikini. Your ass is a little square but that’s nothing heavy squatting and medius kickbacks can’t fix. All in all, you look good enough to eat in his opinion.
Even still, he agreed to help get you where you wanted to be. No fad diets, just a caloric deficit and protein prioritization. He still allowed you to eat some of your fav foods, in moderation of course, since the issue wasn’t really what you ate, it’s how you ate. Often skipping breakfast, sometimes lunch too if your shitty corporate job didn’t give you a break during your shift, relying on sweet and salty snacks from the vending machines to carry you through the day and binging a huge dinner later in the night. As much as he dislikes it, there isn’t much he can do once you step foot out of those glass doors.
As a matter of fact, another thing he dislikes, is that you lack discipline. That’s why when you’re here he never goes easy on you. You’re as lazy as you are cute—skimping on weight, skipping sets, strolling on the treadmill when he suggests a light jog…you certainly don’t act like someone who’s working towards a six month goal.
Regardless, he puts up with you. You’re a breath of fresh air in his hectic life, plus you’re easier on the eyes than the delinquents that frequent his gym. He loves how tight your gym shorts are, how they roll up when you walk. Loves staring at your ass while you do your dynamic stretches, especially loves how flustered you get when he stretches you out himself.
You’re even nice enough to stay til closing every now and then, helping the old man out. It’s the least you can do since he’s been so supportive of your fitness journey. One day, you’re just teasing, asking him if he even knows what a hot girl summer is ‘since he’s old and all’ and you certainly don’t expect his answer.
“It’s when pretty girls like you go out to be sluts. Wearin’ tiny little bikinis, shakin’ ass. Hoe’in around in Miami before you’re put up for the winter? Right?” At least that’s how he saw it.
You have a look on your face. He can’t tell if you’re amused or insulted but he doesn’t stop teasing.
“Drunk on the beach, gettin’ fucked in public bathrooms, all that good stuff. That’s what you like, Y/N? That why you wanna get in shape?” He’s still walking around placing plates and dumbbells in their respective corners. You’re helping of course, wiping benches, machines and bars with Clorox wipes before putting those back in place too.
He may have had a good 7 years on you but he kept up. Stayed hip to all the thing’s you young girls liked to do. Truth be told, the blue haired brute was ready to give you a run for your money. He honestly didn’t see the hype of ‘hot girl summer’ when he could slut you out all year round.
He wasn’t necessarily wrong. Girls like you often got overlooked, and although that didn’t stop much, you still found yourself craving the attention that smaller girls got.
“Is that bad?”
He’s almost taken aback. Of course he was just joking, but there was something about the tone of your voice, it was so…hopeful?
“Of course not. Nothing wrong with havin’ fun y/n. I told ya’ I’d get you ready and I meant it.”
***
And mean it, he did.
“Don’t tell me you can’t handle this.” He says it like it’s the easiest thing in the world, that evil smirk plastered on his face, brows furrowed. “This ain’t no place for the weak, Y/N.”
“I’m not weak, you’re just s-so big!” You pout, and goddamit it’s cute, but he sees none of that. He has no sympathy, since you asked for this the minute you stepped into his gym and opened your pretty little mouth.
“You feel it here and here, right?” He runs his large hands up your hammies, then over your quads, fingertips ghosting over your belly cus’ he knows you feel it there too. Yes, your moans and mewls tell him just that, sounds he’d probably never get the luxury of indulging in had he simply stuck to tasking you with lugging around dumbbells.
Your calves and ankles are quite literally on fire as well and you’re feeling it in every single muscle in your legs, but you keep bouncing. Bottom lip sandwiched between your teeth and your pupils have made a home in the back of your skull as his cock mushes against your cervix with every slam of your hips. You look so pretty and fucked out, tits spilling out of your sports bra with every move you make. It hurts but it’s exhilarating, the stimulation makes you want to melt into a puddle of goo. He has to say he’s impressed, it’s not an ideal exercise but you’re pushing through it. Inhaling through your nose, exhaling through your mouth like he taught ya, taking every inch of him like it’s all you know how to do. Just like he knew you would. That’s why you’re his favorite client after all, he knew you’d never disappoint him.
#to be fair I’ve never written for taiju#or stepped foot in a gym hehe..#black reader#chubby reader#taiju x reader#taiju x black reader#taiju shiba#tokyo rev x black reader#tokyo revengers x black!reader#tokyo revengers x black reader#tokyo rev smut#tokyo rev x y/n#tokyo revengers#black plus size reader#black coded characters#black y/n#black fem reader
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@batboysappreciationweek Day Two — Jan 13th
𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒈 𝑩𝒂𝒕𝒃𝒐𝒚𝒔
𝑾𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: none
𝑾𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝑪𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕: 647
“Now, now, boys — settle down. Dinner is almost ready.”
Azriel was the first to listen to the soft warning of Rhysand's mother, slipping out of the tangle of tossed limbs, drifting towards the figure perched on the counter, watching the roughhousing with amusement sparkling in her gaze like starlight.
You.
Cassian and Rhysand seemed none the wiser, hurling teasing insults, slaps and punches like there wasn't a world outside of their jesting.
You sighed softly, noticing Rhysand's mom was about to speak again, undoubtedly to tell the two Illyrians that they needed to stop.
“Don't.” Azriel whispered as you reached for an apple in a bowl on the counter, fingers wrapping firmly around the ripened fruit as you examined the intensity. Fresh. Red with yellow backgrounds. Firm. Perfect.
“I'm not doing anything.” You mumbled with your gaze already locked on the target.
He spoke lowly using your nickname, but it was already too late.
Your arm reeled back before launching the projectile fruit right at Rhysand's back. It hit with a thud and he yelped in surprise and slight pain, immediately ending the roughhousing with Cassian.
Rhys whipped his head around, his narrowed violet gaze landing on you. “What was that for!?”
You hummed nonchalantly and shrugged. “Your mom says dinner's almost ready. You weren't listening. . . So I took matters into my own hands.”
Cassian barked out a loud laugh, grabbing the apple off of the ground. He tossed it back over and you caught it easily, shadows coiling around your arm like a gentle caress.
“You didn't have to throw it at me.” Rhysand huffed. “I'm your future High Lord, you know?”
You raised your eyebrows and snorted. You knew, of course, that he was right. “Ooh, I'm so scared.” You murmured mockingly, sliding off of the counter.
“You—”
“— Rhysand.” His mother said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder.
He huffed in annoyance, grumbling under his breath as he shot a glare — which was apparently supposed to be intimidating — in your direction. His mother guided him towards his seat at the table, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she glanced at you momentarily.
“I hope all of you are hungry.” She hummed softly, her gaze drifting over the three Illyrian males and you, before she stepped into the kitchen.
The scent of soup and fresh bread drifted through the house, bringing a sense of almost mundane normalcy that was nice after a long day of training. . . Or watching a bunch of Illyrian powerhouses train from the comfort of a tree.
It was between the scents and general cozy atmosphere that made the house feel like home. Everything outside of those four walls disappeared at the end of the day. There were no war camps. There were no wars. There was nothing but four kids, and a woman who loved them all.
Rhysand's mother handed you the small wicker basket full of rolls, lined with a clean cloth and you walked it over to the table — and like clockwork, Cassian ruffled your hair and took a roll right off the top before the small basket could even touch the table.
“Cass!” You hissed, swatting at his hands and arms.
He practically scarfed it down, hoping no one would notice, but Rhysand's mother always did. She chuckled quietly from the kitchen as she began ladling soup into bowls.
She carried the bowls in two at a time, until she brought her own in, sitting at the rounded table with all the young fae sitting around her.
The meal passed by with stories from the day and compliments on the cooking — as usual.
Laughter was contained within those four walls, along with a brief argument over who would get the last dinner roll (you and Cassian were forced to split it in half and be civil). . . It was peaceful. It felt like home.
#batboysweek#batboysweek25#azriel x reader#azriel shadowsinger#acotar azriel#azriel acotar#azriel#azriel x y/n#azriel x you#azriel x reader acotar#cassian acotar#acotar cassian#cassian acomaf#cassian x reader#cassian#cassian x y/n#cassian x you#high lord rhysand#rhysand acotar#rhysand x reader#rhysand#rhysand x y/n#rhysand x you#a court of thorns and roses#acotar#x reader
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