#Who am I to tell you what to note and not to note

[cheftsunoda]

it’s only been 2 days but it feels like a lifetime, i simply can’t stay away.

ollie bearman x antonelli! law student! reader

ollie and kimi’s list of crimes grows by the week it seems and that has moved me so now we’re here. It just makes sense that kimis older sister is a law student who falls for oliver “can’t stop confessing to crimes” bearman.

i’m gonna have to start a notes app of the ideas i have for you, i’m starting to lose track.

(also i changed my picture, tell me im pretty (despite the obvious lack of mascara))

love you❤️

in the name of the law — ob87

smau + blurbs

ollie bearman x !law student antonelli reader

kimi antonelli x !sister reader

being kimi antonelli’s older sister was always a full time job. add law school and two races a month into the mix? you are stuck somewhere between impossible and unhinged. but kimi was in his rookie F1 season, hopelessly attached to you, and you had structured your third year of law school to be mostly remote — which meant that you were always in that monaco apartment. and then there was ollie. oliver bearman— kimi’s best friend, haas’ new golden boy, and human liability. he had a talent for racking up speeding tickets in different countries, for accidentally live streaming things that should’ve stayed private, and for looking at you like you are the only person in the paddock that mattered. you tried to focus on torts and case law, on keeping your little brother grounded in the most high pressure season of his life, but ollie kept showing up — in the kitchen, on your phone, in your head. somehow, between championship points and legal deadlines, you were falling for the one man who couldn’t stop confessing to crimes.

fc : ashton wood

(a/n) : omg hey my angellllll<3 you look absolutely stunning like i would marry you rn on the spot. like soooooo fucking good. barking. growling. on my knees. PICK ME PLEASE. and i get so sad if you’re not in my inbox for more than like two days… im just like does she not love me no more??? where is my WIFEEE?? but i love u sm and this idea was so cute and i had so much fun.

also i saw an interview where ollie said kimi was moving in with him after he graduates so i made that a thing in this fic so yayyyy:)

—

yn_antonelli

liked by kimi.antonelli, olliebearman, franciscagomes and 725,075 others.

yn_antonelli : officially back in monaco and i have two things to say. 1. i am in love with simba gasly 2. this picture of maggie refusing to let me go at the airport is precious and will forever be etched the back of my brain. that is all. goodnight x

tagged : kimi.antonelli and babickovaeli

—

view 87,005 other comments.

pierregasly : the real question is when are you babysitting again bc he cried as soon as you left

liked by yn_antonelli and franciscagomes

↳ yn_antonelli : do NOT tell me that. i will dognap him rn 😭

liked by pierregasly and franciscagomes

↳ franciscagomes : pretty sure he likes you more than us anyways🤷🏻‍♀️

liked by yn_antonelli

babickovaeli : i missed you so so much! we def need to go out again and make kimi pay 😌

liked by yn_antonelli and kimi.antonelli

↳ yn_antonelli : i missed you even more 😚 dinner and drinks taste much better on kimi’s card.

liked by babickovaeli and kimi.antonelli

↳ kimi.antonelli : isn’t the older sibling supposed to pay for everything?

↳ yn_antonelli : 🍅🍅

↳ yn_antonelli : the older sibling in this case is broke from law school and flying around the world to comfort her little brother.

liked by babickovaeli and kimi.antonelli

↳ kimi.antonelli : fair. take my card anytime you want

liked by yn_antonelli and babickovaeli

kimi.antonelli : mia bella sorella, sono così felice di riaverti. (my beautiful sister, so happy to have you back.)

liked by yn_antonelli

↳ yn_antonelli : what do you want

↳ yn_antonelli : you are only nice like this when you want something

liked by kimi.antonelli

↳ kimi.antonelli : not true. SLANDER.

↳ yn_antonelli : you are using that wrong.

↳ yn_antonelli : anyways. get to it. what do you want?

↳ kimi.antonelli : just really grateful to have such a supportive sister (i need you to make sure what im signing is legit)

↳ yn_antonelli : there it is. be home soon.

↳ kimi.antonelli : also maggie never looked that happy to see me.

liked by yn_antonelli

↳ yn_antonelli : u just aren’t the fave

↳ username000 : the antonelli sibs are so special to me

maxverstappen1 : Glad you are back. Kimi has been rude since you left.

liked by yn_antonelli

↳ yn_antonelli : andrea. is this true?

↳ lando : oh she first named you bro.

↳ kimi.antonelli : MAX!!!! stop. yn he is just trying to get me in trouble. i have been an angel the entire time.

liked by yn_antonelli, maxverstappen1 and lando

↳ kimi.antonelli : slander. AGAIN. i need a lawyer.

↳ yn_antonelli : cannot be part of this case as it is conflict of interest srry

liked by maxverstappen1 and lando

olliebearman : you say goodnight and then proceed to send me 17 simba pictures

liked by yn_antonelli

↳ yn_antonelli : unappreciative 🤧 never texting you ever again

liked by olliebearman

↳ olliebearman : noooooo yn. i didn’t mean it!! how can i ever make it up to you??? 🧎‍♂️

liked by yn_antonelli

↳ yn_antonelli : send me a shirtless selfie xx

liked by olliebearman

↳ kimi.antonelli : OLLIE DO NOT. YN BAD. NO.

liked by olliebearman, yn_antonelli, and lando

↳ olliebearman : too late

liked by yn_antonelli

↳ yn_antonelli : licking my phone screen rn

liked by olliebearman

↳ kimi.antonelli : ugh gross 🤮

—

You barely get the door open before Kimi’s voice rings out from somewhere inside the apartment.

“Took you long enough. Did you adopt Simba or something?”

You laugh, toeing off your sneakers and dropping your bag near the couch. “Honestly? I wouldn’t have said no. That dog has better manners than you.”

Kimi pokes his head out of the kitchen with a dramatic eye roll. “He also tried to eat my sock last time I visited. We’re not pretending he’s innocent.”

You make your way into the kitchen, still sun-kissed from your weekend at Pierre and Kika’s place. “Okay but he is the love of my life. It’s Simba’s world and we’re all just living in it.”

Kimi snorts. “God help us all.”

You pull open the fridge, immediately grimacing. “Why is there nothing in here except Gatorade, one sad orange, and what looks like leftover fries in a coffee filter?”

“That’s Ollie’s attempt at dinner,” Kimi says, wandering in behind you. “He said he was ‘too tired use a plate’ like that explains anything.”

“You both need supervision.”

“Yeah, well,” Kimi shrugs. “That’s why you’re here.”

Right on cue, the front door opens and Ollie strolls in, kicking it shut behind him. He’s still in his team polo, curls slightly windswept, a grin spreading across his face the second he spots you.

“Well, well, well,” he says. “Monaco just got a little prettier.”

You shoot him a look, trying not to smile. “Did you practice that?”

“Nope,” he says, dropping his keys in the bowl by the door. “You just have that effect on me.”

Kimi groans. Loudly. “Do you hear yourself?”

“I’m just being polite,” Ollie says, walking into the kitchen. “Besides, I haven’t seen her in, what, three days? I think that earns me at least one compliment.”

“She doesn’t want your compliments,” Kimi mutters.

“I actually don’t mind them,” you say casually, pulling out a glass.

Kimi nearly chokes on air. “You’re both dead to me.”

Ollie leans against the counter next to you, close enough that you feel his shoulder brush yours. “So how was Simba? Did he try to come home with you?”

You grin. “Almost. Kika caught him trying to sneak into my suitcase.”

“Smart dog,” he says, then adds under his breath, “Same strategy I was gonna try.”

Kimi flings a kitchen towel at his face. “NO. No flirting with my sister! That is a rule. A written rule!”

“I’ve never seen this in writing,” Ollie grins, pulling the towel off his head.

“Do I need to draft a contract?” Kimi snaps.

“Boys,” you say, sipping your water with mock serenity, “I’ve literally passed two tort exams this week. I could sue both of you for emotional distress and win.”

Ollie leans in a little closer. “I’d represent myself. Just to sit across from you in court.”

Kimi makes a strangled noise. “I’m moving out. I’m going to Max’s.”

“Go ahead,” you and Ollie say in unison.

Kimi turns on his heel and disappears down the hallway, muttering about betrayal and restraining orders. You glance at Ollie, who’s still watching you with a soft, smug smile.

“Welcome home,” he says, a little quieter this time.

You shake your head, fighting the blush. “Shut up.”

But you’re smiling too.

—

The sun is high, the Mediterranean is sparkling in the distance, and your torts textbook is open in front of you, pages fluttering slightly in the breeze. You’ve managed two whole hours of peace — no noise, no distractions, just iced coffee, highlighters, and the faint hum of waves below. For once, it feels like law school might not destroy you. Naturally, the universe doesn’t let that last.

“OI, PROFESSOR,” Kimi’s voice echoes from inside the apartment. “DO WE GET EXTRA CREDIT IF WE BRING SNACKS?”

You don’t even look up. “Not if they’re flaming hot Cheetos again.”

A beat.

“What if it’s Oreos?” Ollie asks, suddenly appearing beside you with a grin and a very suspicious looking plate of cookies.

You blink at him. “You didn’t make these, did you?”

“I assembled them,” he offers proudly.

“You stacked them, didn’t you?”

“Triple decker,” he confirms.

Kimi barrels onto the balcony a second later with a half-full Gatorade and no sense of spatial awareness. “Move your highlighters. I need space.”

“You’re not studying,” you say flatly.

“I’m auditing.”

“This is not a seminar.”

“Yet.”

You sigh and scoot your books over slightly to make room, though it feels more like you’re giving your sanity away inch by inch.

Ollie plops down beside you, his knee bumping yours like it’s muscle memory. He rests his chin in his hand and squints at your open notes. “Okay, explain this bit to me. What’s ‘negligence per se’?”

You pause. “It’s when someone breaks a law that’s specifically meant to prevent the kind of harm that occurred. So the violation itself proves negligence.”

Ollie nods solemnly. “Right, like when Kimi—”

“Don’t.” Kimi warns.

“No, no, I need this for context,” you say, half-laughing, half-afraid. “What did he do?”

Ollie leans in, voice lowered like he’s telling you a secret. “Okay so last winter, Kimi tried to ‘drift’ a golf cart through a snow-covered paddock in Austria—”

“OLLIE.”

“—and he may have taken out a VIP lounge tent.”

“It was poorly placed!” Kimi argues, flailing one hand while sipping Gatorade with the other.

You stare at them. “That’s—okay, yeah, that’s textbook negligence. Possibly even reckless endangerment. You’re lucky no one sued.”

Kimi pouts. “You say that like it wasn’t sick.”

“It was impressively dumb,” you reply. “Which is different.”

Ollie grins, shameless. “Okay, what about unauthorized use of a vehicle?”

You narrow your eyes. “Why are you asking that?”

“No reason.”

“Ollie.”

“Well—hypothetically,” he says, drawing the word out, “if someone borrowed a security buggy in Baku because they were late for curfew—”

“OH MY GOD.”

“—and accidentally drove it onto pit lane—”

“KIMI,” you hiss, looking at your brother, who’s pointedly not making eye contact.

Kimi shrugs. “It was dark.”

“You two are a liability.”

“We’re a team,” Ollie corrects. “A chaotic, well-fed team.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands. “I am going to need my own legal insurance policy just knowing you two.”

Ollie leans closer, nudging your elbow until you peek at him through your fingers.

“If you ever get tired of civil law,” he says with a smirk, “you could always defend me full-time. I promise to make it worth your while.”

You stare. “Are you flirting while listing things I could put you in prison for?”

“Gotta keep you engaged,” he says innocently. “This is interactive learning.”

“Interactive insanity.”

Kimi snorts. “I should charge tuition just for having to listen to this.”

“Or therapy,” you mutter, scribbling unauthorized vehicle use into the margin of your notebook.

Ollie leans back in his chair, stealing one of your sticky notes and doodling a heart on it.

“C’mon, counselor,” he says with a lazy grin, “you love us.”

You roll your eyes. “I deal with knowing you.”

“Same thing,” Kimi mumbles around an Oreo.

You look between the two of them — one covered in cookie crumbs, the other still grinning like he’s the protagonist in a romcom. Your study session is in shambles, your textbook is now decorated with cartoon smiley faces, and you’re weirdly okay with all of it. Against your better judgment, you smile. “God help me.”

—

twitter!

f1gossipgirls : Kimi Antonelli went on a podcast and casually admitted to credit card fraud because he and ollie bearman “stole Ollie’s trainers credit card and bought a ton of stuff” — and his sister, who is literally in law school, interrupted the interview just to say, “As Kimi’s legal counsel, I strongly advise him to shut the fuck up.” no like this family is unhinged 😭😭😭😭

view 75,025 other replies.

username00 : i need to hear ollie’s side of the story rn

username0 : yn is so iconic. she was just there scolding kimi and those interviewers were dying laughing.

username1 : not kimi casually stealing a card and calling it “a misunderstanding” 💀

username5 : no but imagine yn just trying to finish her reading and kimi’s like “is stealing really stealing if it was an accident?”

username7 : yn antonelli is only 3rd year law student and she is already getting a taste of the real world trying to defend ollie and her brother 😭

—

The living room is deceptively calm. You’re planted on the floor with your back against the couch, surrounded by an explosion of law textbooks, color coded notes, and the faint hum of lo-fi study music playing from your headphones. You’ve got a midterm next week, a case brief due tomorrow, and maybe three functioning brain cells left. Kimi, meanwhile, is perched at the kitchen counter behind you, deep into a Zoom podcast interview with his mic clipped to his hoodie and zero adult supervision.

You’re not paying attention. You should’ve been. “Yeah, so we did actually steal his credit card.”

Your head jerks up so fast you pull a muscle in your neck. “Ollie dared me to do it, and I figured, you know, he probably deserved it after that one gym session where he made me run stairs for 45 minutes. So I just… took it.”

You freeze, blinking at the wall like it’ll provide answers. “We ordered like… a beanbag, noise-cancelling headphones, five boxes of protein bars, a punching bag — which is still in the hallway, by the way — and I think we accidentally subscribed him to like a fruit of the month thing.”

You slam your torts textbook shut and turn around slowly.

“Kimi. What the actual hell did you just say?”

He half-glances at you over his shoulder. “Huh?”

“You just confessed. To intentional credit card fraud. On camera.”

One of the podcast hosts snorts. “Wait, is that your sister?”

Kimi lights up like he’s proud. “Yeah, that’s her! She’s in law school.”

You march straight into frame, highlighter still in hand, and give the camera your most professional death glare.

“Hi, yes, as Kimi’s legal counsel — and unfortunately, his sister — I would just like to advise Kimi to shut the fuck up.”

The podcast hosts lose it. One of them chokes on their drink. Another is wheezing.

Kimi grins. “She’s mad because I wouldn’t let her eat the protein bars.”

“I’m mad because you’re out here building a felony portfolio and dragging me down with you!”

From down the hall, Ollie calls out helpfully, “Don’t forget the disco light!”

“YOU ORDERED A DISCO LIGHT?!”

“I thought it would help morale!”

“Oh my god.”

You drag a hand down your face, muttering to yourself about future bar applications and how early is too early to start drinking.

“Kimi,” you say slowly, “you knew it wasn’t your card?”

“Yeah, obviously. His last name is literally on it.”

You stare at him. The hosts are still dying.

“I hate this family,” you mutter, storming off screen.

In the distance, you hear Ollie yell, “Wait, do you know where the disco light went?”

You yell back, “INTO THE EVIDENCE BIN. NEITHER OF YOU GET IT BACK.”

—

Kimi left an hour ago for some cardio session you’re 90% sure he’s going to complain about in thirty minutes. He’d barely made it to the elevator before turning back to shout, “Don’t let Ollie set anything on fire while I’m gone!”

You’d saluted. Ollie had bowed. Now, the sun is casting golden light through the windows, and the chaos has settled into something soft and warm. You’re curled up on the couch, laptop back open, textbook balanced on the armrest beside you, highlighter clutched loosely in one hand. Your coffee’s gone cold, but you’re too lazy to care. Ollie’s across from you at the kitchen island, scrolling on his phone, chewing idly on a granola bar. He’s unusually quiet, for once not throwing a stress ball or trying to balance a fork on his nose. You catch him sneaking glances at you every few seconds.

You raise an eyebrow. “You good?”

He pauses, like he’s debating something. Then he sets his phone down and stands up, wiping his hands on his hoodie like he’s nervous. Which is weird. Ollie is never nervous.

“I was just thinking,” he starts, walking over to you, “you know between your legal intervention and Kimi admitting to credit card fraud on both of our behalf…it’s been a chaotic day.”

You smirk. “That’s what happens when you two share a frontal lobe.”

He grins but doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he leans his hip against the back of the couch, voice soft now. “You’re always dealing with us, huh? Cleaning up our messes, reading law books while we’re over here planning our next felony.”

You tilt your head. “It’s not technically felony-level. Yet.”

“Still,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “You do a lot. For Kimi. For me.”

You blink, heart doing that annoying fluttery thing it does whenever he gets like this — a little too sincere, a little too close.

He hesitates, then finally blurts, “So I figured maybe it was time I took you out. On a real date.”

You freeze. “A real date?”

He nods, eyes on yours. “Yeah. Not a team dinner. Not a group movie night where Kimi insists on sitting between us like a human traffic cone. Just me and you. Somewhere nice.”

You blink again.

“You’re serious.”

“I’m very serious,” he says. “I even googled romantic restaurants in Monaco, which is something I thought only Charles would do. So that’s how committed I am.”

Your cheeks are warm. “Did you really?”

“I did,” he says proudly. “I also accidentally made a reservation under the name ‘Oliver Bearclaw’ because I was on voice text and sneezed halfway through.”

You laugh, pressing your hand over your mouth. “That’s so stupid.”

He grins. “Yeah, but you’re smiling. So I’m calling it a win.”

You look at him for a moment — all sunlit curls and hopeful eyes and way too much heart in his stupid little grin — and it hits you that he’s not just asking you on a date. He’s been falling for you this whole time. The flirting, the teasing, the way he always walks into a room and makes sure to say hi to you first — it wasn’t just a joke. It was real. And maybe… you’ve been falling, too. You set your laptop aside and stand up slowly, facing him.

“Okay,” you say softly. “Take me out, Bearclaw.”

His grin widens like the sun just came up.

“For real?”

“For real,” you nod. “But only if you promise not to commit any crimes between now and then.”

He places a hand over his heart. “No felonies, I swear.”

“Misdemeanors?”

“Minor ones.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile’s too wide to hide.

—

The restaurant is tucked away on a quiet corner near the Port, a place you’ve passed a hundred times but never stepped inside. It’s warm and golden inside, all low lighting and tall windows that overlook the water. The kind of place where time feels like it stretches and softens around the edges. And Ollie — Ollie is waiting at the table, sleeves rolled to his forearms, curls a little too fluffy, smile entirely too wide when he sees you walk in.

He stands up fast, almost knocking into the waiter. “You look—wow.”

You glance down at yourself, at the simple dress and slightly curled hair. “I look what?”

He pulls your chair out for you. “Like you’re about to sue me and steal my heart.”

You laugh as you sit down. “That was tragic. And kind of sweet.”

“Story of my life.”

Dinner is easy — conversation flowing like it always does, but softer somehow. You talk about school, about the things you hate studying, about how you once considered switching to marine biology after a breakdown in year one.

He talks about growing up on tracks, about how surreal it still feels to be in F1. He doesn’t say it out loud, but you know the weight it isn’t always gentle. You reach across the table and touch his hand when his voice gets quiet. He relaxes immediately under your fingers.

Dessert comes and he orders two spoons without even asking. “I’m not letting you eat crème brûlée alone. That’s a crime.”

“You would know.”

He smiles, but there’s a shift — something tender in his eyes, something quieter than the usual chaos he tosses around like confetti. After dinner, you walk along the marina. Monaco glows at night — golden lights reflected in the water, luxury yachts bobbing gently, laughter drifting from balconies. He keeps brushing against your shoulder like he’s testing fate. You stop near the railing, just where the dock curves out toward the sea.

“Thanks for tonight,” you say, glancing up at him. “It was… really good.”

He looks at you like you hung the moon. “I’ve wanted to do this for a while.”

You smile. “I kind of figured. The flirting during my breakdowns was a giveaway.”

“I had to keep you entertained somehow. Also, I thought maybe you’d be impressed by my criminal record.”

You laugh, leaning into him. “It’s extensive. I might write a dissertation.”

“I’d be honored.”

He takes your hand then — slow, careful, like he’s waited exactly long enough to be sure. And when you look up at him, heart beating a little too fast, he leans in and kisses you. Soft, like a secret. Like a promise.

There’s nothing dramatic about it — no fireworks or cheers or music swelling behind you. Just his hand on your waist, the scent of the sea, and the feeling that maybe, finally, the chaos has led you somewhere you want to stay.

You pull back slightly, smiling against his lips. “So… what’s the verdict?”

He grins. “You’re definitely going to be the smartest person I’ve ever dated.”

“Yeah?”

“And the prettiest.”

Your face warms as you nudge him playfully. “God, Kimi’s gonna hate this.”

“Yeah,” Ollie laughs. “But I don’t really care.”

And neither do you.

—

twitter!

f1gossipgirls : Ollie Bearman went on the same podcast as Kimi Antonelli and not only CONFIRMED the credit card theft story — he added that he once “stole his trainer’s ID so he couldn’t leave the track and I wouldn’t have to do cooldown laps.” To which a poor and tired YN Antonelli yelled at him from behind the camera, “OLIVER. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. STOP. TALKING.” 

view 108,004 other replies.

username000 : someone needs to lock these men up and give yn a vacation + a bottle of wine

↳ yn_antonelli : i need it. pls. someone help.

username00 : they’re gonna get her disbarred before she even graduates

username1 : ollie’s smile when she scolded him?? he’s in love.

username5 : her legal career hasn’t even started and she’s already stuck doing crisis PR full time 😭

username7 : oh i love them all so much. give them to me.

—

The door is closed. Your laptop is open. The air conditioning is finally working. For the first time in 48 hours, you feel a tiny hint of peace. You’re curled up on the small couch in Ollie’s driver room, laptop buzzing and an absurdly large iced coffee next to you. There’s just enough WiFi to submit your assignment and watch a torts lecture on double speed. Across the room, Ollie is mid-interview with a podcast crew — his mic clipped to his race suit, feet kicked up on a stool, expression way too relaxed for someone with a camera in his face.

You’re only half-listening until you hear it.

“Yeah, the credit card thing was real.”

Your eyes snap up from your laptop.

The host laughs. “Wait, seriously? You and Kimi actually used your trainer’s card?”

Ollie just grins, dimples out, completely unbothered. “Oh yeah. We found it on the counter before a sim session and decided to test if it worked.”

Your highlighter slips out of your hand.

“It did,” he continues, like he’s talking about the weather. “So we just… kept using it.”

You sit up. “Oliver.”

“We didn’t buy anything crazy,” he says quickly. “Mostly snacks. Gym gear. A massage gun. I think Kimi ordered a beanbag chair. And like, maybe… matching hoodies?”

You slam your laptop shut. “Oliver.”

The host is laughing too hard to ask the next question. Another one goes, “That’s insane. What did your trainer say?”

“Oh, he was chill about it,” Ollie says, waving it off. “I gave the card back eventually. But that’s not even the worst thing I’ve done to him.”

Your head whips around. “Don’t—”

“There was this one time in Silverstone,” Ollie says, leaning back, “where I straight up stole his  ID.”

The room goes silent.

The hosts blink. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Yeah, I took his ID and hid it in my glove box. He couldn’t leave the track because security wouldn’t let him through the gates.”

You stare at him in pure disbelief. “Why?”

He shrugs, totally unapologetic. “Because I didn’t want to do cooldown laps alone and he said he had somewhere to be. So I… created a situation.”

From your corner, you yell without even thinking.

“OLIVER. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. STOP. TALKING.”

He jumps slightly and turns toward you with a guilty smile. “Oh. Hi.”

You stand up slowly, hands on your hips. “You’re on a recorded podcast. And you just admitted to identity theft.”

“Technically it wasn’t identity theft,” he says innocently. “I didn’t use it. I just… blocked his escape.”

“That’s not better!”

One of the podcast hosts mutters, “This is better than Drive to Survive.”

You walk into frame, highlighter still in hand like a legal weapon. “Hi. Yes. As Oliver Bearman’s unofficial legal counsel and the only sane adult in his orbit, I would like to make a formal statement— he is no longer allowed to speak in public.”

The hosts are crying with laughter now.

Ollie beams at you. “She’s cute when she’s mad, isn’t she?”

You turn slowly toward the camera. “He’s lucky he’s cute or I’d be representing him from a holding cell.”

He winks. “Wouldn’t be the worst date we’ve had.”

You groan, turning away. “I’m going to sue you.”

“Good thing you’re already in law school.”

Behind the camera, someone whispers, “I think they’re in love.”

You grab your laptop and head toward the door before Ollie can start confessing to international crimes.

As you’re halfway out, you hear—

“Wait, can I tell them the story about the golf cart in Barcelona?”

“NO, YOU CANNOT.”

—

yn_antonelli

liked by olliebearman, kimi.antonelli, lando and 875,130 others.

yn_antonelli : since ollie and kimi insist on admitting their crimes in front of the whole world, i made them take me to brunch and used both of their cards at hermes as payment for my defense.

tagged : olliebearman and kimi.antonelli

—

view 89,000 other comments.

franciscagomes : brunch and birkins… you’ve got a bright future in negotiations mama

liked by yn_antonelli

oscarpiastri : So what I’m hearing is that you extorted your clients?

liked by kimi.antonelli and olliebearman

↳ yn_antonelli : actually mr. piastri, it is considered compensation for emotional damages.

liked by oscarpiastri and olliebearman

kimi.antonelli : STOP SPENDING ALL MY MONEY PLEASEEEE

liked by yn_antonelli

↳ yn_antonelli : stop confessing to crimes on live podcasts and maybe we can discuss a compromise

liked by olliebearman

↳ kimi.antonelli : honestly fair point tbh.

alexandrasaintmleux : your honor, she’s iconic. sigh.

liked by yn_antonelli

↳ yn_antonelli : omg omg i love uuuuu

isackhadjar : that is ollie’s hand. i am not stupid.

liked by olliebearman and yn_antonelli

↳ yn_antonelli : look at the big brains on sherlock hadjar.

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↳ kimi.antonelli : wait what

—

The sun is shining, the water is glittering, and Kimi Antonelli looks like he hasn’t slept in 36 hours. Even though he just slept for 14. 

“Why am I here,” he grumbles, slumped in the backseat of the Uber with sunglasses that cover half his face. “I didn’t even confess that many crimes.”

“You admitted to credit card fraud and stealing a man’s identity in the span of twenty-four hours,” you say, scrolling through the brunch menu on your phone. “I deserve eggs. I deserve champagne. I deserve a Birkin.”

“You’re going to steal our money to buy a Birkin.”

“I defended you from public ridicule and potential legal investigation.”

“I don’t even like brunch,” he mutters. “Who eats breakfast at 11:30?”

“People who aren’t under investigation,” you snap.

Ollie, sitting beside you in the Uber, just laughs — far too amused by the whole situation. “I like brunch,” he says, looking down at you with that stupid grin. “Especially when you’re mad. You get all—bossy.”

You glance up, squinting. “Would you like to confess anything else while we’re en route to a public restaurant?”

“Not unless you’re charging me by the hour.”

Kimi groans dramatically. “I hate whatever the fuck this is.” 

—

You’re seated at an outdoor table with a sea view, sunglasses on, napkin in your lap, and a mimosa already in hand. Kimi looks like he’s about to throw himself into the ocean.

Ollie’s watching you over his menu, smirking. “You’re glowing today.”

“That’s what financial revenge and fresh pastries will do to a girl,” you hum.

The waiter returns with your first round of orders — coffee for Kimi, a breakfast burger for Ollie, and a small mountain of avocado toast and poached eggs for you.

“I hope you’re both ready to pay,” you say brightly, stabbing your fork into your toast. “Because I ordered three sides. Out of principle.”

Kimi doesn’t look up. “I’m telling Nonna you bullied me.”

“She’ll be proud I’m finally asserting myself.”

“Does she know you're about to max out my card at Hermès?”

“She would be proud.”

Ollie sips his orange juice, clearly enjoying this too much. “Honestly, watching you argue is kind of hot. Should I confess to tax evasion next?”

You pause, slowly turning toward him. “Don’t. You. Dare.”

He grins, unbothered. “You’d still make me pay for brunch first.”

You tilt your head. “Damn right I would.”

Kimi finally looks up from his phone. “Are you two together or are you just blackmailing him through brunch?”

You and Ollie both respond at the same time—

“None of your business.”

“I think I’m in love with her.”

You nearly choke on your mimosa.

Kimi slaps his credit card on the table. “I’m leaving. I’m paying. I want nothing to do with whatever this is.”

“But we haven’t ordered dessert yet,” you pout.

Kimi glares at you through his sunglasses. “I will throw you into the sea.”

“Please do,” Ollie says, smirking again. “I’ll jump in after her.”

“You’re both sick,” Kimi says, standing and muttering as he walks toward the cashier. “I’m moving out.”

You smile as the waiter returns with a tiny silver bell and a dessert menu.

“Round two?” Ollie asks, reaching for your hand under the table.

You squeeze his fingers. “You’re paying.”

He grins, boyish and hopeless. “Always.”

—

You had planned for Hermes after brunch as Kimi made a comment about how “law students don’t need nice bags” and Ollie laughed, and now here you are, standing outside the most intimidating boutique in all of Monaco — sunglasses on, mimosa still coursing through your veins, and absolutely unhinged on principle.

“YN,” Kimi says warily as the automatic glass doors open, “let’s talk.”

“No,” you say sweetly. “You committed crimes. Now I’m committing retail.”

Ollie follows you in like a golden retriever on a leash made of guilt and admiration. Kimi drags his feet like a hostage.

“Do you need a bag that costs more than your first years tuition?” Kimi hisses as the polished sales assistant greets you like you’re royalty.

“I need financial restitution,” you say calmly, flipping your hair over your shoulder. “And emotional closure.”

The assistant smiles. “Are we shopping for anything in particular today, madam?”

You gesture to Kimi and Ollie, both standing awkwardly behind you like they’re about to be publicly executed. “They’ll be paying.”

The woman beams.

“Excellent. Right this way.”

—

You’re standing in front of a full-length mirror with a black Birkin draped over your forearm. It looks obscene. It looks divine. It looks like justice.

Ollie’s perched on the velvet bench nearby, watching you with the kind of dumb, smitten look that says, I would rob a bank if she asked nicely.

“You like it?” he asks, tipping his head.

You raise a brow. “I love it.”

“Then it’s yours.”

Kimi, from the corner, nearly chokes on the sparkling water the assistant brought him. “I’m sorry, what?!”

“She loves it,” Ollie shrugs, pulling out his card. “She deserves it.”

“She bullied us into a brunch we didn’t want and is now financially blackmailing us in Hermès!”

You smirk as the assistant gently takes the bag from you to box it up.

“You’re the one who said ‘it wasn’t even a big deal’ after admitting to stealing a man’s identity on camera.”

“You didn’t represent me! You just yelled ‘shut the fuck up’ from behind the couch!”

“That was the defense! And it worked!”

Ollie, whispering to the cashier— “Would now be a bad time to mention I also used the trainer’s gym membership without asking?”

“KIMI. HE DID MORE. THAT MEANS I GET SHOES TOO.”

Kimi is now fully slumped into the armchair, sunglasses on, mouthing prayers to the ceiling.

The assistant hands you the receipt with a reverent smile and says, “We’ve added a small gift for your troubles.”

You nod graciously. “As you should.”

As you walk out, massive shopping bag in one hand and Ollie’s hand in the other, you turn back and call. 

“Thanks for brunch! Thanks for the bag! Try not to commit any more felonies this week!”

Kimi doesn’t respond. He’s already Googling how to block you from his bank account.

—

The apartment is quiet. Sunlight pours through the windows, casting golden light across the hardwood floors. For once, there’s no podcast playing, no shoes being thrown, no one dramatically announcing a new crime. Just you and Ollie in the kitchen.

You’re leaned against the counter, his hands on either side of your hips, your fingers tangled in the soft collar of his hoodie. He’s smiling against your mouth — all warm lips, soft touches, and stolen breaths like this has been a long time coming. Because it has.

“I really like you,” he murmurs, nudging your nose with his.

“Even though I made you pay for the Birkin?”

“Especially because you made me pay for the Birkin.”

You laugh, tugging him closer by his hoodie strings, just as he leans in again — lips brushing yours, his thumb ghosting along your neck. It’s soft, easy, a little reckless.

And then— The front door bursts open.

“WHY IS THERE A PARKING TICKET WITH MY NAME ON IT?!”

You and Ollie freeze mid-kiss like two teenagers caught making out by a high school principal. Except the principal is your younger brother and he’s holding a crumpled parking citation and an espresso.

“OH MY GOD,” Kimi screams. “ARE YOU—ARE YOU KISSING?!”

Ollie pulls back slowly. “Hey, mate—”

“NO. NO HEY MATE. WHAT IS THIS?!”

You blink. “…Kimi, we’ve been soft launching for a month.”

“I THOUGHT THAT WAS A BIT,” he shrieks, tossing the parking ticket into the air like confetti. “I thought you were gaslighting me!”

“We literally held hands in front of you—”

“I THOUGHT IT WAS FOR AESTHETIC PURPOSES.”

Ollie steps back with his hands up. “Look, we weren’t hiding it—”

“YOU,” Kimi snarls, pointing at him. “I LET YOU LIVE HERE. I LET YOU EAT MY CEREAL. I TRUSTED YOU.”

“To be fair, it’s my cereal, and my apartment.” Ollie mumbles. 

“IRRELEVANT.”

Kimi storms toward the kitchen, righteous fury in his socks. “Ollie, I swear to god, if you hurt her��if you so much as misplace a single hair on her law school head—I will run you over exactly 8 times.” 

“Okay,” Ollie says nervously, backing into the island. “That seems extreme—”

“You’re lucky you have dimples or I’d kill you right now.”

You step in between them, putting your hand on Kimi’s chest like a bodyguard. “Relax. He’s not hurting me.”

Kimi narrows his eyes. “Are you sure he didn’t put something in that mimosa?”

“Kimi.”

“I’m just asking!”

“I’m literally holding his hand.”

Ollie gives Kimi a little wave. “Hi.”

“I’M GOING TO MURDER YOU WITH MY BARE HANDS.”

You sigh, reaching over to grab the espresso out of his hand. “You need to calm down and hydrate before you combust.”

Kimi glares at both of you. “You owe me emotional damages. And a new box of cereal.”

Ollie shrugs. “Want me to buy you Hermès socks?”

“I DON’T WANT YOUR GUILT SOCKS.”

Kimi storms off to his room, slamming the door dramatically behind him. There’s a beat of silence. Then from inside his room,

“IF I HEAR KISSING SO HELP ME GOD—”

You burst out laughing and lean back into Ollie’s arms, grinning. “Well. That went well.”

Ollie kisses your temple. “Honestly, better than expected.”

—

olliebearman

liked by yn_antonelli, kimi.antonelli, lando and 1,810,001 others.

olliebearman : she loves me and my extensive list of crimes.

tagged : yn_antonelli

—

view 152,000 other comments.

yn_antonelli : this is legally admissible. delete immediately.

liked by olliebearman

↳ olliebearman : how romantic 🥰

liked by yn_antonelli

kimi.antonelli : I WILL BE PRESSING CHARGES. against both of you.

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↳ olliebearman : good luck. i have the best lawyer in the world.

liked by yn_antonelli and kimi.antonelli

georgerussell63 : something tells me the legal expert was not consulted prior to making this caption

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↳ yn_antonelli : def not but im used to it

estebanocon : ohhhh this is why kimi was pacing in front of the garage yesterday. happy for you both !! ❤️

liked by yn_antonelli and olliebearman

—

redbullracing

liked by maxverstappen1, kimi.antonelli, yn_antonelli and 3,720,005 others.

redbullracing : @/yn_antonelli please come get your menace. he has been caught in the act again.

—

view 235,007 other comments.

yn_antonelli : he does not belong to me. i have never ever seen that man in my life. i wish him the best of luck.

liked by kimi.antonelli, maxverstappen1, redbullracing, olliebearman and lando

kimi.antonelli : I TOLD HIM TO STOP DOING THIS. TOO MANY CAMERAS.

↳ yn_antonelli : oh so you’ve done it too?

↳ kimi.antonelli : no…

↳ redbullracing : yes. check dm’s

↳ yn_antonelli : GOD DAMNIT ANDREA

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oscarpiastri : He does this at Mclaren too. Took my smoothie out of my hands. Said absolutely nothing and walked out.

liked by yn_antonelli, kimi.antonelli, lando and olliebearman

charles_leclerc : he stole like 5 coconut waters from me in the matter of a month

liked by yn_antonelli, kimi.antonelli, olliebearman and lando

olliebearman : ALL OF THIS IS SLANDER. I DO NOT SPEAK UNTIL MY LEGAL COUNSEL IS PRESENT. YNNNNNNN!!!!

liked by kimi.antonelli, maxverstappen1, lando, oscarpiastri, charles_leclerc and yn_antonelli

↳ yn_antonelli : i do not know you. stop bothering me. i will get a restraining order if necessary

liked by kimi.antonelli, maxverstappen1, lando, oscarpiastri, olliebearman and charles_leclerc

—

[cressidagrey]

Mastermind 1/2

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Tessa Hamilton (Original Female Character)

Summary: Lewis Hamilton moves to Ferrari. Tessa Hamilton decides that Charles Leclerc is her future husband. Charles Leclerc is the willing victim of Lewis Hamilton’s scheming little sister. 

Warnings and Notes: 

This has been in the works since January. But I finally managed to finish it. Also, don't take it too seriously. This is not the way, one should probably go around to find a significant other.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

January 2024: 

Text Messages - Lewis Hamilton and Tessa Hamilton

Lewis: Before you see it on the news, I’m telling you first. I’m moving to Ferrari next year.

Tessa: OH. MY. GOD.

Lewis: I know, I know, it’s big—

Tessa: GREAT. That means I’m going to marry Charles Leclerc.

Lewis: …Excuse me?

Tessa: No, think about it. You being at Ferrari means I’ll be around him more than ever. Maximum exposure. Prime hunting grounds.

Lewis: Tessa, he is not a gazelle on the Serengeti.

Tessa: No, he’s a terrified little deer, and I am a strategic apex predator.

Lewis: You are actually insane.

Tessa: No, I am a woman with a PLAN.

Lewis: Oh my God.

Lewis: You cannot seriously be planning a multi-phase operation to marry Charles Leclerc just because I signed with Ferrari.

Tessa: I can and I am.

Lewis: You need therapy.

Tessa: No, I need a Ferrari WAG pass and a Monegasque husband.

Lewis: You are an actual menace.

Tessa: And you, my dear brother, have just given me the greatest gift of all—ACCESS.

Lewis: I have made a mistake.

Tessa: No, Charles has. He just doesn’t know it yet.

***

Instagram Post:  @/gridgossip

 @/gridgossip: 🚨 BREAKING: Lewis Hamilton is officially moving to Ferrari in 2025! The seven-time world champion will be donning the red suit next season, shaking up the grid in one of the biggest transfers in F1 history. But let’s be real… the REAL question is: Does this mean Ferrari will finally let Tessa Hamilton design the team merch?! 👀🔥

Top Comments:

@/paddockfashionfiles: TESSA HAMILTON ERA AT FERRARI?? RED NEVER LOOKED HOTTER.

@/gridgirlsunite: If we don’t get a Ferrari collection that actually SLAPS, what is even the POINT.

@/mercedesmerchflop: So you’re telling me Mercedes NEVER let Tessa design a collab but Ferrari might??? I’m in mourning.

@/fastlanefits: Ferrari x Tessa Hamilton x Louboutin WHEN?? Give us stylish pit crew boots. I’m BEGGING.

@/scuderiaferrari: We’re listening... 🤭

@/fashionablyinF1: Ferrari, if you mess this up, you will never know peace.

@/wherestessanow: Tessa in custom Ferrari fits every weekend??? Oh, the SERVE is coming.

@/takeallmymoney: Ferrari Store employees watching this unfold knowing they’re about to sell out for the first time ever: 😰😰😰

@/theredrevival: Ferrari's biggest win in years isn't Lewis—it’s Tessa finally fixing the damn merch.

***

Instagram Post:  @/lewishamilton

@/lewishamilton:  Excited for this next chapter. Forza Ferrari. ❤️🔥 #LH44 #ScuderiaFerrari

Top Comments:

@/tessahamilton: Guess I better start practicing my Italian 🇮🇹👠

@/f1fanatic99: THE REAL QUESTION IS… does this mean @/tessahamilton is finally going to design Ferrari merch??? Because we need it IMMEDIATELY.

@/fastandfashionable: Mercedes fumbled by never letting Tessa cook, but Ferrari can right this historical wrong.

@/gridgossip: FERRARI X TESSA HAMILTON COLLAB WHEN? DROP THE LOUIS VUITTON FIRE SUITS WHILE WE’RE AT IT.

@/paddockstyle: If we don’t get a Ferrari jacket that actually slaps, what is even the point???

@/highheelsandhighoctane: If I don’t see Louboutin-stamped pit crew boots next season, I’m gonna be disappointed.

@/charles_leclerc: This is gonna be fun.

@/mercedesamgf1fan: I’m not even sad about Lewis leaving anymore, I’m just devastated we never got a Tessa-designed Mercedes collection.

***

Tessa Hamilton: The Most Influential Woman in the Paddock Isn’t a Driver or a WAG—She’s a Stylist

By Jessica Hepburn

If there’s one thing Tessa Hamilton understands, it’s presence.

She has built a career around it—curating, refining, and amplifying the presence of one of Formula 1’s most iconic figures: her brother, Lewis Hamilton. For nearly a decade, she has shaped the visual identity of a seven-time world champion, making the paddock as much of a runway as it is a racetrack. Yet, while Lewis’ style evolution is one of the most analyzed in modern sport, Tessa herself has quietly become just as influential.

Not that she does anything quietly.

The moment she steps into the café for our interview—black Balenciaga sunglasses perched on her nose, a perfectly oversized coat cinched at the waist, and, of course, a pair of red-bottomed heels—it’s evident that she is every bit the style powerhouse people claim her to be.

“I don’t do anything halfway,” she says with a smirk, slipping off her sunglasses. “If I’m going to do something, it’s going to be done properly.”

That philosophy has extended far beyond her own wardrobe. In many ways, Tessa has been the architect behind the current era of Formula 1 fashion. When Lewis arrived in the paddock in the 2000s, driver fashion was an afterthought—polo shirts, team-issued merch, and, at best, a well-tailored suit for FIA Gala night. Now, the paddock is a global fashion spectacle, and Lewis is its undisputed king.

But make no mistake: Tessa is the kingmaker.

She shrugs when I bring up her influence, but she doesn’t deny it. “I give him the options. He wears them well. That’s teamwork.”

But it isn’t just Lewis anymore. Other drivers have started paying attention, dipping their toes into high fashion, collaborating with designers, and using their personal style as an extension of their brand. When I suggest that she’s responsible for this shift, she simply smiles.

“I think people are realizing they can bring their full selves into this sport,” she says. “It’s not just about what happens on track. You walk into a room, and before you’ve even said a word, your presence has told a story. Why wouldn’t you want to control that narrative?”

Tessa controls hers better than anyone. Despite not being a driver, not being a WAG,  she has become one of the most closely watched figures in the paddock. Her outfits are dissected in the same way the drivers' on-track performances are—fan accounts track her every look, fashion blogs break down her choices, and luxury brands have taken notice.

“I don’t think about it that much,” she claims. “I just wear what I like.”

That may be true, but what she likes—sharp tailoring, bold prints, architectural outerwear, and an ever-present pair of Louboutins—has shaped an entire aesthetic. One that is somehow both untouchable and deeply aspirational.

With Lewis’ impending move to Ferrari, I ask if her approach to styling him will change. After all, Ferrari has its own legacy, its own aesthetic history.

She tilts her head, as if considering it. Then she grins.

“Ferrari is historic,” she acknowledges. “But Lewis is Lewis.”

And Tessa Hamilton? She’s the one making sure we never forget it.

***

Twitter Thread: Lewis Hamilton to Ferrari… and Charles Leclerc’s Crush?? 

@/F1Tea:Lewis Hamilton to Ferrari is HUGE, but let’s talk about the real headline here: Charles Leclerc has been painfully down bad for Lewis’ sister for YEARS. How is this man supposed to SURVIVE?? A thread 🧵⬇️

@/F1Tea:📍2019 Pre-Race Grid Walk Tessa: smiles at CharlesCharles: panics so hard he walks into a wall

[Attached: GIF of Charles physically recoiling and falling over]

@/F1Tea: 📍2020 Paddock Footage Tessa walks past. Charles turns his head so fast I’m surprised he didn’t get whiplash. Bro was SUMMONED.

[Attached: GIF of Charles doing a full double take while pretending he wasn’t staring]

@/F1Tea:📍2021 Monaco GP Tessa puts a hand on his arm while talking. Charles FORGETS HOW TO FUNCTION. He just stares at it. Brain blue-screened.

[Attached: Screenshot of Charles blinking rapidly at his own arm like it’s a foreign object]

@/F1Tea:📍2021 Interview: Reporter: “Would you ever date someone from the paddock?” Tessa: smirks “I like a man in red.” Charles in the background: chokes on his water

@/F1Tea:📍2022 Some Party in Monaco: She sits next to him during dinner. Charles, the most naturally confident man alive, FORGETS HOW TO USE A FORK.

[Attached: Video of Charles dropping his utensil and staring at it like it betrayed him]

@/F1Tea:📍2020 Post-Quali Interviews Reporter: “How do you feel about the race?” Her: walks into frameCharles: completely loses his train of thought mid-sentence

[Attached: Video of Charles staring blankly at the camera before shaking his head and mumbling something incoherent]

@/F1Tea:📍2023 Team Photo Day She: walks by and casually calls him “mon chéri”Charles: visibly short-circuitsLewis Hamilton in the background: crying laughing

[Attached: GIF of Charles visibly malfunctioning and Lewis barely holding it together]

@/F1Tea:The way this man has been fighting for his LIFE for YEARS and she KNOWS IT.

[Attached: GIF of her smirking directly at the camera like she’s aware of her power]

@/F1Tea:Final thoughts:

Lewis to Ferrari is HUGE.

Charles and his years-long crush are about to be front and center.

Tifosi, prepare for chaos.

@/F1Tea:Pray for Charles. But also? Don’t. This is going to be HILARIOUS.

@/LewisH44: Charles Leclerc vs. Flirting: 0-1000.

↳@/F1Memes: He is not winning this battle.

@/F1Chaos: This man is going to MARRY her and still be flustered every time she calls him “mon chéri.”

↳@/FerrariFan98: He’s already cooked. It’s just a matter of time.

@/LewisH44: For the love of god, someone put him out of his misery.

↳@/F1Chaos: Pray for him. But also? Don’t. This is hilarious.

@/TifosiTears:It’s honestly incredible that he’s still functioning as a professional athlete with this level of psychological warfare happening.

↳@/FerrariFan98: Give it six months. She’s winning this battle.

↳@/TifosiTears: She already won. He just doesn’t realize it yet.

@/FerrariFan98: Anyway, Charles Leclerc: F1’s fastest driver, but the slowest man alive when it comes to romance.

↳@/PitLaneDrama: One day, he’ll realize. And on that day, we’ll all celebrate.

***

Twitter Thread: Does Tessa Hamilton Own Any Shoes That Aren’t Louboutins?

@/F1GossipQueen: I need someone to do a full investigation because I swear this woman wears nothing but Louboutins.

↳@/F1GossipQueen: Paddock fit? Immaculate. Ankles? Probably reinforced with titanium.

[Attached: Pic of Tessa at a race weekend, effortlessly stepping out of the Mercedes garage in sky-high red-soled stilettos.]

@/F1GossipQueen: Tessa Hamilton walking on literal rocks in 6-inch Louboutins like it’s smooth pavement. Meanwhile, I almost sprained my ankle in sneakers.

[Attached: Clip of her walking across gravel at a circuit without a single misstep.]

@/F1GossipQueen: You can see the moment Charles starts calculating the probability of her breaking an ankle.

[Attached: Zoomed-in screenshot of Charles looking down at her heels mid-conversation, visibly concerned.]

@/FerrariFan98:: She probably sleeps in them. ↳@/tessahamilton: That’s classified information.

@/pitlanedrama: We need a full Louboutin sponsorship at this point. ↳@/TifosiTears: I fully support this.

@/F1Chaos: I still don’t understand how she doesn’t fall. ↳@/tessahamilton: Balance. Elegance. Superior genetics. (Mostly practice.)

***

Group Chat: Les Trois Frères

(Members: Charles, Arthur, Lorenzo)

Lorenzo: So, Lewis to Ferrari… big news.

Arthur: Yeah, yeah, history being made, blah blah blah—let’s talk about what REALLY matters.

Lorenzo: Charles, how does it feel knowing you’re about to spend an entire season making a fool of yourself in front of Tessa Hamilton?

Charles: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Arthur: Oh, REALLY?

Lorenzo: Let’s rewind to 2019, shall we? The first time you saw her in the paddock.

Arthur: A day that will live in infamy.

Charles: Drop it.

Lorenzo: You made eye contact with her for three seconds and immediately walked into a wall.

Arthur: A solid concrete wall.

Lorenzo: Man hit that thing like it owed him money.

Arthur: She said, “Nice to meet you,” and you said, “Oui, you too,” and then—BANG.

Lorenzo: Flat on your ass.

Charles: IT WAS A BADLY PLACED WALL.

Arthur: It’s been there since 2008.

Lorenzo: It did not move, Charles.

Arthur: No, but YOU did. Straight into it.

Charles: I am ignoring this.

Arthur: You’re ignoring physics too, apparently.

Lorenzo: Can’t wait for 2025. If you walked into a wall in 2019, what’s next? Accidentally setting yourself on fire? Falling into the Ferrari garage?

Arthur: Man’s gonna crash a simulator if she so much as breathes in his direction.

Charles: I HATE YOU BOTH.

Arthur: Not as much as that wall hated you.

Lorenzo: RIP Charles’ dignity. 1997-2019.

Lorenzo: So just to recap—

You’ve been in love with her since forever.

You can barely function when she flirts with you.

Lewis has definitely noticed.

Now Lewis is your teammate.

Arthur: THIS IS A NIGHTMARE FOR YOU BUT COMEDY GOLD FOR ME.

Charles: I hate you both.

Lorenzo: No, but seriously. What’s your game plan?

Arthur: His what? Charles has had one strategy for years: PANIC.

Charles: I DO NOT PANIC.

***

Group Chat: Les Leclercs

(Members: Charles, Arthur, Lorenzo, Pascale)

Pascale: Oh, I saw the news! Congratulations, Charles! Ferrari and Lewis together!

Pascale: What an exciting time for you. ❤️

Arthur: I think Charles is experiencing a different kind of excitement.

Pascale: ?

Charles: ARTHUR I SWEAR TO GOD.

Arthur: Maman, did you know that Charles has been in love with—

Charles: STOP.

Pascale: Oh, mon chéri, we all know.

Charles: …

Arthur: [Attached: GIF of a man screaming into a pillow]

January 2025

Text Messages - Lewis Hamilton and Tessa Hamilton

Lewis: Tessa.

Tessa: Big bro!

Lewis: I need you to do me a favor.

Tessa: Of course, anything!

Lewis: Do NOT terrorize my new teammate.

Tessa: Oh, Lewis.

Tessa: It’s far, far too late for that.

Lewis: WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?

Tessa: I just finished writing my 27-step plan to make Charles Leclerc marry me.

Tessa: THE TRAP IS SET.

Lewis: Jesus Christ.

Lewis: I don’t even want to ask… but what’s step 1?

Tessa: Step 1: You signing with Ferrari.

Lewis: YOU WERE PLANNING THIS BEFORE I EVEN ANNOUNCED IT???

Tessa: I was manifesting.

Lewis: Tessa. Be honest. Did you astral project into Fred Vasseur’s dreams to make this happen?

Tessa: I will neither confirm nor deny.

Lewis: I have been used. I have been played. I have been set up. I THOUGHT YOU WERE SUPPORTIVE.

Tessa: I am! But also, I am winning.

Lewis: This is unhinged. What’s step 2?

Tessa: Win over Leo.

Lewis: THE DOG?????

Tessa: If I have Leo’s loyalty, Charles will crumble in weeks.

Lewis: He’s had a crush on you for years, he was gonna crumble anyway.

Tessa: Exactly. But this way it’s strategic.

Lewis: This is the most terrifying thing I have ever witnessed.

Tessa: Oh, big bro. This is just the beginning.

***

Arthur had been smirking at him all morning.

It was starting to get on Charles’s nerves.

They were standing near the pit lane in Fiorano, watching the final preparations for Lewis’s first run in Ferrari red. The atmosphere was electric, the excitement tangible, but Arthur? Arthur was too busy side-eyeing Charles like he was in on some kind of joke.

“What?” Charles finally snapped.

Arthur’s smirk deepened. “Nothing.”

“That is not a ‘nothing’ face,” Charles said suspiciously.

Arthur shrugged, but the knowing look in his eyes didn’t waver. “I just think today will be… interesting for you.”

Charles narrowed his eyes. “Arthur—”

And then, a car pulled up.

It wasn’t one of Ferrari’s, nor was it particularly flashy, but somehow it felt like everyone turned toward it.

Arthur leaned in slightly. “Ah, et voilà.”

Charles frowned at him. Then, the door opened.

Red-bottomed stilettos hit the pavement first. Of course, Louboutins. Because of course she wore designer stilettos to Fiorano. Then, long legs wrapped in an effortlessly chic black coat. Then, dark sunglasses pushed up into perfectly styled hair.

Charles’s brain stalled.

Oh no.

Tessa Hamilton stepped out like she was arriving at Paris Fashion Week, not Ferrari’s test track.

She turned, gaze sweeping over the paddock, and Charles could feel the exact moment she noticed him.

A slow smile curled at her lips.

Arthur made a quiet sound of amusement. “And so it begins.”

Charles turned to glare at him. “You knew.”

Arthur barely held back his laughter. “I had a feeling you were about to have a very bad day.”

Charles groaned.

Arthur clapped a hand on his shoulder, voice dripping with false sympathy. “Try not to walk into a wall this time.”

It happened in mere seconds.

One moment, Leo was loyally sitting at Charles’s feet, surveying the scene with his usual sharp focus. The next, his ears perked up, tail started wagging, and before Charles could react, his dog had bolted across the paddock.

Straight to her.

“Leo,” she called in that smooth, honeyed voice of hers, and that was it. Game over.

Leo launched himself at her, paws on her coat, face nuzzling into her neck like they’d known each other for years.

“Oh, aren’t you just perfect?” Tessa cooed, crouching effortlessly despite the heels, her manicured fingers scratching behind his ears. “You’re such a handsome boy.”

Charles blinked. His brain had fully short-circuited.

“I—he—he doesn’t usually—”

Tessa looked up at him, one perfectly arched brow lifting. “Doesn’t usually what?”

“Like people,” Charles finished weakly.

Tessa laughed. A soft, melodic sound that sent something warm and terrifying down his spine.

“Well, that’s clearly not true,” she said, as Leo let out a dramatic sigh and melted further into her touch. “He’s got excellent instincts.”

Charles opened his mouth, then shut it again.

“Mon dieu,” Arthur whispered under his breath, but Charles heard the amusement.

Lewis walked past, giving Tessa a knowing glance before sighing dramatically at Charles. “The trap has been set.”

Charles frowned. “What trap?”

Lewis just patted his shoulder like he was already mourning him. “You’ll see.”

Meanwhile, Tessa stood, and flashed Charles a slow, wicked smile.

Leo, traitorous and lovesick, sat at her feet, staring at her with full, adoring devotion.

Charles swallowed.

Oh, he was in so much trouble.

***

Text Messages - Lewis Hamilton and Tessa Hamilton

Tessa: LEWIS. HE LOVES ME. 

Tessa: STEP 2 IS DONE.

Tessa: LEO SAT IN MY LAP.

Tessa: HE SNUGGLED INTO ME.

Tessa: HE GAVE CHARLES A LOOK LIKE “yeah, she’s mine now.”

Tessa: LEO CHOSE ME.

Lewis: …Okay but like.

Lewis: Did you not expect Leo to love you???

Tessa: NO???

Tessa: I THOUGHT HE’D BE LOYAL TO CHARLES.

Tessa: LIKE A NORMAL DOG.

Lewis: Girl.

Lewis: You wear Louboutins every day.

Lewis: You have the vibe of someone who would carry a tiny expensive dog in a designer bag.

Lewis: Leo took one look at you and went “yes. That one.”

***

Group Chat: Leclerc Boys

(Members: Charles, Arthur, Lorenzo)

Lorenzo: How’s Fiorano?

Charles: I am never recovering from this.

Lorenzo: …From what.

Charles: Leo has abandoned me.

Lorenzo: Okay, what.

Charles: Tessa arrived, and Leo IMMEDIATELY sprinted to her like she was the love of his life.

Arthur: HAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAA

Charles: This is not funny.

Arthur: No, actually, it was the funniest thing that has ever happened.

Lorenzo: You’re upset that your dog likes her?

Charles: No. I’m upset that my dog took one look at her and decided that I no longer exist.

Charles: He rolled onto his back. Exposed his belly. Let her rub it.

Arthur: He doesn’t even do that for you.

Charles: I KNOW.

Arthur: Your dog has better game than you.

Charles: That is NOT the point.

Lorenzo: It kind of is.

Charles: She called him the most handsome boy in the world.

Arthur: And?

Charles: SHE WAS LOOKING AT LEO WHEN SHE SAID IT.

Arthur: I can’t breathe.

Lorenzo: Charles. Please tell me you were normal about this.

Charles: I was composed.

Arthur: Okay, so when do we get the footage of you walking into another wall?

Charles: I DID NOT.

Arthur: I don’t believe you.

Lorenzo: I don’t believe you either.

Charles: I hate both of you.

Arthur: Leo wins. Tessa wins. You, unfortunately, are in P3.

Charles: I AM BLOCKING YOU.

***

Twitter Thread: Lewis Hamilton at Fiorano

@/F1TeaUpdatesLewis Hamilton’s first day in red at Fiorano. Historic moment. The GOAT in a Ferrari.

📸: Lewis getting into the car 📸: Lewis on track 📸: Tessa Hamilton looking completely unbothered in ridiculous high-heeled boots

@/FerrariFangirl16I respect Lewis, I do. But can we talk about how his sister just showed up in 6-inch Louboutins to an actual test day???

@/GridGossipHer entire brand is looking better than the drivers at all times, and I, for one, support this agenda.

@/TifosiTearsTessa Hamilton is casually standing in Fiorano in a coat that probably costs more than my rent, looking like she is the one about to debut for Ferrari.

@/PaddockPrincessForget Ferrari’s on-track performance. The real question is: will they finally let Tessa design the merch?

@/LeoLeclercFanNot to be dramatic, but Charles' dog has officially switched teams.

📸: Tessa sitting on a pit wall, cuddling Leo like he’s her dog now

@/ArthurLeclercUpdatesLeo, blink twice if you need help.

@/Charles16ForeverCharles is so doomed. His own dog has sided with the enemy.

@/WagsAndWealthTessa watching her brother drive a Ferrari while wrapped in an expensive coat, cuddling a dog, standing in impossibly high heels… she’s so unserious and yet so powerful.

@/F1MemesPOV: You’re Charles Leclerc watching your dog betray you in real time.

📸: Charles looking completely defeated in the background while Leo cuddles Tessa

@/OversteerAndDramaLeo to Charles: Sorry, I only take belly rubs from real winners.

***

Twitter Thread: #AskTessa

@/TessaHamilton: Killing time before my next fitting. Let’s do this—fashion, styling, life dilemmas? Fire away. #AskTessa

—

@/FashionF1Fan: Full name?? 👀

↳ @/TessaHamilton: Mary Theresa Hamilton. But if you call me Mary, I will block you.

—

@/GridGossip: Birthday?

↳ @/TessaHamilton: November 2, 1997. Scorpio supremacy.

—

@/McLarenChaosRandom fact about yourself?

↳ @/TessaHamilton: I studied in Florence for a few months and considered running away to become a full-time Italian.

↳ @/FerrariNation: Ferrari was your destiny.

↳ @/TessaHamilton: No, espresso was my destiny.

—

@/F1MemesDaily: How tall are you?

↳ @/TessaHamilton: 5’8” but spiritually 6’2” when wearing my best heels.

—

@/ScuderiaStyle: Favorite thing in your wardrobe?

↳ @/TessaHamilton: Right now? A ridiculous red dress I will wear to an F1 event. But also a vintage leather jacket I borrowed indefinitely from Lewis.

↳ @/LewisHamilton: Stole.

↳ @/TessaHamilton: Borrowed indefinitely.

—

@/F1Romantics: Would you ever date a Ferrari driver?

↳ @/TessaHamilton: That’s a very specific question.

—

@/TifosiStyle: What’s a fashion trend you hate?

↳ @/TessaHamilton: Men wearing sneakers with suits.

—

@/weddingmeltdown: Summer wedding. No dress code. I need to look effortlessly stunning. Help.

↳@/TessaHamilton: The key is controlled elegance. A flowy dress that moves, statement earrings, and shoes that won’t sink into the grass. If it’s a beach wedding, no stilettos unless you enjoy suffering.

—

@/heels4life: Are high heels really worth the pain?

↳@/TessaHamilton: Always. The power of a good pair of stilettos outweighs minor suffering.

↳ @/lewishamilton: You’re already tall.

↳ @/TessaHamilton: And you are not.

↳ @/lewishamilton: I’m blocking you.

—

@/WAGsAndWealth: You’ve worked with so many designers—if you could style ANY driver, who would it be?

↳@/TessaHamilton: Charles. No hesitation. He has so much potential. Let me elevate him.

—

@/CharlesStan16: MA’AM. WHAT DOES THAT MEAN.

↳@/TessaHamilton: It means he owns too many plain white t-shirts. I’m simply trying to help.

—

@/ScuderiaUpdates: We saw you at Fiorano with Leo!! Does he like you??

↳@/TessaHamilton: Leo is my favorite Leclerc. He likes me so much that Charles is starting to get jealous.

—

@/gridfashionwatch: Do you plan your race weekend outfits in advance?

↳@/TessaHamilton: Roughly. I aim for a balance of power dressing and controlled chaos. Also, if I think Lewis would sigh at me for wearing it, I definitely wear it.

↳ @/lewishamilton: I knew it.

—

@/gridfashion: Best-dressed driver on the grid?

↳@/TessaHamilton: I’ll be diplomatic and say… they all try. Some more successfully than others.

↳ @/lewishamilton: Just say me.

↳ @/TessaHamilton: Obviously. But we already knew that.

—

@/prancinghorses: How was your first Ferrari experience at Fiorano?

↳@/TessaHamilton: The cars? Stunning. The espresso? Life-changing. Watching my brother drive for Ferrari? Emotional.

—

@/fashioninsider: One piece of fashion advice you swear by?

↳@/TessaHamilton: Wear what makes you feel powerful. Clothes are confidence.

—

@/redteam: Does Ferrari have better team kit than Mercedes?

@/TessaHamilton: Look, I’m officially neutral, but let’s just say red is more wearable than silver.

—

@/speedandstyle: Will we finally get good Ferrari merch now?

↳@/TessaHamilton: I can neither confirm nor deny that I am working on it.

↳ @/charles_leclerc: Yes, please.

—

@/paddockstyle: How do you always look so effortlessly put together in the paddock?

↳@/TessaHamilton: Strategic outfit planning. Also, sheer stubbornness.

—

@/paddockcouture: What are your top three wardrobe essentials?

@/TessaHamilton: 1) A perfectly tailored blazer, 2) Statement shoes that could double as self-defense weapons, 3) Sunglasses big enough to hide from bad decisions.

—

@/scuderiafashion: What’s your biggest styling tip for guys?

@/TessaHamilton: Fit is EVERYTHING. A well-fitted €50 jacket looks better than a badly fitted €5000 one. Also, don’t be afraid of color. Life’s too short for boring clothes.

—

@/turnoneglam: What’s a fashion trend you wish would die?

@/TessaHamilton: Tiny pockets on women’s clothing. What are we supposed to fit in there? A single almond?

—

@/runwaytorace: What’s your ultimate styling rule?

↳@/TessaHamilton: If you love it, wear it. Confidence makes anything look good. Except crocs. Some things can’t be saved.

—

@/chicanechic: Thoughts on men in jewelry?

↳@/TessaHamilton: Absolutely yes. More rings, more chains, more effort in general. Jewelry is for everyone, gentlemen.

—

@/apexaesthetic: Dream F1-themed fashion collaboration?

↳@/TessaHamilton: Something that doesn’t involve slapping a logo on a basic hoodie and calling it a day.

—

@/turnonechic: What’s your biggest fashion ick?

↳@/TessaHamilton: Clothes that don’t fit. Tailoring exists. Use it.

—

@/paddockchic: If you could only wear one designer for the rest of your life, who would it be?

↳@/TessaHamilton: I refuse to live in a world with only one designer. That’s dystopian.

—

@/gridglam: What’s your most controversial fashion opinion?

↳@/TessaHamilton: Just because it’s designer doesn’t mean it looks good.

—

@/softlaunchspeed: Any truth to the rumor that you’re secretly styling a certain Ferrari driver that’s not your brother?

↳@/TessaHamilton: If I were, you’d know. Because he’d look better.

↳ @/arthur_leclerc: Devastating.

—

@/gridstyle: Best shoe investment?

↳@/TessaHamilton: A classic black pump. Timeless. Versatile. Makes you feel unstoppable.

***

Charles had been in plenty of awkward situations before.

Spinning out in front of the entire grid? Done that.

Getting caught on a hot mic complaining about Ferrari’s strategy? A yearly tradition.

Ripping the seams of his racing suit in the middle of a photoshoot?

That was a new one.

The worst part wasn’t the actual tear—it was her.

Lewis Hamilton’s younger sister. His stylist. The woman he had been secretly, stupidly infatuated with for years.

Tessa stood a few feet away, arms crossed, head tilted, a slow, amused smile spreading across her face as she took in the damage.

“Charles,” she drawled, “why is there a gaping hole in your suit?”

Charles swallowed. His brain scrambled for an excuse. “I, uh—”

Her smirk widened. “You flexed, didn’t you?”

“No!”

She arched a brow.

“…Maybe a little.”

She laughed, shaking her head as she grabbed her emergency sewing kit. “Alright, Hercules, let’s fix you up before someone from Ferrari has a heart attack.”

She knelt on the couch, threading a needle with effortless precision. Charles, meanwhile, stood awkwardly, hyper-aware of everything—the way she bit her lip in concentration, the way her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, the way she made even something as mundane as sewing look hot.

Then she patted the spot next to her. “Sit.”

He hesitated. “Do I have to?”

She gave him a look. “Unless you want me to accidentally stab you, yes.”

He sat.

She tugged at the torn fabric, assessing the damage. Her fingers brushed his side, and Charles nearly flinched. He was suddenly very aware of how close they were, of how her perfume smelled faintly of vanilla and something floral, of how her knee pressed lightly against his.

If she noticed his internal struggle, she didn’t let on. Instead, she clicked her tongue. “Honestly, I don’t know how you managed this. It’s like your muscles decided to revolt all at once.”

Charles let out a weak chuckle. “Maybe I should stop training so much.”

She grinned, sharp and teasing. “Or maybe you just like having me stitch you back together.”

His brain short-circuited.

She kept sewing, utterly unfazed, while Charles sat there, desperately trying not to combust. His heart hammered as she leaned in, her breath ghosting against his collarbone as she focused on her stitches.

“So…” she mused, tone light and mischievous, “if I sew you into this suit, does that mean I get to keep you?”

Charles made an undignified noise. “W-What?”

She glanced up, all faux innocence. “What? Seems like a fair trade. I fix your suit, and in return, I get a Charles Leclerc of my very own.”

His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. “I—I don’t think that’s how it works.”

She smirked. “Shame.”

He swore his face had never been hotter.

A few more stitches and a playful pat to his newly mended suit later, she sat back, admiring her handiwork. “All done.”

Charles let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Merci.”

She grinned, tapping his chest lightly. “Try not to rip it again, hmm? Unless, of course, you want an excuse for me to put my hands on you.”

Charles, very predictably, short-circuited again.

***

Instagram Post:  @/ScuderiaFerrari

@/ScuderiaFerrari: Some things never change… @/Charles_Leclerc still finding new ways to stress us out. Luckily, we have @/TessaHamilton to save the day. 🧵✨

📹: Video of Tessa expertly sewing it back together while Charles sits, looking awkward.

Comments: 

@/charles_leclerc: …I swear this wasn’t my fault.

↳ @/tessahamilton: It was literally your muscles and your bad decisions. Own it.

↳ @/arthur_leclerc: Bro really Hulked out mid-photoshoot.

↳ @/charles_leclerc: IT WAS AN ACCIDENT.

@/lewishamilton: Ferrari better be paying her extra for this.

↳ @/tessahamilton: Oh, I’m invoicing them, don’t worry.

↳ @/scuderiaferrari: This was not in the budget.

@/wagsandwealth: Tessa Hamilton mending Charles' suit like she’s the lead in a regency romance novel. We are witnessing history.

@/oversteeranddrama: "Get you a girl who can do both" but it’s Charles finding out Tessa can style a grid AND sew his race suit back together like a pro.

@/f1gossip: Charles went from "I have to be professional, she’s my teammate’s sister" to "what if I rip another seam?" real quick.

@/gridtea: Charles has been in love with her since at least 2019, and we’re just watching him spiral deeper. It’s beautiful.

@/f1fansunited: Tessa is really out here fixing his suit while wearing five-inch Louboutins. This woman is undefeated.

@/ferrarination: I need Ferrari to put her on payroll properly because if Charles breaks another suit mid-season, we all know she’ll be the one handling it.

***

Text Messages - Arthur Leclerc and Tessa Hamilton

Arthur: Look, I’m only going to say this once.

Tessa: Oh, this feels serious. Should I sit down?

Arthur: I am begging you—DO NOT play with Charles.

Tessa: Excuse me?

Arthur: I know you like to mess with him. I know you enjoy watching him turn into a nervous wreck every time you breathe in his direction.

Arthur: But please. I’m telling you as his brother.

Arthur: Do. Not. Play. With. Him.

Tessa: Arthur, what are you talking about?

Arthur: He is actually in love with you.

Tessa: …

Tessa: Bold claim.

Arthur: It is not a claim. It is a FACT.

Arthur: The man has been down BAD for you for YEARS.

Arthur: I have witnessed him have full-on existential crises because you touched his arm for 0.3 seconds.

Arthur: Do you know how PAINFUL it is to watch my fully grown brother malfunction because you walked into a room in Louboutins?

Arthur: I have suffered.

Tessa: Okay, but like, in my defense… it’s funny.

Arthur: TESSA.

Tessa: Alright, alright, I hear you.

Tessa: …So theoretically, if I were to also be in love with him, what would you recommend as my next move?

Arthur: First of all, I need a moment to recover from that sentence.

Arthur: Second—PLEASE JUST DATE HIM ALREADY. HE IS AT HIS LIMIT. HE CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE.

Tessa: I don’t know, I think I should let him sweat a little longer…

Arthur: YOU ARE A MENACE TO THIS FAMILY.

Tessa: And yet, you still text me first. 🥰

Arthur: I hate you.

Tessa: No, you love me. Almost as much as your brother does.

***

February 2025

Charles Leclerc on Ferrari an Lewis Hamilton

Motorsport Weekly – February 2024

Interviewer: Charles, this is a huge year for you. New season, new regulations, and, of course, a new teammate. What’s it been like working with Lewis so far?

Charles Leclerc: It’s been great. Lewis brings so much experience to the team, and his way of working is very methodical. He’s incredibly focused, and I think that’s going to push all of us to another level.

Interviewer: Have there been any surprises about working with him so far?

Charles: Not really. I mean, we all know who Lewis is, how he works, how successful he’s been. I knew it was going to be intense. But at the same time, he’s very open—he shares a lot, and he’s been great to work with.

Interviewer: It’s been a big change for him, moving to Ferrari. But it’s also a change for you, adjusting to a new teammate after so many years with Carlos. How’s the dynamic?

Charles: It’s very different, but in a good way. Lewis has a lot of experience, and I think that helps me grow as a driver. And, well… he’s been through a lot in his career, so he knows how to handle every situation. It’s been really interesting to learn from that.

Interviewer: Has he given you any unexpected advice?

Charles: [laughs] Not yet, but I’m sure he will at some point.

Interviewer: Okay, I have to ask… How’s it been having Tessa Hamilton around Ferrari now?

Charles: [chokes on his water bottle, coughs] Sorry—what?

Interviewer: [laughing] You heard me.

Charles: [sighs] Okay, fine. Yes, she’s been around more because of Lewis. Yes, I have seen her. No, I don’t have anything else to say.

Interviewer: That sounded very rehearsed.

Charles: I have learned that when it comes to Tessa, no matter what I say, people will talk.

Interviewer: Because you walked into a wall the first time you met her?

Charles: [immediately defensive] That was years ago!

Interviewer: 2019, right?

Charles: [mutters] …Yes.

Interviewer: You saw her, got distracted, and walked straight into a wall. So, when she showed up at Fiorano, you must have been nervous.

Charles: [quickly] No.

Interviewer: No?

Charles: No.

Interviewer: Not even a little?

Charles: [hesitates] …I was fine.

Interviewer: Witnesses say you were only fine after she picked up your dog and he instantly fell in love with her.

Charles: [grumbling] Leo is a traitor.

Interviewer: You’ve had Leo for years, and yet he spent the entire day curled up with Tessa while you drove.

Charles: I know. I saw the pictures. Everyone showed me the pictures.Can we move on, please?

Interviewer: Of course. But just know the internet is very invested.

Charles: Unfortunately, I am aware.

***

Twitter Thread: Charles Leclerc’s Motorsport Weekly Interview & the Tessa Discourse

@/F1GossipQueenCharles Leclerc did a new GQ interview and somehow managed to say a lot while saying nothing at all. Let’s discuss. 🧵

@/FerrariForLife: The man was totally normal until they brought up Tessa. Then suddenly he forgot how to form complete answers.

@/TifosiTears: The way he was trying so hard to be casual when they brought up her boots and Leo. Like sir, you’re not fooling anyone.

@/GridGossip: “We had met before.” Sir. We all know. You walked into a wall in 2019.

@/PolePositionBabe:  Notice how he didn’t deny the betrayal when the interviewer said Leo picked Tessa over him. He’s still hurt.

@/ScuderiaSimp:  Ferrari needs to put out another media training session for this man because he is NOT built for deflecting romance questions.

@/FastLapFrenzy: Charles trying to act normal when they mention Tessa but you know he’s sweating internally.

@/LightsOutAndAway: The man has won multiple races under pressure but put him in a room and ask him about Tessa Hamilton and suddenly he’s buffering.

@/LeclercNation: “That’s all I need to say.” Why does this sound like he’s hiding classified information??

@/FerrariFanatic: CONSPIRACY THEORY: Charles is already in love and fighting for his life.

@/SoftTifosi: Imagine being Leo, just vibing, and suddenly you’re part of the biggest F1 romance discourse of the year.

@/HamiltonHive: Tessa watching this interview knowing damn well she’s winning

@/PaddockPrincess: If they aren’t dating yet, we are in for a wild season. If they are, Charles is about to break under questioning by summer break.

@/WAGWatch2024: Someone check on Charles. His life is about to get so much worse once Lewis starts getting asked about this.

***

Twitter Thread: "#AskTessa"

@/TessaHamilton: Back for another Q&A. Be nice. Or don’t. I can take it.

—

@/merc44fan: Has Lewis ever tried to teach you how to drive?

@/TessaHamilton: Oh, he tried. Key word: tried.

—

@/F1chaos: WAIT WHAT HAPPENED???

@/TessaHamilton: Long story short, he had one driving lesson with me when I was a teenager and then refused to ever get in a car with me again.

@/TessaHamilton: This was 10 years ago.

@/TessaHamilton: He still won’t let me drive when we go anywhere together.

—

@/lewisfan44: Be honest, were you actually bad, or was he just overreacting?

@/TessaHamilton: I’ll have you know I’m an excellent driver. He just lacks the vision to appreciate my talent. The first (and only) time he tried to teach me, I may have… misunderstood the difference between the gas and the brake.

@/TessaHamilton: And nearly reversed into our neighbor’s mailbox.

@/TessaHamilton: But I didn’t hit it. That’s the important part.

—

@/lewisfan44: I’m starting to think Lewis is valid in his reaction.

@/TessaHamilton: He wasn’t even in the car at the time! He was watching from the driveway like a nervous parent.

@/TessaHamilton: And when I didn’t crash, he still confiscated the keys and called it quits.

—

@/speedy44: Has he ever let you drive since?

@/TessaHamilton: He would rather walk.

@/TessaHamilton: I once offered to drive us to the airport, and he literally called a car service instead.

—

@/gridgossip: Be honest, if you and Lewis were in a parallel parking competition, who’s winning?

@/TessaHamilton: Me. Not even close.

@/LewisHamilton: LIES.

@/TessaHamilton: Oh, so you finally show up. Did your PR team approve this?

—

@/F1chaos: No but Tessa please explain why you think you’re a better driver than the literal greatest driver of all time.

@/TessaHamilton: Because I have zero speeding tickets.

@/TessaHamilton: Meanwhile, Lewis has too many.

@/LewisHamilton: Okay, first of all—

@/TessaHamilton: “First of all,” nothing. I have a clean record. You? Not so much.

—

@/mercfan4life: If you’re so confident, would you let Lewis sit in the passenger seat while you drive?

@/TessaHamilton: I would, but he won’t.

@/LewisHamilton: I value my life.

@/TessaHamilton: You drove with Nico Rosberg for years but I’M the one you don’t trust???

—

@/F1Fanatic: Who was your first F1 crush?

↳@/TessaHamilton: …Do I have to answer this?

↳@/MercMadness: YES.

↳@/PaddockGossip: You absolutely do.

↳@/TessaHamilton: Sigh.

↳@/TessaHamilton: Nico Rosberg.

↳@/FormulaFrenzy: WAIT WHAT.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: OH THIS IS JUICY.

↳@/LewisHamilton: I’m sorry. WHAT.

—

@/TessaHamilton: Oh no.

↳@/TessaHamilton: I forgot he follows me.

↳@/LewisHamilton: YOU HAD A CRUSH ON NICO ROSBERG AND NEVER TOLD ME??

↳@/TessaHamilton: In my defense, you never asked.

—

@/PitLaneDrama: Lewis is malfunctioning, I can feel it.

↳@/LewisHamilton: HOW DID I NOT KNOW THIS??

↳@/TessaHamilton: It was my deepest darkest teenage secret.

—

@/PitLaneDrama: This is the greatest thing I’ve ever witnessed.

↳@/LewisHamilton: Tessa. I need details. Now.

↳@/TessaHamilton: …I might have had a wall collage.

↳@/LewisHamilton: OH MY GOD.

—

@/F1Chaos: So how bad was this crush?

↳@/TessaHamilton: I may have run a Nico Rosberg fan account on Twitter.

—

@/RedMistLeclerc: TESSA YOU WERE A NICO STAN ACCOUNT??

↳@/LewisHamilton: I AM LOSING MY MIND.

↳@/TessaHamilton: LEWIS PLEASE RELAX.

↳@/LewisHamilton: MY OWN SISTER. A ROSBERG FAN. UNDER MY OWN ROOF.

—

@/NicoRosberg: This made my day.

—

@/GeorgeRussell63: Lewis, are you okay?

↳@/LewisHamilton: No. I’m in crisis.

***

Charles had prepared himself. He swore he had. He knew Tessa would be there. He knew she would look beautiful because she always did. He knew she would tease him because that was her favorite pastime.

What he didn't prepare for was the sheer force of Tessa Hamilton in a red dress.

The F1 75 Live gala was already unbearable—too many speeches and entirely too much media attention. But then she walked in, draped in scarlet, and Charles forgot how to breathe.

Lewis, standing beside him, sighed. "Oh no. Here we go."

Tessa Hamilton had arrived.

And suddenly, the entire night became a game of survival.

She found them within minutes, sweeping over with that knowing smile, glass of champagne in hand. "You boys look so serious," she said, eyes flickering between them before landing on Charles. "Charles, why do you look like you're about to spontaneously combust?"

"I do not," he said immediately, but his voice came out an octave higher than usual.

Lewis hummed. "You kinda do."

"Shut up."

"Make me."

Before Charles could dig himself into a deeper hole, Tessa leaned in, her fingers barely brushing his wrist as she peered at the phone in his hand. "Oh my god, are you two playing chess at a gala?"

"Yes," Lewis said flatly. "Because this event is a nightmare, and we need entertainment."

"And I was winning," Charles added.

Tessa raised a perfectly arched brow. "Oh? Give me that."

Before he could react, she plucked the phone from his hand and settled in next to him, too close, smelling too good, her warmth pressing against his side as she studied the game board.

"Charles, darling, I hate to break it to you, but you were not winning. This is awful strategy."

"Excuse me?!"

"Shh," she patted his shoulder condescendingly. "Let the genius work."

Lewis, watching this unfold, crossed his arms and smirked. "You do realize this is a tournament game, right? If you mess up, Charles is stuck with the loss."

Tessa looked up at Charles, eyes sparkling. "You trust me, don’t you?"

He absolutely did not, but his mouth betrayed him. "Of course."

And that was how he ended up watching, horrified, as Tessa—who he wasn’t even sure knew how to play chess—moved pieces with the confidence of a grandmaster.

Lewis let out a sharp laugh. "Oh, she’s ruthless. I should’ve known."

Tessa grinned, entirely too pleased with herself. "Checkmate, Hamilton."

Charles, still recovering from the way she had looked at him, almost missed it.

"Wait… did we just win?"

"We just won," she confirmed smugly.

Charles turned to Lewis, barely suppressing his smile. "Suck it."

Lewis rolled his eyes. "You didn’t win. She did."

Tessa beamed, tilting her head just slightly as she tapped Charles’s chest. "We make a good team, don’t we?"

Charles swallowed. He needed to leave. Or sit down. Or do literally anything to stop himself from saying something stupid.

But before he could, Tessa leaned in, voice dropping just for him. "You look good in black, by the way."

And just like that, he was done for.

***

Twitter Thread: “F1 75 Live”

@/F1TeaUpdates: Tessa Hamilton walked into the F1 75 Live in a red dress, stole Charles Leclerc’s phone, beat Lewis Hamilton at chess, and made Charles forget how to breathe. A queen.

↳@/FerrariFanatic: Charles is literally a F1 driver and yet he got outmaneuvered in under five minutes.

@/DTSStan: Netflix better have every camera angle of this because I need to see Charles buffering in real-time.

@/leclercbroupdates: Arthur and Lorenzo are 1000% bullying him in the group chat as we speak.

@/lessthanleclerc: I need Lewis to start live-tweeting these events. Like, sir, tell us what Charles’ face looked like when she called him “darling.”

@/paddockdrama: I’m crying someone zoomed in and Charles is literally just staring at her like she hung the moon. HELP.

@/gridgossip: Charles Leclerc is dressed like a prince, Lewis Hamilton is serving pure elegance, and Tessa Hamilton is out here looking like she’s about to steal a kingdom and its heir.

@/paddockdrama: Can we discuss how Charles and Tessa spent half the night in their own little world while Lewis just looked tired? My guy didn’t invite her to be his plus one for this madness. She forced her way in.

@/leclercnation: Charles, talking to someone else.Tessa, touching his arm for two seconds.Charles, immediately turning back to her like a magnet.Sir. Get a grip.

@/FerrariFanatic: F1 75 Live highlight reel:

Charles and Tessa playing aggressively flirty chess on his phone

Charles spilling champagne because she touched his hand

Arthur filming the whole thing for the family group chat

Lewis, looking straight into the camera like he’s on The Office

@/redcarprincess: Tessa, in a deep red dress, walking up to Charles with that look while Lewis sighs like he’s seen it all before… oh, she knew exactly what she was doing.

@/lessthanleclerc: I just know Charles went home and stared at his ceiling like an idiot, replaying every moment in his head. That man is down BAD.

@/f1chaos: Petition for Ferrari to host more events just to see Charles struggle to function around Tessa. It’s entertainment.

@/gridlockedd: Charles Leclerc: Ferrari’s golden boy, calm under pressure, master of controlled aggression. Also Charles Leclerc: Nearly drops a champagne flute because Tessa Hamilton tucked her hair behind her ear.

@/ferraristillhurts: Charles is so unserious. Like, Tessa just has to exist near him and suddenly he’s malfunctioning like a Ferrari strategy call.

 @/lewishamstan: Lewis really sat there watching his sister and his teammate flirt all night like he was questioning every life choice that led him here. That man is TIRED.

@/thepaddockfiles: Someone please check on Fred Vasseur. At this point, he’s managing a telenovela instead of a Formula 1 team.

@/plssomeonehelp: Charles is literally in the honeymoon phase and they’re not even dating.

@/wagsandgrid: At this point, it’s not “will they, won’t they?” It’s “when will Charles stop being a coward?”

@/fastestlapinlove: Every single shot of Charles and Tessa together looks like a still from a very expensive rom-com. Ferrari PR knows what they’re doing.

@/redflagromance: I need Ferrari to release unedited footage of Charles when Tessa took his phone to play chess. I know he was losing his mind.

@/tessafashioned: Tessa in Ferrari red with those heels? Mother was MOTHERING.

@/gridchaos: Fred Vasseur at this point: “I signed Lewis Hamilton, not a romance subplot.”

***

Group Chat: Leclerc Boys

(Members: Charles, Arthur, Lorenzo)

Lorenzo: How’s everyone doing tonight?

Arthur: Oh, just THRIVING.

Charles: I don’t like your tone.

Lorenzo: I like how you almost dropped your champagne when Tessa put her hand on your arm.

Arthur: “Almost” is generous. That flute was wobbling like it was about to throw itself to the floor just to end your suffering.

Charles: Shut up.

Lorenzo: Oh, come on, Charles. She was just being polite.

Arthur: Yeah, because she had to make a move in your chess game since you just sat there blinking at her like a malfunctioning robot.

Charles: I was caught off guard.

Arthur: You’ve been caught off guard for FIVE YEARS.

Lorenzo: At this point, I’m impressed. You’re a Ferrari driver, but when it comes to Tessa, your reaction time is worse than a pay driver in his rookie season.

Charles: I actually hate you both.

Arthur: Be real, were you even playing chess or just watching her take over and pretending to understand the game?

Charles: I was strategizing.

Lorenzo: Strategizing how to survive the evening without combusting?

Arthur: Failed that mission, didn’t he?

Charles: You know what? I’m done. Goodnight.

Lorenzo: Sweet dreams of Tessa in that red dress.

Arthur: Or, you know, of being able to speak in full sentences around her one day.

Charles: I am BLOCKING both of you.

***

Text Messages - Charles Leclerc and Tessa Hamilton

Tessa: Charles. We need to talk.

Charles: …About what?

Tessa: Your wardrobe.

Charles: What’s wrong with my wardrobe?

Tessa: Everything.

Charles: That seems dramatic.

Tessa: I just scrolled through your tagged photos. I have evidence.

Charles: What kind of evidence?

Tessa: Beige. So much beige. Questionable denim choices. Some truly tragic shoes.

Charles: My shoes are fine!

Tessa: Charles. You wore those white sneakers until they turned grey. That’s a crime.

Charles: They were comfortable.

Tessa: I’m sure prison jumpsuits are comfortable too, but you don’t see me wearing one.

Charles: …

Tessa: Anyway, I have decided to fix this.

Charles: Fix what?

Tessa: Your wardrobe. Your entire fashion sense. Your existence, if necessary.

Charles: My existence?!

Tessa: I have a reputation to uphold. I cannot be seen around a man whose entire aesthetic is sad Monaco yacht kid who got lost in a Uniqlo.

Charles: You are being very unfair.

Tessa: Am I? Look me in the eye and tell me you actually like half the things in your closet.

Charles: …I don’t like confrontation.

Tessa: That’s what I thought. Now, do you trust me?

Charles: Unfortunately, yes.

Tessa: Good. I’m sending you links. We are starting with outerwear. Then we will move on to tailoring.

Charles: I don’t like where this is going.

Tessa: You’ll thank me when GQ calls.

***

Twitter Thread – Spotted: Charles Leclerc & Tessa Hamilton Shopping in Monaco

@/MonacoInsider: ALERT: Charles Leclerc and Tessa Hamilton are currently bickering in the middle of a luxury boutique.

↳@/FerrariTifosi: Define bickering.

↳@/MonacoInsider: She held up a jacket for him, he made a face, and she said, "Charles, please, you have the style instincts of a bread roll."

↳@/SoftTifosi: HELP.

↳@/F1Fashionista: And what did he say???

↳@/MonacoInsider: He crossed his arms and said, "Says the woman who wore a sequined pantsuit to a karting event."

@/MercedesMafia: He has a point.

@/W14Who: I feel like Tessa is personally offended by his clothing choices.

@/MonacoInsider: She literally sighed, muttered "I knew this would be hard," and shoved another jacket into his hands.

@/McLarenShenanigans: Did he listen???

@/MonacoInsider: No, he smirked and said, "Only if you try on this dress." AND THEN HELD UP A TINY RED ONE.

@/TifosiDreams: THE AUDACITY???

@/MonacoInsider: She looked him dead in the eye, took it from his hands, and said, "Fine. But if I do, you’re buying the jacket AND the shoes I pick."

↳@/FerrariFaithful: NOT THE SHOES TOO.

@/RedArmy: Charles Leclerc, playing with fire.

@/SoftTifosi: And did she try on the dress???

@/MonacoInsider: Yes. She walked out of the dressing room, posed like she was on a red carpet, and Charles just stared. Like, literally forgot how to speak. Then he went, "Tessa, what do you need from me to never wear that in public?"

@/SoftTifosi: Bro is STRUGGLING.

@/MercedesElite: Why is this funnier knowing that he’s probably running through every possible escape plan in his head?

@/McLarenShenanigans: What did she say??

@/F1GossipMonaco: She just smiled sweetly and went, "A whole new wardrobe."

@/TifosiNation: She came to Monaco with a mission.

@/W14Who: This is a long con. She’s been planning this for months.

@/F1GossipMonaco: He stared at her for a solid five seconds, sighed like a man defeated, and muttered, "Fine. But if Lewis says anything, I’m blaming you."

@/FerrariFaithful: AND THAT, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, IS HOW YOU WIN A WAR.

@/SoftTifosi: Charles, sweetheart, you were doomed from the start.

***

Group Chat: Les Trois Frères

(Members: Charles, Arthur, Lorenzo)

Lorenzo: So, I see you've officially given up and let Tessa dress you.

Arthur: RIP to your independence.

Charles: I did NOT let her dress me.

Lorenzo: And yet, you were spotted trailing after her like a very obedient golden retriever while she held up shirts against you.

Arthur: Monaco’s Prince of Fashion reduced to Tessa Hamilton’s personal mannequin. Tragic.

Charles: I don’t see the problem.

Arthur: The problem is that you walked into the store in a hoodie and left looking like you own a yacht.

Lorenzo: He does own a yacht.

Arthur: Yeah, but now he dresses like it.

Charles: I dress fine.

Arthur: Not according to Tessa.

Charles: She called me a “tragic case of wasted potential” and then confiscated my wallet.

Lorenzo: How did she even manage that?

Charles: She’s fast. And terrifying.

Arthur: Ferrari should hire her for pit stops.

Charles: I don’t like you.

Lorenzo: Did you even pick anything, or did she just tell you what to buy?

Charles: I had opinions.

Arthur: And did she listen to them?

Charles: …Not really.

Lorenzo: Mon dieu. You’re done for.

Arthur: What did she get you?

Charles: Some button-downs, jackets, nice trousers. Shoes.

Arthur: Loafers.

Charles: …Yes.

Lorenzo: I need a moment.

Arthur: Tessa has won. She’s unstoppable.

Charles: I dress like an adult now.

Arthur: No, you dress like a man who got dragged through a shopping spree by a woman he’s hopelessly in love with.

Lorenzo: Have you at least thanked her?

Charles: I paid for everything.

Arthur: That’s not the same and you know it.

Lorenzo: Tell me you at least got your wallet back.

Charles: …She still has it.

Arthur: No words.

Lorenzo: Thoughts and prayers.

***

Text Messages - Charles Leclerc and Lewis Hamilton

Lewis: Mate, if she gets too much, just tell her to back off. Tessa will listen. Probably.

Charles: You say that like she didn’t steamroll me into an entirely new wardrobe today.

Lewis: She means well.

Charles: She called me a disaster in human form because I wanted to buy another white t-shirt.

Lewis: Okay, yeah, that sounds like Tessa.

Charles: She still has my wallet.

Lewis: …I can’t help you there.

Charles: She threatened to burn my ripped jeans.

Lewis: Honestly, she might be doing you a favor.

Charles: You’re supposed to be on my side.

Lewis: I am on your side. That’s why I’m telling you—if she pushes too hard, set some boundaries.

Charles: She’s a force of nature, Lewis. She doesn’t listen.

Lewis: She listens to me.

Charles: Yes, because you’re her brother. Not some poor man trapped in a boutique while she waves scarves at him like an art director losing her mind.

Lewis: …Do you want me to talk to her?

Charles: No.

Lewis: Are you sure?

Charles: …Maybe wait until after she brings me my wallet back.

***

[nuttysaladtree]

(tangent incoming) "whoever made this" is possibly Paladin Posting [@DevotionOath on Twitter] in a textless 5 September 2024 Tweet.

@twotwofroote (23 April 2025):

Does anyone know where to find the shirt/the original artist? My friend would love this! Looked online but just looks like a bunch of copycats

Still a valid question even a month later. Even if the original artist's name is lost to time, it is rarely a waste of time—especially in the age of undeclared AI slop—to trace provenance.

This is a knight from the Westminster Psalter. The amount of effort I expended to find this makes me want buttloads of bucks, so I can pay for an on-call medievalist.

HOWEVER. The Psalter's knight is in a bronze-coloured armour with a green-ish scabbard (and tunic?). Our recolor is also missing the real servant, who's holding the helmet.

So far, all I've found are stock images...whose attribution is severely wanting! You know why it took me so long to find only one of the most famous psalters? Because these stock image sites kept saying, "late 13th century"—ok??? and howwwwwww do you knoww that????? and not be mistakennnnnn?????

I am willing to give Posterazzi.com some credit. A bit. Item VARDPI1877, an uncolored version, at least gives "Short History Of The English People By J.R. Green, Published London 1893" as a source. I did find it in the 1903 reprint of Vol. 1, p. 303 (via Archive.org), which simply titles it "Knight in Armour". (Take note, stock image sites! None of this "kneeling to his lord", "praying before battle"—another reason getting the sources right is important! The historians at the British Library do not know what the knight doing, and if you're going to guess, at least tell me it's your guess, please!)

More importantly, he cites Ms 2 A xxii — the British Library manuscript number for the Westminster Psalter. All this was also made easier by whoever worked on the Wikipedia articles on the Psalter and Green's Short History, as well as the DuckDuckGo knowledge sidebar making that work easier to find. (And the digitization team at the British Library. And the crossposters to Wikimedia Commons. And...you get the idea.)

Now what remains is: who recolored the knight? Bridgeman Images (number NWI4892416) says "Middle Ages: Knight in armor pays homage to his lord, late 13th century. Colour engraving of the 19th century." Same problem: does this mean an edition of Green's Short History volumes has color illustrations? When in the 19th century and by whom? This isn't exactly reconstructing papyrus fragments to find the source here. And I'm not asking for perfect MLA citations! Just enough information so a librarian at a national library can help me find it.

Anyway, I'm still working on it. I plan to update in a reblog, then [see if I can] turn off reblogs on the outdated post.

[ao3commentoftheday]

I am having issues being nice to people in my ao3 comments. Most of the time people are perfectly lovely and I love having interactions with them. It's really important to me that when I'm on my writer tumblr instead of my main and on my ao3, I foster a kind and gentle community. I feel like that starts with me and that is the sort of environment I want to create.

Now, the problem is this fic I wrote. It's for a pretry big fandom and it got a lot of traction (like first page when sorting by hits while there are tens of thousands of fics) and it's been wild. Mostly great... except this one arc I wrote where character A, who is mentally ill and gets triggered into a spiral acts mentally ill, which negatively impacts people around him, including character B (it's a ship fic), who while not responsible is making it worse and making the active choice to stay, because he also has his own issues. The fic explores the aftermath of that as well, but for a few chapters it's just the downward spiral. And while it isn't all condoned, I give character A understanding due to the situation as well as a healing journey, wherein he apologizes and does better and makes up for it.

Sadly for me, character B is the fandom's favorite white boy, who is always the hurt victim in every situation and has no responsibility ever. So me also stating how character B is in part responsible forthe situation ending up getting as bad is a no go and people are very angry at me. On top of that, I based a lot of character A's struggles on my own, which makes it even less pleasant to get detailed comments about how he deserves to be beaten up for his actions and left by all his friends and family to stew in the guilt for the rest of forever all alone, less than fun.

I don't want to have to tell people about my own personal struggles and I am tired of explaining that it is a character arc and a nuanced and complex situation wherein multiple parties are at fault. And I have chronic have to reply even when I know ignoring it is better syndrome. At what point does it become acceptable to just be a fucking bitch to people?

First of all, lemme give you a hug 💗 It's never fun when people misunderstand your message and it's even worse when there's a personal element to it as well.

The way I see it, your comments section belongs to you. It's an extension of your fic and it's a place where every message left gets dropped into your inbox. If there's something you don't want to see in your comments section? Delete it. If there's someone who won't stop misinterpreting you/your characterization or someone who is being an asshat? Block them. Then delete their comment.

I know people get hung up on whether or not they should do that, but I'm here to tell you that if I didn't delete hate and block haters, this blog would have shut down in 2020, if not earlier. You need to take care of yourself, and if that means removing that part of your comments then so be it.

I also prefer to lead with empathy and understanding. I believe in giving people the benefit of the doubt. I work very hard at taking the best interpretation possible of scenarios that people write me about. But that doesn't mean I need to put up with hate or with willful ignorance or with snarky "ironic" dystopian takes on my attempts to be sincere and helpful. Those things all make it harder for me to continue this hobby I love, and therefore I delete and I block and I move on in the direction I'm going.

I definitely understand the desire to be a heinous bitch in response. I've even given into it a few times. But I also remember those times because I'm not proud of myself for losing my temper. I look back on them and wish that I hadn't chosen a good burn over my principles.

Don't share anything that you don't actually want to share with strangers on the internet. Don't keep comments around that make you feel bad. Put an author's note at the bottom of the chapter explaining what you're going for and letting readers know that you don't want comments like the ones you describe here - and delete them if they come in despite that.

Sometimes you just have to clean house, anon, and get rid of some of the cruft.

[imtaashu]

11:11 Theory ✨

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Every night at 11:11, Bucky makes a wish. He never tells you what it is. Until one night—when you wake up, catch him doing it, and everything changes.

Genre: soft angst · established relationship · emotional intimacy · comfort · late-night confessions · wishful thinking · clingy!bucky · hurt/comfort · modern au · tender fluff

Word Count: 1.6k

✍️Author Notes: this is soft. clingy. time-heavy. stargazy. yearning. if you’ve ever looked at someone and thought please, just stay — this is for you. 🕊️🩵

You wake up to the sound of a whisper.

The clock on your nightstand glows faintly—11:11 PM.

And Bucky Barnes is standing at the window, talking to the sky like it’s holding something sacred.

You don’t move. Don’t speak. He doesn’t know you’re awake.

“Please,” he says quietly, hands in the pocket of the hoodie you swore was yours “Just let her stay.”

The moonlight paints him in soft blue. His jaw is clenched, but his shoulders slump like he’s already bracing for a heartbreak he hasn’t earned.

You swallow the lump in your throat and whisper, “Who were you talking to?”

Bucky turns around slowly—like he’s been caught.

Not in something bad. Just something… raw “Didn’t mean to wake you, doll.”

“You didn’t. Just heard you.” You sit up in bed, blanket pulled around your shoulders, waiting.

He hesitates. Then shrugs, looking down “It’s stupid.”

You tilt your head “Try me.”

He walks back toward you, slow, tired, like the weight of what he’s about to say has been sitting on him for years.

“There’s this thing,” he says, eyes flicking to the clock again—11:12 now, and he looks almost disappointed.

“11:11. They say if you think of someone at that time, they’re thinking of you too.”

You nod softly. You’ve heard it before. Wished on it once or twice.

“So you were thinking of me?”

“Always,” he says without hesitation. “But especially then.”

Your breath catches. You never expected him to be the kind of person who makes wishes. Not after everything. Not after what they took from him.

“What do you wish for?”

“I can’t say,” he mumbles. “That’s the rule.”

You smile gently, pat the spot beside you on the bed.

He climbs in, curls into your side like he needs to be there.

He always does that after a long day. After a bad dream. After the kind of ache you can’t name.

“Tell me anyway,” you whisper.

There’s a long pause. Then “I wish I never lose you.”

You exhale “You won’t.”

“You say that like you’re sure.”

“Because I am.”

His voice cracks a little “I’ve lost a lot of things I thought were permanent.”

“Then let me be temporary,” you whisper back. “As long as I get to stay right now.”

He leans in, forehead resting against yours, nose brushing your cheek. You feel the air shift around you—something unspoken blooming in the silence.

Then, softly, he murmurs “Make a wish, sweetheart. It’s still close enough to 11:11.”

So you do. But you don’t wish for anything new. You just wish to stay.

Right there. With him. As long as time allows.

───────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ─────────

🕰️ epilogue

He sets his phone to alert him at 11:11 every night now. Not because he needs the reminder-but because he likes it. Likes having a moment to stop and whisper your name into the quiet. To remind the universe what matters. Even if you’re right beside him. Even if you’re already his. “One more day. That’s all I ask. One more day with her.” And somehow, someway.. the universe listens.🩷

───────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ─────────

💌 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 💌 @nerdreader @starstruckfirecat @baguwagu @sunday-bug @murnsondock @thiscornerofmyfanficbrain @okaytrashpanda @aceofheartsssss @the-real-kellymonster🎀🩷

wanna be tagged in all upcoming theories + emotional damage + forehead kisses? ➝ reply or send me an ask and i’ll add you ♡

───────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ─────────

[httpknjoon]

anyone but you | myg

plot | that time on tour where the popstar would talk with everyone in the tour except her bassist, Yoongi. The one she cannot stop thinking about.

w.c | 6.2k+

pairing | bass guitarist!yoongi x popstar!reader

genre | mostly angst, fluff, enemies to lovers, slow burn

note | i love your mind thank you for sending this idea @enfppuff <3 I loved writing this one, I hope y'all will enjoy reading it :)

main masterlist | series masterlist

DAY 93: TOKYO, JAPAN

It took you one song in the rehearsals to notice someone sitting in one of the empty seats of Tokyo Dome. You were specifically singing the bridge for Taste when you spotted a brunette, wearing a baseball cap, on the very back seats in the floor area. It was easy for you to recognize she is not part of your tour staff since everyone has a uniform lanyard for their IDs. She has a neon green lanyard, indicating that she’s somebody’s visitor.

But the brunette woman is not some other woman, you know her. You recognized her. The one from The Late Late Show. The writer who kept bringing up great ideas and witty lines for you during the show. The one who was with your bass guitarist the whole night during the afterparty in December.

“Bea!”

It was during the rehearsal’s end that you fully processed who she is. You were on stage, in the middle of a three-person conversation with Art and your tour director, when you saw Yoongi walk up to Bea with two cups of coffee in his hands.

Why is she here?

The question formed in your head. Watching from a distance, you felt like a hawk, observing how they easily chat and laugh with Bea, unconsciously patting your bassist’s lap every time she giggles. Yoongi seemed comfortable with her, with his arm resting behind her chair. Then, another question made you wanna throw up.

Are they together?

“Hey. YN.” Donny, your tour director, snapped his fingers in front of you, snatching your attention from the couple. “Do you understand?”

“Ye… Yeah,” you nodded, stuttering since anything he said barely registered in your brain.

“Good. So you agree with the neon green lights and balloons?” he asked.

Lines formed between your brows, “Huh?”

The two men chuckled at your confused reaction. Donny simply tapped Art’s shoulder, “I’m just kidding. I’m sure Art understood everything; he can explain if you have questions. Okay? Take a rest for now, YN.”

You just smiled as he walked away, leaving you alone with your tour manager, who can easily tell what’s distracting you. He crossed his arms as he watched you look at Yoongi and his friend.

“In case you’re wondering, Yoongi asked for an extra ticket for her to watch your show tomorrow.” Art shared.

You looked at him, “Are they…”

You cannot even finish the question. Because halfway, you realized how stupid it is to ask about your infamous not-friend’s relationship status with a girl he surely has great chemistry with. 

When did she even get here in Tokyo? 

You and the whole concert team flew here just yesterday, so that you can fully prepare yourself for the tour’s first show in Asia. Especially since the current weather in Japan is very different from LA. Amidst the awkwardness you have with Yoongi, you thought you could just convert all your frustrations into attention and focus to rehearse for the rest of the tour. But how? How am I suppose to fucking focus—

“Dating? I don’t know. But his asking for a ticket and visitor pass kinda says a lot.” Art shrugged, knowing well that he was stirring something hot. Both he and Cal have already chatted about this weird tension between you and Yoongi. But since neither of you two will say anything might as well just let the whole thing steam. He asked, “Why?”

“Nothing.” You turned your head away and walked away, avoiding Art’s look, to go get yourself something strong to drink. Maybe a shot of espresso.

“My god, this is so bitter.” 

After sipping from the coffee he got her, Bea mumbled under her breath. She didn’t say it in a way that meant to offend him, Yoongi knows. So he offered the warm cup in his hand, still unopened.

“You can take mine. Americano, it’s less bitter.” 

“Thank you.” Bea smiled, swapping their drinks. “But my god, isn’t it a red flag if a person drinks espresso as their choice of coffee? Like, no water? Creamer?”

Yoongi simply chuckled at that, but because he remembered someone else who did like espresso. He learned that fact about you in his first week being your bassist. You were grumpy for the first rehearsals, and Cal asked him to hand you your coffee after he passed by you in the catering area. She was obviously busy with other stuff, so Yoongi didn’t mind a simple help of giving you your espresso. He remembered seeing how your face brightened the moment that caffeine hit your system. You squirmed and smiled for the first time that day.

“Anyway, enough with the coffee talk here,” Bea tapped his lap, “Are you sure it’s okay for me to be here?”

“Yeah, of course. Why?” Yoongi raised a brow.

“Nothing, it’s just that it feels weird. Everyone around me is working, and I’m just sitting here by myself, watching you guys. I’m so used to being a part of the group that’s busy preparing for the upcoming show,” she laughed, referring to her late-night job.

“It’s fine, you’re a visitor of mine. Plus, you’re not really causing any trouble here.” Yoongi assured her. “And don’t stress out on not stressing out right now. That’s why you’re here, right? You needed a break from being busy.”

She agreed, leaning on her chair, “I really do. Fortunately, you guys came here at the same time I am staying here! I can’t wait to watch YN again! I heard that she got new outfits, is that true?”

“Still doing your advanced research?” he teased her.

“It’s in my DNA,” she replied, smiling, before her phone buzzed. “Wait, I’ll just take this one.”

Bea stood up and left to answer the call. Meanwhile, Yoongi looked back on the stage, where he last saw you minutes ago. He sees you talking with Art before walking away, seemingly so out of it since you almost tripped on the stairs. His eyes followed you as you left for the exit way. He wished you would just do the same thing in his head. 

Exit. 

Because ever since that night after the afterparty, Yoongi wasn’t really able to function well. When you asked him to leave your room that night, he was embarrassed and confused, and it led him to book the earliest flight from New York to LA just so he could avoid you in the planned meeting tomorrow. During that six-hour flight, Yoongi barely slept a wink. 

"I-I think we crossed a line that we probably should not have."

You said that night. That kiss was a mistake. That giggling and banter in the middle of your makeout was a mistake. He was a mistake. To you. He apologized before leaving your room that night, since maybe he had crossed the line. Maybe he misunderstood that you two are way past those immature banters you shared for months. But it hit him during that same flight that maybe you two would never really get along well. Yoongi tried to excuse the whole thing as a result of too much drinking, even though he barely tasted the alcohol on your tongue. Hell, he can even taste the sweet strawberry from your lip gloss.

Spending Christmas with his family, Yoongi tried to let go of whatever happened that night. But he was so consumed by the thought of you that he almost forgot that it was his first holiday as a single man after his failed engagement with Sara. If it wasn’t with his aunt accidentally bringing up his ex, Yoongi would have forgotten that he and Sarah were supposed to tie the knot in January of the upcoming year. 

Between Christmas and New Year’s Eve, Yoongi tried to distract himself. Then, he got a call from her. Sara wanted to meet up before the year ends. He only agreed when she promised that she would be alone and wouldn’t be accompanied by her fiancé. Then, all the frustration from that afterparty was temporarily taken over by the resentment he felt towards Sara, since seeing her pregnant for the first time didn’t really make him feel better.

But once Yoongi sat in that cafe with her, Sara was nothing but humble and apologetic. She mentioned she didn’t want to end the year without confessing her true remorse for what she had done to him. Yoongi thought that the conversation would end with him still being a bitter man. But it didn’t. Like real mature people, he and Sara talked about everything. She openly answered his questions and heavily pressed on the fact that he was faultless for what happened with their relationship. She took accountability for everything, apologizing for how she had wronged him. 

She did cry. A lot. Maybe partly because of hormones. But Yoongi knew that Sara was genuinely guilty. He knew that apologizing had always been hard for her after years of them being together. So he accepted her apologies. Then, to calm her down, they began talking again like friends. Yoongi was mature enough to ask her about her pregnancy, wanting to know how she’s doing after the breakup and with this new phase of her life. She did the same thing, congratulating him for going on tour with a pop star. Something she held him back to during their relationship.

“You seemed really happy on stage with her,” Sara mentioned, something that somehow stayed in his mind until now.

As someone who knows him best, Sara will be the most verified person to say that. But Yoongi tried to shake it off during the chat. When he got home that day, he turned off his phone for the next two days so that he could avoid searching you up ever again. Then the new year came. He celebrated alone at his apartment, not really in the mood to go to a friend’s big party where he had been invited to. Instead, Yoongi got himself an expensive bottle of wine and played with his guitar until the fireworks outside set off. He finally opened his phone to greet his parents and friends. He just finished a call with his mom when he got a call. This time, it’s you. You were drunk and crying. He doesn’t even know if you remember the conversation you two had in that call.

“I hate receiving calls like that!” 

Yoongi snapped his head when Bea came back, sitting next to him. He blinked, scolding himself in his head for drifting away.

“What happened?” he asked, trying to stay present.

“Work stuff. Apparently, there are some documents they need from me, and I have them in my apartment back in LA, so…” She rolled her eyes. “I’ll book the earliest flight after tomorrow’s show.”

“Well,” Yoongi stood up, “I guess we have to make the most of your time here?”

Bea smiled, “Yeah, that sounds great.”

The two began walking to the same exit way you had walked on earlier. Since the dome’s main gates, where fans come in and out, are still closed, they have to take the way where crew members go in and out of, which means they came across everyone.

“Hey, lovebugs!” Noah called them as they passed by the band, who were chatting in the catering area. Yoongi and Bea just shake their heads at the nickname, shrugging it off. “Where are you off to?”

“We’ll just go around the city. Maybe eat and visit some nearby spots.” Bea replied.

Yoongi added, “Yeah, but this one has to leave after the show tomorrow. So, we’ll just do it now. You can come with us if you want to.”

“Oh, we will,” Fred said before they all stood up, cleaning up their table.

While waiting for them, Yoongi listened to Bea’s impromptu itinerary. She mentioned something about a nearby garden and various fancy cafes, but all of it became a noise when Yoongi noticed you walked in with Cal and a slight frown on your lips. He felt like a ghost, watching you like he were invisible.  Before, you complained about his eyes throwing daggers, but those daggers seemed to fly over your head since you act like you won’t even see him. Then, he sees Noah walk up to you.

“It’s cold, isn’t it?” Bea yanked him back to reality, waving her now-empty coffee cup in his sight.

“Hmm?” Yoongi hummed, not really catching up.

Bea, who has been observant ever since she came here today, simply smiled, “I said, it’s cold outside. We should get thicker coats in Kagurazaka.”

Yoongi nodded quietly, slightly embarrassed that he had been spacing out a lot lately. Noah then walked to them while hooking his arm with yours. You were looking at everyone except Yoongi, who is now in front of you.

“She’s coming with us. YN’s a little bummed out that there’s no espresso left here. We’re getting her that outside.” Your best friend cheered you up like a little kid.

Yoongi noticed you smile, but it did not reach your eyes. He looked down at the still-full coffee cup in his hand. Should he just give it to you? Maybe not. It’s already cold. So cold.

You really have no energy to stroll around the city for some reason. But Noah insists that you join them: “Stop moping around and come with us.”

“I am not moping around. Why would I mop around? It’s my first show after a few weeks for God’s sake,” you replied, denying whatever he was throwing at you. “And I already agreed that I’m joining you guys.”

“Then don’t drag your feet to walk.” Noah teased. “And please. Stop glaring at Yoongi.”

You rolled your eyes at him, “I am not glaring at anyone. I just need my espresso, and I’m gonna be okay.”

Excuses, excuses. You whispered in your head. Walking behind the group, Noah made sure to keep you company since everyone walked in pairs. Fred and Akio. You and Noah. Bea and Yoongi. 

You can’t help but watch them. Those two act like they have known each other for the longest time. They seemed pretty comfortable with each other. Why does it look like it’s easy for them to be with each other? You can see Yoongi, who usually gives you blank stares, and his gummy smile from where you stand behind them, while Bea points out something and laughs. They are like sunshine, while you and Yoongi are ice-cold like the weather today in Japan.

Sighing, you looked down at your white boots walking on the pavement.

“You know, if you keep sighing like that, can you at least tell me what’s going on?” Noah mumbled beside you.

You looked up, forcing a smile, “Nothing. Just a little nervous for tomorrow.”

“YN…” your friend paused and tucked a part of your hair behind your ear, “Your nose is saying something else.”

He chuckled as your eyes widened before holding your nose. Everyone who has known you for a while knows that when you say something untrue, your nose flares. 

“Whatever. But you know that I am always here for you, right?” he asked, and you nodded, leaning your head on his arm.

It took more minutes of walking until you found the cafe that Bea talked about. She turned around, pointing at it from a distance.

“That is the one! I have seen so many TikTok videos about their matcha latte!”

“Oh, yeah! I’ve been there once too, when I flew here last holiday. I think you guys will love their croffles.” Akio added enthusiastically.

Akio and Bea went in first, excited to see the menu. Yoongi held the door for everyone. You were the last one to walk in, and you tried not to look back as you could feel his eyes on you. Even though you won’t say anything, you can always feel when he’s looking at you.

The moment you got in, you noticed how warm the cafe is. It’s cozy and well-lit, following the beige and white aesthetic for everything. Soft jazz music plays in the background as the soothing aroma of coffee fills the place. Before looking for a spot, everyone came in front of the display case to see what pastries were available.  You were quiet while everyone chose.

“Croffles or that tiramisu?” 

You heard a voice behind you. But instead of turning around or answering, you stepped away and stood next to Fred, who was already lining up to order for everyone. He was looking at the menu board when he noticed you next to him, unaware of your avoidance of someone.

“How ‘bout you? Still espresso?”

You smiled, wordlessly, nodding your head. As everyone found the perfect spot to sit on, you decided to stay with your drummer. There are still two people ahead of you, so you two get to chat a little.

“My wife would have loved that heart-shaped strawberry mousse. She loves cute pastries like those,” he told you, making you smile with that wholesome thought.

“Lara’s a pastry chef, right?” 

He nods, “Yep, she runs her own shop back in LA. Baking has always been her passion ever since we were kids.”

“You two were childhood sweethearts?! That’s really sweet,” you swooned.

He chuckled, “Not really, we knew each other since we were kids. But we only got together in our late 20s. My mom always told me it took us too long to finally be together.” 

You smiled at that, looking at the heart-shaped cake in the display case, “Maybe not. Maybe, you two are just like one of those slow burners…”

“Yeah, maybe,” he smiled as he remembered his wife. “It took us almost twenty years and five failed relationships to realize that maybe we’re meant for each other. Great things take time.”

As if on cue, it was your turn to order. Fred did all the talking, and you just stood there. But you can feel that the cashier recognized you, which is fair since you were not really wearing anything that could cover your face. She shyly said hi to you, and you greeted her back with a smile. After ordering, the staff told you that your orders would be served. Walking to the table your friends chose, you quickly noticed the available seats left. One is next to Bea and Akio, and the other is between Noah… and Yoongi. Noah finally noticed you in the middle of their chat, immediately seeing your hesitation on the seating arrangement. He raised his brow as if he were telling you to just come sit next to him. You exhaled before finally walking over to sit between the two.

Who knew that a gentle brush on the knee could make him shiver?

Yoongi shifted from his seat the moment your knee accidentally touched his when you just sat down beside him. He tried to focus on the front of him, where Bea sat, but she was already deep into the chat with the others. Their conversation was bouncing from one topic to another. Noah spoke about the nearby garden they’ll visit later, making Yoongi look at his way. But instead of his eyes landing on his bandmate, he found you scrolling on your phone. 

But you barely reacted to whatever your screen showed you. It was like you were mindlessly scrolling just to not look awkward with people around you. But he can tell. He hates that he can tell. Yoongi turned his gaze back to Bea, who was now speaking.

“Oh my god, they are playing your song.” Bea gasped, referring to you. “That’s my favorite from your recent EP.”

“Thank you,” you finally spoke, smiling in a way that Yoongi could tell was forced.

Just as their orders were being served, a familiar song was playing all over the place. It was one of the songs he worked with you during those late nights of last year’s December. He remembered you knocking on his hotel room door just moments after you got back from your shows, showing up in your most casual clothes. Maybe handing him coffee or chips the moment he opened the door for you. You two would exchange opinions on making your song, but never argue about it.

Yoongi was too filled with thoughts of you that he unconsciously reached for the freshly brewed espresso and placed it in front of you. You looked at him, slightly surprised. But he didn’t meet your eyes. Instead, he was already looking at Bea. You wanted to thank him, but opted to just take a sip of your most-awaited espresso.

“Oh, isn’t this pretty?” she swooned over the croffles that were topped with whipped cream and various types of berries. 

Akio showed off the different slices of different cakes, ordered by others, too, “Look at these, too!”

“Oh, let me take a picture. I’ll send it to my wife.” Fred stood up and hovered over the table to capture a good picture of the pastries.

After that, Bea unexpectedly placed a slice of strawberry shortcake in front of you, “You should try this one. I don’t know why, but I ordered them for you because it reminded me of your cute outfit today.”

That made you giggle. Genuinely, for the first time today. “Thank you, you’re so sweet, Bea.”

Slight relief washes over Yoongi when he hears that light and soft laugh from you. You picked up your fork and sliced a corner of the shortcake gently before taking a bite. He can tell you liked it as you chewed, nodding your head.

“I love it,” you said mid-chew before offering, “You guys should try it!”

Yoongi quietly watched as you pushed the plate in the center of the table so that everyone could get a taste. He watched you look at everyone’s reactions with delight. Noah’s random moan like he just fell in love with cake made everyone laugh. You laughed so hard, your smile finally reached your eyes, which made Yoongi smile too.

The day went on with you being much more active than you were earlier. You were laughing a lot over Noah’s jokes and telling everyone how beautiful the garden is. You felt much lighter as you walked into the tranquil Korakuen Garden. 

“The espresso really helps, huh?” Noah whispered next to you.

You chuckled, “Definitely.”

Looking around, you walked ahead when you saw a koi pond. You took out your phone to take pictures, something you will post on your stories soon. You cannot help but smile at how pretty everything is. But then, when you turned around, your shoulders slowly deflated like popped balloons when you spotted Yoongi taking pictures of Bea candidly under the cherry blossoms. You pursed your lips, trying not to frown. You just looked back at the pond, exhaling whatever you’ve been feeling.

“Hey, YN! Come here.”

Turning around once again, you see Akio motioning her hand for you to come stand next to her and for Noah to take group pictures. And that's what happened for the next few hours, you joined the band to avoid being quiet and alone with your messy feelings. You linked arms with Akio and Noah, talking about anything. Fred joined in, too. You also had quick, short chats with Bea about the weather and your recent experiences while staying here in the foreign country.

You learned that she came to Japan after asking for a two-week break. But it has only been a week, and she told you she has to go back to New York after your show tomorrow.

“That’s unfair, you asked for two weeks!” you protested to her as you two walked side by side while Yoongi stayed behind with Fred. You are now on your way to the nearest shopping district, which is Kagurazuka.

“I know!” Bea exclaimed, matching your energy. “But I think it’s better to just go home early. I miss working in that hectic show anyway.”

“Oh my god, Bea. You’re having Stockholm Syndrome,” you quipped, making her laugh.

“Maybe I am, but I’m making money off it anyway.”

While you two laughed once again, someone watched behind you quietly. Although Yoongi is relieved to see you get more comfortable, he cannot help but notice how you talked with everyone except him. You even got closer to Bea. The moment you two got into your own little chat, Yoongi began thinking that you were avoiding him. He tried reaching out, asking you about pastries, even unconsciously handing you your coffee, and tried to stand next to you when Bea made you and the band take a group photo, but you exchanged spots with Akio.

He tried not to think much of it, making up reasons in his head just to avoid making the distance between you two bigger. Maybe you did not hear him when he asked about croffles and tiramisu, maybe you said thanks for the coffee, he just didn’t hear it, or you just like standing at the end of a group photo instead of the center. But Yoongi got the confirmation on his hunch when he found himself standing a few feet next to you in front of a quirky souvenir shop in the not-so-busy shopping district of Kagurazaka. Your friends were inside buying gifts for their family and friends back home, while you decided to wait outside, and so did Yoongi.

It has been ten minutes since you two have been alone. The sun sets between the small buildings of the district while Yoongi watches you watch everything that walks in front of you. A couple holding hands as they giggle. Another tourist with a couple of shopping bags in each hand. A little boy holding a fish-shaped bread next to his mother. He saw the corner of your lips pull up as you eyed the cute kid.

“He looked like he won the lottery,” he said, trying to break the silence and start a conversation.

But you just smiled wearily, still not looking at him, “He does.”

That type of response is kind of hard to follow for someone who is often quiet like Yoongi. But he’s trying, he’s really trying to make a sensible conversation with you. Something that can assure him that the silent treatment won’t be permanent for the rest of the tour. So he tried once again, keeping his hands in his coat’s pockets.

“This is a really peaceful place for a shopping district, don’t you think?”

You nodded, “Yeah, it is.”

Then, silence joined in again, standing between you two. And Yoongi felt that he could not really do much anymore since you were not really interested in talking with him. He waited for you to say something. Five seconds. Thirty seconds. A minute. Then a few more minutes passed before he pressed his lips together and stared at the cobblestone pavement.

“Am I…” he paused, feeling his chest tighten, “Is me, being here, bothering you?”

Yoongi saw you in his peripheral turning your head in his direction before looking away again. You murmured, “No.”

“I’m starting to feel like I’m not supposed to be here. With you,” he whispered, letting his honest thoughts roll off his tongue.

“You are, Yoongi. You are supposed to be here. You’re my bassist,” you told him, saying the first thing in your head.

You meant good with that, Yoongi knows. But somehow that last line stings. Something snapped in his head, reminding him that maybe he’s just overthinking everything.

So he lets out a dry chuckle, “Ah, yes. That’s right, just you’re bassist.”

After noticing the time, everyone decided to finally go back to the hotel and rest. You were grateful that you and everyone could just take a walk from everything you went to today, then back to your hotel. Except for Bea, who has her booked Airbnb in the other city because she came here earlier.

“Guys, I need to go. My ride’s here,” she smiled sadly as everyone arrived in the hotel lobby. She then began hugging everyone goodbye, including you, “I had so much fun. Thank you so much for letting me tag along with you. I’ll watch you tomorrow.”

You smiled, waving at her, as she walked away with Yoongi, who you assumed walked her to her ride. You watched their backs quietly. He was carrying her shopping bags and opened the door for her. They were still talking as they went out.

“I was thinking of visiting their bar here tonight,” Noah brought up, making you look back at your left group.

You smiled, “Noah, we have a show tomorrow.”

“I know! But Akio and I just want to visit it. I heard they have a jazz band every night, just want to see and listen,” he insisted. “Don’t you want to come?”

“I can’t,” you shook your head. “I think I’m already tired from all the walking we did. And I can’t drink before any show. I do stupid things.”

A lot of stupid shit.

“I’ll go with you!” Fred joined in, moving next to his two younger bandmates. “Don’t worry, YN, I’ll make sure that they won’t get drunk tonight.”

Akio joked, “Okay, Dad.”

Everyone laughed at that. Eventually, you parted with them. They went to the hotel bar while you walked to the elevator. You have to wait for a new one for a few minutes until the doors open. You got in, so ready to get into your room to change into your pajamas and rest. The doors were about to close in a few seconds when a hand slid in, triggering the sensors to open the doors again.

Of course, it’s Yoongi.

You looked away, your hands forming into fists inside your coat’s pockets. Yoongi walked in and stood on the opposite corner of the elevator. You and Yoongi in the elevator seemed to be a dangerous formula based on your last interaction in the same place. Completely opposite from your past closeness in the elevator back when you two got back from the afterparty, the air has completely shifted now. You stared at the mirrored walls in front of you, not wanting to look at him.

“So, is this how it’s gonna be until this tour ends?” he calmly whispered, leaning on the rail.

Yoongi took the initiative to break the silence once again because it’s getting hard. His chest is being filled with an overwhelming amount of words that he cannot let out. His brain is gonna explode with the thoughts filling it. All while his heart beats like crazy underneath his chest.

“What?” you mumbled.

He sighed, “You won’t talk to me or worse, even look at me? Like I’m just a ghost to you.”

Instead of answering, your eyes find comfort in the numbers counting down the floors your elevator passed by. You know you cannot do this forever, but you also know that you cannot do this right now with how messy your head is. So when you hear the familiar ding, you immediately step outside the doors.

Yoongi followed behind you, “Yeah, leave. That’s right.”

“I was not the first one who left,” you bit back without turning around, just walking to your door.

That sentence quickly made his blood boil, yet Yoongi tried to remain calm: “You were the one who asked me to leave that night, YN. You said there was a line we probably shouldn’t have crossed, and I understood. It’s fine. But you called me during New Year’s, and I don’t know what’s happening anymore, YN.”

It’s pointless to fight over that because you know that in the end, you were the one in the wrong. You were the one who made him leave, pointing out how everything is a mistake before it can even happen. You were also the one who called him, drunk, probably crying over him. But still, your head feels like a ransacked office. There are papers everywhere, drawers were all open and disheveled, and you’re just standing in the middle, helplessly not knowing what to do. 

You gathered up all of the courage in your system and finally turned around to look at him, “I don’t know what you want from me, Yoongi.”

“Talk, I want to talk with you, YN,” he whispered. He sounds tired yet calm and patient.

“I am talking with you right now.” 

He sighed, “You know what the hell I mean. I want us to talk about what happened. About us.”

“There’s no us to begin with,” you replied, and you can see something shift through his eyes. His brows scrunched together. But you went on, “and what’s the point anyway? You’re with someone else alre—”

“Bea’s a friend,” he cuts you off, quickly cleaning up any of your assumptions about his relationships. “Just a friend I invited to come watch. That’s all.”

“Yeah, right.” you chuckled dryly before attempting to open the door, but Yoongi held the knob before you can.

You still don’t believe him a hundred percent, Yoongi can tell. He continued, “She was not here to make you jealous. She saw my story that I’m in Tokyo, asked about the show, and I invited her to watch. I’m sorry that I—”

“Why are you apologizing?!” you snapped, like his apologizing is making everything harder for you. You can feel tears stinging in the corners of your eyes just because of how patient he is with you. “You don’t have to say sorry for that, Yoongi. You don’t owe me that.”

Your voice cracked at the end as you said his name. You looked down, feeling cornered. Yoongi’s shoulders tensed down. He wanted to reach out, hold you in his arms. But before he could step forward, you spoke again.

“Why do you want to talk with me?”

“I,” he sighed. “I just want us to go back the way we were before.’

“Before?” you repeated with your tone showing slight sarcasm. “Yoongi, before that night, we barely talked properly. We’re just co-workers who often disagree on things, flirt on stage, and ignore each other backstage.”

You clenched your fists as you let those lies come out of your mouth. It was untrue because when you look at him, you see someone who wrote and produced songs with him until 2 AM. The one who’s quiet and patient with every gimmick you pull during performance, going along easily. Someone who apologized even though he did not make you cry intentionally and bought you that thick souvenir notebook from Milwaukee, the one she brings with her everywhere to write songs on. And mostly, he is the only one who can easily read your thoughts just by staring at you quietly.

And maybe that's what led you to say those words to him. Yoongi is not just some person or colleague that you will see at work every day. But he’s your bassist. The moment everyone finds out about your messy situation with him, you will be much more than the provocative popstar who flirts. That title will change into the provocative popstar who flirts a lot with her bassists, considering that your last partner was also your past bassist.

The headlines. The gossip. The whispers. You can already imagine the names they will call you if ever you let Yoongi into your world.

“Is that so? That’s all it was to you?” Yoongi asked that calmly, sending a shiver down your spine. But he looked at you like you just slapped him across his face.

Suddenly, he felt like he could not read you anymore. Because he thought he understood everything right. He sensed that you were scared about crossing the professional boundaries you two have in the middle. Hence why you told him that night that you crossed the line you two probably should not have.

He even went so far, to assume that you feel the same thing every time you two end up staring into each other’s eyes. 

But maybe he was wrong.

Maybe you are really just a good performer. Someone who can really make people feel the words you were singing through your eyes. Maybe he is just stupid to believe that the jokes, stares, and kisses meant something more than just humor and gimmicks. 

So he took a step back, nodding, “Fine, maybe we don’t have anything to talk about anymore.”

There was a finality in his tone when you heard that. Surrender. You didn’t dare to say anything. Instead, you bit your lower lip to avoid it from shaking too much. Yoongi looked at you like he was still waiting for you to say something, but you avoided his gaze and looked down.

Receiving nothing from you, Yoongi took it as a sign and walked away, taking all the strength in him not to look back.

“You won’t talk to me or worse, even look at me? Like I’m just a ghost to you.”

His words repeated in your head as you lay on your bed hours after that conversation. Another tear slipped from your eyes, rolling down to your cheeks. You groaned, reaching for a pen and your favorite notebook. Writing the first words in your head,

You should take it as a compliment that I'm talkin' to everyone here but you

additional note | i was editing this then ot7 live happened!! I'm still over the moon seeing them together again after two years!! anyway, I know this one is *so angsty*. i'll try to post something lighter later haha tysm for reading <3

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[lenasbraindump]

Jeanelle had spotted the adventurers pretty much immediately when they came into the area. Not that it took any particular skill. In a village of 58 souls any stranger immediately draws attention. She had also immediately figured out that they were up to something. This too was hardly difficult, because they were trying to be excruciatingly inconspicuous in all the wrong ways. Heavy cloaks with hoods drawn deep into the face. In the middle of summer. One had to admire the dedication, they must be melting under those.

‘Kidnapped by the adventurers, will try to be home before you are, love J’ With a sigh Jeanelle put the note on the table before grabbing the watering can and heading outside. Noctem had headed to the market in the nearest town and the adventurers were sure to act while they were away.

She got halfway through watering the carrots, before a figure grabbed her from behind and put a hand over her mouth.

“Don’t scream, we’re here to save you.” said the figure; she thought it was the lanky tall guy of the adventure group. He started dragging her off. They had to be pretty new at this, experienced adventurers rarely went for this level of theatrics. It took until he had dragged her to a waiting horse wagon for him to finally take his hand off her mouth. “Go go go!” The wagon jerked and started moving.

“No. STOP THIS!” Jeanelle said firmly. The wagon immediately stopped. The four adventurers first stared at her, then at the horse that had obeyed her voice rather than the reins the little redhead was holding.

“Seriously? You’re not just kidnapping me, but you STOLE OUR HORSE to do it?!”

“We’re not kidnapping you, we’re rescuing you!” the little redhead that was holding the reins said. “You need to be quiet and we have to get going! Now!”

“What do I need to be quiet for? The next house is a mile down the road from this house. My house. This house. The house that I live in. The house that this horse lives at. The house that I don’t need to be rescued from.”

“But – you don’t understand! Your husband! They’re…” the redhead started to whisper for dramatic effect (this group really seemed to be into that) “They’re not who they pretend to be. They’re a-”

“A Changeling. Yes. I know.” she couldn’t help but sound exasperated.

There was a moment of awkward silence.

“Uhhh, so… are you trying to find a weakness and defeat them to get your real husband back or something? Because that is really dangerous, you really shouldn’t…” the lanky guy started to say.

“NO. “

“But then what - “

“Listen, I don’t know what my mother has told you, I am assuming you were hired by her?”

The adventurers nodded sheepishly.

“But I do not need to be rescued. This is my home, Noctem is my husband. My real, actual husband. They’ve been a changeling for as long as I’ve known them. My mother knows this. She just decided to be racist about it. So can you please stop being a nuisance, let me finish watering the garden, put my horse back in the stable and return this wagon to whoever you stole THAT from? Ideally before Noctem comes home and accidentally causes a hailstorm when they find out about this.”

“But what about the originial -” lanky guy started “Wait, HAILSTORM?” redhead said at the same time.

“Yes, hailstorm. Their fey parents are pretty powerful at weather magic and they inherited some of that, but since they were raised by humans they can’t always control it that well. So I’d really like to avoid spoiling the harvest, please. As for ‘the original’ – that would be my brother in law, he’s fine, he visits sometimes. If you want to, you can drop by for dinner and I’ll tell you the whole story. AFTER you have returned what isn’t yours.”

You and your non-human spouse live peacefully and happily in a remote village. While your spouse is running errands, passing adventurers “rescue” you as they mistake you for a hostage. You must explain the situation before your spouse comes home and finds you missing...

[solarstranger]

“excuse me?”

both you and bakugou look up from your conversation, a confused smile tugging at your lips when your eyes land on a woman you’ve never seen before, a sheepish yet somehow determined look etched across her unfamiliar face. “yes?”

at your welcoming albeit slightly bemused response, she deflates a little in what you think is relief, her mouth morphing into a good-natured grin.

“i didn’t mean to disturb your lunch,” she starts, fiddling with the sling of her crossbody bag, “but i just wanted to say. i love your dress.”

oh.

“t-thank you so much,” you exclaim, taken aback by the unexpected compliment. you’re about to say something nice about her hair, but she’s already skittering back to her group of friends, who laugh affectionately at the woman before turning to the other direction, but not without a friendly wave goodbye at the two of you.

you return the gesture with a chuckle, although that immediately contorts into a pout the second they’re out of sight.

“what?” bakugou asks without missing a beat.

you frown at your boyfriend, before looking down at your half-finished plate of pasta. “i wanted to compliment her, too.”

for a second, bakugou doesn’t say anything, opting to study your crestfallen face instead. a moment passes with neither of you uttering a word until you finally notice him staring at you, an impassive expression on his features. you raise an eyebrow quizically. “what?”

“nothing,” he shakes his head, a small smile pulling at his lips.

and when you only toss him a deadpan look, he sighs.

“it’s just—” he begins, clearly searching for the right words to say, “here you are—being complimented for being fucking pretty and your immediate response is to get sad you didn’t get to compliment them back.”

at that, your frown deepens. “how else am i supposed to react, then?”

“i don’t know—” he huffs, leaning back on his chair, “flush? be flattered? say it’s your boyfriend who got you that dress?”

“ah. so you only wanted bragging rights.”

“that’s not the point.”

you bite back a grin. “sure, big guy.”

“you—”

“and they didn’t compliment me, per se,” you continue before he can ramble on, voice quieter. “they complimented my dress.”

“which only works because it’s you who’s wearing it, dumbass.”

despite yourself, you smile at the man. “you really think so?”

bakugou huffs again, although there’s no denying the pink that’s now dusting the high points of his cheeks. “you really ought to give yourself more credit.”

now it’s your turn to study him silently.

“no need,” you eventually quip cheerfully, reaching over the table to take his hand in yours. he doesn’t protest, only letting you intertwine your hands together.

he does, however, toss you a questioning look. one that incredulously says: why?

so you tell him.

“it’s because i like having my boyfriend do it for me.”

a/n. trying out this new format where the author's note comes after the drabble. we'll see if i go back and revert this later anyway lol. anywho, this one's very self ship-coded because i like complimenting strangers. it's my form of exposure therapy for my social anxiety while spreading the kindness i want to share with the world. now all i'm lacking is a boyfriend who hypes me up the same way lol. (0.5k)

˗ˏˋ while likes are appreciated, they don’t do much on tumblr! if you want to support me and writers in general, reblogs, replies, and tags are the way to go. feel free to drop an ask, too—i’d love to chat. have a nice day! ´ˎ˗

[viviansturns]

𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒊'𝒎 𝒔𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒚 𝒇𝒐𝒓 - wc 8k+

...every time chris has ever fucked up and apologized

cw: angst, crying, begging, repeated toxic actions, extremely toxic relationship, totally unresolved, codependancy, mentions of alcohol, no physical abuse

a/n- hi guysss i'm putting this in the text of fic so you read it!! so this is for my 1,000 follower special! i've done a long fic before (here) so i decided to do another but this ones terribly sad!

it's important to note that i did this is a completely different writing style than mine, especially nearing the end, and I really don't know how much I like it. in addition, i reached the maximum number of "blocks" due to the absurd amount of enters, so theres a continuation to this post. anyways, enjoy! and i'm sorry in advance

Sorry for being a dick

The party is loud enough that you have to lean in to hear what your friend is saying, but you don’t really mind. You’re not even sure you wanted to come at first—it’s one of those crowded, slightly pretentious housewarmings where everyone brings craft beer or overpriced wine.

Still, you like the kitchen best. It’s bright and a little too small for the twelve-ish people squeezed in, the chatter bouncing off white cabinets and cheap tile.

You’re perched on the counter, boot heels knocking softly, drink in hand, laughing at something stupid your friend tells you about her boss. You feel loose, relaxed. You’ve even forgotten for a second that you don’t know most of these people.

That changes when he walks in.

He doesn’t exactly enter the room so much as commandeer it.

Tall. Broad. Annoyingly handsome in that way you can tell he knows. He’s talking to someone behind him, voice a little too loud over the music in the other room, eyes flicking around like he’s casing the joint.

He sees the group in the kitchen, and his gaze lands on you for a second too long before moving away again.

You notice.

“Who’s that?” you ask your friend in a hushed voice.

“Chris,” she mouths. “He’s... you know. He’s cool.”

Which apparently means handle with care.

You shrug. Not your problem.

Except he walks over anyway.

He leans against the counter next to you, beer dangling between his fingers, sizing you up in a quick, dismissive glance.

“What are you all talking about?” he asks, all casual arrogance.

“Hey Chris. My boss,” your friend says.

You smirk. “We’re also mocking ourselves for being fake adults. And I was saying I still write poetry sometimes.”

“Poetry?” he snorts. “Christ. That’s—pretentious as hell.”

It isn’t said playfully. He doesn’t even look at you when he says it. Just tosses it out there like a fact everyone would agree on.

The conversation dies for half a beat.

You blink, then let out a sharp little laugh that has no humor in it.

“Wow,” you say, tilting your head. “Didn’t realize I needed your permission to have a hobby.”

That gets his attention. His eyes snap to you, startled.

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

For a second, he actually looks embarrassed.

“Shit,” he mutters. He straightens, rubbing the back of his neck. The air shifts—his arrogance deflating fast. “Okay. You’re right. That was... dickish. ’m sorry.”

You raise your eyebrows, a smirk tugging at your mouth despite yourself.

“That’s it? Dickish?”

He winces. “Super dickish.”

“Better.”

Silence stretches, filled with the muffled bass from the living room and the sound of someone laughing down the hall.

He huffs out a laugh, looking genuinely sheepish now.

“I really am sorry,” he adds, voice low enough that only you hear it.

You believe him. Which is stupid. You barely know him.

But he looks so uncomfortable.

You exhale, shoulders relaxing.

“Fine,” you say, smiling slow. “You’re forgiven.”

He blinks.

“That easy?”

You shrug, swirling your drink.

“I forgive way too easily. You’ll come to realize.”

His eyes lock on yours then, the apology softening into something else. He looks like he wants to say more, but doesn’t.

A silence falls between you that is surprisingly comfortable.

Finally, he clears his throat, suddenly awkward in a way that makes you bite back a laugh.

“Can I, uh—can I get you another drink? For being a pretentious asshole.”

You tap your glass thoughtfully.

“You can try,” you tease.

He grins—genuine this time—and holds out a hand for your cup.

You let him take it.

_______________

He disappears into the living room, leaving you with a flutter in your chest you’re definitely going to blame on the cheap wine.

Your friend gives you a knowing look.

You roll your eyes but can’t help the grin that creeps up.

“Shut up,” you mouth.

But you’re already looking at the doorway, waiting for him to come back.

Sorry for forgetting

You don’t really expect him to text you.

But you check your phone the entire next morning anyway.

Your friend teased you about it all the way home. “Oh my god, you like him.” Which is insulting, actually. You don’t like rude boys who say sorry too late.

Still, you left the party thinking about the way he’d looked when he realized he’d actually hurt you. The awkward apology. The hand rubbing the back of his neck. The real, messy way he’d said I’m sorry like he wasn’t used to saying it at all.

You shouldn’t care.

But you’re not immune.

So when his name finally lights up your screen, you have to bite back a smile before you even read the message.

Chris: hey. you around today?

You roll your eyes at the lack of capitalization.

You: Depends.

Chris: on?

You: On whether you’re gonna insult me again.

The typing bubbles appear. Vanish. Come back.

Chris: i was gonna try not to.

You laugh.

You: Fine. When?

Chris: like an hour?

You glance at the time. You’re not really free but it’s not like you have anything you can’t move.

Your thumb hovers.

You: Sure.

Chris: cool. i’ll let you know.

_______________

That’s how you find yourself sitting in the cramped back corner of your favorite coffee shop, half an hour later, pretending to read while checking the door every three seconds.

He’s late.

Not “five-minutes-traffic” late.

Twenty. Thirty.

You try not to care.

But you’re annoyed.

You check your phone. Nothing.

Finally, you toss your book onto the table and fish your phone out again, thumbs flying.

You: So was this the part where you show up or just leave me hanging?

You hit send. And immediately regret it.

It takes five minutes for the bubbles to appear.

Chris: fuck.

That’s all.

You scowl.

You: Oh my god.

A minute later, your phone rings.

You almost don’t pick up.

But you do.

“Hey.”

His voice is low, rougher than you remember.

“Hey,” you snap.

Silence.

“I’m… sorry.”

You snort. “You’re sorry?”

“Yeah. I… I forgot.”

Your mouth twists. “You forgot.”

He exhales, sounding wrecked. “Yeah. I don’t have an excuse. I just… lost track and I didn’t remember.”

Silence stretches.

You chew on the inside of your cheek.

“You do realize that’s actually worse, right?”

He groans softly on the other end of the line. “Yeah. I know. That’s on me.”

Your shoulders drop.

You didn’t want a fight. You just didn’t want to feel stupid sitting here alone.

“I cleared time for you,” you say quietly.

He’s quiet too.

“I know.”

Something about the way he says it makes your chest ache.

“I didn’t want to fuck it up,” he says finally.

You blink.

“Chris…”

“I know. Don’t say it. I’m an asshole. A coward. Whatever. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to waste your time.”

You sigh. The coffee in front of you has gone cold.

“You did waste it,” you admit.

“I know.”

“But…”

You close your eyes.

“I forgive you.”

Silence.

He actually laughs—a short, disbelieving sound.

“Again?”

“Again,” you say. “But you’re running out of freebies.”

He hums, sounding a little relieved.

“I’ll pay you back for the coffee.”

“You will.”

“And I’ll actually show up next time.”

You let out a small laugh.

“You better.”

Another beat of silence.

“Hey,” he says, voice suddenly softer. “Thanks. For… not hanging up.”

Your chest twists.

“Don’t make me regret it.”

He lets out a breath.

“I’ll try not to.”

You hang up first.

You don’t finish your coffee.

But you do leave the shop smiling a little anyway.

Because you didn’t want to like him.

But it’s hard not to like someone who doesn’t know how to be good at this, but tries anyway.

Even if he’s late.

Even if he’s an idiot.

Because he said sorry, and you believed him.

Which is probably your biggest mistake yet.

-

-

-

-

-

-

You’re dating now.

It still feels weird to say out loud.

Not because it doesn’t fit, but because somehow it snuck up on you.

You can’t even say when it happened exactly. One minute you were teasing him about flaking on coffee, the next you were making out in his car, both of you too proud to admit you’d been waiting for it.

It’s not perfect. Nothing about Chris is perfect.

But it feels like it. He’s magnetic in a way you can’t describe. You don’t think you could stop liking him if you tried

—-- 1 month later —---

Sorry, work was crazy…

Tonight, it’s supposed to be your night.

You planned it.

A small, no-pressure dinner at your place. Just pasta, garlic bread, and that movie you keep saying he has to see because you love it and you want him to love it too.

You even clean your tiny apartment. Real cleaning, too, not just shoving socks under the bed.

You light a candle. One. You’re not that desperate…

You’re actually a little nervous.

Which is stupid. He’s seen you at your worst. (hair a mess, drunk at 2 AM crying)

But tonight feels like a test somehow.

And then he’s late.

You tell yourself it’s no big deal.

You know he’s busy. He works stupid hours. You knew that before you kissed him, before you let him press you against his stupid car door and promise to do better.

So you wait.

And wait.

You text.

No answer.

You end up sitting cross-legged on your couch, cold pasta in a pot on the stove, arms folded over your chest.

You’re not angry. Not yet.

You’re hurt.

Which is worse.

___________

When he finally knocks, you think about not opening the door.

You do it anyway.

He’s there, hands shoved into his jacket, eyes tired, hair a mess like he’s been running his hands through it all night.

He doesn’t look arrogant now.

He looks like someone who knows he fucked up.

“Hey,” he says softly.

You don’t move.

“Hi.”

He winces. “Can I come in?”

You hesitate.

Finally you step back.

He closes the door behind him carefully, like it might explode.

You don’t look at him.

“I’m sorry.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

“Yeah?”

“I am,” he says. He actually sounds wrecked. “I lost track of time. Work was crazy. I meant to text you, but—”

You hold up a hand.

“I don’t want excuses.”

He flinches.

You sigh, pressing your fingers to your eyes.

“Chris, I don’t care if you’re busy. Just tell me.”

“I know,” he mutters.

“Seriously,” you say, voice shaking a little. “Do you know what it feels like to be sitting here like an idiot? Stirring pasta for someone who’s not coming?”

He grimaces, biting his lip.

“I do now.”

Silence stretches.

You can hear the candle burning.

“Say it again,” you whisper.

He looks up sharply.

“Say you’re sorry.”

He doesn’t even hesitate this time.

“I’m sorry. I fucked up.”

Your chest tightens.

“Yeah.”

He steps forward cautiously, like he’s worried you’ll bolt.

“I don’t want to make you feel like that again.”

You sniff, blinking fast.

“You probably will,” you mutter.

He actually huffs a laugh.

“Yeah. I probably will.”

For a second neither of you says anything.

Then you let out a shaky breath.

“I saved you some pasta.”

He breaks.

Laughs, low and a little relieved.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t get excited. It’s cold.”

He grins, eyes softening in that way that ruins you.

“Can I have some?”

You roll your eyes but turn to the stove.

He follows you, close enough that you feel the heat of him at your back.

When you set the pot on the counter, he slips his arms around your waist, pressing his forehead to your shoulder.

You stiffen for a second.

Then relax.

Because he’s warm. And he’s here.

And because even if he’s bad at this, he’s trying.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again.

You sigh.

“I know.”

He kisses the side of your neck.

“Still like me?”

You snort.

“Maybe.”

He chuckles, mouth brushing your skin.

“I’ll take that.”

Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that

He’s got one arm around you, phone abandoned on the coffee table. You’re telling him about your latest project for work—except you’re excited. Animated.

You don’t even realize you’re babbling until you hear the edge of your own voice.

“So anyway, if this client approves the new pitch, it means I could actually lead the whole campaign, which would be insane. Like, it’s not that big of a company, but still—”

You’re cut off by his laugh.

Not a mean laugh. Just dismissive.

“Babe,” he says, squeezing your arm. “You’re really geeking out about this.”

You go still.

Your face warms.

“I’m… what?”

He raises an eyebrow, still smiling, oblivious.

“You’re geeking out. It’s cute, don’t get me wrong. Just—I don’t know, you’re acting like it’s some world-changing thing.”

You pull away a little.

“Wow.”

His grin falters.

“What?”

You set your jaw, swallowing back the stupid sting in your chest.

“Nothing. Forget it.”

“Hey.” He sits up straighter. “What?”

You shake your head.

“It’s just funny, I guess.”

He frowns. “What’s funny?”

“That you think it’s cute. Me caring about my job.”

He blinks, mouth opening and closing.

“That’s not—Jesus. That’s not what I meant.”

“Really? Because it sounded like ‘Aw, look at you pretending to be important.’”

His face falls.

You hate the way your throat tightens.

“It’s not pretending,” you add quietly.

He scrubs a hand over his face.

“Fuck. Okay. Wait. Hold on.”

You stand up, pushing off the blanket.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m getting water,” you mutter.

“Please don’t walk away. Can you—just. Listen to me?”

You freeze halfway to the kitchen.

Your fingers curl against your palm.

“Fine,” you bite out, not turning around.

He gets up too, crossing the tiny space between you.

“Look at me.”

You don’t.

He exhales sharply.

“Please.”

Slowly, you turn.

He looks miserable.

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately.

You stare at him.

He lifts both hands, palms up, as if surrendering.

“I’m an asshole. I didn’t mean it like that. I was… fuck, I don’t know. Teasing? But it was stupid. And dismissive. And—just wrong.”

You cross your arms.

“It matters to me,” you say. Your voice cracks, which you hate.

He winces.

“I know.”

“It’s the one thing I’m proud of.”

He steps closer, carefully.

“I know,” he repeats, voice low.

He’s so close you can smell his cologne, can see the tiny scar on his eyebrow.

“I love that you care about it,” he says quietly. “That you’re… passionate. That you can talk about it for hours. It’s one of the reasons I fucking like you so much.”

Your breath catches.

He swallows hard.

“I’m sorry I made you feel stupid about it. That’s on me. It was careless.”

Silence stretches between you.

He waits.

And waits.

You sigh, deflating.

“You are an asshole,” you say.

He nods immediately.

“Certified.”

You try to glare at him. Fail.

Your mouth twitches instead.

He sees it.

“Forgive me?” he asks, voice small.

You roll your eyes.

“God, you’re pathetic.”

He grins.

You let your arms fall to your sides.

“Fine,” you mutter.

He steps in, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you flush against him.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles against your hair.

You huff.

“I know.”

I’m Sorry I Didn’t Trust You

It’s one of those nights where you don’t expect anything to go wrong. That’s the worst part.

Because you’re actually happy when you get there—half-buzzed on cheap wine, buzzing from texts with Chris.

You’d invited him.

You told him about this gathering all week.

“Low-key,” you’d promised. Just friends from work and a couple of their partners. Nothing huge. Nothing to worry about…

He said he might come.

Didn’t promise, but you’d hoped.

So when he shows up halfway through the evening, you’re actually thrilled.

You spot him in the doorway, holding a six-pack, eyes scanning the room.

You wave.

You’re laughing when you do.

Because you’re in the middle of a story with Daniel—who’s literally your friend from work. Who’s engaged. Whose fiancé is in the kitchen.

Daniel had just made some dumb joke about your mutual boss’s hair transplant.

You’re giggling helplessly, cheeks flushed with cheap cabernet.

“Hey!” you call when Chris finally notices you. “You made it!”

But the second your eyes meet, you see it.

The way his jaw tightens.

The flash in his eyes.

Your heart sinks a little.

“Chris,” you say brightly, patting the couch cushion next to you. “Come sit—”

But he doesn’t.

He glances at Daniel. At your hand resting lightly on Daniel’s arm.

Your platonic friend.

And his face goes cold.

“Didn’t realize you were busy,” he says flatly.

You blink.

“Chris.”

Daniel gives a polite, awkward smile.

“Hey, man.”

Chris’s answering nod is so sharp it could cut glass.

You bristle.

“Sit down,” you try again.

“I’m good,” he mutters.

“Chris.”

He sets the six-pack down a little too hard on the coffee table.

“Didn’t know you had company.”

Your friend’s eyes widen.

You swallow.

“Daniel’s my friend,” you bite out.

Chris’s lip curls.

“Yeah. Looks real friendly.”

Silence slams into the room.

Daniel coughs.

“I’m gonna… refill my drink.” He escapes, shooting you an apologetic look.

You watch him go, then whip around to glare at Chris.

“Are you serious?”

Chris doesn’t back down.

“What? You two seemed cozy.”

You stand up so fast the blanket slides to the floor.

“Don’t you dare.”

He lifts his chin defiantly.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t accuse me of… whatever that was.”

He folds his arms, eyes hard.

“You tell me. You were laughing, touching him—”

“He’s my friend. And he’s engaged!”

Chris’s jaw works.

You see it, the way he wants to back down. But he doesn’t.

“Didn’t look like you remembered that.”

Your mouth falls open.

“That’s low. Even for you.”

“Maybe don’t act like you’re single, then.”

The words are quiet.

Mean.

You flinch.

It’s like getting slapped.

People are staring.

You feel your face burn.

“Fuck you,” you hiss, voice shaking.

He blinks.

You don’t wait.

You shove past him and storm toward the door.

You hear him mutter something, but you’re already outside, cold night air hitting your face like a wall.

Your eyes sting.

You’re furious.

Humiliated.

Hurt.

You don’t even know where you’re going, just that you have to move.

You make it half a block before you hear footsteps behind you.

“Wait!”

You don’t stop.

“Wait. Please.”

He catches up, grabbing your arm.

You spin, shoving him away.

“Don’t touch me,” you spit.

He recoils, hands up.

“Okay. Okay.”

You glare at him, breathing hard.

He’s pale in the streetlight.

“Chris, what the fuck was that?”

He swallows hard.

“Please. I’m sorry.”

You laugh, bitter.

“Sorry? You just called me a fucking cheater in front of my friends.”

He winces.

“I know.”

“You embarrassed me. You made me feel like—like shit. For laughing with someone.”

“I know.”

Your voice cracks.

“Why would you even think that about me?”

His face crumples.

“Because I’m an insecure piece of shit.”

You blink.

He runs a hand through his hair, tugging hard.

“I saw you with him and I just—snapped. I was jealous. Fuck. I hate that I’m like this.”

You clench your jaw.

“You didn’t trust me.”

“I know.”

He sounds wrecked.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, voice cracking. “I’m so fucking sorry. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean any of it.”

Silence.

Your arms are wrapped tight around yourself.

You want to leave.

But you can’t.

Because he’s standing there looking like the ground just gave out beneath him.

“Look at me,” he pleads.

You do.

He steps closer, slowly.

“I trust you,” he says desperately. “I do. I just—sometimes I get scared I’m gonna lose you. And I don’t know how to deal with it.”

You swallow, throat raw.

“You can’t talk to me like that.”

“I know.”

“You can’t accuse me of shit because you’re scared.”

He nods rapidly.

“I know. I’m sorry. I’ll—I’ll work on it. I swear.”

You’re quiet for a long time.

He waits.

Finally you whisper, “Say it again.”

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately. “I’m so sorry I didn’t trust you.”

Your eyes burn.

“I didn’t deserve that.”

He shakes his head.

“No. You didn’t.”

You let out a shaky breath.

“Don’t do it again.”

“I won’t.”

“Don’t.”

“I won’t,” he repeats, voice breaking.

Silence.

You take a tiny step forward.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t touch you without permission.

Finally, you sigh and collapse against his chest.

He wraps his arms around you so tight you can barely breathe.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into your hair.

You close your eyes.

“I know,” you whisper back.

But you’re still angry.

I’m sorry I took it out on you

You know he’s had a long day.

You can tell from the moment you hear his keys hit the door.

It’s the way they don’t just jingle—they clatter.

You’re in the kitchen, barefoot, stirring something on the stove. The apartment smells like garlic and butter and the candle you lit an hour ago.

You want it to feel like home.

You want to be the good part of his day.

When the door swings open, you can hear him sigh.

Not relief, but exhaustion.

You peek over your shoulder.

“Hey,” you say softly.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just dumps his bag on the floor. Runs a hand over his face.

“Hi,” he mutters eventually, voice scratchy.

You swallow.

He looks… bad.

Hair a mess. Shirt wrinkled. Eyes shadowed.

But you don’t say that.

Instead, you smile gently.

“I made dinner.”

He snorts.

“Of course you did.”

You freeze.

The words are flat. Not grateful.

You stare at him, spoon paused over the pan.

“…Excuse me?”

He doesn’t look at you.

“Nothing.”

You set the spoon down carefully.

“No. Say it.”

He exhales, jaw clenching.

“Just—fuck. Can you not do this right now?”

Your stomach twists.

“Do what?”

He finally lifts his eyes to yours, and they’re sharp.

“This.” He gestures vaguely. “The whole perfect-girlfriend routine. Cooking. Candles. Acting like everything’s fucking fine.”

You go still.

Your throat tightens.

“I wasn’t… acting.”

He scoffs.

“Sure.”

Silence.

You can hear the pan sizzling.

Slowly, you turn off the burner.

You swallow hard.

“Okay.”

You walk past him toward the bedroom.

“Where are you going?”

You don’t answer.

“Where are you going?”

Your voice cracks.

“Anywhere you’re not.”

He flinches like you slapped him.

You don’t wait.

You shut the bedroom door behind you.

It’s not a slam.

But it’s final.

You sit on the edge of the bed, breathing hard, wiping at your eyes furiously.

You hate crying over this.

Over him.

You hear nothing for a while.

No footsteps.

No apology.

Just silence.

Your chest aches.

Of course. He won’t come.

He never—

The door creaks.

You look up sharply.

He’s standing there.

He doesn’t look angry now.

He looks wrecked.

His shoulders sag.

“Don’t,” you croak.

But he steps in anyway.

“Please.”

You turn your face away.

“Just—go away.”

He crosses the room in three strides.

He kneels in front of you, palms on your knees.

You try to shove him off.

He doesn’t let go.

“Look at me,” he says, voice raw.

You don’t.

“Please. Look at me.”

Slowly, shaking, you lift your eyes.

He’s pale.

Eyes glossy.

“Say it,” you whisper.

He swallows so hard you can hear it.

“I’m sorry.”

Your lip trembles.

He squeezes your knees gently.

“Say it better.”

He closes his eyes.

When he opens them, there’s nothing but desperation there.

“I’m sorry I took it out on you.”

Your breath catches.

He keeps going, voice cracking.

“I had a shit day. Everything went wrong. My boss was on my ass. I didn’t want to come home because I knew I’d just… ruin it. And I did.”

He lets out a choked laugh.

“I ruined it. Like I always fucking do.”

Your eyes burn.

He shakes his head, jaw clenched so tight you see the muscle twitch.

“You didn’t deserve that. Any of it.”

You sniff.

“No. I didn’t.”

He nods, tears welling.

“I know.”

Silence stretches between you.

Your hands are clenched in your lap.

Finally, carefully, he covers them with his.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t mean any of that. Not one word.”

You swallow.

“I just wanted you to be happy to see me,” you admit, voice tiny.

He breaks.

“Fuck,” he rasps.

He surges forward, arms wrapping around your waist, face pressing into your stomach.

You stay stiff for a moment.

Then your hands move.

They tangle in his hair.

He shudders.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into your shirt. Over and over.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Your throat tightens.

“I know.”

He doesn’t move.

He holds you like you’re the only thing keeping him upright.

You stay like that for a long time.

Silent.

Breathing.

Trying to forgive him.

I’m sorry I shut you out

It starts small.

A text left on read.

No big deal. He’s busy.

You tell yourself that the first day.

By the second, your stomach’s twisting a little when you check your phone.

He’s not ignoring you exactly.

He answers.

Short.

Flat.

“How was work?” you ask.

“Fine.”

“Want to hang out tonight?”

“Can’t. Busy.”

No smiley faces. No jokes. No “I miss you.”

Just… silence.

You’re used to him being hot and cold.

But this feels different.

It feels like talking to a wall.

_____________

On the third day, you call him.

He doesn’t pick up.

You don’t cry.

Not yet.

Instead you show up at his door.

It’s late. You know he’s home because his lights are on.

You knock.

Nothing.

You knock again, harder.

Finally, the door creaks open.

He peers out, looking wrecked.

Eyes red-rimmed.

Like he hasn’t slept.

“Hey,” you say softly.

He doesn’t answer.

Just steps back and lets you in.

The place is dark.

Messy.

You stand in the middle of his living room, arms folded tight over your chest.

“Chris.”

He sinks onto the couch.

Elbows on knees. Head in hands.

You wait.

He doesn’t look at you.

You swallow hard.

“Talk to me.”

Nothing.

Your voice cracks.

“Please talk to me.”

He drags his hands down his face.

“Don’t,” he mutters.

“Don’t what?”

He lifts his head finally.

Eyes glassy.

“Don’t try to fix me tonight. I can’t do it.”

Your heart lurches.

“I’m not trying to fix you,” you whisper.

He huffs a bitter laugh.

“Sure.”

You blink fast, willing tears not to fall.

“You’re shutting me out.”

He flinches.

“You know you are.”

Silence.

You step closer.

“I don’t need you to be perfect,” you say carefully. “I just need you to let me in.”

He shakes his head.

“You don’t want in here,” he says, voice breaking.

You go very still.

“Try me.”

He swallows hard.

Then he breaks.

“I’m scared,” he rasps.

Your breath catches.

“Of what?”

He lets out a choked laugh.

“Of this. Of you. Of fucking it all up.”

You exhale slowly.

“Chris…”

He grips the back of his neck.

“I don’t know how to do this. Be good at this. Every time I think I am, I fuck it up. I say something shitty or push you away or… I don’t know.”

He wipes at his eyes roughly.

“I don’t want you to see me like this. Like some fucking mess.”

You move before he can stop you.

You sit beside him and pull his hands from his face.

He resists for a second.

Then gives up.

Your fingers wrap around his.

“Hey,” you whisper.

He won’t look at you.

You squeeze his hands tighter.

“Look at me.”

Finally, he does.

Broken.

You blink back tears.

“Do you think I’m here because you’re perfect?”

He huffs a miserable sound.

“Do you?” you demand.

He shakes his head.

“Then stop shutting me out,” you whisper fiercely.

Silence.

He breathes hard, chest rising and falling.

Finally, voice wrecked:

“I’m sorry.”

You squeeze his hands tighter.

“Say it better.”

He blinks, tears threatening to spill.

“I’m sorry I shut you out.”

Your throat tightens.

“I hate when you do that,” you whisper.

He nods rapidly.

“I know.”

You sniff, tears falling now.

“I don’t want to be on the outside.”

He swallows.

“You’re not.”

“It felt like it.”

“I know,” he chokes.

Silence.

You let go of his hands only to wrap your arms around his neck.

He freezes.

Then melts.

Buries his face in your shoulder.

Breathing ragged.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles into your hair.

You nod against him.

“I know.”

You feel his arms wrap tight around you.

Desperate.

Needing.

You hold him just as hard.

Neither of you says anything else.

But you both know this isn’t fixed.

Not really.

You’re just holding the pieces together.

I’m so sorry I wanted to hurt you

It starts over the dishes.

You can’t even believe it later.

But that’s all it is.

A sink full of plates and mugs and silverware that smell like old takeout.

You’re tired.

He’s tired.

You’ve both had long days.

You’re the one who says it first.

“Can you please help me clean up?”

Your voice is gentle. Careful.

But he’s sitting on the couch scrolling his phone.

He doesn’t even look up.

“Do it later.”

Your jaw tenses.

“I don’t want to do it later. It’ll be worse.”

He sighs—exaggerated, rolling his eyes.

“Jesus. It’s fucking dishes.”

You feel something snap.

“You said you’d help.”

“Yeah, well I’m tired,” he bites out.

“So am I,” you say, voice sharp.

He finally looks at you.

Eyes cold.

“Why are you always on my ass about this shit?”

Your mouth falls open.

“My ass? Chris, I just want you to keep one promise. Help with one thing.”

He snorts.

“Oh, one thing? Fucking hilarious.”

Your chest tightens.

“Don’t.”

But he’s not stopping.

He stands up.

“Here we go. The fucking lecture.”

You throw the dish towel down.

“Because you don’t listen!”

“Because you won’t shut the fuck up!”

Silence slams down.

You both freeze.

You blink rapidly.

Your lip trembles.

His chest heaves.

He doesn’t back down.

“Seriously,” he sneers. “It’s always something with you. Always needing me to do this, do that. You’re so fucking needy.”

You feel the tears immediately.

You try to swallow them back.

He sees.

He sees and he keeps going.

“God, it’s pathetic,” he spits.

You flinch.

He sees it.

He knows.

But he doesn’t stop.

“You act like I’d fucking fall apart without you. You think you’re so goddamn important.”

Your vision blurs.

“Stop,” you whisper.

But he’s shaking.

Voice rising.

“Maybe I’m sick of feeling like a fucking project you’re trying to fix. Like I’m some loser you can save.”

You gasp, choking on a sob.

He freezes.

It’s silent except for your breathing, ragged and wet.

You see his face crumple.

“Wait.”

You take a step back.

“Don’t.”

“Wait—fuck. Wait.”

Your voice cracks.

“Get out.”

He flinches.

You’re crying in earnest now.

“Get out. Get out get out get out—”

He doesn’t move.

He’s shaking too.

“I didn’t mean it.”

“Get out!”

He drops to his knees.

Your eyes go wide.

He’s on the fucking floor, palms flat, head hanging.

“I didn’t mean it,” he sobs.

You hiccup.

He sounds broken.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes.

You try to back away, but he scrambles forward, grabbing your legs.

“Please.”

You push at his shoulders.

“Stop it—Chris—stop—”

He clings harder.

“I’m sorry. I wanted you to feel small because I felt small. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

You can’t even see through your tears.

He’s crying too.

Loud. Ugly.

He presses his face to your stomach, sobbing.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles into your shirt. “I’m sorry I wanted to hurt you. I’m sorry I’m like this. I’m sorry.”

Your hands hover over his head.

Shaking.

You want to hit him.

You want to hold him.

You do neither.

You just stand there, crying, as he clings to you and begs like his life depends on it.

“Please,” he sobs. “Please don’t leave me.”

You close your eyes.

Your fingers twitch.

Finally, they sink into his hair.

He chokes on relief.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again.

I’m sorry I cant be better

It starts quiet. Too quiet.

He’s been different lately. Not in the way that used to scare you—the shouting, the biting sarcasm.

This time it’s worse. He doesn’t shout at all. He doesn’t say much of anything.

You catch him reading something on his phone in bed. He closes it before you can see. You spot the dog-eared therapy book on the table, spine cracked, pen tucked inside with notes you’re not allowed to read. He goes. Every week. He even tells you. But he never talks about it.

It’s like he’s built walls you’re not allowed behind.

You’re lying on the couch together. Except you’re not together. He’s at one end. Staring at the ceiling.

You finally can’t take it. Your voice cracks when you speak.

“Do you even want this anymore?”

His head turns slowly. Brow furrowed like you’re speaking another language.

You swallow hard. “This. Us. Because if you don’t, just tell me.”

He blinks. “You think I don’t want you?”

You huff, eyes stinging. “I don’t know what you want. You won’t let me in. You don’t laugh, you don’t fight, you don’t—”

You stop. Breathing hard.

He’s silent. Eyes flickering. Like he’s fighting with himself.

You watch his throat bob as he swallows.

“I’m trying,” he says finally.

Your chest squeezes. “I know.”

“But I’m… fuck.” He sits up. Rubs both hands over his face. “I’m scared if I don’t try I’ll hurt you. So I’m trying to… not feel anything.”

Your lip trembles. “Chris.”

He drops his hands. He looks so small. So young. So tired.

His voice breaks. “I’m sorry.”

You shake your head, blinking away tears. “That’s not enough anymore.”

He lets out a wet, hopeless laugh. “I know.”

Silence.

He sniffs hard. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be better.”

You exhale shakily. “Look at me.”

He does. Eyes red.

“You don’t have to be better. You just have to be here.”

He nods like he understands, but you see the fear in his eyes.

You crawl across the couch, pressing your forehead to his. He doesn’t kiss you. Doesn’t touch you.

He just breathes you in. Shaking.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again.

You close your eyes. “I know.”

I’m so fucking sorry.

It’s late when he shows up. You’re already in pajamas, teeth brushed, trying not to cry. He’s been at “work” for hours later than he should be.

You open the door anyway. He’s standing there swaying, hair a mess, eyes red.

He reeks of cheap liquor.

“Hey,” he rasps.

You stare. Say nothing.

He runs a hand through his hair, looking everywhere but you. “Can I come in?”

Your throat works. “Why.”

He flinches at your voice. “Please.”

You don’t move. He steps forward anyway, close enough you can smell the sweat and alcohol. Close enough you see it on his face.

Something dead in his eyes.

Your voice cracks. “Chris. What did you do.”

He breaks. Shoulders shaking. He chokes on it. “I’m sorry.”

You feel the floor tilt. Your hands tremble. “Tell me.”

He shakes his head violently. “I can’t. Fuck—I can’t.”

“Tell me.”

He covers his face. Muffled: “I fucked up.”

Your stomach lurches. “Chris.”

Silence. He won’t look at you.

Your voice is a whisper. “Did you sleep with her?”

He makes this awful, broken noise in his throat.

You feel your heart stop.

“Answer me.”

He finally lifts his head. Eyes glassy, tears streaking down his cheeks. He nods once.

You can’t breathe.

He sobs. “I’m sorry.”

You shake your head, backing away like he’s poison. “Get out.”

He steps forward, desperate. “No—please—”

“Get out.”

He drops to his knees. Your vision blurs.

“Don’t do this,” he begs. Voice wrecked. “Please. I didn’t mean it. I was drunk—I was so fucking lonely—I didn’t want her I just—I just wanted to feel something.”

You cover your mouth with your hand. He claws at your leg.

“Please look at me.”

You can’t. You’re crying so hard you can’t see.

“I’m sorry,” he sobs. “I’m sorry I did this. I’m sorry I broke us. I’m sorry I’m so fucking weak. I’m sorry I ruined everything good in my life.”

Your voice is raw. “You did. You ruined it.”

He chokes. “I know.”

“You ruined me.”

He collapses against your legs, face buried in your thigh, crying like a child. “I know. I know. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

You try to shove him off but he clings tighter. Begging. Mumbling.

“I’m sorry I broke us. I’m sorry I broke you. I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know how to fix me.”

You finally wrench free. You stumble back, gasping. Sobbing.

“Get out,” you scream.

He flinches. Truly sobbing now.

“I love you,” he chokes.

Your heart splinters. “Get out,” you whisper, voice dead.

He stares at you like he’ll die if you say it again. But you just stand there shaking.

Finally he stands. Sways.

You watch him stagger to the door. He turns back one last time. Tears streaming. Voice shaking.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

You slam the door in his face.

Then you sink to the floor and scream as hard as your lungs will allow you.

—- 1 month later —---

You sit at the edge of the couch, knees bouncing.

He’s across from you, elbows on his thighs, head bowed.

Silence.

Your throat is raw from crying for hours before he even got here.

He doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t dare.

Your voice cracks. “Say it.”

He flinches.

“Say what you did.”

He swallows hard. “...I cheated on you.”

Your eyes burn. Your nails bite into your palms. “Why.”

He chokes. “Because I’m fucking broken. Because I hated myself. Because I wanted to hurt me more than I hurt you.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Congratulations,” you rasp. “You did.”

He sobs once. “I know.”

Silence.

Your voice is dead. “Why are you here.”

He finally lifts his head. Eyes ruined. “To tell you I’m sorry.”

You breathe. Shaky. He waits.

“You think that fixes it?”

He shakes his head violently. “No.”

Silence.

Your jaw trembles. “I hate you.”

He nods, tears falling. “I know.”

You sniff. Your voice breaks. “I don’t want to.”

That shatters him.

He cries for real. Ugly. Loud.

You lean forward, grabbing his shaking hands. He startles like he’s been burned.

“Look at me.”

He does.

Your voice is shredded. “I forgive you.”

He chokes on it. “No.”

“I forgive you,” you repeat, voice rising. Angry. Sobbing. “I forgive you, okay? I fucking forgive you.”

He sobs so hard he can’t breathe. Collapses forward onto your lap.

You card your fingers through his hair. Both of you crying.

But you whisper, so quiet he almost misses it: “But I don’t know if I can ever love you the same way.”

He clutches you harder. “I know,” he sobs. “I know. I’ll take anything. I’ll take whatever you’ll give me.”

>> continuation (sorry, tumblr only allows 1000 blocks per post and i'm trying this goofy ass writing style)

[brrbree]

Somewhere in Between - Summary

‘Paige doesn’t know how she got into this situation really. Somewhere in between waning self-control and soft bronze skin, she had become someone who would drop everything, at the whim of Azzi Fudd.’

Paige is rough around the edges, distant, with a smoking habit. She knows what she looks like, with her tattoos, worn clothes and disinterested attitude. Luckily for her, she’s never cared much for other’s opinions. Her goal is just to keep her head down and make it through the year, and hopefully still have a stable job by the end of it. She wasn’t expecting anything more. Least of all a whirlwind in the form of Azzi Fudd.

Azzi is bored. She’s smart, predictable, private school princess. College was supposed to be different, but she finds herself strung along a line of expectations, unable to break out. She’s never quite forgotten the girl she used to meet at her grandparents’ place during sweltering Minnesota summers, all those years ago. So, when said girl walks back into her life, Azzi finds herself toeing the line between what’s expected of her, and what she truly, gutturally wants. 

Basically: bad boy (but not really) Paige x (burnt out) golden girl Azzi. 

Note: This will be my first fic on here. Please, please let me know what you think, lovelies. I cherish any and all thoughts, each like and comment means the world to me.  Also, I am someone that neglects a word count for detail. What I mean to say is: I suck at writing summaries, but I tried. Let me know if this would be a fic you would be interested in reading. I have many ideas and am also open to suggestions. Feel free to send anons. If y’all hate my writing… well, I’d only ask you tell me nicely. 

To all the amazing authors here, I truly admire you. The worlds you create for us are beautiful, the stories; achingly good. You all inspire me.

Love, Bree.

[scannainscanrula]

salvation and rebirth

sir jimmy crystal x virgin!reader (18+ mdni)

After getting lost on a scavenging outing and ending up alone, you find yourself taken in by a group of tracksuited hunters and their eccentric leader...

author's note: hope yous like this one it's different from what i usually write and very very dirty warnings: dead dove do not eat, psychological manipulation, light horror elements, dubcon, breeding kink, fingering, masturbation, f/m sex

You knock an arrow in your bow, back against the trunk of a tree. You can feel the crags and knots of the wood even through your thick jumper and your sturdy jacket. 

You shouldn’t be here. Not alone. 

You and your cousin Thomas went foraging for baby supplies three days ago. He’s not really your cousin, just the son of a woman who was once a dear friend of your mother. She took you in after your mother passed, and Tom’s been like a brother to you ever since. His girlfriend Liv is pregnant and he wanted to surprise her. 

But you kept being pushed out further and further from the causeway, from safety and home.

You know the rules. 

Poor Tom, you think, looking wistfully at the trees where you put an arrow through his eye. 

“Nock an arrow, duck.” 

“No, no, Tom, please-”

“Nock an arrow, now.”

“Tommy, I can’t-”

“You shoot me right fuckin’ now!”

And so you did. 

It hurt for a moment, but then you had to run. So you took his quiver and his knife and ran. 

You found a moment of peace, able to transfer his arrows to your own quiver and secure his knife to your belt. 

He had carved a little smiley into it, and it made you sniffle. But then you heard a twig crack in the distance.

So here you are, scanning the treeline as you prepare to send an arrow at whatever comes running. 

You take a sharp breath. Your lungs burn from running and your body is hot, though the air of October is cold. 

You see one body and aim, then see another. Two more. Three more.

Run.

You bolt in the opposite direction, bow over your shoulder as you weave through trees. You come around a rocky corner and find yourself blocked by a rock-covered knoll you would have to climb.

“Ooh, look what I found, Jimmy,” a voice calls. You see a blonde girl in a tracksuit on the ridge.

“Please, help me up!”

Another blonde girl in another tracksuit kneels down and grabs your hand to yank you up as your legs try to aid her, pushing with your boots. You look back.

You run together until you find an old barn. The three of you scramble up to the loft and wait ford the infected to shamble by. You take a shaking breath and look at them.

“Thank you,” you whisper. “I really thought that was it.”

“You all alone?”

“Now I am,” you admit.

The two look at each other.

You give them your name, puffed out in a quick breath.

“Jimmy Ink,” the one in red tells you.

“Jimmy Jones,” says the orange one. 

“You’re… both called Jimmy?”

“We’re all Jimmy, babe,” Jimmy Ink says, eyeing you.

“Y-you’re from a village?”

“Not far from here,” Jimmy Jones supplies with a smirk. 

“Please, c-can I come with you? I brought some food, I can trade-”

“Ah, you gotta see the boss about all that.”

“The boss?”

They just grin at you, and don’t elaborate.

You don’t have much to trade anyhow. You’d picked up a crinkly baby toy and a milk bottle with the tip. An absolute score for your cousin’s girlfriend, who’s five months pregnant. 

The three of you try to fall asleep together. The two of them are snuggled up, but not like they’re in love. More like the way you would’ve slept next to your cousin. For warmth and comfort. 

In the night you hear them talking.

“Fuckin’ killer find, Inky. He’s gonna go mad.”

You wake up in the morning to a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“Let’s go,” Ink says. 

You nod, gathering your things and following them. You meet another tracksuited individual, this one clad in black and white.

“He’s called Jimmy Snake.”

You wave nervously. You continue on the road, collecting more Jimmys until you’ve got a veritable clan of them. Blonde hair, matching brightly coloured tracksuits, funny names. You wonder if maybe you’re having a nightmare, and you never really left Lindisfarne in the first place. Maybe you’ll wake up in bed, cozy and safe. And you’ll make breakfast for Liv and talk about what “baby” wants to eat. 

“Ah, she’s a bit rough, but she’ll do,” Jimmy Fox mutters to Jimmy Shite. 

“Strong though,” he responds.

“Yeah, but he don’t like ‘em strong,” Jimmima adds.

You follow them over a hill and to a derelict abbey. Your ma was religious before the virus, but not much after. Your aunty told you she was a kinder woman. The world around her made her rougher. You think about your aunty and Liv back on the island all alone. Without Tom, without you. 

One of them whistles from behind you, and Jimmima takes your hand, tugging you forward as you enter the cold and empty courtyard, a fountain full of murky water at the center. 

“Oi, you didn’t find her,” Jimmy Jones hisses, wrenching your hand away. She and Jimmy Ink lead you forward. 

A figure appears. Blond, tracksuit clad. Fingers littered with rings, cross chain around his neck, and a tiara perched in his white-gold hair.  

The Jimmys crowd around you, like they’re presenting you to him. 

“Oh, my,” he murmurs, approaching you.

He smiles, showing that he’s missing a tooth.

“Now where did these mad cunts find you?”

“I-I was running, um-”

“Me ‘n Inky helped her out,” Jimmy Jones chirps. 

“Oi. Don’t interrupt our guest,” he chides gently. “Ye come with me, love.”

It’s a command, not a request or an invitation. He says it sweetly, though. 

He takes your shaky hands in his, leading you to the church. The Jimmys don’t dare follow. 

He takes your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles.

“I’m Sir Jimmy Crystal.”

You give him your name as you sit in a pew. He repeats it. He says it like he’s always known it, like it’s a realisation. Or a prayer. 

He gestures for you to continue your explanation.

“I… I was out scavenging… we were looking for…”

You choke on the words. You went out to look for any baby supplies. Liv is still pregnant. Still alone. Still waiting. 

“We?” 

“My cousin, he… I had to-”

He clicks his tongue, shaking his head.

“Awful shame, that.” 

He leans in.

“Lookin’ for what?” he murmurs, brushing hair from your face.

“B-baby supplies,” you manage to say, tears pricking at your eyes. “His girlfriend, she’s pregnant.”

You don’t notice Jimmy’s eyes lighting up at that word. 

“What a gift that is, to be with child.” 

“Oh, God,” you cry, all your feelings hitting you at once.

Jimmy cradles you in his arms, and you cry into the soft, worn fabric of his tracksuit. You feel the cool metal of the cross touch your temple and feel shameful suddenly, pulling back. You shouldn’t let a stranger hold you like that. 

“I’m sorry, I-I’m so sorry, y-you don’t even know me-”

He says your name again, taking your hand. 

“So, yer only owed comfort if I know ya?”

You sniffle. He wants an answer.

“Well, n-no-”

“Right. You stay here with me and my lads, eh? Get ye right. Patch up that cut.”

“Cut?”

You reach up and touch your hairline, feeling a sticky lukewarm substance you realise is your own blood. You spy a bloodstain on the white vest under his tracksuit where your forehead touched.

“I’m so-”

“Ye apologise again and I won’t let ya stay,” he jokes. 

“Thank you, Sir-”

“Just Jimmy’s alright, lassie.”

“Thank you, Jimmy.”

He grins at you.

“Can’t leave a thing like you out there in the cold ‘n wet.”

His knuckle brushes the side of your face.

“Yer too pretty for all that.” 

Jimmy leads you to a room, watching as you take every step. You peek into the Jimmys’ rooms, seeing that each of them sticks to their colour coordination very strictly. 

You look around corners and glance behind yourself every so often. He knows the lads can judge correctly. 

Not predators, scavengers. 

That’s what you are. Cautious, calculated. Precise. 

“No infected here, love,” he says, almost teasing you.

You let out a small laugh and pause before you apologise again.

“I…”

He raises his brows and you press your lips together.

“I’m used to being alert if I’m not home.” 

“I’m sure ya are,” he hums, eyeing you as you walk forward. 

You both turn into a simple room.

“This’ll do for now,” he says. 

For now. You don’t seem to catch it. 

“It’s all mine?” you ask softly.

“Unless ye want company,” he flirts. 

“I’ve never had my own room.”

You always shared. First with Tom as kids, then with your aunty after Liv moved in. 

The admission makes Jimmy’s head tilt. He has to hide a smirk. An animal that’s used to the storm goes mad when it’s calm.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it.”

“To… what?”

Jimmy looks at you funny. The lads are always begging him for a break. 

“Don’t you wannae… rest?”

“Oh, I feel rested. I’d like to help, if I can.”

He leans in the doorway, crossing his arms. 

“What can you do?”

“I can sew and I can cook. Very well, actually.”

“We need sewin’. Ye would think those lads run through barbed wire half the time.” 

“Are they… what are you?” you ask cautiously. “To each other, I mean?”

“They’re my flock. This is my parish, I’m their shepherd.”

“And you’re all Jimmy?”

“Right.”

“Why?”

“Why not.” 

You blink at him.

“Can ye read?”

You nod.

“We have a school in my village.”

“School,” he repeats. “What do ya learn at school?”

“To read and write. We learn maths and we learn how to kill infected.”

That catches him off guard. Maybe you are a hunter. 

“Have ye read the Bible?”

“I’ve never read it, but I know the stories,” you offer.

He hums and pushes himself off of the doorframe. 

“Right then. Follow me.”

You can’t shake the feeling of emptiness here. There’s no old people, no babies, no dogs or sheep. It’s like time is standing still, with just these strange track-clad people moving about in their trainers. 

You’re left to sew quietly, meticulously patching their suits. They were very particular about the scrap fabric matching the original colour as best you could. You see a few shirts stained with blood and you ask a passing Jimmy— the lad unfortunately called Jimmy Shite— and he and Jimmy Fox bring you a washbasin you can clean in.

Jimmy Crystal watches you from a distance. You’re so domestic. Women in this world don’t have the luxury, but here you are. Sewing, patching, doting over his flock. 

The word Madonna runs through his mind, only interrupted by you pricking your finger with the needle.

You wince and suck your finger in your mouth. He could almost groan at the sight. 

“What happened?” he coos, waltzing over like he wasn’t just watching. 

“I-I just pricked myself. It’s nothing.” 

“Let me see,” he says with the firmness of a father, extending his hand. He sees a tiny drop of blood on your index finger and clicks his tongue. 

He presses his thumb to it with a slight pressure that makes you squeeze your eyes shut.

“Ow…”

“Not used to pain?”

“I’m not used to any of this,” you admit to him.

“Any of what?”

“This.”

You gesture around you.

“I live on an island, we don’t go anywhere.”

“Ah, but ya did.” 

“I shouldn’t have. I’m not… I can shoot, yeah, but I’m no hunter. I’m a nurse, mostly. Or a midwife, whatever you’d call it. I help the pregnant ladies, the mothers with babies and wee ones. It’s been a long time but we have a few babies now. More than we have supplies for. I just… didn’t want Liv to be left out. She’ll be such a good mummy, I just know it.”

You’re sweet. He almost can’t believe it.

“And you’ll be an aunty?”

You smile at the thought, looking at your handiwork.

“If she’ll have me.”

“Ah, she’d be mad not to.”

That makes your cheeks heat. He takes away his hand. Blood has smudged on the pad of your finger, but stopped beading. 

“Voila. All better.”

“Thank… you,” you say softly, trailing off as you watch him lick his thumb clean. 

“You feel like cooking for us?”

You nod, still a little dazed. 

“Lovely.”

After dinner, which was met with glowing praise in the form of mouth-full compliments from Jimmy and his Jimmys, you retire. 

Jimmy walks you to your room and you thank him again before settling in to sleep. 

You’re cozy. You’re warm. 

You’re not freezing or soaked to the bone or terrified like last night. 

But you can’t sleep. You can’t sleep because nobody you love is in this church. 

Nobody you know, nobody who cares for you.

Jimmy lays back and sighs, his hand undoing the ties of his tracksuit. 

You’re perfect. He’ll have to find some way to reward the lads for finding you. 

You’re kind, you’re gentle. You can cook and sew. You help mothers with babies.

He’ll make you the Mother of the flock. The lads are itching to worship you, and so is he.

He spits in his hand, jerking himself as he imagines you doing it. He imagines your soft hand on his cock as he pushes two fingers into your soaking cunt. He imagines leaving marks on you, showing the lads and the universe that you’re his.

He brushes his thumb over the tip and hisses, palm to his face.

“Fuck, yes, c’mon,” he growls. 

He can imagine you on top of him, knelt at the altar as he baptises you in sweat and tears. 

He can almost hear your cries, feel your hands pressed to his chest as you take what you need from him. When you cum for a second time he’ll finally turn you over and drive his cock into you.

“Fuck, fuck,” he mutters, shivering. 

He’ll fill you with his seed again and again, he’ll tell you how beautiful you are and what a good girl you are. And you’ll thank him for it, because you’re just that sweet.

You are salvation, rebirth.  

You are the mother they need. 

You have a fitful sleep. You thrash under your blankets and kick them off. You dream of blood and drowning on the causeway and bodies running at you.

You wake in a cold sweat. You’ve been crying too, you find as you sit up and sniffle.

A knock at the door startles you.

“It’s me,” Jimmy says.

You don’t have your trousers on, and you had taken off your jumper before bed. 

“Erm… hold on,” you call. 

You pull on your clothes again and open the door, sock clad feet on the stone floor.

“Sleep well?”

“Not at all,” you answer honestly, shaking your head. 

Your candor surprises him.

“Why’s that?”

“It was too quiet. And… I had a nightmare. Or three, I suppose.”

“I’m sorry,” he coos at you. “You’re welcome to keep sleepin’.” 

You shake your head.

“I can’t.”

You sniffle.

“If I was home, I could just go help with the babies. They’re always awake, crying and wanting to be held.” 

“Would you ever want one?”

You nod.

“I just haven’t been lucky finding someone. The men on the island… they’re strong men, good men. They keep us safe. But they’re brutish.” 

You look at your hands.

“Fathers should protect, but… they should be gentle, too.”

“Aye. They should,” he lies.

He eyes you.

“Care to go for a walk?” 

You follow Jimmy over the grassy hills behind the abbey. You stop to look out at the world that seems to go on forever. He looks back at you and sees your eyes wide and full of wonder. 

“It’s so big,” you whisper. “I can’t even see the water.” 

“I’m sorry we can’t take you home,” he starts.

“No, I… I couldn’t put you lot in danger like that. Any of you.”

You sniffle.

“It’s my fault. I’m stuck out here.”

You catch his eye.

“I don’t mean to sound ungrateful” 

You wipe at a rogue tear and shake your head.

“I’m just homesick.”

“Maybe we can find somethin’,” he tells you softly, putting a hand on your shoulder. He reaches up to touch your face, swipes the hair away from your cheek and brushes his thumb over your cheekbone. You shift in place, but you let him.

You let him, he thinks. 

“Hm? Tell us what’d make this feel like home,” he murmurs, smiling at you.

He has to subdue the roll of his eyes as he talks so sweetly.

You sniffle.

“It’d be stupid to say babies,” you laugh weakly. “There’s so many children on the island.” 

“Oh, no. We want that. We want a community, a real village with families.” 

“That’s not such an easy thing to get.” 

You think for a moment, trying to visualise your room. You have a toy rabbit made of some previously scratchy half-plastic fabric that has softened over the years.

You don’t want to sound like a child, though.

“A fresh jumper?” 

“Fresh jumper,” he repeats, his eyes on your lips. “What else?”

“I-I don’t need-”

“I’m not askin’ about need.”

He cups your cheek in his hand.

“Want isn’t a sin, love. It’s human to want. It’s natural.”

In the next few weeks, you fit well into this little group. You are not a Jimmy. He makes that clear.

You do not get a tracksuit or a name or a special weapon. You don’t go out when the lads go scavenging or hunting or whatever it is they do out there. They always return dirty. He doesn’t want you leaving at all. Not without him. He takes you around the hills by the abbey, into every room. You’re even allowed into his room.

He brings you that jumper, and so much more. Little toys and trinkets, jewelry, books, even a nice dress. He tells you how much he wants to see you wear it, and you set out to repair it and make it nice. 

He is very hands-on. He’s always got a hand on your shoulder, guiding you with his hand on the small of your back. He likes kissing your hands, like he did when you first met. He’ll sit by you and listen to you read or watch you sew.

You sit by him, reading an article from an old magazine the Jimmys managed to find mostly in-tact.

“I wonder what I’d look like with that stuff on,” you say, pointing to the model with the strange paint on her face.

“You don’t need it.” “I still wonder.”

After dinner one night, after everyone says their prayers and goes to bed, Jimmy catches your wrist.

“Is yer dress finished?” You nod, smiling at him.

“I think I did a good job.” “I’m sure ya did.”

You hesitate and feel your heart beating. “Do you… would you want to see it?”

He tilts his head, grinning at you.

“Well, of course I would.”

You take him back to your room and show him the dress, holding it up. You point out the imperfections, and alterations you made and the patch you put in at the back.

“Would ye wear it for me?”

You blink at him.

“Erm… now?”

“Why not now?”

You shed your jumper and avoid his eyes as you undo your pants. You hesitate pulling them down and turn around to take off your shirt, left only in your bra.

“You don’t have to hide from me, love,” you hear him say. 

It only feels wrong for a second. Then your skin feels hot. You shove down your pants and step out of them, stepping into the dress. Jimmy watches you do up the buttons at the back and struggle with the one at the top of your back. He’s behind you instantly, his fingers brushing the nape of your neck as he buttons it. 

“Look at ye,” he murmurs, taking your hand, lifting your arm and spinning you around.

“It looks nice.”

“Ye look nice.”

Your face heats and you smile nervously.

“Thank you,” you answer his compliment quietly.

“Yer fittin’ right in. Most other people we meet don’t mesh with the lads so well.”

“They’re not as bad as they look. They need…”

You trail off, seeing his gaze. He looks so wanting.

“They need what?” he asks, tracing your face with his knuckles.

“A mother, I think. They’re like little children. They… do their chores and they scuffle and they shout and cry like children. They listen to father,” you explain, gesturing to him.

“They listen to ya, too.” “Oh, they’re just being nice.”

“They are not nice. They’re dirty fuckers, they fight like hell and love every second of it. They want you to be their mother.”

You blink at him, lost again.

“I’m not-”

“Ye could be,” he offers, meeting your eyes. 

He holds your face. 

“Y’like it here, eh?”

“I do…”

“Don’t you wannae stay?”

“Well… o-of course I do. I thought-”

“Yer such a good help, love. But a man has urges.”

You pause. You can do everything else. Cooking, sewing, playing nursemaid. Playing wife would be different.

Your eyes flick down quickly and see a sizable bulge in his pants. 

You try to move away from him, but your face is in his hands.

“You wannae stay or not?”

“I can help,” you offer him weakly.

“Oh, I don’t know if ye would be any good-”

“Let me help you, please.”

You’re getting teary-eyed, which makes his jaw clench.

“Can ya be a mama?”

You nod, tears rolling down your cheeks.

“Please, I want to stay,” you cry, shaking your head in his grasp. “Don’t make me go out there all alone, I-I’m not strong enough-”

He shushes you, his thumb wiping the wetness from your cheek.

“So pretty. Wouldn’t ye just be so lovely with a baby?”

“Your baby?” you ask him, sniffling.

“Well, who else?” he jokes, grinning at you.

He leans in closer, his breath puffing against your lips.

“I’d never make ya leave, love. Ye would stay right here in this wee sanctuary.”

You’re so cute, pouting as you think about it. He wants you so full of him that you can’t think anymore. You’ll say yes. 

You nod, eyes closed as you sniffle again.

He kisses you, and you don’t expect it. The feeling of his lips crushing against yours and the firm grasp he has on your head make you wince. 

He pulls back to admire you for a moment.

“I’ll find you some more dresses.”

Jimmy claps to get the attention of the Jimmys. 

“Lads, I’ve some news for you.” 

They gather around him and he grins.

“Our lovely guest has agreed to play mother for you terrible cunts.” 

They grin and clap, cheering and whistling.

“Right, shut up. Now… everyone is gonnae fuckin’ behave tomorrow, that clear?”

They nod. 

“Good lads. We’ll have a new member joinin’ us very soon.” 

The next day, you’re told that Jimmy wants you to wear your dress again. 

You do, but you pull on the too-big, plum-coloured jumper Jimmy gave you— because, of course, it matches his own tracksuit— over it. You walk to Jimmy’s room and knock on the door, trying to keep yourself from tearing up again. You fiddle with your sleeves and wait for him to answer.

“Come,” he calls. 

You push the door open and avoid his eyes. His smile falls when he sees you in the jumper. 

“Why are ye coverin’ your dress?” 

“It’s cold…”

He’s done being nice to you. He knows what he wants and he’s going to get it. 

“Take it off.”

You grip the hem and pull it off, holding it. He takes it and tosses it onto his bed. 

“There she is,” he coos, grabbing your face again. “Can’t ye just see it?”

He presses one hand to your stomach.

“All round… full of life.”

He grins at you.

“You’ll be makin’ new life in this world. Isn’t that a blessin’?” 

He kisses you, then your cheek.

“I’ll bless you, love,” he murmurs, kissing your temple. “I’ll bless you a hundred fuckin’ times.”

His hand moves from your stomach and undoes your buttons behind you. Unsure of what to do with your hands, you shakily reach for the zipper of his tracksuit.

“Needy girl,” he chides you in a husky tone.

Your dress becomes loose around your shoulders and it slips down your body.

You undo his zipper, allowing him to shrug off the jacket, leaving him in that same white vest. You see a little pink spot where you had bled on him the first day.

He follows your eyes.

“That’s where ye marked me, remember?”

He smirks. 

He sits on his bed, tugging you down and settling you on his thigh, slotted between your legs as you kneel on the bed. 

You gasp, feeling the pressure increase when he flexes his thigh.

“Keep making noises like that and I won’t last long,” he chuckles, cruelly joking with you.  

His big hands grip your waist and you feel him push you down.

“Oh…”

“Been a while?”

You really can’t help the tears this time. 

“I-I… I’ve never-”

He sits up straight, cradling you.

“Never?”

You shake your head.

“Oh, why didn’t ye say so? I have to make it special for ya, love,” he coos, sickly sweet as he sits you on the bed.

“Never been fucked… the lads have really got a keen fuckin’ eye. Lay back.”

You do as he says, staring up at him. He kneels at your feet and his hand skims up the side of your leg.

“I’m gonnae make ye a temple,” he vows, leaning down to kiss your knee.

He moves up your legs, knuckles tracing a winding path his lips follow diligently. 

“An altar to worship at…”

His eyes flick up as he kisses your cunt over the fabric of your underwear. 

“Don’t ye wannae be worshipped?”

You swallow hard, panting as you do.

“Say, ‘yes, Jimmy’,” he directs you, mocking a high voice. 

“Yes, Jimmy.” 

“Say ‘thank you, Jimmy’,” he mocks again.

“Th-thank you, Jimmy…” 

“Good girl,” he murmurs. 

He kisses your stomach.

“Gonnae put a baby in here. Fill you up right.”

He continues pressing sloppier kisses up your body, unhooking your bra and tossing it behind him. He groans, squeezing your breast with his hand and licking your nipple, biting the skin around it.

You yelp, jolting.

“Just imagine these all… all fulla milk,” he can hardly get the words out. “Leakin’ when the baby cries…” 

He groans, and you can feel his hips rocking against your leg. 

“Fuck…” he mutters.

He sucks on your other nipple, lifting your hips up and putting them in his lap.

He tugs off your panties and holds them up to his face. He inhales deeply as he grunts, bucking his hips into you.

“So sweet. Yer gonnae be so sweet for me… with your cute round belly…” 

He slips two fingers between the folds of your cunt and drags them up and down, collecting the slickness from your hole.

You cry out, covering your face with your hands.

“Cover up again and I won’t be so fuckin’ nice,” he snarls at you.

Your hands dart down and rest on your core, which tightens up as he pushes one finger into your now soaking hole. He moans, his eyes closing. 

“So tight, love. Gonnae hafta stretch you out real good.” 

“J-Jimmy-”

He adds another finger and you wince, twisting your upper body like you’re trying to crawl away from him.

As if he would let you. 

His cross dangles over your face as he pushes his hips against his hand, fucking his fingers into you. 

“Look at me,” he commands.

You don’t listen and he mashes his thumb against your clit. You sob, your hips bucking away from his touch. 

“Fuckin’ look at me.” 

You turn over again and meet his eyes, crying as you see his cruel smirk.

“So fuckin’ pretty when ye cry… you’ll be a weepin’ mess the whole time ye got my baby in here,” he presses a hand to your tummy, making you moan at the extra contact and pressure. 

“This cunt is a bloody weepin’ mess too, fuck me.”

You feel him spread his two fingers and stretch you, making you whine and squirm in his grasp.

“Th-that hurts…”

“Only for a second. Then it’s gonnae feel like heaven.”

You grip the blanket on his bed as you cry, tears rolling down the sides of your face. His thumb brushes your clit again, gentle this time. 

“Sweet thing,” he coos at you. “Yer gonna be such a good mama.” 

His thumb rubs tight circles on your slick clit, making you mewl and gasp for air. You hiccup as he fucks his fingers into you rapidly, pushing your frame into the squeaky spring mattress each time. The idea that the Jimmys can hear you is mortifying, but you can hardly feel shame when all you feel his Jimmy curling his fingers to stroke a spot inside of you that makes your vision white out. You scream— worries for the Jimmys be damned— and scramble for purchase, something to grab. You grab his forearm and your nails poke into his skin as he grunts, still fucking you through your orgasm.

He grins at you and pulls his fingers out. You wince at the empty feeling, quickly satiated by the grind of his clothed cock against your clenching cunt. He licks his fingers clean, sucking on them and moaning at the taste of you.

“Fuck, you’re so sweet, lovey… I’m gonnae fuck ya so good, sweet thing. Yer not even gonna know yer own name after.” 

He laughs cruelly, eyeing your body with a greedy hunger. 

“Ye can have mine if ya like,” he teases. 

After shoving down his waistbands and freeing his cock, harder than he’s been in years and red at the tip, leaking precum as he slips it through your folds.

“Ye want it?”

If he asked you that before this moment, you would have cried and said no. But you need it. You’re desperate, your body is screaming at you.

“Yes, yes! Please, God- please, Jimmy,” you beg him, knowing that’s what he wants to hear. 

He chuckles and lines himself up, pushing into your virgin cunt.

A new sound rips through your throat. Something animal and unnatural at the same time. You sound wounded. You feel wounded, the stretch is a searing pain. 

Until it’s a warm and welcome sensation. 

“Ah, yer so fuckin’ tight,” he pants, his hot breath on your neck. 

He doesn’t slam in, he fucks in and out as he works his cock into you inch by inch. 

It pushes whiny, breathy noises out of you each time he buries himself in, and finally bottoms out with a particularly hard push, his balls meeting your ass in his lap. 

He leans over you and snickers at the way your mouth falls open.

“So big, huh?” he teases. “So fuckin’ big. Feel me right there, lovey?”

He presses a hand over your tummy and thrusts out, then in— feeling a slight change against his hand.

“That’s where I’m puttin’ the baby.”

You’re so sensitive and he’s fucking you raw and hard, not caring about the way you cry out and grip his bicep.

“You keep cryin’ I’ll fuckin’ give you somethin’ to cry about,” he threatens you, making you squeak and pout.

He scoffs. 

“Oh, is Daddy bein’ mean to Mama?” 

He sees something in your eyes change, hears your breath hitch.

“Did ye like that, Mama?” 

You moan, feeling him push in all the way again. He laughs at you, full-chested and mean. 

“Fuckin’ look at ye. Beggin’ to get bred. Look, yer fuckin’ keenin’ for it! Ye want my cum? Ye want Daddy to fill up yer cunt?”

You can’t speak, your mouth open as he fucks you, watching your breasts move as he slams into you again and again.

But Jimmy expects an answer. 

“Yes, Daddy,” you breathe, reaching for him. 

He scoops you up in his arms, holding you close as he fucks into you. He kisses your collarbone, which is almost tender. 

“Ye needed this, didn’t ya? A daddy to take care of ye.” 

He kisses you. It’s sloppy and wet, and a string of spit connects you when he pulls away.

“And I needed a mama just as much. The lads just know the boot. They need some love.”  

“Jimmy, I-I’m- ngh-”

You bawl, thrashing in his arms as you cum a second time. He continues to fuck you, his eye twitching at the feeling of you milking his cock. 

He stares at your stomach again, biting his lip at the visual of you pregnant, your belly swelled with his child. His hips stutter and he grits his teeth, pushing in as deep as he can as he jerks forward, cumming inside of you.

You feel the spurt of hot seed against your cervix, making you whine. You have little energy left and your cunt is a livewire, sparking and shocking you as his rough strokes don’t stop.

He keeps rocking until he twitches inside of you and pulls out.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, watching his cum dribble out of your hole. 

He pushes it in with two fingers. You make a desperate noise, trying to twist your hips away. 

“No wastin’ all that. That’s fuckin’ salvation, love.” 

Your head is swimming.

“Huh?”

“Fuckin' salvation and rebirth.” 

You try to sit up and he pushes you down.

“We’re not done.” 

“B-but-”

“We’re done when I put a baby in there.”

He leans down to give you a wet kiss on your cheek.

“Settle in, Mama. We’ll be at this all night.” 

[skzophreniic]

⍣ ೋ cw: Terminal illness, character death, anticipatory grief, hospital setting, references to emotional regret, and depictions of silent mourning. Please read with care.

notes: this was requested! i know i've said that i wouldn't write character death but the requestor asked for "heart wrenching angst" and this was the saddest thing i could think of.

“It’s okay, baby. You can rest now.”

You hear him before you feel him. His voice, warm and low, breaking at the edges. Then the slow, familiar weight of his hand curling around yours. Calloused, trembling.

The machines are quieter now. The room, too. The nurses had whispered something about giving you both privacy, and then they were gone. Just the steady beeping. Just him.

Chan.

You can’t open your eyes. Haven’t been able to for a while now. But you feel him. Every breath. Every word.

He leans in, presses his forehead to yours. And even though you can’t see it, you know he’s crying.

“You’ve fought so hard, baby,” he murmurs, like it hurts him to say it. “So damn hard. I’m so proud of you.”

You want to squeeze his hand. Tell him you’re sorry. That you didn’t want this either.

But your fingers don’t move.

“You don’t have to keep fighting,” he says, voice cracking. “You’ve given me everything. I’m so grateful. Just—just rest now, okay? It’s okay to go.”

A pause. Then—

“God,” he chokes, “I don’t know what the fuck I’m saying.”

His lips brush your knuckles.

“I don’t know how to be without you.”

The words land heavy. Like bricks. Like grief already settling in his lungs before you’re even gone.

“What do I do?” he whispers. “You were supposed to be here. At the end of every tour. Every stupid award show. Every night I needed someone to remind me who the hell I am.”

You feel it—his hand clutching tighter. His voice rising just a little.

“Please, don’t go. Not yet. Just—just give me one more day. One more hour. One more smile baby, please.”

His forehead presses harder against yours, like he’s trying to fuse you together. Like if he just holds you close enough, he can stop time. Reverse it. Rewrite it.

But there’s no miracle this time.

No comeback.

No more time.

“I thought I had more,” he says, voice so quiet it’s nearly a breath. “More days. More ways to show you I loved you.”

You can hear him trying to hold it together. Swallowing the sobs. The gasps. The panic.

“I was gonna propose, you know?” he confesses, with a shaky little laugh that sounds like it's breaking open his chest. “Bought the ring months ago. Just… kept waiting for the right moment.”

His thumb brushes along your knuckles, back and forth, back and forth. Gentle. Steady. Like a habit he doesn't know how to break.

“Fucking idiot,” he whispers, not to you—but to himself.

Another breath. It catches somewhere in his chest.

“You would've said yes, right?” he asks, quieter now. “You would've stayed.”

There's no answer. Just the soft hum of the machines beside you. The slow, dragging rhythm of a heartbeat that’s starting to slip between the seconds.

Chan presses a kiss to your temple, and his lips linger there. Motionless.

“I hope you felt loved,” he says. “Even when I was gone. Even when I didn’t say it.”

The monitor stutters. Once.

Then again.

And then—flatlines.

No dramatic alarms. No panicked rush of nurses. Just the sound fading out. The weight of your body going still in his arms.

His hand stays wrapped around yours.

For a moment, he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t blink.

He just breathes in shallow, uneven pulls—like he’s afraid to exhale. Like letting go of that one breath might mean letting go of you completely.

And then his shoulders fall.

No sound.

Just that.

He lowers his head against your pillow, cheek resting beside yours. Eyes squeezed shut. Tears slipping soundlessly down his face, soaking into the same sheets that still hold your warmth.

His fingers keep holding yours, even though your hand is slack now.

Even though you're gone.

And in the quiet that follows, he doesn’t break. Not all at once.

He just… crumbles. Slowly.

Quietly.

Alone.

[kuroakiko]

Is It Too Late to Say I Love You?

jinu x f!huntr/x!reader

summary: you loved him. and he loved you. or so you thought. one day, he tells you that it’s all fake… but is it really?

word count: 822

warnings: ... all sadness? no happiness, i didn't add any in here LOL it also slightly follows the movie, i took a couple quotes from it!

note: this is my first time writing a story, so i'm so sorry if it's bad! likes, comments, or corrections are greatly appreciated! <3

navigation: pt. 2 pt. 3

“It was all a lie…” he said, his expression blank, voice flat and hollow, devoid of emotion. 

“It was real! What we had was real… I know it was!” you cried, your voice cracking as tears streamed down your cheeks. All those nights you snuck out of your room to meet him, both of you laughing together, crying together, gossiping, spilling your true feelings and secrets to each other—there was no way he didn’t feel anything.

“The things I said… I just needed you to trust me… that’s all…” he laughed bitterly, watching you crumble in front of him. His eyes blurred with tears, but even then, he felt nothing. Not even your pain could reach him now. “I need to go, Gwi-Ma’s waiting for me.”

“Jinu…. please…. I know it was real! All those times we spent at night, secretly with each other? They weren’t fake!” You beg him.

Jinu’s expression hardens as he watches you plead for him desperately. “Stop lying to yourself. Our relationship was purely for my benefit… for my mission. Gwi-Ma helped me realize that I can’t escape what I am, so I simply manipulated your emotions.”

Your face falls at his confession. A tear slips down your cheek as you step forward, reaching for him, unable to believe what he’s saying. “No… stop it! We had something… We had something real… We had something real… right?”

Jinu’s facade cracks slightly at the sight of your tear, his voice quiet. “I… I just can’t afford to care anymore.”

“Yes, you can!” You blurt out, grabbing his hands. “Stay here—fight Gwi-Ma with me and my girls, and you won’t have to hear the voices anymore after we seal the honmoon! I’m sure I can convince Rumi, Mira, and Zoey to let you fight alongside us!”

“You don’t understand!” Jinu snaps, jaw clenched as he glares down at you, exasperated. “Gwi-Ma has complete control over me, and it’s impossible to beat him! If I disobey, AND we lose, he'll make me relive my memories on repeat! Who knows how he'll manipulate my thoughts! He's already noticed my thoughts about you... He knows you're my weakness! What if he uses you against me? As..... punishment?"

He swallows, breath now slightly shaky.

"I… have to protect you from myself. I can’t trust myself around you anymore, and-”

“But I trust you! Isn’t that enough?” you cry, more tears slipping down. “I know you won’t hurt me… I trust you!”

Jinu’s hand tightens around yours, a storm of anger, sadness, and fear swirling in his eyes. “You’re wrong. I’ve already hurt you. And I’ll keep hurting you if I stay. I can’t risk it.”

Your body wracks with sobs. You shove him away, too blinded by heartbreak to realize what you’re saying next. “I’ll never forgive you, Jinu!”

Jinu stumbles back from your push, freezing at your words. A pained expression flickers across his face, but it quickly vanishes, hardening again. “Maybe that’s for the best… I don’t deserve you or your forgiveness anyway.” He takes another step back, creating even more distance between you.

Your expression instantly shifts into regret, and you take a shaky step toward him. “Wait, no… please, Jinu… that’s not what I meant. I’m sorry!”

He shakes his head, turning his back to you so you can’t see his face, preparing to leave. “No, I’m the one who should be sorry. I have to go.” 

You quickly close the distance between you and hug him tightly, shoving your face into his back. You bite your lip to keep from making a sound, wiping your tears with trembling hands. Smudged makeup stained all over your skin and his clothes, but none of it matters—not when this might be goodbye forever.

He stares into the distance, your arms still wrapped around him. He breathes deeply with a breath that sounds similar to a sob, almost like he’s trying to etch this into memory. For those couple of moments, he revels in it—the warmth, the love, and affection he’s searched for, but never thought he would be able to receive. When he speaks, his voice is sharp and cold, slicing into you like a sharp dagger made of icy glass. “Y/N. Stop deluding yourself. It was all a lie. Everything; the "love", the "affection"… everything was fake. I manipulated you, and now I’m leaving you. I don't know what shred of hope you're trying to cling to, but that's the truth. I'm leaving, and nothing is going to change my mind. Let go.”

You cry harder, his words finally sinking in. Your grip around his waist loosens. He takes that moment to disappear—the only trace of him being crimson dust, drifting around, before slowly falling to the ground, the scene almost beautiful. His words continue to echo in your mind, shattering the last pieces of your heart.

And that was the last time you ever saw or heard from him.

hopefully i achieved my goal of making it sad :P lmk if you liked it!

masterlist

[queersyourgender]

What do you think about a fic with abbot where the reader ends up in the Pitt because they dropped a knife on their foot while cooking or cut themselves and needs stitches? And the protective lecture ensues because jack has told you to be more careful in the kitchen as they’re accident prone but love cooking to take care of him

Yes, Chef! — Jack Abbot x GN!Reader

Notes: Heehee this was a cute one, thank you for sending it in! I love playful couples... cutiesss!!

———

The shit-eating grin is on your face long before he arrives, but you still flash it at him when the curtain gets shoved open and he glares at you from the other side.

“How many times?” He asks you, his voice deadpan and no-nonsense as the nurse currently stitching the hole in your foot snorts slightly to herself. “How many times do I have to tell you to not enter the kitchen unsupervised?”

“Jack,” you whine, a little petulantly, because that’s an embarrassing thing to say in front of other people. “I am a grown adult! If I want to make my man a three-course meal before he gets home, I will!”

Jack shakes his head fondly. “Did you even make it past chopping the vegetables?”

Dejectedly, you scowl. “No. I was cleaning the knife to start using it and it slipped.”

With a sigh, Jack walks further into the room and taps the working nurse on the shoulder. “I’ll take it from here,” he tells her, and she eagerly transfers the suture from her hands to his, a wide grin on her face.

“You guys are so cute,” she can’t help but say, giggling slightly when Jack just rolls his eyes, but you nod your agreement.

“I know, right?” You say, which makes Jack turn to you with an exasperated expression. “Isn’t it cute how I come to surprise-visit my boyfriend in the workplace? Who else is doing it like me?”

“You have a hole in your foot,” Jack presses, like that’s somehow important, and you wave him off while simultaneously waving goodbye at the still-laughing nurse.

When she closes the curtain behind her to give you two some privacy, you finally turn to him with a sheepish expression. “On a scale of one to ten, how actually mad are you at me for this?” You ask, and Jack sighs.

“A three,” he concedes, but before you could celebrate, shoves a warning finger in your face and says: “But the next time you come here because of your non-existent knife skills betraying you, it’ll be a seven. An eight, even.”

“Yes, chef!” You give a mock-salute, and he groans and goes back to stitching your foot closed.

[soratonin]

this is making rounds around our circle and a little outside of it lmao BUT I WANTED TO SAY in this post it was like midnight and i was spiraling about my love for writing isagi (as you can tell) and he is not one of the most loved characters in blue lock in terms of fic and how i want to write him/how i enjoy him is different from how others enjoy him. and while it scares me to share that with everyone in fear of it being taken for granted/ characterization getting criticized/ nobody gaf AT THE END OF THE DAY I AM HAPPY BEING VULNERABLE IN WRITING HIM BECAUSE WRITING HIM THE WAY I WANT MAKES ME HAPPY!!!! because if i am happy to write it then that is all that matters and SHOULD matter.

but also I AM HAPPY SHARING IT WITH EVERYONE because there will always be people who love what you write, even if they never say it to you. measuring your works by notes is a very fast way to end up hating your writing, i learned that the hard way. i write for the love of the game and also the mutuals who fuck with me and like hearing what i have to say! and if someone out there ends up loving it too that's wonderful too and all that matters to me! 😊 trust and believe there will always be people who love what you write, no matter how long and self-indulgent.

i'm making this rb because i keep seeing a lot of people in the notes feeling discouraged about writing what makes them happy and thinking about not posting simply because of the way fic can be received and i am here to tell you to NOT give a fuck about that. write and post whatever you want forever, this is your blog and YOUR writing archive for you first and foremost. i know it's hard being vulnerable and sharing your heart in fic with everyone, but it is so beautiful and worth it when it is received by one or two people who really loved it and got it for what you put out. and even so it is so worth to write in the first place, that's what writing is for. it's not for others, it's for you!

i think the hardest part abt writing fic is u are writing it for urself but ultimately u are choosing to post it and share it with everyone else and the idea of it not being gaf abt or received as wonderfully as u wrote it just makes u throw up and die bc ur like WELL I GOT VULNERABLE FOR WHAT ,

[orlaunderrated]

The Edges of Us: Chapter 19

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Will Lenney x fem reader; George Clarke x fem reader

Summary: Y/N has always been close to George—but everything changes when she catches feelings for his sharp-tongued, infuriatingly charming friend, Will. Torn between loyalty and desire, Y/N finds herself caught in a messy tangle of friendship, secrets, and unexpected love.

Word Count: 6.5k+

Note: Hello i gave YN a september birthday bc she gives virgo vibes.

also pls dont hate me for chapter 21 its coming and i fear people are going to be mad at me for it.

xxx

The week went by way too fast.

Maybe it's the fast pace of this city, or the fact that I’ve been distracted. Either way, since seeing Will at the station that day, he's sort of… drifted out of my head. Like smoke caught in the breeze. The ache that used to sit heavy in my chest has softened, faded into the background noise of everyday life. It’s barely noticeable now. I’m almost surprised.

George, though, has come back in like he never left—solid, steady, with that proper mate energy I always fall back on. It’s like he’s been here the entire time, even though it’s been a while.

I mean, just last week he showed up unannounced with a takeaway curry because I’d moaned about being too tired to cook. No big deal. No drama. Just food. And, as usual, his terrible jokes that make me laugh harder than I should. Even when I know they’re coming, I can’t help but laugh at them.

Or that one night last week, when I was stuck on a bug at work and sent him a frantic message at midnight. Without missing a beat, he stayed on the line for a full hour, alternating between half-teasing and half-moral-supporting me through it. It was as if he knew I needed both—someone to help me focus, but also someone to tell me I wasn’t as stupid as I felt in that moment. I think he made about seven different “cracked the code” jokes, all of them terrible. But still, every time, I felt a little lighter. Like I was a genius, even if I didn’t feel like one at all.

I’ve seen more of George this past week than I care to admit.

I won’t lie, a part of me loves it. He was appalled to hear my plans for my first birthday in London was to split a shitty bottle of wine with him and scroll through Netflix to find our favourite Brooklyn Nine-Nine episodes. That’s exactly what we did for my actual birthday, of course. But for the Friday after, George insisted I needed to do something real. Something different.

I ended up having a dinner out, with some of my friends from The Van plus a handful of Ruth’s mates who I could tolerate, you know, just to pad it out. George, Chris, and Arthur all solemnly declined the invite, pretending it was some big “brand event” they had to attend. And, to be fair, they did actually have one, but they spun it in such a way that it felt like they were doing me a favour by not coming. “We don’t want to steal your thunder,” they said, like I wasn’t capable of enjoying a night without their chaos.

It’s just so typical of them. But I’m not going to lie, it did make me feel a little warm inside. They care, in their own ridiculous way.

So, here I am—out on the town, dressed a little too nicely for a bar, surrounded by friends who make me feel like I actually belong. The music’s pounding, lights flashing, the crowd’s energy wrapping around me like a warm, electric current. I take a deep breath and, for the first time in what feels like forever, I’m not thinking about Will. Or the way I saw him that morning on the train platform, or how the ache had softened but still lingered in the background, like some ghost I couldn’t quite shake off.

It’s just me. Just this moment. Just my birthday celebration in this big, loud city. And for the first time in ages, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

The buzz of the night swirls around me—laughter, music, the clink of glasses all blending together into a warm, fuzzy haze. I’m wine-drunk from the dinner, flushed, carefree, and surrounded by friends, all of whom are easy to talk to and full of stories. Their laughter is infectious, the kind that makes you feel like everything is good, even when you’re not quite sure how you got here.

In this moment, I’m just present, no overthinking, no wondering about past conversations or lost opportunities. It’s all just right now.

And of course, Ruth keeps nudging me, grinning mischievously. “Come on, just say hi to Liam. He’s a good bloke. Deep voice, really sweet.” Liam, of course, is the mate she was trying to set me up with when Will first ghosted.

I wave her off with a laugh, spinning a loose strand of hair between my fingers. “Ruth, I’m not here to meet anyone new. I’m having a bloody good time as it is.”

She smirks but lets it go, knowing she’s not winning this one tonight. I settle into the rhythm of the room, feeling light and happy in a way I haven’t for a while.

The bar is buzzing with that familiar, chaotic energy—laughter spilling into the dim lights, the low hum of music wrapping around the crowd like a warm blanket.

I’m caught in the middle of it all when someone’s hand suddenly slips into mine. My first instinct is to pull away, startled, but then I look up, and a grin that could light up the whole place is looking back at me.

It’s George.

He’s grinning wide, like he’s been waiting for this exact moment, a little spark of mischief dancing in his eyes. Without saying a word, he yanks me back into the rhythm, spinning me around with a fluid ease that makes me laugh out loud.

For a moment, the chaos of the dancefloor blurs away. There’s no noise, no crowd. Just us—moving, smiling, perfectly in sync like we’ve done this a thousand times before.

“Had to make it,” he says, his grin never faltering as we twirl. “Can’t miss your birthday celebrations, can I?”

I raise an eyebrow, curious. “Skipped the afterparty did we?”

George shrugs, unbothered. “Yeah, the event ended early anyway. It was boring.”

He takes a sip of his drink, leans back against the bar. The music shifts, bass-heavy now, just loud enough to blur the edges of the moment.

If George is here, I’m sure Chris isn’t far behind. They went to the event together—Arthur too, obviously. The Three Musketeers of mildly chaotic YouTube fame. Wherever one goes, the others tend to materialise not long after, usually holding pints and half-finished inside jokes.

I should probably find them. Go say hi. Give them shit for missing my birthday dinner.

“I was just about to text you,” George adds, glancing over with a crooked smile, “see where you ended up.”

He pauses, letting the grin settle.

“But then I heard your laugh—” His hand makes a vague gesture toward me, “—and figured it was the universe telling me to just show up and crash the party in person.”

“Just show up, huh?” I laugh, the moment settling between us like a worn-in coat—comfortable, familiar. I’m so glad he made it tonight.

“May I have this dance, birthday girl?” he asks, mock-formal, eyes twinkling with mischief. He sweeps into an overly dramatic bow, one hand extended like we’re at a royal ball instead of a sticky-floored bar.

I shake my head, smiling at his classic George antics. “Sure, why not?”

Before I can rethink it, he grabs my hand and pulls me onto the makeshift dance floor. The lights blur. The music pulses, loud and careless, the kind that gets into your bones whether you like it or not.

Our movements are terrible—chaotic, off-beat, probably embarrassing—but none of it matters. We’re laughing, bumping shoulders, spinning like idiots. It’s not about dancing well. It’s about this: messy, loud, completely unfiltered joy.

And somehow, it feels exactly right.

That’s when I spot him, of course.

Right when I’m feeling good. Music thrumming in my chest, wine warm in my limbs, laughter still clinging to the corners of my mouth.

Will.

He’s across the room, in a booth, half-lit by the lamp on the table and the sickly blue overhead bar light, talking to someone I vaguely recognise. He looks good. A little tired maybe, but still—him. Black tee. Rings catching the light. That same disarming way he holds his drink like it’s just another prop in his performance of not caring.

And without thinking, like muscle memory, I smile.

Big. Wide. Genuine.

It’s instinct, almost. Something automatic. Like how your body remembers the way home in the dark. It doesn’t matter that I haven’t spoken him in weeks, or that the last time I did, he barely looked at me. My stupid, traitorous face still lights up.

He glances over. Meets my eyes for a second too long.

Then smiles back. Polite. Measured. The kind of smile you give someone you used to know.

And just like that, something in my chest contracts—tight and sharp and sudden.

I think I've convinced myself that I miss him more as a friend than a lover. Because what I’m feeling is nostalgia, not longing. I just want the version of us that used to make each other laugh until our ribs ached.

Not the nights. Not the kisses. Not the way he used to touch me like I was something rare.

I sip my drink. Swallow the smile. Try to focus on the music, on the friends I actually showed up with, on George’s voice somewhere behind me yelling about how he “absolutely crushed that spin move.” Because I’m okay. I am.

Mostly.

I spot Chris in the booth, laughing at something, a drink in one hand, gesturing wildly with the other. Will’s next to him, naturally. He's leaning against the counter like he owns it, that casual slouch he always falls into when he’s had just enough to drink.

I hesitate. Just for a second. Then I square my shoulders and head over.

“Oi, look who it is!” Chris beams when he sees me. He stands up and pulls me into a proper hug—tight, warm, sincere in that disarming Chris way. “You look unreal, by the way. Seriously.”

I laugh, startled by the compliment, and mutter something like “you need new glasses,” but it still catches me off guard—the ease of it. The kindness.

When he lets go, I glance at Will.

His hand is still around his glass, knuckles gone white. He hasn’t said anything yet. Hasn’t really looked at me, not properly.

“Hi,” I say, soft but even. I’m not going to shrink.

He offers a smile—thin, polite, all surface. Then he gives me another one of those side hugs, the kind that barely counts. His arm brushes my shoulder, brief and stiff. Like we’re colleagues who once had a weird office Christmas party hookup.

I step back. The cold of his skin lingers.

The silence between us says more than either of us ever could.

Chris, oblivious to the tension, launches into a story about some chaotic shoot involving three smoke machines and a minor fire hazard, and I let him pull me in, let myself laugh at the right beats. But I don’t miss the way Will stays quiet. I don’t miss the flicker in his eyes when I smile too easily at someone else.

At some point, the noise of the bar fades into background chatter. Will's looking at his phone, scrolling through something with intent, and I feel a strange compulsion to fill the silence between us.

“So,” I start, forcing my voice to sound casual, “how have you been?”

His eyes flick up at the mention of the place, and for a moment, I see a flicker of something—maybe surprise. Then it’s gone, replaced with that same cool, detached demeanour.

“Oh, uh...” He swigs from his glass, clearly not looking to dive deep. “I launched a coffee brand last month so I've been non-stop.”

I blink, caught off guard. “Right. Cool. I—uh, didn’t know that.” I totally know that. I stalked the shit out of it when it first dropped. Ruth had to stop me from going to a Sainsburys' to buy it. I don’t tell him that I recognised the logo from various papers around his flat.

I can feel the awkwardness hanging between us, thick as smoke. I don't know what I expected, but I would think he could maybe elaborate a bit more. The man can talk until the cows come home.

I glance over at Chris, who's still caught up in his own story, not paying attention to the fact that Will and I are barely engaging.

Will’s eyes flicker, just for a moment—a hint of something softer, like he’s about to say something. “You look—” His gaze shifts suddenly, moving past me, over my shoulder.

He cuts himself off mid-sentence.

I follow his line of sight, curiosity pulling me to see what has caught his attention.

And of course, it’s George.

George, grinning like a cat who’s just knocked something precious off the counter. “Oi!” He calls out, walking toward us with his trademark enthusiasm. “Why are you wasting your birthday time with these guys? Go have some fun with your mates!”

I can practically hear the relief in Will’s exhale as he shifts his attention away, the soft moment gone before it can take root.

George flashes me a grin, throwing a playful look over at Chris and Will. "You two need to stop being so serious, let her have a good night."

Chris throws up his hands, still smiling. “Fair enough, mate. Go on, buy the birthday girl a drink.”

I laugh, though it feels like a little too much, a little too forced. But George is already pulling me away, guiding me toward the my friends with a cheeky wink.

Will doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t even look back.

And for once, I don’t feel sorry for myself.

Not tonight.

I make my way back to our group, and George goes to the bar to get me another drink. I can feel how flushed my cheeks are from dancing and too much wine, and my hair is clinging to the back of my neck. Ruth’s still mid-rant about how her ex once cried because she beat him at Uno, and I let myself dissolve into the comfort of it—of noisy, lovely people who don’t know the Will of it all.

A few minutes later, George wanders over, two fresh drinks in hand and cheeks pink from the heat. One of Ruth’s friends clocks him immediately, eyes trailing over him like she’s assessing inventory. I don’t blame her. His shirt’s unbuttoned just enough, curls a little messy, grin easy. He looks like the kind of guy you flirt with just to feel alive again.

And I feel it. That flutter. The smallest shift in my chest—something I don’t want to name. It passes quickly, but it still passes.

He grins at something Ruth says, then catches my eye. I turn to face him, his brow raising slightly, a half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth. It’s like we’re already mid-conversation, even though neither of us has said a word yet. I turn back to Ruth, who is still complaining.

I'm hyper-aware of his presence next to me, and I'm not sure why but it feels… forbidden. Like I've stumbled into a situation is shouldn't be in. Then, he turns toward the bar. I turn to watch him catching up with a few people from the other side of the room, his voice rising above the crowd. His attention shifts, and he's walking and now, he's standing next to some girl in a glittery top, laughing loudly enough that it cuts through the pulse of the music.

He’s leaning in just enough to hear her, grinning that lopsided grin—the one that always makes people feel like they’re in on something. I feel it before I even register it: a flicker, low in my stomach. A little flutter.

Not jealousy, exactly. Just… awareness. Like I’ve noticed something I wasn’t supposed to.

They’re talking.

No—more than talking.

Leaning in. Faces close. That kind of proximity you only allow when the rest of the room disappears. Eyes locked in a way that makes my stomach drop through the sticky floorboards. For a moment, I forget the beat of the song. Forget the warmth of Ruth’s hand around mine. Forget how to stand.

I shouldn’t stare.

But I do.

God, I do.

“Let’s dance!” someone says (probably Naomi) and suddenly I’m being pulled back into the blur of bodies and basslines. I let it happen. I smile. I raise my arms and pretend I’m still in it, like the music hasn’t warped around the crack forming in my chest.

We move. I dance. I laugh at something Arthur says in passing and shout-sing the chorus of a song I don’t really know. But every time the hook rolls around, I glance over.

He’s still talking to her.

They’ve shifted positions slightly. George now angled toward her like he’s shielding their conversation from the world.

His smile is lopsided, eyes crinkled. That laugh, his real one, the one that starts in his chest and ends in his shoulders—

rises up over the bar.

It’s so familiar. I know that laugh like a favourite song.

And yet I have no idea what’s making her laugh like that.

They talk for ages. Longer than I expect. Longer than I can excuse away.

I keep dancing. Keep pretending. But the longer it goes on, the less I can feel my limbs. I become mechanical, going through the motions, too aware of the prickling at the back of my neck. The small, tight burn behind my ribs.

It’s not jealousy.

(Not quite.)

It’s something messier than that.

Ruth and the others break away for a round of drinks, their laughter trailing off as they slip toward the bar, and I pause—one breath, two—still swaying, still looking.

That’s when George finally pulls back.

His hand lingers a second too long on the girl’s arm.

She says something that makes him smile.

He grins, pats her on the shoulder, and slips away without so much as a glance over his shoulder. No number exchanged, no flirty goodbyes. Just the kind of quiet exit that makes me think maybe it wasn’t even about anything at all.

He rejoins us a few minutes later, sliding next to me at the bar as I'm waiting for Ruth to hurry up and pay for my drink. His eyes find mine, so I turn to face him. He's close to me. Like girl at the bar close. He makes a face that suggests that did not go well and I stifle a laugh.

The flutter’s still there. But it softens into something warmer. Something familiar. And I shake it off. Just a little.

It’s George.

“So,” I say, nudging his elbow, “how’s your new soulmate? Planning the wedding yet?”

He groans. “Don’t start.”

“She touched your arm. That’s legally binding in some countries.”

“She also talked at me for twenty minutes about her birth chart,” he mutters. “Apparently my Mercury is in retrograde, which means I need to ‘unblock my throat chakra.’”

I snort. “She’s not wrong. You do talk like someone who’s never processed a single emotion out loud.”

George shoots me a look, then takes a long sip of his drink like he’s trying to drown the sass. “Honestly? I panicked and told her I was gay.”

I nearly choke on my wine. “You didn’t.”

“I panicked!” he defends, eyes wide. “It was that or pretend I was into crystals. I chose the option with less homework.”

I laugh, I laugh so hard my belly hurts. I try to say that she's probably so confused as he approached her, but it gets lost in my giggles

I’m still laughing as he bumps my shoulder with his, alerting me to the fact that Ruth has finally purchased my drink, I wave for him to join our group. He tells me to wait a second,

George tilts his head toward me, mischief dancing in his eyes. “So… who’s your mate?”

I blink. “Huh?”

He nods subtly toward Ruth’s friend—the same one who gave him the full once-over when he walked over. She’s mid-laugh about something Ruth’s just said, holding her cocktail like it’s a prop in a rom-com. Cute. Confident. Exactly George’s type.

“I saw her eyeing me earlier,” he adds, all mock modesty. “What’s her deal?”

I short-circuit for a second. My brain scrambles like it’s looking for an escape hatch, and before I can think it through, I blurt out, “She has a boyfriend.”

George raises a brow. “Oh yeah?”

I nod too quickly. “Yep. Long-term. Serious. Big beard.”

It’s not exactly a lie. Ruth did say she had a boyfriend… at one point. Probably. Maybe. Or maybe that was a different friend. Or maybe I just said so I didn’t have to watch George flirt with another girl tonight. Either way, it’s out there now. Floating between us, ridiculous and unnecessary.

I glance at her, then back at George. “Actually… I think they broke up.” I wince. “I think.”

His looks bewildered at my change of pace. “Well which is it?”

“I don’t know!” I hiss. “I’m not a relationship counsellor, I’m just trying to make sure you don't end up making a fool of yourself again.”

George raises an eyebrow, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “A fool of myself?” he chuckles, clearly enjoying how flustered I’ve gotten. His eyes flicker, something sharper flashing for a split second beneath the teasing. “I just… don’t want to make a scene, y’know?”

I nod, though I'm not sure if I fully understand his coolness about it. He can for sure tell I just lied through my teeth. I look down at my drink, stirring it mindlessly, then glance up. Somehow, despite everything, I’ve ended up talking to George and pretty much only George tonight. He looks good—when doesn't he?—like he’s barely even trying. His messy hair, the way his jacket fits him just right, the way he always seems comfortable in his own skin.

I feel something stir in me, but before I can think much more on it, a guy sidles up to the bar, leaning a little too close for comfort.

"Hey, wanna dance?" he asks, his breath hot against my ear, lingering a little too long for comfort.

I give him a polite but firm smile, leaning back just enough to create some space. “No, thanks.”

He doesn’t back off, a smirk spreading across his face as he glances at George. "Is this your bird, mate?" he sneers, eyes scanning George like he's just waiting for a response. There's a challenge in his voice, as if he's testing the waters.

Without missing a beat, George shoots him a look that’s half amusement, half something more protective. “Yeah,” he says, like it's a statement rather than a question, the kind of casual confidence that used to make me feel safe, back when we both knew the drill. He puts his arm around me, just enough to make it clear that the guy’s not going to push any further.

The man hesitates for a second, then mutters something like "Alright, mate," and slinks off, disappearing into the crowd.

"Ugh I hate being called bird. Like do you want me to chirp at you?" I look at George, half-exasperated. “You didn’t have to do that.”

George just shrugs, his expression completely unbothered. “It’s nothing. Just old habits.”

I can't help but smile at that. We used to do this all the time back in uni—keeping unwanted attention off each other. It’s one of those little perks of having an opposite-sex best friend. We always had each other’s backs, no questions asked.

I can see the guy, looking between us, clearly trying to figure out if there’s more to it, but George doesn’t give him anything else. Instead, he casually nudges me with his shoulder, as if to say, Let’s get out of here.

Before I can protest, he’s already setting his empty cup down and pulling me toward the dance floor, a grin spreading across his face.

“Come on, Birthday Girl,” he says, practically dragging me through the sea of people, “let’s actually have some fun tonight, yeah?”

I let him pull me along, a little too easily. Despite the chaos around us, the clamour of voices and thudding bass, I find myself laughing, shaking off whatever that thing was I felt earlier.

And for a moment, it’s just us again. Just the two of us, like it used to be.

“George, no—” I protest through a laugh, but it’s already happening. We’re weaving through bodies and basslines, and he’s grinning like a man on a mission.

“It’s a foolproof plan,” he says, dragging me into the beat. “You pretend to be my girlfriend. We dance. Everyone wins.”

“That is not how foolproof plans work,” I say, but I’m already moving with him.

He spins me dramatically. I nearly trip. He catches me by the waist, laughing into my hair.

For a moment, it’s just the two of us again. Dizzy. Stupid. Easy.

I still feel a little bad about lying to him about Ruth's friend, But George isn’t pressing, isn’t thinking about it. And maybe that’s the part I’m clinging to—that he doesn’t need anything from me right now except this.

Just music, and limbs, and the dumb safety of knowing you’re someone’s favourite dance partner, even if only for one song.

After a few more songs—some iconic, some unrecognisable—we slip off the floor, breathless and flushed. George grabs his drink from where he left it and downs the last of it in one go.

“I think the lads are heading to Lucky’s,” he says, nodding toward the door where Chris is already half-waving, half-coaxing the others out. “You coming?”

I shake my head. “Nah. Ruth’s booked us a karaoke room at that grimy place on the corner. I’m morally obligated.”

He grins. “God help you.”

“She’s promised tequila and emotional support,” I say with a shrug.

George smiles, softer this time. “Text me when you’re home, yeah?”

“Always.”

There’s a moment—just a flicker—where we linger in each other’s space like maybe there’s something more to say. But there’s no goodbye hug, no drama. Just an easy pat on my shoulder and a, “Don’t sing Mr. Brightside. Again.”

“I make no promises,” I call after him.

He heads off with Chris and the rest of the boys, swallowed by the dark edge of the bar crowd, and I turn toward Ruth and our chaos-bound karaoke mission.

There’s no ache. No longing. Just… fuck… a flutter. A stupid, persistent flutter that starts low in my chest and rises like it’s got something to prove. I tell it to shut up. To get a grip. It’s just George.

It’s always been just George.

And yet… my stupid heart won’t listen.

xxx

The night’s winding down, and I've just hit an absolutely phenomenal rendition of Everybody Talks. The buzz of laughter and chatter hums through our private room like a fading song. My head is warm, the tequila and the night mixing into a comfortable fuzz. My phone buzzes in my pocket, making me jump a little.

I fish it out, squinting at the screen. It's George.

Are you still out?

I smile, fingers hovering over the keyboard. I’m still out, technically, but the bar here called last drinks 10 minutes ago, Ruth is half asleep on the couch and I’m tired. So tired that my bed sounds way more appealing than going to another bar. I don’t even question when someone says that the uber is ��70.

I type back.

Yeah. We’re about to head home though.

I pause. The Uber price pops back into my mind like a punchline I can’t unhear.

Fuck, Ubers are £70. Who’s pricing London like this?

My phone buzzes again almost immediately.

Crash at mine!

That was part of our deal.

I stare at the screen, breath catching for a moment. It’s simple, casual, but somehow exactly what I needed to hear. Like a lifeline thrown over a sea of overpriced rides and fading energy.

I glance around at my friends, then back at my phone. A slow smile spreads across my face.

Maybe tonight isn’t done yet.

xxx

I step Into George’s flat, the door clicking softly behind me. I expected the usual buzz—Chris and Arthur sprawled on the couch, music thumping, the familiar chaos of a late-night kick-on.

But it’s quiet.

Too quiet.

Only George is there, sitting on the worn sofa, looking a little too casual for this time of night. No Arthur teasing him about the playlist, no Chris talking a little too loudly about something I don’t care about. Just George, and that weird flicker of something unreadable in his eyes when he sees me,

I drop my bag by the door and lean against the frame, suddenly aware of how still the room feels without the usual noise.

“Hey,” I say, trying to keep my voice light.

He shrugs, grinning that lopsided smile. “Figured I’d hold down the fort.”

I smirk, dropping onto the couch beside him. “Where’s everyone else?”

“Ghosted. Probably found a better party.”

I laugh softly, feeling this strange mix of relief and something else I can’t quite name. Just George. Just us.

We settle into the living room like it’s our own private island amid the quiet hum of the city outside. The faint clink of glasses from earlier still lingers in the air, but it’s just the two of us now. No crowds, no distractions—just George and me.

He’s sitting on the edge of the couch, and I’m perched opposite on the other side, both of us locked in that comfortable rhythm of teasing and banter.

“You owe me a rematch on FIFA,” he says, grinning like he’s already won before the game’s even started.

“Oh please,” I fire back, voice light but eyes sharp, “you’re just scared of losing again. You barely even know the controls.”

He throws his head back and laughs, that rich, easy sound that always catches me off guard—like a secret only I’m allowed to hear. “Scared? Never. I’m just letting you think you’ve got a chance. Gotta keep the game interesting, right?”

I arch an eyebrow, crossing my arms. “Is that what you call it? I’d say it’s called ‘underestimating your opponent’.”

He leans forward, that mischievous glint in his eye making my heart do that stupid little skip it’s been refusing to quit all night. “Maybe I’m just playing the long game. You know, lull you into a false sense of security before I completely wipe the floor with you.”

I bite my lip to stop myself from smiling too wide. “You keep dreaming, George. One of these days, I’m going to break your winning streak.”

His grin widens. “That day can’t come soon enough. Until then, I’ll be enjoying watching you try and fail.”

I lean in a little, lowering my voice. “Better watch out. When I win, I expect you to perform me victory dance, call it a birthday present.”

He raises his hands mock-defensively. “Deal. But be warned—I’m known for my killer dance moves.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Yeah, I saw those earlier. Didn’t exactly strike me as ‘killer’.”

“Oh, you wound me.” He points a finger at me, feigning offense. “Maybe I’ll let you be my dance partner. Then you can judge my moves up close.”

I catch that look he throws—like he’s daring me to say yes, like he’s hoping I will.

It’s ridiculous how much I want to.

But I just grin and flick his forehead. “In your dreams, George.”

He catches my hand before I pull away, holding it a moment longer than necessary. “Dreams are where the best things happen, don’t you think?”

I glance down at our hands, then back up at him, breath catching for a second. “Maybe.”

I shift in my seat, my heart pounding louder in my ears. It’s ridiculous—I’m telling myself it’s just friendship. Nothing else. But then, almost without thinking, I lean forward and press a quick, impulsive kiss to his cheek.

Immediately, the world tilts.

George freezes, his eyes wide and unblinking, locked onto me like I’m suddenly some impossible riddle he can’t solve. My heart thuds so loud I’m sure he can hear it, and my breath catches, sharp and ragged in my chest. Panic crashes in like a tidal wave, dragging me under before I even have a chance to catch myself.

What the hell did I just do?

I’ve spent so long tiptoeing around this—around him—pretending like the last few months didn’t come with a price. Like I didn’t know exactly how fragile this all was. And now I’ve gone and thrown a grenade into the middle of it.

Did I not learn my lesson?

Every warning bell I told myself to listen to—every quiet voice in the back of my head screaming don’t do this—I ignored it. Because it felt good. Because it felt like maybe, just maybe, there was something worth risking.

But looking at him now, the way his whole body stiffens, the way his jaw tightens like he’s swallowing a storm—fuck, I’m terrified.

Because I know that look. That’s the look of someone who’s about to build a wall so high it’ll take years to climb back over.

And I’m the one who place the first brick.

I want to reach out, to explain, to tell him it didn’t mean what it always means. That I’m not trying to ruin everything. Again. But my throat tightens, words catching like stones.

I’ve broken us once before. Maybe I’m just stupid enough to do it again.

And the worst part? I don’t know how to fix it.

I swallow hard and try to steady my racing heart, but the damage feels already done—impossible to rewind.

I wanted this to be different. I wanted us to be different.

But maybe some things are just too broken to mend.

And I don’t think I'm strong enough to watch him walk away again.

I pull back even further, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Sorry,” I mumble, cheeks burning, “That was— I don’t know what that was.” I instinctually start to think about where my bag is, where my phone is, if I it worth just firming a £70 Uber after all.

My hands are shaking slightly as I lean back, instinctively searching the room for my bag. My phone. Somewhere safe, somewhere away from this mess. I’m already mentally mapping out a quick exit strategy, but grounded to the couch, trying to ignore the way my chest is still tight, still buzzing with that kiss that feels like it’s carved into my skin.

Maybe I can just throw myself into the £70 Uber, call it a night, and pretend it didn’t happen. That’s always the easy out, right? Just pull the drunk card, laugh it off. Oh, I always kiss Ruth’s cheek, sorry, I’m just sooo wasted.

He doesn’t say anything. Just reaches out, fingers brushing my arm, cautious. There’s a pause—barely a heartbeat—where his hand hovers, and I it's like he’s weighing every possible outcome behind his eyes. Then, with a quiet resolve, he takes my hand and gently pulls me off my place on the couch.

I stumble a little as I rise, and he guides me between his knees. One arm slips around my waist, the other steadies my hip, and then he's tugging me down into his lap. Our controllers drop to the floor with a soft thud, forgotten.

Now I’m straddling him, knees braced on either side of his thighs. My chest is almost flush with his, barely any space between us, and I can feel the rise and fall of his breath—shallow, nervous. His hands settle on my waist, fingers splayed, thumbs brushing circles through the fabric of my shirt.

The heat of him seeps into me. Every point where we touch feels electric, like a current passing through skin and bone. The air around us grows heavy, charged, as if the room itself is holding its breath. I am too.

My heart pounds so loudly I wonder if he can hear it. I’m terrified—but I don’t want to move.

Then his lips find mine.

It’s immediate, a shock of heat. The kiss starts slow, hesitant, like he’s feeling his way through the dark. But then, without warning, it deepens, his mouth pressing harder, demanding more, like he’s been holding back forever and can’t anymore.

There’s a desperation to it, but it’s not just hunger. It’s… something else. His lips move against mine with a kind of urgency that makes my whole body hum. Each touch, each breath, builds into something hotter, more dangerous, until I’m gasping for air, my chest burning with every shallow inhale.

My hands are in his hair, pulling him closer, desperate to feel more of him. The world around us blurs, fades into the background—there’s nothing but this, nothing but the fire between us.

And then, just when I think I can’t take it anymore, he pulls away.

I’m left there, dazed, my heart pounding in my chest, like I’ve been thrown into the ocean and can’t quite find the surface. My pulse is still racing, my breath coming in sharp gasps.

He’s looking at me, his eyes dark, impossibly intense. There’s no confusion in them, no second-guessing. Just something raw, like he knows exactly what this is and what it means. But neither of us is ready to say it out loud. Not yet.

I swallow hard, my voice shaky as I speak, barely above a whisper. “I thought I’d ruined it.”

His eyes flash—something sharp, fleeting, almost imperceptible. “Shut up.”

His voice is low, rough around the edges. Not cruel, but desperate—like he’s trying to strangle the doubt in its cradle, to silence that voice inside me that always wants to dismantle everything good before it can begin.

The space between us feels impossibly small now, strung tight like a wire. One wrong move and it could all snap. The kind of silence that teeters between breaking everything... or changing everything.

We’re frozen, breathless. Neither of us dares to move. Not yet. Not while the air is this thick with unspoken things and nearlys.

And then, before I can even fully exhale, he moves.

One hand slides up my back, firm and certain, and he pulls me in, swift and sure. His lips find mine in a kiss that doesn't ask—it claims. There’s nothing hesitant now, nothing careful. Just months, no years, of tension unravelling in a single heartbeat.

It’s not perfect. It’s messy, rushed, mouths colliding more than meeting. But it’s real. And that’s all I’ve ever wanted.

My hands fist in the fabric of his shirt as I kiss him back, everything else falling away. No fear. No doubt. Just this.

Finally.

xxx

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