#and how small neon is compared to him

[dannyriccsystem]

UP ALL NIGHT THINKIN’ OF YOU!

FORMULA ONE DRIVERS X READER

SUMMARY: Boyfriends reacting to you being unable to sleep :)

WORD COUNT: 3.1K

WARNINGS: Fluff! That’s it

FEATURING: MV1, DR3, LN4, KA12, CL16, AA23, LH44, CS55, GR63, OP81, OB87

NOTE: Hi guys!! Just a few more days and I am free from online school yay :) Updates will quicken soon. Sorry ☺️

MAX VERSTAPPEN - MV1

You could hear Max quietly playing out on the sim as you tossed and turned in bed. This is how it was almost every night, and it never bothered you. Which is why you knew something was off about tonight. Many of times you had fallen asleep to the occasional sound of cursing, and the distant sound of an engine. It became relaxing after awhile.

But tonight you just couldn’t seem to sleep. No matter how hard you tried. You rolled over onto your side, staring out at the taunting moon that seemed to laugh in your face. You grumbled, flipping over to bury your head in the pillow. This was a cruel joke— You had things to do tomorrow!

You finally heard the house go silent, and a few moments later your bedroom door creaked open. You turned your head and Max, who suddenly realized he didn’t need to be quiet anymore, straightened up like he had been caught red handed. He looked at the digital clock on your side of the bed, the bright neon red numbers teasingly showing off.

“What are you doing awake?” He asked as he climbed into bed beside you, kissing your forehead tenderly. “It’s nearly two— Did I keep you up?” He pulled at a blanket, letting himself settle in beside you. You wasted no time shuffling over, resting your head on his chest. Max combed his fingers over your scalp, his eyelids droopy. So unfair.

“No,” You replied softly. You shut your eyes, breathing in his scent. He smelt faintly like RedBull, which… Admittedly was becoming a comfort for you, embarrassing as that is. “I just can’t seem to sleep.” As you relaxed against him, you felt yourself start to feel lighter. Your brows relaxed, and your arms went limp.

“Falling asleep already?” He teased, shutting his eyes with you. You nodded weakly, and Max laughed. “Looks like you just needed some love…”

—

DANIEL RICCIARDO - DR3

Daniel was sleeping on the couch.

You guys had a petty little argument, and he decided to sleep on the couch just to let things pass on their own. Plus, he had to get up early, so it seemed fair anyway. The problem? You couldn’t sleep without him. This happened every-time he went away, which is why— and this is bad to admit— you were somewhat glad he retired so you wouldn’t have anymore sleepless nights.

So, with your pride long forgotten, you grabbed a small blanket and carefully scurried out into the living room. You could see Danny, fast asleep on the couch, lit up by the tv screen, which was on mute as it played some old-fashioned game show. Must have come on after whatever he was initially watching.

You carefully sat yourself on the edge, staring at his soft face. So peaceful compared to the anger he had expressed early. You felt ridiculous now— such a petty argument. Danny stirred, and you flinched when his eyes slowly opened. He gazed at you groggily, his lips forming a sleepy pout.

“What are you doing?” He whispered quietly, one hand on your waist. You couldn’t get a word out before he pulled you down, holding you close to his chest. “Couldn’t sleep, pretty?”

“No…” You buried your face in his bare chest, your arms encircling his waist. Danny yawned before nuzzling a cheek against your scalp. “I’m sorry for earlier, Danny. I just can’t sleep without you.”

His lips lazily kissed your scalp, and you giggled when he unintentionally kissed you right on the eyelid. “Sorry,” He murmured, chuckling with you. “We can talk about it,” Another yawn. “In the morning.”

And with that, you both fell asleep right there on the sofa, much more comfortable together.

—

LANDO NORRIS - LN4

Tonight was yet another sleepless night. There wasn’t any particular reason for it, either. It just happened to be that every now and then there were times when you simply couldn’t bring yourself to drift off into dreamland. For now you slowly clambered out of your comforting mattress, wandering your way into the kitchen.

Lando continued snoring peacefully when you pried out of his arms. You replaced your own body with a large pillow, which he seemed to cozy up to just fine. You kept mental note of that just in case you needed blackmail in the future.

You opened the fridge, the dim light illuminating the kitchen. You rubbed your groggy eyes, grabbing a cup from one of the nearby cabinets to fill with cold water. You grumbled at the annoyingly loud noise of ice clinking against the class. You held your breath, listening for any movement. When you heard nothing, you decided you were in the clear and continued to fill it with water.

Except, a moment later you shrieked, nearly dropping your cup, when you felt arms wrap around your waist. You relaxed when you heard a soft laugh from Lando, who squeezed you close. You heaved a sigh, shaking your head and setting the glass down on the counter. “You scared me.”

“Sorry,” He murmured. “Why’d you get up?”

“Can’t sleep…”

“Wanna watch a movie and make out?” He teased, kissing your jawline. You giggled, lightly pushing him away.

“Yeah, sure. But we all know you’re gonna fall asleep immediately.”

“Alright, fine. We can save the kissing for later.”

—

KIMI ANTONELLI - KA12

Kimi was out racing again. All while you were stuck at home, unable to sleep. It was about 3am by now and you were only becoming more and more frustrated as time went on. You finally gave up when you rolled over to grab your phone, selecting the facetime option on your boyfriend’s contact.

He answered within two rings, his delighted face lighting up your screen. You squinted, turning the brightness down immediately. “Y/N, why are you awake? Isn’t it like 5am over there?” You giggle and shake your head. You’re barely visible to him, buried in a room of darkness with your face pressed against pillows and blankets.

“No…” You look at the clock on your phone and frown. “It’s 3am.” He audibly gasped, a hand on his heart. “I know, I know. I just can’t sleep…”

“Do you want me to sing you a lullaby?” Kimi smiled wide, finding himself so funny. You closed your eyes, feeling the weight of sleep start to drift over you.

“Tell me about your day,” You decided that would be good enough.

He lit up, and began to ramble. With every word, you fell deeper and deeper into slumber. Kimi realized when you eventually dropped the phone, and he could distantly hear snoring on the other end. He laughed, deciding to hang up and let you get your well deserved rest.

—

CHARLES LECLERC - CL16

You had been unable to sleep all night, and it was incredibly frustrating. It was about 1am when you felt Charles get up beside you, trudging his way out of the bedroom with heavy steps. You watched carefully, and then relaxed against the mattress. He was probably going to the bathroom or getting water— That’s what you told yourself to believe. But about five minutes later you could hear the soft melody of the piano, and you perked up.

After another moment or two, you slowly climbed out of bed and made your way to the living room where a large grand piano sat. He had his back to you, so you watched your boyfriend flinch when you sat yourself beside him. He smiled softly, his eyes heavy with sleep. “Did I wake you?” He asked, his heavy accent carrying his voice into the moonlit night.

You shook your head, resting it against his shoulder. “No, I just haven’t been able to sleep.” You closed your eyes, and Charles regarded you with a smile for a few more seconds. “Will you keep playing?”

The music was soothing. His fingers danced diligently across the keys, the soft tune lifting off into your ears, slowly filling the night air with a beautiful sound. You hummed along under your breath until eventually your voice faded off altogether. Charles felt his smile widen when your body slumped against his.

He continued playing until he was certain you were fast asleep. He then carefully scooped you up, carrying you back to bed in your newfound dream-like state. He kept a mental note for the future that the piano helped you sleep.

—

ALEX ALBON - AA23

Alex was used to your sleepless nights. He liked to stay awake with you so that you wouldn’t feel alone in such dire times— Like tonight, he had kept you cuddled up to him for the entirety. He was waiting to hear your soft snores, but unlike most nights, you seemed eternally restless.

“Still can’t sleep?” He whispered, sighing when you shook your head. Alex seemed to pause to think for a moment, and then eventually suggested, “Do you want to go for a drive?”

This idea was new. You guys had never tried such a thing before, and it seemed like a pretty straightforward plan. You thought on it for a moment, and then eventually responded by climbing out of bed to grab a sweatshirt, and slip your shoes on.

The two of you, still clad in pajama sets and fuzzy hoodies, hopped into Alex’s car. You reclined your seat back pretty far, staring through the sunroof at the starry night sky as he drove along the highway. It was practically empty with a few lights from passing cars— the city was still lit up, a few bustling crowds enjoying their final moments out together.

The radio was playing very quietly. The same songs you had been hearing again and again for the past month now were somewhat comforting in your state of uncertainty. Your eyes shut slowly, and the humming engine along with a slow tune on the radio worked in unison to rock you back to sleep. You hummed, trying to yawn to keep yourself awake, but it ultimately failed.

Alex took a little peek at you, chuckling when he realized you were asleep. He pulled into some random parking lot to turn around, driving the two of you back home. Your boyfriends carried you inside so you could both sleep peacefully in each other’s hold, safe from the qualms of a late night.

—

LEWIS HAMILTON - LH44

Lewis was the master of helping you sleep. He had all the tricks up his sleeve from nightly routines to making you drink warm milk until you were full. The guy was a genius in body health, and it showed. Needless to say, the two of you were well aware of your relationship with sleep.

Tonight he had to stay up to finish up an advertisement graphic for his business. He was on a zoom call with a few people, quietly discussing in the safety of the dining room, far away from any sleeping ears. However, after giving up on sleep, you sat in the living room unnoticed, listening in on the boring conversations.

Eventually you stood up to poke your head in. Lewis froze before he smiled at you, beckoning for you to come closer. He switched his camera off, making up some excuse about the laptop being old and the camera needing a replacement, despite the fact it had never experienced issues in the past. You shuffled yourself into his lap, resting your face in his neck. He smelt heavenly, like pine mixed with a bit of musk. A pleasant musk.

He held you around the waist, rubbing your back with a few kisses to your neck. You giggled at the ticklish sensation, squirming around on his lap. Lewis seemed delighted with your joyful response and continued, until it was time for him to speak again. You pressed your ear to his chest to hear the rumble of his voice in a low whisper. You eventually fell asleep there, satisfied with your care.

He felt bad for disturbing you, so despite how uncomfortable the chair was, Lewis allowed you to stay there the entire night.

—

CARLOS SAINZ - CS55

“Y/N?” A groggy voice called out from beside you. You flinched, giving your boyfriend a sheepish expression. He raised a brow, leaning over to pull the cord on the lamp, lighting up the room. Carlos had a head of messy bed-hair, and his eyes were droopy from sleep. The man propped himself up on one elbow, running a hand through his soft locks. “Why are you awake?”

It appeared as if you had woken him up from his slumber by restlessly tossing and turning. You cleared your throat, shrugging your shoulders lighting as you sat up. He glanced up at you, lips drawn into a gentle frown that made your heart ache. Even over trivial matters as such, Carlos was always looking out for you.

“I just can’t sleep,” You finally responded with a softspoken tone. Carlos shifted up, his back pressed against the headboard. He gestured to his lap, which you carefully lowered your head to. He traced soft circles along your shoulder and the hairline on the side of your face, making you giggle at the ticklish sensation. “Tell me about your day,” You insisted.

He hummed in thought. Not a lot happened, but he’s scrape the bottom of the barrel for anything interesting. “I saw a cute old couple at the store.” When he finally started to speak, you relaxed. You shut your eyes, lips twisting into a smile. “Really old, but still healthy and in shape. He held the door for her, grabbed things off the top shelf. Chivalry isn’t dead.” He looked down at you, laughing under his breath when he saw you fast asleep. It didn’t take much, apparently. He twirled a section of your baby hairs right beside your ear, a fond expression in his eyes. “I hope that can be us, mi cariño.”

—

GEORGE RUSSELL - GR63

This was day four of your sleepless nights. George had quietly been taking note of your uncharacteristic behavior, and turned to the internet for the answers to this problem. He spent a good amount of time researching ways to help sleep at night, paying special attention to some of the traits you had been displaying yourself. So tonight, he was ready to try out some solutions.

You were surprised when he insisted you both put your phones down at around 7:30 PM. You didn’t mind obliging, despite the fact he lacked a proper explanation. Instead, you played a game of UNO at your dining room table. A game that lasted well past your scheduled bedtime— And by well I mean thirty minutes, which was a lot for a timely guy such as George.

Despite the fact that your game went on for longer than expected, George hopped into a warm shower with you. The two of you enjoyed a relaxing atmosphere, intimately washing each other’s hair and basking in the hot water before finally stepping out to dry off and dress in a fresh set of pajamas he bought for you. It was here that you were starting to catch on to his antics— And you were appreciative.

He lit your favorite candle, setting it on your nightstand as he turned the lights off. The sound of quiet rain played from a sound machine, creating an environment you found comfortable. You curled up next to him, and you immediately felt your eyelids grow heavy. George grinned, softly rubbing your back as you listened to his steady heartbeat.

“Thank you,” You murmured knowingly before drifting off. Nice and early, no restless turning needed. He’d be getting the best boyfriend award.

—

OSCAR PIASTRI - OP81

To say Oscar was annoyed wouldn’t be true. He rarely got annoyed with you, and when he did he always talked it out. However, there was some frustration with the current situation. You were having trouble sleeping, and it was in turn keeping him up too. However, he felt more frustrated for you than towards you.

“Still can’t sleep?” He grumbled groggily. You froze, completely unaware that he was even awake to begin with. You nodded sheepishly, and Oscar sighed before sitting up. “Roll onto your stomach.”

“Huh?” You raised a brow at him, and then your cheeks flushed with warmth. “Oscar, I don’t-”

“No! Not that,” He assured quickly. “I was gonna massage your back.” He frowned, and you couldn’t help but giggle before rolling over onto your stomach. Your boyfriend straddled your back, his hands kneading your shoulders first. You grunted, relaxing your head against the pillow as he worked out a knot.

“Where’d you learn to give massages?” He worked his hands down, feeling around for tension in your muscles and then carefully pushing it away. He seemed to know what he was doing- Every move calculated and precise.

“I looked it up on google about ten minutes ago.” You opened one eye and glanced back at him, rolling your eyes at the sight of his cheeky little smile. “I’m joking… Sort of.”

“Well,” You huffed with satisfaction. “It feels good.”

“Good.”

He continued, occasionally helping you pop your back. By the end of it, you felt far more relaxed. With Oscar’s help, you eventually were able to fall asleep, happily curled up next to him with a grin to match. He kissed your nose affectionately, whispering a soft ‘Goodnight.’

—

OLIVER BEARMAN - OB87

“What is this nonsense you’re reading, that doesn’t even make any sense-”

“Ollie just read the book,” You whined. He offered to help with your lack of sleep problem, especially since he didn’t have anywhere to be in the morning anyway. Unfortunately, you did. The solution was for him to read your favorite book— It worked for children with bedtime stories, so maybe it would work for you. However, he seemed to be in a rather chatty mood.

“Okay… But just saying, it’s kinda…” You gave him a pointed look, and he cleared his throat quickly to continue reading. You stared off through the window, your cheek pressed to his chest whilst you focused on the words from his lips. This book was a comfort to you; you had read it many times, and now you could probably recite every line, even as Ollie was occasionally misreading a few words to you.

You shifted around to get more comfortable, tugging at your light blanket as the night breeze threatened to capsize you. When the morning came, you’d start to feel the intense heat, but at the moment your hair was standing on edge, skin coated in goosebumps. Ollie squeezed you tighter with his free arm— the other was holding the book in question.

Ollie peered down at you when a shocking scene came up, his jaw dropped. He was just double checking he heard that right, only to find the heart warming sight of you sleeping soundly against him. He gently shut the book and shimmied down to rest beside you, burying his face in the warmth of your neck. So much for that.

[dollyfiles]

how sweetheart!reader and single!dad!rafe met

sweetheart!reader mlist

cw: fluff, mutual pining, readers childhood trauma

it was late tuesday afternoon when rafe walked into rosie's diner, the neon signs buzzing softly in the window as the sun dipped low behind the buildings. he had his daughter lizzie cradled on one hip, her tiny arms crossed tightly, her little face scrunched into the saddest pout rafe had ever seen.

her favorite glitter dress, the one she wore every chance she got, had torn earlier that day when she tripped while chasing butterflies in the park. the rip wasn't even that bad, but to a four-year-old, it may as well have been the end of the world.

rafe had definitely faced tougher days. stressful meetings, custody battles, even the lonely ache of single fatherhood, but somehow nothing compared to the heartbreak of his four-year-old daughter sitting across from him in a diner booth, blinking away fat tears over a torn glitter dress.

he had tried everything. promise of a new dress, a bigger one, a more colorful one, even offered to let her choose two. but nothing seemed to make it better. lizzie sat with her arms crossed tightly over her chest, lower lip pushed out and trembling. her little unicorn purse tossed beside her.

rafe rubbed the back of his neck, trying again. "sweetie, i promise we'll find another glittery dress. maybe an even shinier one. how about that?" lizzie sniffled and looked away. "it wasn't just a dress, dada." she muttered. "it was the one."

he sighed and leaned back against the booth, running a hand down his face. he loved this little girl with every part of him, but he never quite figured out how to fix the kind of heartbreak only a glitter dress could cause.

rafe looked around the diner, trying to distract himself from the weight pressing on his chest. the place had an old-school charm. checkered floors, soft golden lighting, a jukebox in the corner humming faintly. cozy, familiar. it was supposed to help. but right now, all he could see was his daughter’s tear-streaked cheeks. and then you appeared.

sweetheart.

you moved through the diner like you belonged in the 50’s. red lipstick, soft curls tucked behind one ear, a notepad in hand and an expression that warmed the air around you. you took one look at lizzie and didn't say a word about the tears or the pout.

instead, you crouched down to eye level, resting your elbows lightly on the edge of the table. you had seen a lot of pouts and tantrums during your shifts at rosie’s, but there was something about this little girl just sitting there, silently mourning her torn dress, that tugged at something deep in your chest. it reminded you of yourself.

you remembered being small, wishing someone would notice when your world cracked a little. but no one had, not back then. so now, when you saw that kind of sadness in a child, it became your mission to fix it, even if just for a moment.

you analyzed the little girl for a bit before speaking, your voice soft. “well hey there, pretty girl,” you said, tilting your head to meet lizzie’s eye. "looks like someone could use a little magic today." lizzie peeked at you with red-rimmed eyes and gave a silent nod.

and yet your smile didn’t waver. “you know, i have a secret weapon for days like this. pancakes. but not just any pancakes.. they’re probably the best ones in town.” lizzie didn't answer at first, but a tiny spark of interest flickered behind her wet lashes.

rafe blinked, watching the scene unfold like it was something out of a dream. his daughter didn’t usually warm up to strangers. but lizzie was listening. her pout was still there, but her eyes weren’t as glassy.

"aaand," you leaned in with a whisper, "i’ll even ask the kitchen to give your pancake extra sparkles. but shhh, don't tell anyone. it’s only for the bravest girls." lizzie gave the tiniest smile.

it was small, like barely a shift, but rafe noticed it immediately. and he felt something in his chest loosen. he cleared his throat. “that, uh… that actually sounds pretty good. for both of us.”

you straightened, your doe eyes meeting rafe’s blue ones for the first time and he could feel it. there was something about the way you handled the moment, all gentle and not patronizing, playful without being pushy.

you chuckled and scribbled on your notepad. "coming right up!” as you walked away, rafe couldn’t stop watching you. he should’ve been focusing on lizzie and on patching up the day, but for a moment, he let himself just look.

at the way you gently teased a smile out of a stranger’s kid. at the quiet strength in your posture. at the way you moved like you had learned to carry yourself with pride, even if it hadn’t always been easy. there was something about you that felt safe, and he wasn’t sure why that thought unsettled him as much as it comforted him.

you busied yourself behind the counter, assembling the plate of freshly baked pancakes in your special way. it was silly, really. but you took extra care with this one. some extra whipped cream, adjusting the blueberries and strawberry slices and adding some of your secret sprinkles and glitter, the ones u always hid in the corner of the counter.

you didn’t know their story. but you didn’t have to. that man looked like he hadn’t had a break in a long time. and that little girl? she had that kind of sadness that you wanted to fix so damn bad. when you returned and placed the plate down in front of lizzie, the little girl gasped, eyes wide as saucers. “he’s got a whipped cream mustache!” she squealed.

there it is, you thought. the first smile of the day. it was always like that. fixing sadness, especially in little ones, felt like stitching something back together. no one had ever done that for you when you were small, when you cried yourself to sleep in a cluttered room, pretending not to hear your parents fight in the next one.

no one had ever knelt down and made you feel like your sadness mattered. so now, when you saw a tear-streaked child, your heart instinctively moved toward them. you couldn’t not care. it was built into you.

rafe’s head tilted in disbelief at his daughters sudden change of heart. that sound, his daughter’s sweet laugh, was like oxygen. he looked up at you, awe and gratitude written all over his face. “you’re magic,” he said, half-joking but entirely serious.

you just smiled, your cheeks dusting with pink. “not at all,” you replied. “just pancakes.” but something shifted between the two of you in that moment. the man hadn’t said much. just sat there for most of the time, trying so hard to hold it together, trying even harder to soothe a little heartbreak that he couldn’t quite fix with words or promises.

you could see the wear on him. the way his shoulders slumped just slightly, like he carried a hundred things that no one ever asked about. the tiredness around his eyes wasn’t just from a long day. no, it was something deeper.

a man who was used to pushing through. a man who had probably stopped letting himself want anything just for him a long time ago. but he was still here. still showing up. still kneeling beside a tiny, brokenhearted girl and offering kisses and soft-spoken comfort. that kind of love wasn’t flashy. it was quiet, steady, constant.

and god, it made your heart ache in the best way. because you never had that. no father who bent down and kissed your scraped knees. no one who promised to make it better, even when they didn’t know how. watching him love his daughter like that, without hesitation or pride, just pure devotion, it stirred something in you. he was trying. and you admired the hell out of that.

you turned to tend to other tables, but rafe’s eyes followed you, unable to look away. you felt yourself blush under the weight of his gaze, but you didn’t waver. instead, you offered him a small, knowing smile. the kind that said, i see you. you’re doing better than you think. and from that day on, rafe and lizzie became regulars at the diner.

maybe it was the pancakes. maybe it was the way lizzie would always ask, “is the pretty lady here today?” or maybe it was because rafe despite himself, wanted to keep seeing you, the woman with the cherry-red lipstick and a heart that seemed to understand the language of both children and tired men.

and deep down he knew it was never just about the pancakes. it was about the way you made the world feel a little gentler. a little warmer. a little more like home.

[deadsetobsessions]

Hera stood, waiting for her turn at last. The Queen of the Greek Pantheon traced the lines of neon green, its light reflecting against her true form in a soothing way. She’s no stranger to patience, to waiting. But there were little of those that had the gall to make her wait, and even smaller of that number that she would tolerate such behavior. Regardless, this was the one being she could not afford to offend and so, she waits. Her many forms, her divine self, perceived the room and compared it to her own halls of residence.

Olympus was much more intricate, carved of noble marble and inlaid with countless of priceless metals and gems and divinity. Twelve seats of power atop an engineering wonder, halls adorned with the brightest of the original flames, an hearth that was roaring at Hesta’s skillful hands.

In comparison, this throne room had been changed much since she was last here. Gone were the spikes of terror and screams of the damned. Now… it looked like the most bare throne room she’d ever bore witness to.

And yet, as she waited for the Boy King, Hera could feel the subtle thrum of impossible power. The new king did not flare his will and might like the previous tyrant, and for that, Hera approved. She has had quite enough of living with and under tyrants who cared only for themselves… and their bed achievements whilst failing spectacularly in their marital roles. Zeus was not a good life partner and Hera regretted ever saying yes to him many times in her immortal life. And yet… she loved him still.

The doors opened, and a small figure floated in, flanked by the previous King’s Knight. Perhaps that is what makes this Boy King so dangerous, Hera thought as she dipped into a bow, because he can turn the loyalest to his side.

“Your Majesty,” she greeted, in ghost speak.

“Heya, Hera!” The Boy King greeted her back, before waving the Knight away. Hera marveled, a bit, at the sheer confidence he had to dismiss his knight in her presence. Even the last king kept the knights around to ensure his power was always in display, always unchallengeable. The Boy King could destroy her with a snap of a finger and he knows it. He knows that she knows it.

“What did you need?” The Boy King asked, grin still on place as he floated to her instead of seating himself on his throne. Hera masked the bit of confusion she felt in pursuit of her goal.

“I have come here to ask of you a favor,” she began. “I am aware that… you are fond of this, the earth in which I reside in?”

Hera carefully picked her word. Everybody knows that the new King Phantom had laid claim to not only the Infinite Realms as is normal of his station, but an entire Earth as his haunt. He had the power to do so, she could finally see, now that she was standing before him. It would not do for Hera to get her strings cut because she claimed what is his.

“Sure. Why?” The Boy King tilted his head, narrowing that predator green upon her true form.

“Do you know of the Justice League, my lord?”

“Phantom’s fine,” he waved a hand. “And yeah, sure do! Why?”

Hera tilted her many forms in acknowledgement of the command. She bowed.

“My daughter, of a sort, is Diana Prince. Wonder Woman. She is… in grave danger. We can not exert our influence over a land that does not have our history. I can not interfere and aid her.”

“Oh, you want me to help her?” His tone was exasperated, and Hera spoke even more carefully in fear of offending him.

“Yes, if it pleases you. And it would be most gracious of you should Your Majesty have time to watch over her. I fear the danger will not leave her so quickly.”

There was a brief period of silence before King Phantom sighed. “And if it does not please me to do so?”

Hera looked up and locked gazes with evaluating green. “Then I am afraid I will be breaking a fair bit of cosmic law, King Phantom.”

He laughed. “Okay, yeah, I’ll check up on Wonder Woman.”

Hera blinked her many eyes, peacock feathers spreading in shock at how easily he allowed her favors. She did not even have to beg.

King Phantom turned to leave before pausing. “Hera, if you need help, just ask. Preferably without beating around the bushes next time. Also, Pandora misses you. You might want to hang around for tea later.”

Hera regarded him with the might of her divinity, which was but hardly a spec of his own kindness. The last one had not had her respect. Fear, yes. But never respect But this one…

“Yes, my King.”

“It’s just Phantom.” He shot back as he left, the Knight returning to his side once more.

Hera transformed into a more mortal form. She had not seen Pandora in a long time, the young woman had made quite an impression on her. Perhaps her old friend could be convinced in helping her punch Zeus and ruin her beloved husband’s day. Hera hummed, the green that used to flicker acidly against her divine form now only soothed. A reflection of its owner.

King Phantom is worthy of her regard.

——

Holy shit, a goddess asked him to check on the Justice League! She was super weird about it and talked in a really old way of speaking, but Danny hadn’t had anything to do for the past few days while entering the zone for his annual check up.

Danny waved away Fright Knight and dived into the portal that would take him directly to the Justice League and Diana!

He floated down from the portal, blinking at group of disheveled and injured superheroes surrounded by a group of demons. Belial?

“King Phantom.” Belial rumbled. Danny waved, not noticing the standstill his presence forced.

“Shite.” The British man cursed, drawing on his magic once more.

“King Phantom?” Diana Prince, Wonder Woman, said quizzically.

“Who?” Batman, Batman! That’s actually Batman, rumbled.

“High King of the Infinite Realms. We’re buggered if he decides to help Belial.”

“Wait, like the god of gods, that King Phantom?” Captain Marvel asked. Ancients, why are all of them electrical based? Danny hates electricity.

Danny floated closer to them, grinning in a friendly way before frowning as they tensed up.

“King Phantom. May I ask why you have graced us with your presence, my King?”

“Hey, Wonder Woman! Your mom asked me to babysit you!” He grinned, sharp and mischievous.

“What…?” The Flash asked, zipping to their side. “Her mom? Queen Hippolyta?”

“No, Hera,” Danny said, and watched Wonder Woman straighten at his words.

“The Goddess Hera.”

“Yep!” Danny rocked back on his suddenly formed legs instead of the whisp of a tail he usually kept in the Zone. He was also still floating. Danny sent a wave of ice and froze the rest of the demons in one fell swoop.

“The rest of you can take care of clean up, yes? Diana has to get some snacks, dinner, and then go to bed.” He pushed gently at Diana’s shoulders, nudging her towards the plane. She went willingly, respectful but amused.

——

Bruce, intellectually knowing that’s a king but only seeing a superhero teenager: *fills out mental adoption paperwork*

——

Hera, a goddess, terrified of misspeaking and dying as a result: he’s so strong even though he’s young omg powerful and could end my immortal existence

Danny, an unserious king: golly gee why is she speaking like a Shakespeare novel

——

Hera, thinking Danny’s gonna be dignified: pls watch over my daughter

Danny, who has a clone he sees as a daughter and therefore has no issues babysitting a grown woman: lol snacks, dinner, bedtime

Diana:… usually I’m on the other spectrum of this but it’s from a higher up so… okay?

——

Danny, terrifying gods and ancients: they’re my friends! The power of friendship!

[mrspiastri]

✩ first and last 🦢

pairing: lando norris x reader

cw: fluff, first time relationships

wc: 3.6k words

an: thank you to @castofstrangerthings for the req! i couldn’t directly respond to it for some reason so here! also i know you asked for oscar but this just felt so apt for lando i had to!! :p

For Y/N, dating wasn’t really something at the forefront of her mind. After hearing horror stories of all the crazy boyfriends her friends had to endure since middle school, she was more than content remaining celibate.

This continued throughout her schooling days, where she never bothered to start dating. And it was a big help to her cause that no boys ever made a move on her.

It wasn’t that she was unattractive, nor was it her personality. She was well-known throughout her school, and the teachers liked her too. She had a few male friends as well, and while they enjoyed hanging out, she was never asked out by even one of them.

So, she was the butt of her friends' lighthearted jokes about how she was the only one graduating high school without ever having a boyfriend, kissing someone, or even being romantically interested in a man. Hell, she hadn’t even been on a date before!

Y/N much preferred it this way—'more men, more problems' was her belief in life. However, this changed when she went to university.

She and Lando Norris met on the same day of orientation, both eager to join their uni’s debate team. After being seated next to each other for almost an hour during auditions, they were called in to debate each other on the topic of whether the ‘male loneliness epidemic’ was real. Much to her chagrin, Y/N had to argue for the motion.

That very debate was the foundation of their friendship, and now, in junior year, the pair remained closer than ever.

🪻🪻🪻

Being raised in a family with a wonderful mother and two sisters really sets a man up for success in the dating world. Lando was always in demand, his alluring and charming personality combined with his ravishing good looks and mild-mannered ways leading to girls constantly trying their luck with him.

At every party, every ten or so minutes, he was either being snogged by a pretty blonde or comparing hand sizes with a striking brunette.

He always admired Y/N’s commitment to being single, knowing her feelings towards the dating scene in today’s world. And somewhere along the line, his admiration for her changed to awe, and from awe, it evolved into emotions he never thought he’d ever feel for her.

After spending the better half of the past two years stuck by her side, with the third one beginning a few weeks ago, he found himself falling headfirst for Y/N and all her quirks and dynamics.

He had found it very difficult to admit it to himself that he fancied her, but on a random Tuesday morning, as she was wallowing over the waffles running out at breakfast, it hit him like a lightning bolt:

He had the biggest, fattest, most irrepressible crush on his best friend.

He had seen her for the first time when they were just freshly turned 18-year-olds, sniggering over the terrible chairs they had to sit on while waiting their turn for auditions. He was there when she was upset over not being able to sign up for a class she was desperate to take in her first semester.

He giggled while she almost keeled over after taking her first-ever shot of tequila at a sorority party at Kappa Alpha Theta, and he was the one who held her hair up while she threw up into a toilet bowl, rubbing her back soothingly as she moaned over how she would never touch alcohol again.

So how was someone supposed to continue being best friends with the girl he was falling for faster than a meteor hurling through space?

To him, the answer was simple: dropping simple but subtle hints to make his intentions known.

🪻🪻🪻

The hints had started small, but now they were practically glaring neon signs. At least, to everyone except Y/N.

Lando had tried everything to make his feelings clear. He was always touching her, always standing closer than necessary, always finding ways to bring her into his space. He carried her books when she complained they were too heavy, sent her good morning texts every single day, and even learned the complicated coffee order she had been too embarrassed to repeat for him.

But nothing seemed to get through to her. And what made it worse was that everyone around them began noticing the change.

“Okay, but seriously,” her roommate drawled one afternoon as they sat in the campus café. “Are you guys, like, together-together?”

Y/N snorted, picking at her croissant. “What? No.”

Her roommate raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “So you’re telling me your best friend, who, by the way, has turned down every single girl who’s tried to ask him out in the last six months, just happens to buy you coffee every morning, keeps your favorite hoodie in his car in case you get cold, and practically looks like he’s in love every time he stares at you for more than five seconds?”

Lando, sitting beside Y/N, didn’t even pretend to be embarrassed. He just leaned back in his chair, an amused smirk tugging at his lips as he watched her flounder for an answer.

“He’s just—” Y/N shook her head, laughing lightly. “That’s just how he is. Lando’s nice to everyone.”

Her friend scoffed. “Yeah, but he’s not doing any of that for me. Or anyone else.”

Lando chuckled, reaching out to tuck a stray piece of hair behind Y/N’s ear. The gesture was so natural, so casual, that she barely even registered it, except for the way her heart suddenly felt like it was trying to break a world record for fastest beats per minute.

“I mean, I could start buying you coffee every morning,” he mused, tilting his head at the girl in front of them. “But I think Y/N might get jealous.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, laughing. “Oh, please.”

But internally? She was spiralling.

Because the idea of Lando doing these things for someone else, buying their favorite drinks, remembering their order, keeping a hoodie for them, made her stomach twist in a way she didn’t want to analyze too closely.

And it wasn’t just her roommate who had questioned them, either. At a party the previous weekend, they had been standing by the drinks table when a guy in their Stats class had wandered over, glancing between them with an appraising look.

“You two are dating, right?” he asked, casually pouring himself a drink.

Y/N choked on her own sip of beer. “What? No.”

He blinked. “Huh. Could’ve fooled me.”

She laughed it off, brushing the idea away as she always did, but Lando, who had been leaning against the table beside her, hand warm on the small of her back, had simply raised an eyebrow, amused.

🪻🪻🪻

Over the course of midterms week, Y/N was seconds away from throwing her laptop out the nearest window and dramatically declaring herself an academic failure.

She had spent hours buried in notes, highlighting until her fingers cramped, and yet nothing was sticking. Her brain was mush. Her body was tense. Her stress levels were at an all-time high.

Meanwhile. Lando, sitting across from her in their usual library spot, looked annoyingly unbothered.

“How are you so calm?” she groaned, dropping her head onto her open textbook.

Lando smirked, stretching his arms behind his head like he wasn’t on the verge of multiple deadlines. “Because one of us needs to be. And let’s be honest, it was never gonna be you.”

She shot him a glare that had absolutely no bite to it. “You’re supposed to be suffering with me.

“I am,” he said, eyes twinkling with amusement. “I just look better doing it.”

She huffed dramatically, rubbing her temples. “I’m so close to losing my mind.”

That was apparently enough for Lando to intervene. Without a word, he stood up and walked over to her side of the table, nudging her chair back slightly before physically turning it so she was facing him. Before she could protest, he crouched down in front of her, settling his hands on her knees.

Y/N stopped breathing.

“Peach,” he murmured, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles over her bare skin. “You need a break.”

Her brain stuttered at the nickname, and she knew exactly what he was referencing. It began in the winter break of freshman year, after a visit to Y/N’s house.

Her mom had been all too eager to embarrass her, flipping through old photo albums until she landed on the picture, one of baby Y/N, no older than two, sitting in a tiny plastic chair in her backyard, absolutely covered in peach juice.

There were peach slices in her chubby fists, sticky residue all over her cheeks, and a look of pure, unfiltered joy on her face as she devoured the fruit like it was the best thing in the world.

Lando had lost it.

“No way,” he had laughed, taking a picture of the photo for future blackmail. “You were a menace.”

“I was a child,” Y/N had huffed, cheeks burning as she tried (and failed) to snatch the album from him.

Her mom had only made it worse, recounting how Y/N had been obsessed with peaches, demanding them at every meal and managing to make a colossal mess every single time.

And that is where ‘Peach’ originated from.

She barely managed to remember that moment, when she felt Lando’s warm hands trailing up and down her thighs, fingers grazing the hem of her shorts.

“I can’t take a break,” she whispered, voice embarrassingly shaky.

“You can,” he said, firm but soft, his grip tightening slightly. “And you will. Because if you stress yourself into a breakdown, who’s gonna remind me when all my assignments are due?”

Y/N would have laughed, if she wasn’t mentally losing it at the way his hands lingered on her thighs, his touch burning and grounding.

“Five minutes,” he coaxed, voice a low hum. “Let me take care of you, yeah?”

She swore she blacked out for a moment.

Because what the FUCK?

When did he get so touchy? And why did he have to sound like that? Like he was saying something completely normal but making it sound criminally intimate?

“I…” She swallowed hard, eyes darting anywhere but his face. “I don’t know how to turn my brain off.”

Lando sighed, standing back up—but instead of moving away, he settled behind her chair, placing his hands on her shoulders and squeezing gently.

“Then let me do it for you.” And holy shit.

The moment his hands started kneading into her muscles, Y/N melted.

His thumbs dug into the tense spots at the base of her neck, slow and deliberate, like he was unraveling her stress with his hands alone. His fingers pressed into the tight knots in her shoulders, rubbing small, soothing circles that sent a shiver down her spine.

“Fuck,” she muttered, eyes fluttering shut before she could stop herself.

Lando chuckled behind her. “That good, huh?”

She wanted to be embarrassed, but she was too far gone to care. His touch was ridiculously good, and for the first time all week, she felt her body relax.

“That’s it,” he murmured, voice low as he leaned down slightly, his breath warm against the side of her face. “Just breathe, sweetheart.”

She absolutely did not breathe.

Instead, she sat there, skin burning, heart racing, mind spiraling at the fact that her best friend was currently massaging her like it was the most normal thing in the world.

And then, because Lando loved making her suffer, he let his fingers slide up, brushing lightly against the sensitive skin of her neck before tracing back down her shoulders.

Y/N jumped.

Lando laughed, his voice right in her ear. “Ticklish?”

“N-no,” she lied, gripping the edges of her chair so tight her knuckles turned white.

“Mm,” he hummed, clearly amused. He gave her shoulders one last squeeze before finally stepping back. “Feel better?”

No. Absolutely not. She felt like she needed to go outside and scream into the void.

But she nodded anyway, avoiding his gaze like her life depended on it.

“Good.” Lando ruffled her hair, grinning. “Now let’s get back to work before you have a full-on breakdown.”

Y/N didn’t have a breakdown over midterms. But she did have one over the realization that she was so fucking screwed.

After hell week, she locked herself in her dorm room, trying to make sense of the past few weeks. For almost 3 months, Lando had been inciting the most out of the blue emotions in Y/N.

He had changed. But it didn’t mean anything.

He had always been tactile, affectionate. He had always been protective, always made her feel like she mattered. It was just who he was.

The problem was, she had started to want it. To crave the warmth of his palm on her thigh when he absentmindedly reached for her during study sessions. To hear the way he murmured "Night, Peach," like it was something soft and fragile and theirs.

And she hated herself for it. Because Lando didn’t like her. Because if he did, if any of this meant something to him, surely he would have said something by now.

Right?

So she did what she had always done.

She laughed when their friends teased them about how they acted like a couple. She rolled her eyes when people assumed they were together. She ignored the way her heart ached every time he pulled away, convinced herself she was imagining the way he looked at her sometimes, like he saw through everything.

Because no matter how much she was falling for him, Lando wasn’t falling for her.

And she just had to live with it.

🪻🪻🪻

From the very first time she visited his home in Bristol, Lando’s parents had welcomed her like she was one of their own. His sisters had immediately pulled her into their group, and his mum and dad never let her leave without offering her enough food to last a month.

So when his parents insisted she come home with him for the semester break, she hadn’t even thought to say no.

Now, sitting in his childhood bedroom, cross-legged on his bed as she flipped through an old photo album his dad had pulled out, she was glad she had agreed.

The photos were a goldmine, including one showing a 6 year old Lando, gap-toothed and grinning, covered in dirt from head to toe after what was probably an ill-advised adventure outside.

“You were so tiny,” she teased, laughing as she held up a picture of him pouting dramatically in a blazer and a pair of trousers that were slightly too big on him.

Lando, who had been sitting beside her, propped up on his elbow, rolled his eyes. “Not anymore I’m not,” he winked at her.

She huffed out a laugh, turning back to the photo. But his gaze lingered on her a beat longer than usual.

Y/N felt it, felt the weight of it, the same way she always did when he looked at her like that. Like she was something worth looking at.

The air between them had been charged for weeks now, the space they usually occupied so comfortably together feeling too small, like something unspoken was pressing against the edges.

She ignored it. She always ignored it.

Because no matter how much she overthought his touches, his lingering stares, the way he felt different lately, she couldn’t let herself believe it meant anything.

But Lando?

He had just about had enough.

He had tried subtlety. He had tried patience. But it had become painfully clear that Y/N, his oblivious best friend, was never going to realize what was right in front of her. So he decided, right then and there, that he was done waiting.

He sat up, closing the photo album in her lap and ignoring the small noise of protest she made. She blinked up at him in confusion, and God, how had he gone so long without kissing her?

“I can’t do this anymore.” His voice was quiet, firm.

Y/N frowned. “Do what?”

Lando inhaled sharply. “This. The hints, the waiting, hoping you’ll get it, I can’t anymore.”

She stared at him, brows furrowing in confusion, and it made him want to scream.

He reached out, cupping her jaw with one hand, his thumb brushing against her cheek in the softest way possible.

Y/N froze.

“I like you,” he said, the words steady and clear. “I like you in a way that isn’t just friendly, in a way that makes me want to pull you close every time I see you.”

“I like you in a way that makes it physically impossible for me to look at you and not think about how badly I want to be yours.”

Y/N’s breath hitched, her pulse roaring in her ears. “You’re joking,” she said weakly.

Lando let out a soft, frustrated laugh, shaking his head. “No, Peach. I’m not joking. I’m telling you, finally telling you, that I’ve wanted you for so long, and I can’t keep pretending I don’t.”

Her brain stalled.

Every moment she had overthought suddenly flashed through her mind, the lingering touches, the way he always called her Peach like it was something sacred, the way he had never once left her side, had never once let her doubt that he would be there.

And now, here he was, saying the thing she had never let herself believe. Her silence stretched between them, and for the first time in a long time, Lando looked uncertain.

His hand, still resting against her jaw, twitched slightly, like he was afraid she was going to pull away.

“Say something,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

“I—” She swallowed hard, trying to piece together a coherent thought. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Then don’t say anything.”

And before she could overthink it, before she could let herself spiral into a million reasons why this couldn’t be real, Lando leaned in and kissed her.

It was soft at first, a question rather than a demand. His lips brushed against hers hesitantly, like he was giving her a chance to pull away.

She didn’t.

Instead, she melted, her hands finding his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric like it was the only thing grounding her.

That was all Lando needed.

His other hand found her waist, tugging her closer until there was no space left between them. The kiss deepened, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world to make up for the moments they had wasted.

When they finally pulled apart, Y/N’s heart was hammering, her head spinning. Lando rested his forehead against hers, his breath warm against her lips.

“Please tell me you know what to say,” he murmured, a teasing lilt to his voice.

Y/N let out a breathless laugh, shaking her head. “Yeah, I think I have an idea.”

“Good.” Lando grinned, pressing another soft kiss to the corner of her mouth. “Took you long enough.”

🪻🪻🪻

It had been almost a year since that night at his family home in Bristol, since he had finally given up on the hints and just told her. Since he had kissed her like he had been waiting his whole life to do it. Since she had stopped pretending she wasn’t completely, irreversibly his.

Now, they were curled up on his bed in his off-campus apartment, the soft glow of morning slipping through the blinds. Lando was still half-asleep, his face buried in the crook of her neck, arms wrapped around her like he had no intention of letting go.

“You’re staring,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep.

Y/N smiled, running her fingers through his curls. “Am not.”

Lando huffed out a laugh, pulling her impossibly closer. “Liar.”

“Lando.”

He hummed, still fixated on her in his arms. “Yeah, Peach?”

She smiled. The nickname had never gone away.

She stretched out on the bed, letting her cheek rest against the pillow as she watched him. “Did you know you’re my first in everything?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Everything?”

“Everything,” she confirmed, biting her lip. “First kiss, first boyfriend, first person I’ve ever said ‘I love you’ to…” She paused, eyes twinkling. “And, you know. First in other ways.”

Lando smirked. “I’m very aware, sweetheart.”

Her face burned, but she refused to look away. “You’re my first everything. It’s kind of unfair, don’t you think?”

His fingers reached out to her, brushing them over her flushed cheek. “You’re my first real everything too, you know,” he murmured, voice softer now.

She blinked up at him. “Really?”

Lando nodded, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “First girl I’ve ever been completely gone for.”

A kiss on her cheek. “First person I’ve ever loved.”

Another kiss, this time to her nose. “First person I never want to lose.”

Y/N’s heart swelled. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer to her. He laughed, letting her hold him close as he buried his face in her neck, his arms slipping around her waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I love you,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his curls.

Lando tightened his hold on her, his lips brushing against her collarbone as he murmured, “I love you more, Peach.”

And she believed it, because if there was one thing she knew for certain, it was that Lando Norris was her first in everything.

And if she was lucky, he’d also be her last.

i’m going to be so honest i started writing this at like 11 something pm and finished by around 2 am. and i only proof read like maybe the first few scenes and then i gave up bc i genuinely feel so sleepy rn, but yes here you go my geeks ^_^

[hotheadedhero]

Preoccupied (18+)

AN: Is Bay Raph constantly on my mind? Yes. Should you be on his mind constantly? DAMN STRAIGHT! I need not say more 😘

(NOTE: I had to delete the last post and reupload because for some reason it wasn't coming up on Tumblr under any of the tags. If the world doesn't need my smut just tell me now 😭)

Raphael x Reader

All characters are aged up

Warnings: NSFW, smutty content, 18+, MDNI, swears (though that's probably the least of your concerns in a fic like this), dirty thoughts, bordering on obsessive, masturbation, angsty because, damn it, I can't help myself, this got weirdly biblical for some reason, idk how to tag nsfw content, an insomniac trying to grammar, my first official smut so apologies if it stinks :'D

You’re a damned distraction, and Raphael doesn’t know what to do about it. He isn’t without his distractions. In fact, he’s classically known to get torn up in his head over things, especially when there’s an injustice thickly rooted in whatever nameless problem ails him. You, on the other hand, agitate him in ways he wishes not to be true. You’re everywhere he goes, just not physically, like a phantom limb - a subjugator who has conquered his very being. 

Many times, over and over, he has tried to categorise you, label you, so he can file you away and forget; anything in an attempt to get you out of his mind, as abnormally pragmatic as it is for him to go such a route. Are you a friend? Best friend? Something more? He bristles at the thought. ‘More’ is dangerous. ‘More’ is a bridge he’s not sure he wants to cross because of how deep this goes, how dark it is.

He catches himself thinking about you at the most inopportune moments. When he’s supposed to be strategising with his brothers, he’s replaying a conversation with you in his head, dissecting your words, searching for hidden meanings. He sees you in the flickering neon lights of the city, a fleeting silhouette blending into the urban tapestry of this concrete jungle. When he’s meant to be watching a game, he’s picturing your hands intertwined with his, your voice fluttering out his name, your body…

You’re not just a distraction, you’re a disruption, and the universe is hellbent on finding ways to toy with his teetering lucidity.

Grumbled curses and wet footsteps can be heard long before you’re seen, but silent curiosities would have been better left when you eventually appear in the lair. Three of the four brothers find themselves around you, each snickering at the pressed spring that is your body. Your crossed arms only tighten further into themselves, lips pulling in between your teeth at their lack of sympathy, but then you remember, they are boys.

Leo is the first to compose himself, matching your exaggerated stance with a raised grin. “You’re not looking very weather-appropriate.”

“I was up until about five minutes ago.” Your hands wipe away at your scrunched-up face. “One moment, sun.” You fling them down, the water hitting the ground with an offensive slap. “The next, a bunch of angry clouds piss on me.”

Laughing semi-heartedly, you loosely gesture at yourself, but dilated pupils behind red cloth have been trained on you the moment you walked in. Head-to-toe, you’re soaked: your clothes stick to you in a way that feels intrusive, accentuating every curve and contour he's learned to admire from a distance, only daring to steal glimpses when you’re not looking. The damp fabric clings to you like a lifeline, his of which is fleeting, and it just highlights your shape, each detail so clear, too clear. It shatters the fragile walls he’s fought to keep intact, a crude violation of the mental boundaries he's desperately trying to maintain. Raphael can’t stand it, and he loathes how the rain has matted your baby hairs to your forehead, a small, insignificant feature compared to the rest, and yet it leaves you looking the most exposed.

In the hazy realm of conversation woven between you and his brothers, he drifts, utterly unaware now. He thinks he catches a flash of Donnie hurrying away, yet the essence of it all slips through his fingers like mist. His form is anchored to this corner, while his thoughts wander far beyond the grasp of the present moment. He wants to lick the rain off your cheek and whisper unspoken secrets he never knew he could keep, what he’s been aching to do to you for so long. He can almost picture how you would taste against his tongue, how soft your skin would be compared to his calloused touch.

As his gaze drops out of focus, you inch closer, lowering to a crawl. Staring up through your lashes, you stop on your knees in front of him, eyes glazed with his deliverance and his destruction all at the same time. He can practically see everything from this angle, each wet crease of material grasping closely onto your body, impersonating one of those marble statues that seem impossible to make by hand. Your damp palms press into his thighs to hoist yourself up, the cold doing little to cool him, doing the opposite, in fact - warm puffs of air feathering against his starved face. His breath shortens, but he does nothing. This should stop; he can’t find it in himself to press that big red button, but this needs to stop. As you close in on him, lips ghost over his own with expectant sighs mixing between each other, and then-

The towel draped over your shoulders is the fire blanket to his perverse absorption; he’s pulled back into reality, where he is, but it doesn’t completely snuff out the embers. His eyes have had a taste of you now, a sample of the meal that he hungers so hopelessly for. You glance around, your gaze lingering on Raph for a fraction of a second before panning away, and he jolts, like a live wire has been threaded through his veins. In that second, he thinks you know, he thinks you’ve caught a glimpse into his vulgar mind, and he expects you to run off, but you don’t. Instead, you pull the towel closer and laugh at something Mikey says, the short spit of eye contact already falling from your awareness whilst it nails into his with a hammer.

Raphael’s fists clench under the table, knuckles paling beneath the wraps. You have no idea. He's thankful for that but it almost pisses him off that you have no clue just how much you invade his everything. He doesn’t quite know when this all started, but he hopes to God it has an end because he’s not sure how much longer he can handle it.

There's a deep shame that comes with these daydreams, an itch that burns within the lowest parts of his belly every time his mind so much as wanders. Unfortunately, the image of you, any image of you, scorches him worse than that guilt, which is why he can't resist those long nights of rutting against his pillow, endless scenarios flicking behind his eyes like a roll of film that goes on forever. There were many reasons that he was thankful for finally getting his own room, more so now than ever. It doesn’t matter what you do, he finds himself in the same place by the end of each day. There’d be the occasional brush of arms, a weightless touch that would burden his skin with gooseflesh, or moments when he’d manage to make you laugh, and the sound itself would drive a tremble through his shell. He thought this was an innocuous crush to begin with, all signs pointed that way, and then it happened.

Shit.

He remembers how this all started now.

It was one of those instances when you didn’t want to go home, too tired after a particularly harrowing shift at work. You had gotten a decent amount of TLC at the lair, but arguably too good, as you found yourself drooping on the couch. The boys would have happily escorted you back home, even volunteering to carry your sluggish form if that’s what it meant, to which you threw out some languidly-humoured remark about them trying to kick you out. Not even. Not ever.

“Take my bed,” Raph had offered without a second thought.

The proposition felt harmless at the time, and his intentions were so. There was no way he was going to let you sleep on the worn mound of springs and pillows that had endured the weight of four mutant behemoths for so many years. He could take it for the night, no big deal. It wouldn’t have been the first time, and truthfully, he was more than willing to sacrifice his comfort for yours. He hadn't even considered the implications of you sleeping in his bed, nor did he think of the consequences: this seed of yearning that would be planted that night to bloom and blossom into the twisted, prickly vine that now chokes his thoughts.

You, bless your oblivious heart, had accepted readily, a tired smile gracing your lips. "As long as you’re sure, Raph. I don't want to put you out."

"Positive," he'd confirmed, a little too quickly perhaps, and then retreated to grab a blanket and pillow.

That night, he barely slept. The couch was uncomfortable, sure, but there was something else: something that nagged at him. He couldn’t quite place his finger on it. His first thought was the lack of activity from the day, barely any thugs had tried their hand at disturbing the peace, or whatever peaceful looks like for the streets of New York. Chances are, he was just restless from how many skulls he didn’t crack. Maybe not. At the time, he was stumped for an explanation, and that only secured his inability to suspend consciousness.

Before long, the early morning had arisen, and you along with it. Raphael’s failure to nod off meant he caught your freshly woken self tiptoeing out of his room. He made no effort to greet you, playing into the idea that he was genuinely asleep as you thought him to be, some parts convinced that he might have been. You slid through the lair with a swan-like equanimity he didn’t want to disturb; each clip of your shoes against the floor calculated and measured to soften the blow of your steps. He probably would have woken up were he soundly snoozing, but the attempt was still appreciated. Raphael never regarded himself as the type to silently observe, to pick up on the little details with such ease, but he had found that he was a little more introspective about these things since you’d been around.

Once you had disappeared completely, he rose from his “slumber” and slipped into his room. He figured he’d be able to get at least a couple of hours' sleep under his belt. He was very wrong about this, however. Upon entering his room, he quickly realised that sleep would be much harder to come by now. The lacklustre day had left him restless, that’s what he kept telling himself at the time, but that wasn’t the real reason. The real reason was the apparitional warmth of your presence on his bed, and if he tried really hard, he’d almost be able to perfectly emulate your body lying in his company. Moreover, it was the lingering scent, faint as it was, that had truly undone him - sweet, undeniably yours, intoxicating. Slowly, he had descended atop the mattress on his side, his cheek brushing against the pillow that you had previously lain on. He could picture you in his place, as you had just been minutes before, curled up in his blankets, comfortable in his space.

He inhaled deeply, committing the fragrance to memory. Succumbing to this was crossing a precarious line. He thinks he knew that, but he couldn’t help himself. A thick rope had taken hold of him without his knowledge, narrowing its taught breach the more he let himself surrender. As he took another heavy breath in, his hand crept down to the beating, almost painful throb that had somehow alluded him until that moment.

This was wrong. Perverted. He was taking advantage, in a way, of your trust, of the virtuous act of offering you comfort when you needed it. You wouldn’t want this. You wouldn’t want him thinking of you this way. And yet, he just could not stop. The essence of you clung to his sheets, whispering promises he had no right to entertain.

A groan escaped his throat, muffled by the pillow he was now pushing into his face, practically suffocating himself in the hints of you that were lingering deep within it. He imagined you hearing him, recoiling in disgust, the trust in your eyes replaced with disappointment, with something akin to fear. The thought was a sharp, painful stab, but still, it wasn't enough to halt his sudden fit of impure mania. He was too far gone, caught in the undertow of his appetite.

He came quickly, shame immediately washing over him in a freezing wave. The pleasure was fleeting, unsatisfying, tainted by the knowledge of his transgression. He lay there, panting, the scent of you now heavy and cloying, no longer intoxicating but strangling. He wanted to scrub himself clean, to erase the moment, to rewind and never offer his bed in the first place.

In his post-nut clarity, it hits him, the disgrace of it all: how badly he wants you, how desperate he is to feel the weight of your body on his, how much he needs every plush piece of skin to become tainted under his hands.

The days that followed were torture; worse than torture if there’s a word for it. He knew he had to avoid you, at least for a while. There was no way he could bear to face you, to see the innocent trust in your eyes. He needed time to process, figure out how to reconcile the image he had of himself with the reality of his actions, but any moment of closure would be met with opposition. Annoyingly, small things: a hair clip in the dojo, a book on the kitchen counter, a faint smudge of lip gloss on a discarded coffee cup. In your absence, these tiny objects served as landmines to his crime, a reminder of what he had done and what he couldn’t have.

Instances in which you were present to share the same air as him, however, were worse, and they still are. If you’re reading, he’s watching the curve of your neck. When he hears you laugh, he hears a calling that simply doesn’t exist. He may catch you licking your lips when they dry, an inattentive habit that makes him envious of your tongue. Each one of these details slots into a catalogue, stored away in the private chambers of his mind to be revised during those lonely nights.

Even his epiphany about stepping back and admiring from afar has been contaminated. Productive revelations have been spoiled and replaced with this thing he doesn’t know how to name. That act of defiling a space you occupied had undeniably tarnished any interaction with you, and in doing so, he had tarnished himself.

He’s a terrible person. People don’t have thoughts like this about their friends. Or, if they do, they’d at least stand a better chance of enacting these thoughts. He should just exonerate himself from you entirely, retreat to the shadows as he has always been taught to. The temptation itself almost makes him laugh. That would imply he has the will strong enough to remove himself from your life, a will he no longer possesses now that you’re in his.

Why can’t it be so easy?

That morning that started this all, something inside him had irrevocably broken. A dam had burst, unleashing a torrential wave of depravity he never knew existed within him. Before that, he’d just thought of you as someone who occasionally wracked his nerves in confusing ways if the circumstances were right. Now? You are everything: his obsession, his undoing, his most profound and concealed secret.

If only this were a simple crush, he could settle for that. It would come with its own problems, he knows, but he could at least sustain it with more prudence; deal with it.

He remembers a time, before you, when his nights were his own, when he could lay his head down after a job well done and bid the day farewell. His skin twitches if he tries to keep any urge at bay, fever lurches behind his eyes any time they close, and if by some miracle he can find his way to sleep without giving in, you all but manage to torment his dreams, too. Vivid, explicit, and utterly mortifying. He’ll wake up drenched in sweat, heart pounding, and worst of all, with morning wood just to add more to this mess for atrocities' sake. He really shouldn’t be thinking about you in this way. You’re a friend, that’s the operative word he strains to keep in mind, but his body, his innate calling, doesn’t care about propriety.

It’s especially bad when he wishes he could practise his older brother’s restraint and condition himself to keep you out of his head. Leonardo’s calm, almost serene detachment is a lifestyle away from his turbulent fixations. Leo, the picture of divine patience, can seemingly shut off any unwanted thought with the flick of a wrist, whilst Raphael is a wildfire, and you the kindling. It’s not as though the routine tactics of his brother would serve him aid in this situation, anyway. Meditation has never done him any good, and it’d only give you the space to tangle yourself up in his imagination again. Instead, he buries himself in his workouts. He tries to sweat it out, tire himself to the point of mindless exhaustion, but the sweat itself stings, and the ache in his muscles is a feeble attempt to dull the sharper ache in his shell.

When he isn’t riddled with pliable what-ifs and maybes, when there is a moment that these lascivious infections decide to leave him be, he has the camera peering down at himself. How long can he actually keep this up? How long will it be before he cracks, before he says or does something he’ll live to regret, regret more than what he’s already done in the dark corners no one dares tread? He’s a ticking time bomb, and you, naively unaware, are holding the detonator.

One way or another, you’re in everything he does, absentminded things like fiddling with his sai; the touch of cool steel against his palms imitates the delicate curve of what he imagines your jawline to feel like. Even the harsh rasp of his father’s voice during sparring matches can't silence the whisper of your name, a prohibited prayer that lingers in his ears. He can't keep you out of his head. He hates it, this constant, burning awareness of you – a forbidden fruit he longs to taste but knows he can't. The self-disgust, the guilt, the painful longing; all of it is a cruel torment, a self-inflicted wound he can't seem to staunch.

He wants to scream, especially on these restless nights, to shatter the silence and break free from the invisible bonds that chain him to this impossible, unbearable infatuation. Yet, all he can do is lie there, a prisoner of his desires, and you visit him once again, not as the friend he knows, the one who laughs easily and quips back with no effort, but as a vision of his indecency. Your smile is a siren's call, eyes a bottomless reservoir of promise. You say things he can only ever dream of hearing from your lips.

This is a fantasy he’s played out innumerable times, but each rerun feels like the first.

You lie back, sprawled across his bed like a fallen angel. Is he your rescuer, or the bastard who shot you down just so he could have you? He can fool himself into thinking this is a mutual salvation, but his jealousy of the stars will have you dragged into the pit with him, where he can savour your divine spirit all to himself. You would never willingly step away from heaven’s light to meet him, of course you wouldn’t, but at least he can pretend, even for a short while, that he has somehow convinced you to fall into this madness with him. He can delude himself that he isn’t quite so alone, and so he follows the illusion of you and takes, moving like a man possessed, lacking dignity, lacking regard.

He stops fighting these premonitions now. He thinks that if he wholeheartedly appeases this greed, abandons all virtue to the fever dream that paints you as his willing partner, that he’ll be set free. He lets the imagined warmth of your skin banish the cold reality of his isolation. He allows the phantom scent of your hair to fill his airless room, drowning voluntarily so that he can fall to the ocean’s depths where he may finally find peace.

This dance with delirium, sometimes culminating for hours, eventually has to conclude, however. Your mirage blurs into nothing the closer he gets to the end, hoping with a crossed jaw that this will be the last time he sullies your good name inside his fist.

It never is.

No matter how many times he relieves himself to your notion, it never alleviates the want, the need, the dependency that’s been conceived on this idea of having you. It only makes it worse. His stomach empties more each time, and his head bloats with new possibilities just to mock him. Every instance in which he falls victim to his imagination, he staggers closer to Hell, and Earth’s core will burn him alive long before he ever admits to the degeneracy of his vestige’s mind. This false impression of reality is much sweeter, bitter in its aftertastes, but easier, a dark bubble without complication, without an outward looking in to tell him how wrong this is.

You’re a damned distraction, and at the cost of his sanity, Raphael can’t find it in himself to do anything about it.

This is kind of an idea I coined off of @moxfirefly (called Obsesión on AO3) when I realised the similarities halfway into writing, so go read that!! It's a good one yo 🙏

[mrsfancyferrari]

A Lover's Touch Pt 4

Summary: In a world of where soulmates can be found easily, Charles was struggling a lot to find his one. FINAL PT/ PT 4

Song: Artemas - if u think i'm pretty

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

Author’s note: GUYS! THIS IS REAL! The FINALE chapter of A Lover's Touch! I hope you all enjoyed this series! Please like, reblog and share this 🫶!!

Taglist: @finnishfrom1999, @sinofwriting, @scriptedinkbyxim, @unknownmystery22, @suns3treading, @4-ln4, @vyctorya, @lovebeinaprincessworld, @widow-cevans, @waywardpersonwerewolf, @freyathehuntress, @obxstiles, @tiffanyae123-blog, @uhcalli, @aileeincomplexity, @respondingtoshowerthoughts-blog, @donteventry-itdude, @leclrcg, @sabrinaselina55, @pandora108, @aykxz98, @tabisswag, @ln4girlie

Word count: 26.1k

MASTERLIST - F1

As you took your seat, Charles pulled out the chair for you, his hand lingering on the small of your back, sending a thrill down your spine. You felt his warmth even as he took his own seat, the proximity of his thigh against yours setting your nerves alight.

The waiter appeared, reciting a menu that might as well have been in a foreign language for all the attention you could give it.

The only thing you could focus on was the way Charles's eyes never left yours, the way his hand found yours under the table, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your skin.

The food was exquisite, a symphony of flavors that seemed to mirror the tumultuous dance of your emotions. Each bite was a sensory experience, a delightful explosion that only served to heighten the anticipation of what was to come.

You sipped from your wine glass, the velvety liquid sliding down your throat, warming your insides, loosening the knots in your stomach.

But it was the dessert that truly stole the show. A rich, decadent chocolate cake, with a single, flickering candle atop it. The room seemed to hold its breath as the waiter presented it with a flourish, the flame casting a warm glow across the table.

"Happy birthday," Charles murmured, his voice a soft caress.

You stared at the cake, the reality of the situation crashing over you like a tidal wave. It was your birthday, a day you had hoped to ignore, to pass by unnoticed, but here it was, staring you in the face with all the subtlety of a neon sign.

You took a deep breath, the scent of melting wax and sugar filling your nostrils, and made a silent wish. A wish that tonight would change everything, that you'd finally find the courage to tell him how you felt.

The candle's light danced in his eyes, a reflection of the hope and longing that swirled in your soul. He leaned closer, his breath hot against your cheek. "Make a wish," he whispered.

You closed your eyes and did just that, the words echoing through your mind like a prayer. When you opened them, the flame was extinguished, a soft plume of smoke the only evidence of the silent promise you had made to yourself.

The rest of the meal passed in a blur of sweet whispers and lingering glances, the tension between you a living, breathing entity that seemed to grow with every moment.

Finally, the plates were cleared, and the waiter retreated, leaving you and Charles in the cocoon of the candlelit table.

He reached for the small, velvet box he had placed next to his plate and slid it towards you. The weight of it was substantial, hinting at something precious within.

"Happy birthday, mon amour," he said, his voice a gentle caress.

You stared at the box, your heart racing. Your hand trembled as you reached for it, the warmth from the candle flame seemingly burning through the velvet. The box opened with a soft click, revealing a necklace that shimmered under the flickering light.

It was a delicate chain of gold, with a single, round diamond nestled in the center of a heart-shaped setting.

"It's beautiful," you breathed, your voice trembling.

"It's nothing compared to you," he replied, his eyes never leaving yours as he leaned over and fastened the clasp around your neck. The cool metal kissed your skin, the diamond resting in the hollow of your throat, a silent declaration of his affection.

You couldn't help but feel a twinge of doubt as you touched the necklace, the weight of it a tangible reminder of the unspoken words that hung between you. "Isn't this too much?" you whispered, the question heavy with meaning.

Charles' eyes searched yours, the candlelight playing in the depths of his pupils. He leaned back, his gaze never wavering. "Is it?" His voice was calm, but you could feel the intensity of his emotions coiled tightly within him, like a spring ready to unravel.

You nodded, your pulse racing. "I don't know what to say." The necklace felt like a brand, a mark of his claim on your heart.

He leaned closer, his breath warm against your skin. "Say nothing," he murmured. "Just take it as my gift." His eyes searched yours, the depths of them a sea of emotion. "A symbol of what you already are to me, regardless of what you decide."

You looked down at the necklace, the diamond winking back at you, a silent sentinel of hope. The warmth of his hand lingered on the back of your neck, sending shivers down your spine.

You knew what he was asking, what he was offering, and the weight of it was both exhilarating and terrifying.

"Thank you, Mon Prince," you murmured, your voice barely audible over the thundering of your heart. The endearment slipped out, unbidden, but it felt right. It felt like a promise, a soft surrender to the inevitable.

He leaned in, his breath hot against your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. "You're welcome, my love," he said, the words a gentle caress that seemed to melt away the last of your defenses.

His hand found its way to the nape of your neck, his thumb tracing lazy circles that sent bolts of electricity through your body.

As you stood to leave, the warmth of the restaurant clung to you like a lover's embrace, a stark contrast to the cool night outside. The limo waited, the engine purring like a contented cat, the driver holding the door open with a knowing smile.

You slid into the back seat, the leather cool against your skin, the scent of the leather mingling with the heady aroma of the chocolate cake from dinner.

The ride home was a silent crescendo of unspoken desire, the tension palpable as the city lights streaked by the tinted windows.

Each bump in the road sent a jolt through your body, a reminder of the unspoken words and the weight of the necklace around your neck.

When the car finally pulled up to the curb outside the house, the anticipation was almost too much to bear. Charles' hand was on the small of your back, guiding you out of the car, his touch sending shivers down your spine.

The night air was cool, a gentle caress that seemed to whisper sweet nothings in your ear as you walked towards the lobby.

Inside the elevator, the space between you was charged with an energy that seemed to pulse with the rhythm of the rising floor numbers.

Your hand found his, your fingers lacing through his, the warmth of his skin grounding you as the world outside the steel box felt like it was spinning out of control.

As the doors slid open, revealing the sanctity of your shared living space, the tension grew. The silence was a living, breathing entity, echoing through the hallway as you walked towards the apartment.

The click of your heels on the marble floor was the only sound, a seductive beat that seemed to sync with the racing of your heart.

And then, you saw it. The living room, which had once been a bastion of neutrality and order, had been transformed into a sea of crimson.

The biggest red bouquet you had ever laid eyes on dominated the space, the roses so rich and velvety, they seemed to pulse with a life of their own. The scent was intoxicating, a heady mix of love and longing that made your knees threaten to buckle.

"Charles..." you murmured, tears welling up in your eyes, a testament to the overwhelming emotion that washed over you.

The bouquet was a visual symphony of passion, a fiery sea of red that seemed to have been plucked from the very depths of love itself.

Each petal was a declaration of his feelings, a silent shout that resonated through the room. You stepped closer, the velvety softness of the roses brushing against your skin like a lover's caress.

"I know you don't like to celebrate, but I couldn't let this day pass without showing you how much you mean to me,"

Charles said, his voice thick with emotion. His hand found the small of your back, the gentle pressure guiding you into the room, the bouquet a fiery backdrop to the moment.

You stumbled forward, the scent of roses overwhelming, the tears in your eyes blurring the crimson tide before you. "I... I can't believe it," you whispered, your voice choking on the words.

"Believe it," he said, his voice firm yet gentle. "Pick up the flowers, my love," Charles urged, pulling out his phone with a mischievous smile. "I need to capture this moment."

You felt a strange mix of excitement and vulnerability as you reached for the bouquet.

The velvety petals whispered against your skin as you cradled them in your arms, their warmth and weight a stark contrast to the delicate necklace that lay against your chest.

You could feel the throb of your heart in your fingertips as you held the roses, a pulse that seemed to echo in time with the beat of your racing pulse.

The bouquet was almost too much, too intense, too... real. It was as if the room itself had been painted with the color of your deepest desires, and the scent was a siren's call that you couldn't ignore.

Each breath you took was filled with the sweet, heady perfume, making your head swim with the potency of its promise.

As you leaned in, the roses almost covering your face, their petals brushing against your cheeks, you felt a sudden rush of warmth that had nothing to do with the candles scattered around the room.

It was as if the very essence of love had been distilled into this bouquet, and you were inhaling it, letting it fill your lungs and seep into your soul.

You felt the camera's gaze on you, and despite the gravity of the moment, you couldn't help but smile. It was a smile filled with a mix of surprise, joy, and a touch of bewilderment. How had you gotten here? How had you allowed yourself to be swept up in this whirlwind of emotions?

The flash of the camera was a stark reminder that this was no dream. This was real. Charles was real.

His love was real. And as the light bounced off the diamond necklace that now rested against your skin, it illuminated the truth that had been hidden in the shadows of your heart for so long.

You took a deep breath, the scent of roses and candle wax intoxicating your senses. The warmth of the room seemed to pulse with the rhythm of your heart, beating a seductive tango with the anticipation that coiled in your stomach.

The dress clung to your body, a silent whisper of the passion that lay just beneath the surface, waiting to be unleashed.

As you turned to face him, the bouquet still cradled in your arms, his eyes searched yours, the question in them unspoken but palpable.

"My love," he murmured, setting down his phone and walking toward you, the soft rustle of his shoes on the plush carpet the only sound in the room.

His hand reached up to wipe away the tears that had begun to spill over your lashes, the gentle touch of his thumb a silent promise that he would be the salve to your fears.

"Why are you crying?" he asked, his voice a soft rumble that seemed to resonate through the very air, the words a gentle caress that seemed to strip away the layers of doubt and hesitation that had wrapped around your heart like a cocoon.

"I'm sorry," you murmured, the bouquet of roses still cradled in your arms, their fragrance a sweet symphony that seemed to echo the tumult of your emotions. "I've just never had someone treat me like this."

The words hung in the air between you, a confession that was both a declaration of your love and a plea for understanding. You watched as the smile on Charles' face grew, his eyes lighting up like stars in the velvety night sky.

He stepped closer, the warmth of his body a comforting embrace that seemed to melt the last of your fears.

"You deserve to be treated like a queen," he whispered, his voice a gentle breeze that seemed to caress your very soul. His hand reached out, his fingertips brushing against your cheek, the touch as soft as the petals of the roses you held. "Every single day."

The warmth of his touch was like a brand, searing away the last of your resistance. You felt the heat of his gaze, the intensity of his emotions, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, you let your guard down.

You placed the bouquet down on the table with a soft thud, the sound echoing through the silent apartment like a declaration of your surrender.

The roses looked like a fiery pool of passion in the candlelight, their scent intoxicating, a silent chant of love that seemed to fill the very air you breathed.

"Any more surprises for me?" you asked, your voice a tremulous whisper that seemed to hang in the air like the last note of a love song. You turned to face him, your heart racing like a wild stallion in a desert of doubt.

"No, my love," he said, his voice a gentle caress that seemed to melt the ice that had surrounded your heart. "This is it."

"Good," you murmured, taking a step closer to him. "Because I have one for you."

Without another word, you wrapped your arms around his neck, the warmth of your embrace enveloping him like a warm blanket. His eyes widened slightly in surprise before a slow smile spread across his face.

The necklace he had given you lay cool against his chest, the diamond winking in the candlelight like a silent affirmation of your decision.

"Mon amour," he murmured, the endearment a warm breath against your skin as he pulled you closer.

His arms were a steel band, strong yet gentle, holding you as if you were the most precious thing in the world. You could feel his heart pounding in time with yours, the beat a testament to the intensity of his emotions.

The first kiss was a simple peck, a soft brush of lips that seemed to be asking permission, a question that was immediately answered by the way you melted into him. But it wasn't enough.

Not nearly enough to sate the hunger that had been building between you for weeks, the slow burn that had become an inferno.

Without breaking eye contact, Charles leaned back in for another kiss, this one stronger, more demanding. His hands slid into your hair, holding you captive as his lips moved over yours with a passion that was both fierce and gentle.

His mouth was hot and hungry, claiming yours with a fervor that stole your breath and made your knees go weak. You could feel his desire, the heat of his body pressing into yours, the beat of his heart a wild tattoo against your chest.

The second kiss was like a dam breaking, a torrent of emotions that had been held back for too long. Your arms tightened around him, pulling him closer as your mouths melded together.

The taste of chocolate lingered on his lips, a sweet reminder of the evening you'd shared, mingling with the minty freshness of his breath.

Your tongue darted out to trace the line of his lower lip, and he groaned, deep in his throat, the sound sending a shiver of pleasure through you.

The hands on your waist were firm, yet tender, holding you as if you were a delicate treasure he was afraid to break. His thumbs stroked the sensitive skin above your hips, and you could feel the heat of his palms through the thin fabric of your dress, setting your nerves alight with every touch. You moaned into his mouth, the sound lost in the symphony of passion that seemed to fill the room.

"Are you sure about this?" Charles murmured, pulling back slightly to search your eyes. His gaze was filled with a mix of desire and uncertainty, the question hanging in the air like a fine mist.

You nodded, the words caught in your throat. You were sure. More than sure. The hunger in his eyes was a mirror to the ache in your soul, and you knew that you couldn't fight this anymore.

The fear, the doubt, the walls you'd built around your heart – they were crumbling under the weight of his love.

He seemed to read your answer in your eyes, because the next thing you knew, you were being pulled closer, your body pressed against his with an urgency that left no room for doubt.

His hands slid up your back, his fingertips tracing the line of your spine before settling on the base of your neck, holding you in place as his mouth reclaimed yours.

You felt your chest tighten, your breaths coming in short, shallow gasps.

The dress, which had once felt like a declaration of intent, now felt like a prison, trapping the heat that was building within you. His thumbs stroked the bare skin above your dress, sending bolts of pleasure straight to your core, making you ache for more.

The room seemed to spin around you, the candles casting a dizzying array of shadows and light across the walls, a dance of passion that mirrored the tumult in your heart.

The air grew thick, charged with the electricity of desire, making it difficult to breathe.

You felt your heart hammering in your chest, so loud it seemed to drown out the sound of his breath, the beat of his own pulse against your palm where it lay against his chest. 

Shyness overtook you, and you found yourself hiding in the crook of his neck, his strong arms a comforting embrace that shielded you from the world.

Your cheek pressed against the soft fabric of his shirt, the warmth of his skin seeping through, soothing the nerves that had you trembling like a leaf in a storm.

His scent, a potent blend of cologne and pure masculine energy, wrapped around you like a warm blanket, chasing away the chill of doubt that had clung to you for so long.

As you melted into his embrace, the feeling of rightness grew stronger, a warmth that started in the pit of your stomach and spread like wildfire through your veins, reaching every part of you, igniting your soul.

It was like you'd been lost in a cold, dark wilderness, and he was the sun breaking through the clouds, bathing you in warmth and light.

The gnawing anxiety that had been your constant companion for weeks began to recede, the edges of your fears smoothing out under the relentless tide of his affection.

With each beat of his heart, you felt the yearning within you grow stronger, the ache to be closer, to be one, a hunger that had been gnawing at you from the moment you first saw him, and now, finally, it was being satiated.

The words you’d spoken, “I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time,” felt both incredibly simple and profoundly significant, a quiet acknowledgment of a truth that had been simmering between you for months, perhaps even years.

He tilted your chin up again, his eyes soft but intensely focused. The uncertain flicker you’d seen before had been replaced by a quiet certainty, a deep reservoir of affection that seemed to cradle you.

“And I, you,” he replied, his voice a low rumble that vibrated against your lips. “More than you know.”

With that, he kissed you again, his mouth claiming yours with a tenderness that belied the passion that smoldered just beneath the surface.

His hands cradled your face as if you were the most fragile, precious thing in the world, and yet there was a strength in his touch, a promise of protection and possession that sent a thrill down your spine.

You muzzled into his neck, breathing in the heady scent of him, feeling the pulse of his life beneath your lips. The warmth of his skin, the scratch of his stubble, the softness of his throat – it was all so real, so vivid, that you could almost believe that this was a dream.

But the way his arms tightened around you, the way his breath hitched when your teeth grazed his skin, told you that this was anything but a fantasy.

"I have one final surprise for you," Charles said, a bit shyly.

You looked up at him with a question in your eyes, your heart racing like it was preparing for a race of its own. What could possibly top this moment? You thought, your hand resting on his chest where his heart was hammering away like a drumline.

"Close your eyes," he instructed, his voice a low, velvety murmur that seemed to resonate through every nerve in your body.

You did as told, the darkness behind your lids a stark contrast to the warm, golden light that filled the room.

As you closed your eyes, you felt him guide you by the hand, the gentle tug a silent promise of something more, something exciting, something that would change the very fabric of the night.

Each step you took was a step into the unknown, but the warmth of his hand was a beacon of comfort in the sea of uncertainty.

When he finally said, "You can open your eyes now," you did so with a gasp.

The sight that greeted you was nothing short of breathtaking. The floor was a canvas of crimson and ivory, with rose petals arranged in the shape of love hearts stretching out from the bed to the door.

Balloons, also in shades of red and white, bobbed gently in the air, each one with the question, "Will you be my girlfriend?" scrawled across it in Charles' unmistakable handwriting.

The bed itself was a vision of romance. The crisp, white sheets were adorned with more rose petals, creating a love nest that seemed to beckon to you with a silent, seductive whisper.

The headboard was framed by a heart-shaped arch of roses, the blooms so fresh they looked as if they'd been plucked from the garden just moments ago.

The balloons, floating like a cloud of love notes in the air, each one asking the question that had been dancing around the two of you for what felt like an eternity. It was a declaration of love so bold, so unabashed, that you felt your heart swell in your chest.

"Is this...?" you began, the words trailing off as you took in the scene before you.

"Yes," Charles said, his voice thick with emotion. "I wanted to make sure you knew how much you mean to me."

You felt the weight of the moment, the gravity of his confession, and the love in the room was so palpable that you could almost taste it. Each rose petal seemed to whisper a promise, a vow of devotion that was echoed in the soft thud of your heart.

Taking a tentative step forward, you felt the petals beneath your bare feet, the sensation a gentle reminder of the tender care that had gone into this surprise.

Your eyes swept over the balloons, reading each "Will you be my girlfriend?" with a thrill that grew stronger with each syllable.

You turned to face him, the love in his gaze so potent that it seemed to light up the very air between you. "How could I say no?" you murmured, the words a soft sigh of surrender to the inevitable.

The smile that lit up his face was like the dawn breaking over the horizon, chasing away the last shadows of doubt. He stepped closer, his hand reaching for yours, the warmth of his touch a lifeline in the sea of emotions that threatened to drown you.

"You don't have to say anything," he murmured, his thumb tracing a gentle circle on your palm. "Just be with me."

You nodded, the weight of his gaze feeling like a warm embrace, a silent promise of understanding.

The words had been said, the intentions laid bare, but the reality of it all was still sinking in, a warm, golden glow that seemed to envelop you from the inside out.

But before you could say anything more, the moment was shattered by the sudden, unexpected sound of a knock at the door. The sharp, staccato beat echoed through the apartment, a discordant note in the symphony of your emotions.

You both froze, the spell of the moment broken by the intrusion. The tension in the air thickened, a tangible presence that seemed to coil around you like a serpent. You could feel Charles' grip on your hand tighten, a silent question in the tension of his fingers.

With a muttered "merde," he glanced at the clock on the bedside table. The hands pointed to a time much later than you had realized.

"What is it?" you whispered, the question slipping from your lips before you could think better of it.

"It's Arthur," Charles replied, his voice tight with frustration. "He's dropping Leo off. I was hoping for more... alone time with you."

"Charles, you already spent the entire day treating me," you smiled, "can I not shower my little baby with some affection?"

The tension in the room dissipated like a storm cloud breaking for the sun, and his features softened into a warm smile that made your heart skip a beat.

"You know I can't resist when you call him that," he said, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your forehead.

"I know," you whispered, your voice thick with affection as you stepped back and took his hand, leading him to the door. "Let's go greet them."

As you pulled the door open, the sound of Leo's excited yipping filled the air, a high-pitched symphony of joy that seemed to resonate in your very bones.

The little dog shot into the room like a comet, his tail a blur of wagging happiness, and you couldn't help but laugh as he leaped into your arms, licking your face with a passion that was both overwhelming and utterly endearing.

The love and affection in his eyes was a mirror to what you felt in your heart for Charles.

You tightened your grip around him, his warm, furry body a comforting weight against your chest as he squirmed and wriggled in your arms, his tiny paws scrabbling at the air in pure delight.

"I see someone's happy to be back," you said, chuckling, your cheeks aching with the force of your smile.

Arthur's eyes danced with mischief as he leaned against the doorframe, watching you and Charles with barely concealed amusement.

"Happy birthday, Y/N!" he exclaimed, the words a delighted shout that seemed to echo in the quiet apartment.

You couldn't help but laugh as Leo's tail wagged even faster, his tiny body vibrating with excitement. You set the squirming puppy down, and he bolted over to Charles, jumping up to greet him with a flurry of licks and yips.

"Merci, Arthur," Charles said, his voice a mix of gratitude and mischief. "You're a lifesaver."

Arthur chuckled, his eyes flicking down to the unmistakable mark on Charles' neck. "It's no problem," he smirked. "Looks like you two had a good time."

You felt a blush creep up your neck, your cheeks burning with a mix of embarrassment and arousal. You hadn't noticed the kiss mark in your rush to answer the door, and now, with Arthur's knowing gaze on you, it felt like a neon sign announcing your intimate evening.

"Here's your gift," Arthur said, holding out a big bag with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. The fabric was soft and luxurious, the weight of it hinting at something substantial within.

"Thank you, Arthur," you managed to say, taking the bag with a tentative smile. The weight of it was surprising, the fabric a smooth, luxurious silk that whispered promises of something extravagant.

Arthur winked at you, his eyes twinkling with brotherly mischief before he leaned in to whisper, "I had it specially made for the two of you."

The bag was heavy in your hands, the contents a mystery that made your heart race with anticipation. You glanced at Charles, whose own curiosity was piqued by his brother's knowing smile.

"Let's see what you've got for us," you murmured, the words a challenge that hung in the air as you reached into the bag.

Your fingers brushed against something soft and velvety, sending a thrill down your spine. You pulled out a blindfold, the fabric a rich, midnight black that shimmered with an iridescent sheen in the candlelight.

"Ah, a little something to spice up the evening," Arthur said, his tone suggestive. You felt your cheeks burn as you looked at the blindfold, the implications clear.

This was not a simple birthday gift. It was a declaration of intent, a wink at the passion that had been simmering just below the surface.

"Thank you, Arthur," you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper as you hold the blindfold in your trembling hands. The weight of it, the softness of the fabric, seemed to be a tangible representation of the intensity of the night ahead.

You couldn't help but feel a thrill of excitement, a shiver of anticipation that had nothing to do with the cool evening air.

"You're welcome," Arthur replied, his smile widening into a knowing grin. He ruffled Leo's fur before turning to leave. "I'll let you two lovebirds get back to your... festivities," he said, his eyes twinkling.

As the door clicked shut behind him, the room grew quiet again, the only sound the gentle rustle of the petals underfoot and the soft, steady breathing of the man who held your heart in the palm of his hand.

"Mon dieu," Charles muttered, a hint of frustration coloring his voice, "sometimes I hate that boy."

You giggled, the sound a sweet, delicate melody in the quiet room. "It's a great gift nevertheless," you said, stroking the soft fabric of the blindfold.

"But, mon amour," Charles murmured, stepping closer, his eyes dark with a hunger that made your breath hitch, "you know I can't ruin you on the first day of us dating."

The words sent a thrill through you, a jolt of electricity that had your core tightening with need. You met his gaze, your own eyes flashing with a challenge.

"Is that what this is?" you whispered, your voice a sultry caress that seemed to dance in the air.

Charles stepped closer, his breath a warm gust that seemed to envelop you. "If you wish it to be," he murmured, his hands sliding around your waist, pulling you against him.

You could feel the heat of him, the solidness of his body a stark contrast to the delicate fabric of your dress.

You tilted your head back, looking up at him through half-lidded eyes. "I think you should save this for another time," you murmured, your breath a warm whisper that seemed to dance across his skin.

He stilled, the hunger in his gaze fading slightly, replaced by a look of confusion and something else, something that looked suspiciously like disappointment.

But before he could say anything, you stepped back, scooping Leo up into your arms.

The puppy squirmed happily, oblivious to the tension in the air, his tiny paws scratching at your chest as he licked your chin.

You carried him into the living room, the plush carpet feeling like a cloud beneath your bare feet. The room was still, the shadows cast by the flickering candles playing across the walls, a silent testament to the passion that had been building between the two of you.

As you settled onto the couch, Leo curled up in your lap, his warm, panting breath a gentle reminder of the real world that lay just outside the bubble of desire you'd created.

You stroked his soft fur, the rhythmic motion soothing the racing pulse in your wrist. The room was filled with the scent of the roses, their sweet, heady perfume a silent serenade to the love that hung in the air.

Charles followed you, his eyes never leaving yours, his steps deliberate and sure.

The candlelight played across his features, casting him in a warm, golden glow that made him look like a god of passion come to claim his mortal bride. He knelt beside the couch, his hand resting gently on your thigh.

"Can I at least hold you tonight?" he asked, the words a soft, tender plea that seemed to resonate through the very core of your being.

His hand was a brand on your skin, the heat of it a gentle reminder of his presence, his desire.

You looked at him, the love and longing in his eyes a stark contrast to the coolness of the air. The question was simple, yet it held the weight of a thousand unspoken words, a silent confession of his need for you.

For a moment, you hesitated, the fear of what might come flooding back in a cold, hard wave.

But then, you took a deep breath, the scent of the roses filling your lungs with their sweet perfume. You looked down at Leo, his tiny eyes closed in contentment as he snored gently in your arms.

You felt the warmth of the love you had for him, for the way he had brought you and Charles closer together.

And you knew, deep down, that you couldn't deny the man kneeling before you what he so clearly needed.

You nodded, the motion slow and deliberate. "Yes," you whispered, your voice a soft caress that seemed to echo through the room. "You can hold me tonight."

The relief that flooded Charles' face was palpable, the tension in his shoulders visibly easing as he slid onto the couch beside you, his arm wrapping around your waist.

Leo grumbled in his sleep but made no move to leave the warmth of your embrace.

You leaned back against him, his strong, steady heartbeat a soothing rhythm that seemed to sync with the calming strokes of your hand through Leo's fur.

The warmth of his chest against your back was a comfort, a promise of protection that you hadn't realized you'd craved until this moment.

The world outside the apartment faded away as you nestled into him, your eyes closing in contentment. The plush cushions cradled your body, the velvety fabric a gentle embrace that seemed to whisper sweet nothings into your ear.

The soft glow of the candles cast a warm light across the room, painting everything in a hue of gold that made you feel as if you were in a cocoon of pure, unadulterated love.

Leo's gentle snores were a soothing lullaby, the steady rise and fall of his chest a testament to the peace he felt in your arms.

His warmth was a balm to your soul, a reminder that, despite the chaos of the world, there was a small pocket of happiness that was yours and yours alone.

You felt Charles's breath on the back of your neck, a warm, steady presence that seemed to melt the last of your defenses. His hand, strong and calloused from years of racing, stroked your arm with a gentle rhythm that mirrored the beat of your heart.

Leo shifted in your arms, his paws twitching as he chased a dream, and you tightened your grip on him instinctively, drawing comfort from his warm, living weight.

You felt a strange mix of emotions—safety, love, and a yearning so deep it was almost painful.

"I've never seen you so relaxed," Charles whispered, his breath a gentle caress against your skin.

You couldn't disagree. With Leo nestled in your arms and Charles's warm embrace around your waist, you felt as if you were floating on a cloud of pure contentment.

The dog's gentle breathing and the steady thud of his heartbeat served as a soothing metronome, lulling you into a tranquil state of bliss.

Every muscle in your body seemed to melt into the couch, the tension of the last few months seeping away like rainwater through soil.

Leaning back into Charles' chest, you felt the reassuring beat of his heart against your back, a rhythm that seemed to sync with your own.

His strong arms held you securely, his hand tracing gentle patterns on your skin that sent goosebumps skittering across your body like leaves in the wind.

You felt cherished, protected, and, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, truly alive.

"Wake me up before it's 11," you murmured into the quiet, your voice thick with the weight of your impending slumber.

The words were a whispered plea, a silent acknowledgment of the fear that had become a constant companion. You didn't want to miss a moment of this newfound peace, this delicate truce with your own heart.

"You always say that and then you punch me for waking you up," Charles teased, his voice a warm caress that seemed to wrap around you like a blanket.

You couldn't help but smile at his words, the corners of your mouth turning up despite the heaviness in your chest. "It's just a reflex," you said, your voice a soft murmur. "I don't want to lose this moment."

Charles chuckled, the sound a gentle rumble that seemed to resonate through his chest and into your very soul. "You won't," he assured you, pressing a gentle kiss to the side of your neck. "I'll wake you up with a kiss."

You felt a thrill at the promise in his words, the warmth of his lips leaving a trail of fire across your skin. "Deal," you murmured, your eyes fluttering shut as you allowed yourself to sink further into the comfort of his embrace.

As you drifted off, the steady rhythm of Charles's heartbeat lulled you into a deep, peaceful sleep. It was a feeling you hadn't experienced in months, a tranquil oasis in a desert of turmoil and doubt.

The gentle strokes of his hand on your arm became the only thing you were aware of, a comforting reminder that you weren't alone. . . .

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

"Ma chérie, wake up," Charles murmured, his breath warm against your cheek as he placed feather-light kisses across your face.

You felt the brush of his lips on your forehead, the tip of your nose, the soft skin just below your ear, each touch sending a delightful shiver down your spine.

His hand slid up to cup your chin, tilting your head back so that his mouth could find yours. The kiss was tender and lingering, a silent promise of the passion that awaited.

As your eyes fluttered open, the room swam into focus.

The early morning light cast a soft, golden glow across the crumpled sheets, illuminating the strong lines of Charles's shoulders and the fiery tangle of your hair spread out on the pillow.

He hovered above you, his emerald eyes filled with a gentle hunger that mirrored your own.

With a quiet sigh, you reached up to trace the contours of his face with your fingertips, feeling the rough stubble on his jaw and the softness of his lips.

"Good morning," you whispered, your voice still thick with the remnants of sleep.

He chuckled low in his throat, the sound vibrating through you like a sweet, seductive melody. "I've been waiting for you to wake up," he confessed.

"See, I told you I wasn't going to slap you when I wake up," you muttered, a playful smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

The memory of his teasing words from the night before danced in the air between you, a secret shared only by the lovers who knew the thrill of their own private language.

With a mischievous glint in his eyes, Charles replied, "Ah, but I never said I wouldn't kiss you senseless instead." His grin widened as he lowered his mouth to yours again, this time with a hunger that was anything but gentle.

You melted into the kiss, the softness of the bed beneath you contrasting with the firm pressure of Charles's body above.

His hand moved to cradle the back of your head, holding you in place as his tongue explored the warm cavern of your mouth, dancing with yours in a silent, intimate conversation.

Each stroke sent a bolt of desire straight to your core, making you ache for more.

As the kiss finally broke, leaving you both breathless, Charles rested his forehead against yours, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that stole your breath away once more.

"You are exquisite," he breathed, his voice a low rumble that resonated deep within your chest.

You blushed, a warm flush spreading across your skin. "And you," you managed to say, your voice still a little shaky, "are a very persistent man."

He laughed, a rich, full sound that made your heart sing. "Only when it comes to you, ma chérie."

He shifted his weight, settling beside you on the bed, his arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you against his side. The warmth of his body was a comforting anchor, a familiar solace.

"Is that why you changed my clothes?" you teased, running your hand over the soft fabric of the pajamas that had replaced the silky dress you'd worn to bed.

"It's nothing new," he said, his voice a low purr. "I've always had a thing for a woman in her nightclothes."

You giggled, feeling a thrill of excitement at his words. "And what exactly is it about me in pajamas that drives you wild?"

"Everything," he murmured, his eyes darkening as they roved over your body. He leaned in, his nose skimming the line of your jaw, his breath hot on your skin.

"Charles, you're a wild one," you giggled, squirming in his embrace. His touch was electric, setting every nerve ending alight.

He pulled back slightly, a knowing smile playing across his lips as he met your gaze. "Am I?" he challenged, his voice a seductive growl.

"Always," you replied, your eyes sparkling with mischief.

The silence stretched, punctuated only by the sound of your ragged breathing. He traced the curve of your cheek with his thumb, his touch featherlight.

"You know," he said softly, breaking the spell, "I didn't just change you into pajamas because I like them."

Your eyebrows rose in question.

"You fell asleep in my arms. You were exhausted. I didn't want you to be uncomfortable in that dress all night." He paused, his gaze turning tender. "Sometimes, ma chérie, the wildness comes from protecting what's precious to you."

His words caught you off guard, melting away the last vestiges of your skepticism.

"Thank you," you whispered, leaning into his touch.

He smiled, a slow, genuine smile that reached his eyes. "For what?"

"For seeing me," you said, "for really seeing me."

He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs tracing the curve of your cheekbones. "I see you," he promised, "and I always will."

You kissed him once more before removing yourself from Charles' grip, feeling his reluctance as your bodies parted. Your legs slid over the side of the bed, and you stood, the coolness of the floorboards against your bare feet a stark contrast to the heat you'd just shared.

The light from the windows painted the room in a soft, ethereal glow that wrapped around you like a lover's embrace. You felt his eyes follow you as you moved across the room, the weight of his gaze a gentle caress.

Turning to face him, you took in the picture he made, sprawled across the bed with the sheets tangled around his muscular form. Your breath caught in your throat at the sight of his chest rising and falling with each breath he took.

His eyes searched yours, and you could almost see the cogs turning in his mind, the unspoken question of where this moment was leading.

You stepped closer, standing before him, and leaned down to kiss him once more. It was a kiss filled with the sweetness of the morning and the promise of the day ahead.

His arms reached for you again, but this time you gently pushed them away, a soft smile playing on your lips. "I need a shower," you murmured against his mouth.

He groaned in protest but released you, watching with a smoldering gaze as you padded towards the en-suite bathroom. Your pajama top slipped off your shoulder, revealing the soft, pale skin beneath.

The shower was already running, the sound of water hitting the tiles a sweet serenade to your senses.

You stepped in, the warm spray cascading over your body, the droplets dancing across your skin like a gentle caress. You closed your eyes, letting the water wash away the last traces of sleep.

Emerging from the steam-filled bathroom, the scent of your shampoo lingering in the air, you found the bedroom empty. A pang of disappointment flickered through you, quickly replaced by curiosity.

You searched the room, your eyes landing on the pile of discarded clothes on the floor. Among them, a crumpled shirt and a pair of shorts.

The shirt was one of Charles's, the fabric soft from countless washes and carrying the faint scent of his cologne. The shorts were a pair you hadn't seen in a while, the fabric whispering against your skin as you slipped them on.

The smell of sizzling bacon and freshly brewed coffee led you to the small kitchenette. And there he was. Charles, back to you, clad only in his pajama bottoms, a wooden spoon in his hand as he hummed softly to himself.

Sitting by Charles on the floor was Leo, his tail thumping rhythmically against the hardwood, eyes glued to the skillet with hopeful anticipation. His fur was a mess of sleep and happiness, his tongue lolling out as he watched the dance of breakfast being prepared.

“You’re looking very hot right now,” you said, your voice husky with sleep and lingering desire.

You trailed your hand down his bare back, feeling the heat radiating from his skin, before hopping up to sit on the kitchen counter.

Leo turned his head at the sound of your voice, his tail wagging even faster. His eyes, filled with love and anticipation, beseeched you for attention.

You couldn’t resist the furry charmer, so you slid off the counter and bent down to give him a good morning rub, his fur warm and soft beneath your palms.

His tail thumped against the floor in sheer joy as you scratched behind his ears, the sensation sending a delicious shiver through his body.

"Good boy," you whispered, planting a kiss on his furry forehead.

Leo's eyes closed in bliss, savoring the affectionate gesture.

As you slid back on the counter, the coolness of the marble sent a delightful shiver down your spine, your skin prickling with gooseflesh from the sudden change in temperature.

You watched Charles in quiet fascination, his broad shoulders moving with an easy grace as he flipped the bacon, the muscles in his arms flexing with each motion.

Charles chuckled, turning to face you, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Morning, beautiful. Hope that shower wasn't too nice without me. Someone here was getting impatient for breakfast." He gestured towards Leo with a nod.

The smell of crispy bacon filled the room, mingling with the aroma of fresh coffee. Your stomach growled in response, the scents setting your mouth to watering.

"Ah, I see the food's ready," you quipped, watching as Charles plated up a generous portion for both of you, piling eggs, toast, and crispy bacon onto two plates.

He then moved to the dog bowl, scooping out a perfectly measured serving of Leo's kibble, a task done with such tenderness that it was clear how much he cared for his furry companion.

Leo's tail wagged even faster as he caught the scent of his food, his eyes darting between you and the bowl with unbridled excitement.

"Alright, Leo, let's not get ahead of ourselves," Charles chuckled, setting your plate on the counter next to you before placing the dog food on the floor.

When the breakfast preparations were complete, Charles wiped his hands on a dish towel and approached you, standing between your legs, effectively trapping you on the counter.

He leaned in, his eyes locking with yours, and kissed you senseless. It was a deep, soul-stirring kiss, filled with the comfort of familiarity and the excitement of renewed desire. He tasted of coffee and bacon, a decidedly potent and utterly irresistible combination.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, savoring the feel of his bare chest against your still-damp skin.

Leo, ever the opportunist, took the momentary distraction to scarf down a few mouthfuls of his breakfast, his munching a happy counterpoint to the passionate symphony of your kiss.

The sound of his contented chewing brought a smile to your lips as you pulled back from Charles' embrace, watching the dog devour his meal with such enthusiasm.

The sounds of a happy family morning filled the air, a perfect blend of love, warmth, and the promise of a beautiful day ahead.

Leo's munching grew louder as he dove into his breakfast, his tail wagging so vigorously it was a miracle he didn't knock over the bowl. Each crunch of his teeth was a declaration of delight, a symphony of satisfaction that echoed through the room.

His eyes remained locked on the two humans he adored, a silent acknowledgment that this moment of contentment was shared among the three of you. . . .

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

The crisp morning air nipped at your cheeks as Charles and you wrestled with your overflowing suitcases. Today was the day: Zandvoort, the Dutch Grand Prix, and your first real trip as Charles Leclerc's girlfriend.

It had only been a week since you officially put a label on it, a week filled with shy smiles, stolen kisses, and a comforting sense of rightness.

Between you, nestled in his plush travel carrier, Leo, Charles' miniature dachshund, wriggled excitedly. His little nose twitched, sensing the adventure to come.

“Alright, Leo, behave yourself on the plane,” Charles said, ruffling the dog's ears. Leo responded with a happy yip.

"He understands every word you say," you chuckled, zipping up your own bag.

"Of course, he does. He's a Leclerc," Charles grinned, grabbing your hand and pulling me towards him for a quick kiss. A shiver ran down your spine – not from the cold this time.

The butterflies were still fluttering, even after a week.

Yesterday had been a whirlwind of telling your closest friends and family about you two.

Honestly, most of them practically rolled their eyes. Apparently, the simmering tension and obvious affection hadn’t exactly been a secret.

"Finally, guys!" Carlos had exclaimed, clapping Charles on the back. "Took you long enough!"

But the most heartwarming reaction came from Charles’ mother, Pascale. She had wrapped you both in a tight hug, her eyes glistening with happiness.

“Enfin, fils, tu as eu le courage de lui demander de sortir,” she’d murmured in French, meaning "Finally, son, you had the courage to ask her out."

Charles had turned a shade of crimson, but you’d just squeezed Pascale’s hand, warmth flooding your chest. It felt so good to be welcomed into his family.

Now, as you two navigated the airport security with Leo in tow, you felt a mix of excitement and nerves. Being a girlfriend to an F1 driver meant stepping into a world of intense scrutiny, flashing cameras, and a constant spotlight.

But holding Charles' hand, seeing the genuine happiness in his eyes, made me think you could handle anything.

"Ready?" Charles asked, his gaze meeting mine.

"Ready as I'll ever be," you replied, offering him a confident smile.

The flight was thankfully uneventful. Leo, true to his pampered prince nature, slept soundly in his carrier, occasionally letting out a soft snore.

Charles spent most of the time going over race strategies, muttering technical jargon under his breath.

You pretended to understand, but mostly just enjoyed the focused intensity that emanated from him.

Upon arrival in the Netherlands, the air was thick with the anticipation of the Grand Prix. The moment you stepped into the luxurious hotel suite, the grandeur took your breath away.

The space was bathed in a warm glow from the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the bustling city of Zandvoort. The scent of fresh flowers and the faint hum of the ocean beyond the dunes filled the room, creating an atmosphere of serenity amidst the racing chaos outside.

Leo strutted out of his carrier, his little legs moving at an impressive speed as he explored the suite, his nails tapping rhythmically against the marble floor.

He seemed to know that this place was as much his as it was yours and Charles'. You watched him with a fond smile, feeling a sense of belonging that you hadn’t quite anticipated.

While Charles took a call with his manager, discussing the upcoming race weekend, you unpacked your clothes with care, arranging them neatly in the walk-in closet.

Each item held the promise of a new experience, a story waiting to unfold in the days ahead. You felt a thrill as you touched the elegant dress you’d picked for the gala dinner, the fabric whispering secrets of the glamourous evening to come.

As you moved around the suite, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of surreality. This wasn’t just any hotel; it was a sanctuary for the elite, a place where the walls had surely seen countless moments of triumph and passion.

When Charles hung up, he found you standing in front of the floor-length mirror, holding the dress against your body. His eyes darkened as he took in the sight of you, the fabric molding to your curves, painting a picture of the woman who’d be by his side this weekend.

"That looks..." His voice trailed off, thick with desire.

You looked over your shoulder, catching his gaze in the mirror. "You like it?"

He stepped closer, his breath hot against your neck, making you shiver. "I like it a lot."

"I can't wait to see it on you," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate through every inch of your body.

You grinned, feeling a playful spark ignite within you. "Well, you just have to wait," you teased, hanging the dress back in the closet and turning to face him, your eyes dancing with mischief.

Leo, ever the opportunist, took that moment to sneak out of the bedroom with something clutched in his mouth – something that looked suspiciously like the hat Charles had been wearing earlier.

"Hey!" Charles exclaimed, catching the thief in the act. "Leo, drop it!"

But Leo, with the stubbornness of his breed, took off at a sprint, the hat still firmly in his jaws. His tail wagged like a miniature flag, signaling his delight in the impromptu game of chase.

Charles, unable to resist the playfulness, let out a laugh that was a mix of surprise and exasperation. He took off after the dog, his long legs eating up the distance between them. "Leo, that's not a toy!"

You watched the chase unfold with amusement, your heart fluttering at the sight of your boyfriend in such a light-hearted mood. The suite's spacious layout made for a perfect racetrack for the miniature dachshund, and Leo took full advantage of it.

He darted around the plush sofas and the sleek, modern coffee table, his tiny legs moving in a blur as he weaved through the room.

The hat looked ridiculous in Leo's mouth, but the joy in his eyes was infectious. Charles' laugh grew louder as he pursued the dog, his own hat flying off in the process.

The hat's brim had caught the light just right, and you couldn’t help but admire the way the sun kissed the golden strands of his hair.

His blue eyes sparkled with humor as he chased Leo around the room, the two of them a whirlwind of motion and color.

The chase led them into the expansive bathroom, where the polished chrome fixtures reflected the playful chaos. The sound of their panting and the slap of their footsteps against the marble echoed off the walls, creating a symphony of laughter and excitement.

You leaned against the doorframe, watching as Charles scooped Leo into his arms, finally claiming victory over the stolen hat.

Leo, unbothered by the sudden capture, licked Charles' face enthusiastically, the hat now a forgotten prize between his teeth.

You couldn’t help but giggle at the sight, the tension of the week melting away. . . . 

Once you arrived at the Zandvoort circuit, the atmosphere was electric. The roar of engines, the smell of burning rubber, the buzz of anticipation. You had to admit, it was intoxicating.

As Ferrari's social media manager, you had been to races before, but this time was different. This time, you weren’t just there for the job. You were there for him.

You watched as Charles disappeared into the Ferrari garage, his team already waiting for him. The pit lane was a whirlwind of activity.

Mechanics in their pristine overalls moved with balletic precision around the cars, while engineers huddled over screens and clipboards, discussing last-minute tweaks to the setup.

The weight of your new role as both Charles' girlfriend and Ferrari's social media manager settled on your shoulders. You had to capture the essence of this historic race weekend, while also managing the delicate dance of a new relationship in the public eye.

Your heart fluttered as you thought about the pressures he faced. The expectations, the rivalries, the desire to win. You felt a fierce protectiveness for him, and a burning need to support him through it all.

You took a deep breath, inhaling the intoxicating scent of gasoline and hot asphalt, and set to work. The first order of business was to create a series of teaser posts for Ferrari's social media channels, building anticipation for the weekend ahead.

You snapped pictures of the iconic red cars lined up in the garage, the team's logo gleaming in the artificial light. Your fingers danced over the keyboard, crafting captions that hinted at the passion and determination behind the scenes.

As you moved around the bustling area, you noticed Charles deep in conversation with his engineers. His face was a study in concentration, his eyes darting between the car and the data screens.

You couldn't resist the urge to capture the moment. Raising your phone, you took a quick shot, the camera shutter clicking almost silently.

But in that fraction of a second, his gaze flicked up and met yours.

The intensity of his focus didn’t waver, but his features softened ever so slightly. The harsh lines around his mouth smoothed out, and his eyes crinkled at the corners – the barest hint of a smile that was just for you.

It was a look that spoke volumes without a single word exchanged. It was as if he’d allowed you a glimpse into the private world behind the racing helmet, a world of vulnerability and raw emotion that the cameras never saw.

The engineers, oblivious to the silent exchange, continued their discussion, gesticulating wildly as they debated over tire compounds and aerodynamic adjustments.

You felt the heat in your cheeks and looked away, the intimacy of the moment feeling almost intrusive.

You turned your attention back to the buzzing pit lane, the cacophony of sounds and smells washing over you like a wave. Your heart thudded in your chest, a reminder of the exhilarating world you’d entered.

The free practice days were coming through, and you had a meeting with the Ferrari press team. You had to juggle the excitement of being part of the race weekend with the professionalism of your job.

As you approached the makeshift conference room, you smoothed your hair and took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the onslaught of questions and demands.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of coffee and the hum of anticipation. Journalists from around the world were setting up their equipment, their eyes sharp and hungry for the latest scoop. You took your place at the table next to the Ferrari team's PR manager, a woman named Isabella.

She gave you a nod of encouragement, and you felt a flicker of gratitude for her no-nonsense approach to the job.

The meeting was supposed to be about the Dutch Grand Prix, the focus on the team's preparations, the strategies, and the expected challenges of the historic circuit. But as the team principal droned on, all you could think about was Charles.

The way his fingers had felt when they brushed against yours as he handed you his phone to capture a candid shot. The sound of his laughter as he played with Leo.

The way his eyes had locked onto yours across the garage, a silent promise of what was to come.

The room was filled with the murmur of important voices, but your mind was elsewhere. The words blurred into a background hum as you recalled the feel of his arms around you, the way he’d whispered sweet nothings in your ear as you drifted off to sleep the night before.

The meeting was quick, thankfully, the agenda concise and to the point. You nodded along, making the appropriate noises, but your thoughts remained with him.

The Dutch Grand Prix was the talk of the town, but your heart was racing for entirely different reasons.

The anticipation of the race was a distant second to the anticipation of your stolen moments with Charles. The scent of the sea mingled with the adrenaline of the track, creating a potent cocktail of excitement that had you on edge.

The meeting room was a blur of faces and voices, but your eyes remained fixed on the spot where you knew Charles would be in just a few short hours.

The team's strategies and predictions swirled around you like the dust kicked up by the F1 cars, but all you could hear was the echo of his voice from earlier that day, the gentle way he'd called you 'mi amor' as you walked together under the Zandvoort sun.

The PR manager, a stern woman named Isabella, droned on about media appearances and social media strategies, but you found yourself lost in the thought of Charles' strong arms around you, the comforting beat of his heart against yours.

You felt a flush rise to your cheeks as you recalled the way he'd whispered sweet nothings in your ear during the flight, the way his breath had tickled the sensitive skin of your neck.

The meeting was quick, a testament to the team's efficiency and the no-nonsense approach that seemed to define Ferrari.

The moment it ended, you were out of your seat and making your way back to the suite, eager to get ready for the weekend's events.

The walk back felt like an eternity, the anticipation of the free practice weighing heavily on your mind.

The circuit's layout was a blur as you navigated the maze of corridors and stairs, the distant sound of engines revving up growing louder with each step.

Your heart raced, not just for the excitement of the impending race, but for the thought of seeing Charles in his element.

And then, just as suddenly as the engines had caught your attention, you were pulled into a room. The door slammed shut behind you, cutting off the cacophony of the track.

The sudden darkness was jarring, and your eyes took a moment to adjust to the dimly lit space. The walls were lined with shelves of trophies and racing memorabilia, casting eerie shadows on the floor.

The faint scent of leather and oil filled the air, hinting at the countless hours of passion and sweat that had been poured into the sport.

You felt a warm hand on your arm, guiding you further into the room. It was Charles, his eyes gleaming with a mischievous twinkle.

"I stole you away from the chaos," he whispered, his breath tickling your ear. "I need a moment of peace before I go out there."

The room was small, a hidden sanctuary amidst the bustling circuit. It was clear this was a place for drivers to retreat, to collect their thoughts and find their focus before the madness of the race.

The walls were lined with signed helmets and photos, each one telling a story of triumph and defeat. But all you could focus on was the man standing in front of you, dressed in his racing suit, the Ferrari emblem emblazoned on his chest.

Your initial surprise slowly morphed into a bewildered smile. "Stole me away?" you echoed, your voice a little breathless, not just from the unexpected pull but from his sheer proximity.

The air around him seemed to crackle with an energy that was distinct from the roaring engines outside.

You were intimately aware of the gentle pressure of his hand on your arm, a warmth that seeped through your sleeve and settled deep within you.

His eyes, those impossibly captivating emerald pools, met yours. There was an unspoken challenge in them, a hint of the playful bravado that defined him both on and off the track.

He didn't release your arm immediately, his thumb idly stroking your skin. The silence stretched, filled only by the distant hum of the circuit and the unexpectedly loud thumping of your own heart.

You found yourself lost in his gaze, an eternity unfolding in the space between your eyes. It wasn't just the thrill of being in such close quarters with a man admired by millions; it was the quiet intensity he directed solely at you that stole your breath.

His smile was soft now, the mischievous sparkle softening into something deeper, more tender. He didn't look away, nor did you. It was a silent communion, a shared secret moment stolen from the demanding glare of the public eye.

"Yes, stole you," he confirmed, his voice a low rumble that resonated through the quiet room. "You looked… lost in thought. Or perhaps just lost." A teasing smirk played on his lips, and you felt your own lips twitch in response.

"Lost?" you scoffed playfully, though a blush was creeping up your neck. "I was navigating the labyrinth of Ferrari corridors. A feat in itself."

He chuckled, a rich, warm sound that made the small room feel even more intimate. "A feat indeed. But I suspect you were also thinking about something else."

His gaze dropped, slow and deliberate, from your eyes to your lips, lingering there for a fraction of a second, before returning to meet your eyes once more.

The simple movement sent a jolt through you, a clear signal that this wasn't just a friendly chat. This was something more.

Your breath hitched. The air between you thickened, charged with an undeniable current. You felt a desperate urge to lean into him, to close the minuscule space that separated your bodies.

He must have felt it too, for he subtly shifted his weight, closing that gap further.

You were so close now, you could feel the warmth radiating from his racing suit, smell the faint, clean scent of his skin beneath the fabric, mingled with the subtle, expensive tang of his cologne.

"Oh?" you asked, feigning innocence, your voice barely a whisper. "And what might that be?"

His eyes twinkled. "Perhaps you were thinking about how much you wanted to see me out on the track?" His voice dropped possessively, making it a statement rather than a question.

He then leaned in even closer, until his voice was a mere breath against your ear, "Or perhaps… you were thinking about how much you wanted to see me in here."

A shiver ran down your spine. The warmth of his breath on your neck was intoxicating. You could feel the soft fabric of his racing suit brush against your clothes as he moved.

Every fibre of your being was attuned to him. The trophies and helmets lining the walls, the very essence of motorsport, faded into the background. There was only Charles, and you, in this tiny, clandestine room.

You tilted your head back slightly, bringing your face closer to his, your eyes still locked on his. "And what makes you so sure, Charles?" you challenged, your voice laced with a playful defiance that belied the frantic flutter in your chest.

He smiled, a slow, knowing curl of his lips that made your stomach do a flip. "A feeling," he murmured, his gaze dropping back to your mouth, lingering again.

This time, the pause felt longer, more significant. You could almost feel the phantom touch of his lips on yours. He was playing with you, teasing you with his proximity, with his gaze, with the unspoken promise in the air.

"A feeling?" you repeated, your voice a little shaky now. Your eyes followed his, drawn irresistibly downwards. His lips were a perfect curve, currently parted in a slight smile, inviting. You imagined the softness, the pressure.

His hand, which had been resting lightly on your arm, now slid down to cup your elbow, gently pulling you a fraction of an inch closer. The contact was electric, sending a wave of warmth through you.

"Yes," he breathed, his voice rougher now, laced with an undeniable desire. "A very strong feeling."

He didn't move to kiss you immediately. Instead, he simply held you there, suspended in that exquisite moment of anticipation.

His thumb began to trace lazy circles on your skin, a feather-light touch that sent goosebumps prickling over your arm.

You could feel his steady breath on your face now, warm and sweet. Your eyes fluttered closed for a second, overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment, before opening again to meet his searching gaze.

His gaze flickered from your eyes to your lips again, a silent question in the depths of his pupils. You gave him your answer with your own eyes, a silent invitation, a yearning that matched his own.

The teasing continued, a delicious torture. He leaned in, his nose brushing against yours, the soft hair on his cheek tickling your skin. You could feel the warmth of his body, the subtle tension in his muscles.

His other hand came up, gently cupping the side of your face, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. The touch was feather-light, yet it grounded you, anchored you in this perfect, stolen moment.

"You know," he whispered, his voice a low thrum that vibrated through you, "it's not often I get to steal a moment like this."

"And you chose to steal it with me?" you whispered back, your voice barely audible above the frantic beat of your heart.

He gave a soft, almost imperceptible nod. His eyes, dark and intense, held yours captive. "Always you," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

And then, slowly, agonizingly slowly, he began to close the distance. Your eyes were locked, a silent promise passing between you. You felt his breath mingle with yours, saw the slight tremor in his hand as his fingers tightened ever so gently on your cheek.

The world outside, the roaring engines, the bustling paddock, ceased to exist. There was only the dizzying closeness, the anticipation that hummed in the air between your lips.

His lips, soft and hesitant at first, brushed against yours. It wasn't a forceful kiss, but a tender exploration, a feather-light touch that promised so much more.

You whimpered softly, a small sound of longing escaping your throat as you instinctively leaned into him, seeking more contact. He responded instantly, his lips pressing more firmly against yours, deepening the kiss.

It was slow, exquisitely slow. A dance of lips and breath, a gentle push and pull that savoured every sensation.

You felt your own fingers curl around the lapels of his racing suit, gripping the smooth fabric as if to steady yourself against the delicious rush that swept through you.

His hand left your cheek, sliding down to cup the back of your neck, his fingers tangling lightly in your hair, pulling you even closer until there was no space left between your bodies.

The kiss deepened, becoming more confident, more urgent. His tongue lightly traced the seam of your lips, and you parted them willingly, inviting him in.

As you kissed, the world outside the door ceased to exist. The room with its storied trophies, the distant roar of engines, the weight of the racing weekend - all faded into a hazy background hum.

It was just the two of you, the taste of him, the feel of him, the heat of his racing suit beneath your palms.

But the call of the track was inescapable. "Charles! The first free practice is starting soon!" a voice echoed through the corridor, piercing the bubble of intimacy. You both froze for a moment, the spell broken.

He looked at you, his eyes dark with need. "I should go," he murmured, reluctance etched into every syllable. His hand slid from your neck, his fingertips trailing over your skin like a whispered goodbye.

You nodded, understanding the gravity of the moment, the commitment he had to the race, to his team, to his career. The weight of his decision to kiss you in the midst of such pressure was not lost on you.

You stepped back, giving him the space he needed to break away. The air between you was charged with a lingering electricity, the memory of your kiss still tingling on your lips. "Thank you for stealing this moment," you whispered, your voice a soft caress.

Charles looked at you with a mix of desire and reluctance, his eyes still smoldering. "For you, I'd steal more than just moments," he replied, his voice hoarse. His hand hovered in the air where your neck had been, as if the warmth of your skin still lingered on his fingertips.

The voice grew closer, the urgency more palpable. "Charles, we need you now!"

Charles looked at you, his gaze lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary. The reluctance in his eyes was stark, a silent battle playing out behind them.

His hand, which had been hovering in the space between you, finally fell to his side with a soft sigh. "I have to go," he said, the words heavy with regret.

You nodded, understanding the gravity of the moment. You knew the race was his lifeblood, his everything. Yet, the intensity of the kiss lingered, a potent reminder of what awaited the two of you when the weekend's racing was done.

You watched as he turned away, his shoulders squared as he prepared to face the track, the expectations of his team, the roar of the crowd, the thrill of competition.

As the door clicked shut behind him, you remained rooted to the spot, the taste of him still on your lips. You touched your mouth, the warmth of his kiss a brand that seemed to pulse through your veins.

The room felt empty without him, the trophies on the shelves silent witnesses to the passionate interlude.

But the world waited, and so did the race. You took a deep breath, straightened your skirt, and stepped out into the bright, noisy paddock. The stark contrast between the quiet sanctuary of the room and the chaos outside was jolting, but it served to ground you.

You had a job to do, and you were good at it. Plus, you had the secret of that stolen kiss to hold onto, a precious gem nestled in the depths of your heart, to be pulled out and admired when the world grew too much. . . .

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

"Charles Leclerc! How does it feel to win the Dutch Grand Prix after the major setbacks from the last races?" an interviewer asked him by the parc fermé.

You watched from just beyond the barrier, lost in the roar of the crowd, the vibrant orange sea of Zandvoort. Your heart, which had been a drum against your ribs for the last two hours, suddenly fluttered, then soared.

Charles, your Charles, stood there, bathed in the setting sun, a wide, relieved smile on his face. The interviewer’s microphone was practically shoved into his face, but he handled it with the familiar grace you’d come to adore.

"I feel very proud," he began, his voice amplified across the circuit, clear and resonant even amidst the lingering euphoria of the fans. "Not just of myself, but also the team, my girlfriend, the fans who were watching online or in front of me now, the support has been incredible for everyone."

The mention of "my girlfriend" sent a fresh wave of adrenaline through you, mingling with the relief. A chorus of screams erupted from the crowd, a mix of adoration for him.

You felt a blush creep up your neck, but your eyes were locked on his. He glanced over, his eyes, usually so intensely focused on the track, now soft and full of a profound gratitude, meeting yours. A silent message passed between you: We did it. We finally did it.

With trembling fingers, you pulled out your phone and started typing, crafting the perfect post for Ferrari's social media channels. "Heartfelt congratulations to @CharlesLeclerc for his triumphant victory at the Dutch Grand Prix!"

You paused, your thumb hovering over the send button. It had to be perfect, a reflection of the emotional tsunami you felt in this moment. The camera lenses swarmed him like paparazzi around a Hollywood star, but it was his gaze that remained fixed on you, his anchor in the storm of flashes and questions.

As the cacophony of the race faded into the background, you couldn't help but reflect on the whispers that had circulated through the paddock for weeks.

The way some of the mechanics would smirk when they saw you together, the knowing glances shared between engineers, and the subtle nudges from other Ferrari staff members who had noticed the change in his demeanor, the new spark in his eyes.

You two hadn't made it public yet, but it was as if the very air around the team hummed with the secret of your love.

And yet, no one had breached the trust you'd built, not even when the pressure mounted and the rumor mill churned out gossip like a never-ending conveyor belt of speculation.

The pit garage was a flurry of activity, the Ferrari crew in a celebratory frenzy as they swarmed Charles, patting his back and offering congratulatory handshakes.

You stepped back, giving him space, but his hand reached for yours, tugging you into the fold.

His teammates offered knowing winks and smiles, their silent acknowledgment of your relationship's impact on the young driver's performance.

The tension that had once lurked in their gazes had transformed into something else entirely—respect, perhaps, or even a hint of envy.

As the podium ceremony approached, the whispers grew louder, the glances more pointed. You felt the weight of the secret you'd been keeping, a thrilling mix of fear and excitement. Would this be the moment you stepped out of the shadows and into the spotlight?

Would you be able to handle the scrutiny that came with being the girlfriend of a Formula 1 star?

You took a deep breath, the scent of burning rubber and the sweet aroma of victory champagne swirling around you. You'd faced challenges before—the long hours, the constant travel, the pressure of the sport—but this was different.

This was personal, intimate.

When Charles ascended the podium, the crowd's roar was deafening. You watched from the pit lane, the wind playing with your hair, as he stepped onto the top tier, the trophy gleaming in the setting sun.

His eyes searched the crowd, finding yours again, and he winked, that cheeky smile playing at the corner of his lips.

As the anthem played and the cameras flashed, your heart hammered against your ribs. You knew this win was as much yours as it was his. The taste of victory was sweet on the air, mingling with the faint scent of his cologne that lingered on your skin from your last embrace.

As the Monegasque anthem played, swelling through the air, and the omnipresent cameras flashed, your heart hammered against your ribs, a visceral drum solo of pure emotion. Tears, hot and unexpected, pricked at your eyes and traced paths down your cheeks.

You didn’t care who saw. This win, this monumental triumph, felt as much yours as it was his. Not in the sense of racing the car, of course, but in the quiet, almost invisible ways you had supported him, shielded him, believed in him when he faltered.

The taste of victory was sweet on the air, mingling with the faint, comforting scent of his cologne that still lingered on your skin from your last embrace before he’d climbed into the cockpit, a deep breath of him before he faced the world.

You cried a little as you watched, tears of pride, relief, and an overwhelming, encompassing love.

The podium ceremony concluded, and the frenzy shifted to the media pen. Charles, the newly crowned champion, had his duties. He moved through the throng of journalists, answering questions with his usual blend of charm and thoughtful articulation.

Then, an interviewer, a sharp-eyed woman with a microphone perpetually poised, asked a question that cut through the noise, a question that made your breath catch in your throat.

"Charles," she began, her voice projected through the loudspeakers, "you’ve spoken before about finding balance, about managing the immense pressure. Today, we saw a performance of incredible focus. Many athletes speak of a secret weapon, a personal guiding light. Is there someone in your life who contributes to this newfound serenity, perhaps a girlfriend, about whom the public knows very little?"

The air seemed to crackle. A collective intake of breath from the assembled press. You felt your cheeks flush, a wave of heat washing over you. This was it. The moment.

Your heart began to pound a dizzying rhythm against your ribs. Charles paused, his eyes, still bright with victory, sweeping across the crowd, past the cameras, until they met yours.

A silent conversation passed between you, a question in his gaze, an almost imperceptible nod from you. Go on. Tell them.

He smiled, a slow, knowing almost mischievous curve of his lips. The microphone was close to his mouth. His voice, clear and amplified, filled the space.

"Sometimes," he said, his gaze still locked onto yours, a private acknowledgment in a very public space, "sometimes a lover’s touch is all you need."

The words hung in the air, simple, profound, and utterly devastating. A ripple went through the crowd, a sudden explosion of murmurs, flashes of cameras, and the frantic scribbling of notes.

"A lover’s touch."

Not an outright declaration, not a name, but enough. More than enough. It was an admission, a public acknowledgment of a deeply private bond. He’d done it, his way – subtle, poetic, undeniably him.

Later that evening, after the media obligations, the official photos, the endless handshakes, you found yourselves in the quiet sanctuary of his driver's room. The noise of the circuit was a distant hum, replaced by the soft whisper of the air conditioning.

Leo lay sprawled across your lap, a picture of pure contentment, his chest rising and falling with each peaceful breath. He'd been with you every step of the way, a silent witness to your love's evolution amidst the chaos of the F1 world.

Now, with the day's excitement behind you, he was fast asleep, oblivious to the monumental shift that had just occurred in both of your lives.

The room was dimly lit, the shadows playing across his angular face, making it appear almost sculpted by the soft glow of the bedside lamp. You gently stroked his hair, feeling the softness of his curls beneath your fingertips, your touch a silent reassurance that you were both still here, together.

The door to the private suite clicked open, and you tensed, expecting an intrusion from one of the team members or, worse, an overzealous journalist eager for a scoop.

But it was only him—Charles, his racing suit discarded, now dressed in a crisp white shirt and tailored slacks that hugged his muscular frame.

The tension drained from your body as you took in his presence, his eyes dark and tired but alight with something else, something that had been building since the moment you’d watched him cross that finish line.

Yet, despite the exhaustion, they were alight with something else – a deep, resonant joy, and something more intimate, something that had been building between you two since the moment you’d watched him cross that finish line, a blur of red and triumph.

You were curled on the plush sofa with Leo, a comforting weight in your lap, his head resting against your chest, soft snores rumbling from his throat. Charles paused in the doorway, his gaze sweeping over the intimate scene, a slow, soft smile spreading across his face.

It was a genuine smile, a private one, free from the obligation of the cameras and the expectations of the world. It was the smile that always melted any worries you carried, the one that meant he was truly, fully present.

He moved with a weariness that belied the adrenaline still coursing through his veins, the lingering echoes of the roar of the crowd. With a soft thump, he dropped a small, embroidered pouch onto the glass coffee table – inside, you knew, resided the winner’s medal, still warm from his touch.

You shifted, Leo stirring slightly, before settling back into his slumber. Charles came and sat beside you on the sofa, the cushion dipping with his weight. Without a word, he leaned into you, his head finding its familiar resting place in the crook of your neck, his face burrowing into your hair, against your skin.

You felt the faint tremor in his body, the remnants of the race, the emotional high beginning its slow descent. He really loved your smell – a mix of your shampoo, the lingering scent of Leo’s fur, and something uniquely you, something warm and comforting and utterly safe.

"I won," he muttered, the words muffled against your skin, more to himself than to you, a quiet affirmation of a dream realized.

"You did," you whispered back, your voice thick with emotion, raising a hand to softly scratch his head, your fingers tangling in his damp hair.

His arm snaked around your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. Leo, sensing the shift, let out a soft groan but didn’t move, content in his position between your legs.

The silence that followed was not empty, but full, brimming with unspoken understanding, with shared relief, with the quiet hum of victory. 

"Are you… are you mad that I told them about our relationship?" Charles asked after a while, his voice still low, a hint of vulnerability in his tone. He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you, his dark eyes searching yours, seeking reassurance.

You met his gaze, a soft laugh escaping your lips. "I… no, I’m not. It was unexpected, certainly."

"But I liked the reveal," you continued, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw. "It was… very Charles. Impulsive, raw, and completely from the heart." You paused, a playful glint in your eyes. "And honestly, I think the whole staff of Ferrari knew already."

He chuckled softly, a deep rumble in his chest. "You think so?"

"Oh, absolutely," you affirmed, nodding decisively. "The way Lorenzo looks at me when I bring you your usual pre-race coffee, or the knowing smiles from the mechanics when they see you sneak a quick hug before a practice session. Or when Fred ‘accidentally’ leaves us alone in the hospitality suite for ‘important team debriefs’ that never quite happen. They’ve seen us. They’ve seen the way you look at me, and the way I look at you. It was an open secret, wasn’t it?"

He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "Maybe it was. But it felt… different, saying it out loud. Making it real for everyone." He let out a long sigh, a sound of profound relief. "It’s been hard, you know. All the secrecy. Always having to be careful. Never being able to just… be us, out in the open."

You nodded, feeling the weight of his words. "I know." Your own voice was soft, a gentle caress against the quiet of the room. "But it’s been worth it, hasn’t it?"

"More than you can imagine," he murmured, his eyes closing as he took in your scent, your warmth, the gentle pressure of your hand on his shoulder. His grip tightened around your waist, his thumb making lazy circles on your skin through the fabric of your shirt.

"I’m just so tired," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper now, the adrenaline completely drained. "So, so tired. But it’s a good tired. The best kind of tired."

"I know, my love," you whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. "Just rest now. We can talk about everything else tomorrow." You began to gently scratch his scalp again, a simple, repetitive movement that always seemed to soothe him.

Leo, perhaps sensing the shift in your focus, stirred, stretched noisily, then maneuvered himself until he was lying across both your laps, a furry bridge connecting you and Charles.

Charles chuckled softly, his hand finding Leo’s head and gently stroking his fur.

"He’s happy you’re back too," you said.

"He always is," Charles replied, his voice already sounding heavier, closer to sleep. "He’s a good boy. Best wingman a guy could ask for."

You smiled, the quiet intimacy of the moment wrapping around you like a warm blanket. The world outside the private suite was still buzzing with the aftershocks of the race, the victory, and now, the unexpected revelation.

Tomorrow, the headlines would scream, the social media feeds would explode, and your lives would undeniably change. But in this moment, nestled together on the sofa, with Leo snoring softly between you, it felt like nothing had changed at all.

It was just you and Charles, tired and victorious, finally, openly, completely yourselves. And for the first time in a very long time, the future, whatever it held, felt less like a daunting challenge and more like a shared adventure you were both ready to embrace.

You closed your eyes, feeling the steady beat of his heart against you, the warmth of his breath on your neck. You had won the race, yes. But you, together, had won something far greater. You had won the freedom to love openly, fiercely, and without reservation.

And that, you knew, was a victory far more precious than any trophy. . . .

The familiar click of the lock echoed through the quiet apartment, a sound as comforting as a warm embrace. You instinctively turned from the window, a soft smile gracing your lips. You knew those footsteps.

They were Charles’s, a rhythm you’d come to anticipate, a melody that always brought a flutter to your chest. Today, however, was different.

Today was Charles’s birthday, and your mission, your absolute delight, was to treat him exceptionally.

“I’m home!” his voice boomed, laced with the cheerful exhaustion of a long day.

You walked into the hallway, the scent of his familiar, slightly musky cologne already a comforting presence. He was shedding his jacket, and you couldn't help but let your gaze linger on the broadness of his shoulders, the way his shirt stretched across his back.

As he turned, his eyes, that intoxicating shade of blue, met yours. A slow, genuine smile spread across his face, a smile that never failed to make your heart do a funny little skip.

“Hey, you,” he said, his voice already softening as he took in your presence. He crossed the remaining distance between you, pulling you into a familiar hug.

You buried your face in his chest, inhaling the scent of him, a mixture of his shampoo – that subtle hint of cedarwood you’d grown so fond of – and something uniquely, undeniably him.

It was a scent that spoke of late nights, fast cars, and a fierce, tender heart.

“Happy birthday, Charles,” you murmured, your voice muffled against his shirt. You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands finding their way to his waist, feeling the firm muscle beneath his clothes.

He chuckled, a rich, deep sound that vibrated through you. “Thank you. But I thought you said you were treating me nicely today. You’ve been treating me nicely all week.”

You grinned, a private smirk playing on your lips. “Just warming up.” You leaned up, planting a small, quick peck on the corner of his mouth, then another.

His eyes crinkled at the corners, and you felt a warmth spread through your own cheeks.

“Speaking of treating me nicely,” he began, his voice taking on a slightly heavier, more teasing tone, “did you see the invitation on the table?”

You nodded, your eyes locking with his again. “Yes. Your family. It’s going to be… a lot of people.”

He shrugged, a hint of nervousness in the slight bounce of his knee as he stood. You recognized the tell-tale sign, the subtle shift in his posture that betrayed his pre-dinner jitters.

You reached out, your hand gently resting on his leg, a silent reassurance. He looked down at your hand, then back at you, his gaze filled with gratitude.

“They’re excited to see you,” he said, his voice a little breathier than before. “They really like you, you know.”

“I like them too,” you replied, and you meant it. His family, with their boisterous laughter and warm embraces, had welcomed you with open arms since the day you met them.

But before you could say anything else, his hand found the back of your neck, gently pulling you closer. He leaned down, his breath a soft tickle against your skin, and pressed his lips to the tender spot just below your ear.

A shiver ran down your spine as he kissed his way along your neck, placing feather-light pecks along the sensitive line to the base of your throat.

Your eyes fluttered shut, and you leaned into the touch, the warmth of his lips leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. His hands roamed to your shoulders, gently pushing you back against the wall as he continued to kiss and nuzzle the column of your throat.

The intimacy of the gesture made your knees feel weak, and you gripped his biceps for support.

"You're driving me crazy," you whispered, tilting your head to the side to give him better access, exposing your neck further.

He chuckled against your skin, the sound sending waves of pleasure through your body. His kisses grew bolder, moving up to the sensitive spot just below your jaw, before finally capturing your mouth in a kiss that was as soft as it was intense.

His thumbs traced lazy circles on your shoulders, sending a delicious shiver down your arms. The warmth of his body was like a brand against yours, and you could feel your resolve to keep things PG-13 for the sake of his family dinner slipping away.

But before you could lose yourself entirely in the moment, he pulled back, leaving you panting and slightly disoriented. His eyes searched yours, the mischief in them unmistakable.

“Just a little appetizer,” he murmured, his own breathing ragged. He took a step back, his hands sliding down your arms before releasing you entirely. “Now, let’s get ready for dinner, shall we?”

You nodded, trying to compose yourself. The way he looked at you, the way his eyes smoldered, it was as if he could see straight through to your soul.

“I hate you,” you muttered, but the words lacked any real venom, coming out more like a sigh of surrender. The heat of his kisses still lingered on your skin, a tantalizing promise of what the night could hold if it weren’t for the looming dinner.

“Oh, come on, love. You know I just want to save the best for later,” Charles replied with a cheeky wink, already moving towards the bedroom to change.

You couldn’t help but chuckle, the sound a little shaky, as you followed him with unsteady steps. The anticipation was intoxicating, a fine line between sweet torture and heavenly bliss.

In the bedroom, you both began to change, your eyes meeting in the mirror as you slipped out of your clothes. You noticed the way his gaze lingered on you, the way his hands paused over his shirt buttons.

The room was filled with a charged silence, the air thick with the promise of what was to come. Each movement was a dance, a silent seduction that had you both breathing a little heavier, a little more aware of the electricity crackling between you.

As he shed his clothes, you couldn’t help but appreciate the way the light played over the contours of his body, highlighting the muscles that rippled with every flex.

You felt a warmth spreading from your chest to your cheeks as he caught you staring. He smirked, a knowing look in his eyes, as he stepped closer, his chest bare, the scent of him wrapping around you like a warm blanket.

He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of your collarbone, sending a shiver down your spine. “I’ve missed you too,” he murmured, his breath fanning over your neck, making your pulse quicken.

You stepped away, a laugh escaping your lips despite the gravity of the moment. “We saw each other this morning,” you pointed out, trying to lighten the mood.

He rolled his eyes playfully. “You know what I mean. The real you, the you that’s just mine. No cameras, no interviews, no racing suits. Just you, in my arms, whispering sweet nothings and making everything right again.”

The sincerity in his voice had you melting, your heart swelling with love for this man who could be both a fierce competitor and a gentle lover.

You turned, a smile playing on your lips as you faced him. You stepped closer, letting your own hands roam over his chest, feeling his heartbeat accelerate beneath your touch.

“I’ve missed that too,” you admitted, your voice a breathy whisper.

The moment stretched out, a single heartbeat that seemed to last an eternity, until the shrill of the phone shattered the quiet, pulling you both out of your trance.

With a sigh, you stepped away, reaching for your dress. It was time to get ready for dinner, to put aside the desire that was simmering between you like a pot left unattended.

But as you slid the silky fabric over your head, you couldn’t help the way your body responded, the way your skin seemed to remember his touch, craving more.

The dress was simple but elegant, hugging your curves in all the right places, the neckline dipping low enough to leave a hint of mystery. You knew it was his favorite, the way his eyes always lit up when you wore it.

You stepped into your heels, the click of the leather against the hardwood floor a steady rhythm that seemed to match the pulse in your veins. You were ready, or as ready as you could be to face the evening ahead.

Taking a deep breath, you turned to him, his gaze sweeping over you, a look of pure hunger in his eyes.

“You’re going to be the death of me, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice hoarse with need.

You stepped closer, pressing a kiss to his cheek, feeling his stubble graze your skin. “Later,” you promised, a wink in your voice. “But first, we have a birthday dinner to get through. No funny business until we get back.”

He chuckled, the sound rich and deep, his eyes still glued to your form. “Fine,” he said, his voice tight with restrained desire. “But the moment we’re back here, all bets are off.”

The promise hung in the air, a heady perfume that had you eagerly counting down the hours until you could be alone again, until you could explore the depths of each other’s bodies and souls.

You took his hand, leading him out of the bedroom and into the living room where Leo lay, his eyes watching you both with unabashed curiosity.

The little dog looked up as you approached, his tail wagging in excitement. He knew something was up, the air charged with anticipation and love.

"You look absolutely stunning," Charles said, his voice low and filled with awe as he stepped back to take you in.

You felt your cheeks heat up, his compliment warming you more than the soft embrace of the dress. "Thank you," you replied, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. "You clean up pretty well yourself."

He had opted for a classic black tuxedo, the material hugging his broad shoulders and tapering to his waist, showcasing his athletic figure. The crisp white shirt contrasted sharply with his tanned skin, the bowtie a dash of playfulness in an otherwise serious ensemble.

You couldn’t help but admire him, feeling a rush of desire that had nothing to do with the impending dinner and everything to do with the man standing before you.

But the clock was ticking, and the promise of passion had to be set aside for the evening. You both took a moment to breathe in the charged air before heading out, the anticipation of the night to come a delicious secret between you.

The evening unfolded as a whirlwind of familiar faces and affectionate chaos. His mother, Pascale, with her ever-present smile, fussed over the table settings. His brothers, Arthur and Lorenzo, chimed in with their own anecdotes, each one eliciting a playful nudge or a mock glare from Charles.

You watched it all, a comfortable observer, your heart swelling with a quiet joy.

During dinner, you made it your mission to keep Charles at ease. When a particularly embarrassing story about his early karting days was told, you met his eyes across the table and offered a small, knowing wink.

He responded with a subtle smirk, a silent acknowledgment of your shared understanding. You caught him glancing at you several times, his expression a mixture of amusement and genuine affection.

“What’s your opinion on this, Charles?” his uncle asked, gesturing with his fork towards a plate of pasticciotti.

Charles turned to his uncle, his gaze momentarily flicking back to you as he answered, “They are very good, Uncle. Almost as good as Mama’s.” Pascale beamed.

Later, as the dessert plates were cleared, you found yourself seated beside Charles on the sofa. The chatter of the family had died down to a low hum, creating a bubble of quiet intimacy around you.

He leaned back, his arm resting casually on the back of the sofa, but you shifted closer, your shoulder brushing against his. You reached out, your thumb finding its way to his cheek, tracing the strong line of his jaw.

He turned his head, his blue eyes meeting yours, and you felt yourself sinking into their depths, the rest of the world fading away.

“You okay?” you whispered, your breath ghosting against his skin.

He let out a soft sigh, his eyes closing for a brief moment. “Yeah. Just… happy.” He opened his eyes, and the intensity of his gaze made your breath catch. He reached up, his hand covering yours, his fingers intertwining with yours.

“I’m happy too,” you confessed, your voice barely a whisper. You leaned forward, resting your chin on his shoulder, feeling the warmth emanating from him. The familiar scent of his shampoo filled your senses, and you couldn't resist bringing your hand up to gently sniff his hair, a small, private gesture of adoration.

He tilted his head, his breath tickling your ear as he murmured, “What are you thinking about?”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands now cupping his face. His skin was warm beneath your touch. “Just about you,” you admitted. “About how much I love hearing you laugh.” You tilted your head, a mischievous glint in your eyes. “Did you know I sometimes try to make you laugh just to hear that sound again?”

A slow, genuine smile spread across his face, widening into a laugh that was pure, unadulterated joy. It was the sound you’d been hoping for, the sound that always made your heart feel lighter. You grinned, the sight of his happiness infectious.

“You’re trying to butter me up for something, aren’t you?” he teased, his voice a little husky now.

“Perhaps,” you replied, your gaze holding his. You leaned in again, this time planting a soft, lingering kiss on the corner of his mouth, then another, a little deeper this time.

His hands moved, one caressing your cheek with his thumb, the other finding your waist, drawing you closer.

The evening continued, filled with quiet moments of connection amidst the family’s merriment. You found yourself tracing the faint scar above his eyebrow, a relic from a childhood mishap, and then the faint lines etched around his eyes from too much sun and too much smiling.

Each imperfection was a testament to his life, a story you loved to explore.

Later, as the last of the family members were saying their goodbyes, Charles pulled you into a quiet corner of the living room. The residual warmth of the evening seemed to cling to the air.

“Thank you for tonight,” he said, his voice softer now, rougher around the edges. He rested his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours. “It was… perfect.”

You looked up into his eyes, so impossibly blue, so full of love. “It was your birthday,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

You raised a hand, your fingers gently tracing the line of his jaw, then moving lower, towards his neck. You could feel the pulse there, a steady beat against your fingertips.

He leaned down, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was slow, deep, and utterly consuming. It wasn’t just a kiss; it was an affirmation, a silent promise of all the love and happiness that lay between you.

As the kiss deepened, you felt his hands move from your waist to your shoulders, his touch sending shivers down your spine. He pulled back slightly, his eyes dark with desire.

“You know,” he murmured, his voice heavy and laced with a longing that mirrored your own, “I think I might have to keep you around.”

You chuckled, a soft, breathy sound against his lips. “And what makes you think I was planning on leaving?”

He grinned, a flash of that boyish charm that still captivated you. Then, with a deliberate slowness, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your neck, just beneath your ear.

Your breath hitched, and you instinctively tilted your head, granting him better access. His lips then moved to your shoulder, a slow, lingering caress that made your knees weak.

You whispered his name, a soft sigh against his hair. He responded by pulling you closer still, his body a solid, reassuring presence against yours.

You felt his hand slide up your arm, his fingers brushing against your skin, sending waves of warmth through you. He then brought your hand to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to your palm, his gaze never leaving yours.

“Happy birthday, Charles,” you whispered again, your voice thick with love.

He met your gaze, his eyes reflecting the soft lamplight, and you knew, with absolute certainty, that this was just the beginning of many more birthdays, many more shared moments, many more kisses that stole your breath and made your heart sing. . . . .

The Monaco sun felt different today. Usually, it kissed your skin with a playful warmth, a promise of endless azure skies and champagne sunsets.

Today, it felt heavy, a tangible weight pressing down on your shoulders, mirroring the ache in your chest.

You walked in silence, hand in hand with Charles, the familiar comfort of his touch doing little to ease the knot of sorrow tightening with each step you took.

The pristine streets, usually bustling with the vibrant energy of millionaires and tourists, seemed subdued, as if even Monaco understood the solemnity of your mission.

You had a plan, a bittersweet, heartbreaking plan. Today, you were going to the cemetery. You were going to introduce yourself to Charles’s father, Hervé.

And Charles, in turn, would finally meet your mother, a woman he'd only known through faded photographs and whispered stories.

You tightened your grip on Charles' hand, your knuckles white. He squeezed back, a silent acknowledgment of the wave of grief cresting within you. You glanced at him, his profile etched with a pain that mirrored your own.

The strong jawline, usually radiating confidence, was set with a grim determination. The mischievous glint that typically danced in his eyes was replaced by a profound sadness, a melancholic sea reflecting the weight of unspoken memories.

You remembered the first time Charles had told you about his father. You were curled up on his sofa, the Monaco skyline twinkling outside the window.

He had spoken of Hervé with a reverence, his voice softening as he recounted stories of karting races, shared victories, and the unwavering support his father had provided throughout his racing career.

He spoke of Hervé's unwavering belief in him, a belief that had fueled his dreams and driven him to succeed.

"He would have loved you," Charles had said that night, his voice thick with emotion. "He would have loved your kindness, your strength, your spirit."

And now, here you were, finally ready to meet the man who had shaped the love of your life, not in a vibrant Italian restaurant, but in the silent embrace of a cemetery.

As for your mother… Charles had only seen her through the faded photographs you kept tucked away in a velvet-lined box.

He knew her infectious laugh from the stories you told, her unwavering optimism that had always been your guiding light.

He knew of her passion for art, her love for the ocean, and the fierce protectiveness she held for you.

Your mother had passed away unexpectedly 14 years ago, a cruel twist of fate that had left a gaping hole in your heart.

You often wondered what she would have thought of Charles, this whirlwind of charisma and talent who had swept into your life and painted it with vibrant colors.

You knew, deep down, that she would have adored him.

The wrought iron gates of the cemetery loomed before you, a stark reminder of the finality of death. You hesitated, your breath catching in your throat.

Charles stopped, turning to face you, his eyes filled with understanding.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice a low murmur.

You nodded, unable to speak, the words caught in the labyrinth of your grief. He gently brushed a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch sending a fragile warmth through you.

"We don't have to do this if you're not ready," he said softly. "We can come back another day."

But you knew you had to do this. For Charles, for your mother, for yourself. You had carried this weight for too long, and it was time to share it, to introduce the two most important people in your lives to each other, even in this somber setting.

"No," you said, your voice barely a whisper. "I want to. We need to."

He nodded, his gaze unwavering. He took your hand again, his grip firm and reassuring, and together, you walked through the gates.

The cemetery was a quiet sanctuary, a sea of marble and granite bathed in the golden light of the afternoon sun.

You navigated the rows of headstones, the silence broken only by the chirping of birds and the distant hum of traffic. You felt a strange sense of peace settle over you, a quiet acceptance of the inevitable.

You found Hervé's grave first. It was marked by a simple, elegant headstone, adorned with a small bouquet of fresh flowers. Charles knelt down, gently touching the cool stone.

You stood beside him, your hand resting on his shoulder.

"Papa," Charles began, his voice thick with emotion. "I… I wanted you to meet someone. This is… this is Y/N."

He looked up at you, his eyes filled with a vulnerability you rarely saw. You knelt beside him, reaching out to trace the inscription on the headstone.

"Hervé Leclerc," you read aloud, your voice trembling slightly. "Beloved Husband, Father, and Friend."

You closed your eyes, summoning the image of the man you had only heard about through Charles's stories. You imagined his warm smile, his encouraging words, the unwavering support he had given his son.

"It's an honor to finally meet you, Hervé," you said softly. "Charles talks about you all the time. He misses you terribly. I promise you, I'll take care of him. I'll love him with all my heart, just like you did."

You felt a tear roll down your cheek, and Charles reached out to wipe it away. He squeezed your hand, his silent gratitude a balm to your aching heart.

He began to speak in French, sharing stories about his recent races, his triumphs and setbacks, the challenges he faced on and off the track.

He spoke of his love for you, of the unwavering support you had given him, of the way you made him laugh, even on his darkest days.

You didn't understand all the words, but you understood the sentiment, the deep love and respect he held for his father.

After a while, Charles fell silent, his gaze fixed on the headstone. You knew he was lost in his memories, reliving moments shared, feeling the absence of his father with a profound ache.

You simply held his hand, offering your silent support, letting him know that he wasn't alone.

Finally, he stood up, his shoulders squared. He took a deep breath, as if gathering strength from the earth beneath his feet.

"Thank you, Papa," he said, his voice clear and strong. "I hope I'm making you proud."

Together, you walked hand in hand to your mother's grave. It was a bit further away, in a quieter corner of the cemetery, overlooking the sparkling expanse of the Mediterranean Sea.

Her headstone was made of white marble, etched with a delicate floral design.

Charles knelt down, gently placing a single red rose on the stone. You stood beside him, your heart pounding in your chest. This felt different, more personal, more raw.

"Mama," you began, your voice cracking with emotion. "This is Charles. He's… he's the one. The one I told you about in my letters."

You swallowed hard, trying to compose yourself. You had imagined this moment so many times, picturing yourself introducing Charles to your mother, imagining their laughter and easy conversation.

But now, standing here, in this silent sanctuary, the reality was far more painful than you had anticipated.

"He's kind, and funny, and incredibly talented," you continued, your voice trembling. "He makes me laugh, even when I don't want to. He supports my dreams, and he loves me unconditionally. I know you would have loved him, Mama. He reminds me so much of you."

You looked at Charles, his eyes filled with a deep understanding. He reached out and took your hand, his touch grounding you, anchoring you to the present.

He began to speak, his voice soft and respectful. He told your mother about your kindness, your intelligence, your unwavering spirit.

He spoke of your love for art and music, your passion for life, and the way you made him feel like the luckiest man in the world.

He told her about your struggles, your fears, and the strength you had shown in overcoming adversity. He spoke of your unwavering love for her, of the way you kept her memory alive through stories and photographs.

"I promise you, Madame Y/L/N," Charles said, his voice filled with sincerity. "I will always take care of Y/N. I will cherish her, protect her, and love her with all my heart. I will never let her forget you."

Tears streamed down your face, blurring your vision. You knelt beside Charles, burying your face in his shoulder, his arms wrapping around you in a comforting embrace.

The air was thick with unspoken emotions, with grief and love and a profound sense of loss. You felt your mother's presence, a gentle warmth surrounding you, a silent blessing on your relationship.

After a while, the tears subsided, replaced by a strange sense of peace. You looked at Charles, his eyes filled with tenderness.

He wiped away the remaining tears from your face, his touch gentle and loving.

You stood up, hand in hand, and gazed out at the sparkling sea. The sun was beginning to set, painting the sky with vibrant hues of orange, pink, and gold.

It was a breathtakingly beautiful scene, a reminder that even in the midst of sorrow, there was still beauty to be found in the world.

"Thank you," you whispered to Charles, your voice full of gratitude. "For being here, for understanding, for loving me."

He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Always," he said softly. "Always and forever."

You knew that the pain of loss would never truly disappear, but today, you had taken a step towards healing.

You had introduced the two most important people in your life to each other, and in doing so, you had created a bond that transcended death. You had honored their memory, celebrated their lives, and reaffirmed the enduring power of love.

As you walked out of the cemetery, hand in hand, the Monaco sun felt different again. It was still warm, but now, it felt lighter, gentler, as if it was carrying a message of hope, a promise of a brighter future.

You knew that the road ahead would not always be easy, but you also knew that you had Charles by your side, and together, you could face anything.

The silence between you was no longer heavy with grief, but filled with a quiet understanding, a shared bond forged in sorrow and strengthened by love.

You squeezed Charles's hand, and he squeezed back, a silent promise of forever.

You knew, with unwavering certainty, that you would carry the memories of Hervé and your mother with you always, their love forever etched in your heart.

And as you walked towards the twinkling lights of Monaco, you knew that they were watching over you, their love a constant beacon guiding you on your journey. . . .

[sleepymarimo]

୨୧. 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬

: ̗̀➛ following a job, toji wants nothing more than to spend time with the person who makes him feel more man than monster.

pairing: toji x fem!reader cw: not much, but i'll give a warning for suggestive themes near the end! very slice of life. the two of you shower together, just talk about your day and plan a date for tomorrow :) wc: ~2.3k an: currently pushing the 'toji is so, so soft with you when he's in love agenda'. blame my moscow mule and whiskey shot for this.

there's something about not having to pretend, about not having to put up a front, that makes toji realize just how tired he is.

his job is finally done, a few hits followed by using some not so friendly methods to gather up a bit of information for one of his clients.

throngs of people, neon lights and the honking of cars fade into echoes as he takes the local subway lines toward your neighborhood. he taps the fare card at each station's exit, it's balance never running dry.

it's one of the little things you do for him, keeping it stocked, allowing the assassin to get to where he needs to go.

he's so damn excited to see you.

this most recent gig has kept him away for a solid three, maybe four days at this point.

his body barely reacts to the jerks and turns of the train's car, arms crossed as he leans against the wall. there's not many people on the train and it's not like they would sit by him, anyway.

with a small grunt he cracks his neck, allowing his mind to wander. he doesn't need to pay attention; he's confident that nothing will slip past his senses. while he wants to believe that you'll be sound asleep in your shared bed, a part of him figures that you're up waiting for him.

"shit." he thinks, one of his hands absentmindedly running through his hair. he was just in shibuya. maybe he could've grabbed you something from that specialty store you trekked to nearly every weekend or checked if that café was still collabing with the series you'd been gushing about.

the thoughts in his head are all but useless now, the train making it's automated announcement before coming to a rolling stop at the station that had become all to familiar to him these past few months.

he steps off, tapping his card to the reader and resisting to urge to roll his eyes at it's chime.

it's not a far walk, though there's a stark difference between this neighborhood and the rowdy inner city streets. there are no brilliant lights or flashing signs, but the occasional lamppost and crossing signal.

each step to your apartment feels like a weight off his shoulders, the corner of his lips curling into a small smirk as he punches in the code to the front door.

as he enters the apartment, the sliver of light from beneath your door tells him all he needs to know.

he kicks his shoes off and lets out a controlled breath, the bedroom door creaking slightly as he pushes it in and playfully scoffes at the sight of you clinging to consciousness on the bed.

the way your eyes light up, almost squinted as they're squished in by the apples of your cheeks, sends a ripple of warmth through his chest that he can only compare to the sensation of being stabbed. the only difference is that he'd gladly run into your blade, no questions asked.

"i thought i told you not to wait up, angel." he chides, through there's no bite in his words as he walks over until he's standing beside where you're laying on the bed.

his gaze flickers over to the television where one of your shows, a rerun, he's sure, is playing on the screen.

"oh shut up." you rise to a seated position, the blankets pooling at your waist as you continue with what you both know is a lie. "i wasn't tired."

he hums in acknowledgement, the sound so soft that he has to wonder if it really came from him. when you hop out of bed, standing before him, his brows raise in mild curiosity, his hands coming up to rest at your waist as he silently marvels at the warmth clinging to you.

"sure, angel." his thumbs lightly massage your skin over your clothes. "so what's the plan then?"

whatever show you're watching is quickly forgotten. you shrug, your hands resting on his. tilting your head toward the bathroom, you respond. "shower. you're not getting in bed all gross like that."

he doesn't protest, instead lowering his head and nudging it against yours, taunting you with a smirk. toji is aware that the scent of cigarettes and the stale air of some shitty bar cling to him like an unwanted coat. "who're ya callin' gross, huh? i'm clean enough."

yet, even as he speaks, he's guiding you toward the bathroom with a strong palm resting on your lower back.

the true white lights cast a somewhat harsh glare on the room, but the familiarity of your touch, of the sanctuary that is your apartment, only serves to soften him.

you navigate through the space with ease, the pipes hissing as the shower comes to life. it takes only a second for water to start spraying, the curtain rod clinking as you patiently wait for things to heat up.

"how'd the job go, anyway?" your hands find the hem of his shirt, gently tugging it up. he gets the hint, tossing the garment off to the side without hesitation before he does the same for you. “it was a long one.”

he doesn't bother hiding his admiration for your bare flesh, a noise of approval emanating from his chest as he leans forward and places a kiss on your cheek before helping you with your bottoms. the routine is familiar, grounding, to the man who thought he'd sworn off of any sort of domesticity.

the light thud of your clothes hitting the floor is drowned out by the sound of water droplets pitter pattering against the walls of the bathtub. "don't worry about that shit, angel." he replies, not unkind, eyes twinkling with amusement as he wraps his arms around you and brings you closer. "it's not for you."

it's hard fighting the instinct to roll your eyes, the water starting to heat up as indicated by the slow building of steam in the bathroom. the warmth of his body is much welcomed, your hands busying themselves with grabbing a shower cap and stretching it over your head.

"oh, c'mon, i can handle it." you protest, ever curious about the things he sees, the things he does. "i watch dateline, i know all about crime."

your words earn a chuckle from him, felt more than heard, his head lifting as he angles you toward the tub. "that right? sorry to burst your bubble, but it's not the same." his free hand comes up to press against your shower cap, the plastic wrinkling under his touch. he's always thought the accessory made you look silly, another gruff chuckle leaving him as his palm lightly swats at your ass. "get in already, it's cold."

the echo of your laughter is a siren's call he isn't about to leave unanswered. he steps in with you, a steady stream of water cascading down his skin and melting away the tension that had been clinging to his frame these last few days.

he's content to be pampered by you, to listen to you, to exist in your presence without pretense. for so long his life had been a series of transactions, whether he was selling his skills or himself. but here, he doesn't feel the need to put up any walls or act like something he's not.

with you, he's just a man.

a satisfied grunt leaves him as you massage body wash into his chest, your hands expertly spreading the soapy mix into the muscle before sliding them up to his shoulders. he can't help but take note of how focused you are, the sight almost comical, especially with that stupid shower cap atop your head.

"you're just feelin' me up now." he accuses, though he makes no move to stop you.

your hands pause for a moment as you let out a sarcastic chuckle, encouraging him to stand under the spray of water to rinse off. "there's not much to feel." you lie, doing your best to remain serious, but a smile unwillingly curls at your lips.

he hums in amusement, knowing damn well that you purred like a cat when you had your face pressed into his chest. "you're a fuckin' liar." he points out without much remorse, his eyes tracking your every movement while he purposefully flexes the muscle beneath your fingertips. "but sure, tell me there ain't nothing there."

in your mind, he's the one acting like a cat, his head tilted back and a lazy smirk on his face. it makes you want to snicker, push his buttons in that way you know he likes. "i spoil you too much."

"hm? sounds like a you problem." he lowers his head, your comment igniting a familiar playfulness. then, it's replaced with a rare sort of thoughtfulness, one of his hands coming up to rest on your hip.

he remembers what he was thinking about on the train, perhaps wanting to do a little spoiling of his own. "say, why don't we head to shibuya tomorrow? get you that mug from the café that’s doing that collab shit for the show you like."

toji feels like the best boyfriend for remembering such a small detail, knowing it was sure to earn him some points.

the steam starts to fog the mirror, the water hitting the tub in sporadic splashes as you rinse off your own body wash. your hands wipe some water off your face, shoulders lightly jumping with the laugh you give.

"they stopped doing it, like, two days ago." you reveal, smile a bit too smug.

he's momentarily dumbfounded, silently cursing himself. one of his hands runs through his still wet hair, pushing it back. some annoyed grumbles leave him, lips almost set into a pout. "shit, sorry angel."

truthfully, it's not that big of a deal, and you can't help but be amused by his mannerisms. you nudge him with your elbow, letting him know that not all hope was lost. "a café in kyoto is doing the 'collab shit', too. that one is still open."

"well fuck, why didn't you say that?" he nods, eyes wandering to the ceiling as he mentally maps out his schedule. "tomorrow then, let's go. we'll get ya all that overpriced shit with your favorite character on it."

the sound of your laugh is enough to make him smirk, his eyes following the path of the water as it runs down your skin. a day with his favorite girl, no crappy jobs or seedy clients, sounds like a damn dream.

"what if i had plans already, asshole?" you counter with a grin, challenging him, playfully goading him on as the last of the suds flow down the drain.

his eyes narrow and he scoffs, his demeanor nothing short of puckish. he knows you too well, figuring that the highlight of your day tomorrow would've been going out to grab a coffee or something. "no you fuckin' don't, angel. don't test me."

your lips press together as you ponder your next move, but you relent. "okay, fine, i don’t have anything to do."

"good." he replies, softer now, palm rising to rest on your damp cheek. there's a moment where he just blatantly admires you, thumb running across your lips. "tomorrow. you and me are gonna take the first train to kyoto, alright?"

you loved when he looked at you like that, but oh you hated how it made you feel like a damn school girl. still, you nod and lean into his hand. "yeah. me and you."

it could be from his gaze or from the thick steam in the bathroom, but you figure it'd be wise to get to bed. turning toward the faucet, you reach your hand out to shut the water off.

toji has a different plan though, a part of him not wanting this moment to end quite yet.

"wait, c'mere." he orders, bringing you close as his voice drops to a murmur. "forgot to kiss ya when i came in."

his actions make your stomach flip, your head angling upward to meet his lips for a kiss. his touch is firm, filled with intent, telling you everything you know he feels but struggles to say. a rough palm plants itself on the base of your neck, tilting your head to deepen the kiss.

he can't even begin to explain how you feel against him, his senses honing in on all you have to offer. the heat of your skin, the scent of your body wash, the taste of your lips… hell, he swears he can even hear your heart beating in your chest.

it's not enough for him and he pulls away, only to pepper kisses along your neck and shoulder.

a smile curls at your lips and you sigh in delight, hands planting themselves on his bicep, your thumbs running along the contours of his muscle and the occasional scar. when he pulls you closer, when you feel him, you click your tongue in mock protest.

"you're gonna make it hard to take the first train to kyoto." you whine, though each swipe of his tongue or grazing of his teeth breaks you down even further.

toji seems to know this, his grip on you tightening, his smile felt against your skin. "we'll get ya to kyoto tomorrow, angel." he assures, ensuring you're kept warm under the showerhead. "we can spend all day there. i'll buy you whatever you want, yeah?"

there’s no way you could complain about that, so you let yourself go.

nodding, you succumb to your fate, succumb to him, wholly.

it's a blur from there, but by tomorrow morning, the two of you are on the second earliest train to kyoto.

at your reserved seats, you watch the scenery roll by with interest, everything almost a blur due to the high speed. he's given you the window seat, his frame protectively placed between you and the rest of the train car's occupants.

your head resting on his shoulder, arm hooked comfortably beneath his bicep, toji allows himself a moment of respite, no pretending, no walls.

it's just you and him, and he feels like one lucky bastard.

[reidology13]

we could make it better (breaking every habit)

Spencer Reid x fem ex-famous!reader

Summary: After Spencer overcomes his addiction, he seeks out the company and forgiveness of an old flame. cw: talk of addiction, a little sad? mostly fluffy though a/n: technically a part 2 of my fic based off making the bed by olivia rodrigo, but it can definitely be read as a oneshot. maybe they are a bit unhealthy, but they're cute and that's all that matters. also this was so incredibly delayed cause my phone drowned so I'm posting this from my dad's computer

Part 1

They say time heals all wounds, and standing at the door of his past mistake, Spencer hoped it had healed hers the way it had his. It had taken him too long to find her, for his pride to break down enough to ask Garcia to search for her. A few years ago it would have been all too easy, a few years ago she was on the cover of every magazine. Now she was the public's favourite conspiracy theory, the biggest where did she go? post made on some website full of self important nobodies. 

Where did she go? A small house in a small town, a few hours from D.C, just close enough that Spencer had gotten in his car without a second thought the moment he had her address. Maybe it was a slight invasion of privacy, but Spencer had seen much more of her than the house she lived in.

As he lifted his fist to knock, doubt crept in for the first time since the beginning of his endeavour. Was he right to apologise, to show up at the doorstep of the person he hurt worse than anyone else in his life, and say sorry? Sorry. ‘Sorry’ was a puny word that could never hope to mean anything compared to what he had done, how he had used her. But it would have to do, because he had not come all that way to turn back at the flashing neon sign that said ‘CLOSURE’.

Knock, knock, knock. Was three knocks not enough? Knock. God four was too many and the last one had been so separate from the others it was clearly an afterthought that she would think was weird before she even knew it was him on the other side of-

“Spencer?” The door opened, just enough for her face to be visible through the small opening. She was so much more beautiful than he remembered, although he really didn’t remember much from back then. 

“I’m sorry.” Well that was one way to get to the point. He smacked himself internally, scolding himself for being so stupid and inconsiderate, not even saying hello or asking her how she was doing.

“Do you wanna come in? You look like you need to sit down.” She pulled the door open, stepping back to let him in, and Spencer froze. She was allowing him into her home, her space, he who had squeezed her dry, used her up and tossed her aside when he didn’t need her anymore.

Unsure what else to do, Spencer found himself sitting on her couch, the awkward tension between them palpable as he sat silently in regret of every decision he had made in the last week.

“So,” She prompted, gesturing vaguely in his direction, “How are you?”

“Good, yeah, better. You?” He looked around the room, trying to find something that would tell him anything about her life, about her. She was a stranger, really, a stranger that used to be someone he knew. He wanted to know who she was then, on that day, in her house sitting across from him.

“I’m good too. You look better.” He knew what she meant – he didn’t look high out of his mind. The far wall of the room was covered in framed pictures of her and what he assumed were her family and friends. Some were from her childhood, some were taken in front of the very house he was sitting in. 

What surprised Spencer were the photos, though few and far between, where he made an appearance. The Fourth of July party, a bright, sunny photo full of smiling faces. The poor quality of the picture did nothing to disguise the bags under his eyes, nor the dead look in hers. Her birthday, a photo of her blowing out the candles on her cake, blurred from his shaky grip on the camera.

“I don’t remember that one.” He pointed to a picture of the two of them, a dark photo that he nearly hadn’t recognised as himself. The ability to not remember had been his favourite thing back then, now the haze left him with a pit in his stomach.

“Makes sense, you were… you were bad. It was taken right near the end.” 

“I am sorry, really.” Neither of them spoke after that, the silence a warm blanket rather than a thick smog. The apology wrapped around them in a warm embrace, they did not choke on it.

She moved first, after what felt like the most peaceful eternity, slipping her hand around his, holding it in the space between them. He looked down at their joined hands, his gaze slowly drifting up until it landed on the soft smile spread across her face.

“I missed you.” She squeezed his hand gently, although it felt like she squeezed his heart instead, “I missed you from the moment I met you. It’s nice to get you back.”

“I missed you too.” He didn’t know how to explain the way it had taken him a month to get sober enough that reality hit and he realised what he’d lost. At least, he didn’t know how to explain it without having to actually say something about his addiction. He’d always been good at avoiding the topic, skirting around it with suggestions and subtle confirmations. The word ‘addiction’ made him feel weak, like he’d been defeated. He’d talked about his problem once, in a room full of people who had been through the same thing, and even then he hadn’t been able to say it. 

“You’re so strong, Spencer. You’ve come so far.” It was like she could read his mind, see every fear that haunted him and soothe it accordingly.

“So are you, I mean, you got out of everything.” His eyes dropped to his lap in shame of everything that he hadn’t noticed, all of the obvious signs of just how not okay she had been. All that she must have been going through, that he had been too far from reality to know existed, even when it was staring him in the face.

“You say that like you didn’t.” It was a simple sentiment, but maybe that was what hit him like a freight train. It wasn’t some mantra he’d heard hundreds of times, or a complicated conversation with his friends where they tried to talk to him without saying anything that actually mattered.

He got out of it.

“You’re perfect, you know that right?” The way he looked at her in that moment could only be described as reverential, she was the brightest star in a sky that he had never truly seen before.

“No I’m not.” The way she said it like a definite fact made Spencer’s heart start to crack, “Do you know why I have those pictures up?”

Spencer shook his head, “Tell me,” he said the words under his breath, as if they were surrounded by people in the empty room, “I’m not going to find you any less perfect.”

“Hope. I could never get the thought out of my head that you would come back.” She shook her head, gaze locked on the ground like she couldn’t bear to look at him as she spoke. “It was stupid, and then you actually did, and that’s stupid all over again.”

“You’re even more perfect than I thought.” Spencer laughed, tears pricking in the corners of his eyes, happy and sad and something he couldn’t put a name to. She was still holding his hand, he realised, and he used that information to interlace their fingers, placing their joined hands in his spare palm.

“I’m stupid and lucky, that’s what I am.” She snorted, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

“No, not stupid.” Spencer drew circles with his thumb on her palm as he spoke, “Lucky, maybe.” 

“We’re gonna have to talk about this, us, you know that.”

“Eventually, yes. Not right now.”

“Not right now.” She confirmed, nodding slowly. They were both there, and that would have to be enough, at least for the moment.

[woodland-gremlin]

Summoning Your Secret Boyfriend Pt. 6

First Previously AU Summary

“‘Even’ nothing. Now we are going to drop this, summon the new King, beg them for forgiveness and for them to deal with Trigon, and fix those disastrous laws!” Constantine declared while pulling out a book with a strange aura out of his coat pocket.

Red Robin internally sighed in relief. They were finally getting somewhere. He had been worried that they would be stuck getting integrated until Trigon was right on top of them. Not that it would stop them from getting questioned after the whole fiasco was over, but, small mercies.

From the way Batman was glaring at Supernova and Red Robin it was even more obvious that the Bat wouldn’t let it go. The only thing stopping him being the pressing matter with Trigon and the occult magician being very willing to yell at him if he kept poking. Though it did make Red Robin wonder how he planned to do so, it wasn’t like he lived at the manor anymore. No one but Alfred noticed that the only time they saw him was at the cave, and even that was rare. Really makes one question about the ‘World’s Greatest Detective’ title that Batman held. Danny certainly doesn’t think so with all his nicknames for him, and after the last few years he was inclined to agree. You really shouldn’t meet your heroes.

The Laughing Magician worked and while watching him make the summoning circle Red Robin and Supernova were suddenly glad that neither offered to make it. If they did they might have never stopped getting questioned. Even Constantine would have probably joined them with how differently their summoning circle would be. While the con man made an intricate circle with the title of Ghost King being the main factor, with candles placed at significant points and fancy offerings, the two boyfriends had a much simpler approach. The biggest differences being name and title. They call Danny by name, which makes it significantly easier than a broad title to summon him. Add on to the fact that most of the titles that Constantine are using are only Danny’s by default the ease in summons is a lot easier. Though them being his boyfriends and offering snacks plays a big factor in it too.

The occult magician then began to chant in Esperanto. Candles began to flicker, changing to Relam’s green. The room’s temperature began to drop, frost creeping across the floor and walls. Wind that shouldn’t be possible in a space station whipped around, flipping Batman and Superman’s capes over their heads. A neon green crack appeared in the air above the summoning circle. Claws clutching the tear in reality before ripping it further.

Out from the tear in reality stepped out an ethereal being. White hair that moved like it was underwater. Lavender skin with freckles spaced out like constellations. Bright green lighting birch scars crawling over their body, cutting all the up to their brow. Eyes glowing the same erie color with the one the scar cut through being that singular color, sclera and all. A crown seemingly made of aurora lights and ice, radiating power. A fur lined coat seemingly made from space only added to the otherworldliness, A ring shaped like a skull, signaling the being as one of death. Armor with small dents here and there showing that it isn’t just for decoration. That this being that they summoned was a fighter, a King forged in battle.

 Everyone but Red Robin and Supernova froze. They thought that they were prepared. They knew that they would be powerful, enough that they could rule over beings like Trigon. But no words could have prepared them for the aura bearing down on them. All their bravo was drained out of the minute they were subjected to the King’s presence. Aquaman was especially shaken. He was a King as well but he felt like nothing compared to the one in front of him. Like a big fish in a small pond thrust to face the ruler of the ocean.

“Were you the ones that summoned me, freeing from the bane that is paperwork?” the being asked.

To be continued . . .

Next

[psychedelic-ink]

𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍

body piercer!joel miller x f!reader

genre: explicit smut, minors dni, modern au, no outbreak au

word count: 4.7k

summary: you finally go and get your nipples pierced.

warnings: reader has tattoos & has flat/small nipples which is the only physical description in this fic, nipple play, oral (female receiving), dirty talk, praise kink, joel miller with a tongue piercing, lots of teasing, sexual tension, tattoo kink??? joel is really into them

a/n: this fic literally wouldn't exist if not for @swiftispunk's fic flesh and metal after reading it and screaming about it (and also reading articles about it) this fic was born, enjoy xx

special thanks to @johnwatsn for the beta! 💞

It’s late. The faint buzz of the neon sign is loud in your ears, taunting, mocking you for just staring inside instead of going in. Your face is illuminated with a red hue, the words BODY PIERCING burning into your irises. And despite the tacky neon sign, the inside looks quite clean. You would know, you’ve been stalking their Instagram page for a while now. 

There’s no one inside and you’re contemplating whether or not you should just get on with it. The idea of getting your nipples pierced had been a vague thought until recently. You desperately needed a change, you wanted something new and exciting. You wanted to feel sexy again. Your ex had certainly done a decent amount of damage to your self-esteem and that, plus your already low view of yourself, did not help your brain to see the good of you. 

So many things could go wrong, you’ve read multiple articles about it. Your body might reject the piercing, it might leave a scar, irritate it. . . 

G Suddenly, a brisk burst of frigid air gently caresses your cheeks, causing you to instinctively step back. Your gaze swiftly shifts from the interior of the shop to the door, where you notice that someone has just opened it, allowing the chilly air from the air conditioning inside to spill out.

Joel Miller, the shop's number one body piercer. Your cheeks burn, your pulse quickens, the sound of it flooding your ears. He’s tall and broad, his brown eyes staring at you with utter amusement. As you continue to just blatantly stare at him, he cocks his head to the side with a crooked smile. 

“I’m closin’ in half an hour, sweetheart. If you’re thinkin’ of comin’ in, I’d do it now.” 

“O–Oh,” you swallow thickly. “I can come back tomorrow if you’re closing up, sorry to bother you.” 

He raises an eyebrow, his smile falling, “Well, I didn’t quite say that, now, did I?” Come on in, darlin’. Tell me what you need.” 

Tell him what you need—your heart beats in your throat, the lazy drawl of his words going directly between your legs. You mentally curse at yourself. How touch-starved are you? He’s just being polite. You’re the customer, it would’ve been weird if he just shooed you away. 

Joel takes a step to the side, silently granting permission for you to enter. You stroll past him, making your way inside without uttering a word. The air conditioning is a blessing on your sweat-soaked skin. Even though you don’t have to, you briefly look at your surroundings. Just like your research had entailed, the shop was squeaky clean. 

“So,” Joel clears his throat. “What can I do you for, sweetheart?” 

Some part of you wishes that he could just understand without you having to form the words. You lick the back of your teeth, suddenly it’s very hard to breathe. 

“I. . . wanted to get my nipples pierced—if that’s okay?” 

“Of course, it is,” he smiles, much softer compared to his crooked smirk from before. “I’m Joel by the way,” he extends his hand and you take it with a sigh of relief, you feel much lighter now— 

“I know.” 

Your eyes go wide, both your hands stopping mid-shake. Joel’s amused glance is back again, his smile stretching into a grin, “You know?” 

“I mean—well, I did research before I came here,” you answer quickly, aggressively almost, and release his hand. His grin only wides, a puff of air escaping his nostrils. “So that’s how I know your name.” 

“Aren’t you the cautious one,” he turns on his heel and points towards the back. “If you’re set on what you want we can just head inside, I can explain the rest there.” 

“Sure.” 

Just as you both take a step you remember what you initially wanted to ask before going through with it and stop. Joel senses your lack of movement, turning around, you notice the furrow between his brow. “I actually wanted to ask something before we went on with it.” 

“I’m all ears.” 

Oh god, this is embarrassing, “So. . . my nipples are. . .flat—or is it more proper to call it small? I don’t know. Would that be an issue?” 

The glimmer in his eyes returns full force, his expression of worry melting away, “I’ve never met a nipple I couldn’t pierce,” he teases. “So no need to worry that pretty head of yours.” 

“Do you sweet talk with all your clients?” you ask, your lips twitching into a smile. You don’t know what it is, but you feel comfortable with him. Maybe it’s because you’ve been stalking his shop for so long. Either way, it’s a nice feeling. 

“Only with the ones that know my name before I meet them.” His eyes gradually move up and down your body, eating you up. His tongue darts out and swipes over his bottom lip. You notice the faint shimmer that belongs to a silver tongue piercing. “And the ones that’ve been starin’ into my shop for least an hour.” 

Joel takes a step closer and you feel your breath dissipating from your lungs. Dark, charcoal eyes sweep across your face. Your heartbeat is like a fearful hummingbird, hitting the bone cage in rapid succession. You swallow. By some miracle, you hold his gaze. 

“You ready to go, little rabbit?” 

All the tension drains from your bones and you burst out laughing, “Rabbit?” you giggle, your amusement only growing when you see his wide smile. “What the hell?” 

“There’s that pretty smile,” he hums, pulling back. Joel stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Now that you’re relaxed we can get to business. We can stop whenever, so don’t feel pressured when you’re in the chair. You can just leave.” 

You nod along as you follow him inside. You’re relieved when you see that it’s a spacious room with bright lighting that doesn’t irritate your eyes. 

“First things first, let's pick out the piercing.” Joel walks towards one of the small glass cases and pulls out one of the drawers. Your excitement builds as he presents them to you. “Any ticklin’ your fancy?” 

The light above gleams against the glass, there are so many and for a split second, you want them all. You never thought you would be labeling piercings as pretty. Looking them over, you decide you definitely want barbells instead of hoops. Now the question is which barbell one do you want? 

“So many,” you mutter, eyes scanning over them again and again. You see one that says ‘cum here’ on each heart-shaped barbell. There’s a couple of them that say different things; kiss here, bite me, lick me— a shudder rolls down your spine. Your mind instantly fills with indecent thoughts, most of them staring at the man still patiently holding the glass case. You bite the inside of your cheek. 

You bet he has the most skillful tongue—

“Oh, that one!” you exclaim suddenly, pointing at one in the shape of a heart. It’s decorated in shimmering rhinestones, the metal gold. When he inserts it, the heart would be framing your nipple. “It’s so cute.” 

“You like shiny things, huh?” he smiles. “You gotta good eye, it’ll look good on you.” 

Your breath catches in your throat, “Thanks.” 

“Now lay on the bed, darlin’.” 

It takes you a second to realize he’s talking about the piercing bed. You’re about to lay on it before he stops you with a raised hand. “Take off your top.” 

“Most guys buy me dinner first.” 

“Har har very funny,” he rolls his eyes but he’s smiling, which in return makes you lightheaded. The expression is like a drug and you want to see more of it. More and more and more. “Besides, if you have a flat nipple I’m gonna need to stimulate it.” 

“Excuse me?” 

Joel is unaware of your blundering, he arranges the fresh, disposable drape and sterile forceps, placing it on the small portable workstation, “If you’re uncomfortable with that I can use the suction device too,” he answers nonchalantly. You watch breathlessly as he pulls on his black rubber gloves and finally turns to you. He raises an eyebrow. “Why’s your top still on?” 

“I—I just wasn’t aware nipple play was involved.” 

“You do realize where you’re gettin’ pierced right?” his lips twitch up. “You’re not drunk, are you sweetheart?” 

“Very funny,” you answer, mimicking his tone from before. “But anyway, okay, I guess I’m just a bit nervous.” 

“Understandable,” you point towards the endless draws. “Want me to get the suction device?” 

“God, no,” you let out a low chuckle. “Your fingers are just fine.” 

“Never had any complaints before.” 

Your stomach jumps, arousal caressing your skin similar to a summer breeze. The darkness in his eyes is back, his gaze intense and nerve-wracking. 

“Will it hurt?” you mumble. 

“I ain’t gonna lie so yeah, it will.” 

“How much?” 

“Depends, really.” 

Your shoulders drop. 

“Mine didn’t hurt that bad, to be honest, but my pain tolerance is quite high,” he mutters to himself rather than to you. He follows up with another sentence, probably something to soothe your worry but your brain is locked on to something very specific he just said. 

“You have nipple piercings?” you ask incredulously. “Really?” 

“I do, though it was more of a bet kind of situation. My brother loooves causing me trouble,” he sighs and crosses his arms over the expanse of his chest. “But joke’s on him because I liked how they looked so I kept them.” 

“Can. . . Can I see?” 

“You gonna be a good girl and keep still when I pierce you?” Joel teases. You nod furiously, lips pressed tightly together. “A’right then.” He curls his fingers into the hem of his shirt and lifts it. Your eyes are glued to his chest—his entire torso. You see the way a soft trail of draw hair starts from his bellybutton and disappears under his jeans, you see the soft swell of his stomach, the muscle—your eyes move up, you finally see his nipples, pierced, just like he said, with silver barbells. You lean closer, your ass at the very edge of the piercing bed. 

Joel suddenly drops his shirt, hiding away, he shrugs, “Nothin’ fancy, but still, I like’em,” saying that, he takes a seat on his chair and sways a bit thanks to the wheels underneath.

“Do—” you lick the back of your teeth. “Do they make it more sensitive?” 

His smirk makes your heart skip a beat, “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he points to your shirt. “Now off.” 

Without a word, you peel off your shirt and unhook your bra. Joel’s eyes widen momentarily, his breath hitching at the sight of your bare torso. You’re confused for a moment. Surely, in his line of work, he’s seen many tits before— 

Then you realize he’s staring at your tattoos. 

You don’t have many, though you guess compared to others you do have many. Joel’s gaze lingers on your chest piece, two hands reaching towards each other with the sun and moon in between, decorating the dip between your breasts without going too deep. The blood rush of your body fills your ears, and your lips part with a gasp, his eyes instantly snap to your lips. You see the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. 

“Didn’t know you were tattooed, darlin’.” 

“You like tattoos?” you ask, your voice hoarse and barely there. “I have more on my back.” 

You swear his pupils dilate, “I’d love to see them after. If you’ll let me.” 

“Sure,” you answer with a weak smile. “I don’t see a reason not to.” 

He wheels closer, eyes dropping to your breasts. You look away. Your cheeks feel unreasonably warm despite the air conditioning running. Goosebumps blossom over every patch of skin. His mouth is too close, the warmth of his breath fans your chest, a pleasant tingle echoing over your breasts. 

You’ve always felt a bit awkward about your nipples. They always seemed silly compared to your breast size, especially when you started seeing other nipples. 

“I’m gonna touch you now,” he says softly, dragging you away from your thoughts. “I’m gonna massage it a bit to work it out, a’right?” 

You nod and hold your breath simultaneously. He does your right nipple first. Just like he said, he massages the flesh closest to your nipple, easing it out. It feels good, undeniably so. The pads of his fingers work delicately. Deep down you wish he didn’t have to wear the gloves. Your body aches for his heat, his bare touch on your naked skin. Joel pinches a bit hard and you flinch, he mumbles an apology. You don’t have it in you to tell him that it didn’t actually hurt, rather, it felt good. 

Soft whimpers threaten to escape your lips so you bite into the bottom one, hard. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to regulate your breathing with deep inhales. His thumb swipes over your, now hard, nipple. “There we go,” he says. 

You don’t open your eyes. Pain blossoms from the flesh of your lips, you feel them starting to swell. 

“Hey,” Joel’s hand cups the side of your face, then you feel his thumb easing out your lips from between your teeth. “You’re gonna hurt yourself like that. Are you okay?” 

How are you supposed to tell him that you’re just turned on? That this has been the most action you’ve had in months? 

“I’m okay,” you answer. His brows furrow in disbelief and you can’t really blame him. You let out a long sigh. “I’m fine, I promise. I just got a little worked up.” 

“Worked up?” His smile is back and in response, you want to bury your head in the sand. “What d’you mean?” 

His hand slides to your waist, squeezing it gently. You stick your bottom lip out. “You know what I mean.” 

“Hmmm, maybe,” his voice drips with cruel teasing, his thumb begins to draw lazy circles around your skin. You think he’s going to say something else but his gaze once again drops to your chest. “Looks like it disappeared, gonna need to work it out again.” 

You expect his fingers—maybe for him to pinch a bit harder this time. 

What you don’t expect, however, is his burning mouth on your cold skin. 

“Oh, fuck—” you gasp, your body instinctively arching towards him. He groans as a response, taking more of you into his mouth. His tongue flicks your peaked nipple. You feel his teeth nipping the tender flesh and you gasp once more, a sharp moan rattling in your throat. 

His eyes look up at you, momentarily he parts away, his lips are swollen, spit glistening at his lips, “This okay?” 

“Yes.” 

And he continues to devour you. 

Your fingers bite into the leather bed, he laps at the pebbled flesh, purposefully rubs the tongue piercing into it. The sudden hardness of metal makes you jump and then melt into it, he repeats the movement of his tongue again and again, swirling it until your thighs start to shake. His hands briefly move to your tattoo, thick fingers dancing along the ink. 

“So sensitive,” he murmurs, directing his attention to your other nipple. He flicks at it first then closes his lips around it. Your underwear is sticky with slick, your legs in constant motion to relieve some of the tension from your throbbing clit. He cups your mound, presses his fingers into your clothed slit. “Be patient, I’m gettin’ there.” He sucks on your nipple and teases the other with his fingers, pinching and pulling them. 

“Won’t be able to do this when we pierce them,” he growls, teeth sinking into your nipple, he flicks his tongue over it. “And you better not let anyone else touch’em too.” 

Your head falls back with a groan. He flicks his tongue again when you grind into his palm, the friction not enough to quench your need for him. You grip his shoulder, urging him to move back. He does. You immediately feel guilty at the worry crossing his eyes. 

You grip his shirt, slightly sliding it up his stomach, “Can I see how sensitive you are?” 

A brush of color spreads from his neck to his cheeks. You smile. Red looks good on him. 

He stands up, the chair wheeling away. Joel is quick to discard his shirt and you’re glad that the piercing bed makes it so that you’re in perfect tasting range. You spread your legs wider as he comes closer, taking his place between them. His skin touches your own, his warmth overwhelming yet welcomed. 

You kiss his neck first. Then his collar bone, you suck on his skin, teasing the sensitive flesh with your teeth. He shudders. Slowly you make your way down, your thumbs push at the pierced nipples and he moans behind gritted teeth. Smiling sweetly at him, you swirl your tongue around one, playing with the other. Your tongue moves over the bead of the piercing, you tilt it which in return twists the nipple. Another tremble overwhelms him, his body curling around you even further. The outline of his cock is prominent through his jeans, his body impulsively grinding against your stomach. You moan at the hardness, and he moans at the pressure. 

“Fuck, that’s nice,” he rasps, hips jerking. “But let’s take care of you now, I bet your panties are soaked, darlin’.” 

Fuck, it is. 

Joel drags his lips down your cheek, he kisses your neck slowly, the metal on his tongue forcing a shudder up your spine and making you curious about how it’ll feel on your cunt. 

“Want to eat you out from behind, sweetheart, wanna see those tattoos.” 

His hands are a constant on your skin as you hop off the bed and bend over, he helps you with your jeans, reaching around and unbuttoning it for you. The fabric suddenly feels too tight on your skin and you need to get rid of it—now. 

The harsh fabric pools at your ankles and you kick them away. His fingers play with the elastic of your underwear, pulling and twisting. The heft of him rubs between the crease, thick cock straining against his zipper. You expect him to take off his jeans too. Your piercer is full of surprises, though, and instead of doing the predictable thing, he continues to roll his hips whilst tracing the pads of his fingers over tattoos. 

“Fuck, they’re beautiful, sweetheart,” he mumbles. His touch is ticklish, yet arousing at the same time. More slick gathers at the fabric. You’re desperate for his touch. By the movement of his fingers you guess which of them he’s stroking. First, it’s the fox that stretches over your spine, beams of sun framing its face. Then it’s the smoke-like lines that are closer to your shoulder and the other one near your hip. Joel can’t seem to get enough of it. His palms are flat against inky skin, trying to feel the thought of you while you got them. 

You gasp at the touch of soft lips and soft tongue. He licks a slow line up your spine, tracing over the fox and sunlight. By pure instinct you bend over further, your breasts completely pressed against the leather. You’ve never been more glad to have tattoos in your goddamn life—he’s worshipping them, the figures that adorn your skin. 

His velvet tongue is replaced by sharp teeth, your back arches, ass pressing further into his clothed cock. Joel trembles and follows your eager movements with another tender bite. 

“I love them,” he mouths over the inky smoke near your shoulder. “I love feeling you, touching you. I could just do this for hours. You feel amazin’ against my skin, my sweet little rabbit.” 

This time you don’t laugh at the absurd nickname. His name drips from your damp lips like honey, sweet to say and sticking to your tongue. 

His hand dips between your legs and his mouth moves down to your ass, he kisses the plump flesh as two fingers stroke you from over the fabric of your underwear. His groan reverberates on your skin, teeth skimming the flesh, “Fuck, you actually are soaked,” Joel hums and slips them under, gathering you around his fingers. “All this for me?” 

“Yes,” you gasp, raising your hips. “P-Please—”

Joel shushes you, “I know, sweetheart, I know,” he gets down to his knees and as he does, a small grunt leaves his lips. 

“Are you okay?” you ask. 

“Just fine,” he kisses your pussy and you’re instantly melting towards his mouth, a groan ripping from your throat. “A sacrifice I’m willin’ to make.” 

Joel doesn’t give you the chance to reply or offer to change positions, he slides your panties to the side, licking into you hungrily. You shudder and your upper body jolts, forming the perfect arch. He presses deeper. Licking and teasing your clit with the tip. He cups both sides of your ass and gives them a gentle smack. Your eyes roll at the mild pain, your slick coating his lips, tongue, and chin. The rough hairs of his beard chafe your skin, only adding to the pleasure. 

“Taste so good, beautiful,” Smack. “Gonna fuckin’ ruin you, make you come until there’s a goddamn puddle on the floor.” 

“Oh god—” you choke on air, a moan locking in your throat the same time you’re trying to gasp for air. His words and the swirl of his tongue are downright sinful. He flattens his tongue and parts your folds with the soft muscle, teasing your entrance. 

Joel pulls you back against him, his lips teaching your clit, your jaw drops, a jolt of pleasure rushing through you and tightening your nipples. It’s filthy, that’s all you can think. If someone walked through those doors right this instant, they would see his face between your cheeks, drinking from you like a man dying of thirst. 

Your head drops, mouth flooding with saliva, you roll your hips; begging, asking for more. He gives it to you. Two thick fingers slide into you with ease, his mouth leaving wet open-mouthed kisses on your ass. 

“Gonna come for me?” he asks, voice full of gravel. “Come on, give it to me, let me see how your pussy throbs, sweetheart.” 

He curls his fingers and you imagine him smirking as he breaks you apart. You cry out his name, your entire body shuddering as if lightning struck it, “That’s it, that’s it, that’s it. . .” He continues to thrust his fingers in and out, you feel yourself dripping, imagine yourself making a puddle just like he asked for. “Give it to me, honey. You’re fuckin’ beautiful, look at you. . .” 

Joel spreads you with his fingers and delves back into you, he draws circles around your clit, his jaw constantly moving with every lick. He doesn’t stop until he’s coaxing another orgasm out of you—your head fills with bliss, your body lifeless. 

When he’s done feasting, he slowly gets up with his hands sliding to your back. He leans down to pepper more kisses onto your tattoos, your skin tingling and singing at the contact. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he murmurs, lips sucking at your neck. “Then let’s get those pretty nipples pierced.” 

“W—What about you?” you ask breathlessly. 

Joel helps you sit back up on the bed, you part your legs so he can come closer, he accepts the invitation with a wide smile, “I have a feelin’ we’ll be seein’ more of each other, sweetheart. You can make it up to me then.” 

Your heart skips a beat and your lips part. 

You have a strong feeling that he’s right. 

With gloved hands, Joel carefully opens a sterile needle package. You watch with rapt attention as he takes out the fresh needle, inspecting it. Your body is still thrumming with pleasure, your head still swimming in a daze. All you can hear is his breathing.

He had already walked you through everything while preparing for the procedure. No touching, no swimming. You had to clean them softly in the shower and that was meant to be the only source of water your nipples touch for a while. If there was any irritation or marks, you were to reach out immediately. 

Honestly, you found it cute that he’d gotten so serious all of a sudden. It was nice to see him so professional too, so competent. 

He comes closer and your body seizes. You hold your breath. With a sudden need to distract yourself, your eyes linger on to the walls. Your brows furrow in surprise when you notice the tattoo designs. You thought this was only a piercing shop. 

“You do tattoos too?” you ask nervously. 

“My brother does,” he answers. “He works the tattoo side of the business and I do the piercings.” 

“It’s nice that it’s in the family. . .” 

“Sweetheart, I know what you’re doin’. You’ll be fine I promise.” 

“Okay. I trust you mister man-I-just-met.” 

He grins, “You didn’t seem to have a problem with it ten minutes ago.” 

“Touché.” 

Joel prompts you to lay on the piercing table, he approaches you with a reassuring smile on his face. You can feel your heart racing as you nervously anticipate the pain of getting your nipples pierced, you imagine the worst, your heart beating in tune with your fear. 

He carefully cleans the area around your nipples and marks the spot where the piercing will go. He double-checks the placement with you to ensure you're happy with it. You give a slight nod, still feeling a bit apprehensive.

“Such a good girl for me,” he murmurs. “It’ll only hurt for a second.” 

With steady hands, Joel takes the needle. You feel a sharp pinch as it punctures through your skin, but the pain dissipates quickly. You let out a small whimper, “It’s okay, it’s okay, just a bit more,” he comforts you and you nod with a long exhale. 

After the needle is through, he quickly follows it with the jewelry, securing it in place. You watch in awe as he attaches the beautiful barbells to your nipples, the adrenaline and endorphins making the pain feel less than it is.

Once the piercings are in place, Joel gently cleans the blood before you can get a look.

“Aaand done, tell me what you think.” 

You’re surprised that he has a mirror in hand when you sit back up. Your gaze finds your reflection and an instant smile spreads across your face. 

“You like’em?” he asks, his tone shy. 

“Like them?” you gasp. “I love them! Thank you!” 

“Oh that’s a relief,” he leans back into the chair, slightly rolling away with a relieved smile. “No matter how many times I do it, I still get nervous.” 

“I definitely love them,” you say, you get up to wear your shirt but end up wincing at the sharp pain. You look at Joel between squinted eyes. “When did you say the pain would stop again?” 

“It’s gonna take a while,” he answers with a sympathetic smile. “You don’t know how much your nipples touch stuff until you get’em pierced.” 

“Well, at least they look good.” 

He shoots you a wink, “They sure do, little rabbit.” 

“That nickname is still ridiculous.” 

“Should I remind you that the last time I used it you came on my tongue?” 

“Nope no reminder needed,” you put your shirt back on, smiling. “I’m still going through the aftershocks.” 

“Good,” he stands with you, hands on your waist, he pulls you as close as he can without your nipples touching his chest. “So, you wanna go out?” Joel’s gaze drops to your chest and he licks his lips, “Gotta make sure you’re takin’ care of them properly.” 

“My hero.” 

[improbable-outset]

📄 𝐒𝐮𝐠𝐚𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐦

Kenji Sato x Fem!Reader

𝐀𝐎𝟑 | 𝐌𝐲 𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐬 | 𝐔𝐥𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5.7k

𝐓𝐖 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐖: Coach’s daughter AU, Fluff, lots of shameless flirting, teasing, secret relationship

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Over coffee and conversation, Ken finds solace in a café, far from the chaos of the baseball stadium.

Ken had never felt his heart gallop this intensely before. Not even during his rise to stardom with the Dodgers back in LA could compare to the thrill and anticipation coursing through him right now.

This was more personal— unpredictable in a way that no game or spotlight could prepare him for. For the first time in his life, he wasn’t chasing a title.

It was a moment with someone special that made everything else feel secondary.

Tucked away in a quiet street of Tokyo’s lesser known district, the glow of the neon signs reflected off slick pavements as he watched you navigate the path, weaving between parked bikes and stray vending machines.

The faint hum of the distant train was the only sound that filled the night’s silence.

“Ken!” your voice rang through the empty streets, bright and familiar. As you drew closer, Ken couldn’t help but notice how the muted lights reflected in your glossy eyes, giving them an otherworldly sparkle.

He didn’t say anything until you were close enough for you to hear him without yelling.

“You made it…” His lips curled into a smile, meeting your gaze with a tender look. “Did you get enough rest? You look a bit tired.”

“Barely,” you confessed, a playful tilt painted on your lips. “I’ve been counting down the minutes until I can see you again.”

Ken was used to fans clamoring for a moment of his time, expressing their excitement to see him. But something about the eagerness in your voice and the slight bounce in your step sent a flutter through him.

He glanced around, checking that the streets were still empty before reaching out to cradle your cheek.

“You’re so clingy.” he teased, still holding his grin.

“I would’ve kissed you right now if we weren’t in public.” you shot back with a small smirk.

Ken leaned closer until his face was eye level to yours, his voice dropped to a heated whisper

“I wouldn’t complain if you did.”

The impulse to close the distance simmered under his skin, but the risk of being seen was enough to keep him rooted.

“But I also don’t want an angry mob of your dad’s supporters coming after me after catching us in a compromising position.”

Your smile faltered, replaced by a shadow of worry. “Right…my dad. I don’t want anybody from the press finding out either.”

“Yeah, the press…” Ken’s expression hardened, his tone turning bitter.

The media always lurked, threatening to expose what little happiness he could claim. He wished he didn’t have to sneak around like this.

He envied those who could show affection openly, like some of his teammates who left games with their families in tow. The normalcy forever felt out of reach for Ken.

“Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like…” he murmured, eyes drifting past the dim glow of the distant lights. “If we dated openly, without worrying about your father, or the fans, or the media.”

Ken rarely admitted these things, but seeing how you aligned with his unspoken thoughts made it easier to voice his fragile feelings— especially about your relationship.

“What could the fans do anyway? It’s not like they could control your life.”

“You’d be surprised,” Ken said with a hint of edge. “There are some intense fans out there that take their idols' personal lives way too seriously.”

Ken didn’t want to think too deeply about a situation blowing out of proportion. If rumours began, he knew all too well how quickly fans would start prying on your life, looking for any reason to judge.

Even the slightest flaw could unleash a tornado of online harassment. He didn’t want to bring that sort of trouble into your life.

His jaws clenched, a grimace flashing across his features before he shook the thought away.

“I’m more worried about dad. If he ever found out about us…I can’t even imagine how he’d react. Especially after that latest press conference. He came home moping,” you said, the last words trailed into a tired groan.

“I know, I could’ve handled it better.” Ken chuckled, before it was shadowed by guilt as he remembered his altercation with Coach Shimura. “I hate when the press digs for gossip.”

A low rumble of an approaching car snapped him out of his thoughts. Its headlights illuminated the empty street, casting fleeting shadows over the both of you, before disappearing down the narrow road.

You take a hold of Ken’s hand and gently tug him forward. “Come on, let’s head inside.”

You slip into a small, dimly lit cafe— a hidden gem that seemed to be empty from the outside view. It’s secluded places like this that makes your relationship feel safe, untouched by the eyes of the world.

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries enveloped him, a silent call of the rare moment of peace you shared.

The cafe itself was modest in size, with wooden chairs and tables neatly arranged beneath the dim ambiance lighting.

There were a few patrons scattered here and there— a couple sharing a quiet intimate conversation near the window at the high table, and a few students hunched over textbooks.

Sparse decorations adorned the walls: faded vintage poster advertising sodas and sweet treats with its vibrant colours faded over time.

At the centre of each table sat a miniature cherry blossom tree, the soft pink petals contrasted against the dark wood.

Together, you crossed the cafe's interior, where a lone worker was wiping down the countertops. The glass display case in front of you showcased an array of cakes and pastries, though the selection was limited at this hour.

“You gonna order anything?” you asked, eyes scanning over the hanging menu above the counter.

“Yeah…a latte and maybe a cake, too,” Ken paused, gaze flickering over the cake display before shifting back to you. “You want anything?”

“I’ll probably get a bowl of anmitsu,” you mused, turning to meet his eyes. “What kind of cake will you be getting?”

Ken hums in thought for a moment, leaning in closer to the display. Rows of desserts were neatly arranged.

Fluffy cake rolls on the tile shelf with their swirls of cream peaking our— flavours ranged from strawberry to matcha. Slices of chiffon cakes in pastal colours on the middle shelf. And finally, tiny containers of pudding at the bottom.

“Not sure yet,” he murmured, his mind wandering over the cake display. His smile took a slight wicked edge as he added. “Maybe a cake I can feed you a bite of…”

The image of him holding out a spoonful to you flashed through his mind, followed by your lips closing around it. His imagination reeled, and he caught himself chewing his lower lip, a faint flush creeping up his neck.

Just as his thoughts threaten to wander further, your voice pulls him back to the present.

“Their chiffon cakes are always good.” you said, gesturing towards the pastel cakes.

“Yeah?” Ken followed your gaze to the neatly placed cakes. “But they’re crumbly. I’ll get cake all over your face.”

“It’ll be worth it though.” you teased.

Ken chuckled, glancing at the display again and taking another moment to look at the options again. His eyes shifted to the pastries with their delicious golden crust glistening under the light.

“Maybe I should get something messy, then,” he leaned in close to your ear, his voice dropping to a whisper again. “Like…one of those cream puffs with the sweet, sticky filling. I could lick it off your lips.”

Your eyes widened, and you let out an exaggerated gasp, swatting his chest. “Shhh! You can’t say that out here.”

“Why not?” he grinned, voice lacing with his smugness. “No one’s paying attention to us.”

Despite your playful scolding, Ken’s chest swelled with satisfaction and his ego soared.

He was aware that he shouldn’t push things too far, especially in public, but seeing how flustered you were and your stunned expression was too irresistible not to enjoy.

“Still…what if someone was eavesdropping on us.” you said, a hint of caution in your voice as your eyes darted briefly towards the other patrons.

“Then they’ll just hear me flirting. Harmless isn’t it? Doesn’t matter if they know how badly I want to taste the cream puff from your lips.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“What? I can’t tell my girlfriend how badly I want to kiss her?”

“Hmph, just order already.” You crossed your arms with mock indignation.

“Alright I’ll order for us, you go and find us a seat.”

His eyes followed your form as you weaved through the tables, your movement unhurried but purposeful. You found a table in the corner of the cafe that offered both privacy and a clear line of sight to the entrance.

Ken couldn’t help but hold his gaze at you with the cafe’s lighting cast a warm glow over your features.

Dragging his focus back to the task at hand, Ken stepped up to the counter and placed the order— a latte and a slice of cake for himself and a bowl of anmitsu for you.

Ken watched as steam erupted with a high-pitch hiss from the milk frother, the aromatic scent of the coffee mixed with the faint sweetness from the pastries.

The barista poured the milk into the latte cup with grace and precision, creating a delicate foam on top. Besides her, another worker arranged your anmitsu, layering the sweet toppings before placing it alongside with a spoon.

When the tray was finally ready, Ken paid and carefully carried it across the room. The clinking sound of ceramic cups and murmurs of the patrons accompanied his steps.

Setting the tray down on the table with a small smile on his lips, he slid into the seat across from you, feeling the soft cushioned chair beneath him.

Your eyes swept over the content of the tray before landing on the cream puff besides the latte. Your brow arched in disbelief. “Oh my God, you actually got it.”

“I did. Why? Did you think I wouldn’t? You thought I was bluffing?”

“Well, yeah. You’re always bluffing.”

The corner of his lips curled into a smirk at your surprise. Ken pushed your amnitsu closer to you before claiming his own plate. A faint whiff of the dessert’s sweet and rich scent rose to his nose, stirring his anticipation.

Picking up the fork, he scooped a bit of the cream cake and popped it in his mouth. He deliberately closed his eyes and let out an exaggerated, drawn-out moan of pleasure at the taste.

Even with his eyes shut, he could feel your gaze burning into him. He even took it a step further and started licking the cream off his lips.

When he opened his eyes, he found you pulling a face and he couldn’t help but give you a cheeky grin. “It’s delicious, by the way…”

“Hmm, it does look good.”

“Come on…you’ve been staring at it long enough. Have a bite.”

Ken took another spoon full of the dessert before holding it out to you. The moment you leaned in to reach for the spoon, he felt his heart spike and his senses on high alert— taking in every single detail of your action.

His eyes never left your mouth as they parted and closed delicately around the fork. He felt the fork grow lighter as you took the bite.

His focus stayed on your tongue flicking across your upper lip to catch the traces of cream and powdered sugar.

Witnessing it happen in real time was far more tantalising than his imagination— the sight was intoxicating.

He swallowed thickly, forcibly pushing the heat stirring in his chest.

A heat pooled in his gut, seeing you chew on the cake thoughtfully, completely oblivious to the effect you were having on him.

Ken inhaled sharply, trying to ground himself as he reached for a napkin. His hands trembled more than usual as he leaned forward and dapped the corner of your mouth to wipe away the cream you’d missed.

But instead of pulling back after, his thumb lingered, brushing over your lower lip— the same lips he had kissed feverishly in the past. The contact was light and featherlight but enough to make his stomach flip.

You froze under his touch, meeting his gaze. Your lips parted slightly to speak.

“Light and fluffy…”

“Mhm…” Ken hummed, completely distracted. Though he wasn’t sure if he was thinking about the cream puff you just had or the softness of your lips.

“Do you wanna try mine?”

Ken blinked rapidly, snapping out of his trance. Reluctantly, he pulled his hand away from your lips, the warmth of your skin fading too quickly.

But his attention turned to your bowl of anmitsu, taking in the vibrant layers of fruit, glossy jelly cubes, and the soft mochi balls.

“Sure…looks delicious.”

Taking the spoon you offered, scooped a piece of mochi and fruit from the bowl.

The fruits were cool and refreshing in his mouth, and blended with the mochi which gave a pleasantly chewy texture.

He handed the spoon back to you, still chewing on the mochi. You pushed the fruit and the mochi around in the bowl with the spoon meticulously.

“They put a lot of mochi in this.” you commented.

“Yeah, I’m not surprised.”

You reached for the brown sugar syrup that came with your anmitsu and poured it over the bowl. “Try it now.”

Ken scooped another bite, now coated in the syrup. The sugary bursts mixed with the fruits tang, and he let out a low hum of approval at the sweetness. “Hm…it does taste better.”

“Too sweet?”

“It’s already sweet enough, though I think you’re sweeter.”

“Corny.” you said, dragging out the word to emphasise your disapproval, though the faint smile on your lips betrayed you.

Ken chuckled at your reaction, he knew you were only disguising the effect his words were having on you.

He propped his elbow on the table, leaning his chin against his palm with his eyes drinking in the sight of you.

“It’s only corny because you get flustered every time. Did you see your face earlier? When I was talking about the cream puffs?”

You only rolled your eyes at his words, a grin forming on your lips now. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“So, you’re only putting up with me because I’m cute?”

“And maybe because you’re a star player and super rich and whatever.” you replied, twirling the spoon through the anmitsu and waving your hands dismissively.

Ken tilts his head, the back and forth banter bringing a warmth in his chest. Being with you like this— relaxed and unguarded— was a relief in ways he rarely allowed himself to think about.

Having conversations like this with you felt refreshing knowing he would tease and you’ll do it right back.

He tapped his finger against his chin in a mock pensiveness before responding back. “Right, so you’re telling me it's my money and status you’re after, not my dazzling personality or good looks?”

“Oh, that too, I guess.”

“Is that how it’s gonna be, princess? Pretending you don’t secretly like me for more than my money or looks.”

“And what if I said yes?”

“Well,” he said in mock contemplation. “I’d have to work extra hard to win you over. Though I’d say that I'm pretty confident I have a head start.”

“I think you might need to focus on getting on dad’s good side first.”

Something struck inside him at your words— like a whiplash. The mention of your father always hit differently, a reminder of the uneasy dynamic that lingered between them. Ken let out a short sigh, his chest tightening.

It was still a sore spot for him that Shimura initially disapproved of him and his less-than-stellar past behind— though it wasn’t unexpected.

Despite everything Ken had accomplished back in LA— leaving his troubles behind and earning his respect in the field— it seemed his reputation preceded him.

Shimura, along with his teammates, had always treated him like the brash American kid trying to catch up, even though he came back to Japan to prove him among his own people.

With you, however, it was the opposite. You didn’t see him as an outsider or just another player in your dads team. You made him feel like he belonged.

That contrast made moments like these jarring, as if he was living two different lives— one as your boyfriend, and the other as a player constantly trying to win over your father.

Ken’s tone shifted quickly to be more serious, exposing his vulnerability in his words.

“Yeah…I’m trying, princess. It’s just, I don’t want to screw things up and risk not being able to see you again like this.”

Ken took a sip from his latte, the beverage now lukewarm against his tongue, but his mind was elsewhere and far from the cozy warmth of the cafe.

He knew he shouldn’t be dwelling on the ‘what-ifs,’ not when he was on a date with you. But as he sat there, he couldn’t ignore the nagging thoughts that pulled him under. How different would his life be if things had turned out another way?

What if his mother had never taken him to LA? If he’d stayed in Japan, would Shimura still look at him with the faint edge of distrust?

Would he see him different— one who wasn’t marked by a childhood spent feeling like an outcast in a foreign country?

Ken’s jaws clenched. He had spent most of his life in America, trying to fit into a culture that didn’t quite know what to do with him. The bullying had been relentless, the teasing cutting deep in ways he hadn’t fully healed from, leaving the scar of isolation.

Friendships were distant at best. Romantic relationships were practically nonexistent. For a long time, he felt like no one truly saw him.

Even the rise to stardom with the Dodgers hadn’t changed that much. Sure, people admired him, celebrated with him— but it still felt hollow and fragile.

None of it felt real, not like this. Not like you.

He glanced at you across the table, your head down as you inspected your dessert in front of you. If he’d never returned to Japan, he wouldn’t be sitting here right now, sharing this quiet, intimate moment with the only person who truly sees him.

Still, a bitter reminder lingered in the back of his mind. Would he have risen to stardom at all if he hadn’t gone to LA? Despite how brutal it was, the isolation and struggles had shaped him— it made him resilient-driven.

Without those years of grit and loneliness , would he have had the means to lead the Giants to victory? Would he have been ready to take his father’s Ultraman duties when the time came?

Ken sighed again, finishing off the last bite of his cream puff before taking another sip of his latte. It really was strange, the way life worked.

The very things that had made him feel out of place— his complicated family history, his American upbringing, the expectation of following his father’s footsteps— had somehow led him here, with you.

However, the weight of those ‘what-ifs’ still pressed onto his chest. His life with you— a fragile happiness— was precarious. He couldn’t shake the fear that one wrong move could send it all crashing down.

Being caught in the act by your father. It made his throat constrict with anxiety. He already knew that Shimura didn’t trust him. What if that made him believe that he wasn’t good enough for you? That he couldn’t take care of you the way you deserve?

He took another sip from his latte, though it did little to sooth the knot in his chest.

“You know,” you began, not looking up from your bowl as you stirred the syrup into the anmitsu, “being with you makes it easier to forget about everything else.” you said, not looking up from your bowl as you spoke.

Your words caught him off guard, but the tension in his shoulders started to melt. His stunned expression softened, replaced by something gentler.

“Yeah…that’s part of why I like you so much. You make me forget about everything.” His cheeks flushed slightly how openly heartfelt he was now as the words left his mouth, but he didn’t shy away from their weight. “It’s like…you make me want to be a better man.”

He reached out and let his fingers skim across the back of your hand— a subtle touch that carried all his unspoken emotions that he struggled to articulate.

You paused, looking up at him. “I don’t think I can imagine your struggles…especially considering your money and fame overshadow all of that.”

“Everyone thinks that it's easy.” Ken’s lips quivered into a humourless smile. “Being a player admired by thousands. I guess some parts of it are great. But there’s still a lot of stress and pressure.”

He glanced down at the flakes of his cream puff on the empty plate with his thoughts flickering like the steam rising from his latte.

Expectation pulled at him from every corner of Ken’s life— like a massive tree, sprawling yet burdened.

The roots that ran deep were from his fathers influence. They were planted firmly in the soil of his childhood and enchtranched his upbringing and identity.

The roots were unshakable, just like his fathers legacy of being Ultraman— something he was expected to fulfill.

No matter how far he had gone, across the Pacific to LA, he’d never truly escape those roots. Even now they wound tighter around him, tethered to the ground he was expected to nurture.

Then there was the bark— the protective layer. That was Coach Shimura and his teammates. It shielded him from the eternal storms, but it wasn’t invincible. It still demanded so much from the tree itself.

Shimura’s expectations weren’t harsh, but they were heavy and carried their own weight. The bark was strong and steady, but sometimes, it felt like it was tightening. As if holding the tree too firmly in place.

But it was the branch of the tree that weighed him down the most— the fans and the public image. They reached far and wide, growing outwardly. Branches were supposed to flourish.

But how were they expected to grow if you don’t cater to its needs. That’s what it felt like for Ken.

One wrong move; one bad game, and they could snap off. Every game felt like a performance of those branches, trying to keep those intact, making sure they don’t fall under pressure.

But no matter how strong they appeared, Ken knew how easily they could break.

And then there were the leaves, fragile and fleeting— the opinion of the critics, the headlines of papers, the ever-shifting opinions on social media.

Leaves changed with the seasons. One day could be lush and green, full of praises and admiration. The next, they withered and fell, leaving the tree bare and exposed. Their praises were temporary and their critics were choppy.

Though the leaves were less permanent, they still needed care and their loss could hurt the tree entirely. However, Ken couldn’t stop the seasons from changing or the wind from blowing.

Ken swallowed thickly, his eyes glued to the table as his train of thoughts spiraled further. Being that tree sometimes felt like he was stretching thin, trying to meet the demands of every root, branch and leaf.

And then there was you.

You weren’t a part of that endless tree. Not another branch to hold up, nor another leaf to nourish. At least, not yet. But the fear gnawed at him, dark and persistent, whispering at the edges of his mind.

What if you have expectations too?

You hadn’t said much or demanded anything, but it was only natural, wasn’t it? Relationships are always built on unspoken agreements of needs, hopes, and desires.

What kind of boyfriend did you want him to be? What were you looking for in him? Would he ever be enough?

It wasn’t that he doubted your feelings for him. It was the pressure he felt to be the person that you deserved.

To always be charming, supportive, attentive. To make time for you despite his demanding career.

For so much of his life, he had been judged by the outside world— his performance, his persona, his wins, and his losses. The thought of being seen by you that way made his throat tighten.

What if one day, you grew tired of him or wasn’t getting what you wanted from him and left? The thought alone of the empty space you would leave behind broke his heart and made his mouth dry.

It was worse than losing a game, worse than headlines calling him a failure.

Even with the lighthearted conversation and teasing you just shared earlier, his doubts were almost impossible to shrug off.

His mind were a battlefield of his insecurities and worries, but the warmth of your hands that pulled him out of his dark thoughts startled him.

You brought his hand and gently kissed over his knuckles. “Even if things do turn out bad for you, I’ll still think you’re incredible.”

The affectionate gesture unravelled him, nearly spinning him off his axis from being flustered— his mind momentarily going blank.

It wasn’t just the kiss— it was the conviction in your voice. The quiet, unwavering way you said it.

He let out a quiet sigh, his eyes half-lidded as he leaned a little closer to you. The warmth of your kiss still lingered on his hand.

“You always know how to make me feel better.” he murmured, his voice carrying a sincerity he rarely let show.

“You’ll still have all of me, even if you mess up. And I know you’ll do the same.” You brow arched as you added, “Right?”

Ken tilted his head, an amused smirk played on his lips at your remark at the end. The tension in his chest was replaced by fond amusement.

“Of course I will. You think I’d trade you in for someone else?” his voice lowered, his eyes holding yours with an intensity that made his next words feel like a vow. “I'm not letting you go princess…not for anything.”

At that moment, the weight of the world seemed distant, as if the noise of expectations and pressure had diluted to a low hum.

He was so focused on looking at you, Ken didn’t notice you sneaking your hands across the table to reach for his coffee mug until you announced it.

“I’m taking a sip from your coffee.” you said, already snatching the cup.

Ken blinked, catching up to the present. “Hey…that’s mine.”

“I don’t have anything to wash down the mochi.”

“Hmm, can’t say no to that.”

Your face scrunched slightly in distaste after you took a sip. “You don’t put sugar in coffee?”

Ken shook his head and chuckled at the face you made. “No…I like the bitterness of the coffee. It’s more enjoyable that way.”

“I suppose the cream puff makes up for the sweetness.”

“No cream puffs for you any time soon if you keep stealing my drinks.”

“I don’t want anymore anyways,” you huffed in feigned offends. “Too bitter.”

“Awh what’s wrong? Can’t handle the taste of something that’s not over-sugared.”

“It’s not that…how do you drink that raw with no sugar?” your nose scrunched in mock indignation.

“I’m just used to it, I like the stronger taste of my coffee.” he glanced down at his coffee mug before looking back at you. “How could you drink something that’s so sweet?”

“It won’t be too sweet. The sugar just cancels out the bitterness.” you said, matter-of-factly.

Ken only rolled his eyes, responding with an exaggerated sweet tone. “Sure, princess. It’s not too sweet…just enough to make it a sugary drink instead of actually having a coffee taste.”

You pushed the mug back to him, waving off his dramatics. It was almost cathartic how the conversation could go from heartfelt and tender to teasing and flirting, like a flip of a switch.

With you, it always felt right, like stepping into the sun after being caught in the rain.

Ken shook his head at your dismissal, lifting the mug to take another sip of the latte. He didn’t mind the bitterness, especially if it meant sharing more moments with you.

Your eyes flickered past him, freezing on something near the cafe entrance.

“Crap.” you muttered.

Ken’s brow furrowed before turning to see where you were looking. Blood rushed in his ear the moment he spotted his teammates walking through the door.

Their presence wasn't loud or disruptive, but rather casual as they made their way towards the counter. The familiar jerseys and laughter sent a jolt of panic through him and a look of slight trepidation crossed his face.

“Crap…” he echoed your words, quickly turning back to you. “I think that’s our queue to leave.”

What were the odds? The cafe was in a quiet area, far from the usual hotspots, and yet here they were. His shoulders stiffened as he scanned the room, trying to gauge if anyone had spotted you.

Ken stood up first, his chair scraped softly against the floor. They weren’t looking in your direction but it was only a matter of time if you both stayed there any longer.

His voice lowered in your ear. “Come on.”

His hands found your wrist, lightly gripping it as he guided you towards the door without being noticed.

“They haven’t seen us, yet.” you said, glancing nervously at the group.

“Let’s not give them the chance.” His voice was barely audible, and his grip on your wrist tightened as you both made it to the door.

The air in the cafe felt heavier with every step. Ken’s pulse quickened and he resisted the urge to look over his shoulder.

The brass of the door handle was cool against Ken’s palm as he pushed it open. The cool breeze brushed against his face, a welcome contrast to the tension that had knotted inside.

The cafe, once a warm refuge that provided comfort, now felt like a minefield— every glance a potential threat.

Ken scanned the area of anybody potentially following you both. The buzz of distant traffic and the rustle leaves were the only signs that greeted you. Once he was satisfied, he let out a loud sigh of relief.

“So, where to now?” you asked, breaking the silence.

“We should probably get off this street and go somewhere else more quiet…and private.”

Ken turned down the corner, his strides confident but unhurried. The two of you emerged into an empty car park bathed in the dim, orange glow of streetlights.

Everything else felt insignificant now, far from the predicament from the cafe or the traffic beyond. Ken led the way toward the far corner, where a sleek bike rested— its polished surface gleaming under the lights.

“Is that your bike?” you gasped, taking in the sigh that was in front of you.

“Yeah, that’s my ride.” The pride was evident in his voice and his expression, seeing the look on your face.

“It’s beautiful.” The genuine awe in your voice sent a ripple through him.

He didn’t say anything, only gave the bike a fond pat before throwing his leg over it and settling into the seat.

“You up for a quick cruise?”

“You sure?”

“Of course. Have you ever been on one?”

“No….” you admitted sheepishly, your eyes darted to the floor out of shyness. He felt a hint of his male ego spike at that, his eyes roaming at your figure.

“Well,” he said, shifting forward on the seat to give you room. “I guess I’ll be your first ride, then. Hop on— I’ll take care of you.”

You hesitated for a moment, your hands brushing against the cool leather of the seat.

“Have you ever had a woman ride behind you before?” you asked. Ken didn’t miss the flicker of doubt in your voice

His hands tightened on the handlebar, looking back at you. It wasn’t the question that threw him off but the way you asked it.

He recognised the insecurity, the way it slipped out almost against your own will. And it hit him harder than expected.

The idea that you might think he was the type to collect fleeting connections and one night stands stung.

“Of course not.” His voice was steady, stripped of its usual tease. “You’re the only one I’d ever want to give a ride to.

You let out a small, nervous laugh at that. “I guess I’ll be your first, too.”

Ken chuckled, patting the seat behind him. “Damn right you will be.”

He wouldn’t admit it, but making you feel secure in this moment felt more important than anything else.

Ken’s joyrides were something sacred— his personal retreat from the noise and chaos. The familiar rumble of the engine had always been his companion, a constant source of solace.

It wasn’t something shared with anyone. Ever.

But now, as you stood next to the leather seat, it struck him how different this felt. Letting you into this part of his life was like cracking open a private door, one he’d never let anybody step into.

The thrill of it sent a flutter through him, both exhilarating and unnerving.

You finally took your seat behind him, and the shift in weight sent a wave of awareness through him. He swallowed hard when it suddenly hit him how close you were behind him.

Then your arms wrapped tightly around his waist, and he felt his nerves spike. The heat of your fingertips grazed his abdomen sent little sparks of electricity through his body.

It wasn’t fear he was feeling but an intensity he wasn’t prepared for.

He let out a shallow breath as he felt your body pressed even closer. The sight of you behind him in the side mirror was enough to draw in a quick breath.

With a flick of the kill switch, the bike roared to life beneath him. The vibration and the sound broke the stillness, carrying you both out of the car park and into the Tokyo streets at an incredible speed.

The neon glow of the city painted streaks of light across the dark streets, and the hum of the traffic blurred in the background.

It was just you and him with the quiet rhythm of your trust that kept him grounded.

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬: @despacito-uwu16 @roserfz27

[the-winter-spider]

Invisible | Part 9

Pairing: Bucky x Reader AU

Word Count: 4.7k

Warnings: Attempted SA, Angst, language

A/N: So i have like 4 other parts done but i wanted to do more of an insight on Bucky and her relationship, so this is strictly just a chapter filled with Flashbacks!

P.S i do plan on updating my links to my masterlist & masterposts but links arent fricking working for me rn

1 Year ago

It was a Saturday night, and you, Bucky, Sam, and a few others had headed out to one of your favorite bars. The place was packed, neon lights casting a warm, vibrant glow over the tables and booths, music pulsing just loud enough to fill the space without drowning out conversation. After a few drinks, the energy in the room had settled into that perfect, cozy buzz.

You and Bucky were at the bar, leaning against the counter, laughing as you recounted a ridiculous story from your college days. He was right next to you, his arm resting on the bar behind you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him. His gaze hadn’t left you, his blue eyes alight with that look he sometimes had—a mix of mischief and something softer, something that made your heart race.

“You’re the worst,” you say, shaking your head with a grin. “I still can’t believe you did that.”

He laughs, his hand brushing against your arm as he shifts closer, his voice low. “Oh, come on. You’re not that surprised. You know I’d do anything for a laugh, especially yours"

You roll your eyes warmth creeping up your neck to your cheeks, trying to ignore the thrill that sparks at the brush of his fingers. “You just like the attention, Barnes.”

He raises an eyebrow, tilting his head slightly, a smirk playing on his lips. “And you don’t?”

You laugh, nudging him playfully. “Please, I’m a saint compared to you.”

“Oh, really?” His grin widens, and he leans in, his face so close you can feel his breath against your cheek. “Guess we’ll have to see who’s the real troublemaker tonight, won’t we?”

For a moment, your breath catches, your heart pounding as you meet his gaze, feeling the air between you grow thick with anticipation. His hand lingers on the bar behind you, fingers inching just a little closer to your arm. You’re not sure if it’s the drinks, the atmosphere, or just the way he’s looking at you, but there’s a flicker of hope in your chest—a spark that maybe, just maybe, tonight could be different. Maybe this time, he might see you the way you see him.

Just as you’re about to say something, to lean into the moment a little more, Sam walks up, nudging Bucky with an all-too-knowing grin before tossing his arm over your shoulder.

“Hey, Buck,” Sam says, nodding toward the other end of the bar. “Girl over there by the corner table? She asked for your number.” Sam winks, then jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “I just kept her friend busy for you, told her our little Stevie was single.”

You glance over to the area Sam pointed to, and sure enough, Steve gives you a polite smile while he’s in the middle of what seems to be a very animated conversation with a brunette.

Bucky pulls back slightly, and you feel the shift immediately, that warm intensity slipping away. He turns to glance over his shoulder, a grin tugging at his lips. “Did she now?” he asks, smirking at Sam.

Sam shrugs. “You know how it is. She’s cute too. Don’t keep her waiting.”

Bucky chuckles, then turns back to you, his gaze meeting yours, and there’s a glint in his eye—a playful lightness that makes your heart drop. “Well,” he says, his voice low, his eyes lingering on yours for just a beat too long, something swimming in those blue depths that you can’t quite decipher. “Duty calls.”

Your stomach twists, and you force yourself to smile, giving a small shrug as you try to brush it off. “Yeah, go work your charm,” you say, injecting as much playfulness into your voice as you can manage. “Wouldn’t want to keep the girl waiting.”

He stares at you for a second, almost like he wants to say something else, like he’s about to—but then he gives you a small, regretful smile, and the moment slips away. “Catch you in a bit,” he says, squeezing your shoulder before he turns and heads toward the girl waiting across the bar.

You watch him go, the hope you’d felt moments ago dissolving into something familiar—a quiet, persistent ache that you know all too well. As he laughs with the girl, you turn back to your drink, forcing a smile as you remind yourself that this is just the way it is. He’s Bucky, your best friend, and that’s all you’ll ever be.

Sam steps in front of you, raising an eyebrow. “If you want, I can be your wingman too. Can’t be that hard to find someone for you.”

You let out a soft sigh, shaking your head. “I’m good, Sammy. Thanks, though. I think I’m just gonna go over and gossip with the girls,” you say, nodding toward Natasha and Wanda, who seem deep in a debate about something.

He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

You grab your beer and, with one last glance over your shoulder, your eyes meet Bucky’s. He’s looking at you again, even as the girl next to him leans in closer, talking animatedly. For a second, it’s just the two of you, caught in the kind of look that makes your heart ache with everything unsaid.

But then he blinks, turning back to the girl with a charming smile, and the spell is broken. You swallow hard, blinking back the sting of tears as you head toward Natasha and Wanda, already preparing to laugh and distract yourself from the quiet ache in your chest.

6 months ago

You and Bucky had the apartment to yourselves, waiting for the others to arrive for a long-promised game night. The coffee table was scattered with board games and cards, and you were already a couple of drinks in, feeling that familiar warmth that made everything just a little funnier, a little sweeter, a little more electric.

“Alright, your move,” you say with a grin, watching him frown as he studies the board like it’s the most serious puzzle in the world.

Bucky groans, running a hand through his hair. “You think you’re gonna beat me at this, but you’re dead wrong.”

“Oh, yeah?” You raise an eyebrow, leaning forward. “Pretty sure I’m about to wipe the floor with you, Barnes.”

His eyes light up, and he leans forward to match your energy, his face only inches from yours. “Big talk for someone who’s two turns away from total disaster,” he teases, his voice low and playful. There’s a sparkle in his eye, something mischievous and warm, and for a split second, you wonder if you’re imagining it.

You laugh, taking another sip of your drink as you try to focus on the game instead of the way his gaze lingers on you. “I don’t know, you look pretty nervous to me,” you say, flicking a card onto the table. “Face it, Buck. I’m the game night champion.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “I’d like to see you prove it.”

The banter flows easily, a familiar back-and-forth that makes your heart race in a way you can’t fully control. You’ve been friends for so long, but there are nights like this, nights where you’re alone, laughing, sharing drinks, and leaning just a bit closer than usual. Nights where you feel that little flicker of something more, and you wonder if maybe—just maybe—he feels it too.

As the game goes on, Bucky’s hand finds its way to the back of the couch, so close that you can feel the warmth radiating from his skin. You’re hyper-aware of every small shift, every slight brush of his hand against your shoulder when he leans in to check the board, and your heart races each time, a small thrill sparking at the possibility that this could be… more.

Suddenly, he looks over at you, his face serious, his voice softer. “You know… we make a pretty good team, don’t we?”

Your breath catches, and for a second, you think you see something in his gaze—something that feels as real as the pounding in your chest, as tangible as the way his arm brushes against yours. You can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips, feeling bold and just tipsy enough to flirt back.

“Maybe,” you murmur, meeting his gaze. “But I think I’m the one carrying this team.”

Bucky laughs, a soft, warm sound, and he leans a little closer, his eyes locked on yours. “Is that so?”

Bucky’s voice is low, teasing, but there’s something different in the way he’s looking at you now. The playful edge in his grin softens, his gaze dipping briefly to your lips before flicking back up to your eyes. The space between you feels smaller, more intimate, and the usual banter takes on a weight that makes your pulse quicken.

You tilt your head slightly, your smile turning sly. “Yeah, pretty sure I’ve been carrying this whole operation.”

He chuckles, the sound rumbling low in his chest, and then, almost without thinking, his hand shifts. His fingers brush against your knee, just a light, casual touch, but it sends a spark through you. You glance down briefly, then back up at him, your heart pounding.

“Well, maybe I just like letting you think you’re in charge,” Bucky says, his voice softer now, almost a murmur.

You can’t help but smile at that, leaning in just a fraction, testing the waters. “Oh, is that it? You’re just letting me win?”

“Maybe,” he replies, his hand sliding just a bit further along your knee, his thumb brushing gently against the fabric of your jeans. It’s subtle, but the warmth of his touch is undeniable.

Your breath catches, and you lean closer, your faces now only inches apart. His eyes flicker between yours, searching, and for a moment, it feels like the entire world has narrowed down to just the two of you. His hand moves from your knee, trailing up to lightly rest on your arm, his fingers grazing your skin in a way that sends a shiver down your spine.

“Bucky…” you start, your voice barely above a whisper, but he cuts you off with a soft smile, his tone earnest.

“There’s no one else I’d rather be doing this with,” he says, his eyes locking onto yours. “You know that, right?”

Your heart swells, the words hitting you in a way that feels both comforting and exhilarating. “Yeah,” you murmur, your voice shaky but steady. “I know.”

His hand drifts up, gently brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch lingering as his fingers graze your cheek. His gaze dips to your lips again, and you swear he’s leaning in. The air between you is electric, charged with everything you’ve never said but have always felt.

Just as his nose brushes against yours, the front door bursts open with a loud bang.

“We’re here!” Sam’s voice echoes through the apartment, followed by the sound of boots thudding on the floor.

You and Bucky pull apart instantly, the moment shattering as Steve, Natasha, and Wanda pile in behind Sam, all carrying snacks and drinks, their laughter filling the room.

Bucky lets out a quiet, frustrated sigh, his hand falling away as he leans back, plastering on a grin. “About time,” he calls out, his voice slightly strained. “Thought you guys got lost.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow, glancing between the two of you as she sets a bag of chips on the counter. “Interrupt something?” she asks, her tone playful but curious.

You quickly shake your head, forcing a laugh as you grab your drink. “Just Bucky losing at game night already.”

“Losing?” Bucky scoffs, giving you a pointed look that’s equal parts teasing and frustrated. “We both know who’s winning here.”

Natasha smirks but doesn’t push further, and soon everyone is settling in, chattering and laughing as the game night kicks off. But as you glance at Bucky across the room, catching the way his gaze lingers on you for just a moment too long, you can’t help but wonder what might have happened if you’d had just a few more minutes alone.

For the rest of the night, you can’t shake the lingering feeling, the memory of his voice, of that look in his eyes. It was just a moment—one small moment—but it was enough to spark the hope that maybe, just maybe, he feels it too.

2 Years ago

The apartment was still in chaos, boxes piled high and scattered across the floor, but it didn’t matter. You and Bucky sat in the middle of it all, the weight of the day settling into a calm, contented silence. The others had just left—Steve, Sam, Natasha, and Wanda had helped you haul everything up, cracking jokes and making the place feel alive. But now it was just you two, sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by your new life together.

Bucky let out a long breath, leaning back on his hands as he looked around. “We did it,” he said, a soft grin spreading across his face. “We finally did it, doll.”

You smiled, watching the way his eyes lit up despite the exhaustion written across his features. “Yeah, we did,” you said, your voice filled with quiet pride. “Out of that shithole town, finally graduated university… and now we’ve got our own place.”

“Our own place,” Bucky repeated, like he was tasting the words. He chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. “Feels like we’ve been talking about this forever. And now we’re here.”

You nodded, leaning back against one of the boxes. “Feels kinda surreal.”

Bucky shifted closer, his knee brushing against yours, and you felt your heart skip a beat. His eyes softened as he looked at you, his voice dropping to a more intimate tone. “There’s no one else I’d rather do life with than you, you know that, right?”

His words sent a warm flutter through your chest, and you could barely breathe as his hand reached up, grazing your cheek lightly. His touch was soft, almost reverent, and for a moment, the air between you felt charged with something unspoken, something deeper.

You swallowed, leaning into his touch, your voice barely above a whisper. “Best friends for life,” you said, trying to keep your tone light even as your heart raced.

Bucky smiled, his thumb brushing against your skin for a second longer before he pulled his hand back. “Yeah,” he murmured, his eyes lingering on yours. “Or… something like that.”

For a moment, it felt like time slowed, the weight of his words hanging between you. You wondered if he felt it too, this quiet pull that seemed to draw you closer every time you were alone together.

But before you could say anything more, the buzzer rang loudly, breaking the spell. Bucky blinked, then let out a laugh, standing up quickly. “Must be the pizza,” he said, shooting you a grin as he walked over to the intercom.

You stayed where you were, heart still beating fast as you watched him, the warmth of his earlier words still lingering in the room. But of course, that's all it would ever do…linger.

High School Junior Year

The school hallways buzzed with the usual Friday afternoon energy. Lockers slammed, laughter echoed, and plans for the weekend floated through the air. You were at your locker, pretending to search for a book, but really you were just trying to hold it together. The tears that threatened to fall were barely contained, your heart still raw from the breakup that had blindsided you during lunch.

You’d thought he was different. Ryan, the quiet, sweet boy from your English class, had seemed so perfect. But today, he’d told you it wasn’t working, that he wanted to see other people, well that he already had been seeing other people, well that you caught him with said other person…..Trina.

You took a deep breath, but it didn’t help. The lump in your throat only grew as you heard his laugh down the hall, carefree as if nothing had happened.

“Hey, you okay?” Natasha’s voice pulled you from your spiralling thoughts. She leaned casually against the locker next to yours, her sharp green eyes studying you.

You quickly wiped at your eyes, forcing a smile. “Yeah, fine. Just tired.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “Tired or heartbroken?”

You let out a shaky laugh, but before you could answer, Steve appeared, his face immediately softening when he saw you.

“What’s going on?” Steve asked, glancing between you and Natasha.

“Ryan,” Natasha said bluntly, crossing her arms.

Steve’s face darkened, his usual calm demeanor shifting into protective mode. “That idiot. You want me to talk to him?”

You shook your head quickly. “No, Steve, please don’t. It’s not worth it.”

Before he could argue, Natasha’s gaze flicked down the hall. “Uh-oh. Here comes Bucky.”

Your stomach twisted as you turned to see Bucky walking toward you, hand in hand with Stacy, his girlfriend. Stacy was all smiles, tossing her long hair over her shoulder as she talked animatedly. Bucky’s expression softened the second he saw you, his sharp blue eyes narrowing with concern.

“You look like you’ve been crying,” Bucky said the moment he reached you, his voice low and familiar in a way that made your defenses crumble.

“I’m fine,” you lied, trying to brush past him. “I’ve gotta go.”

“Hey, wait—” Bucky grabbed your arm gently, his eyes searching yours. “What happened?”

“Bucky,” Stacy said, clearly annoyed, tugging on his hand. “We’re gonna miss the movie.”

Bucky ignored her, his full attention on you. “What’s wrong?”

You shook your head, the tears you’d been holding back finally spilling over. “It’s nothing. Just… Ryan cheated on me, okay? It doesn’t matter.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, his gaze flicking over to where Ryan was laughing with his friends. His protective instincts kicked in immediately, but before he could say anything, you pulled your arm free.

“I just need to be alone,” you said, your voice cracking as you turned and rushed down the hall, ignoring the concerned calls from Steve and Natasha.

You made it outside, the cool autumn air biting against your skin as you walked aimlessly down the street, the tears falling freely now. You were so caught up in your thoughts that you didn’t hear the footsteps behind you until a familiar voice called out.

“Hey, stop.”

You turned to see Bucky jogging toward you, his face filled with worry. Stacy was nowhere in sight.

“Bucky, what are you doing? You’re supposed to be with Stacy, its movie night"

“Forget Stacy, forget the stupid movie” he said, his voice firm as he closed the distance between you. Without another word, he pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly as you broke down completely.

You clung to him, the weight of your heartbreak finally crashing over you. “Why does it hurt so much?” you whispered, your voice muffled against his chest.

Bucky stroked your hair gently, his voice soft. “Because you cared. But you’re gonna be okay, doll. I promise.”

For a moment, it felt like the rest of the world disappeared. Bucky’s presence was steady and grounding, and for the first time that day, you felt like you could breathe again.

“Bucky!” Stacy’s voice cut through the moment like a knife. You looked up to see her standing a few feet away, her arms crossed, her face a mixture of anger and hurt. “What the hell is this?”

Bucky sighed, but he didn’t let go of you. “Stacy, not now.”

“Not now?” she repeated, her voice rising. “I’m your girlfriend, Bucky! And I’m so sick of being second to her.” She jabbed a finger in your direction, her voice trembling with frustration. “It’s always about her. You’re always running after her, putting her first.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, and he finally released you, stepping forward. His voice was calm but firm. “Stacy, you knew how important she was to me when we started this. She’s my best friend.”

“She’s not just your best friend! Not the way i see it!” Stacy snapped, her eyes filling with tears. “If you’re not willing to put me first, then maybe we shouldn’t be together.”

Bucky hesitated for a moment, his face unreadable. Then he spoke, his voice steady and certain. “If it’s between you and her, Stacy, I’ll always choose her.”

Stacy’s face crumpled, and she let out a bitter laugh. “Unbelievable,” she muttered, shaking her head before turning and walking away, her footsteps echoing down the street.

Bucky stood there for a moment, watching her go, then turned back to you. His expression softened as he reached out, gently wiping a tear from your cheek. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “You didn’t need to see that.”

You shook your head, your heart aching in a different way now. “Bucky, you didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did,” he said firmly. “You’ve always been the most important person in my life. I’m not gonna let anyone change that.”

You stared at him, your heart full of emotions you couldn’t quite put into words. Finally, you managed a small, shaky smile. “Best friends for life, right?”

Bucky’s lips curved into a soft smile, and he nodded. “Yeah, doll. Best friends for life.”

And for that moment, it was enough.

University Year 2

The air was thick with the mingling scents of bonfire smoke, cheap beer, and the faint tang of weed. Laughter and music drifted through the clearing, blending into a chaotic symphony that pulsed through the crowd. The college bush party was in full swing, and you'd thought being here with your friends-and Nick-would be a good way to unwind.

But now, you were far from the warm glow of the fire, your back pressed against the rough bark of a tree as Nick leaned in, his hands sliding lower and lower. At first, you didn't think much of it. A kiss here, a touch there. But then his hands started to roam places you weren't ready for.

"Nick, no... I'm not ready," you murmured, pulling back slightly.

"Come on," he whispered, his lips brushing against your neck, ignoring your words. His hands tightened on your hips, pulling you closer. "We've been together for a month. You trust me, right?"

You stiffened, your heart starting to race-not with excitement, but with unease. "Nick, I'm serious. Stop," you said, your voice firmer now.

But he didn't stop. His hands moved to your chest, squeezing, and you froze for a moment, shock and panic locking you in place.

"I said no!" you shouted, your voice shaking as you shoved at his chest.

He barely budged, his grip tightening.

"Relax," he muttered, his tone annoyed now. "Stop being so uptight."

Fear and anger surged through you, and you pushed harder, your voice cracking. "Get off me!"

Before he could respond, Nick was suddenly yanked backward, ripped away from you with such force that he stumbled and fell to the ground. "What the hell?" Nick gasped, but his words were cut off as

Bucky loomed over him, his jaw tight, eyes blazing with fury. "She said no," Bucky growled, his voice low and deadly as he grabbed Nick by the collar. "You don't fucking touch her when she says no."

Without waiting for a response, Bucky's fist connected with Nick's face, the crack of bone meeting bone cutting through the night. Nick's head snapped back, and he let out a strangled curse, but Bucky didn't stop. He landed another punch, his face twisted with rage.

"Bucky, stop!" you cried, your voice trembling as you stumbled forward, tears streaming down your face. "Please, stop!"

Nick raised his arms in a feeble attempt to shield himself. "What the fuck, man? Get off me!" he shouted, his voice muffled by Bucky's relentless assault.

The commotion quickly drew attention. Steve appeared out of nowhere, his face a mix of confusion and alarm as he grabbed Bucky's shoulders, yanking him off of Nick. "Buck, what the hell are you doing?" Steve demanded, holding him back.

Bucky's chest heaved, his fists still clenched, his knuckles already bruised. "He wouldn't stop, Steve," Bucky spat, his voice raw with fury. "She told him to stop, and he wouldn't fucking stop."

Steve froze, his eyes darting to you. The second he saw your tear-streaked face, his expression shifted, the anger fading into something colder, sharper. "Is that true?" he asked softly, his voice low.

You nodded, wrapping your arms around yourself as a fresh wave of tears spilled over. Steve's jaw tightened, his fists clenching as he turned back to Nick, who was still lying on the ground, blood trickling from his nose. "You piece of shit," Steve muttered, starting to step forward.

Bucky caught Steve's arm, holding him back this time. "Don't," Bucky said, his voice steadier now but no less dangerous. "He's not worth it."

Nick groaned, sitting up and wiping at his nose. "You're both fucking crazy," he muttered, staggering to his feet. "All this for some prude?"

Bucky's grip on Steve tightened, but he stayed rooted in place as Nick continued. "She's not worth it," Nick sneered, his voice laced with bitterness. "A month of dating, and she won't even put out? She's not even that hot. Stupid bitch."

You flinched at his words, but before you could react, Bucky's jaw clenched, and his eyes darkened. He turned on his heel, closing the distance between you in two quick strides. Without a word, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest. "It's okay," Bucky murmured, his voice soft now, his hand cradling the back of your head. "You're safe. I've got you."

You broke down completely, your hands clutching at his shirt as sobs wracked your body. His hold was steady, grounding, and you felt the tension in your chest start to ease, even as the pain of Nick's words lingered.

Steve, meanwhile, kept his eyes locked on Nick, his expression cold. "You need to leave. Now," Steve said, his voice like steel.

Nick scoffed, spitting blood onto the ground. "Whatever," he muttered, turning and staggering away into the darkness.

Steve let out a breath, his fists slowly unclenching as he turned back to you and Bucky. "You okay?" he asked quietly, his voice filled with concern.

You nodded weakly, your voice barely audible. "I will be."

Bucky tightened his hold on you, his chin resting lightly on the top of your head. "You'll never have to go through that again," he whispered, just loud enough for you to hear. "I promise."

Bucky continued to hold you, his hand gently stroking your hair as your breathing began to even out. His heart was still racing beneath your cheek, but his touch was steady, grounding you as the fear and panic slowly ebbed away. For a long moment, the two of you stood there, wrapped in a cocoon of quiet comfort, the distant sounds of the party fading into the background.

Finally, you pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him. His face was softer now, the sharp edges of his anger replaced with a quiet concern that made your chest ache. “Thank you, Bucky,” you whispered, your voice still shaky but full of sincerity. “For everything.”

Bucky’s eyes searched yours, his expression unreadable for a moment before he gave you a small, gentle smile. He reached up, his thumb brushing away a stray tear from your cheek. “You don’t have to thank me,” he said softly, his voice low and steady. “I’d do anything for you. You know that, right?”

Your heart swelled at his words, the weight of them settling over you in a way that felt both comforting and overwhelming. You nodded, your voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah… I know.”

Bucky held your gaze for a moment longer, his hand lingering on your cheek before he finally let it fall. He glanced over at Steve, who stood a few feet away, still watching you both with quiet concern.

“You good?” Steve asked, his tone softer now.

You nodded again, wiping at your eyes. “Yeah… I think so.”

Steve gave a small nod, his jaw still tight, but he didn’t push further. “Let’s get you home,” he said. “This party’s over.”

Bucky wrapped an arm around your shoulders, keeping you close as the three of you made your way back toward the clearing. The warmth of his touch, the quiet strength in his presence, reminded you once again that with him by your side, you were never truly alone.

And as you walked away from the chaos of the night, you couldn’t help but feel a little more whole, knowing that no matter what, Bucky would always have your back

[heliosunny]

Can you write for Fyodor x reader but Fyodor breaks the 4th wall? Like let's say Reader is playing a dating sim (a Fyodor x player but he made the game for the reader only), and he suddenly came to the real world or maybe he brings reader to his world.

- 🐢🐢

Game Over

The pulsating bass of the party still rang in your head, a dull ache accompanying the regret of ever agreeing to attend. Those old classmates of yours hadn't changed, still caught up in their endless cycle of bragging, comparing salaries, and reminiscing about a past you’d rather forget. You had drowned your discomfort in liquor, yet even that hadn’t dulled your irritation.

Somehow, in your drunken stupor, you had stumbled out into the cold streets. The neon glow of the city blurred, the night swallowing you whole. And then, the shop—an old thing nestled between towering buildings, its presence oddly out of place. It hadn't been there before, had it? Yet the warm glow spilling from within, the strangely inviting air of it, had pulled you in like a moth to flame.

The shopkeeper had been a peculiar man. His smile too knowing, his demeanor too welcoming. But in your haze, you'd ignored the way his gaze lingered as he handed you a small, nondescript box. "For you" he'd said, as if he'd been expecting you.

Now, morning had come, and with it, confusion.

Your room was a disaster- clothes strewn across the floor, the scent of alcohol lingering in the air. Your phone, barely clinging to life, vibrated against your nightstand.

Bzzt. Bzzt.

Your blurry vision struggled to focus on the notification. A message? No, an app. One you didn’t remember installing.

[Y/n! Where are you!]

The text flashed urgently on the screen, the sender’s name standing out like a brand against your sleep-addled mind.

[Fyodor]

Your pulse stuttered.

That name, it was from the game. A dating sim you barely recalled playing, a strange little thing you had downloaded on a whim. But why was it sending you real-time notifications? Why was it acting like it knew you?

Another vibration.

[Don't make me come find you, dear.]

Your breath hitched, the eerie affection woven into the words sinking in like cold fingers tracing down your spine.

Then, your screen flickered. And for the briefest second, in the reflection of your phone’s darkened screen, you swore you saw him.

A knock echoed through your apartment.

Your body went rigid, the sound slicing through the hazy remnants of sleep. No one ever visited unannounced. Heart pounding, you hesitated before swinging your legs over the side of the bed. The floor felt unnaturally cold beneath your feet as you forced yourself toward the door.

Another knock. This time, softer. Almost...patient.

With a deep breath, you unlocked the door and cracked it open.

Dark eyes stared back at you.

Fyodor stood there, impossibly real, a slow smile curving his lips. "Ah, there you are" he murmured, stepping forward before you could even think to close the door. "Did you really think you could ignore me?"

You blinked, and he was gone.

The door stood ajar, the hallway empty. A chill ran down your spine as you stepped back, shaking your head. Had you imagined it? The notification, the knock, the voice? Your hands trembled as you shut the door, locking it this time.

But he didn’t stop.

Every time you turned, a flicker of shadow, the edge of a smirk in the mirror, the lingering feeling of being watched. Your phone continued its relentless messages, each one more intimate, more knowing.

[You look lovely today.]

[Still doubting me, my love? You’ll understand soon enough.]

And then, one evening, you turned and he was there.

No flickering illusion, no hazy afterimage. Fyodor stood in your room, arms crossed, expression filled with something terrifyingly tender.

“You can’t keep pretending, Y/n” he whispered, reaching out to touch your cheek. “I am here.”

His fingers were warm, real. Your mind reeled, struggling to comprehend how—how he had stepped from the screen into your world.

The soft brush of his touch sent a jolt through you. "How—?" The word barely left your lips before he chuckled, the sound a dark melody.

"Does it matter?" Fyodor mused, tilting his head. "I’ve always been watching. And now, I’m finally home."

At first, you were the only one who noticed him. The world carried on as if he didn’t exist, as if he was merely a hallucination. But slowly, that changed. Your neighbors greeted him by name, spoke of your supposed relationship as though it had always been there. The barista at your favorite café asked how long you two had been together. Your coworkers assumed he had always been part of your life.

And the scariest part? He played along effortlessly.

“My darling has always been so shy about us” Fyodor would say, eyes gleaming with quiet amusement. “But we’re inseparable, aren’t we, love?”

You considered him a threat at first, a nightmare made real. But you had no means of getting rid of him. He was untouchable, undeniable. So you did the only thing you could—you lived with him.

Living together was an adjustment. At first, you avoided him. "Don’t you have something better to do?" you'd snap when he lounged on your couch, flipping idly through a book.

He’d only smirk. "Why would I? You are my purpose, after all."

Small things changed. He memorized your routine, always having a meal ready when you got home. "You don’t eat enough" he chided when you raised an eyebrow at the plate of food.

"What are you, my mom?"

"No, love. But I can be anything you want." His smile sent shivers down your spine.

You grew used to his presence, even his dry humor. One morning, you groggily sat at the kitchen table, sipping your coffee. "You made this?"

"Naturally." He sat across from you, resting his chin on his hand. "Did you expect poison?"

"Wouldn’t be surprised."

He chuckled, his gaze lingering. "If I wanted you gone, milaya, I wouldn't be here ensuring you wake up in my arms every morning."

Eventually, you let him stay.

You even introduced him to your parents.

He was charming, effortless in his deception, painting a perfect picture of a devoted lover. And in time, you found yourself wanting it to be real.

But then, near your parents’ house, you ran into your childhood friend.

“Y/n? Wow, it’s been years!” Your friend grinned, pulling you into a warm hug. “You look great! Still remember all those dumb games we used to play?”

Fyodor’s grip on your shoulder tightened, almost unnoticeably. "Oh? A childhood friend?" He tilted his head, his smile pleasant. "How endearing."

“Ah, and this must be your boyfriend?” Your friend turned to Fyodor, offering a handshake.

Fyodor took it, his grip firm, his smile unfaltering. "Yes. We've been together for quite some time now." His fingers curled slightly around your waist. "Haven't we, darling?"

You swallowed, nodding. "Uh, yeah."

Your friend beamed. "Well, I should catch up with you sometime!"

"No need" Fyodor said smoothly. "Y/n is quite... occupied these days. Aren't you, love?"

And just like that, the illusion of safety shattered. But when you looked at him, all you saw was his usual, gentle smile. Something bad will definitely happen, not to you, of course. You looked away, so was he, but the direction where he was looking is at that childhood friend of yours. He will vanish, soon.

[thatnightlamp]

Super toxic Horus because why not.

WARNING: Cheating, Gaslisght, Manipulate relationship.

You met Horus Lupercal on a rainy evening in a city that never truly slept. The streets gleamed with oil-slick reflections of neon lights, and the air stank of ambition. You remember how his presence filled the room before you even turned your head. There was something impossible about him — as if the air itself bent to accommodate his will.

You didn’t stand a chance.

His eyes found yours across the crowded bar. Sharp, unrelenting, almost gold in the flickering light. The man who would devour empires and swallow them whole smiled at you like you were the most interesting thing in the world. For that one moment, maybe you were.

He bought you a drink. Something expensive you couldn’t pronounce. It didn’t matter. The warmth of it in your throat was nothing compared to the heat of his attention.

You should have left then. You should have walked away when he asked for your name, leaning in so close his breath tickled your ear. But you didn’t. Of course you didn’t.

Because no one walks away from Horus Lupercal.

The first few weeks felt like a dream. Dinners in rooftop gardens above the city smog. Cars with tinted windows, always waiting at the curb. His voice, low and rough with some unnamed accent, calling you “love” like it was a private joke only the two of you shared.

He made you laugh. Made you feel clever. Important.

And when he spoke of himself — the pressure of leading his company, the false smiles of board members, the weight of expectation — you listened. You let him bleed into you, piece by piece.

You told yourself you were different from the others. That you weren’t like the trembling executive assistants, the nervous PR officers. You weren’t just another name in his contact list.

You were special.

He told you so.

“You’re the only one who sees me, love,” he murmured once, half-drunk, his head in your lap as the city lights bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse. “The only one who isn’t afraid.”

But you were. You just didn’t know it yet.

The first fight came on a Sunday morning.

You’d gone to meet an old friend for coffee — someone you hadn’t seen in months. A harmless thing. Or so you thought. When you came back, Horus was waiting. The apartment was too quiet, the air thick.

He didn’t raise his voice.

He never needed to.

His words were blades wrapped in silk.

“I thought you understood how this works,” he said, lounging in his armchair like a king in judgment. “You don’t need anyone else. Not when you have me.”

You tried to explain. You laughed it off, called it nothing. His smile was small and cold.

“Don’t lie to me, love.”

That was the first time he called you a liar.

And you believed him.

Afterward, he was all apologies. Whispered promises against your neck, hands tracing over your skin as if to remind you who you belonged to. You let him. You always did.

You learned to measure your words. To anticipate his moods. When the messages from friends slowed, you told yourself you were just busy. When your family’s calls went unanswered, you promised you’d get back to them.

Horus filled every corner of your life.

It wasn’t that he forbade you from seeing people. He didn’t have to. The looks he gave when you mentioned other names, the way he made you feel childish for missing someone else’s company — it was enough.

He was so clever about it. Never outright cruel. Just… disappointed.

And you couldn’t bear to disappoint him.

You told yourself it was love.

Because he said it was.

“You make me better,” he’d whisper, after nights that left your head spinning and your heart raw. “No one else gets me the way you do.”

And when he said things like that, when those rare, almost-fragile moments cracked through his perfect armor, you felt invincible. Necessary. Like you were the last thing tethering him to humanity.

What a fool you were.

There were other women. You knew it. Of course you did. Rumors in glossy tabloids, stray earrings in the bathroom, lipstick smudges not your own. He never lied about them.

He didn’t have to.

“None of them matter,” he’d murmur, kissing your hairline, fingers tightening on your wrist just a little too hard. “It’s only ever been you, love.”

And because he said it, you believed it.

You stopped questioning. Stopped fighting.

The world shrank to his penthouse, his office, the backseat of his town car. His cologne on your sheets, his voice in your ear. Every decision bent toward him without you even realizing.

He taught you how to be useful.

Small things, at first. Passing messages. Making excuses for him at parties. Smiling when you wanted to scream.

Later, you found yourself lying to people you cared about, cutting ties that had once seemed unbreakable. Each time, he’d reward you. A kiss. A diamond bracelet. A murmured, “That’s my girl.”

And you felt proud.

It wasn’t until much later that you realized how good he was at it.

How he kept you too close to breathe, too isolated to escape. How every kindness was a chain. How every hurt was framed as your fault.

You started waking in the night with your heart pounding. Dreams of drowning, of falling from endless heights. The city outside your window looked like a prison.

But you stayed.

Because leaving meant admitting what you’d become.

And because, despite everything, you still craved his approval.

You told yourself you loved him.

Some nights, you even believed it.

He knew how to keep you off balance. One moment tender, the next ice-cold. Never predictable. Always making you reach for him, always unsure of where you stood.

It wasn’t an accident.

He made you need him.

On your birthday, he took you to a private island. You thought — foolishly — it would be different. Just the two of you, no calls, no meetings. A chance to remember the man you’d fallen for.

And for a little while, it worked.

He was soft. Attentive. He laughed more than you’d seen in months.

But on the second night, you found a message on his phone. Not a name you recognized, but the words cut deep.

Miss you already. Last night was unforgettable.

Your hands shook.

When you confronted him, he didn’t shout. He didn’t even look angry.

Just… disappointed.

“I expected better from you, love.”

As if you had betrayed him.

He made you feel small. Unreasonable. Jealous.

“I thought you trusted me.”

By the time the sun rose, you were the one apologizing.

And when he held you after, murmuring that no one would ever love you the way he did, you almost believed him.

Because it’s easier to stay.

Easier to let yourself be devoured than to face the emptiness of leaving.

Months blurred. Seasons changed.

You forgot who you were before him.

The person in the mirror wore clothes he bought, spoke words he taught, smiled when expected.

You kept a journal once, pages filled with your old life — friends’ names, favorite places, dreams that no longer felt like yours. You found it one evening, buried in a drawer.

You didn’t recognize the handwriting.

Horus came home late that night, smelling of whiskey and someone else’s perfume. You waited up, like you always did. He smiled, and you felt the sick twist of relief in your stomach.

When he kissed you, you didn’t pull away.

You never did.

Because no one leaves Horus Lupercal.

Not really.

Somewhere deep down, a part of you still loves him. Or maybe you just love the version of yourself you were allowed to be in his light.

Either way, it doesn’t matter.

You belong to him now.

And you’ll keep telling yourself it’s enough.

Until one day, it is.

[lostinlovingrevery]

Saturday Night Laundry

Worst! Wolverine X GN! Reader

You take Logan to a new dig

A/N: Yay! I finally made something! Also yes, I'm using an aesthetic image instead of Logan gif. I want to broad my horizons...Yafeelme?

Warnings: Fluff, laundry (ugh), small description of rotting into the earth, mentions of Wades antics, established relationship, implications of previous sexual activity

“See? I told you it’s not so bad!” 

Logan looked at the building with distaste. This wasn’t his idea of a good time on Saturday night. You insisted, however, maintaining that this place was the best to hit up on nights like this. You claimed that its vibe and energy were unmatched by any other like it. 

The laundromat. 

A place with a blue neon sign above its doors, called Fold It Like It’s Hot. On the window was a small red neon sign, flashing 24/7. Another sign with Laundromat flashing blue.

Sitting between an organic foods market, and a chiropractor’s office, the cold inflorescence lights inside poured out onto the empty street, over you and Logan’s figures. He held a large laundry bag in one hand hanging over his shoulder, and a smaller laundry basket, his arm wrapped around it. You had a basket perched on your hip. 

He looked down at you, a frown on his face as you beamed up at him. 

“I’m still not convinced.” He shakes his head. 

“Oh, you will be.” You nod confidently. You walk forward to the door, pulling it open for Logan as he steps inside. 

The place was very clean, compared to the place he usually went to for laundry. Wade and Althea went there, so naturally Logan ended up there too. It wasn’t exactly a high quality laundromat. The washers don’t seem to do good in actually washing, and he’s had to run his clothes through a dryer more than two times to actually get dry. The floors were always strangely sticky, there was a bullet hole in one of the windows the owners never patched up, and the worst part of it was Wade always insisted on doing laundry there with him; Then proceeded to tell everybody in there that they were newlyweds. 

He still gets congrats from neighbors in the building. 

He doesn’t even live with Wade anymore. He has since moved out and you and him have gotten a nice little place together. Away from Wade. The fucker always knows what you two were up to though. 

White walls with painted bubbles across it. Squeaky clean blue tiled floors- so shiny he could see his reflection. Dryers lined two walls opposite of each other, with two rows of washers that sat in the center of the space. Two vending machines filled with snacks and drinks sat by the door, and another at the end of the room dispensed detergent. Plenty of fine, comfortable chairs are placed everywhere. The lights were harsh with the inflorescence, but there were small neon signs with laundry puns everywhere- and plants decorated the space, bringing out a liveliness to it. Perhaps he could understand where you were coming from. 

It was deserted. 

“People don’t come here on Saturday nights to do laundry. Perfect for us!” You smile. “Empty, open washers and dryers. Pleasant music-” You referred to the classical jazz playing on the speakers. 

“I don’t like the lighting.”

“Okay I give you that. Very cold.” You say glancing around, you set your basket on top of the washer. “It makes it feel clean though?” you turned to face him, a shrug of your shoulders and tilt of your head as you smiled. 

He curled a brow, and finally a glimmer of a smile came across his lips. He walked over to where you were, pressing a kiss to your forehead. 

“Yeah, it’s clean at least.” He hummed. He sat the basket on another washer, and the bag on the floor. “You got the quarters?”

You reached into your back pocket, pulling out your wallet, which you then pulled a card out. “No coins. We go digital in this house.” You wink. He sighed. “What? At least you don’t have to worry about it jamming in there and losing it. You just put how much you want on the card, and poke it in there and it’s done. Easy!” 

“Damn machines are going to corrupt us all.” He shakes his head. You giggle, stepping forward to wrap your arms around him.

“You really are an old man. You know that?” You tipped your chin up at him. You mimicked his voice, “Those phones are bad for you! That TV is going to rot your brain! Get off my lawn whippersnappers!” 

He growled, his arms wrapping around you and dipping you, making you shriek and giggle profusely, attempting to grab on to him but he had himself wrapped tight around you. He leans his forehead against yours. “If I’m an old man, what does that make you huh bub?” 

“A golddigger.” You smiled, your lips brushing over his as you talked.

“I don’t have any money sweetheart.” 

“Mm, I guess it’s the personality then.”

He chuckled, tilting his head to capture you in a searing kiss. You melted into him, your body laxing in trust that he won’t drop you. He brought you back to your feet, leaving you giggly and lightheaded as he snatched the card from your hand, winking at you with a smirk as he went to a washer. 

He stopped at the washer, staring at the machine and the laundry card, observing them both. Then shook his head. 

“Where the hell does this go?” 

After you showed him how to pay and operate the washer properly, you both worked on starting multiple loads of laundry in comfortable silence. With the empty laundromat, you had all the washers needed. A combination of you and Logan’s clothes, both of your underwear, and the bedsheets that had become very messy from your proclivities early this morning. 

While you were pushing in the last load of laundry, Logan went to the vending machine, dispensing your favorite snack. He presented it to you casually, but you beamed up at him and thanked him as you opened the snack and gladly feasted. 

You both sat down on one of the more comfortable chairs presented to the area. You leaned on his sturdy shoulder, closing your eyes as you quietly chewed on your snack. You felt him take a deep breath, his muscles finally relaxing.

“I guess this place isn’t so bad. It’s quiet.” He mutters. You opened your eyes, a twitch of your lips, as you nuzzled into him. He moved his arm, wrapping it around you and pulling you closer. “Never thought I’d be…doing this.” 

“What. Laundry?” You giggled. “Did you not do laundry? You must have smelled awful before we met.”

“Hush.” He says, but you could hear his amusement. “No I mean just something so…. Normal. Quiet. It’s nice.” 

“It is.” You say, you tilt your head up at him. “You okay?” You ask, saying the reflective look on his face. His eyes met yours, and a reassuring smile grew on his face as his eyes softened.

“Yeah bub. I am.” He says. He leaned forward pressing another kiss to your forehead. You hummed, before standing up, and reaching your hand out to his, pulling him up from his seat with you. He looked at you quizzically but you pulled him close.

“The music is nice. Dance with me?” You asked. 

He wrapped his arms around you, obliging in your wish as tilted his head down to yours. Slowly, you both began rocking back and forth to the melody of the smooth jazz over the speakers. The rumble of the washers filled the room. You both were wrapped in each other's arms, lost in each other's eyes. 

At one point in his life - actually, multiple points. He begged for death. To be able to finally close his eyes and take the eternal rest. Let his body rot into the Earth and actually do something good for the world by letting the bugs and critters and detritivores eat away at him and provide some kind of nourishment to life that he couldn’t do himself.

He’s fought men and monsters. Endured pain that would make anyone go insane. Saved a few lives, and ended more. He carried a heavy weight inside him everyday, both physically, and metaphorically. 

Now here he was, doing laundry. With you.

He’s not exactly sure what the universe’s goal is. To put him through hell, and then place him in this life of domesticity; He was glad to be here though. As long as you were there.

“I hope we can do laundry every Saturday night like this, for a long time.” You whispered to him. He hummed in agreement. 

Maybe this place wasn’t so bad.

[sugurouge]

— i feel my mind slowly fading : stripper au! togame jo, umemiya hajime, suo hayato x f!reader

summary: at your bachelorette party you are presented with a very special kind of surprise just for you. enjoy the show!

content warnings: nsfw, alcohol consumption in all three scenarios, handcuffs in umemiya's scenario, mentions of infidelity as well as sensory deprivation (blindfolding) in suo's scenario, pet names

a/n: i think, i wanted to add some dimension to these imagines and make them more unique. i hope you enjoy!! (i put full blame on seeing umemiya as a cop)

TOGAME JO — THE PROFESSIONAL

The neon lights of the strip club flicker above you; your head already feels dizzy from the sweet cocktails you have been fed all night long to keep the spirits high. Well, at this point they might be a little too high to keep you in check as you are set on the stage, part of a well-loved stripper's act.

The announcer welcomes you, asking the bride-to-be to take her spot for a very special surprise. And the surprise is handsome, through and through. Tall, very tall, extremely well-trained, his clothes fight to stay on his body. Those charming green eyes shine through despite the colourful lights, staring into yours with a silent invitation to lose yourself tonight.

You can’t help but giggle as he pushes you into the chair, the air being knocked out of your lungs upon the impact. The arousal pooling in your eyes is naughty, a dirty secret that will be kept between him and you once this show is over.

You’re allowed to touch, you just don’t dare to—afraid this moment will turn into a half-finished dream if you move. So, instead, Togame turns his back to you, his police cap sits deep on his face as he looks down, his hand running over his chest and abdomen to bask in the screams of the crowd.

They all watch him unbutton his shirt, hips dancing to the beat as he leans back. The neon lights move above his ripped body, every ab highlighted to perfection. Once the shirt lands on the ground, he grasps your hands with precision, luring you in to feel him, to explore his figure for all those hungry eyes watching from the crowd.

You might lose your sanity on the spot.

Meanwhile, his own hands stay busy with unbuckling his belt before throwing it aside and turning around, his hands finding purchase on the back of your chair as he grinds into the air, eyes boring into your own. How could you not give in to curiosity? How could you hold back now? No, not when his oiled body invites you so well to touch him again, to squeal like you never did in your entire life upon those chiselled abs, to forget about etiquette and your usually controlled self.

Decency? Lost at the threshold.

Replaced by confidence as the alcohol buzzes in your system and Togame frees himself from the tight pants, a well-trained tug and the buttons unpop for the item to be cast aside. He is on his knees for you in seconds, sliding forward for his face to ghost over your chest, your stomach, your throbbing pussy. You practically drool at the sight of his flexing back, your hands look pathetically small compared to his size. The strain this act causes brings sweat to trickle along the crevices of his skin as the flush under his pale skin deepens.

If you didn’t know any better you’d have your hands in his hair, thighs encasing his face to drown him in you.

But instead he pulls back, brings distance between your bodies as the show slowly comes to an end. The cheering of the crowd is almost as thrumming as the racing of your heart and pussy.

UMEMIYA HAJIME — THE AMBITIOUS

You never, never would have expected to spend the late hours of your bachelorette party at a strip club. Your friends had to swear not to plan anything odd, anything that could make your fiancé feel uncomfortable. You were more than just content in your relationship—absolutely thrilled to get married to the man of your dreams.

But now you’re seated on the horribly cheesy throne at the center of the stage, all the visitors of the club cheering for you. The sounds grow louder as you notice a figure coming from behind the curtains to take the spotlight. The first thing you notice is the tacky policeman getup, the handcuffs hanging from the cheap leather belt—you don’t dare to look up. You don’t dare to meet the stranger's face, praying your fiancé would come to pick you up on the spot.

Oh, but he feels good. Large hands ghost along your shoulders, lips brushing over your throbbing pulse point before the handcuffs click shut around your wrists. Yep, you’re stuck with this good cop, bad cop, whatever type of stripper.

And either one of your friends studied your fiancé’s touchy habits very closely and told the performer, or this guy is just very good at guessing your weaknesses.

The pads of his fingers feel so comforting as they tilt your chin up, encouraging you to open your eyes to fully appreciate the dashing man leaning above you.

You could die on the spot.

Your body jerks with shock, eyes widening as if they are about to roll out of their sockets as you’re met with the familiar blue eyes of your fiancé. “Haji!” you exclaim, but he shushes you, tutting once, twice, as a confident smirk forms on his lips. “Not now, princess,” he warns, quirking an eyebrow as his knee finds rest between your thighs on the chair. If he feels nervous, he’s damn good at covering it up. Eyes zeroed in on nobody and nothing but you as he makes a show of unbuttoning his shirt, every button causing you to feel more shameful, more needy.

You want to touch him. You want to touch what’s yours.

The rattling of the handcuffs makes him chuckle lowly—oh, you are so desperate. You stare at Ume’s tongue the moment it darts out to wet his lips before speaking. “No, no, not tonight; we’re not allowed to have sex tonight, darling.” There we go; your thighs press into his knee, teeth chewing on your bottom lip. He throws his shirt off, the crowd goes wild—and you go mad.

“You can look,” Ume continues, his own hands running over every spot you wish yours were, “but no touching,” his smug grin returns. Your eyes get lost in the flexing of his muscles, the bulging of his biceps as his hands unbuckle his belt to throw it aside, slowly grinding against your form, you feel his cock, your body yearning for the familiar stretch whenever Hajime fills you up. “I know it's hard, but you’re going to be a good girl.”

What you don’t know is that Umemiya only agreed to this because he doesn’t want any professional stripper on your lap. No, he’d rather grind against you, he’d rather make a show for everyone else to stare at, knowing that in a few hours he’s going to promise to respect and protect you for the rest of your life.

SUO HAYATO — THE PRETENDER

Nobody knows who he is. Possibly another newbie trying to get his career going, your friends assume. But not the big, brawny police officer they actually hired to strip for you tonight. They all swallow their thoughts of wonder down with more alcohol as Suo approaches your party, with only one goal in mind: you.

His hands lace around your neck, gently holding you in the chair as he whispers, “Congratulations to the bride-to-be,” into your ear, the familiar tassels of his earrings tickling your sensitive neck. Your stomach turns, eyes already fluttering shut upon the sensations that course through you. He must be good, your friends all conclude upon your reaction.

You left him behind years ago, scratched him from your life. You couldn’t be together, but you also couldn’t be apart. Every encounter ended in pure desire, a need for the familiarity of his love like none other. Suo accepted your move, tolerated that you needed to force distance. He couldn’t be the man you deserved, so someone else had to fill that spot—as difficult as it was to accept.

Difficult, more like impossible. He never moved on, never imagined letting you walk down the aisle for someone other than him. He spent years growing into a responsible man, perfecting the art of being a gentleman, only for you to fall into the pits of hell with him tonight.

A silky blindfold restricts your vision, inviting you to remember the nights spent with your ex-lover. The familiar scent fills your senses as Suo smoothly dances around you, fingertips tracing every inch of your exposed skin until you lean into his touch, chasing after the lost sensations once he pulls back.

Only to lean above your frame, to place his hands on the edge of the lounge chair, shamelessly leaning into your space, lips ghosting the shell of your ear. “You’re even more beautiful than I remember,” he starts. You could already moan. Instead, you chew on your lower lip, fighting yourself and your still evident desire for the man on top. “I had the chance to show up here tonight, or tomorrow at your wedding, giving an awful speech right before you would have given your life away to someone else…”

Your friends reel. You’re not sure why. Too afraid to reach out, to touch this fantasy you left behind. “Hayato…” nothing but a pleading whisper, followed by a whimper as he grabs your hands to help you unbutton his shirt. He feels good. Strong, solid. You miss the warmth of his chest. “I can’t remain silent. I can’t let you live a lie,” he continues, while your hands shrug open his shirt, nails grazing his abs and running along his well-trained thighs. “Run away with me, be mine again, forever.”

The idea makes you laugh. It sounds ridiculous. Who would throw their entire life aside to drown in the shadows of a past relationship? It doesn’t seem so bad anymore once soft hands crane your head back, once those familiar lips ghost over yours. “I can’t, Hayato,” you urge him, pushing against his chest in your final fight. “You can,” he promises you, “give into it, into me. Trust me.”

Your mind feels hazy. The sensations of alcohol and long-lost passion push the angel off your shoulder as the pretentious stripper performs his deceitful show for your friends.

What will you choose?