#and actually thinking of her for a whole year. how do i just forget

[finelinevogue]

i had a thought for a part 2 for the 'ridiculous' lando fic (obvs don't have to do it if it's crap) but maybe you could write about them being together like a year later at the next monaco gp and her friends who were being horrible to her like trying to get back in touch with y/n so they could get gp tickets because shes going out with lando

i genuinely love all your fics though, i've been here for timeeee ahhaha

makes sense to be with you

yesss let’s do it my love!! and don’t you worry, i know you’ve been here with me since the beginning <33 i never forget a name!

pairing - lando norris x girlfriend!reader

word count - ~2k

It’s race day.

The nerves were high for everyone. Sometimes you felt like your nerves were even higher than Lando’s - which was a silly thing to think.

Lando had driven you to the Monaco Grand Prix this morning, spare hand on your thigh the entire journey. You had gotten ready together this morning and Lando had calmed your nerves with a few soft morning kisses in between stolen moments.

Pulling up outside the venue though, the tension felt high.

Lando stopped the car and sat with you for a moment.

“You good?” He asked, not letting your hand go.

“Yeah. Just thinking about this time last year.” You rested your head on the back of the headrest and turned to face your boyfriend.

He watched you with a handsome smile.

“A lot’s changed since then.”

“I know.”

He chuckled which caused you to laugh back.

“I’m nervous but I’m excited for this weekend.” He told you honestly.

“You’re going to be amazing.”

He looked from you to the crowds outside the car, snapping photos and recording videos of the two of you. It was busy out there, but nothing that the two of you couldn’t handle.

It had been difficult the past year trying to fit in beside Lando and keep up with his pace of life, but he had been so patient and caring with you. Because of him the last year had been easier than it could’ve been.

Your phone beeped.

You chuckled to yourself as you opened the WhatsApp notifications.

“Who is it?” Lando asked, peering over your shoulder because he knew you’d have nothing to hide. “Oh they can fuck right off.”

“Lando!” You laughed.

It was from your ex friends and their whole group. They had added you to their group chat last minute, knowing they needed you for what they wanted.

Rochelle : How are we supposed to get tickets for the Monaco GP?

Eva : Let’s ask Y/N now she’s with Lando

Jemima : so true

Rochelle : OMG yes!!!!

[ Y/N has been added to the chat ]

Eva : Hey Y/N! Long time no speak!

“Do they realise that you can see all the conversations above?” Lando scoffed beside you.

“Probably not.”

“Bunch of….” Lando started to mutter.

“Hey, don’t,” You stopped him before he could say something he would later regret, “I’m okay.”

You deleted the group chat from your phone and left it alone, placing your phone in your lap as you squeezed Lando’s hand tightly. You used your other hand to guide his face to yours.

“I’m okay.” You promised him.

He nodded.

“Doesn’t mean I don’t like them though.”

“Enough now. Don’t let them ruin your day.” You softly brushed your thumb over his cheek and he leant into it a little more.

“Don’t want them to ruin yours either.”

“They can’t.” You shook your head.

Lando was confident with your answer and leaned in to give you a soft kiss. Neither of you noticed the influx of camera flashes as you kissed because both of you were too into each other.

He had this very special, unique, talent of making you feel like the only girl in the world.

“I love you.” He whispered close to you.

You kissed him again quickly this time, “I love you too. Now go win.”

“Don’t give me too much to do.” He joked, pulling away from you to continue the day and win this damn race for you.

• 🏎️💨 •

He fucking won.

He actually did it.

You had a pair of headphones wrapped around your neck as you cupped your hands over your mouth. You were in a state of shock and wonder.

Your Lando had done it. He had won Monaco and part of you liked to believe he had done it for you.

Engineers and teammates alike were all cheering in the garage. This was a huge win for them too.

Everyone swarmed outside to go and meet Lando and congratulate him. You weren’t sure whether to follow or to meet him later.

Your phone beeped in your pocket.

[ Y/N has been added to the chat ]

Rochelle : Congrats on Lando’s win Y/N 🍾

Eva : Yeah totally! Any big plans for tonight?

Jemima : OMG yesss we should all totally meet tonight & celebrate!

Rochelle : YEASSSS

You sighed, biting your lip as you questioned how to respond.

They had really texted at the wrong moment because this was supposed to be your time celebrating with Lando, not feeling bad for people who used to be horrid to you that you still sort of felt bad for.

You texted back, wanting this to be done.

You: hi :) thank you for congratulating lando! still not ready to be friends with you guys yet, but thanks for thinking of me.

A minute later you had been removed from the group chat.

You shook your head in disappointment.

Yes, they had been the ones to get you an invite onto a Monaco yacht party where you had first met Lando but that’s all they had ever done for you. The rest of the time they had been the type of friends to bring you down. You had often been the ‘one of these friends is not like the others’ friend.

Lando had helped you realise that you didn’t need them in your life and had supported you when you’d cut them out of your life.

It stung that now all they wanted you for was your connection to Lando and his fame.

It made you feel used.

No doubt Lando often felt the same. Hopefully never from you.

You pocketed your phone, remembering you were missing all the celebrations outside.

Before you could leave the garage to walk around to the podium, you heard Lando call your name.

He was jogging down the road and dodging people who were trying to give him a hug or a congratulatory handshake. His eyes were dead-set on you.

His hair was sweaty and his face was beet-red.

He looked so good though, with his jumpsuit folded over at his waist and his black fireproofs on underneath. He ran a hand through his messy hair as he approached you.

You took off the headphones around your neck, dropping them onto the table.

Lando reached you first, picking you up around your waist and spinning you around excitedly. Your arms held tightly around his neck with your face smushed into his head. He smelt of sweat and hair products.

You could feel him laugh into your chest and you couldn’t help but let the few tears that wanted to fall soak into his hair.

“I’m so proud of you.”

He squeezed you tighter, slowly stopping the spinning to put you safely back on the floor.

“You did it. You fucking did it.”

“I did it.” He smiled so big.

You untucked your head from where it had been hiding, but keeping your arms securely around his neck for closeness. His stayed around your waist.

You used one hand to brush some loose curls back into formation.

“Knew you could do it.”

“It’s ‘cause my lucky charm was watching on.” He nodded his head to you.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“The Monaco Grand Prix, honey.” You whispered excitedly like you couldn’t quite believe it. “What more could you want?”

He raised his eyebrows at you like that was a stupid question. You rolled your eyes before he could say something ridiculously lovely.

You tucked your head under his chin and moved your arms down so you could hug him around his waist. He hugged you closer, kissing the top of your head a few times before letting the moment sink in with his favourite person stood beside him.

“Lando! We need you for the podium!”

“Two minutes!”He shouted back, not giving you up.

“No��� Now!”

Lando sighed loudly. You untucked yourself.

“Go. I’ll be right there. Enjoy this moment, okay?” You cupped both of his cheeks and brought his face down to kiss him softly. He deserved it.

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yourinstagram enjoy this moment 🍯🧡

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fan1 INSANE!!!!!

fan2 we 🧡 you y/n

oscarpiastri Well done mate!

fan3 🍯 because y/n calls lando honey?!!?????

♥️ by the author

fan4 LANDO FOR THE WIN

fan5 i love them ur honour

rochelle0110 Congrats 🥂 Let’s celebrate?

fan6 I WANT TO CELEBRATE WITH THEM

yourinstagram @/fan6 ur very welcome to xo

lando Going to enjoy this one for a long time to come (especially with you) 🧡

♥️ by the author

• 🏎️💨 •

Lando opened the door for you and held a hand out to help you leave his car.

He passed the car keys off to a valet and then returned his attention to you. He had already watched you get ready and had litterally sat next to you in the car on the way here, but seeing you step out of his car in that black dress made him want to drop to the floor and pray.

The paparazzi went crazy for you both, begging for a photo.

Unfortunately Lando wasn’t interested in giving them the time of day as he was still angry about previous things the tabloids had said about you and him.

He held onto you hand as you walked past everyone and into the club venue.

It was celebration night, post-race, and it was going to be a big one.

You didn’t need to show ID upon entry because everyone, especially bouncers, knew who the F1 people were in Monaco.

Lando gave the bouncers a handshake and wished them a goodnight whilst still holding on to you. He also slipped them a piece of paper and asked them to read it carefully.

“What was that?” You asked as you followed behind him.

“My ‘no entry’ list.”

“What?” You stopped short, your high heels digging into the floor as you did so. Lando bounced back towards you.

“I’ve asked that certain people are denied entry.” He shrugged.

“Like who?”

“Does it matter?” He asked.

“Yes. I don’t want to start some sort of feud.”

“Well, they started it when they decided to sell a story to the tabloids last year which made our relationship difficult for a while.” He was growing frustrated you could tell.

“Oh my God, will you let it go?” You stressed, dropping his hand to which he looked visibly offended by.

“No, Y/N, I won’t. They’re a bunch of arseholes and what? You want them to be a part of my celebration? I don’t think so.” He scoffed.

“I just don’t want this to be a big thing for us forever. Just let it go.”

He shook his head again before heading into the club. Without you.

Fuck.

You didn’t mean to get into an argument about it, but ever since your ex friends sold a story about Lando being a misogynist prick to the tabloids there had been a rift between everyone.

You had immediately dropped your friends and Lando had done damage control for weeks after.

You’d never believed the tabloids, but it was Lando that felt like he had to prove that he was nothing like what they were saying he was. Lando thought he had to make it up to you, as if he’d done something wrong. So it was easy to understand why they still got under his nerves.

You just wished they didn’t still taunt him.

You wanted him you find peace from all of this now like you had.

You followed him into the club a few minutes later, trying to calm your nerves after your stupid argument.

The club had cheered and roared when Lando had stepped into the main room, leaving you to slip in from the side unnoticed.

The room was dimly lit with orange strobe lights dancing around. A layer of smoke filtered through the air, along with the smell of vapes and sticky alcohol on the floor.

The music was all for Lando. The playlist included all his favourite songs.

You walked around the edge so you could go and grab a quick drink from the bar.

“Limoncello spritz please.” You asked the bartender.

A couple minutes later you had your drink in hand and slipped back into the corner of the room, a standing table available for you to rest your drink on.

All of Lando’s friends, family and fellow F1 mates were here celebrating. Lando was so loved and it was amazing to see.

He was currently stood on a raised platform with Oscar by his side. They were both bopping and singing out of tune to one of his favourite songs. You smiled as you watched on.

Then Lando caught your eyes.

He made his way off the platform and walked over to you. The crowd easily parted for him.

He didn’t stop until he was right in front of you.

“I’m sorry.” He said.

You nodded.

“I’m a dickhead sometimes.”

You pursed your lips to stop from smiling.

“But I love you too much to fight over something so boring.”

You nodded in agreement.

“So will you accept my apology and come dance with me? I did win the Monaco Grand Prix for you after all.”

You held out your hand like it was a white flag.

He took it was a grin, only to be shocked by the force of you pulling him closer so you could give him a proper kiss.

Your arms snaked around his neck and his felt their way across your waist, both of you sinking into each other and letting the rest of the room drift away.

You tilted your head to let him have a little extra room to kiss you and he followed. You could feel him smirking into the kiss, but he didn’t pull away. Not when he had you like this.

You tugged on his curls a little and his mouth opened with a gasp, allowing you to kiss him deeper. He tasted like some sort of berry flavoured alcohol, because it was known he was still a kid at heart. It made the kiss all the more delectable.

He pulled away breathlessly.

You tried to go in for another, still in a love haze.

“Later.” He whispered against your lips, but giving you another kiss all the same.

“Now.” You argued.

“Dance with me first.”

“Okay.” You tucked your face into his neck and gave him a kiss. He felt like home when you held him like this. Safe and comforting, even though you were in the middle of a club.

“Love you.” He spoke softly but loud enough for you to hear.

“Love you right back.”

“We okay?” He double checked.

“We’re okay.” You nodded. “Now let’s celebrate!”

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lando We won 🏆

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fan1 no lando, y/n won fr

fan2 THAT SHOULD BE ME

fan3 the hand placements… oh i’m dead

yourinstagram go go lando!!! so proud 🍯

♥️ by the author

lando @/yourinstagram My no 1 fan 🧡

lewishamilton 🧡

oscarpiastri Where did you & Y/N go….??

lando @/oscarpiastri 👀

fan4 deserved 👏

fan5 not y/n and lando flirting in the commentd

fan6 those are literally my parents wdym

[dreamersparacosm]

jeon jungkook - off the record (part seven)

part seven ; ghosts from mock trial past

warnings ; none!

prompt ; in which you’re paired with your insufferably charming ex-academic rival turned coworker to cover a congressional scandal, and suddenly, professional boundaries becomes the only thing holding you two apart.

note ; guys i think i have an actual physical and emotional connection to this story. i spent all of last night daydreaming about them before bed and am now genuinely concerned about my ability to be a functioning civilian. but it's a-okay because part seven is done and dusted (with part eight not far behind!!!!) as i mentioned in an ask sent in by an anon, i split up this part into two parts because it was nearing 25k words and at that point, it genuinely was not readable. just wayyyyy too much happening all at once but rest assured you are still fed in this chapter. a lot of subtle emotional shifts and tension. reading between the lines, if you will. part eight is probably my favorite part of this series so far so stay excited for that!!! enjoy :))

series masterlist here

playlist here

wc ; 7.9k

Press conferences are intricate games of cat and mouse, when you consider the details. You’re never completely sure which animal you are, though, until someone draws blood. 

You like to think you’re the cat. Claws sharp, reflexes quicker, ready to pounce on the mouse any moment it makes a wrong move. You can envision it already: you, a sleek feline circling some hapless politician until they slip up and give you the soundbite you want. 

See, it’s pretty simple. You’ll sink your claws into any mouse, and devour it for any form of satisfaction you can get your paws on. 

And right now, you’re basically purring with satisfaction from sitting in the front row at Monroe’s press conference, a VIP press badge wrapped around your neck with the words [Y/N] [Y/L/N], CNN in big, bold letters. This is better than caffeine, you think. Maybe even better than sex, but it's been long enough since you've had any that you might be forgetting what that feels like.

Beside you, Jungkook shifts restlessly, his own press badge an obnoxious shade of Fox News blue and red. Even after years and years of sitting near him, that logo still makes you want to commit small acts of violence. 

It’s weird having him right next to you instead of lurking a few rows behind like usual. Normally you sense his presence somewhere in your peripheral vision, but now you’re noticing all the things.

Like how he clicks his pen a few times out of habit, or chews the inside of his cheek violently as time drags on. 

He’s within prime note-stealing distance, which makes you irrationally paranoid even though you’re supposedly working off the information you two got from your chats with her. Old habits die hard. 

You’ve been at the press briefing for all of ten minutes after you both engaged in a full-contact sport for the best seat possible (although Mark did already assign your respective seating and, of course, it happened to be next to each other), and there’s no sign of Monroe. The longer she keeps everyone waiting, the more restless the pack gets, and restless journalists are dangerous journalists. 

“When do you think she’ll come out?” Jungkook pipes up, adjusting his blazer. 

You snort. “Ten years from now. You know how they like to make us wait. It's like they get off on watching us slowly lose our minds out here.” 

“Sadistic but true,” he agrees, glancing around the room. “Think she’s back there practicing her stone-cold face in a mirror?”

“Absolutely. Probably with a whole team of consultants telling her exactly how much to let her voice crack for maximum sympathy.” You move in your seat, trying (and failing) to find a position that doesn't make your legs go numb. Plus, your heels are really starting to pinch in the back. “Either that or she’s having a full breakdown and they’re pumping her full of xanax.”

“My money’s on the xanax.”

“Safe bet.” You check your phone for the third time in two minutes. “Knowing her, she’ll come out here completely composed, sunglasses on, and deliver the most boring non-answers in political history.”

“Boring non-answers are still usable. Senator Williams once said ‘I categorically deny these categorically false allegations.’ Whatever the fuck that means.” Jungkook shrugs, a movement you feel more than see. His arm moves up where he’s subtly pressed against you. Who put these chairs so close together? 

You shudder at the distant memory. “Oh god, that was painful. I started timing how long he could go without saying anything of substance. Personal record was four minutes and ten seconds.”

Jungkook’s laugh bellows throughout the room. The sound evokes that annoying fluttery thing again in your stomach. Recently, there’s been a permanent swarm of butterflies making a home in your stomach every time he’s near. “Scientific study on Williams, got it.”

“I’m a professional after all.” There’s a slight pause, then you remember why you’re both here in the first place. “Speaking of professional, we should probably compare notes. Did you scrape anything together on the way here?” 

He definitely did not, but you’re holding out a candle for his one last working brain cell. 

“Right. Let us see, shall we?” He pulls out his notebook with a clearing of his throat, sifting through pages and pages of doodles. It’s a disaster — there’s tiny skulls in the margins and three different pen colors scattered across pages. 

He flips through a few more pages before coughing and scratching the back of his neck like he’s developed a mysterious rash. Don’t even think about it, Jeon. “Uh… so about that.” 

“Jeon, you’re kidding.” 

“What?? I was focused on the views!” You're not sure what views he's referring to, although there was a homeless man you drove by that was arguing with a traffic cone. It was more intellectually stimulating than most political discourse.

“You went to school here, dickwad.” You flick his forehead with a satisfying thwack. “What more do you want to see?” 

“Listen.” He gives you a sheepish look. “I think… for this one, I’ll let you lead.” 

“I beg your pardon?” This has to be a trick. Maybe he’s having some kind of medical episode. Should you call someone or leave him to die?

“You have a great strategy. I’m sure I can just chime in where needed.” 

“Jeon, I swear to god, this better not be a prank where you're setting me up to fail spectacularly—“ 

It’s not exactly low on the list of possibilities with him. 

Jungkook cuts you off, turning his body towards you so quickly that your thighs brush against each other. The contact is brief, but your leg buzzes and your brain goes offline for a millisecond. “At the end of the day, we both need to walk out of here with a story for our bosses and, in my opinion, paint Monroe in a better light than she’s in now. You’re capable of that, no?” 

“I’m incredibly capable of that.”

It feels like he’s handing off the world’s most important group project to you. Sure, you want to be flattered, but this also seems like an elaborate scheme to make you do all the work while he sits back and judges your performance. 

Point blank, the whole situation is incredibly suspicious. Since when does Jungkook Jeon voluntarily hand over control of anything? This is the same man who once argued with you for twenty minutes about who got to ask the opening question at a stupid city council meeting. “So why are you doing this?” 

You’re half-expecting a smug remark to come next. A cheeky smirk. The punchline. 

Instead, he says: “I told you. I trust you.” 

“Sounds lazy.” 

He sighs. His features contort, and even though you’ve known him for nearly a decade, you can’t make out his motives. “It’s not. I trust that you’ll get the job done.” 

“Right, but you don’t want to.. one-up me? Steal my thunder? Make me look incompetent in front of my professional peers?”  

“I already do that in DC.” Jungkook’s smile could probably light up all of Times Square. “I’ll give you New York.” 

In all four years of college, not once did he give you New York. 

“Fair enough.” You open up your own notepad that hosts all your cross-referenced questions because you are a functioning adult, unlike some people. “Well, I’ll probably open up with something about that new legislation they’re working on. Discuss her involvement.” 

He hums approvingly. 

Sharing your real questions feels weirdly intimate, like showing him your actual hand instead of just the cards you want him to see. But then again, you did promise to work together, and his annoying genuine compliment from earlier is still rattling around in your brain like a pinball.

You’re grateful to have something concrete to focus on instead of whatever psychological chess game he's playing. “I also want to ask about her alignment with the Democratic party. That should establish her credibility enough.”

“Oh, don’t forget,” He rubs his mouth with his fingers like he’s Confucious, deep in thought. “Gotta call her Senator Monroe instead of Monroe. Can’t let them know we’re addressing her informally like we’re all best buds or something.”

“No way, really?” you reply sardonically. “I was gonna ask for her skincare routine. Thank god you saved me.”

You watch as he chews his cheek for the nth time to hold back a smile. You almost don’t want him to hold back. You kind of want those permanent butterflies to make a reappearance. 

“So…” You lean back, cross your right leg over your left. “Any actual journalism hidden in that artistic masterpiece?"

He looks down at his notepad that’s ajar, enough for you to spot some squiggles and flowers and letters that are incoherent. 

He grins, not even slightly embarrassed about the doodles. "To be honest with you, I want to know more about the power dynamic. Who had more influence in their professional relationship?"

That's... quite good. Damn him.

"That's going to make her squirm," you admit begrudgingly. It’s probably not a good idea to ask that, but neutrality has been your middle name recently. 

"That's the point. I also want to ask if she thinks the story would have gotten the same attention if the genders were reversed."

You blink at him. Brilliant. Beyond brilliant, if you’re being journalistically honest. Jungkook has obviously done research — or at the very least, thought — about whether the media treats men and women differently, which is news to you.

You always assumed his idea of feminism was holding doors open and not mansplaining the news to female correspondents, apparently setting the bar somewhere near the earth's core.

“Shit, that's smart."

His interrogation skills continue to be something you admire about him. He doesn’t need to dwell on questions or prep in the shower. He has the capacity to exude magnificence without even trying. 

He crosses his arms over his chest. "Don't sound so surprised. I occasionally have good ideas."

"Occasionally being the operative word."

Before Jungkook has a chance to conjure up the world’s most lukewarm comeback, the sound of cameras clicking and heels on wood knocks against your eardrum, demanding attention. 

Almost as if she’s been summoned by the collective impatience of thirty caffeine-addled journalists, Monroe appears. 

Her hair is pulled back in a sleek bun, outfit ironed to a crisp. Surprisingly, she’s not wearing sunglasses, and her eyes look a little… darker. Not like her eyes were ever dazzling pools of emerald, but they’re duller than usual. 

She walks up to the podium, Mark behind her like a shadow. 

The second she sits down, the voices follow. 

"Senator Monroe, how do you respond—"

"—allegations of misconduct—"

"—timeline of your relationship with—"

"—comment on Senator Delgado's statement—"

It’s like watching piranhas descend on a wounded gazelle, except the gazelle is wearing designer clothing and the piranhas have press badges. You almost feel bad for her. 

You catch Jungkook’s eye, and he gives you a look that says yikes; it’s the most unified you’ve ever been about anything. Even Mark, who's hovering by the side wall like a nervous father at a dance recital, looks as though he's reconsidering every life choice that led him to this moment.

Monroe holds up one hand and miraculously, the piranhas quiet down. 

“Thank you all for being here,” she begins, tone steady. She’s a better actress than you give her credit for. "I know there's been a lot of speculation, and I appreciate the opportunity to set the record straight."

Jungkook mutters under his breath, “Here we go,” and you have to bite your tongue to keep from laughing. 

Watching politicians try to spin their way out of scandals will always be peak entertainment.

Monroe scans the room, looking for the friendliest face in a crowd of vultures. She spots you and Jungkook, and the tiniest sparkle lights itself in her eyes. 

“I’ll take questions now.”

Every hand in the room shoots up simultaneously. 

You don’t dare lift your hand yet, because you’re almost scared to get drowned out by the crowd. You know your voice has never failed to cut through a crowd — not with the way your voice booms off walls, or the way your research speaks for itself — but this specific press briefing makes you want to wait until the right moment. Pick your shot.  

As if Jungkook can smell your hesitation, he bumps his thigh against yours. Purposely, this time. The heat of him scorches through the fabric of your pants, spreading outward like someone just dropped a lit match on dry kindling.

You raise your hand and ignore his gaze. He doesn't get to know that his stupid little gesture of support made the permanent butterflies return. 

“CNN?”

Mark’s voice is recognizable. He smiles brightly, gives you a nod as if to say ‘This is your moment. Don't waste it.’

Clearing your throat, you say, “Senator Monroe, what specific contributions did your policies make to the new legislation passed last month?” 

There’s a collective sigh around the room — probably at the fact that you neglected to ask what sex position she was caught in with Delgado.

(It was doggy style. Go, Monroe. Get it girl.)

Monroe’s eyes find yours, and a pleased expression spreads across her face. Her mask cracks enough that you can peek through. Like she knew you wouldn't appease the piranhas, that you'd ask the question that lets her talk about her work instead of her personal life.

And god help you, you do not want to let her down.

Monroe’s spine straightens in her chair, and she’s no longer a scandal-ridden politician anymore — she’s a senator who knows her stuff. “Over the past six months, I've been the primary sponsor on three pieces of legislation that directly address healthcare accessibility in rural communities," she begins, her voice gaining strength with each word. "The Rural Healthcare Infrastructure Act alone allocated forty-two million dollars to underserved areas, something I've been fighting for since I took office."

Your pen flies across paper, capturing every detail, every statistic, every word. This is what you breathe for — the concrete evidence that makes a story bulletproof. And the truth is as follows: Monroe is good at her job, and no sex scandal can argue otherwise. 

Next to you, Jungkook’s approach is wildly different from your own. You;ve written full sentences with proper punctuation as any civilized human being would, but he’s scrambling to get down fragments: “42 mil,” “rural health,” “primary sponsor.” You catch a glimpse of what resembles a tiny drawing of a stethoscope in the margin, because obviously testimony seems to remind him of art class.

“Washington Post?” Mark calls out next, and the cycle resumes.

Question, answer, furious note-taking. 

Then Bloomberg, then NPR, each outlet getting their moment in the spotlight before the wheel keeps turning.

If anyone ever asks what you love most about political press conferences, the answer is straightforward. It’s how predictable they are when you learn the pattern. 

They’re a ballroom dance where everyone knows the steps. 

There are those who ask softball questions to build rapport. Those who go straight for the jugular. 

And when one gets really good at this job, they can practically see the next three moves before they happen. 

During a brief lull where someone from Reuters fumbles with their words, you raise your hand again, and Mark points at you with the universal sign to proceed. “Senator Monroe, can you walk us through how you typically collaborate with colleagues on bipartisan legislation?”

A chance for her to talk about working relationships while opening the door for follow-ups about specific colleagues. Like Delgado, for instance. 

Two more questions, two more deliberate steps forward. The merry-go-round keeps spinning, the piranhas keep circling, and you're starting to see exactly where this is all heading.

You’re plotting on what else you can squeeze from her without showing your hand, as Mark’s voice cuts through your strategy session. 

“New York Times?”

“Senator Monroe,” the correspondent starts. You can already tell that this is about to go sideways, “do you feel as though there’s a level of innocence you’re trying to maintain throughout all this?” 

You have got to be kidding. 

Your heart lurches in your chest and drops somewhere into your shoes. You watch in horror as Monroe’s face crumbles like a sandcastle hit by a rogue wave. The sparkle from earlier fizzles out.

You know you need to be neutral. You want to be neutral. That’s literally Journalism 101. However, watching this unfold feels like watching someone kick a puppy on live television.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Jungkook’s jaw lock in place, a sigh escaping him, and his pen hovers over his notebook menacingly. 

“Right, well,” Monroe clears her throat. You have to admire how she’s pulling herself back together. She's a stronger woman than you are, because your automatic instinct would be to stand up, remove your left shoe, and launch it at the Times correspondent's head. “I could say the same for him, couldn’t I?”

Yes, Monroe. Yes, you absolutely can. 

There’s a tap on your shoulder as you lean forward in anticipation of her next words. Your head whips in the direction of the sensation, and Jungkook is sliding his notepad toward you, with “Do you believe gender roles in this scandal have shaped how the media treats you?” scribbled in black ink. 

When you peek back up at him, he’s smiling like he just solved world peace. A toothy grin. His two front teeth poke through in a bunny-like manner. 

You're smiling back before you can stop yourself, which is precisely when a camera flash goes off somewhere to your left. The photographer waves at you, wanting another shot, but you're too busy processing the fact that Jungkook just handed you the perfect follow-up question.

Your hand shoots up and you hear the rustle of paper as Jungkook flips through the pages frantically. 

You catch a glimpse of something that makes your brain stutter to a halt.

There’s a sketch on one of his pages. A drawing of someone sitting in a chair, hair falling in waves that look almost the length of yours, the curve of shoulders that seem familiar in a way that makes your stomach flip.

It really does look familiar. 

That can’t be you. 

Can it?

It's probably just some random person he doodled during a boring meeting. Maybe it's Sana. Or his sister (does he have a sister?). Or literally anyone who isn't you sitting right next to him.

You're definitely overthinking this. Sleep deprivation does weird things to your brain.

“CNN?” 

You gulp down the saliva that’s pooled in your mouth. The question. Jungkook's brilliant, gender-role question that he's going to let you steal and pretend was your idea all along.

“Do you believe gender roles in this scandal have shaped how the media treats you?”

Monroe’s face lights up, grin widening. Like the Cheshire Cat if the Cheshire Cat had a law degree and a grudge against the patriarchy.

“I do. In fact, I believe this entire scandal exists because we still live in a world where a woman's ambition is seen as threatening, where female politicians are held to impossible standards of moral purity while their male counterparts get a free pass for far worse behavior. When men have affairs, they're humanized. When women do, they're demonized.”

By the time she finishes answering the question and Mark has moved on to Politico, you’re nowhere near done conjuring up a clear image of that sketch in your mind.

You don’t care about his artistic endeavors.. The man is clearly a young Picasso in the making, evident by the volume of doodles scattered everywhere. 

But — and this is just a stray thought that breezes through your subconscious — if that really was a sketch of you, a little snapshot of what he sees when he sits behind you at press briefings, why would he spend time drawing that? Why waste time sketching someone you supposedly can't stand?

You’re still calculating your odds of being his unwitting muse when another camera flash goes off. 

Great. More pictures of you and Jungkook looking like you're plotting world domination together. These better not end up on some weird Reddit forum for journalism. This is hardly your most photogenic angle. 

Mark calls on someone else and your pen is standing upright like a soldier waiting for marching orders. 

That question ends up being the final one of the briefing — and thank god for that, because one more would’ve sent you straight to Penn Station to throw yourself in front of the next NJ Transit train. You start shoving your belongings into your bag, stuffing your notepad into the black hole that is your tote bag, where it’ll probably disappear forever alongside ten different lip balms and a granola bar from 2019.

You don’t really have the energy to look at Jungkook right now. If you do, you might ask him about that sketch and that feels like a horrendous idea. Almost as catastrophic of an idea as that one time you asked your college professor if his wife knew he was flirting with half the Political Science department. 

The room slowly empties, chatter blending together. You turn to where Jungkook was sitting, expecting to find him packing up his disaster of a notebook, but his seat is empty. 

Instead, he’s standing near the front of the room, talking to the photographer who’s been documenting your transformation into a two-person investigative team. Jungkook is pointing at something on the camera’s display, head tilted. 

What the fuck? What is he doing?

Yet another bullet point on the growing list of Jungkook-related mysteries you don’t want to think about. Right next to "why does he smell so good" and "when did he become thoughtful about gender dynamics" and "was that my hair in his sketch."

“I’m just saying. Katniss was never really in love with either of them. She loved safety and survival.”

You don’t know what crime you committed in a past life that resulted in your current punishment: drinking at Fiddlesticks Pub in New York City, surrounded by a bunch of eager correspondents, debating young adult literature with Jungkook while nursing matching vodka cranberries.

It must have been something truly heinous. Identity theft. Or worse — you likely wrote clickbait headlines. 

He snorts at your brutal take, rolling up the cuffs of his sleeves to lean his tattooed arm on the bartop. “You would think that. Cold analysis. Absolutely heartless.”

Okay, maybe you were one of those people who spoiled movies in theater lobbies. Yes, that’s the crime. 

“It’s realistic,” you say, taking a sip of your drink. “You think trauma bonding equals true love? That's like saying Stockholm syndrome is romantic.”

“Peeta loved her gently,” he argues, and you literally can't believe you’re having this conversation. “That’s the whole point of the book. Gale was all fire and destruction, but Peeta understood what she needed to heal.”

Here you are, at this dingy dive bar, getting a full literary analysis of The Hunger Games from a man who doodles in the margins of his press notes.

The rest of your day had been relatively relaxing — you’d wandered around Manhattan for hours, visiting approximately every coffee shop in a ten block radius and pretending to need things from three different drugstores. Anything to avoid the possibility of walking in on Jungkook doing something inadvisable, like breaking rule number two. Again. 

Unfortunately, your avoidance strategy was derailed the moment Mark invited you both to some impromptu happy hour for all the correspondents. Really, who can say no to free alcohol?

All that to say — that’s how you ended up trapped in a discussion about the humanity versus survival motif with Jungkook. 

You should’ve stayed at the hotel and ordered room service. 

“I can’t believe you’re the only person I know here,” you sigh, swirling the ice cubes in your drink. 

The bar is relatively packed at this hour. It smells faintly of spilled beer and sweat, and someone’s blasting 2000s throwbacks loudly in your right ear. You're pretty sure the person next to you is having an argument about cryptocurrency.

Looking around, your chances of finding someone else to talk to who won't challenge your literary opinions are looking increasingly grim.

“Oh, come on. I’m not entertaining enough for you?” He pouts dramatically. 

“I would rather watch someone grate cheese directly onto my eyeballs for entertainment.”

And that’s not even an exaggeration. 

“Ouch. Tough crowd.” He throws his head back, draining the rest of his vodka cranberry in one go. 

“Do you know anyone here?” 

He probably does. He seems like the type of person who knows everyone everywhere. Or, at least, he did in college. 

“A few people,” he remarks with a shrug. 

Called it. 

Your curiosity is piqued. “Anyone interesting?”

“Not really worth mentioning.” He suddenly finds the bar’s scratched wooden surface fascinating, avoiding eye contact like his life depends on it.

Oh. 

You’re not sure if you should pry but you’re currently two vodka cranberries deep, so fuck it.

“What, someone you fucked?” you joke, shifting your weight off one foot to the other. Damn, your heels are really starting to hurt. 

“Like I said,” he motions to the bartender for another round, “Not worth talking about.”

“Definitely someone you fucked.” you giggle at his discomfort. Everyone commits a little political incest once in a while (except for you). “It better not have been someone from Daily Mail. That’s like working at Gucci and shopping at Goodwill.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Poetic comparison.”

“Do you make it a point to work your way through the correspondents?”

Okay, vodka cranberries, serious conversation on boundaries needs to be had. Chill. You’re venturing into territory you have no business being in.

He accepts the fresh drink from the bartender’s waiting hand, sliding a few extra dollars for gratuity across the bar. “I’ll have you know I haven’t had sex in a while.”

You definitely committed treason in a past life, because having this conversation with Jungkook while tipsy is torture specifically designed for you. 

“What’s ‘a while’ in your book?” You doubt his definition matches yours. His version of a dry spell is probably what normal people call a long weekend. 

“You know… like a month or two.” Crimson red creeps up his neck, visible even under the bar’s soft lighting. 

“Christ, I must be the Virgin Mary then.”

“Wait, how long has it been for you?” 

You’re both tiptoeing a weird line. 

In the span of one day, you've felt his hands on your hips, seen him half-naked, and now you're comparing celibacy timelines.

“A little longer than that,” you admit, taking a sip to avoid questioning. 

“What—” A smile — a real, genuine one that makes your insides feel like someone just released a bunch of butterflies in a windstorm — erupts on his face. His eyes go all crinkly, and you clutch your glass tightly, “You don’t have game?”

“I’m not interested in all that.” A masterpiece of deflection. 

He fidgets with his drink napkin, tearing little pieces off. “Because of your ex?” 

Damn Jungkook and his annoying ability to see right through you. 

“No,” you lie. “My career comes first.”

“Right.” He accepts the explanation without pushing, not calling you out on the obvious bullshit. He looks back down at his glass, then asks, “So then are you getting promoted soon?”

You narrow your eyes at him suspiciously. “If I tell you, are you going to use it against me? Sabotage my chances when we get back to DC?” 

A cheeky grin flashes across his features. “Never. Who would I have epic battles with in the press room if you got promoted out of my league?” 

Fair enough. You sigh longingly. “Maybe. Jenna’s been tossing subtle hints for weeks.” 

“That’s exciting.” He doesn't offer much else. 

In this lighting, you can see the moles up closer that litter his face. His tie is crooked after hours of wear, strong muscle outlined by his button-down. It's very distracting, which is probably why you're staring instead of responding like a normal person.

“What about you?” You manage to ask. 

“Me?” He points at himself stupidly, like there’s someone else standing beside him.

“Promotion, genius.” 

“Oh. Possibly.” He shrugs, less confident than normal. “My editor thinks my research methods are juvenile. Says it shows in my writing.” 

“I mean, I read that article you did on the infrastructure bill last month,” you say before you can stop the vodka cranberry from speaking.  “It wasn’t terrible.”

Something shifts behind his eyes that sends a swarm of something restless and warm buzzing around your abdomen. 

“You read my stuff?” 

“I read everyone’s stuff,” you say quickly. It’s true — you do. Professional reconnaissance. 

His face drops, as if someone just told him Santa was a myth.  

“Ah, so you’re not stalking me back?” 

“No, that’s definitely your specialty,” you tease, laughing lightly. “I'm too busy to develop unhealthy obsessions with my competition.”

“Competition, right.” He takes another sip of his own vodka cranberry. “Is that still what we’re calling this?”

Well, you’ve been rivals since college, you work for competing networks, you’ve spent over 100 hours trying to outmaneuver him for the best questions. If that's not competition, then you've been misunderstanding your entire professional relationship.

“What else would we call it? A friendship? Because I hate to break it to you, but Rosalie and I don’t really pray on each other’s downfalls.”

“Fine, fine.” He grins. “You’re right. My friendships don’t involve this much arguing about journalistic ethics.”

“Or Hunger Games literary analysis.”

“That was very important discourse.”

“Waste of brain cells,” you counter. “Next you’ll want to debate whether Edward or Jacob was the better choice.”

“Obviously Edward. Jacob was a child.” He furrows his eyebrows.

“See, this is why we can’t be friends.” You kick his shin lightly with the sharp-end of your heel. “You have terrible taste in fictional men.”

“My taste in fictional men is impeccable,” he protests, “Edward was emotionally mature, financially stable, and completely devoted. That’s husband material.”

You snort. “Edward was a controlling stalker who watched her sleep. If that’s what you think romance is, I’m concerned for anyone who dates you.”

“Ouch.” He places a hand over his heart dramatically. “You really know how to wound a guy.”

“It’s a gift.” You step out of your heels for a minute to give you a break from the throbbing on the back of your foot. “Besides, we both know you’re more of a Gale anyway.”

“How am I Gale?”

“Competitive, stubborn, thinks he knows what’s best for everyone else…” You tick off the qualities on your fingers. “Plus you both have that whole 'I'm going to win this war' energy.”

“Oh, really? What does that make you?” 

“Obviously Katniss. Practical, strategic, trying to keep everyone alive while they make terrible decisions.”

“And emotionally unavailable?” He looks down at your feet that are still struggling to find a good position to remain in. 

“Selectively available, Jeon.” 

Jungkook’s mouth barely opens to release a smartass comment when you feel a tap on your shoulder. 

You turn around and nearly choke on your drink.  

Jake Gonzalez. From mock trial. Standing right here in the middle of Fiddlesticks Pub like he just materialized from your college daydreams.

What the hell is he doing here?

Never mind that — he’s somehow even more attractive since sophomore year. Brown hair that falls across his forehead like warm chocolate drizzled over vanilla ice cream, green eyes that remind you of fresh pine trees. He was always incredibly sweet to you, even when you were destroying his arguments in front of the entire mock trial team. Pretty sure every girl in the program had a crush on him. 

You included. 

“Jake?” you ask. Is it possible to hallucinate from vodka?

God, you want to get lost in those eyes and never find your way back. 

“Knew that was you, [Y/N],” he says, grinning easily, “How have you been?”

“I’ve been good!” You lean in for a hug and his strong biceps envelop you. Someone's definitely been hitting the gym. “What are you doing in New York?”

“I live around here actually,” He gestures toward the window vaguely. “I work for the New York Times. Politics desk.”

“God, that’s awesome. I’m at CNN, covering the Hill.”

You don't need to elaborate — anyone in political journalism knows exactly what that means.

“Always knew you’d end up somewhere like that.” His grin grows tenfold. “CNN would've been crazy not to snap up the most talented writer Columbia ever produced.”

His hair looks ridiculously soft. Like he's got some kind of expensive skincare routine that extends to follicle care. You want to run your hands through it while—

Someone clears their throat behind you. 

Oh. Him. 

Jungkook’s still standing there, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else in the universe 

“Jake, you remember Jungkook, right?” you say, stepping back slightly. 

Jake looks completely unamused by him. “Oh yeah, Jeon. How’s it going, bro?” 

“Fantastic, bro. Thanks for asking,” Jungkook replies sharply. 

The ‘bro’ does not sound friendly. 

Whatever. There’s no time for a dick measuring contest when Jake’s gorgeous green eyes are in front of you. 

“So the Times, eh?” You lean in closer. The bar is loud (no, you don’t just want to be in his personal space. Although, yes, you want that too). “That must be awesome.”

“It really is. I’ve been covering some major stories lately. I actually just got back from interviewing the Secretary of State about new trade agreements.” Jake’s chest puffs out slightly. Confidence looks so sexy on him. “And last month I broke that story about the lobbying scandal. Made the front page.”

You hear what sounds like a snort from behind you, but you’re too honed in on Jake’s accomplishments to care. 

“That’s amazing.” Your voice is breathy. “You always were brilliant in mock trial. Remember that case about corporate liability? You fucking destroyed the opposing team.”

“I remember you giving me a run for my money.” He winks. “But yeah, I’ve been doing pretty well for myself. My editor says I’m on track to win a Pulitzer in the next few years.”

Another snort. Louder this time. 

Jake doesn’t pay any mind to it, which makes you like him even more. Professional, focused, unbothered by petty interruptions. 

“A Pulitzer?? Jake, that’s amazing.” You place your hand on his arm. All subtlety has left the bar. “I always knew you were going places.”

“Thanks, [Y/N]. You know, we should grab dinner sometime. Catch up properly.” His hand covers yours where it still rests on his bicep. “I’d love to hear about your work. I’m sure you’ve got some fascinating stories from the Hill.”

You keep waiting for your stomach to do that fluttery thing but it never comes. Weird. “I’d really like that.”

“Great. I’ll have to get your number before I leave.”

You’re so absorbed in Jake’s attention that you barely register movement in your peripheral vision until you see Jungkook walking past you both, heading toward the other end of the bar with purpose. He doesn’t look back or say goodbye… just leaves. 

Huh.

Well, maybe he got the hint that three’s a crowd. 

Honestly, you’re relieved. Now you can focus entirely on reconnecting with Jake without any awkward hovering or territorial snorting. 

“So,” Jake continues, not noting or caring about Jungkook’s departure, “tell me more about CNN. Correspondent?”

“Uh, yeah.” You shake your head to banish any lingering thoughts of Jungkook. “Yeah, I’ve been there since graduation actually.”

“No promotion yet?” There’s this tiny pout evident on his plump cherry lips that is meant to be endearing, but feels more condescending.

“Working on it.” you say, forcing brightness into your tone. 

“And Jeon — he works at CNN with you?” 

Why does he have to bring him up? Can't you go back to the part where Jake was asking you to dinner and making you feel like the most interesting person in the room?

“Nah, he works at Fox.” you sigh. 

Jake takes note of your expression. “Ah. Still giving you trouble, I’m guessing?”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

He laughs. A genuine, hearty laugh that should be sending signals of warmth to your belly but instead just sits there, doing absolutely nothing. Maybe you really are the emotionally unavailable ice queen from your Hunger Games analysis.  

“Well at least let me buy you another drink to make up for having to deal with him.” He signals the bartender over, and then turns back to you. “You still drinking mojitos like you did in college?”

You hold up your glass. “Vodka cranberries now. I’ve upgraded.”

“Smart choice.” He orders for both of you. 

With Jake being distracted, you notice Jungkook across the bar, leaning against a high-top table, talking to a woman with sleek black hair. She’s undeniably pretty. Dressed in an all pink blazer set. It's a little much for a casual bar, in your completely unbiased opinion, but then again, you’ve been spending all day in a red power suit so maybe you're not one to judge.

They're standing close, and she's laughing at something he's saying, touching his arm. 

Good for him. He deserves to have fun instead of lurking around you all the time. 

“One vodka cranberry for the brilliant journalist.” Jake hands you the drink with a flourish.

“Thanks.” You take a sip. A little stronger than you normally preferred, but whatever. Beggars can’t be choosers. 

“Alright.” Jake props himself up against the bar. “What’s been your biggest scoop lately?”

The Monroe situation deserves its own dissertation. You’re ready to launch into a ten minute explanation of it when you get the urge to glance around the bar. Jungkook’s body has turned a few degrees, and for a moment, his eyes find yours across the crowded area.

The eye contact lasts maybe two seconds, but it hits you like a freight train carrying a cargo of dynamite. Your stomach erupts into a butterfly hurricane — it’s wild and overwhelming and makes you forget how to breathe properly. 

“You okay?” Jake asks, and you realize you’ve been staring across the bar like a deer in headlights. 

“Yeah, sorry. Just—” You struggle to refocus. “Where were we?” 

“Your biggest story,” he prompts, but now his head is following your gaze towards Jungkook’s section of the bar. “Actually, speaking of stories, how’s Jeon doing at Fox? I heard he’s been making quite a name for himself.”

Specific thing to have heard. “He’s fine, I guess. We don’t normally compare notes or anything.��

“But you two travel together for work?” Jake’s register comes casual, but the question is pointed. 

“Not by choice.” You gulp down another sip of your aggressively strong drink. “This New York thing is just a coincidence.”

“Cool. He always was competitive back in school. I imagine that makes working in the same building… interesting.”

“It’s fine.” You hope you’re shutting down his questioning, “We mostly just ignore each other.”

Not true whatsoever, but that’s neither here nor there. 

“Really? Because from what I’ve heard through the Columbia grapevine, you two have quite the reputation for going head-to-head at press conferences.” Jake’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes anymore. 

People are talking about you and Jungkook?

“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” you lie as you swallow down your drink. Seriously, did Jake ask the bartender to make this with paint thinner?

“C’mon, don’t be modest. I heard about that takedown a few months ago with Senator Robins. Brutal.” Jake leans closer, and his cologne is… a lot. “But I also heard Jeon got the exclusive follow-up interview. Must have been frustrating.”

Okay, this is getting weird. Jake knows the intricate details of your professional conflicts with Jungkook.

“Jake, I honestly don’t really want to talk about Jungkook.” You force out a laugh that sounds fake even to your own ears. “Let’s talk about something else. Like… your apartment! You said you live around here?” 

“Oh, yeah.” Jake straightens his spine. He’s pleased to shift to a topic where he can brag some more. “I've got a place in SoHo. Two bedrooms, great view of the Hudson. My parents helped with the down payment, obviously, but the rent is all me.”

“That’s great.” Your response is lackluster. You’re trying to sound interested, you really are, but your brain keeps drifting to Jungkook. To many things, actually. The sketch in his notepad. The chest tattoo. The way he looked at you across the bar. 

As you prepare to shift the conversation from Jake's apartment bragging to your own reasonably sized DC apartment — one your parents certainly didn’t finance — a strong hand suddenly grabs your wrist.

“Hey, what the—”

Before you can finish your protest, you’re dragged through the crowded bar like a reluctant parade float. You catch glimpses of confused faces as you’re hauled towards the back of the bar, past the bathrooms to a soft-lit hallway that smells of industrial cleaner. 

Your captor releases you once you’re pressed against the wall, and you whip around, ready to unleash every curse word you’ve ever learned. 

Fucking Jungkook. 

You’re going to let him have it. You’re going to demolish him with the verbal equivalent of a flamethrower. 

But then you look at his face. His eyes have gone as dark as storm clouds. His nostrils are flared, lips parted. 

He’s furious. And you have no idea why. 

That’s enough to shut you right up. 

“What are you doing?” he hisses. 

“What am I doing?” Your voice is a higher pitch than intended. “What are you doing, you freak? You just kidnapped me!”

“Were you talking to Jake about me?” 

Does he have superhuman hearing? He’s supposed to be busy charming Pink Blazer into giving him her number. 

“What—no. Maybe. I don’t know!” You’re floundering. “He asked questions. I answered. It’s called basic human interaction.”

“Okay, well, don’t.”

“Why not?” You cross your arms over your chest. Somewhere in the chaos of being dragged across a bar, you’ve lost your drink and you really need something to do with your hands. 

“Because.” His nostrils flare even wider, as if that’s even humanly possible. 

“Fantastic explanation.” You glare at him. “Can you not speak like a caveman? Use your big boy words.”

He rolls his eyes so hard they practically disappear into his skull. “Fine. He’s my… he’s my nemesis.”

“He’s not your nemesis. I’m your nemesis.” You blurt out before your brain can catch up with your lips. 

Your eyes go wide before you realize what that sentence implies. If this were a cartoon, Jungkook would crash straight through the wall behind him, leaving a perfect Jungkook-shaped hole in the drywall.

“Right. Yes.” He blinks rapidly. “But not like that, though.”

“Okay, like what then? Explain it like I’m five years old.”

“Jake isn't serious about you.”

“That doesn't sound like it’s related to your nemesis—”

“No, listen.” He steps closer, and the hallway feels much smaller. Suffocating. “Jake isn’t serious about you. He’s using you.”

What is he trying to imply here? That you’re some kind of swamp creature who lives to haunt men? “Using me for what, exactly? And why is that so impossible to believe that someone might be actually interested in me?”

“That’s not what I—” He runs a hand through his chestnut hair. “God, you’re impossible.”

“I’m impossible?” you scoff. “You literally just dragged me into a bathroom hallway to tell me that a perfectly nice guy couldn't possibly be interested in me. Forgive me if I'm not following your logic.”

“He doesn’t want to have dinner with you because he likes you,” Jungkook says, nearly screaming. “He wants information about me.”

You deadpan. “Are you having some kind of narcissistic breakdown? Not everything is about you, Jungkook.”

“This is.” His jaw ticks. “Jake and I… we have a complicated history.”

“Oh, like what? Did he steal your frat dues? Beat you at beer pong?” 

“No, [Y/N], Fuck, you’re—” He stops himself, jaw working like he’s chewing on words he’s trying to mash down.

You step closer. “I’ve known Jake for years, Jungkook. He’s a good guy.”

“Oh really? And suddenly tonight he wants to be all interested?” He takes a step forward too, closing the distance between you until you can count his eyelashes if you wanted to. 

You can see every detail of him you’ve been trying to ignore. The thin scar cutting across his cheekbone, the mole below his bottom lip. Even his scent is infiltrating every hair of your nostrils. 

“Maybe he’s always been interested and just never had the chance to say anything,” you argue, but you know you’re grasping at straws.

“Right. What a coincidence that he chose tonight, when you’re here with me.”

“I’m not here with you. We just happen to be in the same place.”

“Is that so?” His eyes search your face. “It feels like we’ve been together all day.”

“That’s just for work.” 

Those butterflies from earlier have multiplied into what feels like an entire ecosystem.

“Is it?” 

He's standing so close now that you have to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact, and that's when you notice his breathing has gotten shallow.

“Jake doesn't care about you,” he says quietly, voice desperate. “Can’t you see? He's trying to get to me.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

He closes the last inch of friendly space between you, and you’re pressed against the wall with nowhere to go. “What do you think I mean, [Y/N]?” 

Oh. 

Oh god. 

Are you really this dense, or has your brain abandoned ship? Because he can’t possibly be implying what you think he’s implying—

What exactly is he implying, anyway? That you're some kind of pawn in whatever game is being played between them?

If you’re the pawn, there has to be something worth winning. Some kind of prize that makes the game worthwhile. Something to be won. 

And the way he's looking at you right now — like you're something precious that someone might try to steal — tells you exactly what that prize is supposed to be.

“Let’s just… let’s talk about this later, Jungkook.” Your hands are trembling. Blood rushes from your face to your feet. “You've been drinking and I've been drinking and—”

“I know exactly what I’m saying.” 

The certainty in his voice makes your stomach flop like a fish fresh out of water. It has nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with the fact that Jungkook just implied you're something worth fighting over.

You push off the wall, stepping away from him before he can say anything else. “I need to get back to Jake.” 

“[Y/N]—”

But you’re already long gone, heels clacking against the sticky floor as you flee toward safety, You need another drink. Several drinks. You need to drink and drink until your body makes sense of what just happened, until the memory of his words fade into nothingness. 

masterlist + ask

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[bokettochild]

Opera house au thoughts plsssssssssssssss

Oh boy, I keep forgetting what I have shared and what I haven't! So apologies if this is redundant or repeats things I've stated before!

Warriors is not a social media kinda guy. he hams it up for the camera when it comes to work, but his private life is just that- private. The only social media he has is set so that only his family and close friends can see it (although he does have professional accounts as well, since all actors need to), and he's completely different irl than he is in front of a camera

Time's influence on Legend is subtle, but it's there. Only Twi and and Time know, but Legend is actually in a garage band on the side with his buddies Ballad and Myth (there was a weird naming trend a couple decades ago). Time is exceedingly proud but refuses to let it on to anyone except Twi, who just thinks it's funny that he'd bother

Dusk probably will end up having to face off against her parents eventually, but I think Twilight by that point is just barely holding himself back from going off at them, at least until she gets her chance, because he has words on Legend and his lost twin (Fable) Raven, and Dusk's behalves, but believes Dusk should get first dibs (she's too polite for her own good though and tries to keep it civil, so he does most of the yelling in the end)

Wars lives in a less than ideal part of town, which unfortunately means that if shit is going down and someone needs help, they usually end up crashing at his place. legend has ended up there a few times after going out with Lullaby/Sheik, and while Wars has questions, he never asks. He's the guy who always has an open door and a couch you can crash on, as long as you mind your own business in his home and respect his cousins

Fable and Wild have mutual crushes on each other but have no idea the other likes them, as Fable thinks Wild is sweet on Flora and Wild thinks she might have a thing for Legend or something

Legend reminds Fable of her dad for reasons she can't really name, it bugs her a lot, especially when she could swear she hears him humming songs Raven wrote, only when she listens really close, he's already stopped and there's no way of knowing

Hyrule's pretty good at memorizing stuff, and eventually, he and Legend start learning whole plays together, reciting them back and forth while doing prop prep and such. Sometimes someone will come to them and ask them to run a scene with them, and the two will play every part except the asker's in order to help them prep. This is what convinces everyone they need to get Hyrule on stage.

Legend's got something of a reputation in the acting community, albeit a weird one. Fans of the opera know him by face and sometimes by voice, but his name is unknown. There are theory boards. Hyrule accidentally joined one and spends a lot of time wondering what would happen if he told the others there the truth about their idol, or really anything about him. they don't even know if he's a guy or a girl, and when Hyrule posts anything about his time at the Opera, it tends to make them go crazy (he gets a kick out of messing with them)

Never carpool with Twilight, you think you're getting the sweet country boy, but it turns out he drives Time to work when Malon can't, and that man is scary. It's not worth it, walking is better. (Nevermind that Twi drives like a redneck)

Sun, Sky, Twilight and Legend go out for "family dinners" to a 50s style diner on the edge of town. it showed up in Mother's Day, and also in A Chance to Hold You Again, but I want to confirm that that is Their Spot. Dusk has no clue how much it matters to them, or the significance of Legend asking her to go there with him. He knows this and it's the only reason he had the guts to do it.

First sometimes flies in to check on the Opera, usually once a year, and sometimes Hylia tags along. The kids love them. They are the only people, everyone is convinced, who Time is afraid of. Everyone swears Time freezes on the spot if First is talking to him, and they're not sure if it's hero worship or something else (First doesn't like him, he won't explain why, not even to Hylia)

Hylia likes to play doting rich lady. Think Madame from the Aristocats; she's utterly adoring to all the kids and has a fondness for all the ladies as well. Sky and Time both don't like her, mostly because of the wealth flaunting/power plays they think she's employing.

Twilight spends his days off volunteering at an animal shelter that specializes in cats. If one of the strays/Impa's cats from around his apartment is having issues/has kittens, that's where he takes them.

Four is severely allergic to cats and as such refuses to let Twilight into the sound booth ever, because it doesn't matter how much that man showers, he's always got cat hair on him and Four refuses to deal with a sneezing fit while running sound/lights

That's all I got for now, sorry!

[stereopticons]

On This Day in Schitt's Creek: July 16

2019

[text] is this burning? [david/patrick, E, 1,099] by @olive2read

out of their go-to oil, Patrick makes an ill-advised replacement

Blow On Me [david/patrick, M, 1,020] by orphan_account

“I thought you were supposed to be sick,” Patrick said, putting down the juice and chicken soup he’d just brought home. “Was it all just a ploy to get out of working today, then?”

Lead Me (and Fit Around My Tongue) [david/patrick, E, 1,878] by bigficenergy

A gratuitous and particularly handsy movie date/makeout sesh.

pride night at the blue jays [david/patrick, NR, 3,054] by @samwhambam

When Patrick tells David about a less than stellar time he had at pride a few years prior, David decides to take matters into his own hands and provide Patrick with a better, more comforting experience during pride month.

Wedding Night [david/patrick, M, 1,016] by @kiranerys42

Now that they're married, Patrick wants to have sex with his husband. David just wants to sleep with his husband--as in, actually sleep.

2020

Can't Fight This Feeling [stevie/alexis, T, 5,437] by @alexistevie

Ever since the Roses came to Schitt's Creek, Stevie's life has changed....

Coming From Inside the House! [david/patrick, G, 1,179] by @froggierboy

David gets a surprise. A good surprise. The delivery, however, leaves something to be desired. Alternatively: How David Doesn't Almost Get Murdered In His Sleep.

i believe in one day, someday, and now [david/patrick, G, 200] by @enablelove

David reflects on the rain on their wedding day.

New Instincts [david/patrick, E, 2,544] by @januarium

Patrick has been desperate for a chance to get some quality time with David’s chest, but they may need to work through some stuff first.

Touch me, trust me, savour each sensation [david/patrick, E, 3,273] by @kiwiana-writes

“I want your whole fucking hand,” David blurts out before he can stop himself and Patrick freezes, staring at him with wide eyes. “Wait. Um, forget I said that.”

2021

Can't Help Falling In Love [ted/alexis, T, 8,078] by BrightStarDarkNight

When she and her family are forced to move to Schitt's Creek, Alexis Rose has no intentions of falling in love with the dorky vet with eyes only for her, but fate has other ideas. Ted/Alexis plus other characters. Patrick to appear in later chapters.

Cheesecake [david/patrick, G, 2,074] by @fictasticvoyage

David's baking journey continues, with cheesecake for a special dinner party.

Fifty-Mission (Iced) Cap [david/patrick, G, 860] by @kindofspecificstore

Ted gets an unexpected birthday present- his results for the research fellowship in the Galapagos. So naturally, he calls Patrick for emotional support.

Right [david/patrick, G, 2,944] by SoonerOrLater

Across the early months of their relationship, Patrick keeps a mental note of things that make him feel right.

she [stevie/alexis, M, 3,650] by icantbestill29

After David and Patrick's wedding night, Stevie has some thinking to do.

2022

Small Town Predicts My Fate [ted/david, T, 1,970] by @alex-wrestling

David Rose learns that his father actually bought Schitt’s Creek. So, after an ugly fight with Sebastien, he heads to where (hopefully) nobody knows who he is.

take off our gloves (and quit making it so hard) [david/patrick, T, 4,115] by @patrckbrewer

5 times saying goodbye to patrick hurt + 1 time it didn't

the first time [david/patrick, M, poem] by elifisher96

sexy poems for sexy times

Watch the World Collapse [david/patrick, G, 1,847] by @chelle-68

“You know, actually I don’t think I can do this at all.” Patrick suddenly says, his right hand rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes looking at the floor. What? No… “Patrick, what…what are you saying?” Patrick looks up and David sees the hurt his lack of communication the past week has caused. He looks exhausted and sad. He looks defeated. “I can’t do this, David. I can’t work with you and not be with you. I thought I could but I’m realizing now it just isn’t possible.” And then Patrick is moving and David can only stare at the space he was occupying as Patrick walks by him.

2023

So Many Drabbles, One After The Other, Consecutively, in a Row [david/patrick, NR, 4,097] by @mildly-hebraic-looking-elf

A series of not-necessarily-connected 100 word drabbles based on Tumblr word prompts. My first post for Schitt’s Creek!Also my first post on AO3. Ever. So. Here goes.I hope you enjoy!

Stats:

No fanworks for 2017, 2018, or 2024 2019: 5 fics/8,067 words 2020: 5 fics/12,633 words 2021: 5 fics/17,706 words 2022: 4 fanworks (3 fics, 1 poem)/8,231 words 2023: 1 fic/4,097 words Total: 20 fanworks (19 fics, 1 poem)/50,734 words

[imperatrixchaosjane]

About ten minutes later, after Jane calms down and cleans herself up, she tells Perp the truth.

She and Primo had a relationship before he became Papa. Nobody knows where he came from, all that they knew was he was a big fan of Nihil when he played in venues.

One night, she just happened to be there. Getting over a messy break up with her ex with some friends when they bumped into each other and started talking.

“He cheekbones could cut steel”, she tells V.

They had their night of fun then she left before the sun came up. He wanted her to stay, she told him she can’t. He gave her his number.

She sighs, “I kept in contact with him all these years.. until..” Jane glances down at the floor, eyes lost somewhere else for a moment, lip trembling lightly. She proceeded to go on about how they lost contact about ten years in.

“For me, it didn’t affect me as much as it would someone else.. I’ve been alive for so long that you sort of just, become numb to these things.”

Her hands swipe down her dress.

“Then one night, after years had passed, Sister told me we got a new frontman for the Ghost Project. He was revealed to everyone.. and. It was him. It was actually him. I couldn’t believe it. He was so handsome, even after all these years.. I don’t know where they found him but they did..”

She describes that night as her feeling floaty, like her feet were off the ground. Primo had asked her to dance, told her he was always in love with him, could never stop thinking about her.

“I thought he had gone obsessed, I didn’t even drink from him.”

Jane shifts in her seat, feeling calmer.

“Primo and I.. it was just so weird. I never thought I’d see him again. People move on, people die, people forget people.. He was so handsome and sexy, I thought someone had latched on to him by that time.”

A small sad smile births on her lips.

“Then just like that.. he was gone, V.. he was gone and I-I didn’t know what to do.. I was so mad at her! I cried, I screamed, I ruined this whole studio.. I couldn’t control myself.” She rubs her face, tired from it all.

“I’m sorry you’re learning about everything through me.. Im sorry I’ve fallen for you, I’m sorry to Primo for moving on..”

Jane grabs his hand and holds it then she turns to him and looks him deep in the eye,

“That’s why I’m so worried, you could fall off at any time. You could die tomorrow and then I’d have done this for nothing.”

She kisses him again, chaste and slow.

Lists of fabric needed for the tour, the number of measurements she needed to take for the ghouls, the strikingly stressful budget she has to work with. Jane has a lot on her mind.

Bent over her desk, she had started organizing her work space. As the night went on however, she realized she was getting nothing accomplished.

All because Papa had kissed her that night. It was getting in the way of her work. She cursed herself for organizing the same pile of papers for the fifth time.

- Chaos Jane.

Perpetua paces outside her door, holding a torn robe that he needed her to fix. Normally, he would have no trouble asking such a favor, but something had given him pause.

Their interactions had been… odd recently. He isn’t sure why or when it started, really. The last night they really spoke, Jane had ended up drinking his blood, and quite a bit of it. The rest of the night is pretty foggy in his mind. He remembers them speaking, and… maybe them hugging? Or sitting together? Nothing is clear, likely from the blood loss he had suffered.

Either way, something had happened that night. That’s got to be the problem because Jane had been avoiding him like the plague ever since then. He just wishes he could remember why.

He takes a deep breath in an unsuccessful attempt to calm his nerves. Maybe he should just turn around and come back later. Or better yet, avoid this whole thing and try to fix it himself.

[musicat9]

thinking about my octopath ocs and. man. how did amarynn end up going from the extremely loose base concept of 'a thief character who doesn't have as terrible of experiences with the fellow thieves from their past as either of the canon thieves' to this. liar girl who is defined by her bonds with others. who trusts almost no one but would literally die for those she does trust. girl who exists to protect. would do anything to save those she cares about (and/or desperately denies caring about) because she cannot stand to imagine what existing without them would be like. not just a knife in the dark but a shield in broad daylight. a knife in the dark so she still has people to shield in broad daylight. to the point where half her chapters revolve around protecting/saving people and the main plot mcguffin in her story is literally a shield. which she steals from a friend but still goes back to protect that same friend herself anyway. she may have lied her way into it but she's still the one with the tournament arc, signed on as a support fighter to aid and protect her chosen companion. loyal con artist indeed

[fadeintoyou1993]

so.

[h1biscusgal]

I fucking entered the void.

Long post ahead!

@premiumbitch I owe u every shit wtf, your method was INSANE?

REMEMBER HOW I TOLD Y'ALL IMMA BE ENTERING THE VOID ON MY BIRTHDAY???? I did it, and guys it's literally the easiest shit idk why some people see it as smth big 💀

I didn't manifest anything, why? Because guess it or not I actually just wanted to be familiar with it, I love how I'm slowly knowing everything is mine, and yesterday I didn't want to manifest anything I just wanted to try the void out especially bc I have been studying sm these days, I wanted a break.

Now I've been eating up that mindset that I'm a master at the void, which let's be obvious, everyone is, they just need to get to the point and slowly realize it, it has to click.

Okay I'm going to stop yapping and fucking get into it 👍🏻, either way, yesterday night, at 1:32 AM or smth, after the day turned 6th April, I got in bed and made myself comfortable, and simply told myself I'll enter the void under 5 minutes, which actually and unsurprisingly, it was the case, I used a standard boring ass method too yk, the one where it's usually always what people do.

On my back, started slow breathing, and i set the intention of keeping myself awake when my body sleeps (best advice I got from idk who it helps sm) and then I let myself sink in the bed for some minutes, like I just laid there, and already I immediately was in the SATs.

So naturally I affirmed for the void, knowing I'm already in there, and mf I slipped in there after two or three minutes of affirming, just saying "I am the void." Or "I am in the void."

I think the reason I actually got out myself or sometimes used to slip in and back, is how I immediately focused on my body signs or anything connected me to myself, so I have a note to myself next time, to allow it naturally happen and focus just on the blackness behind my eyes.

ANYWAYS I STAYED THERE FOR LIKE I THOUGHT 2 OR 3 MINUTES BUT IT WAS A WHOLE WHOPPING 1 HOUR TF, and get that, how did I know it's the void? I just wanted to see stars there and I fucking did 🎀

IMMA GO CRY I FINALLY AM THE CREATER OF MY OWN REALITY.

anyone reading this, babes please don't give up, genuinely don't, I've been in this game for 6 years and I know a lot of people that'll leave for this long, saying they have no patience, girly you can do it if I did, I used to be in SUCH a bad place you can't even imagine, I pulled my shit and started living in the end for 2 months (and no it doesn't take two months, I just was stubborn af and kept slipping in and out my beliefs).

Special thanks to them for keeping my motivation up 💗

@joc3lynn @catherineaboutlife @salemlunaa @premiumbitch @prettygirl444sblog @mercifulstate @shimmershifts @littlemissprettyprincess @luckykiwiii101 @carlyshifts111 (I adore her oml her RAS thing? ATE the fuck up)

And of course can't forget @gorgeouslypink but idk if she's here anymore? And every old blog back in the 2022 and 2020, I adore y'all sm even though I don't have your blog's names 😔🎀.

[bloggerspam]

Cousins, Clones and Conning the Family

Family Reunion AU, where cousins Maddie and Clark try to smuggle their clone children into the family reunion that happens every 5 years and pretend they've been there the whole time.

Spoiler alert, one of them does significantly better than the other. Mainly Kid POV, and also on AO3! Multichapter. ===

The problem with big family reunions, Danny thinks, is how utterly fucking lost Danny is all the gosh dang time.

"Well now, you're Maddie's son now ain'tcha? How old is you now?" The woman standing before him guffaws, ruffling his hair. He lets it, trying desperately to remember the speadsheet Jazz created for the family and (obviously) failing to recall this woman's name.

Agatha? Selene? Riri? No, Aunt Riri is over there—

"Yes ma'am," Danny smiles up at the unnamed aunt, accent going a little twangy like it always does at these functions, "I'll be hittin' 17 in a coupl'a months or so."

"My, my, you youngin's sure grow like weeds!" The aunt coos, gesturing to a height by her hip, "You used to be this tall last time I saw ya, betcha don't r'member me now do ya?"

It's a trap. If he says he doesn't remember, which is expected at reunions such as these that happen every 5 years or longer, she'll start going on and on about the stories she has of the family. Danny would have to stand here and demure and laugh at these cousins he doesn't really remember too well, but know enough to know that she's gotten them all mixed up.

"Pshaw," Danny doesn't react when a whisper breathes the answer into his ear, "I'd never forget a pretty lady like you, Aunt Helena!"

It works like a charm.

The second he's out of her clutches, he feels around for a cold spot. There, trailing just behind him, is Ellie. She's not invisible anymore, so he tucks her under his arm and bee-lines it towards the metaphorical kid's table.

"Thanks, Ellie. Weren't you supposed to stay with Dad?" Danny leads them around, trying to avoid any other mishaps. "Did Jazz send you?"

"She made me flashcards!" Ellie smirks up at him, ignoring his other question and pulling a corner of an index card out from the palm of her hand. She's always been better than him at manipulating the ecto in her body, for obvious reasons. Danny's not bitter about it at all.

"Damn, all I got was a presentation." Danny grumbles. Jazz and Dad somehow know every single one of their family members, which is ludicrous when even Mom doesn't know despite it being her side of the family.

He still can't really believe how big his family actually is, but he supposes that's natural. He only sees them once every couple of years, the only relative they see even on a remotely regular basis is Aunt Alicia, who has no kids and refuses (rightfully so) to remarry.

Danny's fine with that, he gets the best of both worlds after all. Cozy holiday stays with Aunt Alicia and he has places to stay all over the country if he really needs it, no questions asked.

Plus, crazy as they can be, these reunions have always felt like a big country festival for Danny.

"She likes me better." Ellie snickers, tugging him back to avoid Uncle Charlie's drunken stumbling.

"Everyone likes you better," Danny rolls his eyes, pushing Ellie's head down and ducking to avoid a stray kid's toy flying overhead, "I like you better."

As if somehow knowing Danny's being self deprecating again, Jazz shows up to smack him on the head. "I like both of you equally in special ways."

Danny makes a disgruntled noise, grumbling as he rubs his head, "Mooooom, Jazz is therapizing me again!"

Even though he was only half joking, Mom does show up specifically to laugh at him. "Honey, your father and I love all our children equally!"

"It's a secret," Dad says from behind Jazz, kids climbing all over him, "But Ellie's the favorite!"

"Jack!" Mom yells at the same time Jazz screams, "Dad!"

Ellie dissolves into giggles, making everyone but Dad helplessly laugh. It's good to see Ellie laugh, she does it a lot but it still doesn't feel like it's enough. Danny picks her up, giggling mess and all, and tosses her at Dad.

She lands, as expected, straight into the pile of children who scream and accept her easily.

"Nice." Jazz chuckles, this time patting him gently on his head in approval. Danny shrugs, dusting his hands off and heading back towards salvation: the food.

He and Jazz mingle a bit, exchanging greetings and school updates with the Aunts and Uncles they occasionally bump into, making their way slowly through and keeping an eye out for the other cousins.

Eventually, Jazz gets nabbed by Cousin Dermot just as Danny reaches the table, tossing a pig-in-a-blanket into his mouth and chewing with glee. The locals of the family usually something potluck style—and though Dad's genes are strong and the Fentons can't cook, the bulk of the Walker family definitely can.

In fact—Great Aunt Martha said she was going to bring some mini pies right?

Danny spies a pile of them in the middle of the large table and reaches for one, only to bump into the spikes of black fingerless gloves.

The gloves are, of course, attached to someone else.

It's a boy, around Danny's age, in a spiked leather jacket (matching the gloves) and white tee shirt with ripped jeans. He's got the tiniest John Lennon sunglasses and piercings everywhere—it makes Danny squint at him, with how much the sun keeps catching on everything—the spikes, the piercings, the metal arms of the sunglasses, is this dude also wearing lipgloss?

Danny's not judging, a guy can appreciate proper hydration to avoid chapped lips or even just for the aesthetic, but it doesn't help with the glare.

"Sorry, my bad." Right, okay, city slicker then. Not that Danny's much of a country boy or anything. "Did my spikes get you?"

Maybe Cousin Jenny brought a plus one? Danny eyes the guys jeans—they look tight. Was Cousin Mark into guys? Is this dude a guy or possibly a masculine girl? Ack. Stupid sun frying his brain.

"It's okay," Danny says, blinking away and tossing mini pie to the other person. "Aunt Martha's pies are worth the minor injury. You comin' in with one of the cousins?"

"Uh, yeah." Citypunk looks at Danny nervously, "I mean, I am one of the cousins." The guy bites his lips, shrugging, "Uh, one of the Kents, actually. Ma's real proud of the pies."

Danny blinks.

"…You're not Jon." Danny says, very carefully and slowly.

"…No…" Stranger Danger draws his vowels out, "I'm Conner. His, uh, older brother? Can't blame ya for being confused though!"

"…You can't." Danny agrees, because out of the two them, Danny definitely isn't to blame for the confusion.

"Yeah, lots of cousins, and all," Curiouser and Curiouser beams at Danny, shrugging and rubbing the back of his neck, "Plus, I know Jon's more sociable at these things."

"Right, he really is rambunctious, that guy." Danny nods, as if that's the problem, and not the fact that Danny knows every single cousin his age. Big as his family might be, Danny's generation came out the smallest. Cousin Jenny and Cousin Mark are the only two his age.

With Ellie and Jazz each being four years younger and older than Danny, and the other cousins being well beyond those ages in gaps, there is no way this guy is a cousin.

"Don't worry," Punk'd laughs self deprecatingly, "I know he's the favorite. even if Mom won't admit it."

Danny feels a vein throb in his right temple.

He's unsure if he should slowly back away or get up in the guy's face. It's just—now that Danny thinks about it, if wedding crashing is a thing, does that mean family reunion crashing is a thing too?

What's the protocol here? Should he fight this guy for having the audacity to use Great Aunt Martha's name in vein?

Wait, no, that's Jesus.

Is Great Aunt Martha Catholic? ...Is that the one with Jesus, or was that Christianity?

Wait, Danny, you knuckle head, Uncle Clark was adopted. Conner could be adopted too! Even though he looks exactly like that Uncle Clark when he was younger…

"Is this your first time at a reunion?" Danny ventures, "We only have 'em—"

"Every 5 years, yeah." Conner huffs, "Nah, I just used to hide with Ma in the kitchens."

Okay, clearly Great Aunt Martha isn't in on this, because Danny used to hide with Great Aunt Martha in the kitchens. Danny's about to lose his shit on this guy—or maybe sic Ellie on him. Whichever is worse.

"Oh yeah? That's must have been cozy." Danny grits out, taking a deep breath so his eyes don't flash.

"Yeah, it was!" Conner beams shyly. though all Danny sees is a smug smirk. "She's real nice-like, I'm sure you know. Real lucky to have her for a Grandma."

"Real lucky." Danny agrees, because Great Aunt Martha really was one of the better Great Aunts. Though most of the Walker Kin were hardy and tough, in that badass kind of way. Mom really liked Great Aunt Martha's lessons on bull wranglin' back when they were younger. "Speakin' of, she ain't here?"

"Nah," Conner makes a sad little pout. "She hadta stop by Auntie Agatha's for an emergency. She left two days ago, so she's runnin' a little behind. Cl—Dad went to go pick her up."

Danny squints at the possible imposter. That sounded like he was going to call Uncle Clark by his name, which makes things confusing for Danny. Guy will call Aunt Lois Mom but he won't call Uncle Clark Dad easily?  Maybe he's a kid Aunt Lois had before marrying Uncle Clark? But Aunt Lois would never hide a kid, and Great Aunt Martha would never let her treat a kid like that. That's not even taking into account that this kid looks way too much like Uncle Clark for it to be a fucking coincidence. Plus, Danny knew about Aunt Aggie's emergency and how she might not be making it to this year's reunion—this gives Conner's story credibility.

But Danny knows that the best way to lie is with truths, even if the truths are confusing.

So what the hell is going on? Is Clockwork fucking with him? Did an alternate timeline get switched with his?

It wouldn't be the first time, but Clockwork at least had the decency to let him know at least.

"What the—" Danny blinks, as Conner picks up a very familiar, eye-searingly green colored post it note that was stuck to the plate under a mini pie. "Is this yours?"

"Yeah," Danny huffs. taking the note and rolling his eyes as lies roll off his tongue, "Sorry, y'know how it goes with Jazz."

"Oh, yeah." And Danny has to give it Conner, he at least rolls with the punches real quick, "I heard about it but didn't ever uh, see it in action."

"Really?" Danny feigns surprise, head pulsing in irritation at the words all is as it should be written in purple pen. There's no mocking smiley face, but Danny feels it in the ink anyway. "Thought she got all the cousins at the last reunion."

Conner chuckles nervously, "Oh, yeah—Guess I'm just, easy to miss you know?"

"Uh huh…" Danny eyes the guy and his piercings and very distinct style, from the tip of his clearly styled hair and needlessly ostentatious big black studded boots. "…Right."

Conner laughs, wincing. "These're new. High school debut."

"…You're a freshman?" Danny tilts his head, squinting.

"Junior." Conner automatically corrects, before stiffening. "…I just wanted to reinvent myself for Junior Prom."

"Right." Danny repeats, drawing out the vowels and finally giving up. He can tell Conner already knows what Danny is going to ask, and is trying to exit this conversation post-haste.

Fortunately for Conner and unfortunately for Danny, Jazz comes barreling in, almost knocking the former out in the process as she grips the latter's biceps tightly with her eyes wide and nervous.

Unfortunately for Conner and fortunately for Danny, though the look in Jazz's eyes thoroughly distracts the latter and gives the former a window to escape, Jazz's hissed out words end up keeping Conner rooted to the floor.

"Baby Jon has powers!" Jazz hisses as she moves Danny away from the possible imposter a couple feet. Even though she says it low enough for only Danny to hear, Conner's wide eyes as he whips his gaze towards them suggests that Jon's not the only one with powers.

And then words actually register along with that thought.

Danny hisses out the first thing he thinks of. "Since when?? I thought he took after Aunt Lois!"

"Since now," Jazz gruffs, switching her grip to drag Danny away, "and I need you to do something about it!"

"What?" Danny doesn't struggle, going along even as he eyes Conner who seems to be following them at a distance. "Why?"

Jazz pushes him towards the kid's area, rushing out a frantic "He's in the bounce house with Ellie!"

Danny freezes, or tries to even as Jazz keeps tugging him along, before shaking off her hand and booking it towards the bounce house.

Once the bounce house (a castle) comes into view, Danny clocks several things in succession:

One: Ellie and Jon are thankfully the only ones in the bounce house right now.

Two: Ellie and Jon are laughing, and through the mesh Danny can see Ellie watching Jon jump way too high to be considered normal.

And three: The bounce house is about to fucking tip over.

There's a gaggle of Aunts herding the younger cousins towards the food that's dense enough for cover, but sparse enough for Danny to dash through.

Between one blink and the next, he disappears.

[faramirsonofgondor]

Ok ok but Dick being like ~ 15 years older than Damian. When Damian shows up on Bruce’s doorstep, Bruce doesn’t really have a chance to announce it to the public before he gets lost in time. So now Dick, who’s 25 is stuck with this tiny 10 year old and has the job of integrating him into Gotham society.

Except because Bruce only adopts kids who look like him, and Damian and Dick are tanner than the rest of his kids, literally everyone assumes that Damian is Dick’s bio kid. Like Dick is like “oh yea this is Bruce’s biological son that I’m looking after” and everyone goes “uh huh sure” but when he’s not around they’re just like “oh that’s his kid for sure”. Both Dick and Damian are aware of it and offended by it, albeit for very different reasons. Dick is offended that they somehow think he would be a deadbeat dad even if he was a teen dad, and Damian is offended that nobody believes he’s Bruce’s kid.

But eventually Dick is just like fuck it that’s my kid, and Damian is extremely annoyed but somehow lets Dick convince him to go along with it. Dick walks around in a pink shirt that says “Your favorite DILF” in the most basic font ever, and buys Damian a matching shirt that says “The favorite child” which Damian refuses to wear unless one of the other Batkids (usually Steph since basically everyone else fucked off when Bruce was lost) is around.

It gets to the point where even Dick, Damian, and Alfred forget that Damian isn’t actually Dick’s bio kid. (In this AU, Bruce is lost in time for about 3 years) Dick decides to forget about Talia’s existence as well and just decides that Damian is a clone that he birthed. But then Bruce comes back and now they’re in a weird place. Damian lives with Bruce now and while nobody ever says anything directly, the entire public is giving them a huge side eye because both Dick and Damian look a little depressed with the predicament. People start to wonder if Bruce is blackmailing Dick or something.

Everything comes to a head when Bruce and Dick start fighting in front of the whole fam over something Bruce said to Damian on patrol. Bruce tells Dick that he needs to back off because Bruce is Damian’s father, not Dick. Nobody’s sure how Dick is going to respond, but they definitely weren’t expecting for Dick to say “Fuck you, I’m the one who birthed him!!!” There’s a stretch of silence and before anyone can respond to that, Damian just nods his head and goes “Grayson is right. Surely your memory is not so poor that you’ve forgotten?” Everyone is gaping when Alfred delivers the final blow “Master Bruce, I truly did not expect this behavior from you. Of course Master Dick is Damian’s parent. Perhaps it is best if you retire, since it is clear that your lack of sleep is getting the better of you.”

Everyone is shook and they’re like “wtf you cannot gaslight us into believing this shit.” Except they do indeed gaslight. And gaslight. And gaslight.

Jason tries to reason with them by talking about how he had met Damian in the League, had seen Damian with Talia, yada yada yada. Damian just goes “I think I would remember if I had played little league. Such foolish games are beneath me. Cease your nonsense, Todd.” Jason eventually calls Talia to make sure he’s not losing his memories or something. Talia is perplexed but Dick’s claim over her child does scare her just a little bit, considering she remembers how feral he was when he was younger and she’s heard whispers about him killing the Joker (not that she ever mentioned that to Jason).

Tim tries to go with logic but gets shut down every time. One time he asks “If you were raised by Dick then why is your English so proper?” He’s met with “Oh, so because English is not Richard’s first language, then he is incapable of speaking it properly? Tt.” When he questions why Damian fights the way he does if he wasn’t raised by the LoA, Dick brings out his Renegade training and shows off his skills. Tim keeps trying to find ways to prove that they’re lying, but somehow ends up losing the argument every time. It’s grating, especially considering Alfred is on their side.

Bruce is hesitant to try anything because Alfred is corroborating their story and he doesn’t want to cross Alfred. He only questions it once, asking Dick where Damian’s baby photos are. He does not anticipate Dick tearfully explaining that they were all destroyed when Blockbuster blew up his apartment. Bruce is so panicked and desperate to make sure Dick doesn’t cry again that he just never questions it again.

So now the entire family is kinda gaslight into believing it, and those who know the truth don’t actually say anything because they don’t think it’s worth the effort. After all, Dick is doing a great job of parenting Damian. But then comes the Justice League, which is much bigger than batfam. Everyone is kinda awkwardly glancing around when Dick introduces Damian as his kid, because they remember a few years back Bruce saying the same thing, but now Bruce is just going along with what Dick is saying. The OG Titans are like “wtf dude” but also immediately have his back whenever someone tries to question it. They talk about how they were there for Damian’s birth, about all the presents they’ve bought for their nephew and holidays spent together. Everyone gets the memo to not ask questions about it. The only one stupid enough to try is Hal, who is met with a feral Damian. He has a flashback of the many, many times Dick bit him as a child and decides that yea, that kid belongs to Dick.

[kenyummy]

✰ 04. the ballad of a bygone blight.

✰ ꒰ ⍣'ˎ˗ platonic yandere batfam / spider! reader ꒱

✰ 04. fantastic four.

SYNOPSIS : being spidey isn't easy. being transported into an alternate universe where you're nothing but a shadow in your house, makes sneaking around a little easier... until you find yourself the apple of their eye... kind of.

note: had to wrack my brain to remember what math i was learning in seventh grade LMAO . sometimes i forget damian is just a little guy in like seventh to eighth grade. crazy. and please let me know if there's any mistakes with pronouns/gender!!! i want to keep this open to everybody so im always trying my best ❤️

also ive realised how chopped harry is in the comics after taking my rose coloured lenses off. basically he and mj have their look in the ultimate spiderman TV show (in my eyes anyway, i kind of just described their appearance based off tgat lmaooo)

prev. ✰ masterlist ✰ next.

School has never felt so bland for you. Sure, it was never your favourite thing in the world—except for maybe biology—but you'd think that discovering a whole new world in your last year would make it a little more interesting.

It didn't.

It's been three weeks since you crash landed here in Gotham. The most you'd gotten from your family was an awkward "how are you" occasionally, and a lot of staring.

You'd only shown yourself as Spidey a few times to the public, but never stayed for those pesky news reporters shoving their microphones into your face. You'd never liked interviews, anyway.

The only highlight of your long days were MJ and Harry. You'd gotten over the initial shock of Harry being in love with you—convincing yourself that it really wasn't you he liked; it was this world's original you. (Though—that fact still lingers in the back of your mind whenever you talk).

Apart from that, school truly was uneventful. Your kooky art teacher was the only one of whom you actually liked, and it seemed the education here was rather lax. Uncaring. Not good for your future, surely—but you wouldn't have a future here, and you're sure this [name] Wayne will be just fine.

Speaking of schooling—the people here really seemed to hate the Gotham Prep kids. More than what a petty rivalry should be—it was pure malice.

Harry was especially adamant about this.

"They're all dumb, entitled rich kids who use daddy's money to get whatever they want, you know." He stabs his fork into a dry cut of chicken violently. Then points, accusatory, at MJ—who already presents a sneer to him. "And don't you start lumping me in with them—you know I'm not like that."

Her face twists, but soon she grins cheekily. "Okay, fine. Yeah, you're totally not, otherwise nobody here would like you one bit. And who doesn't love Harry, huh?"

"Oh, be quiet," But still, he smiles—damn his head is big. He glances over at you. You're picking around at your soggy broccoli with a frown. "Hey, [name]. Don't two of your brothers go to Gotham Prep?"

You look up at your ginger friend, head tilted to the side before it clicked. Oh, right. Tim and that young boy—Damian, if you remember correctly. Tim barely ever went to school if your diary was still accurate, and Damian had little choice but to.

(Doesn't seem like he'd be the social butterfly type, though.)

"Yeah, they do." You nod, still fiddling around with that vegetable.

"Not that I'm not glad that you're here—but why don't you go to school with them?" MJ leans forward in her seat. "I mean, isn't it easier for siblings to go to the same school?"

Your eyes widen for a second.

There's a few ways you can go about this.

One—you tell them everything you know about your other self. About how you never felt included enough to ask. How you never spent time with them. How it always felt like everything and everyone else was more important than you. How you suffered silently—begging for their attention for years like a house pet becoming a stray.

Two—you could tell them you have absolutely no idea because you have none of your memories of anything from the past years of this life—how you don't even remember all your siblings names half the time.

Or three, and your personal favourite—you can just lie.

It doesn't take a serial genius to figure out which one you chose.

"I guess I just didn't like the rich private school vibe they had going on." A smile falls over your lips. "Plus—you guys were coming here, so it gave me even more of a reason to attend, you know?"

You're not entirely sure that's true. But—if these two were anything like the Harry and MJ you know—then this would probably be right.

Judging from their smiles, your detective skills haven't failed you yet.

"Man!" MJ lolls her head back, groaning. "Can't believe I'm friends with two rich kids who get to choose which school they want—the beat down public or sleek rich private."

"Don't go dissing this school just because you're jealous of their uniforms," Harry snickers, pressing his index finger into MJ's cheek. She huffs and slaps him away.

"Silence, nepo baby. Your dad is basically Lex Luthor if he wasn't bald."

Harry looks more confused than offended at her comment, "Okay, but my dad isn't an evil mastermind plotting against a red and blue suited superhero."

You press your lips together thinly and look to the side, eyes focused on anything but him. Oh, Harry—if only you knew.

Damian Wayne had never truly seen the point of highschool.

Raised by assassains all his life—he had little room, time, and desire to learn about all this nonsense. While he enjoyed arts and fine literature—he couldn't find it within himself to care about the American Revolution, or whatever other ridiculous thing happened in history.

His maths teacher was absolutely, indubitably pathetic. Always on his phone as he assigns mountains of homework (because he never bothers to explain the complex materials they're given) on the latest subject—whether it be those blasted simultaneous equations, or to factorise useless monic trinomials. Even calculating tax and interest on the stupidest of cases.

Damian found himself sitting in the corner of his class in silence, staring down, bored, at the book in front of him. He truly hated math. There's so much real work to be done—crime to fight, plotting organisations to take down.

But his father, as always, is unmoving in his conviction that school is important. For Damian especially, anyway; Drake can skip as often as he likes because he's a senior already. Truly, ridiculous.

For Damian, and—oh.

You.

Bruce always seemed especially insistent on you two going to school. Even when everyone but him knew you skipped every few days and simply come home to wait.

Wait for what? For them?

His brows furrow. Suddenly, the black and white equations on the sheet blur and he zones out. Thinking.

You always did. From the day he'd walked into the manor, you were always there. Unconsciously, he'd notice it. A trait of a good assassin is that they can spot everyone in the room.

A trait of a great assassin is that they can spot everyone inside and watching.

Always, you were watching. Those pitiful stares. Desperate like a unloved pet. If he cared a little more (if any at all), he would've felt sorrow for your state.

Always wanting, but never asking. Never taking. Simply waiting for it all to come to you. He would never understand it. He would never understand you.

He would never understand how somebody could allow themselves to be so weak.

Like everybody else—when he first entered the manor, he proposed to fight you. Assuming—being the child of his father, like he was—you were worthy. That you were strong.

He doesn't know how he could've been so wrong. You immediantly reacted, gasping and clutching your face. He'd nicked it with the edge of his blade after he unsheathed it. You looked at the blood dotting your fingertips, then back at him, eyes wide.

Immediantly, Bruce rushed to his side and pushed him behind his larger, imposing figure—telling you to not interact with him because he's different to regular people. Different to you.

He watched you storm off from behind his father's legs; anger practically blaring off your figure.

Later—he happened to overhear you and Grayson talking quietly. Telling you to not be too hard on Damian, because he's troubled. That he's had a difficult life. At first—he was a tad offended—but that offence could not compare to the absolute fury burning in your eyes.

Though, it all melted away when Grayson's hand ruffled your hair. Like a little kid, you stared up at him, soft and starry-eyed as you unconsciously murmured you'd forgive your new little brother.

Damian dry-heaved. You were so goddamn weak.

So weak, and so normal. Everything you did was completely regular. You were on the same wavelength as the civilians he saved from burning rubble. The same as people who walked down the street, talking about their favourite Justice League member. Who cowered in fear in front of villains—to be saved by those heroes. By him.

You were nothing, and yet everything he could never have been.

(What child does not long for normalcy?)

Damian always thought you were rather helpless, regardless of how regular you were—and seeing you with that bullet lodged in your shoulder—he was right. Not being able to dodge something like a bullet—there was no wonder you never become a vigilante. There was no wonder you needed to be protected.

... Though—he began to think back.

Who did? Protect you; that is.

Whoever it was, they did a pretty awful job at it.

Damian strums his fingers against the hardwood table rhythmically. Face blank but mind running rapidly.

It couldn't have been Todd. No—he seemed to be in a frazzled state of mania when carrying your bleeding body in your arms. Perhaps he too, believed you were safe with the rest of his family.

(Oh how wrong Todd was—he looked livid.)

... Grayson?

No. When he's not in Blüdhaven, he is almost always with the other vigilantes within the family. Not here nor there, and certainly not close enough to protect you.

Not Drake. He never cared enough, despite everything. Not Cain, either. Though the silent protector type—she had too much on her plate to worry about you as well.

Gordon and Brown had their own families to worry about.

And his—your father? The Batman? There was no time for a regular child like you in the Batman's life of vigilantism. Whom he sworn to protect in his crusade now lay bleeding out in his great failure's arms.

...

Did you truly have nobody?

...

Damian couldn't really imagine it. He'd always assumed you had many friends to fill the void that yoir family left with their civilian clothes. ... Perhaps you did. He wouldn't know.

You are his only half sibling. In this world, only he is truly your brother, and you are his only older sibling. Does that not give him the slightest of responsibility?

He'd always been taught to keep everybody at arms length—even his own family. The whole world is out to get the Demon's grandson, then he must fight it. But his father taught him differently.

To protect those who cannot protect themselves—to keep those he cares about safe at any cost.

What of you? He does not care for you in the way an ordinary sibling should. Seeing you so weak, defenceless against him—must mean you trust him in some way.

(It's hard for him to fathom being able to feel so unprotected in a world he was taught was trying to extinguish him at every turn).

Regardless of how you don't belong—or how frosty you act toward your youngest brother—he has a duty.

No matter how hard you try—you can never sever the blood you two share. The others do not have this duty—but he does, because in the end, you are his. None of the others bothered, so Damian must.

You are everything he could never be, he has realised. But in the end, you are blood. It runs thicker in the veins than any water, and that is one of the most important things to Damian.

Seeing that same blood—his blood—spill out of you carelessly—that is a sight he will never bear witness to again.

Damian was the first one out the door as soon as the bell chimed in his ear. His bag slung tightly around his shoulders and textbook under his arm; he rushed into the familiar sight of a sleek, large car.

He shuts the door as he climbs into the backseat (Bruce said he was still too short to sit in the front, much to his son's displeasure). "Hello, Pennyworth."

Alfred glances back at him through the rear view mirror. "Good afternoon, Master Damian. How was school?"

"Same as usual. A waste of time." He clicks his seatbelt shut as the car begins to move. Alfred only hums, keeping his eyes trained on the road.

"I'm unsurprised to hear you say so. I do hope you understand why exactly, you are enrolled in school, however. And why Master Bruce is so adamant about your attendance."

Damian knows. He's always known, because it has been drilled into his head like a mantra. Talia and Ra's Al Ghul weren't math teachers—and most of his time really was spent training and sparring to be the best he could be.

He was not illiterate, nor stupid. Rather smart, actually. However, he didn't exactly learn algebra and chemistry with the League of Assassins.

He grumbles. "I know, Pennyworth. Father cannot seem to stop reminding me that all these things are far more important than stopping the endless wave of crime in Gotham."

If he weren't on the road—Alfred surely would've given him a nasty look. "Master Damian, please—your sincerity is positively slaughtering me."

Damian rolls his eyes, opting to stop this fruitless conversation and look outside the windows instead. At the outside world—the sky already paling to deep auburn shades as they drive through the endless roads.

He watched all the cars moving past; hurrying to get to their destination. Each with their own story and reason for being there. Every single one with their own thoughts and worries. Some with children, others with pets, and some with piles of groceries.

All with their own, individual lives. Including him.

A bus, too. It stops for a moment at a sheltered space, then drives away, leaving a few people standing under the shade.

An elderly lady with a man, presumably her son, walking away with her. A woman with frizzy red hair and freckles dotted over her nose. A few schoolkids—some his age, some older. Clearly from the public school on the other side of Gotham, if only to judge from the scantily clad clothes some of the older students wore—

Wait, is that you?

He sits up—the car slowly coming to a stop at a red light. His eyes don't leave your figure as he presses his nose against the window; observing.

You look around at the people that pass by you—gripping your bag close to your side and rushing into the nearest alleyway.

He waits for a few moments. This red light feels rather long—but what feels longer is watching and waiting for you to come out of that alleyway.

You never do.

Even as the car begins to move once more, driving past the intersection, he crawls as far back as possible to even get a glimpse—but you never show.

Just today, he had decided to be the one to take up the mantle and protect you. Just today, during a boring math class, he has decided that since you are his blood, he must keep a helpless civilian like you safe.

And now you're gone. Are you dead, or something?

(Deep down, his stomach twists at the thought.)

"Pennyworth, pull over." Hid voice is more taut than he had imagined. "Now."

Alfred looks back, glancing at the streets around. He doesn't question the young boy, simply doing as he is asked and pulling over to a deserted parking area.

When he has parked the car, he turns around and sees Damian slipping his Robin mask on—somehow already fully suited up.

His eyes widen, "Master Damian, what—"

"I have something to do. Let Father know I will be back home late."

Opening the door, Damian rushes out and pulls out his grappling hook, swinging onto the nearest building's roof and looking around.

He spots the alleyway you'd run into. It is still. Absolutely no movement nor any looks from passer-bys. He rushes across the roves towards where the dark side seeped into the crack of the buildings.

Maybe you'd taken another way out?

But looking at the alleyway now, it's more like a dip between the buildings to stand in more than anything. It was blocked off on the other side.

So where...???

He drops down, landing on his soles and squinting as he stares around into the dark. There's nothing.

No people, nor bodies, and certainly not anything to indicate anybody was ever here.

Except...

He glances at the wall. Theres a white cocoon-esque oval webbed to the wall. Those same webs he'd seen all that time ago—from that spider. That would show up then leave immediantly. Never staying for longer than they had to.

Dodging all of his and Batman's attempts at asking who you were, and what you were doing in Gotham. Always swinging away into the distance before they could be subdued.

Now, he stares at their ball of webbing and wonders if it truly is an arachnid he's dealing with.

He pokes it, looking it up and down. Then, he sees it. Through the small holes in the webs and the translucent, silk-like material—he finally sees it.

Your bag.

He tears off the webbing faster than he can think, getting the sticky substance stuck to his gloves and clothes; he barely even notices it. He grabs your bag and stares it, swallowing hard.

His mind buzzes with an unfamiliar staticky feeling and he suddenly feels sick to his stomach. Despite all the noise in his ear—his brain is able to comprehend one singular question.

... What did that arachnid do to you?

Clothed fingers digging deep into the leather fabric of the bag—clearly worn down and fading. Old. He would get Father to purchase you another. ... When he sees you next. Because he will.

His jaw clenches hard.

Damian throws the bag over his shoulder and grapples up—swinging onto a building roof and running across.

Running for what, he isn't sure. But what he is sure of, is that once he gets his hands on that arachnid, it will not be kind.

To find out what happened to you—that is his duty as your blood sibling.

He decides that in this life, he will be your protector. In the next, if he is ever given a chance to be normal like you—he will become a doctor. Or perhaps a painter. Or a poet. Maybe he will ask you to help him decide when he finds you and that arachnid.

... Yes, that sounds good.

You cut through the cool wind as you swing through the city. Grinning widely underneath your mask—you don't think you've ever been so happy since you landed here.

You're sure nobody will take your stuff. Even if they do, you could always just get whatever else you needed again. You were far too excited to dwell on the small stuff right about now.

Landing on a rooftop, crouched—you walk down the wall of the apartment complex, and look around for civilians. As he told you—the streets around the back of the building were practically deserted.

You count the amount of rooms from the side, up and down.

"Row 5, Apartment block... 2..." You hum, and nod to yourself.

You tap your necklace and the nanobots all crawl off your body, leaving you in your regular clothes. You land safely on the balcony of the room you were given.

You smooth out your flared jeans and take in a deep breath. Then, you bring up your knuckles, and knock.

The glass screen door opens before you can say fantastic.

A small pair of arms wrap around your torso and knock you backwards—you fall on your ass and let out a loud laugh.

"Spidey!!! [name]!!!"

"Is that who I think it is?!" You tease, eyes squinted upwards and the young kid buries into your stomach. His giggles are muffled by the fabric and he squeezes you so tight you'd be inclined to choke—if it wasn't you. "Frankie!! How's my favourite Richard?"

"I can't believe you'd say that, [name]. That hurts." A familiarly sweet voice speaks.

"Sue!" You grin, taking in the sight of the blonde and her husband by her side. You get up—Franklin stumbles behind you—and crash into her arms.

She chuckles, patting your back and smiling down at you, "I missed you too, [name]. You always manage to find yourself in the strangest situations, don't you?"

Reed cradles his chin, "Well, we were technically the cause of this distortion in reality, Susan—"

But seeing the expression on both your and his wife's face; he stops himself. Only smiling sheepishly. "My apologies. It's great to see you again, [name]. I didn't think we'd find another familiar face in a different universe."

"You're getting better at this, Reed." You lift yourself from Sue's comforting cradle and grin brightly up at him. "I didn't think I'd see all of you guys again, either. When you all disappeared for so long—I was wondering if something bad happened."

"Hah! Ta us? You kiddin'? Ya more bug-brained 'den that spider that bit ya!"

"Ben!!!" You go flying toward the rock-encased man and wrap your arms around his comfortingly tough neck. He spins you around and lets you down with a loud laugh.

"'Ey kid, how're ya? Heard ya tackled ol' matchstick 'ere outta the sky!" He slaps his rocky chest laughing—in the corner of your eye, Johnny stands behind him, unimpressed.

He walks up beside you, swinging an arm around your neck and snarks, "Yeah—well, Spidey's always been known for catching people off guard, huh? Creepin' up when you least expect it."

"You're making [name] sound like a villain, Unc!" Frankin, who had found himself attached to the side of your shirt, sticks out his tongue.

Johnny recoils, face falling in pure horror as he dramatically points at the young boy, "UNC??!! I... I'm an Unc now...??? I'm not even 19! I can't be an Unc!!!"

You burst out into laughter at the genuineness of Johnny's expression, watching as he freaks out about being "old". Sue and Reed roll their eyes—while Ben is there with you, laughing his ass off like he'd just gotten a home run on Yancy Street.

Franklin looks at your laughing expression and starts giggling along—jumping up and down beside you with sparkling eyes.

"Stop laughing, [name]! We're the same age!" Johnny points, accusatory. "If I'm an Unc, you're a...!"

"Doesn't matter. I'm cooler than Uncle Johnny anyways, right Frankie?" You grin, picking up Franklin as he cuddles into your neck.

"Mhm!" He nods eagerly.

Johnny sends you a blazing glare, lips pouted out. "You and me. We're—" He gestures to the two of you. "—gonna have some issues, here. Okay. Everyone knows I'm the cool Uncle."

"No, that's Benny!" Franklin points to Ben.

The look on Johnny's face shifts into utter disbelief—Ben falls out of his chair laughing wildly.

"Gosh, I missed you so much, kid." You pull at one of Franklin's cheeks and chuckle. He stares at you in awe for a few seconds, before hugging the side of your head and giggling.

"I missed you too!"

That same warmth fills each crevice and pore of your body, as you huddle close to your dear friends and let yourself feel at home for this small moment.

Meanwhile, in the dark of night, a pair of azure eyes watches, sharp and unnerving in the back of your skull.

You notice it. Of course you do. Your mind is tingling with that buzz—but you want to enjoy this night of nothing but home, even if only once.

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tsglist is closed, sorry! but do try and keep up with updates thank you!!!

[cressidagrey]

Wait, What?!

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: 

Oscar Piastri managed to keep his wife a secret on accident for nearly half a decade…

Come to think off, that was not the only one he kept a secret. 

Notes: Part 2 of The mysterious Mrs. Piastri verse...

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

Text Messages: Lando Norris & Max Fewtrell

Lando: BRO. EMERGENCY. URGENT. YOU WILL NOT BELIEVE THIS.

Max: Oh my god, what now?

Lando: OSCAR. PIASTRI. IS. MARRIED.

Max: …Yeah, that tracks.

Lando: WHAT DO YOU MEAN THAT TRACKS????

Max: I mean, I didn’t know, but also… not surprised.

Lando: HOW ARE YOU NOT SURPRISED??

Max: Because, mate, I knew Oscar back in the Renault Eurocup days. And he was in love.  Properly, stupidly, pathetically in love. You think Oscar’s all calm and unbothered? You should’ve seen teenage Oscar.

Lando: I CAN’T. MY BRAIN WON’T ACCEPT THIS.

Max: Bro, this man used to sit in the  paddock and stare at his phone, smiling at texts from her. Like, full-on grinning. It was disturbing.

Lando: NO.

Max: Oh yeah. Proper gobsmacked-in-love type of obsessed. We used to rip into him for it, and he didn’t even care.

Lando: WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE DIDN’T CARE???

Max: I mean, you know how Oscar is. He’d just shrug and go “Yeah, and?” Like we were the crazy ones.

Lando: I CAN’T PROCESS THIS.

Max: Mate, he was obsessed with her. Like, actual teenage boy, head-over-heels, no-thoughts-just-Felicity obsessed.

Lando: OSCAR???

Max: YES. You have no idea. We’d finish a race, and he’d be on his phone before he even got his helmet off. Always texting.

Lando: To her???

Max: Always. If he wasn’t texting, he was on FaceTime. If he wasn’t on FaceTime, he was watching her ballet videos like they were onboard footage.

Lando: …Ballet videos???

Max: She’s a ballerina. He tried to do ballet once. It went horribly.

Lando: PLEASE TELL ME THERE’S FOOTAGE.

Max: No, but I will never forget the look of pure pain on his face when he came back from one of her classes. “Max, this is the worst thing I’ve ever done. My calves don’t work anymore.”

Lando: I AM IN TEARS.

Max: And don’t even get me started on the food.

Lando: What food???

Max: Oscar always had the best snacks, and they were always things she made him. Like pandan cakes, curry puffs, some kind of egg tarts. Man was eating good.

Lando: I THOUGHT THAT WAS KIM?!

Lando: YOU’RE TELLING ME SHE WAS PACKING HIM LUNCHES LIKE A LITTLE HOUSEWIFE EVEN BACK THEN???

Max: Not even kidding. He always had food, and it was always from her. One time, I asked if I could have some, and he was like, “No, Felicity made this for me.”

Lando: HE WAS ALREADY A WHIPPED HUSBAND BEFORE HE EVEN TURNED 18.

Max: Precisely. Man has been gone for her since day one.

Lando: Selfish.

Max: To be fair, if someone made me homemade food with that much love, I wouldn’t share either.

Lando: …Fair.

Max: Also, she’s tiny. Like, I swear, I thought Oscar was going to break her just by hugging her. It was actually terrifying.

Lando: Who even is she???

Max: Felicity Lee? Leong? Something like that. She went to school with him. Tiny, startlingly pretty. I’m talking, ‘you do a double take and forget how to speak’ kind of pretty. That girl had Oscar so whipped before they even finished school, it was ridiculous.

GRID GROUP CHAT

Charles: WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN YOU HAVE A WIFE???

Charles: OSCAR, EXPLAIN. NOW.

Pierre: I JUST SPAT MY COFFEE OUT.

Carlos: I NEARLY DROVE OFF THE ROAD.

George: YOU HAVE A WHOLE WIFE??? A LEGALLY BOUND PARTNER???

George: I’m sorry, I need someone to confirm because I think I hallucinated.

Oscar: …Yes?

Charles: OH SURE, JUST CASUALLY. "Yes." Like you didn’t just drop the biggest bombshell on live TV.

Lewis: This is the most shocking news of the year, I need a moment.

Alex: You have a wife?

Alex: SINCE WHEN???

Fernando: The quiet ones always have secrets.

Max: Why do I feel like Daniel just screamed somewhere?

Daniel: I AM SCREAMING. I AM SCREAMING IN MY HOTEL ROOM. WHAT DO YOU MEAN OSCAR IS MARRIED??

Oscar: Five years.

Pierre: FIVE YEARS????

Carlos: YOU GOT MARRIED AT EIGHTEEN???

Lando: WHILE THE REST OF US WERE STILL FIGURING OUT HOW TO TALK TO GIRLS, YOU WERE OUT HERE GETTING MARRIED???

Oscar: Yeah.

Charles: WHY DID NONE OF US KNOW???

Logan: You guys didn’t know?

Charles: YOU KNEW?!

Logan: Yeah, met her ages ago.

Lando: HOW. WHY. WHEN.

Logan: Prema? Arthur knows too, I am pretty sure. 

Pierre: YOU WERE HOLDING THIS INFORMATION FROM US.

Oscar: I didn’t think it was that big of a deal?

Charles: NOT A BIG DEAL?!

Carlos: You could have at least mentioned it.

Lewis: Does she exist? Are you lying? Do we need proof?

Oscar: …Yes, Lewis, she exists.

Lando: WHO IS SHE. WHAT IS HER NAME. WHAT DOES SHE LOOK LIKE.

Max: How did you manage this? You are… you.

Oscar: ???

Daniel: I NEED TO SIT DOWN.

Lando: YOU ARE SITTING DOWN.

Daniel: I NEED TO LIE DOWN.

Oscar: You guys are being dramatic.

Pierre: You hid a whole wife from us. We are allowed to be dramatic.

Oscar: You never asked?

George: WHAT DO YOU MEAN WE NEVER ASKED??? HOW WERE WE SUPPOSED TO KNOW TO ASK???

Oscar: I don’t really talk about my personal life.

Lando: CLEARLY.

Pierre: But why doesn’t she come to races?

Oscar: She doesn’t like the circus.

Oscar: It gives her anxiety.

Oscar: And she’s already given up enough for me.

Charles: WHAT DO YOU MEAN SHE’S GIVEN UP ENOUGH FOR YOU??

George: Bro, are you hearing yourself?? That sounds serious.

Carlos: That sounds like something from a movie.

Oscar: I don’t know why you’re all freaking out.

Pierre: BECAUSE YOU DROPPED THE BIGGEST NEWS OF THE YEAR LIKE IT WAS NOTHING???

Lando: Yeah, and now we’re finding out your mysterious wife has sacrificed things for you??? OSCAR.

Oscar: Her family didn’t approve of us getting married so young.

Lando: Okay, fair, that’s kind of understandable—

Oscar: So they cut her off.

Lando: WHAT.

Pierre: WHAT.

Carlos: EXCUSE ME???

Daniel: I’M GOING TO FIND THEM AND YELL AT THEM.

Charles: HOLD ON. YOU’RE SAYING SHE LEFT EVERYTHING FOR YOU AND HER FAMILY JUST—DIDN’T SPEAK TO HER AGAIN???

Oscar: Pretty much.

Lewis: …That’s awful.

Oscar: It is what it is.

Lando: NO, NO, IT’S NOT JUST WHAT IT IS. WHAT THE HELL, OSCAR.

Pierre: HOW HAVE YOU JUST NEVER TALKED ABOUT THIS BEFORE???

Oscar: Because it’s not my story to tell.

Carlos: That’s… actually fair.

Max: Her parents are stupid.

Oscar: Yeah, well. Nothing I can do about that.

Lewis: That must have been really hard for her.

Oscar: It was. It still is, sometimes. But she doesn’t regret it.

Lando: BECAUSE SHE LOVES YOU???

Oscar: Yeah.

Pierre: Oh my god.

Daniel: I’m emotional.

George: Okay but we don’t even know her name.

Pierre: DROP THE NAME, OSCAR.

Oscar: Felicity.

Lando: FELICITY????

Pierre: That’s so cute, I can’t even be mad.

Daniel: FELICITY PIASTRI???

Oscar: Yeah.

Lando: WHERE DOES SHE LIVE?? WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN HIDING HER???

Oscar: We live near the McLaren HQ.

Lando: YOU LIVE TOGETHER.

Pierre: OF COURSE THEY LIVE TOGETHER, LANDO, THEY’RE MARRIED.

Carlos: I feel like I need to lie down.

Daniel: You and me both.

Lewis: Alright, so when do we get to meet her?

Oscar: I’ll ask if she wants to come to Silverstone?

TEXT MESSAGES: Charles & Arthur Leclerc

Charles: ARTHUR.

Arthur: yes brother dearest

Charles: YOU KNEW OSCAR WAS MARRIED???

Arthur: uhhh yeah??

Charles: AND YOU DIDN’T THINK TO TELL ME???

Arthur: why would i tell you? i thought you knew?

Charles: WHY WOULD I KNOW??? HE NEVER TALKS ABOUT IT.

Arthur: yeah, he’s private about it, but like… he’s been married for years. i thought it was just one of those things everyone knew??

Charles: EVERYONE??? APPARENTLY NOT ME.

Arthur: ok but be honest. if i told you “oh yeah oscar got married at 18,” would you have believed me?

Charles: …fair point.

Charles: BUT STILL. HE GOT MARRIED AT 18???

Arthur: i know. we were all out here at prema still figuring out how to flirt and oscar was out here being A HUSBAND.

Arthur: like, we were panicking over texting girls back and he was making plans for dinner with his wife.

Charles: HOW DID THIS NEVER COME UP???

Arthur: idk, he’s not the type to bring it up randomly.

Arthur: but if you do ask, it’s game over. bro is OBSESSED with her.

Charles: ???

Arthur: like, i’ve seen him sit through a full engineering debrief completely unfazed, no reaction, zero emotions.

Arthur: but then his wife texts him “good luck” and suddenly he looks like he just won the lottery.

Arthur: prema days were just a bunch of kids losing their minds over instagram likes while oscar was married.

Arthur: like, we’d be debating if texting a girl twice in a row was too desperate, and oscar was over there planning his life with his wife.

Arthur: her family basically disowned her when she married him.

Charles: …what?

Arthur: yeah. they thought she was ruining her life by marrying some kid in motorsport.

Arthur: they told her she was throwing everything away for him. that he’d never make it, that she’d regret it.

Arthur: and when she didn’t back down, they cut her off completely. oscar doesn’t talk about it because he knows.

Arthur: he knows what she gave up for him.

Arthur: and he takes that personally.

Arthur: like, have you ever seen oscar get actually angry?

Charles: …no?

Arthur: i have. once.

Arthur: i walked in on him on the phone with her father.

Arthur: it was the scariest moment of my life.

Charles: OSCAR???

Arthur: YES.

Arthur: he was so calm but also terrifying.

Arthur: like, i swear to god, he said something like, “i don’t care what you think of me, but you don’t get to make her feel like she’s not worth loving.”

Arthur: And then he told the guy that if he ever so much as thought about talking to her like that again, oscar would personally fly across the world and put him in the ground.

Arthur: and the worst part? her dad believed him.

Arthur: like. i could hear it. the silence. the fear.

Arthur: and then oscar just hung up like it was nothing.

Arthur: meanwhile, i’m standing there losing my mind, trying to comprehend that my quiet, nice, mild-mannered teammate had just casually promised to commit murder.

Charles: holy shit.

Arthur: yeah. so next time you see him, just know: that man would burn the world down for his wife and daughter

Charles: ARTHUR. EXPLAIN. NOW.

Arthur: explain what?

Charles: “OSCAR’S WIFE AND DAUGHTER”???

Arthur: ohhh yeah. oscar has a kid. her name’s Bee. cutest little girl ever.

Charles: WHAT DO YOU MEAN OSCAR HAS A KID.

Arthur: i mean oscar. has a kid.

Charles: SINCE WHEN.

Arthur: since like. three years ago.

Charles: HE HAD A CHILD AT TWENTY?

Arthur: yeah, man. wild, right?

Charles: WHY AM I JUST NOW FINDING OUT.

Arthur: idk. you never asked.

Charles: WHY WOULD I ASK “HEY ARTHUR, DOES OSCAR HAVE A SECRET FAMILY”???

Arthur: fair point.

Charles: DOES THIS MAKE ME A GRANDPA.

Arthur: oh my god. wait.

Arthur: it kinda does.

Arthur: papy charles.

Charles: I WILL MURDER YOU.

Arthur: relax, grandpa.

Charles: I AM NOT A GRANDPA.

Arthur: okay, old man.

Charles: FOCUS.

Charles: WHY DID NO ONE THINK TO MENTION THIS TO ME.

Arthur: because oscar’s private? plus, it’s not like it changes anything. he’s still the same oscar. just, y’know. a dad.

Charles: I CANNOT PROCESS THIS.

Arthur: bro, when i first found out, i thought he was crazy.

Arthur: like. imagine being twenty and deciding “yeah, i’m gonna be a dad now.” insane behavior.

Arthur: but honestly? he’s so good at it.

Arthur: like. weirdly good.

Charles: HOW.

Arthur: idk man. some people are just meant to be parents.

Arthur: he’s just so patient with her. like, you know how nothing ever rattles him? that times a hundred.

Arthur: she threw a toy car at his head once and he just smiled and said “nice aim, Bee.”

Charles: ???

Arthur: i’m telling you. completely obsessed with that kid.

Arthur: also she calls him “Papa” and it’s the cutest thing ever.

Charles: I NEED TO LIE DOWN.

Arthur: is it because you’re old now.

Charles: I AM GOING TO END YOU.

Grid Group Chat

Charles: OSCAR.

Charles: I NEED ANSWERS RIGHT NOW.

Oscar: …About?

Lando: What did you do now.

Carlos: This feels serious.

Charles: DO YOU HAVE A CHILD???

Pierre: Excuse me?????

George: What.

Alex: No way.

Lando: WHAT?!?!

Fernando: Interesting.

Lewis: Oscar?

Oscar: Yeah.

Lando: WHAT DO YOU MEAN YEAH????

Lando: THAT’S NOT A CASUAL QUESTION.

Lando: “YEAH” IS NOT AN ACCEPTABLE ANSWER.

Carlos: Wait, what.

Daniel: Oh my god.

Pierre: BACK UP.

Charles: HOW DOES ARTHUR KNOW BEFORE ME???

Oscar: He met her.

Lando: HE MET HER???

Pierre: SHE EXISTS IN A FORM THAT CAN BE MET???

George: OSCAR.

Max: Is everyone going to keep screaming?

Charles: OSCAR YOU HAVE A CHILD AND NEVER TOLD US???

Oscar: No one asked.

Lando: OH I’M SO SORRY, LET ME JUST RANDOMLY ASK EVERYONE ON THE GRID IF THEY SECRETLY HAVE CHILDREN.

Alex: Three years, mate. You’ve had a kid for three years and never said a word?

Oscar: Yeah.

Pierre: I am STUNNED.

George: STUNNED.

Lando: LIKE ACTUALLY YOU HAVE A THREE-YEAR-OLD HUMAN CHILD????

Oscar: Yes, Lando.

Lando: I need to sit down.

Charles: WHY HAVE YOU NEVER BROUGHT HER TO A RACE.

Oscar: Because I promised my wife I wouldn’t buy her a kart until she’s five, and if I bring her to a race, that’s all she’ll want for her birthday.

Carlos: …She’s already obsessed, isn’t she.

Oscar: Oh, completely.

Oscar: She watches onboards for fun.

Pierre: Onboards.

Lando: WHAT THREE-YEAR-OLD WATCHES ONBOARDS????

Oscar: Mine.

Logan:  Bee is kinda obsessed lol

Lando: BEE?!?! HER NAME IS BEE?!?

Oscar: Beatrice. But we call her Bee. 

Oscar: She also gives commentary.

George: Commentary.

Oscar: Yeah. She said George is a bit too careful, but she respects it.

George: …Tell her I appreciate that.

Oscar: She thinks Alex is underrated.

Alex: Smart girl.

Oscar: She says Max and Charles are the fastest.

Charles: Oh, she has taste.

Max: A future World Champion.

Lando: WHO DOES SHE THINK I AM THEN????

Oscar: She says you talk too much.

Lando: I AM BEING BULLIED BY A TODDLER.

Oscar: And she also doesn’t understand why you always “let” Max pass you.

Max: I like her.

Lando: THIS IS CHARACTER ASSASSINATION.

Charles: I need to meet this child.

Max: Me too.

Fernando: Same.

Lewis: When’s she coming to the paddock?

Oscar: She’s not, because if she meets Max and Charles in person, I will not hear the end of it.

Charles: Oh, we have to meet her.

Lando: NOT UNTIL I WIN HER OVER.

Lando: WHO DOES SHE SUPPORT????

Oscar: She’s three, Lando.

Lando: THAT DOESN’T ANSWER MY QUESTION.

Oscar: She says she supports “everyone.”

Max: That’s diplomatic.

Charles: No, that’s suspicious.

Charles: Who does she really support?

Oscar: …She says she supports whoever wins.

Pierre: OH SHE’S A GLORY HUNTER.

Carlos: NO LOYALTY.

Alex: A ruthless fan. I respect it.

Lando: I AM SUFFERING.

Oscar: She does like McLaren. She just thinks Ferrari is “prettier.”

Charles: YES.

Carlos: This child has taste.

Lando: I AM LOSING TO FERRARI ON VIBES ALONE????

Oscar: Sounds like it.

George: This is all well and good, but I need to know—what does she think about you, Oscar?

Oscar: …

Lando: OH MY GOD.

Daniel: OH THIS IS GONNA BE GOOD.

Oscar: She says I’m her favorite after Max and Charles.

Charles: YES.

Max: Acceptable.

Oscar: But she also says I have the best helmet.

Fernando: That’s a win.

Lando: I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU HAVE A WHOLE SECRET DAUGHTER WHO BULLIES ME FROM AFAR.

Oscar: She doesn’t bully you.

Oscar: She just doesn’t understand why you let Max pass you all the time.

Max: A wise child.

Lando: I HATE IT HERE.

Charles: I demand a meeting.

Max: Me too.

Pierre: We’re all uncles now.

Lando: NO. NOT UNTIL SHE ACCEPTS ME.

Oscar: Good luck with that. She also says you sound funny when you yell.

Lando: I’M GONNA CRY.

Lando: I NEED A SECOND CHANCE.

Lando: I CAN WIN HER OVER.

Max: She sounds very intelligent.

Charles: Yes. Clearly, she has excellent judgment.

Lando: STOP SUCKING UP TO HER, YOU’RE ALREADY HER FAVORITE.

Carlos: So what does she think about the other drivers?

Oscar: Do you really want to know?

Pierre: Oh absolutely.

Fernando: I am prepared.

Oscar: Okay.

Oscar: She thinks George sounds like Peppa Pig.

George: …

Lewis: Oh my god.

Alex: OH THIS IS PERFECT.

Lando: WE WILL NEVER LET THIS GO.

George: I AM LOSING TO A CARTOON PIG.

Oscar: She heard you on the TV and asked why Peppa was driving a car.

Pierre: No, you ARE a cartoon pig.

Alex: This is the best day of my life.

George: I hate all of you.

Oscar: Moving on…

Oscar: She thinks Fernando is the “oldest driver ever.”

Charles: At least she knows the history of the sport.

Fernando: I’m taking that as a compliment.

Oscar: She also says Yuki is small and should be allowed to stand on the seat so he can see better.

Yuki: I AM NOT THAT SHORT.

Pierre: SHE SPEAKS THE TRUTH.

Oscar: Oh, and she likes Lewis because she likes his earrings.

Lewis: That is the only valid reason to like me.

Oscar: She also thinks you’re the boss of everyone.

Lewis: That is also true.

Lando: PLEASE TELL ME SHE HAS A TERRIBLE OPINION ABOUT CHARLES OR MAX.

Oscar: She thinks Charles crashes too much but is “really, really fast.”

Max: Accurate.

Oscar: And she says Max is “really good, but scary.”

Max: I am scary.

Charles: No, you just race like a maniac.

Oscar: She also thinks you and Carlos are best friends because you wear the same color.

Carlos: I am okay with this.

Lando: WHY AM I THE ONLY ONE WHO LOSES HERE.

Oscar: Get better PR.

Oscar: She likes Daniel because she says his voice sounds happy.

Daniel: SHE IS SO REAL FOR THAT.

Charles: So she wants to race??

Oscar: Oh yeah. She watches all the onboards. She says the Red Bull looks "like a rocket ship," and McLaren is "super fast now," but Ferrari is "a little bit broken."

Carlos: You HAVE to bring her to a race.

Lando: Okay but actually. Do you think she’ll do karting?

Oscar: Yeah. Probably.

Oscar: She already yells “Lights out and away we go” when she runs down the hallway.

Fernando: Oh, she’s one of us.

Lando: She’s already got the spirit.

George: Unlike Lando.

Lando: I AM GOING TO FIGHT YOU.

Max: No, because you’ll lose.

Lando: I’M STILL PROCESSING. OSCAR HAS A WHOLE CHILD. A CHILD WHO GIVES HIM PERFORMANCE REVIEWS.

Oscar: Yeah, she told me my race suit is “not very pretty.”

Charles: What does she think of Max’s?

Oscar: “It’s blue. That’s okay.” She likes yours more, because Red is good. 

Charles: She has excellent taste.

Oscar: She also said, “You should win more too.”

Lando: Has she ever said that to Max?

Oscar: No, because she thinks he already wins enough.

Max: Wise.

George: What does she think about Mercedes?

Oscar: She likes the silver one better than the black one because “it’s shinier.”

Lewis: Fair.

Oscar: But she said, “It’s not as pretty as red.”

Oscar: She also thinks all our helmets should have “more animals and less boring stuff.”

Lando: SHE IS THE FUTURE OF THIS SPORT.

Oscar: Then she told me, “You need a koala on yours.”

Alex: That’s fair.

Lando: OKAY BUT DOES SHE HAVE ANY RACE STRATEGY OPINIONS.

Oscar: Of course.

Charles: Please share.

Oscar: The other day, I was watching a race replay, and she climbed onto the couch next to me, stared at the screen, and went, “Why are you still on those tires?”

Carlos: HAHAHA.

Oscar: And I said, “Because we haven’t pitted yet,” and she just shook her head and went, “That’s silly. You should get new ones now.”

Lando: SHE’S SO SMART.

Pierre: Does she understand tire compounds?

Oscar: She knows soft tires are fast, medium tires are okay, and hard tires are ��boring and ugly.”

Charles: Honestly, she gets it.

Lando: NO BUT ACTUALLY DOES SHE HAVE THOUGHTS ON DRS.

Oscar: Oh, yeah. She calls it the “flappy thing.”

Pierre: I love her.

Oscar: She saw an onboard where I opened it, and she just went, “Oooooh, flappy thing makes you go fast.”

Max: I mean, she’s right.

Alex: Does she like overtakes?

Oscar: Yeah, but she only gets really excited when I do them. Otherwise, she just watches quietly and then claps if it looks cool.

Charles: Does she cheer for anyone else?

Oscar: One time, she saw you make a double overtake and went, “Ohhhhh, I like him.”

Carlos: Betrayal.

Oscar: She likes you too, don’t worry. But I think she just thought that move was cool.

Carlos: I suppose I will allow it.

George: Oscar, have you explained to her why Lando hasn’t won yet?

Oscar: Not really. I just told her, “It’s really hard to win in F1,” and she thought about it for a second and went, “Not for Max.”

Max: HAHAHA.

Charles: She is actually too smart.

Lando: I AM BEING DRAGGED BY A TODDLER WHO DOESN’T EVEN KNOW HER OWN LAST NAME YET.

Oscar: She does know her last name, actually.

Lando: GOOD FOR HER. I’M STILL SUFFERING.

Carlos: Has she asked why you haven’t won a race either, Oscar?

Oscar: No.

Pierre: WHY NOT??

Oscar: I think she assumes I’m too busy taking care of her.

George: Honestly, fair.

Lando: I STILL CAN’T BELIEVE YOU’RE A DAD.

Oscar: Believe it.

Lando: I CAN’T. AND NOW I’M GOING TO HAVE AN EXISTENTIAL CRISIS BECAUSE YOUR TINY CHILD THINKS I’M BAD AT MY JOB.

Oscar: She didn’t say you were bad. Just that you haven’t won yet.

Lando: SAME THING.

Oscar: It’s okay, Lando. I’ll tell her you’re trying your best.

Lando: STOPPIT.

Lando: NO ACTUALLY I CAN’T STOP THINKING ABOUT THIS. WHAT ELSE HAS SHE SAID.

Oscar: What do you mean?

Lando: I MEAN ABOUT F1. ABOUT ME. ABOUT YOU. ABOUT ANYTHING. I NEED TO KNOW HOW BADLY A THREE-YEAR-OLD HAS DRAGGED ME BEHIND THE VIRTUAL SAFETY CAR.

Oscar: Well, she’s got a lot of opinions.

Charles: What kind of opinions?

Oscar: She has told me she doesn’t like safety cars because they’re “boring,” and that red flags are annoying because she has to wait.

Max: I respect it.

Oscar: But she does like when there’s a big crash because she gets to say, “Uh oh!”

Lando: NO BECAUSE IMAGINE YOU BIN IT AND YOU HEAR A TINY LITTLE “UH OH” OVER THE RADIO.

Max: I would retire.

Oscar: She also said if I ever win a race, she wants to do the shoey with me.

Lando: THAT’S HORRIBLE. DON’T LET HER DO THAT.

Oscar: Felicity already said no.

Lando: Good. I’m still recovering from the fact that you have a whole wife and a daughter.

Oscar: You’ll be fine.

Lando: WILL I.

Oscar: No.

Lando: GREAT.

Lando: I’M NOT OVER IT.

Carlos: We know.

Lando: YOU HAVE A DAUGHTER.

Oscar: I do.

Lando: A WHOLE DAUGHTER.

Oscar: That is usually how it works.

Lando: YOU NEVER TOLD ME.

Oscar: You never asked.

Lando: WHO ASKS, “HEY, DO YOU SECRETLY HAVE A WHOLE TODDLER?”

Charles: I might start.

Lando: I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS.

Oscar: It’s not that big of a deal.

Lando: NOT THAT BIG OF A DEAL???

Oscar: She’s just a tiny person.

Lando: A TINY PERSON WHO WATCHES F1 AND HAS OPINIONS.

Oscar: Correct.

Lando: I CANNOT BELIEVE THIS.

Pierre: Bro, breathe.

Lando: NO.

[louisa-gc]

how to start reading again

from someone who was a voracious reader until high school and is now getting back into it in her twenties.

start with an old favourite. even though it felt a little silly, i re-read the harry potter series one christmas and it wiped away my worry that i wasn't capable of reading anymore. they are long books, but i was still able to get completely immersed and to read just as fast as i had years and years ago.

don't be afraid of "easier" books. before high school i was reading the french existentialists, but when getting back into reading, i picked up lucinda riley and sally rooney. not my favourite authors by far, but easier to read while not being totally terrible. i needed to remind myself that only choosing classics would not make me a better or smarter person. if a book requires a slower pace of reading to be understood, it's easier to just drop it, which is exactly what i wanted to avoid at first.

go for essays and short stories. no need to explain this one: the shorter the whole, the less daunting it is. i definitely avoided all books over 350 pages at first and stuck to essay collections until i suddenly devoured donna tartt's goldfinch.

remember it's okay not to finish. i was one of those people who finished every book they started, but not anymore! if i pick up a book at the library and after a few chapters realise i'd rather not read it, i just return it. (another good reason to use your local library! no money spent on books you might end up disliking.)

analyse — or don't. some people enjoy reading more when they take notes or really stop to think about the contents. for me, at first, it was more important to build the habit of reading, and the thought of analysing what i read felt daunting. once i let go of that expectation, i realised i naturally analyse and process what i read anyway.

read when you would usually use your phone. just as i did when i was a child, i try to read when eating, in the bathroom, on public transport, right before sleeping. i even read when i walk, because that's normally a time i stare at my screen anyway. those few pages you read when you brush your teeth and wait for a friend very quickly stack up.

finish the chapter. if you have time, try to finish the part you're reading before closing the book. usually i find i actually don't want to stop reading once i get to the end of a chapter — and if i do, it feels like a good place to pick up again later.

try different languages. i was quickly approaching a reading slump towards the end of my exchange year, until i realised i had only had access to books in english and that, despite my fluency, i was tired of the language. so as soon as i got back home i started picking up books in my native tongue, which made reading feel much easier and more fun again! after some nine months, i'm starting to read in english again without it feeling like a huge task.

forget what's popular. i thought social media would be a fun way to find interesting books to read, but i quickly grew frustrated after hating every single book i picked up on some influencer's recommendation. it's certainly more time-consuming to find new books on your own, but this way i don't despise every novel i pick up.

remember it isn't about quantity. the online book community's endless posts about reading 150 books each year or 6 books in a single day easily make us feel like we're slow, bad readers, but here's the thing: it does not matter at all how many books you read or what your reading pace is. we all lead different lives, just be proud of yourself for reading at all!

stop stressing about it. we all know why reading is important, and since the pandemic reading has become an even more popular hobby than it was before (which is wonderful!). however, there's no need to force yourself to be "a reader". pick up a book every now and then and keep reading if you enjoy it, but not reading regularly doesn't make you any less of a good person. i find the pressure to become "a person who reads" or to rediscover my inner bookworm only distances me from the very act of reading.

[infiniteglitterfall]

know someone who enjoys horror stories? share this one! it's true!

hahahahahahahahahaha aarrggghhhhhhhhhh 3,000,000 deaths due to COVID-19 last year. Globally. Three million. Case rates higher than 90% of the rest of the pandemic. The reason people are still worried about COVID is because it has a way of quietly fucking up your body. And the risk is cumulative.

I'm going to say that again: the risk is cumulative.

It's not just that a lot of people get bad long-term effects from it. One in seven or so? Enough that it's kind of the Russian Roulette of diseases. It's also that the more times you get it, the higher that risk becomes. Like if each time you survived Russian Roulette, the empty chamber was removed from the gun entirely. The worst part is that, psychologically, we have the absolute opposite reaction. If we survive something with no ill effects, we assume it's pretty safe. It is really, really hard to override that sense of, "Ok, well, I got it and now I probably have a lot of immunity and also it wasn't that bad." It is not a respiratory disease. Airborne, yes. Respiratory disease, no: not a cold, not a flu, not RSV.

Like measles (or maybe chickenpox?), it starts with respiratory symptoms. And then it moves to other parts of your body. It seems to target the lungs, the digestive system, the heart, and the brain the most.

It also hits the immune system really hard - a lot of people are suddenly more susceptible to completely unrelated viruses. People get brain fog, migraines, forget things they used to know.

(I really, really hate that it can cross the blood-brain barrier. NOTHING SHOULD EVER CROSS THE BLOOD-BRAIN BARRIER IT IS THERE FOR A REASON.) Anecdotal examples of this shit are horrifying. I've seen people talk about coworkers who've had COVID five or more times, and now their work... just often doesn't make sense? They send emails that say things like, "Sorry, I didn't mean Los Angeles, I meant Los Angeles."

Or they insist they've never heard of some project that they were actually in charge of a year or two before.

Or their work is just kind of falling apart, and they don't seem to be aware of it.

People talk about how they don't want to get the person in trouble, so their team just works around it. Or they describe neighbors and relatives who had COVID repeatedly, were nearly hospitalized, talked about how incredibly sick they felt at the time... and now swear they've only had it once and it wasn't bad, they barely even noticed it.

(As someone who lived with severe dissociation for most of my life, this is a genuinely terrifying idea to me. I've already spent my whole life being like, "but what if I told them that already? but what if I did do that? what if that did happen to me and I just don't remember?") One of its known effects in the brain is to increase impulsivity and risk-taking, which is real fucking convenient honestly. What a fantastic fucking mutation. So happy for it on that one. Yes, please make it seem less important to wear a mask and get vaccinated. I'm not screaming internally at all now.

I saw a tweet from someone last year whose family hadn't had COVID yet, who were still masking in public, including school.

She said that her son was no kind of an athlete. Solidly bottom middle of the pack in gym.

And suddenly, this year, he was absolutely blowing past all the other kids who had to run the mile. He wasn't running any faster. His times weren't fantastic or anything. It's just that the rest of the kids were worse than him now. For some reason. I think about that a lot. (Like my incredibly active six-year-old getting a cold, and suddenly developing post-viral asthma that looked like pneumonia.

He went back to school the day before yesterday, after being home for a month and using preventative inhalers for almost week.

He told me that it was GREAT - except that he couldn't run as much at recess, because he immediately got really tired. Like how I went outside with him to do some yard work and felt like my body couldn't figure out how to increase breathing and heart rate.

I wasn't physically out of breath, but I felt like I was out of breath. That COVID feeling people describe, of "I'm not getting enough air." Except that I didn't have that problem when I had COVID.) Some people don't observe any long (or medium) term side effects after they have it.

But researchers have found viral reservoirs of COVID-19 in everyone they've studied who had it.

It just seems to hang out, dormant, for... well, longer than we've had an opportunity to observe it, so far.

(I definitely watched that literal horror movie. I think that's an entire genre. The alien dormant under ice in the Arctic.)

(oh hey I don't like that either!!!!!!!!!) All of which is to explain why we should still care about avoiding it, and how it manages to still cause excess deaths. Measuring excess deaths has been a standard tool in public health for a long time.

We know how many people usually die from all different causes, every year. So we can tell if, for example, deaths from heart disease have gone way up in the past three years, and look for reasons. Those are excess deaths: deaths that, four years ago, would not have happened. During the pandemic, excess death rates have been a really important tool. For all sorts of reasons. Like, sometimes people die from COVID without ever getting tested, and the official cause is listed as something else because nobody knows they had COVID. But also, people are dying from cardiovascular illness much younger now.

People are having strokes and heart attacks younger, and more often, than they did before the pandemic started. COVID causes a lot of problems. And some of those problems kill people. And some of them make it easier for other things to kill us. Lung damage from COVID leading to lungs collapsing, or to pneumonia, or to a pulmonary embolism, for example. The Economist built a machine-learning model with a 95% confidence interval that gauges excess death statistics around the world, to tell them what the true toll of the ongoing COVID pandemic has been so far.

Total excess deaths globally in 2023: Three million.

3,000,000.

Official COVID-19 deaths globally so far: Seven million. 7,000,000. Total excess deaths during COVID so far: Thirty-five point two million. 35,200,000.

Five times as many.

That's bad. I don't like that at all. I'm glad last year was less than a tenth of that. I'm not particularly confident about that continuing, though, because last year we started a period of really high COVID transmission. Case rates higher than 90% of the rest of the pandemic. Here's their data, and charts you can play with, and links to detailed information on how they did all of this:

Here's a non-paywalled link to it:

https://archive.vn/2024.01.26-012536/https://www.economist.com/graphic-detail/coronavirus-excess-deaths-estimates

Oh: here's a link to where you can buy comfy, effective N95 masks in all sizes:

Those ones are about a buck each after shipping - about $30 for a box of 30. They also have sample packs for a dollar, so you can try a couple of different sizes and styles.

You can wear an N95 mask for about 40 total hours before the effectiveness really drops, so that's like a dollar for a week of wear.

They're also family-owned and have cat-shaped masks and I really love them. These ones are cuter and in a much wider range of colors, prints, and styles, but they're also more expensive; they range from $1.80 to $3 for a mask. ($18-$30 for a box of ten.)

[goat-guy-tm]

I think MouthWashing has been a good example of how the media has jaded the common man. I see countless people say that Curly should have killed Jimmy or Anya should have killed Jimmy, hell that anyone should have killed Jimmy.

Do some of y'all actually forget that killing someone is one of the most traumatizing things for the regular fucking Joe to do?

Not to mention, Curly, who I am in the boat of believing Curly has been being abused by Jimmy for years, sees him as a friend and wouldn't even be able to do that.

Anya is a kind soul who wants to HELP people not hurt them. She quite literally keeps saying she doesn't want to believer a person's worst moment makes them a monster. She is looking Jimmy in the eyes and begging him to be better.

Swansea had no intrest in hurting him. I've wanted to rant about this but to everyone who keeps saying Anya should have told him so he could take care of Jimmy; she does tell him. And you know what he does? He gives Jimmy a fucking side eye. HE WOULDNT PROTECT HER.

Daisuke is a 20's something year old guy who knows no one here, he's being friendly to seem cool, he's not going to hurt Jimmy because he is pit into a position where he believes Jimmy can be trusted, let alone he's not gonna kill a man for a woman he's known for 100~ days.

And please do not comment "oh they could have just kept him locked in a room somewhere" because that is a whole other rant for me to go on because no Curly would not do that to a man he knows can be volatile and is mentally ill.

[salem-s]

hii! i absolutely loved the last fic based on back to friends and it made me think abt all the angsty rafe fics.

i was wondering if you could do a fic where rafe and reader are best friends but reader is in love with rafe but rafe openly calls her his best friend so reader moves on and rafe yearns for her?

YUP. love this. love angst. awesome.

I'VE ALWAYS LOVED YOU, JUST NOT LIKE THIS — RAFE CAMERON ONE SHOT

SYNOPSIS you’re rafe’s best friend. always have been. have you wished the two of you were more than that? only everyday since junior year of high school. but when he calls you his best friend, the mocking title you wear with a court jester hat, you come to the conclusion that that’s all you’ll ever be. so, you’ll start putting yourself first.

WARNINGS fluff, obbbvviously angst (miscommunication, two idiots not knowing how to emote properly, self sabotaging behavior), mentions of underage drinking/smoking, suggestive content but no actual smut. all that. bsf!rafe is so special to me. he’s such an idiot. not edited literally at all.

WORD COUNT 7.8k. very description heavy so sooooorrrry.

SONG OF THE CHAPTER infrunami by steve lacy

You've loved Rafe Cameron all your life.

The two of you have been attached to the hip since you were kids, play fighting and emulating Smackdown in the backyard and scratching up knees and elbows, triple-dog-daring each other to bridge jump in the middle of the night as rebellious teens, sneaking through each other's windows for impromptu sleepovers where you'd stay up until the crack of dawn talking about nothing and everything at the same time, mingling with your separate friend groups at parties but always finding your way back to each other by the end of the night.

You patched up his bloodied lips and iced his bruised knuckles. He opened doors for you and scared off any guys who came a little too close. From a young age, you knew you loved him. He was your best friend, the person who knew you like the back of his hand and still stayed despite your flaws. It never crossed the line. Ever.

But the moment you realized you were in love with him, all you could do was hyper-fixate on the fact that all you'll ever be is his best friend.

It wasn't a grand realization with confetti and sickly sweet hearts as an aura around his head.

You were seventeen, drunk at prom, and crying in the sand dunes after your date — Matthew from the lacrosse team who you'd been pining over for a year — stood you up to shack up with Natalie who you used to do Girl's Scouts with. No one noticed you slip out, as you were subtle and sneaky and frankly so fucking embarrassed that you wanted nothing more to do with the night. Everyone had been drinking or smoking too much anyway, and you sought that out as the perfect time to dip, pour your emotions out on the dunes of solitude, then mosey on home in hopes of forgetting about the whole thing.

But, of course, Rafe always kept tabs on you.

He found you not even five minutes later, knowing exactly what happened when he caught a glimpse of Matthew leading Natalie upstairs by the hand with you nowhere in sight. In an instant, he was sitting beside you a little too close (as usual) and slinging an arm around your shoulders, pulling you taut to his chest. And he simply let you cry, murmured sweet nothings in your ear on how that prick didn't deserve you anyway, holding you in a way he has a million times before.

But something in your heart clicked that night. Because you realized two things: that no one will ever know you the way Rafe Cameron does. And that you were in love with him.

Ever since then, all you've pinpointed is the fact that you'll only ever be his best friend.

You were his best friend throughout childhood, throughout high school, through graduation and the slobbery crying mess of a goodbye when you both left for different colleges, during semesters over the phone and even more-so when you came back for breaks, through his ups and downs of relationships with girls that weren't you, through all of it.

So when you overhear him tell someone at a party that "She's the best friend anyone could have," you pointedly decide to yourself that your heart has had enough.

You have to stop seeking his traits in other guys. You have to stop pretending that there's any kind of world that would sustain this giant, stupid, debilitating crush you have on him. You have to stop living in fantasy land and wake the fuck up, because it's not gonna happen and it never will.

You'll always love him, there's no doubt about it and there's no way you can remove him from your life (not that he'd even let you if you tried), but Project Fall-Out-Of-Love, FOOL for short, commences the moment the words leave his mouth. That night, you stay in the joint-rolling corner with your friend group, not finding solace under his arm or texting him five min break? halfway throughout the night to debrief. After all, he doesn't question it, probably thinking you're too engrossed with your friends as that happens from time to time.

But when you start relying less and less on him, Rafe spirals.

Of course, he doesn't outwardly bring it up, because the vulnerability would absolutely kill him and his dignity. But he notices small things here and there that simply don't add up: you've slowly stopped texting him when you're bored at home with nothing to do and simply go out alone instead, stopped hanging around him at parties or even sitting next to him on the couch when your and his friends get together for a chill night in, stopped throwing your legs over his lap or leaning your cheek on his arm or grabbing his hand when walking through a crowd.

The first couple of times you pull away, he finds himself making up for the absence subconsciously. When he gets himself a drink, he's automatically getting you one and bringing it to you without you having to ask just as an excuse to insert himself in the conversation at your side. When you're walking to your favorite breakfast spot to pick up your coffee, he's got a hand on the small of your back when you weave through people on the sidewalk. When you have an eyelash on your cheek, he's brushing it off with his thumb. When your necklace is off center, he's fixing it without a word. You never say anything and carry on with your day as usual.

He doesn't realize that his hands linger longer than they should when yours stop touching him.

And for the life of him, Rafe can't figure out why. He can't conjecture why you're the same... just without your hands. Instead of mussing your hands through his hair, you're telling him to fix it. Instead of fixing the collar of his shirt or adjusting the buttons of his button-down, you're giving tips on how to make it look sharper. Instead of pawing at his back for a piggy-back ride on your walk home from the bar, you're asking your friend. You're still you, laughing and poking fun at him and getting into all sorts of trouble like the two of you normally do. But he can feel a shift, a change, as you don't look at him longer than you need to and only touch him when it's necessary.

After a month of dancing around your change in demeanor, Rafe bites (more-so nibbles) at the topic.

"Feel like I haven't seen you lately," he murmurs one night, trying to keep his voice even and uninterested even though his heart is pounding.

The two of you are sitting on the couch in your apartment, on opposite ends which is unusual for you to create so much distance, watching an older movie with subtitles that he has a hard time focusing on. You, on the other hand, are intently paying attention, brows furrowed as you pluck popcorn one by one into your mouth, appearing as if nothing is wrong (and for all he knows, nothing is wrong, but you've stopped touching him for whatever reason and he's going crazy over the considerable amount of physical space you've put between you over the past month).

When you think you hear his voice, you glance his way only to be met with his stare.

"Hm?" You hum sweetly, almost startled. "You say something?"

Rafe opens and closes his mouth, darting his gaze between your eyes and hating how far away you feel.

But he's not ready to admit that, so instead he shakes his head.

"Didn't catch that last line," he says on the spot. "They're talking too fast."

Your brows raise. "Oh? Wanna put something else on, then?"

What he wants is for you to come and curl up next to him like you've done for every single movie night since the two of you were nine, to nuzzle against his side and end up falling asleep on top of him like you always end up doing by the end of the film, to feel you next to him and most likely fall asleep too, to know that he's going to wake up next to you and start his day with you.

However, Rafe doesn't say any of that.

Instead puts on his trademark smirk that stands more as armor than it does pleasantries. "Finally, thought you'd never ask."

The only time you touch him that night is when your fingers graze his when you hand him the remote, still flashing your sweet smile and rolled eyes at his prince-like behavior, something you've always poked fun at him for. The contact feels like a cruel joke, because your hand pulls away as fast as it came and suddenly he's tethered to nothing once again.

And it only gets worse.

The next week, you're late for the unplanned-planned hangout with all your friends in your living room.

Every first Friday night of each month, his friends and your friends come together to hang at someone's apartment - this night it being yours - and drink, play cards, be stupid and laugh about shit that doesn't matter. It's easily his favorite night of the month, one because he gets all of his friends in the same place but also because he gets to see you in your lax state, more often than not in your pajamas where he'll usually crash at your place or you'll crash at his. That's usually what ends up happening.

But not tonight, because you show up thirty minutes behind the unofficial meeting time looking prettier than ever.

At first, Rafe assumes you had a late presentation at work or some special affair that causes you to look so nice. But when you come closer and put your bag down and slip your shoes off, he notices a little bit of gloss on your lips and a smidge of glitter on your eyelids. Your shirt's a little more provocative than usual and you're sheepishly smiling to all of your girl friends' knowing looks across the room, widening your eyes slightly in warning as a I'll tell you later look.

It dawns on him that you were on a date.

Rafe can simply tell, and he suddenly hates that he can. He hates how he can notice your suppressed smile as if you're fighting a blissful grin. He hates how you're so dressed up and showing off your pretty to someone else, someone that isn't him, someone that probably doesn't deserve to see the real you. He hates how you seemed to tell everyone but him, and that breaks his fucking heart. Why wouldn't you tell him? Why aren't you telling him anything anymore?

When most of your friends leave and it's just you, your two roommates, and him, he bites.

"You went on a date."

It's a little silly, the timing of it all, because he feels a stupid sitting on the couch with you and your two best girl friends sipping cheap wine and gossiping about your love life. If his friends saw this set up, saw how much he cared and how he's practically in on girl talk, he'd never hear the end of it and that's a fucking promise. But Rafe can't seem to care, not in the slightest, because the question is detrimentally important that you could've put a face mask on him and that stupid headband you use, and he wouldn't say anything, only as long as you answer the question.

You quirk a brow at him, legs tucked underneath you that causes your dress to ride up a little. "Who told you?"

He ignores the looks from your roommates. "No one. Tell me."

Before you can answer, one roommate interrupts. "Tell us. How'd he pick you up?"

And to Rafe's horror, you tell everything.

You give a very detailed rundown of the entire night. How he picked you up with flowers, how he opened the car and restaurant door for you, how he paid for the meal and the drinks you got at the bar around the corner, how he wrapped his arm around your waist and asked to kiss you goodnight on the doorstep, how he asked to see you again this weekend and how you said yes.

He wants to leave. He wants to run out the fucking door and pretend he didn't hear any of it. But he can't, he's glued to the couch with an agape mouth and spiraling brain as he listens to you speak, watches how you smile, pays attention to what details you cling onto. The feeling in his chest is tight, too constricting and it's making him claustrophobic. His heart thumps erratically, threatening to burst through his ribcage the more you talk about your night.

"So? That's it?" Your one roommate Ainsley asks. "Just a kiss? Not even an ounce of fondling?"

You shrug and shake your head. "Maybe he's saving it for next time?"

"Hopefully it's a little more than fondling," your other roommate Cora muses, lips brimming the rim of her wine glass as she pointedly glances at you. "You deserve at least three orgasms. Minimum."

The image makes Rafe grimace.

Of course, you notice and laugh so fucking sweet that it does something weird to his chest. "Oh, please. You know how many times I had to hear about you fucking girls from the back in places AI couldn't even make up?"

Rafe knows he's overstaying his welcome and definitely intruding on girl talk. But he couldn't care in the slightest. The scowl is permanently etched on his face at the thought of you touching, let alone by touched, by someone else. It's selfish, he knows that much, but frankly he really doesn't want anyone to know you the way that he knows you. He knows your coffee order, your pet peeves and deepest secrets, your menstrual cycle for fuck's sake, the name of your first pet and the things you do when you're upset.

"That's different," he mumbles, downing the rest of his drink.

"It's really not," you argue playfully, eyelids slightly low with your drunken buzz. When you poke his thigh with your toe he nearly jolts, shocked at the first bit of contact you've initiated in what feels like forever. "It's just payback for all the times you made me listen to the intricate details of your hookups. So pour another glass and kick back, Rafey."

Despite the weird lurch in his gut, Rafe does what you say because it's frankly impossible to say no to you.

He doesn't even know why he's getting so worked up. Perhaps it's because you're physically pulling away from him since you're seeing other people. But he still doesn't understand: you've had boyfriends, you've told him about bad and good hookups and still never stopped touching him, never stopped doting on him and carrying on your friendship as normal. Why now? What's the difference between two months ago and now? What changed?

The thought keeps him awake. Rafe left your apartment hours ago and he still can't stop thinking about it, thinking about the strange sense of dread in his chest and how it feels like the end of the world when you talk about the possibility of being with someone else. He's lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, blinking the minutes away until the sun rises.

And when it hits him? It's all he can think about.

Because Rafe has loved you all his life.

He's cared about you more than he has anyone else, because you're the only person who was never afraid of him, who saw him through his brutal insecurities and helped him become a better version of himself. You held him when things got too loud and calmed him down when his mind was running amuck. You bandaged his cuts and bruises but not without a good scolding. You had no mercy tackling him in beach football every weekend in the summer. You told him when he was acting stupid and made sure he fixed up his act. He values you more than anything else.

But the moment he realizes he's in love with you, Rafe doesn't know how to act.

All it took for him to realize was your physical absence. Because perhaps he's been in love with you all this time, but could never distinguish it from that best friend admiration he's had for you his entire life. He gushes about you to others, how you're the best friend anyone could have, how smart and funny you are and how you always keep him on his toes and keep him in check.

Now, it’s all he can think about.

How your eyes light up when you laugh, how the sound of it immediately brightens a room, how you put everything to the side to help someone, how you know the way all of your friends like their eggs without even having to ask, how you can be the sweetest and funniest in the same breath, how you go through life making the flowers bloom at your feet with every step.

But there’s another added factor. More so a disadvantage. Because now his eyes linger in places they shouldn’t. When the loose collar of your shirt dips down over your shoulder, his breath hitches at the sight of your bare collar bone. When you wear dresses in the summer breeze, he can’t help but stare at your legs, and he has to force himself to look away when the hem rides up to further expose your thigh. When you speak to him, he fixates on the way your lips move, and he finds himself wondering how sweet you’d taste. He wants to worship you, kiss the ground you walk on, let his hands appreciate every dip and crevice of your body in the way he knows you deserve.

It haunts him. Plagues him. Rafe can barely sleep at the realization, at how disgusted he is with himself. You’re his best friend, for fuck’s sake, the girl who has been with him through it all. You’re someone he cannot lose, because if he did, he doesn’t know what he’d do.

“Rafe? Did you hear what I said?”

Your sweet voice startles him, knocking away his grueling thoughts with a simple sentence.

You’re cooking lunch with added ingredients to accommodate his spontaneous arrival. Sleep deprived, Rafe finds it difficult to be alone with the confinements of his mind, especially now, so he went for a walk to take advantage of the nice day. However, in the hopes of clearing his mind, his feet decided otherwise, and subconsciously walked himself to your apartment. You, being so kind, offered to make him a meal, saying that you were making one anyway, what’s one more?

So now he’s sitting at your kitchen island, twirling the family siglet ring on his finger in an attempt to calm him down, watching your back as you stand over the stove. But it’s proving less of a relaxing afternoon when all he can stare at is the planes of your shoulders exposed in a tank top. Every time you laugh, it makes his chest constrict. When you turn to meet his eye briefly to make a point, he finds himself automatically smiling regardless if you're berating him or not. He has to fight the urge to stand and hold you.

"Hm?" He hums distractedly, almost sheepish that he got caught in a daze. "What'd you say, pretty?"

Whether you hear the nickname, you don't comment on it, nor do you turn around. "I asked if you could save me some of Sarah's cookies when you go over tonight."

Rafe frowns. "Wait, you're not coming?"

You make a noise that resembles a snort and a laugh. "Do you ever listen to anything I tell you?"

A response rises and dies in his throat, because, yes, normally he does, he always tries to hang onto every word out of your mouth. But sue a guy if he was too busy admiring your pretty for a moment.

"Uh, that seems like a trap," he muses, trying to appear playful but frankly you're avoiding his question. "Not trying to be on your bad side."

"Smart."

"Never answered my question."

You shake your head to yourself as you add ingredients to the pan. "I have another date tonight with that guy. Nosy."

Rafe's heart drops. "You— I— What?"

The stuttering must amuse you, because you half turn around to sneak a peek at him, taking in his furrowed brows and parted lips as he stares at you with those bright blue eyes, looking confused and almost panicked. It's as if you told him two plus two is five. And even though you just said something to flip is world upside down, he can't deny how fucking pretty you look right now: face bare with the scent of your freshly washed hair filling the kitchen with a citrus aroma, clad in a tank top and boxer shorts that he's pretty sure are his.

The sight of it makes him go crazy.

"You know," you say pointedly, shrugging nonchalantly as if his gut isn't sinking to the earth's core. "The guy I was telling you and the girls about the other night?"

He blinks stupidly. "Wh— Yeah, I know. But you’re… He’s… Another one?”

“Are you okay?”

No, he thinks immediately. How could he be?

“Yeah,” he drawls out unconvincingly. “Why’re you seeing him again?”

You fully turn to face him, leaning against the oven handle, eyes searching his for an answer to his strange behavior. “I like him. Why does it matter?”

How long do you have? Rafe snorts to himself.

But all he can do is shrug, trying to dance around the obvious answer. “Because this guy could be a creep. You don’t know him.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, Rafe. That’s literally the point in dating someone. You get to know them.”

“I don’t like that.”

“You don’t have to?”

Rafe stares at you for a moment, blue eyes almost glossed with worry, desperate to say anything to get you to not go, regardless of how pathetic it makes him look. And you simply stare back accusatorially, quirking a quizzical brow and waiting for his response, curious to see what kind of excuse he’s going to come up with to get you to not go.

Where this sudden apprehension is coming from, you have no idea. He’s never been this invested in your love life, never been this forward on getting you to not date around. It’s comical, almost, to have him practically begging, but you can’t find the gall to laugh. Not when you’ve been craving this sort of attention for years, not when you’ve been wishing it was him all along for as long as you can remember, not when he’s looking at you right now as if his life will fall apart if you go.

The sizzling of the food on the pan interrupts your staring contest, and with a dejected sigh, you spin back around to tend to your meal.

“He’s not a creep, if it makes you feel better. He’s one of Ainsley’s coworkers.”

Rafe sucks in a breath. “So?”

You add more ingredients to the pan. “So,” you drawl out, “she can vouch for him. And I trust that.”

When you don’t hear an immediate response, you assume he’s seceded and dropped the topic. The sizzling of the pan fills the gap of silence, and you internally praise that your hands are busy so you can’t examine the way they’re shaking subtly at the practical confrontation.

Why now? Why does he give a shit now? When you’ve just started to get over him? It’s not fair, how he constantly pulls you back in just when you think you’re in the clear, out of the abyss that is your infatuation, until he’s saying something sweet or hugging you close enough to get your heart pounding all the same again. It’s a curse, loving him is the tide, pushing and pulling and pushing and pulling. All day. Every day. All the time.

“Don’t go.” You hear from behind you. “Please.”

You frown even though he can’t see your face, blinking stupidly at the pan as you decipher his words, hear the emotion in his plea, picture the look on his features. You don’t turn around. You can’t. You can’t have him pull you in again just to date someone else the next week. You can’t keep doing this to yourself. He has to know that, right?

“Rafe—“ You start quietly.

But the door swinging open interrupts you, both you and Rafe whipping your heads to find the culprit.

It’s Cora, one of your roommates, slugging two full bags of groceries and slapping them down onto the counter with a loud sigh, unknowing of the thick tension brewing in this kitchen right now. Rafe's eyes are solely trained on you, on the words that linger in the air and itching to know what you were about to say. You meet his gaze for one, two seconds before pulling away, looking back to your roommate slipping her shoes off.

“Smells good!” She chirps innocently, unloading her bags. “Whatcha cookin’?”

Despite his protests, you go on the date.

The night is fun, don't get yourself twisted, because Nate — who's all bright smiles and light laughter and honestly a nice breath of fresh air — takes you to a nice outdoor pavilion with food, drinks, miscellaneous activities such as mini golf and wine tastings and shopping for clothes that are way out of your pay grade. You hold his hand when you walk around the area and laugh when you're supposed to, drink the beverages he buys you and say your pleases and thank yous.

But you can't help the nagging feeling in your heart.

And you hate yourself for it, because Nate's great. He's charming, funny, easy-going, and someone you can definitely see yourself being with or being friends with. However, the entire time, all you can think about is your exchange with Rafe in your kitchen, how wrecked he looked when you told him about the date, the desperation in his eyes when you told you not to go, the way his fingers twitched in your direction as if he was itching to hold you.

It's delusional. You know. You know because you've been feeding them to yourself for years.

Your lips are still tingling from when Nate kissed you goodnight, trudging up to your apartment with a heavy heart and a befuddled brain.

Your mind spins. You want to like Nate. You want to dive off the deep end and forget all about Rafe Cameron, forget about how many years you've wasted pining over him knowing it was never going to be mutual. You want to look into Nate's eyes and not wish they were Rafe's. You want to be with someone without constantly comparing them to your best friend, which is something you've found yourself doing subconsciously. It's a plague eating away at your heart, chipping pieces away one by one until you're left with nothing.

It only proves more difficult when you turn the corner only to discover the one person you don't want to see.

He's leaning against your door frame, picking incessantly at his nail beds which is a habit you've tried time and time again to help him stop. A graphic t-shirt snugs his torso, the arms shaping the outline of his biceps as sweatpants hang low on his hips, as if he rolled out of bed to come and wait by your door. As to how he got in the building, you have no idea, but you wouldn't put it past him to have somehow found a mischievous way.

The click of your heels alert him, and Rafe snaps his head up.

You try to ignore his wide eyes and how he almost looks relieved that you're alone, eyes scanning quickly over your pretty dress before darting up to meet your gaze.

"Hey," he says gently, "how as it?"

You open your mouth to respond, but no words come out as you stand there puzzled. A million questions rise and die in your throat, mind reeling at the concept of him sitting here and waiting for you. He was supposed to see his sister tonight, another friend of yours, yet instead he's leaning on your door for support as he looks at you in a way that makes your heart thrum.

"Good,” you respond meekly, still desperately confused of his presence. "I thought you were sleeping at Sarah’s?”

He shrugs, but offers no words.

You catch a glimpse of his nails beds, red and irritated as you can put two and two together and guess that he’s been picking them all night. His hair is tousled, as if he’s been tossing and turning and fighting sleep and didn’t bother looking in the mirror before he ventured here. Sunken from exhaustion, his blue eyes simply stare at you with a softness you’ve only seen from him a few times, usually when he’s trying to butter you up with an apology, or when he’s deep in thought, or when something’s really bothering him and he’s internally building up the courage to say something.

You bite. “What are you doing here?”

“I just…” He starts quickly, but trails off with uncertainty, as if his mind is trying to catch up to his words. “Do you like him?”

“Wh— Nate?”

“Sure,” Rafe says immediately. “If that’s his name. Are you into him?”

You furrow your brows, taking a step closer to really see the desperation behind his expression. Your confusion morphs into compassion.

“Rafe, are you okay—“

“Will you just—“ He sucks in a particularly harsh breath and squeezes his eyes shut, as if he’s composing himself to refrain from crashing out. “Please. Answer me.”

It takes everything in your power to prevent yourself from reaching forward to grab him, to rub a palm up and down his bicep or squeeze his hand to give a gentle reminder that it’s just you, that he has no reason to be panicking right now and committing acts of high treason against his nail beds. You fight the urge to brush his hair back out of his face and smooth down the wrinkles by the collar of his shirt.

But you don’t. You can’t touch him, as an ode to your dignity, and keep yourself at a respectable yet comforting distance. It’s not much, but to you, it’s progress of attempting to move on.

“I don’t know,” you mumble confusedly. “I…guess? I think so. He’s nice.”

Rafe furrows his brows through your spluttering. “You guess, or you think so?”

You groan, digging your key out of your purse and pushing forward towards your door. “I don’t know, I’ve met him twice. What’s with the interrogation?”

“I’m…curious,” he mumbles unconvincingly.

Moving to accommodate you unlocking your door, he shifts his weight between feet, and it’s daunting when you can feel his piercing eyes on your profile. You swear you hallucinate when you catch a glimpse of his hands twitching in your direction in your peripheral, as if he’s itching to grab you.

Delusional, you spat to yourself. Stand up.

“Are you gonna see him again?”

The door creaks open, and the sound of it mixes with your scoff of disbelief as you yank your key out of the lock with a particularly harsh tug. It’s no surprise that when you enter your apartment, he’s hot on your tail.

You slip your heels off. “Maybe?”

“Maybe?”

“He asked me to drinks this week.”

“What did you say?”

Stopping abruptly, you spin on your heel in the middle of your apartment to stare at him incredulously, even going as far as jutting your hip out for emphasis of your irritation.

“What has gotten into you?” You ask quietly, but he hears you all the same.

You cannot deny how fucking wrecked he looks, especially under the bright kitchen lights. It’s only now that you can fully grasp the desperation of his expression, how he looks at nothing but you, focuses on nothing but you standing in front of him. Slowly, but surely, Rafe begins shaking his head, body moving before he can even get the words out.

“Don’t go out with him,” he practically begs.

The breath momentarily leaves your lungs. “Why not?”

Rafe’s mouth opens and closes, gears turning in his head on figuring out what to say. But the words don’t come, instead he shakes his head, almost at himself, and scoffs as if the notion of you asking why is absolutely audacious, as if the answer is obvious.

But it’s not. Not at all. He’s throwing you for a loop. A long, windy, emotional strung out loop that never seems to end with him. You used to pride yourself on being able to read his mind, to be able to decipher his emotions as if you were reading a children’s book, but now, as he stands in front of you seemingly dripping in frustration, you can’t help but feel lost.

“You can’t just do that,” you say tiredly. “You can’t show up at my door in the middle of the night and ask me not to see someone without providing an explanation—“

“Because I’m in love with you,” Rafe interrupts gently, “and the thought of you being with someone else is fucking killing me.”

You falter.

Did you...hear him right? You couldn’t have, because how could the words you’ve been yearning to hear for years came and went as quickly as the tide? Spoken in one soft breath with a cadence of honey, of honesty, of desperation. He says it so surely, as if it’s law, as if nothing else in the world matters besides this, besides his feeling, besides this pull that he has towards you.

Rafe almost looks as shocked as you that he blurted it out. Well, you can’t imagine your expression, probably a humiliating mix of disbelief, shock, uncertainty, but it’s safe to say his brows are raised in surprise only for a moment, before settling on a softer gaze as he tries to read your reaction, takes in your befuddlement.

You suck in a harsh breath when he takes a step closer.

“I couldn’t figure it out,” he murmurs, eyes trained on you. “I thought I did something wrong when you stopped touching me, or sitting with me, and you were...you were still there but not where I was used to having you."

All you can do is stand frozen, watching him inch closer and closer.

Rafe sighs quietly. "But after you came home from the first date, I couldn’t shake this weird feeling. Couldn't sleep. Couldn't even fucking eat without feeling sick. It almost felt like I was losing you, like I’d fucking die if I couldn’t have you.”

Another step.

“Then it hit me. I—I tried to push it down because you’re my best friend and I couldn’t have you thinking I was just…lusting after you, because it’s not…"

He trails off, shaking his head lightly almost at himself and darting his gaze away momentarily, as if he's gathering his thoughts, calculating his response. And you don't dare make a sound, move a muscle, even hint towards doing anything that will drift his focus and make him lose what he's trying to say. It's agonizing, really, standing as still as a statue and holding your breath as if the world itself will fall apart if you do so.

The words he speaks almost make your knees buckle.

"A part of me has always loved you, just not like this, like—“ He takes a deep breath. “Like how I don’t want anyone else to know you the way I know you.”

Rafe stands inches away.

He takes in all your pretty, admiring you for a moment before settling for another long breath, figuring out his words with a newfound patience he’s never been prided for. And you almost laugh at the irony of it, of how his entire life he's been branded as the hot-headed basket case, the guy whose temper could implode at any moment, someone who was prompt and to the point and never saw the ideal in dancing around the subject. Now, it's entirely different, as he's apparently the epitome of I've got the time today.

“It’s selfish, I know,” he whispers softer than you’ve ever heard him. “But it’s true.”

When his palm experimentally hovers over your cheek, you don’t pull away, and rather stand frozen in your spot as all you can do is blink stupidly at him, digesting his words, digesting the moment. Then, gingerly, he allows his hand to cradle your jaw, holding you so delicately in place as if you’d break if he pressed any harder.

Sure, he's touched you before and more intimately like this. But now it holds a different meaning, the implication you've been wanting it to mean for so long. He's always held you in a way that almost grounds himself, though in this moment, as he skims the pad of his thumb just below your bottom lip, it's almost as if he's doing it to ground you.

“Breathe,” Rafe says gently.

You let out a breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding.

The weight of the moment, of his confession, starts to sink in as you blink at him. He loves you. He loves you. He loves you. You can't move, stuck in place as your mind runs awry as years and years of silently pining over him, once thought to be a fruitless attempt, now comes to laugh in your face. It's almost comical, almost, because there was a point in time where you never thought he'd ever feel the same, never thought he'd see you as something more than the girl he skinned knees with play-wrestling in the backyard, covered in dirt and grass stains and sweat.

"Tell me you don't want this," he adds after a minute of you finding the ability to breathe again, "and I'll walk away. I won't ever bring it up again."

You swallow thickly. "I— You— How come—?"

Stifling a soft smile, Rafe's fingers skim your hairline, eyes following his movements before darting back down to meet your gaze. "Easy. Take a second. It's just me."

One, two beats.

Finally, you find your (relative) footing. "You love me?"

"I'm in love with you," he corrects immediately.

"You—" You suck in a harsh breath. "Okay. Alright."

It's no secret you're short circuiting, brain blowing fuses left and right still trying to comprehend everything that's going on. But it's proving difficult with his hand caressing your jaw, the intrusion of his cologne, how fucking good he looks like this, soft and unguarded and letting nothing distract him from you, you, you.

"Are you okay?" He asks, half concerned half amused.

You nearly laugh out of disbelief. "Am I—" You scoff. "Am I okay," you mimic mockingly, adding a self deprecating laugh. "Seventeen year old me is freaking out right now."

Rafe immediately frowns, and you instantly regret saying that.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"What?"

You blink stupidly, adding a nervous chuckle to attempt to steer the conversation. "Uh, what?"

His brows furrow. "What do you mean?"

"What do you mean?"

Rafe says your name firmly, low and baritone as if in warning.

A flicker of panic makes your heart thump wildly, taking in his confused expression mixed with his bubbling impatience. His palm presses a tad harder into your jaw, a gentle emphasis to keep talking, to answer his question, because if there's one thing Rafe Cameron hates, it's being left in the dust, being unanswered.

But you can't respond, not when you're cursing yourself in your head, calling yourself stupid, stupid, stupid in every single language with all synonyms you can think of. Really? Are you kidding? That's what you say? That was something you agreed to yourself that you'd never tell him, never tell anyone and have them see the light of day, and with the way he's staring at you right now, you wish you could shrink in place and bury yourself in a hole. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"Seventeen?" He adds incredulously, tone dripping in desperation. "Did you—? Since we were—?"

"Yes," you answer meekly, and your cheek feels hot under his touch, instantly heating up at the notion of exposing yourself.

Rafe looks absolutely wrecked as he shakes his head at you. "Why didn't you— You never said anything. Why didn't you say anything?"

For a multitude of reasons, you think immediately. He had a girlfriend, you were seeing someone, you both left for different colleges, and a plethora more. It never felt right, there was never a point in time where you thought, wow, I'm actually going to tell him. Because it was a secret you tried to bury so deep, push and push away with the fear of fucking everything up. You never banked on the possibility of him telling you first.

You attempt to respond. "I couldn't lose you."

Rafe curses as if he's been stabbed in the heart. "Baby..."

Squeezing your eyes shut, you refuse to see his look of compassion, because honestly you won't be able to discern it from pity. Besides, the foreign pet name does absolute wonders to the kettlebell in your gut, as in making your heart feel ten tons heavier than it feels in this given moment. You've heard him call other girls the good stuff, the babe, sweetheart, honey once, but knowing you're on the reciprocating end makes your chest feel funny.

"Don't—" You start, but take a deep breath to regulate your emotions. "It's fine. It is. Honest."

"It's not." His response is immediate. "Look at me."

With a shroud of bravery, you slowly blink your eyes open.

And Rafe's looking at you so intently, so ardently, that it nearly makes your knees buckle.

"Listen to me," he says quietly yet firmer than ever. "There's no one on this planet that I'd rather be loved by than you."

You frown, but more-so in a way to regulate your quivering lip.

"I'm sorry it took me so long to catch up," Rafe murmurs, thumb ghosting over your bottom lip that tingles with anticipation. "I know it's not much, but I'm here now and I'm not going anywhere." He pauses, brows furrowing for a split second. "That is, if you want."

Despite your trembling lip, despite your erratic heartbeat, despite the way you're nearly a puddle of a mess in his hold right now, despite it all, you manage a soft, ragged chuckle.

"Rafe Cameron," you playfully scold despite the waver in your voice. "You always have the worst timing."

His palm presses further into the curve of your jaw, reciprocating your laugh and smiling so fucking soft that it makes your heart melt. The dimples you know and love are on full display, pearly whites shining bright and you can't help but wonder what he tastes like.

"Sorry, baby," he murmurs in response, not sounding apologetic in the slightest. "Let me make it up to you, yeah?"

You're not sure who leans in first. Maybe it's you, pent up from years silently pining over a guy you never thought you could have. Maybe it's him, feeling a new rush of emotions and eager to act on them as soon as he possibly can. But, regardless, you meet in the middle and kiss him like your life depends on it.

Rafe's hands are suddenly everywhere: your jaw, your neck, your back to pull your body taut to his, your waist, looooooow on your hips with the pads of his fingertips digging into the soft flesh of your ass. The noise he makes when he kisses you back, fervently than ever, makes your heart flutter, and you can easily confirm he tastes better than you imagined, his hands feel sensational venturing into uncharted territory.

Your hands hesitantly place firmly on his chest, slowly sliding up his torso the more you test out the waters. They soon seek refuge on his shoulders, skimming your palms over the hills and ridges of his muscles almost in admiration, before sliding up to clasp around the back of his neck.

When you gently tug the ends of his overgrown hair, Rafe groans into your mouth.

"Fuck," he says absolutely wrecked, chest practically heaving as he rests his forehead against yours. "I can't— I wanna do this right, but you're—"

"I'm what?" You challenge breathlessly, realizing you sound equally as fucked out.

He groans. "You're killing me. I need to— Fuck— I can't just— and you—“

When your hands slide down the slope of his torso slowly, his breath hitches, and his eyes follow the way your fingertips ghost the waistband of his sweatpants. You glide them over the fabric as if you're admiring the topography of a map, and when your nails lightly graze the sliver of skin exposed between the waistband and his t-shirt, Rafe nearly flinches.

"You can't—" He tries to hold his ground as his grip tightens on your hips.

But he lets out a shaky breath when you dip your fingers under the waistband.

"I can't, what?" You ask innocently. "Wanna make you feel good."

Suddenly, his nimble fingers encase around your wrist and yank your hand out of his pants, much to your dismay, and hold them in place when you try to dive back in.

But you can't be mad. Not in the slightest. Especially at his next words.

"You first," Rafe nearly orders, tone firm as his palms lay refuge on your hips and push you to move backwards, down the hall towards your bedroom. "I don't feel good unless you do."

And as he guides you into the bedroom, lies you down gently on your back and kisses up and down your body as if he's admiring a timeless piece of art, you can't configure any sort of argument, any kind of retaliation that would get him to stop what he's doing. There isn't a muscle, inch of skin, crevice on your body that goes unnoticed, as his hands and lips make you feel appreciated, worshipped, loved before he even considers thinking about himself. It's intoxicating, and the years spent wondering what kind of lover he really is is disproved yet confirmed all the same in the matter of minutes. Safe to say Project FOOL was a bust.

Rafe shows you how he's infatuated with you, for hours at best, making the softest love he knows how within the four walls of your bedroom, entangled within cotton sheets with whispers of sweet nothings ghosting the shell of your ear.

And you figure you can get used to this.

© salem-s please do not copy or replicate work unless given permission.

notes not enttttttiiiiirely proud of this but i hope this is what you envisioned for the prompt anon. hope you enjoyed!