#and i was like oh i know i already watched it and listened to the album 🫣

[popcornpoppypop]

Like You

Summary: You're a single mom to an angry teen boy. Jack isn't phased, he can handle the anger. He is there for your son, no matter what. Years later, Pittfest makes them more alike than anyone would wish.

Warnings: Angst, fighting, angry teen, mentions of death, mass shooting, blood, medical inaccuracies, talk of amputation.

There wasn’t a day that passed where you weren’t beyond grateful for Jack Abbot. Most people would have turned and ran the moment they found out you had a 14 year old son. You couldn’t blame them. It’s a lot of baggage. But Jack never blinked.

“Honey, you are the best person I’ve ever met. Why the hell wouldn’t I love someone you made?” He told you the night you had finally let him in.

“He can be angry sometimes, Jack. He might not like you for a while.” You warned, not wanting to sugar coat anything and be left when things got hard.

“I was angry for most of my life. I know what it’s like. I’ll be okay. It’s not about me anyway.” He shrugged.

“Oh my god, just fucking kiss me already.” You sighed as you pulled him into you, his laughter rumbling in his chest,

Your son wasn’t introduced to your boyfriends often. You never really found any that you felt would stand the rough weather. But something in Jack made you trust him. The first meeting went over like a lead balloon. Ended with your son shouting at Jack.

“You don’t care about me! You just want to fuck my mom! Fucking pervert!” Your son,Matt, shouted at him.

“Matthew! Stop that, you don’t speak like to anyone, let alone someone I care about!” You scolded.

“Y/N, it’s okay.” Jack said stroking your arm, trying to calm you down.

“He’s just here to get in your pants! Thinks if he buddies up to me it’ll happen.” Matt growled.

“I know that’s what’s happened in the past, but I promise that is not what I’m doing right now.” Jack raised his hands up like he was calming a wild animal.

“Oh please, you’re just like the rest.” Matt scoffed, pacing back and forth.

“Matt, please just sit down and let’s talk about this.” You plead with the boy.

“Shut up, bitch!” He snapped. Jack stood up fast, the chair flying back from underneath him.

“Hey! You listen to me now! You can talk how you want to me, I don’t care, I can take it. You will never, NEVER, speak to your mother like that. She doesn’t deserve your anger.” Jack growled. Matt stopped looking at Jack in all his intimidating power.

“You’ll never be my father.” Matt whispered before running upstairs. Jack sighed shaking his head.

“I’m so sorry, Jack. I-I didn’t think he’d get this upset. Maybe that was naïve. You didn’t deserve that.” You sighed, head in your hands.

“Honey, I’ve had worst hurled in my direction. He can be angry with me. If that’s what he needs.” He said smoothing your hair from your face.

For months, Jack would come by the house and try to speak with Matt only to be met with insults. Jack saw how it tore you up, tried to console you. You both knew it was part of the process, it didn’t make it easier.

You had to go on a work trip for the weekend, you’d asked Jack to stay at your house to keep an eye on Matt. Matt had broken a glass when you’d told him.

“If I can handle violent psych patients and IEDs, I can handle a teenager.” Jack joked.

Matt had stayed in his room for the most part, running downstairs to grab food and run back to his room. One night, Jack was asleep on the couch, the TV playing old M*A*S*H reruns. His prosthetic leaning against the side table.

Matt watched him for a moment. Seeing the stoic man in such a vulnerable state took him back for a moment. He stalked over, keeping as quiet as he could. He picked up the fake leg and tried to leave with it.

“If you don’t give that back, I’ll have to hop on one leg while I kick your ass and that’ll be embarrassing for both of us.” Jack grumbled as he woke up.  Matt cringed as he brought the leg back. He’d crossed a line he didn’t want to.

“Whatever.” Matt mumbled as he set the leg back down. He stood staring at Jack’s leg for a while. Jack let him, not embarrassed about it, never had been. Occasionally, he’d be insecure when it made certain activities of the sexual nature more difficult. He’d learned how to work around it.

“You can ask.” Jack said, catching Matt off guard.

“What happened? Mom said you were in the Army. It get blown off?” Matt was trying to poke the sensitive parts.

“Yeah. I was a medic on a tour in Iraq. Got shot, blew most of my foot off.” Jack nodded. Matt was somehow not prepared for a blunt answer, even though he got nothing else from Jack.

“What’s it like being less of a man?” Matt hissed.

“I’ll let you know if that happens.” Jack sniffed.

“You’re annoying.”

“Kid, you can say what you want. It’s not going to phase me.” Jack turned the volume up, his ring catching the light.

“Mom said you’re a widow too.”

“Yes.” Jack’s voice ever so slightly tightens, ready for some insult.

“You remember her still?” Matt’s head hung low as he sat at the other end of the couch.

“Every damn day. Always will. Your mother understands.” Jack nodded.

“What happened?” Matt didn’t meet his eyes.

“She got sick. I couldn’t save her.” Jack cleared his throat.

“That’s like your whole thing.”

“Yeah. I know. Some things are beyond our control.” Jack’s eyes didn’t leave the screen.

“My dad watched this shit too.” Matt nodded to the TV.

“He had good taste.”

“He would have liked you.” Matt huffed. Jack looked over at him, bewildered.

“Yeah? Why?”

“You take good care of us. You’re not a real asshole, just like a surface asshole. You want people to think you are but you’re not.”

“I try my best. I care about you too, Matt. I know it’s hard to believe, but I do.” Jack turned to face the boy. He looked like a child more than he ever had.

“I know. It’s…something in my head makes me want to hate you. Like if…if I don’t I’ll forget him.”

“You won’t. He’ll always be around for you. I’m not him, I wouldn’t try to be. Maybe we can try getting along for a bit, see how it feels. I know it would make your mom’s life easier.” Jack raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah. Try it out.” He chuckled as he got up and left.

After that night, Matt relaxed a little. You were so grateful to have some relief to his anger. Jack felt that same relief.

Life got a rhythm to it soon after. Jack moved in and Matt didn’t argue so much. They would watch the Steelers together and you’d pretend you wanted to, mostly you just enjoyed being one family for a moment.

Three years on and things were comfortable. Matt asking Jack’s advise about girls and school. They would go out to the batting cage every Sunday. Jack always made sure he had Sundays off, time to spend with his family.

“Jack, I’ll be fine. I have enough sunscreen!” Matt groaned as Jack shoved a can of sunscreen spray into Jacks bag.

“It’s going to be hot and there will no shade. Melanoma ain’t something to fuck around with, Kid.” Jack said.

“Matt, humor him so you can leave.” You laughed as you walked out of the kitchen.

“Look,” Jack whispered looking behind to make sure you were out of ear shot. “not just sunscreen in there. You be careful, I put a couple sizes so we didn’t have to get that personal.” He winked.

“Oh my god! Stop talking!” Matt whined.

“He’s right Sweetie! I see way too many teen boys at the clinic with STDs. It’s no fun.” You chuckled as you walked back in.

“I tried to be subtle, that’s on you.” Jack pointed at Matt. “Jake will be there, if you need someone go find him.”

“It’s a concert. I think I’ll be fine. You two are paranoid.” Matt laughed.

“It’s our job. I see too many things go sideways.” Jack sighed.

“Matty, we just want you to be careful. Be back in this house by 10pm. A second later and I will lose my shit.” You smiled.

“Yeah, yeah. I know.” Matt rolled his eyes.

“Hey, listen to your mother. You treat that girl well too.” Jack said.

“Girl? What girl?” You asked looking between them.

“Jack! Come on man!”

“Matt, please be careful. Go have fun.” You sighed, not wanting to give yourself more to worry about.

“Call if you need anything.” Jack said. Matt waved you both off as he ran out the door.

“Is 17 too young for a music festival? Did I just make a huge mistake?” You asked, suddenly filled with anxiety.

“Hell if I know. Things are different these days. I would have snuck out to go, so he was probably going either way.” Jack shook his head as he started for the bedroom.

“You want breakfast before you pass out?”

“No. Rough night. Just want sleep.” Jack said. You marveled at how he never let Matt see how heavy his job was. He watched people die and came home and joke about football with Matt. You worked in the low-income clinic attached to PTMC, never seeing half the things he did.

You sat in the sun, enjoying the quiet of the late afternoon. Your garden was the small way you kept your sanity. The flowers blooming made you feel like you weren’t a complete failure at life. You tried to stay out of the house when Jack was sleeping, allowing him some peace.

“Didn’t I just give the melanoma speech this morning?” Jack stood in the patio doorway.

“The day got away from me.” You chuckled.

“Get in here before you fry.” He said, his eyes twinkling.

“Was that an order?” You smirked.

“Yes, it very much was.” He said, he leaned on the doorway, his biceps flexing in the sun. You felt a little dizzy looking at him. You stood, dusting yourself off as you walked up.

“I’m covered in dirt.” You laughed.

“Never minded a little dirt.” He said tilting your chin up with a finger and gently kissing you. His hand tangled in your hair as he deepened the kiss.

“The neighbors are definitely watching.” You smiled.

“Let them.” He said as he pulled you close.

“Take me to the bed, our backs can’t handle the patio bricks.” You chuckled.

“Is that an order?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, Sir, it is.” You bit at his bottom lip. In a swift motion he wrapped an arm around your waist and lifted you over his shoulder.

“Yes, Ma’am!” He said taking you towards the bedroom.

“Oh my god! Do not hurt yourself being an idiot!” You giggled.

“I lift patients all day, you think I can’t carry you to bed? Please!” He threw you on the bed.

“Take your shirt off.” You barked, suddenly desperate to see him. He didn’t waste time, threw the shirt onto the floor. His muscles shining in the sunlight.

“Now you.” He was practically drooling as you undid your shirt and let it sink to the floor. He stood between your legs, running his hands up your arms, across your collar bone, taking his time tracing his fingertips up your throat.

“dispatch sending all available units, Signal 36, Pittfest. Shots fired.” The police scanner buzzed with the warning.

“Jack did that just say-”

“Call Matt.” Jack dropped his hands fumbling to find his phone. You scrambled to find your phone, dialing Matt.

“It’s going straight to voicemail.” Your voice shook.

“Dammit! They probably took over the cell signal.” Jack growled.

“Jack, what do I do!?” You’re breath picking up.

“Honey, breathe. You gotta stay calm.” He said, holding your face in his hands. “You keep trying to call him. Once he gets away from the festival grounds, he’ll be able to reach you. You stay here, let all your neighbors know to watch out for him.” He told you.

“What are you doing?” You looked confused as he started dressing.

“Baby, I gotta go into work. They’ll be overwhelmed with patients. He might head there first, I’ll be there if he is.” Jack sighed.

“Jack, what if-”

“No. Don’t go there.” He stopped the thought before you could finish it. “I’ll have someone monitoring my phone if I can’t. You call me the second you see him. I love you.” Jack kissed you as he grabbed his bag and ran out the door.

Jack was right, The Pitt was overwhelmed almost immediately. He kept his head down, going from patient to patient. Kept asking Dana for updates.

“Jake? Jake, where’s Matt?” Jack ran up to the boy, his leg oozing blood.

“I don’t know, man! I lost him in the crowd. I tried to find him.”

“Okay, it’s okay. Sit down, we’ll fix you up.” Jack said as he assessed the leg and ordered treatments,  running back, seeing the state Leah was in. Robby wasn’t going to handle that well. He kept working, all he could do was keep working.

“Jack…” Dana’s voice brought him back, looking over as Robby crumbled.

“Come on man. You’ve done more for her than anyone else. If this was a different day, she still wouldn’t have made it.” Jack said.  Robby kept pushing meds and doing compressions for a moment, Jack’s words settling into him.

“Stop compressions.”

“Want me to call it?” Jack offered. Robby shook his head.

“Time of death 2104.”  Robby shook his head. Jack patted him on the shoulder.

“I got another red! GSW to the abdomen and right leg! Lost a lot of blood in the field.” Shen called as he wheeled in another patient. Jack tossed his gloves off and grabbed new ones. When he turned he saw the shoes. The shoes he bought Matt for his sixteenth birthday. The shoes he had begged for, never giving you or Jack peace until he had them. The white shoes now red.

“No.” He whispered as he ran over. The pale face of Matt knocked the wind out of him.

“Dr. Abbot, IO is placed. Should I start giving blood?” Princess asked. Jack froze. “Dr. Abbot?” Princess asked, looking at him confused.

“uh…yeah, yes. Start giving blood, we have to get his clothes off.” Jack’s voice shook. “Dr. Mohan! I need you here!” He called, his voice sharp and broken making everyone face him.

“Oh god.” Dana gasped.

“Dr. Abbot?” Samira questioned. “Do you need to step away?” She asked.

“I-I…Robby! I need you!” He cried out. Robby turned, his face red and confused until he saw Matt’s face. He ran over, pushing Jack away.

“Dr. Mohan start intubation.” Robby started barking orders. Dana came over and dragged Jack away.

“Call her.” She handed him the phone and ran over to help.

His hands shook as he hit your contact.

“Jack? What’s going on? Is he there?” Your voice is thick with worry.

“Honey, he’s here. He’s hurt.” His voice was so broken, you’d never heard him like that. The fear ran up your spine and grabbed your heart.

“Oh my god. Okay. I’m…fuck. Okay, I’m on my way.” You cried as you hung up the phone and ran to your car.

Jack watched as his friends worked to save his stepson. Watched as Robby did everything he could after just coding his own stepson’s girlfriend. He felt like his heart was in his throat and he was choking.

“Dr. Walsh, admit this one to surgery.” Robby called.

“He’ll be next in line, we’re finishing up with the other now.” She nodded as she walked with the nurses towards the elevators with Matt.

“Dr. Abbot, he’s okay. He’s going to surgery. Damage to the bowel, his right leg has some pretty bad damage, but he’ll survive.” Dr. Mohan told him.

“Jack, get some air.” Dana said. Jack stood, going straight to Robby.

“Brother…thank you…” He said.

“Yeah. You did the same.” Robby nodded. “Jake’s leg is okay?” Robby questioned.

“Yeah, yeah. It’ll be okay, won’t need amputation.” Jack cleared his throat. Robby nodded and walked off.

“Jack! Jack, where is he!?” You came running in, the blood on the floor almost stopping you. Jack ran up and wrapped you in his arms.

“He’s okay! He’s okay! He’s in surgery. Robby saved him.” He told you as you sobbed into his chest.

“Oh my god, thank god!” You cried.

“The leg was pretty bad, Honey. I don’t know if they’ll be able to fix it.” Jack sighed.

“He’s alive, that’s what matters to me.” You said, finally taking in the state of him. You brushed the sweat soaked hair from his face.

“I froze.” He said, his voice catching as he looked away.

“You got the right people to help him. That’s all you needed to do.” You told him.

“I’ve never froze like that.” He said, trying to stop the tears.

“Jack, your son was on the table in front of you. I would have too. Everyone would have. He’s going to be okay, Right?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s what we need to hold onto right now.” You kissed his temple.

“He’ll be in surgery for a while, you can sit in the break room until I can take you up.” Jack nodded.

“I can help.” You said.

“No, not tonight.” He said as he walked off.

“Hun, come sit with me.” Dana said pulling to the nurses station.

“He’s in shock.” You muttered.

“Yeah. We all are. He loves that boy.” Dana sighed as she handed you a chart to start entering, knowing you’d go crazy if you didn’t do anything.

Jack powered through getting his patients charts in and dealing with any last treatments. His mind clouded but functional.

“Dr. Abbot? Dana said to let you know they called down from surgery for you.” Javadi said.

“Okay. Can you make sure that the patient in bay six gets another round of O-neg.” He ordered as he walked off towards the nurses station.

“He’s getting moved to a room right now. They said Room 314.” Dana told him. You jumped up and followed him to the elevator.

The ride up to the third floor felt like an eternity. The door opened and the quiet on the floor was stunning. You both took a breath before leaving.

“Dr. Abbot, we got your boy over here.” Walsh waved over. “Some damage to the small bowel, we were able to correct, made the repairs to the liver. He’s got a broken rib from the impact. He’ll be on strict rest and NPO for a few days, IV calories strictly so those bowels can heal.” Walsh rattled off.

“Thank you.” You said, wiping the tears from your face.

“Course. I do need to warn you. We did everything we could to save the leg. The damage was too much. We had to amputate. Half way up the shin, like yours.” Walsh nodded. Jack squeezed his eyes shut. He never wanted this for him. He wanted to keep this pain from him.

“Okay. Thank you.” Jack said as if he was still holding his breath. You both entered the room. The breath caught in your throat as you took him in. His face so pale and the wires sticking off of him. The way he lay so still.

“Jack…” You sobbed. He wrapped you up in his arms. His eyes never left Matt’s right leg.

“He’ll be okay.” He said, burying his face in your hair.

You both sat next to him, refusing to leave. He didn’t wake for two days. The agony of waiting was obvious on your face. You were dozing off, head on Jack’s shoulder.

“Mom…” Matt groaned. You both shot awake.

“I’m here, baby. I’m here.” You said as you held his face in your hands.

“Mom.” He started to cry. You wrapped him up in the arms. Jack kept a hand on his leg.

“You’re okay, Matty.” You sobbed.

“it hurts.” He groaned, he tried to sit up. Jack put a hand to his chest and pushed him back.

“Take it easy. You gotta stay down for a while.” Jack said as he hit the call button.

“I remember the shots, I heard everyone screaming. There was a burning in my belly and then nothing.” Matt’s voice shook.

“Dr. Abbot?” a nurse came in.

“He’s in pain. Have Walsh put in an order for more morphine please.” He ordered.

“You got shot in the abdomen, Matt. They repaired it, you’ll be able to eat solids in a few days.” Jack explained.

“Okay. My leg hurts though.” Matt looked confused. Jack shook his head looking at the ground.

“Baby, you got shot in the leg. They tried everything, but they couldn’t save it. They had to cut it off at the shin.” You explained, trying to take the burden from Jack. It was heavy, too heavy for anyone but more so for Jack.

“I lost my leg? It’s just gone?” His voice filled with panic and confusion.

“If they left it, you would have been in so much pain.” You told him.

“We’ll help you through this, Kid. You’re strong. Stronger than I was.” Jack told him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m like you?” Matt looked up at Jack, he looked like a child.

“Yeah.” Jack nodded, trying and failing to stop the tears.

“Right now, we focus on getting you better. Then we focus on your leg.” You told him.

“You’ll help me, right?” Matt looked at Jack.

“Always, Matt. I’m always going to help you.” Jack pulled him into a tight hug. The two clung onto each other and cried.

You watched them, your chest tight. The healing would hurt, but you knew your family would make it.

[cressidagrey]

A McLaren Meltdown

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

Summary: Mclaren’s staff reactions to Oscar Piastri’s surprise marriage reveal.

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

Sophie had three rules for race weekend PR.

Control the narrative.

Anticipate the chaos.

Never trust a “quick” fan stage.

She was halfway through writing a press release about tire strategy when her phone buzzed once. Then twice. Then thirty-seven times in under two minutes.

The group chat with the digital media team had caught fire.

[McLaren Media 🔥] 💬 “OH MY GOD.” 💬 “HE SAID HE’S BEEN MARRIED SINCE HE WAS EIGHTEEN.” 💬 “WE NEED A STATEMENT.” 💬 “WHAT DO YOU MEAN ‘MARRIED’???” 💬 “Lando spat water. There is video.”

Sophie blinked at her phone, stunned.

Then came the link.

She clicked. Watched. Listened.

Oscar, calm as ever:

“Well, I already did one of those things.” Lando, shrieking: “YOU’RE MARRIED?!”

Sophie made a sound not unlike a dying animal.

She stood, tablet in hand, walked to the nearest wall in the media trailer, and very calmly banged her forehead against it.

Twice.

Across the room, one of the interns whispered, “Is she okay?”

“No,” someone else replied.

Sophie turned to the team.

“Does anyone have a marriage certificate? A formal quote? A—a photo? Anything we can use?”

Her email pinged.

Subject line: Netflix Inquiry — Episode Rights: Oscar Piastri Reveal

Another ping.

BBC Radio Request: “Interview With the Most Mysterious Woman in Motorsport.”

And then, like he’d been summoned by sheer rage, Zak Brown strolled in, looking far too calm.

“Hey team. Saw the fan stage. Oscar’s married, huh? Wild stuff.”

Sophie slowly turned. “You knew.”

Zak gave her a sheepish smile. “Mark Webber mentioned it once. Years ago. Said she was great. Didn’t seem relevant at the time.”

“ZAK.”

“What?”

“HE’S BEEN MARRIED FOR FIVE YEARS.” Sophie was dangerously close to combusting. “He’s our youngest driver and he eloped at eighteen. That’s relevant!”

Zak held up his hands. “I didn’t think it was a secret. Oscar’s a private guy.”

“Private guy?! He said ���on the bed’ like it was a normal engagement location!” Sophie nearly shrieked. “Do you know how many headline puns they’ve made about that already?!”

Someone from graphics called out, “Can we use ‘Lights Out and Vows Away’ or is that too much?”

“It’s not damage,” Zak said helpfully. “It’s engagement.”

“I swear to God, Zak,” Sophie hissed. 

Slack was already full of memes. Someone had gif’d Lando’s meltdown with the caption “Me finding out my best friend is secretly married like it’s a normal Thursday.”

The press inbox was collapsing under subject lines like:

“IS SHE A CELEBRITY?” “DO THEY HAVE A CHILD?” “LAN-DRAMA: Norris Betrayed???” “Can we get her on The Paddock Panel?”

Sophie clutched her forehead. “Okay. Okay. Deep breath.”

“We need Oscar to post something,” she declared, her voice rising above the din.

Zak tilted his head. “You sure? That might just fuel it more.”

“He already fueled it, Zak. He turbocharged it and strapped fireworks to the back.”

“Fair point.”

Sophie groaned, burying her face in her hands. “I’m going to have to rewrite everything. Update the media deck. Issue a statement. Reprint bios. Plan a WAG-friendly feature piece. And deal with Lando, who’s spiraling like his best friend betrayed him.”

A pause.

“And someone call Netflix,” she added darkly. “Tell them they just got their best episode of the season. No edits required.”

***

Andrea Stella prided himself on knowing his drivers.

Their tells, their ticks, the way they thought—how they braked, how they communicated, when they needed space and when they needed a push. It was part of his job. But it was also personal. He’d always believed that good leadership came from paying attention to the whole person, not just the lap time.

Which is why the events of this morning left him quietly, genuinely stunned.

He hadn't seen the fan stage live—he’d been in an engineering debrief—but by the time he stepped into the media office, it was all anyone could talk about.

Oscar. Married. For five years. Since he was eighteen.

The video played on loop in the corner of the room, muted but unmistakable. Oscar’s dry calm. Lando’s shocked scream. The social media team was in shambles. The PR team looked like they were trying not to hyperventilate.

Andrea just… stood there for a moment.

Watching.

Processing.

He felt the frown settle between his brows. Not anger. Not exactly disappointment. Just… a quiet ache in the chest of someone who’d thought he was closer to one of his drivers than maybe he actually was.

Oscar had been married. For five years. And Andrea hadn't known. Not even a hint.

He stepped out of the room, calm as ever, but his mind raced.

And then, with all the subtlety of a man who’d been blindsided one too many times today, Andrea found himself heading toward the physio area—toward Kim.

Kim Keedle was Oscar’s trainer, his shadow, his constant presence in the garage. If anyone knew Oscar better than Andrea, it was probably Kim.

Andrea found him in the paddock gym, casually adjusting a resistance band on the wall.

“Kim,” Andrea said, voice even. “Quick question.”

Kim turned, cheerful as always. “Hey, boss. What’s up?”

Andrea tilted his head, arms crossing. “Did you know Oscar was married?”

Kim blinked. Then blinked again. “Uh… yeah?”

Andrea waited.

Kim scratched the back of his neck. “I mean, yeah. They’ve been married since—what—just after graduation? Felicity’s great. ”

Andrea was silent for a beat too long.

Kim winced slightly. “You didn’t know?”

“No,” Andrea said softly. “I didn’t.”

And that—that was the part that surprised him the most. Not the marriage. 

But the fact that Oscar, his driver, his stone-faced, brilliantly strategic driver, had managed to keep an entire wife away from the paddock spotlight… and never once let it slip.

He thought about all the long flights, the post-race reviews, the hours spent talking about the future. He had asked Oscar about his offseason plans, his training routines, even his travel preferences.

Never once had he thought to ask if Oscar had someone waiting at home.

And Oscar, ever calm, had never offered.

Andrea nodded slowly. “Thank you, Kim.”

Kim gave him a sympathetic smile. “He didn’t mean to keep it from you, you know. He’s just… private. He thinks if something doesn’t affect the job, it doesn’t need mentioning.”

Andrea looked away, exhaling through his nose. “Still. I would’ve liked to have known.”

“Yeah,” Kim said, voice gentler now. “I think he’ll understand that.”

Andrea gave a small nod, but the sting remained.

He wasn’t angry.

Just... quietly hurt.

Because he cared about his drivers—not just the helmets and telemetry and podium stats, but the people beneath all that.

And maybe, just maybe, he thought they cared enough to let him in too.

***

The room had all the energy of a bunker mid-airstrike.

Half the PR team was gathered around the conference table in McLaren hospitality, the other half hovering behind Sophie, who had summoned Oscar with the same tone one might use for code red, house on fire, or Lando’s Instagram Live just crashed the website again.

Oscar walked in like it was any other media meeting.

He sat down. Calm. Collected. Completely unaware that his entire personal life had set the internet on fire six hours ago.

Sophie didn’t even look up from her laptop. “Okay,” she said, voice clipped. “Let’s talk about The Reveal.”

Oscar blinked. “The what?”

“Don’t play dumb.” Zak leaned back in his chair, thoroughly enjoying himself. “You nuked the internet with six words.”

Andrea Stella, unusually quiet, just sat with his arms crossed. Still processing. Still mildly wounded.

“‘Well, I already did one of those things,’” Sophie quoted flatly. “That’s what you said.”

Oscar nodded. “Yeah. Because I did.”

“You have been married for five years,” Sophie said, very slowly, “and you did not think that was something the team—your teammate, your PR department, the people who make the media decks—should know?”

Oscar gave her a polite shrug. “I didn’t hide it.”

Sophie made a strangled noise. “You also didn’t say a word.”

“Different issue,” Oscar said mildly.

Andrea exhaled sharply through his nose.

Zak smirked. “To be fair, he has a point.”

Sophie gave him a look that could kill.

“We need a response,” she snapped. “A controlled response. Instagram. Twitter. Something that gives people what they want without fueling every gossip rag on Earth.”

Oscar nodded thoughtfully. “Okay.”

Sophie blinked. “Okay?”

“I already have a draft.”

The room fell silent.

“You what?” Sophie asked.

Oscar reached into his hoodie pocket, pulled out his phone, and calmly opened his Notes app. “Wrote it earlier,” he said. “Figured you’d ask.”

He passed the phone to Sophie.

She scrolled.

Stopped.

Scrolled again.

By the third paragraph, she was blinking fast and biting the inside of her cheek. By the end, she was holding the phone with both hands like it was a fragile heirloom.

One of the interns leaned over her shoulder. “Did he just… write a romance novel in his Notes app?”

Oscar shrugged. “Seemed easier than a press conference.”

Andrea, still quiet, tilted his head. “You wrote this yourself?”

Oscar looked at him. “Yeah.”

Andrea just gave a small nod. No words. But something in his expression shifted. A little less hurt. A little more understanding.

Sophie passed the phone to Zak.

Zak read three lines, then huffed. “Jesus. You really are a wife guy.”

Oscar shrugged again.

“Well,” Sophie said faintly. “It’s perfect.”

Oscar took his phone back. “Should I post it now or wait until after FP2?”

Sophie threw her hands in the air. “How are you so calm about this?!”

Oscar looked up, deadpan. “Because I’ve been married for five years.”

And there it was again—that maddening, infuriating, charmingly psychotic Oscar Piastri calm.

Sophie sat down, defeated. “Fine. Post it. Pray Lando doesn’t say anything unhinged in the comments.”

Andrea glanced at him one more time. “Next time, Oscar,” he said softly, “you can tell us. It doesn’t have to be relevant to the car.”

Oscar looked at him, then nodded. “Noted.”

And with that, he pulled out his phone, opened Instagram, and hit post—like it was the most normal thing in the world.

(Which, to him, it probably was.)

Ten seconds later, Sophie’s phone buzzed again.

And again.

And again.

“Buckle up,” she muttered. “Here we go again.”

[inwithrin]

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ you think he's watching?

imagine sevika meeting you—her new, sweet next door neighbor... and she sees you wearing a little rosary—now, she can't get you out her mind.

cw: this is more teasing than anything! sevika touching you, dom!sevika, restrained hands, religious guilt but reader deffff wants sevika, humilliation, mocking, and praise. i used to be religious, so this is based on my experience with dealing with liking girls and being christian hehehe

you’re all sunshine, lugging boxes in a white and blue gingham check dress that flows in the breeze, your glossy lips tucked between your teeth as you balance a plant pot too big for your arms. the moving company does most of the heavy lifting, but you’re still fluttering around, directing where things go, and laughing with workers.

sevika watches from her window, a cigarette long forgotten between her fingers.

your house’s right across from hers—she notices the all white and light wooden furniture, the fluffy pillows, the glittering wind chimes you hung on the porch, and how you placed tiny plants on the front door.

she hasn’t seen your face clearly, nevertheless, she already knows you’re sweet. she can tell by how you set every box down like everything you own deserves to be handled with love.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────

on the second day, there’s a knock on her door. two quick taps. she opens it, a towel slung around her neck from the gym, and there you are—holding out a little plastic bag full of cookies tied with a blue ribbon.

“hi!” you smile. “i’m new here. i baked some cookies for the neighbors—i wanted to make a good impression.”

you hand her the bag, and sevika blinks for a second. 

your voice is soft, sweet—like a bell.

your nails are glossy pink. your lips too.

your eyes are glimmery and your long lashes curled.

then, she saw the little cross around your neck catching the light.

“you certainly made a good impression here, pretty,” she says, lips curling into a smirk. “my name’s sevika.”

you smile. “okay, sevika,” you say, nodding. “i live right there—across from you!”

you keep talking—something about how you’re still settling in, how you hope the noise isn’t bothering anyone, how you would love to invite her over for dinner once your place looks decent. but sevika isn’t listening.

she is shamelessly watching your mouth move. the way you look up at her with those sweet, glassy eyes. the way your rosary dips with every breath you take. the way your fingers twist the hem of your blouse absentmindedly. 

she thinks you look like trouble.

and she really likes trouble.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────

it starts with the cookies.

but it doesn’t end there.

a few days later, there’s a knock at your door.

you answer it in your pajamas—an oversized band tee from a group sevika doesn’t recognize, shorts, and fuzzy socks. your hair was loosely pulled back, and cheeks warm from cleaning.

it’s sevika, leaning against the doorframe like she owns it, wearing a dark hoodie and sweatpants, a plastic container in hand.

“i figured it was my turn,” she says, holding it out. “i don’t bake—but i brough leftover pasta.”

“thank you,” your eyes light up. “that’s so sweet of you! wanna come in?”

she steps inside, eyes scanning the space—your house smells floral, and it’s warm and cozy. her eyes flick to your coffee table, catching onto your bible—worn, well-read, sticky-noted, the spine is creased, a white ribbon peeking out like a bookmark.

then, her eyes drift to you. before her eyes go to the necklace resting against your chest again.

you notice, trailing her gaze. “oh,” you mutter, brushing your thumb over the spine of the bible. “yeah—i’m religious. uh, i just try to be good, you know?” you glance up at her, with a nervous smile. “sorry. you probably don’t care.”

and you’re right, she doesn’t. not about verses or the scripture. she doesn’t know the names you whisper to when you kneel and pray at night. but she does care about the way you look when you talk about it—your voice all shy, your lashes casting shadows, your fingers delicate over the bible.

“nah,” she says. “i care.”

you tilt your head, smiling slow. “really?”

she shrugs, stepping closer. “i don’t know if i believe in heaven,” she murmurs, looking down at you with unreadable eyes. “but you might make me.”

your face burns as you look down at your rosary—you shouldn't even think about her like this.

sevika just watches you, quietly, the way someone watches stained glass glow in sunlight—curious.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────

it’s a few days later. you weren’t expecting to see her so soon. especially with those thoughts you’ve tried to push away. but, there’s a knock at your door around sunset, and there she is—sevika, looking at you like you’re a cookie she wants to take a bite off.

“hey,” she says, simply. 

you let her in. “hello.”

she walks slowly, as you offer her tea, but she shakes her head. you try to act normal—sitting on the couch while she is still standing up, pretending not to stare at her broad shoulders, her hands, and how her eyes flick back to your rosary.

she’s obsessed, and you can tell.

“you wear it all the time?” she asks.

“yeah,” you nod, fingers brushing the chain. “since i was little—i feel weird without it.”

sevika hums, moving closer, until she’s standing right in front of you. “can i touch it?”

you nod again, and she sits beside you—too close—and reaches, thick fingers grazing the edge off the cross, her knuckles brush your collarbone. 

you suck in a breath, and she notices.

“pretty thing like you,” she murmurs, watching the cross sway on its chain. “wearing something so holy.”

your thighs press together. her fingers never leaving the rosary, instead—she drags her thumb along it, like she’s praying.

“do you think about god all the time?” she asks, voice low.

you blink up at sevika, lips parted. “i… i try to.”

sevika tilts her head, hand sliding beneath the chain, her knuckles brushing the base of your throat. “what about now?”

your eyes flutter as your fingers dig into the hem of your long, white skirt. you try so hard to keep your mind holy, but it’s hard when she’s looking at you like that, with her fingers lingering at your throat. 

“still trying, angel?” she asks, smiling. “or are you thinking about me now?”

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────

her hands are big.

you knew that already, but it’s different when they’re actually on you—when your wrists are pinned together in your back and she’s wrapping one of your hair ribbons around them like she’s done it a hundred times before. 

you hadn’t meant for it to go this far. but now you’re kneeling on your bedroom’s soft rug, hands bound, your rosary still around your neck, resting against the slope of your chest.

and sevika is behind you on her knees too—hands trailing your waist, mouth warm at your ear. “say stop if you need to,” she mutters. “i’ll listen, okay sweetheart?”

you nod, you do want this. but your heart stutters with guilt. “i really—i really shouldn’t be doing this with a woman…”

“why not?” her lips brush the shell of your ear.

“i’m supposed to be good,” you whisper, swallowing.

her hand drifts up—palming the side of your neck, thumb pressing under your jaw. “you’re good,” she says. “c’mon, look at you—you’re the sweetest thing i’ve ever seen,” she nudged your head to the side, kissing your throat. “you read your bible. you bake for your neighbors. you open your door for me. you are good, so—you need someone to help you feel good too.”

her hand slips, bunching your skirt in her hand, pulling it up. you squeeze your eyes shut—trying to hold onto something—the scripture, the guilt, your pastor’s voice. but then, sevika’s palm is sliding between your thighs, and all you can do is whine.

she presses a kiss to the back of your shoulder. “let me do it for you,” she mutters. “you don’t have to do anything, baby. just kneel there, pretty, and take it.”

you’re trembling—wrists still tied, the satin pressing against your skin, and your rosary cold against your chest. however, sevika is warm behind you, her hand is tracing closer to your clothed pussy—fingers slow, and her lips never leave you for long, kissing up your shoulder, nape, neck, and your cheek.

“still trying to be good, angel?” she murmurs, carefully biting your shoulder, licking the skin after—causing you to gasp.

“trying,” you whine, breathless and desperate. “i’m trying, sev.”

she hums low against your skin, her free hand wrapping around your bound wrists and tugging them back gently, arching your spine, tilting your head to expose more of your neck to her mouth.

“you’re so good,” she coos, finally cupping your pussy. “look at you—kneeling for me, saying you shouldn’t… but letting me touch you anyway.”

her fingers press deeper, slow circles against your panties, which are embarrassingly wet, and your thighs shake.

“you think god’s watching?” sevika asks. “you think he sees how wet you’re for me?”

you whimper, and she chuckles—more amused than cruel, but still pleased with herself.

her teeth scrape against your earlobe. “tell me to stop,” she says. “tell me to stop, and i’ll leave you alone—and you can go back to being holy.”

you hesitate because you should. but instead, you whisper. “please, sevi—don’t stop.”

“atta girl,” she smiles.

[chronicowboy]

the bigger they are (the harder they fall) | 6.7k

"I can wiggle my fingers and toes. My helmet's still on. I feel pretty okay for a guy who just got swallowed by a building." Eddie huffs a laugh, shaking his head. "Now, am I cleared to move, doc?"

"Asshole," Eddie mutters. Delights in the way Buck doesn't budge an inch. "Yes, you can move."

Eddie watches the shift of Buck's turnouts, listens for any signs of discomfort as he moves, and then Buck's face appears in the gap. Powdered like one of the beignets he'd tried to make the other day, eyes screwed up to squint through the darkness, a slow relieved smile stretching his lips. The most beautiful thing Eddie has ever seen.

"Good to see your face, bud," he murmurs, letting his own smile take over.

"It's a nice face," Buck agrees easily, grin turning shit-eating.

"It's fine." Eddie rolls his eyes. Buck scoffs. "The brain behind it, however..."

"Hey," Buck squawks.

"Buckley, Diaz, please." Hen's voice, desperate and thick with preparatory grief. Buck meets his eye through the gap.

"Don't have a radio," Eddie tells him. Buck reaches for his.

"Hey, Hen."

"Buck, oh, my God." Hen takes a deep breath, grounds herself. "Buck, are you okay?"

"We're okay," Buck says, soothing in a way that makes Eddie want to shut his eyes and just bask in it.

"We?"

"Eddie and I got buried. There's a wall of concrete between us, but we're mainly unscathed. Nothing life-threatening. You just gotta come and dig us out."

"Already on it." Her voice rings clear and strong then, falling into Captain Wilson like it's second nature. "We'll be with you soon. Let us know if anything changes and take care of each other."

"Always do," Buck whispers, letting his hand fall away from his radio.

Eddie shifts back onto his haunches and sits with his shoulder to the gap in the wall. Buck shifts into the exact same place on the other side, and Eddie thinks momentarily of his pilgrimage to the confessional six months ago.

"I feel like I should confess," Buck mumbles with a huff of laughter. Eddie's head whips towards him, eyes startled wide.

"What?" he breathes out, knows Buck can't actually read his mind, hadn't that been the whole problem in the kitchen?, but still—

(or: my seismic shifts trapped dads speculation)

[daydreamgoddess14]

Breakfast

My first Thunderbolts* fic!

I am so in love with this bunch of losers. I was already all in on Bucky anyway, but the others are magic and I love them all 🥰

Anyway, I bashed this little Tower Tale out this afternoon. It's probably the first of miniseries, so be sure to look out for any follow-ups!

Thunderbolts* (platonic for now) x F!Reader, no warnings, just some domestic sweetness. Bucky x F!Reader if you squint. It's brewing.

Word count: 1.5k

Under the cut in case of ~spoilers~ though there aren't any, really.

There was no food.

What the everloving fuck were they eating?

You opened another cupboard.

Three boxes of Wheaties, two of them ripped open like they'd been mauled by a wild animal.

In the fridge, a bottle of vodka with less than half a measure left, a single egg, leftover chilli fries with mould creeping into the edge of the cardboard and an apple with a bite taken out of it.

You propped the fridge open with your hip and started launching the contents into the open trash can.

With a final yeet, the egg was the last item. You heard it crack as it made contact with the vodka bottle.

“Who're you?” a voice asked from across the room.

“Oh!” You jumped, the fridge knocking against your elbow as you moved.

“Where's all the food?” You asked the dark haired man. He stared, wide eyed, and tugged at the sleeves of his hoodie.

“Umm…” he looked around, as if waiting for someone to turn up and answer on his behalf. “There's Wheaties?”

“Yeah. And literally nothing else.”

“It's Alexei's turn to shop.”

“Hmm. And when was the last time you ate?”

“Breakfast.”

“Today?”

“Yeah… well, like, 2am when everyone got back,” he shrugged. “We had Wheaties a la Bob.”

“Do I want to know?”

“With water not milk. Because there was no milk.”

Your lips pinched together and you sighed.

“That's… that's gross. So I take it you're Bob?”

“Yeah, the others are sleeping I think. Late night.”

“And you're all grown adults?”

“I mean, Bucky's like, 110!”

“And not one of you thought to visit a grocery store? Or get DoorDash?”

“We get DoorDash all the time, Alexei is like the king of DoorDash.”

“Ah,” you think you're starting to see the problem. The reason you've been hired.

“John always takes the leftovers. And Bucky.”

You lift the heavy grocery bag onto the counter and Bob's eyes widen.

“Right, Bob,” you start unpacking. “You want some real breakfast?”

He's cautious about talking too much.

He fidgets on the stool while he watches you chop onions, mushrooms, bell peppers, potatoes. Mel had been underselling the facilities. You'd found a pantry with every gadget under the sun, brand new pots and pans still in their packaging. Your brain went into overdrive.

The kitchen begins to fill with the intoxicating scent of various foods cooking, of freshly brewed coffee and pancake syrup.

As you're frying cubes of potato sprinkled with paprika and garlic powder, he's inching forwards, leaning over the counter to see what you're doing.

“Who the fuck are you?” Another voice spoke up.

“Who's asking?”

“John Walker. You gonna answer me now?”

“Take a seat, John, coffee's just brewed.”

He stayed on his feet, looking between you, Bob, and the magic happening on the stove top.

“Oi, fucking move, Walker. Why are you just standing in the way?”

“Who's she?” He asks Ava who shrugs.

“Who cares, I smell food. And coffee!”

“You gotta talk to him about the limo, Lena,” another voice entered the room.

“I tried! He won't listen to me, you need to try. Like, soldier to soldier.”

“That's… that's not gonna happen and you know it. What's that smell?”

“Food. Real food,” the blonde woman peered around Walker at you. “What's this?”

“This?” You asked, assessing the selection so far. “Well, starting this end, croissants, fruit, yogurt, then I've just finished the fried potatoes - those are gonna be so good with the shakshuka that's just finishing in the oven, then there's eggs benedict, bacon, mushrooms, pancakes and syrup…” you looked up at the five bemused faces.

“Smells like heaven,” a voice bellowed, “What is this? Who is cooking?” Alexei came to a halt and looked over Yelena’s head. “An angel. An angel is cooking. You!” He pushed his way between Ava and Bucky making his way toward you, and then took your hand, shaking it vigorously. “I am Alexei, Daddy Avenger. You can call me daddy,” he winked.

“Oh, god’” Yelena heaved. Ava grimaced.

You smiled gently, “I will not be calling you daddy. But it is good to meet you. All of you. Food is pretty much ready, so… help yourselves I guess?”

Bob went first, to everyone's surprise and confusion, the others were far more cautious. John warily sniffed each dish before settling on the pre packaged croissants.

“I'll make fresh tomorrow, I wasn't sure what time I'd have today,” you explained. He ignored you.

Ava went for the pancakes with bacon, “and these are -?”

“Freshly made. There's still some batter if you want more?”

Unlike John, she smiled. Tiny and uncertain, but you figured a smile is a smile. Yelena went for the eggs benedict.

“Have you got any -”

“Salmon or ham?” You opened the now full fridge, her jaw dropped.

“Ham, please,” she stared in awe. As you passed her a packet of sliced deli ham, the timer went off on your phone.

You slid open the oven and pulled out a tray, setting it on the counter before it started burning you through the oven mitt.

“Is beautiful,” Alexei sighed happily at the tray of tomatoes with shiny egg whites and sunshine yolks.

“Shakshuka,” you told him. “Fresh bread tomorrow, but have it with potato hash for today,” you handed him an empty plate.

They milled around, taking seconds and thirds but not taking their eyes off you for long.

“You gonna tell us who you are?” Bucky asked, still nursing the singular cup of coffee someone else had passed him.

“Are you going to eat?” You asked.

“Bucky, she is angelic person with food!”

“It is really good food,” Bob smiled warmly.

“Great hollandaise,” Yelena agreed.

“We don't know anything about her, she could have poisoned us -”

“You started off with something out of a packet, but you soon made sure you tried everything else, Walker, don't be ridiculous.” Ava rolled her eyes. “And those pancakes were amazing.”

“So I'm the only one who thinks this is weird?”

“Ms. de Fontaine hired me.”

“Great, of course,” he threw his hands up and scoffed. “She micromanages our diets now?”

“If, by micromanage, you mean she considered the fridge contents a health code violation and has had enough of 3am DoorDash notifications, then yes.”

“And you're here to, what? Cook three square meals a day?”

“Pretty much,” you shrugged.

“That's kinda neat,” Bob beamed.

“We do all hate cooking,” John muttered begrudgingly.

“Only because you're shit at it, John.”

“Ava, swear to god I'm gonna -”

“What, what are you going to do?”

“Guys, enough. You're happy with this?” Bucky asked the group. One by one they all nodded.

“C'mon, Bucky. Try some -” Yelena took an empty plate and started loading it with shakshuka, bacon, and potato hash. She put the plate down in front of him and took his coffee away.

You hid your smile behind tidying up, the others filtered away with nods of thanks. By the time you'd finished arranging the dishwasher and turned around, he was the only one left.

You put a fresh cup of coffee next to his plate and for a moment, his knife and fork paused.

“Happy I haven't poisoned you?”

“Hhmph,” he grunted.

You continued the clean up, compiling the (very few) leftovers, wiping the surfaces, and making notes for a full kitchen restock.

With a neat clatter, his cutlery fell silent. You took the plate, added it to the dishwasher and switched it on. Finally, you passed him a paper bag.

“What's this?”

“I like to finish breakfast with something sweet. I made these yesterday so they're still good, I'll make some more for tomorrow.”

He opened the bag to find a chocolate croissant you'd kept warm.

“Thought you told Walker they were from the store?”

“The ones I put out were, this one isn't.”

He looked at the bag, and back at you, “thank you. About earlier, I didn't mean -”

“It's fine, really.” You smiled. “I know it's hard, someone intruding when you were all doing so well on your own.”

His laugh surprised you, warm and rich.

“Yeah, we're uhh… still figuring it out.”

“Well. Now you have some help. You'll have to let me know your favourite foods, I'll see if I can do them justice.”

“Something tells me that won't be too much of a stretch,” he said softly.

“Barnes! We're out, let's go,” Yelena called from the elevator.

“See you later, doll. Thanks for breakfast.” He held up the croissant in salute and disappeared, leaving nothing but crumbs in his wake.

[mywritersmind]

could you kimi antonelli x famous movie star reader! who is at the met gala and kimi is just thirsting over how good she looks. it can be like set when they do those vogue grwms of he is at the paddock watching the livestream?

PRETTY IN PINK - KA12

listen up : No warnings!! thanks for the request it’s not exactly the vogue grwm but i hope u still like it!! supportive kimi 4L!

words : 555

⋆｡‧˚⋆

Everyone in the paddock knows Kimi Antonelli. Youngest F1 driver on the grid, superstar in the making, italian mercedes driver, but most importantly: He is Y/n L/n’s boyfriend.

It’s not something people push onto him, it’s something he brings up at any chance he gets. The first time she came to the paddock, photos went viral of Kimi and Y/n, news spreading fast of the up and coming movie star and formula one prodigy.

Now, Kimi is sitting in his garage, a camera on him that he doesn’t even notice. He’s busy staring at his phone.

“Kimi.” The camera man laughs, “What’cha watching?” The curly haired boy looks up in surprise, smiling when he registers his words.

“My girlfriend!” He turns his phone to show him, the scene switching to a close up of Y/n’s outfit. He moves his phone back in front of him, smiling genuinely as if his girlfriend was in front of him.

She’s beautiful, a vision in pink and something Kimi is jealous that everyone else gets to see in person while he’s stuck around cars. Sure, the things he races are incredible… but to Kimi, his girlfriend can make his heart race just as fast as his car.

“It’s the Met Gala today, her first one.” He beams, his eyes locked on his screen while he talks.

“That’s awfully impressive-” The man is quickly cut off by Kimi.

“Sh sh! She’s talking!” He waves his hands as the man shuts up. Everyone around them is focused on the boy now, the screens all showing his face now.

Y/n smiles politely at the interviewer, “Y/n!” The woman says, “You look stunning, tell us about your look!” She goes, going into every detail that Kimi already knows because she’s been excited about this for months.

“You’re very supportive.” The camera man says to Kimi.

“Of course I am, I love her. She’s at every race she can be but- I definitely understand missing one for the biggest fashion night of the year… at least, that’s what she says. I don’t know anything about fashion.” He watches her push her hair behind her ear, the girl laughing elegantly.

The question shifts and Kimi focuses back on her words, “I’d like to say hi to my lovely boyfriend who I know is watching instead of preparing for his race.” She holds the microphone high, looking directly into the camera. “Kimi, get into that car and fucking kick ass.”

Kimi laughs, she’s definitely not supposed to swear but she’s never been one for following rules. “Oh!” She turns back just before she’s about to go, grabbing the microphone again, “Don’t break a tooth kissing the screen, K.” and then she winks, being ushered back up the stairs without another look.

He laughs again, and so does the rest of the paddock. Kimi sets his phone down, “I guess I'll wait to kiss her when she’s actually in front of me.” The camera zooms out, showing him sigh in his chair.

He slips his phone into his pocket, his fingers tingling in anticipation because all he wants to do is talk to her. He smiles while walking farther into the garage, the image of his girlfriend in pink fresh in his memory and motivating for the day ahead.

[smutmind]

Caught Pink Handed

IVE Wonyoung X Male Reader

“Oppa?”

You froze mid-stroke, heart stalling. Her voice wasn’t surprised. Just curious. You turned slowly—hand still half-wrapped around yourself—and there she was.

Wonyoung. Nineteen. All legs, lush hair, candy-colored top riding high on her ribs. That denim skirt brushed her ankles as she stepped inside like she owned the place.

"Didn’t your mom teach you to lock doors?" she asked, one brow raised.

You fumbled for your blanket, too slow. Her eyes were already on the laptop screen—your folder open. Her photos. Her in that low-cut tank last summer, the bikini on your roof deck, the mirror selfie she’d posted and deleted in under five minutes.

“Seriously?”

She laughed. Not cruel—worse. It was soft. Disbelieving. Almost flattered.

“Holy shit,” she murmured, stepping closer. “You were actually jerking off to me.”

You couldn’t speak. She tilted her head, watching your shame crawl over you.

“That’s what you do when we hang out? Sneak photos? Save them for later?”

Her tone was sugar-laced poison. She came closer, the heat of her body brushing yours without touch.

“I come over all the time,” she whispered. “Your sister trusts me. And you’re just here, like some sad little perv, getting off in your gamer chair.”

You swallowed hard. Your hands stayed limp at your sides.

She leaned in. The scent of her was everywhere—floral shampoo, warm skin, something bubble-sweet under it all.

“Did you ever think what would happen if she found out?”

You shook your head, throat dry.

Wonyoung smiled, slow and terrible. “No, you didn’t. Because all you were thinking about was my tits, right? My ass in this skirt?”

She stepped between your knees. Her hand landed on your thigh, fingers feather-light.

“Look at you,” she said. “Still hard.”

She leaned closer until her lips hovered beside your ear.

“You don’t deserve this,” she said. “But maybe I’ll let you have it anyway.”

You stared at her, stunned. She stepped back.

“Clean up. Sit down. Don’t say a word.”

And then she curled onto your bed like it was hers, phone in hand, not even glancing at you.

The silence stretched like wire.

You knew this wasn’t over.

She lay sideways on your bed, scrolling like nothing happened. One knee bent, heel bouncing. That skirt rode up her thigh just enough to torment.

You sat in your chair, half-hard, half-humiliated.

Then came her voice. Casual. Sharp.

"Come here."

You stood, slow, still not meeting her eyes. She patted the mattress beside her.

"Closer."

You knelt on the floor. Her gaze flicked down.

“Good boy.”

Wonyoung shifted, planting both feet flat, spreading her knees just a little. The hem of her skirt drew tight. You tried not to look. Failed.

She smirked. "You really couldn’t help yourself, huh? All those times I bent over in front of you. All the outfits I wore just to mess with you…”

You blinked. “Wait—”

“Oh please,” she said, eyes gleaming. “You think I didn’t know? You’re so easy to tease, oppa. That little twitch you get when I suck on a straw? The way you stare at my legs when I kick my shoes off?”

She ran a hand down her own thigh. “You don’t hide it well.”

Then she paused. Her smile dropped, just enough.

"But this?" she said, nodding toward your desk. "This was pathetic.”

Silence.

Her voice softened. “You wanted me without asking. Like I was just a thing you could play with when you’re lonely.”

That landed hard.

She leaned forward, touched your cheek.

“I should be pissed,” she whispered. “I should tell your sister.”

Your stomach dropped.

“But I won’t.”

Relief. A breath caught in your throat.

“Not if you listen,” she added, sitting back, legs spreading wider. “Not if you do everything I say.”

You nodded. Too fast. Too eager.

She laughed.

“Strip.”

You hesitated.

“Now. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

You obeyed—shirt, pants, everything. She watched like it was a show she’d paid for.

Then she lifted her foot and tapped your chest with her toes. “On your back. Floor.”

Cool wood against your skin. You lay there, exposed. Waiting.

She stepped over you. That skirt hovered above your face as she straddled you, her panties damp, pressed against the fabric.

She crouched lower, letting her heat ghost over your lips.

"You want to taste what you've been jerking off to?"

You nodded.

“Then beg.”

“Please,” you breathed.

“Please what?”

“Please let me taste you, Wonyoung.”

She smiled. “No.”

She stood, turned, dropped onto all fours above you. Her ass now hovered over your chest, the cotton clinging wet between her cheeks.

“Here’s what you get,” she said, yanking her panties aside. “You make me cum. I decide if you get anything.”

You grabbed her hips. She slapped your hand.

“No touching. You work with your mouth only.”

Then she lowered herself. You moaned against her—she was soaked, warm, slick and tangy. You licked, desperate, your tongue exploring every fold, flicking her clit until she twitched.

“Fuck, oppa,” she gasped. “You eat pussy better than I thought.”

She rocked against your face. Hair fell like a curtain around your head. Her moans came sharper now, louder.

“Keep going—don’t you dare stop—"

She stiffened, thighs clamping, then shuddered hard. A whimper escaped her lips.

She didn’t move right away. Just breathed heavy, panting above you. Then she sat up and twisted to face your flushed, aching cock.

“Now you get your reward,” she said, grinning like a devil.

She straddled your thighs, hair falling around her face as she dipped her head low. Her lips found you, slow at first—tongue teasing under the crown, then sliding down, swallowing you whole with a messy, greedy hum.

You groaned, fists bunching the sheets.

She came up for air, her chin glistening. “You moan so pretty, oppa.”

Then she leaned in, her chest brushing your lips.

“You want these too?”

You didn’t answer fast enough. She reached down and slapped your cock lightly.

“Say it.”

“Yes—please.”

She smirked and pulled her shirt up, baring soft, full breasts tipped in pink. You sucked one into your mouth, her skin warm and flushed, her nipple hardening instantly.

“Good boy,” she whispered, grinding down onto your cock with her soaked panties still between you.

She rocked against you like that, hips rolling, nipples in your mouth, her breath catching every time your teeth grazed. Then she lifted, reached back, tugged the fabric aside.

“Condom?”

You shook your head, dazed. She laughed.

“Course not.”

She sank onto you bare—tight, dripping, so warm it made your back arch. Her hands found your chest as she bounced in slow, deliberate thrusts.

“God,” she panted, “you’re so fucking deep—”

Your hands gripped her waist. Her tits bounced with every movement, your mouth catching them when you could. She leaned in, kissing you wet and fast, tongues tangling.

A sudden beep—she glanced at the digital clock on your shelf.

“Five minutes,” she said, laughing breathlessly. “Let’s make them count.”

She climbed off and flipped forward onto all fours, looking back over her shoulder, hair falling in waves.

“Come get what you’ve been dreaming about.”

You knelt behind her, drove into her hard. She yelped, then pushed back into you with every thrust.

“Harder,” she gasped. “Don’t hold back, oppa—fuck me like you mean it.”

Your hands gripped her hips. The slap of skin echoed, loud and obscene, her moans rising higher, then breaking into whimpers.

“I’m gonna cum again—don’t stop—don’t you fucking stop—”

She spasmed around you, mouth open in a silent cry as her body jerked. You barely held it together. She collapsed forward, then twisted onto her back, eyes wild.

“Finish on my face,” she demanded. “Do it now.”

You knelt over her. She opened her mouth, tongue out, eyes locked to yours.

You groaned, cock twitching, and came hard—ropes of white striping her lips, chin, cheeks, even her collarbone.

“Fuck,” she whispered. “Just in time.”

She grabbed her panties from the floor and wiped her face quickly, licking her fingers clean between swipes. Then she pulled her shirt down, smoothed her skirt, and darted into the bathroom.

You barely had time to tuck yourself back in before the doorbell rang.

Wonyoung peeked out, cheeks flushed but clean.

She mouthed one word before she opened the door:

“Oppa.”

[malsmind]

antisocial!reader 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 vampire!matt 𝐚𝐭 𝐚 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲

✰ - content warnings: ✦ underage drinking ✦ mentions of social anxiety ✦ mentions of injuries & blood ✦ pet names ✦ a LOT of tension ✦ male masturbation ✦ getting caught ✦

wc - 3.2k

the party was loud. too loud. bodies packed into some random kid’s house like sweaty sardines, music shaking the walls, the sticky scent of cheap beer and perfume making your throat itch. you’d been trying to keep your distance—stuck close to your best friend while chris hovered nearby, trying to keep a lid on matt’s temper before shit inevitably exploded. and it was already close. you could tell. you were leaned against the kitchen counter, plastic cup in hand, watching it all from across the room. matt was all sharp edges tonight. jaw clenched, hands fisted in the pockets of his hoodie, his stare practically burning holes into the side of some douchebag’s face across the room. you didn’t even know what set him off, but he was on edge—restless, dangerous, way too close to snapping. every little thing seemed to piss him off. his lip twitched when people got too close. his knuckles were white.

chris was already trying to calm him down—had been for the past twenty minutes, whispering shit to him with an annoyed look—but matt wasn’t listening. hadn’t even spared you a glance. not that you expected him to. not after that night. you hadn’t spoken since. hadn’t texted. hadn’t even looked at each other at school or when you studied with your best friend. it was easier that way. pretending nothing happened. pretending you didn’t kiss him. that he didn’t let you. that the heat in your chest from that moment didn’t still flicker up at the worst possible times.

but tonight, that flicker turned into full-blown flame. because not even five minutes later, you heard it from the living room. loud. angry.

“oh yeah? why don’t you shut the fuck up before i give your fucking face a redoing?”

you turned your head so fast you nearly spilled your drink.

matt.

your stomach dropped when you pushed through the crowd, chris already halfway in between them, trying to hold matt back, but it was too late. matt lunged—shoved the guy hard enough for him to stumble, and then fists flew. people gasped, pulled back, drinks spilled. you felt your heart in your throat.

fucking idiot.

your social anxiety evaporated with the rage that took its place. before you even realized it, you were grabbing matt’s arm—tight, firm—yanking him back from the chaos.

“come the fuck on,” you hissed, ignoring the mess of voices around you. he jerked at first, trying to resist, but you weren’t having it. your grip was unrelenting. “dude, stop,” he snapped, trying to pull away. “get off—”

“no. shut the fuck up and move.”

he blinked at you, caught off guard. but you didn’t give him time to recover. you dragged him out of the house, past gawking faces and hushed whispers. you could feel his eyes on you as you stormed toward your car, yanked the door open and shoved him into the passenger seat like a damn toddler.

“jesus christ,” he muttered, breathless. but he didn’t stop you. didn’t argue when you started the car and peeled out of there.

the silence was thick. the kind of quiet that made your teeth grind. you didn’t speak, hands clenched on the wheel, heart pounding too loud in your chest to think. and matt didn’t say a word either. which was weird. for him. he only looked at you, and kept looking. even when you pulled into your driveway, even when you stepped out and slammed your door. he followed like a shadow. no protests now. you threw open the door to your house, letting him in without a glance, heading straight for the bathroom. he didn’t sit until you pointed at the couch like you were dealing with a dog. he sat. you came back with the first aid kit, slamming it down on the coffee table. his lip was split. cheek scratched. knuckles bruised. stupid fucking boy.

“don’t move,” you snapped.

he raised an eyebrow. “what the hell is this, the ER?”

you pressed a cotton pad to his lip and he flinched hard. “jesus—ow, fuck. you’re hurting me, dude.”

“well fuckin’ stop squirming like a little bitch and we’re good,” you muttered, pressing harder. “could’ve just kept your stupid mouth shut and none of this would even happen. fuckin’ dickhead.”

he went quiet. mouth shut. eyes on yours. for once. finally. his breathing shifted. heavier now. more deliberate. you noticed, even if you tried not to. your hand hesitated just slightly, hovering near the cut on his cheek.

“why’re you nervous?” you muttered, voice low. “the fuck’s all that attitude gone now?”

his cheeks flushed. just faint, but enough.

he swallowed. “i dunno. you’re all up in my fucking face… who wouldn’t… get nervous…”

your breath caught. you pulled back slightly, trying to ignore the way your hands shook. “just relax, matt, please.” your voice was quieter now. raw.

you bit your lip. old habit. always did it when you focused. hard enough this time that you tasted blood. and that’s when everything changed. his pupils dilated. breath hitched. he tensed—every muscle in his body pulled taut like a bowstring. his eyes weren’t on your face anymore. they were locked on your lips. and not in a horny way. in a dangerous way. your heart stopped.

“…matt?”

his eyes snapped back up. he blinked. twice. like trying to shake something off.

“you’re bleeding,” he muttered, voice thick. not quite his own.

you licked your lip out of reflex, the taste of iron sharp on your tongue. “yeah, it’s nothin’. i do that sometimes—”

“don’t,” he cut in quickly. sharply. his voice cracked, like it hurt him to speak. “just—don’t.”

you stared at him, silent. frozen. he turned away. dragged a hand down his face. shook his head like it might clear the fog.

“i should go,” he said after a second, standing too fast. but you caught his wrist before he could bolt.

“wait.”

he froze.

“just… just sit for a second. please.”

he turned, eyes narrowed, expression unreadable. still flushed. still tense.

“why?” he asked. and it wasn’t sarcastic. wasn’t smug. it was almost soft. like he needed the reason.

you didn’t know how to answer that. because you didn’t want to be alone tonight? because something about him made you feel less… cracked? because when you looked at him, all angry and broken and bleeding, it made something inside you ache in a way that wasn’t painful, just familiar? you looked up at him, unsure what he saw in your eyes. but whatever it was, it made him sit back down without another word. you finished patching him up in silence. and when it was done, he didn’t move. didn’t speak. you didn’t either. you just sat there. both of you bruised in different ways. both of you pretending not to feel whatever this was. whatever it was becoming.

the blood was still there. matt’s eyes hadn’t left your mouth in minutes. dried now, but stark against your skin—this tiny, dark smear across your bottom lip where your teeth had broken through earlier. and it shouldn’t have mattered. it was barely anything. but to him? to what he was? it might as well have been a full-course fucking meal. he was trying. fuck, he was trying not to look. jaw tight, hands clenched into fists in his lap, shoulders drawn up with the strain of it. but the scent of it—metallic, warm, yours—lingered in the room like smoke, and his fangs ached just below the surface, a dull, familiar throb that scraped against every inch of self-control he had left.

you were still so close. crouched in front of him on the coffee table, legs tucked under you, your fingers stained with a little of his blood from the cleaning, your lip still bitten, your face so damn soft in the low light. and you were looking at him like that—like you weren’t scared. like you trusted him not to do anything stupid. he was going to lose it. but then—

“you’re staying the night.”

his head jerked up. “what?”

you just blinked at him, flat, unimpressed. “what what?” you echoed, like he was the dumb one. “knowing you, you’d go back there and beat that guy’s ass. again. you’re staying.”

he blinked. once. twice. that soft flush returned to his cheeks, and he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, glancing toward the door like maybe if he looked hard enough it’d open and he could ghost out of here before he did something stupid.

“and your parents?”

you rolled your eyes. “not home.”

he was silent. for a long beat.

you stood up, stretched a little, then disappeared down the hallway—leaving him alone in the quiet hum of the living room with the smell of your blood still hanging in the air, and the echo of your command in his head. you’re staying. it shouldn’t have gotten under his skin the way it did. shouldn’t have made his stomach twist with something warm and uncomfortable. but it did. it always did, with you. the way you talked to him. like you knew him. like you didn’t buy his act.

he heard your voice again after a moment, muffled from the hallway. “you want something to wear, or are you gonna sleep in your bloodstained hoodie like a psycho?”

he snorted, loud. “i am a psycho.”

you padded back in with some oversized t-shirt in your hands. one you probably slept in, he guessed, and that thought alone made him feel something tight settle in his chest.

you tossed it at him. “shower’s down the hall. towels under the sink. don’t bleed on my sheets.”

he raised an eyebrow. “you planning on tucking me in too, sweetheart?”

you gave him a blank look. “you wish.”

he huffed a laugh, caught the shirt, and stood—shoulder bumping yours as he passed. your lip was still stained. and he still couldn’t look away. he didn’t move for a second. just stood there in front of you, holding that old, stretched-out t-shirt in one hand, the other still balled into a fist by his side. the space between you throbbed—full of something he couldn’t name, like a pulled wire ready to snap.

your lip. still stained red.

and fuck, it wasn’t fair. you were standing there, all casual and stubborn, in your little tank top and shorts, like you hadn’t just dragged his ass out of a party like a pissed-off girlfriend, cursed him out in your living room, cleaned up his mess like you cared, and told him to stay the night like it didn’t mean anything. like it wasn’t driving him insane. matt wasn’t used to being looked after.

especially not by you.

and now, here you were. blood on your mouth. still touching his skin in places—his jaw, his temple, the side of his neck where your thumb had pressed in too hard. and you didn’t even seem to notice. but he did. god, he fucking noticed.

“matt,” you said finally, voice a little more cautious now. like you could sense the shift. “go shower. you’re gross.”

his lip twitched, but he nodded, saying nothing, and moved down the hall. he wanted to leave the bathroom door cracked, needing the faint sounds of the house to stay grounded. needing the space, but he closed it anyway. the water ran hot, nearly burning, but it helped. the sting reminded him to stay in control. reminded him he was still human enough to pull it back. barely.

𖤓

you knew he’d been in there too long. at first it didn’t register—just the sound of the water running behind the closed door while you sat on the edge of your bed, half-heartedly pretending to scroll through your phone. your fingers were idle. your mind wasn’t. you kept replaying it. his face. that stupid fight. the way he let you drag him out like he wasn’t twice your size and full of rage. the way he sat still and let you clean him up, even when you weren’t gentle. especially when you weren’t gentle. the way his breath stuttered when you snapped at him. when your lip bled and he couldn’t take his eyes off it. he hadn’t said much since. just listened to you mutter and nodded, eyes dark.

but now it was pushing thirty minutes, and the sound of the water hadn’t stopped. you blinked down at your screen again. a minute ticked by. another. your stomach twisted. you didn’t know what the hell possessed you to get up. maybe it was just genuine concern. maybe it was that same stupid tug in your chest you felt every time he looked at you too long. or maybe it was the part of you that needed to know—needed proof that you weren’t just imagining the way he was staring. like he wanted to bite. like he wanted to fuck.

your feet were quiet on the hardwood, like you were doing something wrong. your breath caught a little when you got close enough to hear it—not just the water—but him. low, quiet sounds slipping through the half-cracked bathroom door. you froze. his breathing was uneven. heavy. labored in a way that had nothing to do with steam. you stepped closer, barely. heart in your throat now.

then you heard it.

a soft curse. the distinct sound of skin on skin. a sharp inhale. a low groan, almost swallowed by the water pressure. you should’ve walked away. fuck, you should’ve.

but you didn’t.

you stood there, knees weak, face burning, biting down on the inside of your cheek hard enough to sting. you imagined him leaning against the tile, water pouring down his back, head tipped forward. imagined his fingers around his cock, jaw tight, lips parted, thinking about—fuck.

you turned around so fast you nearly tripped over your own feet, stormed back to your room and slammed the door a little too hard, heart hammering, thighs clenched, pulse between your legs. you sat on the edge of the bed again, tried to breathe through it. but your mouth was dry. your whole body was buzzing. you could still hear him in your head—those sounds. that voice. quiet and fucking desperate in a way he never let anyone see. you didn’t know how long it was before the water stopped. you didn’t know how long it took before you heard the bathroom door open, the sound of his footsteps in the hall, the faint creak of your door as he pushed it open without knocking.

your eyes snapped up. he was standing there, towel low on his hips, hair wet, chest rising and falling like he’d just been through hell. his eyes locked with yours. and you knew. instantly. he knew you’d heard.

you could see it in the way his mouth twitched, in the way his pupils were blown wide, like he hadn’t really finished what he started.

“couldn’t find the clean towel,” he said, voice rough. teasing. but low. darker than usual.

you didn’t say anything. couldn’t. just swallowed hard and looked away, blood rushing in your ears.

“you good?” he asked, stepping a little further into your room. towel still barely holding on. water dripping down his chest.

you nodded, still not looking at him. “fine.”

matt let the silence stretch. let the tension crackle like a live wire between you. and when he finally spoke again, it was low. almost soft.

“you heard me.”

your eyes snapped to his.

“i—”

“it’s fine,” he cut you off. but his voice was tight now. jaw clenched again. not angry—something else. restrained. careful. “fuck, angel. it’s not like i don’t want you to know.”

you stared. breathless.

he smirked, tired and wrecked. the kind of smirk that wasn’t smug—it was desperate. worn down. his eyes raked over you, slow. “you gonna tell me to get dressed, or you want me to stay like this?”

you didn’t answer. and he didn’t move. you stared at him—dripping, flushed, towel hanging too low on his hips, eyes dark and pinned to you like you were something worth sinking his teeth into. and maybe you were. god, maybe you wanted to be. your thighs clenched involuntarily at the look on his face. like he wanted to devour you. like you were the reason he’d been in the shower so long, with the water turned all the way hot and his hand moving over his cock, head thrown back against tile while your name probably slipped past his lips like a fucking prayer.

“matt,” you breathed, throat dry.

he took another step forward. slow. deliberate. his smirk was gone now. whatever bravado he walked in here with? it cracked beneath the weight of the silence between you, thick and humming.

“come here,” he murmured.

your heart stuttered. “matt…”

he leaned down, towel shifting a little with the movement. his fingers ghosted over your jaw, barely touching, but it was enough to make your skin light up like a struck match.

“we both know you want me too, baby.” he said, voice low, breath brushing your lips now. “you’re looking at me like you’re starving.”

you were. and he wasn’t wrong. but that didn’t mean—

you turned your head, jaw tensing. “you’re drunk.”

he exhaled sharply through his nose. like he expected that. like he hated that you were right.

“i’m fine.”

“matt.”

“i know what i’m doing,” he insisted, fingers tilting your chin back toward him. “and i want you. have wanted you. even when you drive me fucking insane.”

you stared at him. at the honest desperation in his voice. at the sheer want he wasn’t bothering to hide anymore. and god, it was tempting. every fiber in your body screamed to give in, to feel his mouth against yours, to drag that damn towel off and crawl into his lap, into his skin, into whatever the fuck had been building between you all summer long.

but no. not like this.

you pressed your hand to his chest, firm. “matt. you’ve been drinking. and you just fought someone. and you jerked off in my fucking shower.”

he blinked. laughed once. kind of breathless. “you weren’t supposed to hear that part.”

“i know,” you said, trying not to let the warmth creep up your neck. “but i did. and you’re still dripping water all over my floor.”

“you’re changing the subject.”

“yes,” you snapped, hand still on his chest. “because i’m trying really hard not to do something really fucking stupid.”

his gaze flickered. softened a little.

you swallowed hard. “don’t make me be the responsible one right now.”

for a second, neither of you moved. his fingers were still near your face, your hand still pressed to the heat of his chest. the air between you felt like it might snap. but then matt exhaled. slow. pulled back a little. ran a hand through his wet hair, muscles tight with restraint.

“you’re right.”

you didn’t expect him to say it. you just blinked at him.

he dropped onto the far end of your bed with a heavy sigh, towel hitching up slightly but thankfully not abandoning ship. he dragged a hand over his face. groaned softly. “fuck. i hate when you’re right.”

you tried not to smile. your heart still hadn’t slowed.

“get dressed, asshole.”

“yes, ma’am,” he muttered. “wouldn’t want to ruin your precious self-control.”

you rolled your eyes. turned toward your dresser, mostly to hide your face. but deep down, you were already dreading how much harder it was gonna be to pretend nothing had shifted between you. because it had.

you both felt it. and next time?

next time, you weren’t sure you’d be able to stop it.

dividers by @issysh3ll

[zepskies]

Just the thought of it alone sold me too!! loll Thank you so much for diving into this one, Wayne!! Hope you had an awesome Mother's Day 😘💗💗

Yes!!! Midsummer Night’s Dream is my favorite! Good choice 😁 Also, those descriptions of New York in the beginning drew me right in. The weed and piss got me, especially as someone living in a big city. It’s everywhere 🤣

Aw thanks! When I saw it in the moodboard I couldn't not feature Midsummer, especially when I just taught it/reread it this semester. 😂💖

Oh I'm so glad to hear that because I really wanted to set the scene with that opener. What hit me first on my own visits to NYC was always the smell. 🤣🤣

Gah, I love that she fell right into his arms! It’s always my favorite meeting for two characters 😝💕

We're going all in with the rom-com moments on this one! (Even with the reader's quip on rom-coms later lol) 😁

*snorts* God, what I wouldn’t give to hear Dean’s lecture on fairies 😂 (It’s my favorite comedic episode of SPN lol)

lmfao yaaaaaas, and the best part of that first gif--

"...Nipples?!" 🤣🤣 Gets me every time.

Oh? Interesting. Wonder what happened there… 😏 And of course all the girls in class are talking about him. If he’d been my professor, I either would’ve been a straight A student and listened to every word that left his lips or I would’ve failed because I would’ve stared at him and daydreamed too hard to pay attention

Yess, you caught that angsty tidbit of backstory for Dean. This is definitely gonna be explored in the series. But of course you know these nosy-ass girls are taking his class just to watch him and listen to him talk, like he's modern-day Indiana Jones or something. 😂

And I love how you characterized this AU Dean here because the professor profession is not easy to pull off for him if you’re leaning toward fancy university (I’ve always wanted to write a community college prof AU for him lol), but you still kept his essence alive in this one with the way he dresses more casually at school and speaks, and you can still see the “professor” part as well. Bravo, friend!! 👏

Oooh thank you so much!! That's something I was really working on with his characterization. Like, of course he's going to feel a little more sophisticated because he got to finish high school and actually went to college, got his master's, etc. The challenge was trying to make him still feel like Dean at his core, so that's exactly the balance I was going for!

In the rest of the series, he's for sure going to continue that trend of being the "laid back" professor, probably not taking the university office politics as seriously as he should. 😂

However, I also love that idea of a community college au for him!! Loll You would do such an amazing job of that. I’m already seeing Community vibes 😂

Is it just me or did he think of himself there because he’s already crushing on reader? 👀 (I mean obviously he is – he went to a Shakespeare play because she told him about it. That’s love lol)

Ah I'm so glad you caught that reaction! This is him starting to feel that on an unconscious level, but maybe not totally realizing just how into her he is until this night. 😝

How about I put a dent in your face and call the cops for harassment and stealing my fucking phone???? God, I hate people 🤬 But of course Brady’s an ass 😅

ughhhh ikr? I hate public transportation for this reason. And you especially never know what's gonna happen on the subway. 🙄

Omfg, I snorted so loudly. I told you that story, right? 🤣🤣

omg YESS I remember you saying some rando was like, "So is it serious?" about your relationship. 🙄🙄 Like how gross can you be, sir?!

But I love that Dean tried to let her handle it on her own before stepping in when the guy couldn’t take a fucking hint. Also bonus points for bringing her home too because I worried Brady would follow her and try something 😒

Some people wanted him to jump in earlier, but I wanted him to give her that chance to handle it. You can already see his protective side coming through.~ 😏 (Oh yeah, Dean was 100% clocking Brady's vibes and had to make sure she got off the subway safely.)

Uh-huh… Only now you’re realizing this, Professor? 😝

hehe he can be such a dummy sometimes, but by the time they parted ways, he definitely realized he was in trouble. 😂

Typical 😂😂😂

Oh yeah, I think I'm gonna have more fun with Benny and Dean in this one than in If I Stay. 😂😅

This English major is geeking out throughout this entire exchange and nodding along 🤓 (Although I was surprised you’re calling rom-coms boring, my hopelessly romantic Alex 😜)

ehehe I knew you'd pick up everything I'm laying down here! 😘 Oh trust, she loves rom-coms. (And I personally love every single one of those movies, especially CSL!) 😂 She's just trying to make the point that "the course of true love never did run smooth" is almost a cliché at this point, while the Helena line is a more powerful statement about love~

Any relation to Buffy? What high school did she go to? Would explain all her interest in mythology 😂

I'm about to out myself, but I've actually never seen Buffy! 🫢 But that's actually hilarious loll. Let's say "Ruby" is Buffy's cousin 😝

Died at this description 🤣 Oh, he’s smitten, alright

He needs her to keep him on his toes! lollll

Uh-oh. Professor Dean is wading into dangerous waters now… 😏

It was at that moment he knew...

...he fucked up and fell in lust 🤣

N’aww, but ten years isn’t so bad. Women are more mature anyways. I bet she’s even more mature than him lol

Yeah exactly loll - on all three counts too. 😅 His mind pretty quickly skips over the little age gap and focuses on the potential "career ending" part of it. 😆

Omfg, I’m rolling my on the floor 🤣🤣🤣 And I always love Dean’s lack of self-awareness when he goes all “she doesn’t see me that way.” Like dude, have you never looked in a mirror or heard an audio recording of your voice?! 😆💚

ehehe glad you liked Dean's nerdy moment there! But we all know teachers can't every say no to an apple 😜🍎

That's such a funny Dean thing, right? Like "oh she can't possibly want me."

SIR?! Be so for real 😭😭 (Bet he's gonna get a kick out of her calling him "sir" too. 😆)

Man, I can’t fucking wait for this little miniseries!!! 🤩 (I’d take a full one too, y’know? ^^) And please, gimme all the lit nerd references 🙏🤓🎓📚

You know how much I appreciate you for that? 🥹💜 Honestly once I start outlining, it may very well become a full series. I already have so many ideas and plot twists I want to explore. This basically marks halfway through spring semester in February, so I could cover the rest of spring, summer, and her last fall semester of school.

Of course typically students graduate in spring, but when you're doing your master's it just depends on when you started, if you took breaks in between for summer or not, etc. (I graduated after a fall semester, for example.)

Anyway, lol, I'm so glad you enjoyed my first try at this kind of au!! I've gotten some great responses on this from you and others who want to see more, so I guess I'm writing another Dean series soon! 😂💕💕

10 'Til Midnight

Pairing: Professor!Dean Winchester x Student!Reader

Summary: A chance encounter outside of the classroom shifts the way you see your professor. Forever.

AN: Here’s a one-shot for @chevroletdean's 500 follower celebration! This also fulfills a request for one of my lovely Patreon members, @redhoodieone, who wanted to see AU Professor!Dean with a plus-sized student!reader. The reader is a graduate student (mid-20s) and Dean is in his 30s in this, so not really a wide age gap, but we’re still flirting with a gray area here lol.

Word Count: 4K

Tags/Warnings: graduate student!reader, plus-sized!reader, Shakespeare geekery, mythology and other nerdy classic lit. references, AU Brady sighting, sexual tension, mutual pining(?)

The ash cloud of exhaust rose up from the sidewalk steam grates. It infiltrated your nose as you hurried down a few well-worn concrete steps and into the bowels of the subway, a transition into deeper darkness.

To you, that acrid, mini plume of pollution was the smell of New York City; old cigarette buds and weed hash, fresh tequeños and hot dogs wafting from the open door of the bodega on the corner, mixed with a whiff of piss.

This was the city of broke creatives clinging to their fragile dreams with both hands, usually while the natives rolled their eyes. You were one of those shiny happy people with a dream and the battle-tested will to make it happen, especially tonight. You finally got to see a play on Broadway, an excellent production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

You replayed your favorite scenes in your mind like 1940s movie reel, except it was live in technicolor. An unconscious smile spread across your lips, but you had to hurry. Your train was about to leave in…

You checked the time on your phone—ten minutes to midnight—and compared it to the digital sign up ahead. Your eyes widened.

Shit! One minute?!

You had no choice but to try and run in your heels. That had you skidding to the open doors as they began to close, but you just managed to slip inside, albeit literally slipping with a yelp.

A man saved you by grabbing hold of your arm and waist before you fell, bunching the fabric of your coat beneath his hand. You gasped when you stared up at a familiar face. A sharp jawline covered with stubble, just neat enough to be respectable; dark brows shaded over green eyes, trained on you; bowed lips pursed with confusion.

“Professor?” you said, breathless and shocked.

He was just as baffled, but he finished helping you up as your name fell from his lips.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded and thanked him for the save, still catching your breath.

“Here, sit down,” he said, gesturing to a couple of empty seats on the subway. You joined him in sitting, though you ignored the stare of the guy standing closest to you who was holding onto a rail. He wore jeans and dirty hipster Vans, a brown bomber jacket and a gray beanie. The stench of weed and cheap cologne clung to him.

And his gaze followed you until you sat down. Slightly unsettled, you were subtle in the way you angled yourself toward the man beside you.

Professor Dean Winchester.

He really was the last person you expected to see on your way home tonight. You still couldn’t believe you ran right into him!

But then, you noticed the playbill sticking out of his coat pocket (his coat looked more expensive, a dark charcoal gray with a high collar, and it suited him).

“Oh, you…you saw the play too?” you said in excitement, showing him your own playbill that you fished out of your purse. You’d told him about it a month ago, after his lecture on fairy lore. You thought he might enjoy a play that was all about the convergence between the fairy realm and the human realm.

He’d admitted that he’d never seen a Shakespeare play live, but he said he’d look into it. You didn’t think he was actually taking you seriously though.

“Uh, yeah, I did. I’ve never been a big Shakespeare guy, truth be told, but you hooked me,” he said. When he smiled, it made the corner of his eyes crinkle a little.

You couldn’t help but smile too every time you noticed that…even though it made your cheeks warm in a blush. He really had no business being this handsome. And the suit? All crisp and black, paired with a classic, off-white dress shirt and a black pinstripe tie.

Clearly he’d dressed for the occasion of going to the theater, because usually he was one of the chillest professors you knew. He showed up to class in jeans, boots, plain henleys and jackets, though never without his watch, a classic leather time piece with a silver watch face and bold black numbers. It was so vintage, you’d asked about it once when you met with him to talk about one of your essays on Native American burial practices. He’d told you that the watch belonged to his father, who passed away a few years ago now.

“So what’d you think?” you asked. “Weren’t the sets beautiful? It was so ominous and creepy in the ‘forest,’ and ethereal too, like the fairy realm part of it.”

He nodded, smiling slightly wider at your enthusiasm. “Yeah, was a good production. The actors were top-notch.”

“Oh, incredible. That was the best Bottom I’ve ever seen.” You paused, realizing what you said, and a nervous giggle tumbled out of your mouth. “Well, the character. Not the ass—donkey—whatever. You know what I mean.”

The man laughed, rich and deep and washing over you pleasantly, even though you half covered your face in embarrassment.

“Can’t argue with you there. The ass was hilarious,” he smirked.

Another giggle, and you flipped through the playbill again to distract yourself from looking at his ruggedly chiseled face. Why, oh why did he have to be so fucking attractive? And somehow he was still single. You’d heard some of the girls in your class whispering about it after class one day—a full-on engagement that fell apart two years ago.

“But really, the actors who played the couples in the love quadrangle were awesome,” you said. “Helena was my favorite.”

He raised his dark brows. “Really? The girl who gets shit on the most in the play?”

That was another thing. He didn’t really talk like any professor you’d met in your life. You let out a snort.

“I don’t want to be her, I just think she did so well at showing that vulnerability,” you explained. “There’s nothing worse than being in love with someone who doesn’t even see you, you know?”

He tilted his head, his amusement fading as he listened. You felt emboldened to continue your thought.

“In her mind, she’s probably thinking, ‘Well, even if he’s yelling at me, at least he’s acknowledging I exist,’” you said, “which is incredibly sad and isn’t giving Shakespeare many brownie points for feminism, but it’s a reality that some women go through.”

After a moment, he seemed to see your point with a nod of his head.

“That’s fair,” he said, arching a brow. “Though I gotta hope you don’t let any guy talk to you like that.”

You shook your head with a smile, but before you could answer him, your phone slipped off your lap and tumbled to the dirty subway floor. You twisted away so you could reach down and grab it, but you caught that whiff of cheap cologne again. Gray beanie guy let go of the rail and bent down to scoop up your phone before you could. You offered a polite thank you and went to take it back, but he held it out of reach at the last second, giving you a teasing smile.

“How about I put my number in first, so you can call me when you get home,” he said. “I’m Brady, by the way.”

That oh-so-gracious offer was followed by a glance down your dress. You sat up straighter, adjusting the collar of your coat back over your neckline with a weary huff.

“Ah, you know what, I’m good with just my phone…please.”

This was why you kind of hated the subway. You didn’t know when you were going to have to interact with a creep trying to steal your phone, shoot his shot, or look down your dress as a consolation prize.

You held out your hand expectantly, but still, “Brady” didn’t take the hint.

“Aw, what, you have a boyfriend or something?” he asked.

“Oh my God. Are you fucking serious?” You sighed and decided a white lie was best here. “Yes, I have a boyfriend. Now give me my phone, please.”

“Hmm. Is it like beginning stages, or...?”

“Jesus Christ, dude.”

“Hey, I’m just saying, maybe we can grab a bite to eat, theeen you know. If things are going well, we could take things back to your place,” he said, his brows popping with sleazy suggestion. He still held the phone away from your grasping hand in frustration.

“Hey,” a deep voice cut in. 

You hesitated, glancing back at Professor Winchester. He glared up at Brady with a stony look that you’d never seen on him before.

“Give her the damn phone,” said the professor. His tone boded no argument.

Still, Brady pushed his luck.

“What, you her boyfriend or something?”

The professor didn’t bother to answer the question, but he stood from his seat, his long coat draped down all six feet and change of him, broad shoulders and calm confidence. He stared down at the lankier, scruffier pothead. Then he held out his hand.

Brady shifted back on his heels, seeming to realize that he didn’t want this version of Midnight on the Orient Express—the kind that ended up on the 6 o’clock news the next morning. With a roll of his eyes, Brady dropped the phone into your professor’s hand, complete with a dickish quirk of his lips. Professor Winchester gestured at him to fuck off.

“Walk away,” he said.

To your astonishment, the Brady just tossed him a “fuck you, bro,” and went to the other end of the car. You stood up too, just as the subway pulled to a stop. Professor Winchester handed you the phone.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

“Is this your stop?” he asked, still glancing back with a suspicious eye at the asshole still glaring at your backs.

You nodded, biting your lip.

“Okay, come on,” the professor said. He laid a guiding hand on the small of your back and joined you in stepping out of the subway car. To your relief, Brady stayed on the train.

“Thank you,” you said again. “Really, you didn’t have to miss your exit for me.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean said, with a shake of his head. His frown was still in place just thinking of that fucking loser. “I’ll have better peace of mind knowing you got home safe.”  

Once you told him that your apartment was another few blocks away, he knew he was going to be walking you home. You told him you weren’t that new to the city, but in his mind, it still wasn’t a safe neighborhood for a young woman to be walking around by herself at this time of night.

He had no other motive than that, however…

He’d been pleasantly surprised to see you tonight. You were a flash of scarlet that tumbled into his arms, the scent of your floral perfume teasing his nose before he caught sight of that little dress clinging to your curvy form, ending just a couple inches above the knee. But you drew your wool coat closer to your body, hiding the tantalizing flash of red from view.

It was for the best, he thought, as he cleared his throat and tried to find something else to focus his eyes on while you two walked together. He couldn’t help but land on your face again, on your pretty painted lips.

A deep, full-bodied red.

It was a familiar shade. You’d worn it before, while chewing the end of a pen absently in concentration during one of his lectures on the difference between skinwalkers and shapeshifters—those long, pointed nails tapping a quiet rhythm against the plastic. It was one of your many quirks, but only now did he realize how much he’d actually noticed about you. If nothing else, he always knew he had your attention.

He also knew you were getting a master’s degree in English, and you were taking his class as an elective. You’d actually sought him out before the semester started to make sure you got a spot in his class.

“Sorry, sir, I know it’s early. I’ve just been trying since last year to get into this class, and I really wanted the chance to take it before I graduate this year.”

He’d shifted in his swivel chair with his jean-clad legs casually crossed. He bounced a tennis ball against the wall, as was his habit. (Mostly because it bothered Benny, who had the office next to his.)

The repetitive bounce really helped him to think sometimes; it was basically his version of a fidget spinner.

“You like mythology that much, huh?” Dean asked.

“Oh, yeah!” you said, as your eyes lit up. “I find it so fascinating how every culture in the world has their own stories that have still survived for thousands of years. Some of them even overlap. Like, maybe it’s technically a different creature, but they have the same name, just in another language. Or it’s the same creature, different backstory. It’s like any novel I’ve ever read—similar tropes, but the style, the packaging. That’s what becomes new and creative.”

Amusement tugged at Dean’s lips.

“Same candy, different wrapper, right?” he offered. His reward was your bright smile.

“Yeah, exactly.”

He’d approved your request without a second thought. Unlike 95% of the students who came and went through his classes, you weren’t just smart. You cared. You had a passion for this stuff…and it mirrored his own.

“So, uh, you liked that play, huh?” he asked. Wanted to rub his hand over his face right after. Smooth, Winchester.

But it succeeded in brightening your eyes again.

“Oh yeah. People tend to think of it as one of Shakespeare’s sillier plays, but it drops some interesting ideas about love, for example.” All while you spoke, you spun vivid gestures with your hands.

Dean’s remained in his coat pockets, but watching you made his smile deepen. He liked when you got like this, so animated and alive with your thoughts. It threatened to draw him out of his somewhat jaded shell.

“Oh, yeah? Like what?” he asked. Not because he really wanted to talk about what some sixteenth-century ye olde-y English douche thought about love, but because he wanted to hear you explain it.

You didn’t disappoint.

“Well, there’s the famous Lysander line, ‘The course of true love never did run smooth,’” you said, “but that’s not even my favorite. That’s boring. That’s every rom-com ever, from Harry Met Sally to While You Were Sleeping, all the way to He’s Just Not that Into You, and Crazy, Stupid Love.”

Dean had to interject. “You watch a lot of chick-flicks, don’t you?”

Your lips puckered, but the amusement in your eyes answered his question.

“Like I said, I think Helena is the most underrated tragic figure in the whole story. Yeah, she’s pretty much a doormat, following Demetrius around even though he claims he’s in love with her best friend. Even though he curses at her, threatens to kill her if she keeps annoying him, following him around like an abused puppy. We can agree, he’s like, the biggest asshole in existence, right?” you said.

“Oh, very much agree. You want some coffee?” Dean asked, pointing to a guy selling warm pretzels and drinks from his vendor cart on the side of the road. It had stopped snowing a few days ago, but the February air was still sharp and bitterly cold at this time of night. If only it were midsummer.

“Uh, you know what, I could go for some tea. Thank you,” you said. But you didn’t let that derail you from your thoughts on Shakespearean love. You were still waxing literary analysis while you dug into your purse to find your wallet, but by the time you got it out, Dean had already paid for both drinks and a large soft-baked pretzel.

Your brows furrowed. “Oh! I meant to pay for my part—”

“Don’t worry about it. Here, take half,” Dean said, and he shot you a smile while handing over your hot tea and half of his pretzel. He got your eyes to light up for a different reason as you took the treat. You thanked him with a sweeter smile.

Then you took a bite, and you kept talking.

“But then she says, ‘Love can transpose to form and dignity.’ It can make us act like idiots, right? I mean, back in high school I wrote my boyfriend’s essays for a whole year because I didn’t want him to fail English, and let’s face it, he could barely spell his own last name.”

“Yikes,” Dean chuckled. Sounded like a GED and a gas station job in that guy’s future.

“Right? And what did he do? He dumped me the week before prom because he knew Ruby Summers would put out.” You rolled your eyes, accepting Dean’s sympathies with a gracious nod and a dismissive hand wave. Still, he hoped all you’d given to that guy was your time.

"Well, the guy you're seeing now better be treating you right," he said.

You blinked, your brows furrowing a bit in confusion, until realization dawned on you.

"Oh, I don't have a boyfriend," you said with a small chuckle. "That's just what I tell pushy weirdos on subways."

Dean was tripped up for a second, but he eventually quirked a smile.

“So anyway, my favorite bar of the whole play is what Helena says in Act 1,” you said. “‘Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind.’”

In that moment, Dean’s eyes were a little too captivated.

But you broke the spell.

You glanced ahead to continue along the crosswalk with him, taking another warm, soft bite of pretzel.

“And that’s why Cupid’s always painted like a blind baby…or something like that,” you said. You laughed a little, and you seemed to realize just how long you’d been yapping his ear off. You came to a stop at what he assumed was your apartment building, but you suddenly got quiet. Embarrassed.

“Sorry, once I open my mouth on this stuff, I can’t really stop unless someone stops me and tells me I’m literally killing them with words that don’t make sense.”

“You’re making a whole lotta sense to me,” Dean replied. And he realized that he meant it. He rubbed his chin in thought. “Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind. I like that.”

Your mind seemed to be a hamster wheel on steroids, but he kind of liked that too.

“Well, did you like the play?” you asked, smiling in embarrassment. “Sorry, can’t remember if I even asked you that yet.”

He laughed softly. Even if you had, he didn’t mind answering again.

“I like it more now, hearing you talk about it,” he said. But maybe that was too honest. He padded it with something more appropriate, as your instructor. “It makes sense, since you’re an English major, but your passion always comes through in your essays. I’m really glad you decided to take my class this semester.”

You demured further at the praise. “Oh, thank you. It really is my favorite class so far this year, but…that’s because you’re the one teaching it. You're really good at telling stories. You make them simple and easy to understand, even when we're talking about hell hounds and old ghost stories, or the uh, Oedipus complex, or something.”

Dean smiled in amusement, but it was his turn to be touched, even if it surprised him too. You were just so honest and free enough to speak your mind. It was refreshing.

“Well, thank you. Glad to hear at least one person’s getting something out of it,” he said, his smile warming for once.

You smiled too, looking at him through your lashes. “All right well, thanks again for walking me home. I’ll, um…see you on Monday-ayy!”

You stepped up onto the first stair leading up to your apartment and caught an icy patch with your red-bottomed heels. A gasp fell from your lips as your arms spun out to catch yourself on anything that could keep you from falling, and that happened to be Dean—specifically his coat, and then his biceps when he moved in fast to keep you upright.

He ended up gathering you into his arms while you clung to his coat. Your red nails bit into the dark fabric. In his mind’s eye, he could imagine them popping the buttons of his dress shirt, carving shaky lines of heat and pleasure across his skin.

Fuck. He bit the inside of his cheek hard to rid himself of that image, his jaw ticking in response. But another one just replaced it when his gaze met yours, half-lidded and shocked, but…contemplating.

Hot breaths mingled in between, puffing visibly on the cold air.

“God, I’m sorry!” you breathed.

“Don’t worry about it.” He cleared his throat past the slight roughness in his voice. “You all right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, um…Take Two,” you said, laughing weakly.

You aimed to let him go and continue on up the stairs by yourself, but Dean couldn’t stop himself from trying to help you. He held your elbow at least, with a hovering hand by your waist in case you slipped again. When you finally made it to the door, you paused and turned to look at him over your shoulder. Again, that look in your eyes said you were debating something in your mind.

“You okay?” he asked again.

You nodded. “Yeah, I just, um…you know what? Never mind. Uh, good night!”

Dean nodded, giving you a casual salute. He didn’t leave until you got in the building safely, but for his entire long walk home, your face wouldn’t leave his mind. That look of internal conflict, like you’d been weighing some kind of pros and cons. He had to wonder…

Had you been about to invite him up to your apartment?

But no. Fucking no. He dismissed that thought as soon as it came. He was almost ten years older than you.

Didn’t stop Catherine Zeta-Jones from hooking up with Michael Douglas. She’s barely pushing fifty while he’s halfway into Senior Depends.

Second problem. Career ending and reputation ruining and his own clock punch at the local 7/11—kind of a problem.

You were a student.

Grad student, came a whisper from the back of his mind.

In Greek mythology, the golden apples of Hesperides in Hera’s garden were guarded by a dragon. The Norse gods also believed in their own version of immortal golden apples, harvested by the goddess Idunn. Sounded a bit like Eden, right? As in, the Judeo-Christian Garden.

As in, forbidden fruit.

What did they all have in common? There was always a consequence for the taking and sampling part. The question was, is the price worth how good it tastes?

Remembering the feeling of your soft curves under his hands, Dean had a feeling it would be more than fucking worth it.

But he shook the thought from his head, his fingertips digging into the soft insides of his coat pockets.

He was your professor. That was where those thoughts should end.

You didn’t even see him that way…did you?

You shucked your heels off as soon as you got inside your apartment. You heaved a deep sigh and shed your purse, your coat, your earrings and necklace, which you set down on the nightstand in your bedroom. You sat on the edge of the bed and fell back onto the creaky mattress.

Your hands came to rest lightly over your stomach, a safe place, while you thought back to how Professor Winchester held you so tight. Secure. Gentlemanly.

How he looked at you, his green-eyed gaze falling to your lips, like he was contemplating the best way to close that distance, bowing his head those last few inches and…

You forcibly shook your head. He was your goddamn teacher.

It didn’t matter that he was probably the youngest faculty member on campus, and you were a twenty-five-year-old graduate student. Whether or not the man was “age appropriate,” he was still your professor. You couldn’t think about him like that.

And he absolutely didn’t look at you like that…

Did he?

AN: Sorry again for all the nerdy lit. tidbits, but I had fun. 😂 I'm thinking about expanding this into an actual little series, so let me know what you think! ❤️

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[wlwsoccerfics]

Drunk Kisses (LotteWubbenMoyXReader)

A/N: i know we didn't win the League. This Is Just fiction.

Summary: you and the Team celebrate winning the League and drunk kisses are happening.

You and Lotte went to college together. With Alessia of course. That's how long you have known one another. It's also the amount of time you had a crush on Lotte. Alessia was very much aware of your crush on your teammate cause she had been the one having to listen to your rants about how much you liked Lotte. Which later turned into you being hopelessly in love with her. What you didn't know was that Alessia had to listen to Lotte saying the same stuff about you. In fact Alessia had tried to get the two to admit your feelings for one another multiple times. It never worked, obviously.

You met up with the Team at a Club to celebrate winning the League. You wore a black Jumpsuit and had left your Hair in his Natural state. Which meant it was full on curls for you.

"she looks like an Angel." Lotte whispered out to Alessia who was standing next to her. Drink in hand. Sighing softly to herself. Probably tired of the bullshit she had to Deal with regarding the two of you. It was loud at the Club. You walked over to them after you got yourself a drink as well. No Idea what Lotte had just said. Unfortunately. Cause this would have meant that finally things would have been out in the Open.

"hey less, hey Lo, you two alright?" You wanted to know. Sipping on your Drink.

"hey y/n, yes we sure are. How are you?" The blonde Stargirl asked. You smiled at her and then at Lotte. Lotte blushed softly. Or at least you thought she did.

"i am well. Lotte, you look so pretty in that Outfit." You said softly.

"you really think so?" Lotte asked and now you saw that she was in fact blushing.

"yes i do!" You said nervously. Blushing a bit as well. Looking at Alessia now. She chuckled a bit. Excusing herself to get another drink. So you stood in the corner with Lotte. No one else from the Team in sight.

You and Lotte stayed quiet for a few minutes. It never was a problem for you. Since you have been friends for such a long time. But now it made you feel nervous and stressed. So you quickly finished your drink. Lotte did the same with her dirnk.

"want to grab another drink? It's on me!" You suggested. Lotte smiled softly. She was still nervous. So were you.

"yes sure. but you don't have to pay for my drink!"Lotte told you.

"but i want to." You let her know.

You walked to the bar next to one another and ordered your Drinks. You paid and Lotte thanked you. Walking back to a Corner of the Club. It was a bit more quiet there.

Alessia was standing in another Corner with a few of your teammates.

"do you think today will be the day they admit their love for one another to one another?" Caitlin asked. Kyra had her head sideways, staring at the two of you, like she was trying to Analyse the Situation.

"i mean, These two are in Love since our College days. They are just really stupid and haven't figured that out yet. I mean Look how many times we have tried to get them to admit it to one another!" Alessia stated.

"i am sure they gonna kiss tonight. Because they are already slightly tipsy. Look how close they are standing next to eachother." Kyra said.

"oh, y/n has her hand on Lottes waist!" Katie commented.

The two of you were giggling in the Corner. After the third drink you two were in your own little world. You didn't think alot in that moment when you pulled Lotte close. She didn't think much when she kissed you back. It was very gentle, very sweet but full of emotions. At this point the entire Team was watching from across the room.

"finally!" Alessia said. And the entire Team, including Renée agreed.

"took them long enough." Leah said.

"Lia you owe me Money now!" Kim told her. Mariona chuckled softly.

"told you they would kiss today!" She let Lia know. Kim and Lia had a bet, Lia said you two wouldn't kiss today and Kim said you would.

"damn! But i mean worth the 20€. Cause i was hoping they would find one another!" Lia admitted.

"i think everyone was. Especially Lessi, cause she had been dealing with their bullshit since the College days." Beth told them.

"oh yes. I am relieved. But let's wait and see how this plays Out and If they are actually together by the end or the night or in the Morning." Alessia answered.

Then they got into a disscusion about how that would play out and not paying attention to the two of you. So they didn't notice you and Lotte sneaking Out of the Club and walking to your place. Which was only a few minutes away from your Home. On the way to your place the two of you held Hand. The fresh air making sure you become more sober by each Minute that passed.

"lo? I have something to tell you." You spoke up.

"what is it?" She asked, looking concerned now.

"i have been in love with you, since our College days! And i was too afraid to tell you! Because i didn't want to ruin our friendship. You are actually the reason i broke up with my First ever girlfriend cause all i could think about was being with you! And i am sorry If you don't feel the same and just want to hook up." You stammered out all of sudden.

"oh my god! Y/n i feel the same!" Lotte stated and pulled you in for another kiss. Holding you close. As close as possible actually. You did the same. Not wanting to let go of her.

It took another twenty minutes to reach your place but let's say you had alot of catching up to do for the time you lost, not knowing how you felt about one another. And showed up to Team Lunch together the next day.

[wendichester]

omg this is by far my favorite acc! Could u do a part 2 of take one,forever? Set in the future when they’re married. Reader left the show in the early seasons but came back again towards the end.

But shes now married to Jensen. And they really act like those fun married couples. Maybe they even bring they’re kids on set sometimes ?

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ take one, forever²,

summary. you were once the star of the tvshow supernatural, alongside jared and jensen. eventually, you quit the show but you'll come to find out that a decade later, no much has changed.

pairing. jensen ackles x actress!reader genre. extra fluff!!

wordcount. 681

notes / warnings. oh, to be jensen's wife 🤭 thank you for the request sweets!

ᯓ★ read part 1

Years later, the forest's still freezing.

You’d think they’d have figured out how to warm up a damn set by now, but no—Vancouver’s still doing its icy, pine-scented thing. Only difference?

Now you’ve got his jacket and his ring.

“Careful,” Jensen calls from across the clearing, “you’re about to bust your ass on that moss.”

You shoot him a glare over your shoulder. “If I go down, I’m taking you with me.”

He laughs—deep, warm, easy. That laugh you’ve known for over a decade now. “Promises, promises.”

You flip him off, and he winks back like the absolute menace he is.

They talked you into coming back for the final season—“full circle,” they’d said. “Nostalgia,” they said. Really, it was just Jensen, smirking over his coffee one morning and going:

“C’mon, babe. Just one more run. For old time’s sake. Plus, the kids’ll love seeing Mom on screen again. We can make it a family adventure.”

And like always—like always—you’d caved.

So now you’re here. On the same damn show you started all those years ago. Same woods. Same demons. Only now, there’s a wedding band on your finger and a pair of tiny boots sitting by the craft services table, covered in mud and jelly donut glaze.

“Mom!” comes a squeaky voice from behind you.

Speak of the devil.

You turn just in time to see your youngest barreling toward you, arms outstretched like a missile of pure, joyful chaos.

“Hey,” you laugh, bending to catch her. “What happened to staying with Daddy?”

“She wanted gummy bears,” Jensen answers, jogging over with your son balanced on his hip and a juice pouch between his teeth. “And apparently, that was more important than, you know, listening to instructions.”

“She’s got your stubborn streak,” you tease.

Jensen huffs, shifting the weight of your son, who’s now trying to unzip his coat with sticky fingers. “She’s got your everything, babe. I’m just along for the ride.”

You brush a kiss to her forehead, holding her close while she babbles about a giant fake demon head she saw near the props truck.

Jensen watches you the whole time—fond, smug, like he still can’t believe this is real. Like he’s still falling for you even with a diaper bag slung over one shoulder and applesauce on his hoodie.

“Y’know,” he says casually, “you in flannel again is doing things to me.”

You arch a brow. “Jensen.”

“What? I’m just saying. It’s nostalgic. Sentimental. Romantic.”

“It’s sticky,” you deadpan, pointing to a spot on your sleeve where your daughter’s wiped her face. “And covered in god-knows-what.”

“Still hot.”

You laugh, trying to swat him, but he leans in and steals a kiss anyway—quick and warm, just enough to make your heart flutter. Ten years in, and the man still kisses you like it’s the first time.

“Okay, people!” the AD shouts. “Places for rehearsal!”

“Duty calls,” you sigh, passing your daughter off to Jensen and smoothing your hair as best you can.

“You got this,” he says, squeezing your hand before he steps back. “Go remind them who the real badass of this show is.”

You flash him a grin, cheeks flushed, heart full. “Try not to get upstaged by a toddler while I’m gone.”

“She already owns me. It’s over.”

As you walk toward set, flannel flapping behind you, you hear Jensen whisper something to the kids. Then a tiny voice calls out:

“Go, Mom! Kick the monster’s butt!”

You look back—and there they are. Your whole world, waving at you with gummy-sticky fingers and juice-stained smiles.

God, how did this all happen?

How did freezing woods and flirty banter become marriage and two wild kids and a love story still unfolding?

You don’t know.

But as you step back in front of the camera, same forest, same show, same smirk from across the set—you know one thing for sure:

You’d do it all over again.

Even the Wendigo.

Maybe.

If there’s coffee.

And if Jensen promises to keep looking at you like that—like you’re still the best damn thing that’s ever happened to him.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[sportsentranced]

water boy

Sam Hubbard was the pride of the Bengals’ defensive line—tall, relentless, and smart. Every Sunday, the crowd roared his name as he sacked quarterbacks and stopped plays cold. But none of that mattered to Tyler, the team’s overlooked, underpaid water boy.

Tyler was always there, blending into the sidelines like a patch of turf. He filled bottles, cleaned towels, and listened—really listened—as players talked like he wasn’t there. They barely acknowledged him. Not even Sam, the supposed "nice guy."

So one day, Tyler snapped—or rather, he got clever.

See, Tyler had a side hobby: hypnosis. Not the stage stuff, but real, deep suggestion. He practiced on drunk friends in college, even once got a professor to forget his name for a week. And now, he had a new target: Sam.

The locker room was quiet. Practice had ended a while ago. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, and the hum of distant vacuums echoed from the hallway. Most of the players had gone home, except for one.

Sam sat on the bench in front of his locker, slowly unwrapping tape from his fingers. Sweat still clung to his skin, but he wasn’t in a hurry. A long practice. His muscles ached. His mind drifted.

Tyler stood a few feet away, organizing a crate of bottles, his movements methodical. He glanced at Sam, hesitating. Then he spoke, soft and casual.

“You ever just…get tired of all this?” Tyler asked, keeping his tone light.

Sam didn’t look up. “Tired?”

“Yeah. The yelling. The pressure. Everyone barking orders at you like you’re a robot.”

Sam chuckled dryly, tossing a ball of tape onto the floor. “Comes with the job.”

He cleared his throat. "Do you mind, uh, James?" Sam held out his hand, a signal Tyler knew too well, he wanted the bottle of water.

Of course he didn’t know his actual name.

Tyler walked over slowly, a towel draped over his shoulder. "It's Tyler..." He held a bottle of water, offering it out.

“You should hydrate. You always forget after long days.”

"Oh, sorry," Sam growled quietly, clearly mot paying attention.

Without thinking, Sam took it and drank.

Tyler sat down across from him, elbows on his knees, eyes calm.

“You know,” he said quietly, “there’s a way to not feel it. The pressure. The noise.”

Sam grunted, vaguely listening, his eyes on the floor.

“You just breathe. That’s all. Just… slow down and listen. Doesn’t even have to make sense. Just listen to the sound of my voice.”

Sam rolled his shoulder, tired. “Mhm.”

“Just keep listening, even if your mind wanders. That’s fine. You don’t have to care. You don’t have to try. Let the words drift past you, like background noise. You’re good at that, aren’t you?”

Sam’s jaw twitched. His gaze had gone unfocused, eyes glazed faintly as he stared at nothing. He didn’t answer.

Tyler leaned forward, slower now, his voice dropping half a tone.

“Feels nice… not having to think. Just breathe, and drift. Maybe part of you’s still aware. But that part is already listening a little too closely.”

Sam blinked, slow and heavy.

“You’re not even trying to listen, but the words are slipping in anyway. Like rain soaking into dry ground.”

Silence.

“You don’t care about this. Not really. But inside, something’s changing. Something’s loosening.”

Sam’s shoulders had slumped. The hand holding the water bottle had gone slack.

Tyler smiled faintly.

“And now, every word I say sinks in deeper. Every time I speak, it feels more natural to follow. To agree. To obey.”

A beat passed. Then—

“Yes…” Sam murmured. Quiet. Not even fully conscious of the word.

Tyler leaned in, inches from his face. “You’re going to feel better than you’ve ever felt. Because you don’t have to think anymore. You just have to obey me. Isn’t that easier?”

Sam exhaled slowly, as if something deep in him finally let go.

“Yes… Tyler…”

Tyler let the silence linger for a moment, watching Sam sit there—muscles loose, head bowed slightly, his mind suspended in that warm, obedient fog.

“Good…” Tyler whispered. “Now let’s see just how deep we’ve gone.”

He reached out and touched Sam’s knee, giving it a light tap. “Stand up.”

Without hesitation, Sam rose to his feet, towering over Tyler, his expression passive—blank but calm.

Tyler stood too, circling him slowly. “Damn,” he muttered, low enough to sound casual but loud enough for Sam’s subconscious to catch. “All that training… all that discipline… and look at you now. Waiting for a water boy to tell you what to do.”

He stopped in front of Sam. “Flex your right bicep. Go on.”

Sam obeyed. His arm rose, coiling into a tight flex. The muscle bulged, well-defined under the skin. Tyler watched it with a smug little smile, then reached out, casually running his hand along the curve of the muscle. Slow. Measuring. Almost reverent.

“Impressive,” Tyler murmured, fingers trailing down to Sam’s forearm. “You work so hard for this, don’t you? All the hours, the diet, the sweat… All so you can be strong, powerful…”

He stepped closer, placing a hand against Sam’s chest now. “Flex this too.”

Sam’s pecs tightened under Tyler’s palm, hard and massive. Tyler gave them a gentle, testing push, his smirk widening.

“…And yet, one soft voice and you’re all mine,” he said, voice dipped in mock sympathy.

He moved his hand to Sam’s face, slowly brushing his knuckles along his jawline, then his cheek, then gently tilting his chin up with two fingers. Sam didn’t resist. Didn’t react.

Tyler leaned in closer, his voice a whisper again. “You don’t even care, do you? All those years being respected. Feared. And now, the only approval that matters comes from me.”

Sam’s lips parted slightly, breathing slow and shallow.

“Say it,” Tyler ordered, still holding his chin. “Tell me who you listen to.”

“…I listen to you, Tyler,” Sam said, soft and automatic.

Tyler chuckled. “Of course you do.”

He took a step back, watching the obedient giant standing there—shirt half-clinging to his body, eyes still hazy.

Tyler stepped close again, voice low and edged now—no more softness, no more pretense.

“You ever wonder why nobody really sees you, Sam?” he said, circling slowly. “You bust your ass for this team, play through injuries, smile through interviews—and what do they give you?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

“Nothing. Not real respect. They pat your back because they need you. But the moment you're not useful? You're just another jersey. A number on a chart.”

Tyler leaned near his ear. “But me? I noticed you. I saw you—saw through you. I saw the cracks. The need.”

Sam’s breath hitched slightly, but he didn’t move.

“You need someone to give you purpose. Orders. Meaning. You’ve been chasing it through playbooks and weight rooms. But now you finally found it.”

Tyler stepped in front of him, holding his gaze now with steady, cold intensity.

“You’re not a leader anymore. You're not even a man with choices. You're mine. Say it.”

Sam's voice came slow, like something breaking inside him.

“…I’m yours.”

“Louder.”

“I’m yours, Tyler.”

Tyler smiled, not kindly.

“That’s right. And the more you say it, the more you believe it. Because every time you obey me, it rewires you. Your mind changes. Shrinks. Until thinking for yourself feels wrong. Until the only thing that feels right is waiting for my next command.”

Sam blinked slowly, lips parted. Tyler could see it—the war in his subconscious already ending, the last defenses crumbling.

“You don’t fight it,” Tyler continued, stepping closer, almost nose to nose. “You welcome it. Obedience is peace. Submission is purpose. Say it.”

“Obedience… is peace…” Sam murmured, his voice trembling with something caught between defeat and relief.

“Submission… is purpose.”

Tyler raised a hand again, touching Sam’s chest.

“You're not their hero anymore, Sam. You're my tool. My pet. And the sooner you accept that, the freer you'll be.”

Sam didn’t speak. He just stood there—silent, still, owned.

Tyler smiled.

He let his eyes wander over the footballer's body once more, and he crouched slightly, one hand settling lightly on Sam’s thigh. Not urgent. Not invasive. Just… curious.

He let his fingers move slowly—tracing the definition carved into flesh from years of relentless training. Muscle under skin. Strength without thought. Power without will.

“Look at these legs,” Tyler murmured, almost to himself. “Monsters on the field. All that speed. All that force. But now? Just part of the machine. And I’m the one holding the controls.”

His thumb drifted just slightly up the inside of Sam’s thigh—not pushing, not testing boundaries. Just claiming space. Quietly. Confidently.

Sam didn’t flinch. He just stood there, eyes half-lidded, arms loose at his sides, waiting.

Tyler tilted his head, examining him like a craftsman admiring his own creation.

“You’re not even thinking about why,” he said. “Why you're letting me touch you. Why you're listening. And that’s the beauty of it. You don’t need a reason anymore.”

He stood upright again, meeting Sam’s eyes with a firm, expectant gaze.

“Kneel.”

Sam hesitated for half a breath, maybe a flicker of his old pride lingering—but it was no match for the programming Tyler had wrapped around his mind. Slowly, deliberately, the star defensive end sank to his knees before him. No words. No resistance.

Just surrender.

Tyler looked down at him, his voice a quiet murmur.

“Look at you. Kneeling for someone no one else even notices. For the guy who carries towels and wipes sweat off benches.”

He smirked. “And yet, you feel more certain now than you ever have in your life.”

Sam nodded once. Almost reverent.

Then, with the same quiet authority, he reached out and cupped Sam’s face.

His palm slid along Sam’s jaw, fingers tracing the shape of it—not with desire, not with warmth, but with ownership. Admiration twisted with power. His thumb swept gently under Sam’s eye, dragging across cheekbone, studying him like he was memorizing something valuable. Something that belonged to him now.

“You were made for this,” Tyler whispered. “Big, strong, silent. Built to obey.”

Sam didn’t move, didn’t flinch. His breath was slow. His expression empty, relaxed. Vulnerable in a way no one had ever seen him—not on the field, not in the locker room. Only Tyler had this version of him now.

Tyler ran his fingers along Sam’s temple, brushing damp strands of hair back, the touch slow and oddly tender.

“Doesn’t it feel better like this?” he murmured. “Not having to lead. Not having to pretend to be more than muscle. You were never meant to think, Sam. You were meant to serve.”

A twitch passed across Sam’s brow—something flickering deep inside—but it passed just as quickly. His voice came low, hollow with trance:

“…Yes, Tyler.”

Tyler smiled. Not cruelly. Not kindly. Just… satisfied.

His thumb dragged across Sam’s lips once, softly.

“Good boy.”

Tyler brushed his hand through Sam’s damp hair. A mock-gentle gesture.

“Good. Stay there a while. Get used to it.”

He turned away for a moment, grabbing his gear, his voice calm and amused.

“After all… this is where you belong.”

[whywaittofallinlove]

off limits ch1 | jesse x miller!niece reader

pairing: jesse x miller!niece reader

summary: as tommy and joel’s niece, there is an unspoken rule in jackson that you’re off limits. jesse, someone known for sticking to the rules, breaks this one rule

words: 854 words

warnings: barely there smut

Chapter 1

The early morning sun slips through the gaps in your curtain, scattering warm rays across the room, across the bed. The light catches on the faint scars and toned contours of your lover, painting him in an almost ethereal glow.

You tilt your head back, slightly breathless as you grind your body back and forth. Strong calloused hands grip your waist, guiding your thrusts.

Three sudden knocks on your garage door causes you to halt your movements, your brow furrows in annoyance. A whispered groan escapes from the man tangled in your sheets. “Yeah?” Your voice unsteady and low.

“Just makin’ sure you’re up, you’re patrollin’ with Jesse today. He don’t like tardiness.” Your uncle Tommy’s Southern drawl commands from the other side of the door. At the mention of his name, you watch as Jesse lifts his head to the look at the blaring red numbers illuminating from your alarm clock, his hand raking through the mess of his dark hair, his head dropping to the pillow in frustration.

“I’m sure he won’t mind.” You call out, your tone full of mischief as your hands drop to either side of Jesse’s head, caging him in. Your bare breasts brushes against his warm chest as you begin to slightly roll your hips, Jesse still very much hard inside you. You bite your lip to stop yourself from moaning Jesse’s name.

“Get your ass movin’.” Tommy fires back, unimpressed and completely unaware of what is transpiring just behind the wooden door. ‘Don’t mind if I do.’ For a moment you wait, listening as Tommy’s footsteps crunch over the snow covered driveway, each step growing fainter.

Jesse shifts beneath you, his hands moving to lift you off him, but you press down firmly on his chest, keeping him in your bed. You press your lips to his, your kiss deepening as you ride him with more urgency than before.

Jesse swings his legs over the edge of the bed, you sit up behind him, still breathless, your fingers faintly ghost over the red scratches across his shoulder blades, vivid against his pale skin. Jesse glances over his shoulder at you, an amused glint in his dark eyes. “Admiring your handiwork?”

You inch even closer until you’re pressing your breasts against the warmth of his back, your arms loosely resting against his torso. Resting your chin on his shoulder, “You know, I seem to recall you enjoying it last night.”

“Oh, I very much enjoyed it.” He turns to face you, his hand comes up to cradle your face as he places his lips against yours in a quick kiss. “We have to get moving.”

You sigh and lovingly roll your eyes at your lover. Jesse has always been a stickler for following the rules, always the one who shows up early, triple checking every route before delegating patrols. Except when it came to being with you. With you, he became a little bit more reckless, a little more free.

Being Tommy and Joel’s niece made you off limits, not just to Jesse, but to everyone. If there was an unspoken rule within Jackson, that was it.

Out of the two of you, Jesse had the most to lose. He had earned his place beside Tommy through years of hard work, commitment and dedication to the community of Jackson. He had finally gained a seat on the council, a seat elected by the community.

That’s why you had resorted to sneaking around, the late nights, early mornings, brief glances when they thought no one was looking. All to keep Jesse’s integrity intact.

You glance at the Korean man as you step into your jeans, his eyes already on you, watching you unashamedly. “Stop staring.” A smile tugs on the corner of your lips. “Can’t help it.” Jesse replies, his own smile, the one solely reserved for you etched on his face.

You both dress quickly with almost military precision. No fumbling, no stalling, just practice that came with years of survival.

Both you and Jesse walk to the window at the back of your garage. You ease the frosted glass open, careful and quiet. Jesse braces himself on the frame, one leg already over the sill. His glances back at you one last time. “I’ll see you out there.”

You gently cup his cheek, eyes full of affection. He leans in, brushing one final kiss on your lips, then disappears into the cold morning.

Pulling your jacket over your shoulders, you step out of the garage, the bite of the cold December air not the only thing to send chills through your body.

Maria stands on the patio of the main house, arms tightly crossed, her gaze flicking between you and Jesse, who’s been caught red handed, in the act of slipping away. Neither of you move.

You watch as Maria gently closes the door behind her, before slowly descending down the patio stairs. She stops just a few feet away from the both of you, her eyes narrowing as she takes in the sight before her. She raises an eyebrow, silently gauging both of your reactions. “You’re both lucky it was me… if it was Tommy…”

[sturnsblogs]

One Cat. Singular. Uno.

Pairing: Boyfriend!Nick Sturniolo x Florist!Julian

Word Count- 2391

Summary: Nick’s week-long campaign for a cat finally gets Julian to crack — kind of. They visit the shelter to “just look,” but fate (and two overly friendly cats) have other plans. Julian’s holding the line. Nick’s holding eye contact. It’s not looking good for Julian.

Julian had lasted six days.

Six entire days of whining, kissing, bribing, and strategic pouting before he cracked.

It had started the previous Sunday — a casual, offhanded comment from Nick while watching a TikTok of a cat jumping into a bowl of popcorn.

“I want one,” Nick had said wistfully, chin tucked into Julian’s shoulder. “A cat. One that likes me.”

Julian, without looking up, replied, “No.”

Because Julian was a florist. He had a tiny apartment with a flower studio attached. He had petals, vases, soil, scissors, and buckets of delicate things that a single paw could ruin.

A cat in that environment? Cat-astrophic.

Nick, however, had taken the no as a challenge.

By Monday, he was sending Julian photos of cats every two hours.

By Tuesday, he was writing fake Craigslist ads in the cat’s voice. (“Please adopt me, I’m tiny and scared and Julian is cruel.”)

By Wednesday, he was laying it on thick:

“I think having a cat will help me become more responsible.”

“It’ll be like having a little us.”

“Imagine him on our windowsill while you make bouquets.”

By Friday, Julian was one purr away from snapping.

So on Saturday morning, Julian finally said: “Fine.”

Nick blinked. “Wait. Fine what?”

Julian rubbed his temple. “Fine. We can go look. At cats.”

Nick gasped. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not. But listen to me—” Julian grabbed his shoulders. “One cat. Singular. Uno. That’s the deal.”

Nick threw his arms around Julian’s neck. “I love you. You’re my favorite boyfriend I’ve ever had.”

“I’m the only boyfriend you’ve ever had,” Julian muttered.

“Exactly,” Nick said. “That’s how much I love you.”

They went to the shelter that afternoon.

Julian was still unsure how he got roped into this so fast, but Nick looked so smug and happy about his win that Julian didn’t have the heart (or energy) to argue.

The shelter lobby smelled like antiseptic and hope. A volunteer in a purple vest greeted them with a warm smile.

“Hi! Are you here for dog adoptions, cat adoptions, or just visiting?”

“Cats,” Nick said immediately, grinning. “We’re looking for our child.”

Julian sighed. “We’re just looking. No promises.”

The volunteer laughed and handed them each a visitor badge. “You can head into the cat room in the back — the cats are free-roaming, so you’ll get a feel for their personalities.”

Julian nodded politely. Nick whispered to him, “Their personalities, Julian. We’re meeting little guys with backstories.”

Julian shoved the door open and walked in.

The cat room was bright and warm, lined with towers, cushions, and sunny windows. About fifteen cats lounged across the space in varying degrees of awareness.

Julian stood by the entrance, hands in his pockets, scanning quietly.

Nick, on the other hand, was down on the floor in seconds, cooing at a calico who blinked at him slowly and walked away.

“Oh my God,” he whispered. “I love her. She hates me.”

Julian rolled his eyes and wandered toward the window.

A fluffy orange cat blinked up at him and let out a squeaky meow. He crouched to give it a cautious pet.

That was when he heard it.

“Julian.”

He turned. Nick was frozen, sitting cross-legged, two cats already in his lap.

Julian walked over slowly.

One of the cats — a round black and white tuxedo — was pawing at Nick’s hoodie strings. The other — a small grey tabby — was curled right against Nick’s side, purring loud enough to be heard across the room.

Nick looked up at Julian with big, innocent eyes.

“Julian,” he said again, softer this time. “They won’t leave me alone.”

Julian stared.

Nick gave him the eyes. The please baby eyes. The I know I just won the war but let me win the galaxy eyes.

Julian crossed his arms. “No.”

Nick opened his mouth.

“Don’t,” Julian warned. “Don’t even say it.”

Nick bit his lip. “But—”

Julian pointed. “One. That was the agreement.”

“They’re a set,” Nick argued, voice way too sweet. “They’re like a friendship bracelet in cat form. You can’t break up a friendship bracelet.”

Julian tried to stay strong. He really did.

But the grey tabby had climbed into Nick’s hoodie and fallen asleep.

And the tuxedo cat was pawing at his hand like it had known him forever.

Julian ran a hand down his face. “We’re not deciding today. We’re looking.”

Nick looked down at the cats in his lap and nodded solemnly. “Mhm. Just looking.”

Then whispered to the tabby: “Don’t worry. He’ll come around. He always does.”

Julian heard him. He pretended he didn’t.

He should’ve known it was too easy.

They’d been in the shelter cat room for nearly an hour. Nick had bonded with not one, but two cats: the tuxedo, who kept licking his fingers and climbing into his hood, and the grey tabby, who hadn’t left Nick’s side since they entered.

Julian was firm. Immovable. A stone wall of reason.

One cat. One.

Eventually, Nick sighed dramatically and pointed to the grey tabby, still curled up and asleep against his hoodie.

“If I have to pick,” he said, defeated, “then I pick this one.”

He gave Julian the most tragic pout in human history. “Even though it’s gonna break my heart.”

Julian arched a brow. “You’re acting like you’re giving one away.”

“I am,” Nick whispered. “She was practically my daughter.”

Julian pinched the bridge of his nose. “Let’s just talk to the volunteer.”

They walked back into the front room — Nick with a visible aura of grief, the tabby’s fur still clinging to his sweatshirt. Julian tried to maintain composure.

The volunteer from earlier smiled brightly. “All done looking?”

Nick nodded solemnly. “We want to adopt.”

Julian held up one finger. “A cat. Singular.”

Nick pointed to a photo on the wall of the grey tabby’s profile. “This one. Her name’s Noodles. She picked me.”

The volunteer tapped her tablet and tilted her head. “Oh — Noodles. She’s part of a bonded pair.”

Julian’s stomach dropped.

Nick blinked. “Sorry — what?”

The volunteer turned her screen to them. There, side by side, were the photos: Noodles and Cheese. The tuxedo cat. The pair that had not left Nick alone. The ones who had slept on him like he was made of catnip and dreams.

“They were surrendered together,” the worker explained kindly. “They’re littermates and have some trauma from separation. We only adopt them out as a pair now. They don’t do well apart.”

Julian stared blankly. “So… we can’t just get one?”

She shook her head. “It’s both or none. Sorry.”

Julian turned to Nick.

Nick’s mouth was already open.

“Don’t even say it,” Julian warned.

“But Julian—”

“No.”

Nick widened his eyes. “Did you hear what she said? They have trauma.”

Julian gave him a look. “So do I. From this conversation.”

Nick leaned in dramatically. “They’re siblings, Julian. Would you separate us if we were brother cats?”

“We’re not cats,” Julian snapped.

Nick pouted, a full-force, lower-lip-jutting pout. “You said we could get a cat. You said yes. You were the one who said it.”

“I said a cat. One cat.” Julian’s voice was fraying at the edges. “Not a cat set. Not a cat package deal.”

“They’re a bonded pair, Julian!”

“Exactly, which means they’re already emotionally stable. They don’t need us.”

Nick gasped. “How dare you. Cheese literally cried when we walked out.”

“That cat sneezed once,” Julian corrected.

“With emotion!” Nick insisted. “She felt the pain of being rejected.”

Julian turned to the volunteer. “Can we just have a minute?”

She nodded, lips twitching in a smile as she stepped away. Julian spun on Nick the second she was out of earshot.

“You promised me,” Julian hissed. “One. Cat. One! You said it was for responsibility! For structure! For routine!”

Nick grabbed Julian’s hands, eyes shining. “What if my routine needs two cats to feel complete?”

“Nick—”

“They sleep together,” he said, voice trembling with fake emotion. “They clean each other. One time, Cheese licked Noodles’ head and then kissed her forehead. Like this.” He pressed a tiny kiss to Julian’s palm. “Are you really gonna break up true love?”

“They’re siblings,” Julian snapped. “That’s not love, that’s codependence.”

“I relate to that!” Nick cried. “It’s like fate brought us here to understand ourselves!”

Julian pulled his hands back. “We don’t even have space for two.”

“We’ll make space. I’ll build shelves. I’ll hang hammocks. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“You already sleep over five nights a week. Where do you think the cats are gonna go when you’re sprawled across the bed like roadkill?”

Nick pouted again. “We can all cuddle. One big cuddle pile. You, me, Noodles, Cheese. It’ll be healing.”

Julian rubbed both hands down his face. “I’m going to lose my mind.”

Nick wrapped his arms around Julian’s waist and leaned his chin on his shoulder. “Please, baby?” he whispered. “Please please please please please—”

“No.”

“Pleeeeeeease.”

“Nick.”

“Pleeeeeeeeease.”

“Nick.”

Nick kissed Julian’s neck. “Please.”

Another kiss. “Please.”

A third. “I love you so much.”

Julian gritted his teeth. “This is emotional manipulation.”

“It’s not,” Nick whispered. “It’s emotional honesty.” He kissed Julian’s cheek. “You love them. I saw you petting Cheese.”

“That was a polite head-pat.”

Nick gasped. “Julian. She blinked slowly at you. That’s cat for I trust you with my life.”

Julian clenched his fists. “You’re relentless.”

Nick grinned. “I learned from the best.”

Then: “You did say we could get a cat.”

Julian looked at him, exhausted. “One.”

Nick gave him a hopeful, crooked smile. “Well… maybe one and a backup?”

Julian stared at him.

Nick shrugged. “A matching set. Just think about how cute we’ll look walking them in a stroller.”

Julian closed his eyes. “I swear to God.”

“I just don’t get why it’s such a big deal,” Nick mumbled, arms crossed now, voice lower than before.

Julian pinched the bridge of his nose. “Because I agreed to one. One. We made a deal, Nick. You literally shook my hand.”

“Okay, but things changed,” Nick argued, turning toward the big glass window of the shelter’s cat room. Behind the glass, both Noodles and Cheese were pressed against the pane, staring out like they knew the conversation was about them. “They’re a bonded pair. It’s not like I planned to fall in love with both.”

Julian gave a sharp exhale, trying not to let his irritation bleed too far. “And I didn’t plan for my apartment to become a zoo.”

Nick didn’t say anything right away. Just kept staring into the cat room with this quiet, almost wounded expression.

Julian crossed his arms. “You’re not actually mad, are you?”

Nick shrugged. “No. I’m just— I dunno. I guess I’m disappointed.”

Julian’s stomach turned.

“You were so excited about this,” Nick added, still not looking at him. “You said it was a good idea. A fresh start. And now you’re… what, mad because two cats are too much love?”

Julian blinked. “That’s not what I said.”

Nick finally turned to face him, lips pursed. “You kind of acted like it.”

Julian’s throat tightened. He looked away.

The air between them shifted — no longer playful or dramatic. Just… quiet. Heavy. Nick’s arms dropped back to his sides.

“I’ll tell her we changed our minds,” he said softly, nodding toward the volunteer. “It’s fine. I don’t wanna make this a thing.”

Julian felt something in his chest sink.

He looked at Nick. Really looked. At the way his shoulders were a little hunched, at how he was chewing the inside of his cheek — not pouting, not begging, just kind of… folding into himself.

Nick didn’t do quiet disappointment. He was loud when he was annoyed. Sarcastic when he was upset. But this? This soft-spoken, withdrawn version of him? It tugged hard at Julian’s guilt.

Julian sighed, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Don’t,” he said finally.

Nick blinked. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t tell her anything yet.”

Nick tilted his head. “Julian—”

Julian groaned. “I’m thinking, okay? Just give me a second.”

Nick stayed quiet, watching him.

Julian turned his back slightly, facing the cat room window. The cats were still there. Still watching. Noodles was pawing gently at the glass, and Cheese was curled beside her like they’d been together forever.

He closed his eyes. Tried to imagine just one. Tried to imagine separating them, carrying one out, leaving the other behind. And suddenly it did feel cruel. Like breaking a pair of something that was never meant to be divided.

He turned back to Nick. “I really didn’t want two.”

Nick nodded slowly. “I know.”

“I still don’t.”

“I know.”

Julian ran a hand down his face. “I don’t have the space. I don’t have the patience. I don’t want fur on my tools or petals getting eaten or soil getting peed on. And I especially don’t want to hear I told you so when this all goes wrong.”

Nick stayed still, silent.

Julian looked down at the floor. Then back up.

“But I also… don’t want you to be sad.”

Nick blinked. “What?”

Julian clenched his jaw. “You’re so annoying when you’re sad. And your face is all kicked-puppy and pathetic and it makes me feel like I’m the bad guy.”

Nick’s mouth twitched.

“So,” Julian said, voice low and grudging, “if we have to take both… I guess… we can.”

Silence.

Then: “Say that again?”

Julian glared. “Don’t push it.”

Nick’s smile broke through like sunlight. He practically lunged, arms wrapping around Julian’s waist, almost knocking them both over.

“Julian,” he beamed. “Oh my God, you do love me.”

“I regret everything,” Julian muttered, head dropping to Nick’s shoulder. “Every decision that brought me to this moment.”

Nick was already bouncing on his heels. “This is gonna be so good. They’re gonna sleep with us, and nap in your flower room, and I’ll teach them tricks, and they’ll have little matching collars—”

Julian groaned. “I need a drink.”

“You need to say ‘I love you’ to Cheese and Noodles,” Nick corrected, already flagging down the volunteer. “Babe, I’m so proud of you. You’ve grown.”

“I’m never letting you pick anything ever again.”

Nick grinned over his shoulder. “Too late. I already picked us.”

Julian stared. “Did you just say that unironically?”

Nick winked. “You’re lucky I’m cute.”

Julian muttered under his breath, “Lucky I’m weak.”

A/N- Do you guys want a fic of them shopping for the kitty’s orrrr..?

[thisapplepielife]

Written for the @corrodedcoffinfest May Mayhem Bingo event.

Hellfire

Prompt: Meet Ugly | Word Count: 695 | Rating: T | CW: Language, Very Mild Period Typical Homophobia | POV: Eddie | Relationship(s): Eddie & Gareth | Tags: Pre-S4, High School, Meet Ugly, Making Friends is a Special Kind of Hell

"Goddamn, watch where you're going, kid! Fuck!" Eddie snaps, watching as his lunchbox skitters across the hallway, making an awful racket. Clanging end over end, probably getting even more dented than it already was. 

At least it didn't spill open. That wouldn't have been great.

He shoves the kid that ran straight into him as he turned the corner of the school hallway.

The kid stumbles, before folding down to the floor like a cheap suit, "Sorry! Sorry. Jeez."

And he should be sorry. He needs to watch where he's going.

Eddie watches as he collapses in on himself, getting down on his knees, scrambling to pick up his spilled books and loose sheets of paper. Hands scraping the tile floor as he tries to scoop everything back up.

Eddie feels slightly guilty. But only slightly. 

One piece of paper has slid further away, and Eddie puts the toe of his shoe on it, dragging it towards himself. 

"Give that back!" he shouts, and the kid has fire in eyes. Eddie'll give him that. 

Bending down, Eddie doesn't listen to his pleas, and picks it up, turning it over. 

Oh.

He was expecting homework, he guesses. But this is a drawing of a demon, with a red face and long horns. A flaming sword, and a mace. With the word Hellfire at the top.

It's good. It's really good. 

And there's dice. A d20.

"Are you into D&D?" Eddie asks, astonished, looking down at him. He hadn't suspected, hadn't even noticed him around the school, and usually he's better at reading people. At sniffing out one of his own. This one slipped past him, though.

"Fuck you," he says, blue eyes furious, hair just starting to curl around his ears. Like he's growing it out. Eddie's been there, done that. The awkward stage is hell.

Eddie cackles, first impressions aside, he thinks he likes this little shit. Maybe he could be his first sheep. Eddie knows he's destined to take on a flock of impressionable youth, he just hasn't gotten around to it yet. That's all. 

"Wouldn't you like that?" Eddie banters back, and the kid's cheeks flush a deep red.

"I don't, I wouldn't!" he snaps, and Eddie squats down in front of him, the art still in his hand as he looks at it again, carefully. He has an idea. A plan. 

"If you say so," Eddie teases, "but listen, I have a proposition."

"What's that?" he asks, and he looks every bit of fourteen. Eddie remembers those days, and wouldn't go back for anything. 

"I've been trying to start a club for D&D. If we can use this for our logo, you can join," Eddie offers, and the kid looks suspicious. "No tricks. It's me, and a few other kids so far. We're trying to get the school to recognize us as an actual club. We just need to convince them. I'm Eddie."

"I know who you are," the kid says, and Eddie's eyes catch on something else in his pile of spilled shit. Eddie's hand snakes out.

"Do you play the drums?!" Eddie asks excitedly, grabbing the loose drumstick from the mess at his feet. "I have a band, you know. And we need a drummer."

"Sounds like you need lots of things," he mutters, and Eddie smiles. He does like him. For a little twerp.

"Maybe I do. You interested?"

If the universe is gonna throw this kid at his feet, he's not gonna ignore it.

The kid looks suspicious, and rightfully so. Eddie's not known around school for being especially nice and kind and reasonable. It's a persona he's carefully cultivated. But Eddie just looks at him, giving him his most innocent smile. He knows what his eyes can do, and he's not above using them to get what he wants, never has been.

"I'm Gareth," the kid finally says, and that's not a no. That's not a no at all.

"Gareth the Great," Eddie christens him, grinning, patting him on the shoulder. 

Eddie stands, and watches Gareth get to his feet as well, then asks him, "So, tell me. Do you already know Jeff and Goodie?"

And if you want to write your own, or see more entries in this pop-up, check out @corrodedcoffinfest to see other entries for the May Mayhem Bingo Event!

[zepskies]

God, I just love these chapter titles! So perfect for each one! 😆💛

Ben’s brow shot up, coughing out a cloud of smoke. “She’s in the furnace?” “Checking my work,” the engineer added with bitterness in his voice. Ben bit back a snort. “Why the fuck would you let her crawl in there?” “Sir, all due respect, but she ain’t listening to me, and I hate arguing with her,” Fred told him bluntly.

lmfao I already love this opening. She too smart to take one iota of shit from men, and it's a joy to watch 😂

For two weeks, Ben had taken you out now every night, playing tour guide around Philadelphia and showing you everything the city (and 1942) had to offer.

This is so cute!! That's the first thing I picture when I think of a 1940s "date." But reading about all of their other dates, big and small, was like getting a deep dive into '40s culture and Philadelphia history, complete with "jitterbugging." 💗

And seeing the progression of how her powers are slowly coming back on line is both so interesting and a great narrative element for the pacing of all this.

The click was your ability to fast forward, backward, pause and play. Like the movie with Adam Sandler! Get it?

Absolutely got this one! 😂 This aspect of her powers matches so well with her mischievous "Puck" nature lolll

(Though she strikes me as too classy for this^, you get my point lmao)

Anyway, you’d frozen Homelander long enough for Soldier Boy to charge up, your nose had started bleeding, your brain had almost exploded, you’d landed in a coma for three days afterward, and that was that. Never had tried doing it again since. That had been some scary shit.

Oooh shit, no wonder she lost her "click" for a while, poor thing. 😰 I wonder how worried Ben was during her coma, since he already remembered her and tried to get her out of the final showdown with Homelander. ❤️‍🩹

Thinking about them made you realize how much they would surely judge you for your actions here. Shit. Honestly, that only made you want to avoid home even more.

lmfaoo honestly so valid. They'd judge her sooooo hard 😅😅 (though I love Frenchie's imagined reaction the most LOL)

On the other hand, you missed parts of your old life – your friends, your own clothes, your own space. Worst of all, your memories of the future began to fade a little more each day.

This is such an interesting side effect of being so long in the past where she "isn't meant to be." I wonder if that resolves once she returns to the future and spends enough time there, or are those memories just gradually wiped like an Etch a Sketch? 🥲

Spread your wings, little butterfly, and cause a hurricane!

Ah yes, the Butterfly Effect! If only we had Jeff Goldblum to explain it to us 😂

JK, the reader needs no man to explain science to her. 😌

“Oh, big mistake, sweetheart.” With a mischievous grin, he placed his hands on your waist and pulled you flush against his strong and firm body, instantly conquering your mouth with a searing kiss. Ben always kissed you like there was no fucking tomorrow. No future, no past, no doubts, no regrets. Just you and him caught in a moment.

And this is right about where my brain fizzed out and melted 🫠🫠🫠

The way Ben kisses (aside from his other talents) is probably why he gets so many women hooked on his charms lol. I absolutely love how you wrote this first really romantic/smutty scene between them. 💛 My favorite smut is the teasing and the banter leading into the sensuous and sexy, which this absolutely nails (pardon the pun lmao) ❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

But this part right here is where I malfunctioned, of course on this beautifully poetic line:

You found the magic word, and two perfectly thick and long fingers breached your entrance just like that and delivered you from your misery but added to your sins. You sang his name in fucking relief.

Weren’t you conning him a little? He didn’t know who you were or where you came from despite trying to warn him as much as you could. You didn’t want anything from him – not his money, not his secrets, not his death. You didn’t even know why you were doing this – why the fuck you were still entertaining this charade! Your insides were full of butterflies and bees these days.

Goddamn it, why'd you have to remind me of this??! lmao

"Butterflies and bees" is such a subtle but brilliant way to describe it -- lovely butterflies, warm feelings of falling in love, but the sting of knowing you shouldn't. 😭

But Ben gave you a kind smile in return, his features softening with something deeper than the playful attitude. “That’s okay. There’s no rush, sweetheart. You’re worth waiting for.”

*cryingcryingcrying*

She's losing her memory and living a lie, but it's ok, she built him a projector and gave him his first genuine gift ever. It's ok. 🫠🩵🩵

Also, I really feel bad for Ben on this side of things. He's starting to get clues that there's something off with her, can't figure out why she still doesn't trust him entirely, even though he's giving all he has of his heart to her. ❤️‍🩹

And now with that ominous cliffhanger of the parents arriving, you really get the sense that this is the real point of no return...

Time After Time – Chapter 6

Summary: Unable to control your abilities, you’re stuck in the present with Billy Butcher, his team, and America’s first asshole. At this point, you’ve become Soldier Boy’s personal punching bag. But when an accident leaves you stranded in 1942, you run into a familiar face and suddenly rely on your future tormentor’s help as your only hope.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x supe!Reader

Warnings: 18+ for language and smut, reader is a supe with chronokinesis (time manipulation), 1942 says hi, SB being a nice and kind human, FLUFF, a bit of an angsty cliffhanger

Word Count: 6.8k

Posted on Patreon April 4, 2025

A/N: And here comes the smut (at least the beginning stages of it). Ben might not know a lot about economics, but he clearly knows his way around the ladies 😜 ✨ Chapter title comes from The Maltese Falcon (1941)

Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist || Tag List

Chapter 6: I Don't Mind a Reasonable Amount of Trouble

Ben checked the big clock on the wall of his office and sighed. Of course you were late again, probably lost somewhere between math equations and arguing with Fred.

He treaded down to the factory floor, finding Fred with his hands on his hips and a grim expression on his face, standing idly by the furnace they were currently upgrading. Ben’s brow knitted when he couldn’t find you anywhere near, however. He told Fred to fucking watch you. What was so hard about that?

“Where’s our little physicist?” Ben prompted, glaring the engineer down as he lit a cigarette.

Fred swallowed nervously and nodded toward the furnace. “In there, sir.”

Ben’s brow shot up, coughing out a cloud of smoke. “She’s in the furnace?”

“Checking my work,” the engineer added with bitterness in his voice.

Ben bit back a snort. “Why the fuck would you let her crawl in there?”

“Sir, all due respect, but she ain’t listening to me, and I hate arguing with her,” Fred told him bluntly.

Fair enough, Ben thought. He hated arguing with you, too. There was never any winning. He was still wondering how you fucking did that.

“I can hear you guys, by the way! This thing isn’t soundproof,” your amused voice echoed out of the furnace in sing-song.

“Sweetheart, you okay in there?” Ben checked, leaning a little closer to the opening to peek inside.

But you jumped out at that very same second, letting Ben help you out when he offered you his hand. You dusted off your clothes with a smile, your skin covered slightly with ash.

Ben eyed your outfit, tilting his head. “Why are you wearing overalls?”

“Oh, Fred lent them to me. Didn’t want Ms. Vivian to yell at me for getting my dress dirty,” you replied, giggling.

Ben chuckled and then gestured toward the furnace. “How’s it coming along?”

“Good! I think we can throw it on tomorrow and test it before we move onto the next one. Fred has done a great job these last two weeks,” you reported happily, and Ben could audibly hear the engineer pass a breath of relief upon your praise.

“Perfect!” Ben smiled warmly and tucked a strand of wild hair behind your ear. “You ready to go?”

“Yeah, just let me change and wash up first,” you told him, returning his smile with blushing cheeks.

“Where are you taking her this evening, sir?” Fred asked curiously.

“Oh, he’s taking me to the pictures tonight.” You grinned excitedly.

For two weeks, Ben had taken you out now every night, playing tour guide around Philadelphia and showing you everything the city (and 1942) had to offer.

For your first date, he’d chosen an intimate and charming French restaurant, which had led you to chat with the waiters in French all night. Ben hadn’t minded as much since you’d been smiling brightly the whole time and everything you’d said had sounded incredibly sexy.

The next night, he’d taken you to the restaurant at the top of the Six Towers Building, offering the most stunning views of the city. When the two of you had watched the starry night sky, you’d told him all about planets and universal theories that he couldn’t possibly understand, either. But again, you’d been smiling all the way through, and so had he.

The following nights, the two of you then had explored Philadelphia’s vibrant nightlife, which definitely had been more Ben’s area of expertise. He’d taken you to two night clubs and two jazz clubs, enjoying live music the whole night before Ray had to pick the two of you up in the early morning hours.

Ben had also taught you how to swing dance and explained jitterbugging in great detail to you. As far as you’d understood it, it was the twerking of the 1940s.

Another night, he’d taken you to the Philadelphia Opera House for a musical (Gershwin’s Of Thee I Sing) before the two of you had gone ice-skating together.

Then there had been the daylight dates: He’d taken you to the Philadelphia zoo, to something called a soda fountain (and no, to your disappointment, there hadn’t been a giant fountain spewing soda), and to the Museum of Art.

Some days, you’d come to work with him and annoy Fred, while others you’d stay home and either tinker in the shed or play piano in the drawing room. You hadn’t played properly in ages and were getting really good. So far, you’d perfected Cyndi Lauper’s Girls Just Want to Have Fun to air out your frustrations about this period’s blatant sexism and some All Through the Night to calm yourself again.

Moreover, you did a little more than just tinkering in George’s shed and were trying to overcome your blockage and get your powers working again.

And you’d even made some progress. Eureka!

While the memory bank, which was what you called the weird part of your ability that let you see little glimpses throughout time, worked just fine (much to your dismay), you hadn’t been able to click since that night you all took down Homelander.

The click was your ability to fast forward, backward, pause and play. Like the movie with Adam Sandler! Get it?

Anyway, you’d frozen Homelander long enough for Soldier Boy to charge up, your nose had started bleeding, your brain had almost exploded, you’d landed in a coma for three days afterward, and that was that. Never had tried doing it again since. That had been some scary shit.

Yup, Homelander had fought tooth and nail against your little spell, and you still had no fucking clue how he’d done it. You’d easily done it to Be–

Soldier Boy! Fuck. You’d easily done it to Soldier Boy all the time till he had started watching clocks around you like an eagle and be pissed as fuck whenever he’d realize an hour had suddenly passed (and then you’d started to pause the clocks in whatever room he was in, too).

To be fair, most of those times had been due to the relentless begging of Butcher and Hughie.

Butcher with a “Oi, can you make the cunt shut up for a second? I’m trying to bloody think ‘ere.” And Hughie with a “Please, make him stop. I need-, like, I just need a ten minute break from this gross piece of shit.”

Thinking about them made you realize how much they would surely judge you for your actions here. Shit. Honestly, that only made you want to avoid home even more.

You hated facing consequences, which was a bummer with an ability like yours.

Butcher would probably tell you he was disappointed in you, mostly for not killing Ben in the most brutal and messiest way possible. Then, he’d tease you for the rest of his cancer-ridden life about you throwing out your morals for good cock (which you hadn’t even done!).

Both Hughie and MM would look at you full of disgust and confusion, repeatedly asking why. Frenchie would say something along the lines of: “Mon cœur, pourquoi n'as-tu pas dit que tu avais besoin d'une bite ? Je te l'aurais proposée. C'est ce que font les amis.”

Why didn’t you say you needed some dick? I would’ve offered. That’s what friends do.

Then there would’ve been the girls. Annie and Maeve would’ve questioned your sanity and, after more wine, asked you if it had been the huge cock that eventually convinced you, to which Kimiko would’ve leaned in and proceeded to gesture different length variations with her hands till you would’ve picked one.

And no, you hadn’t slept with Ben yet.

He kissed you and touched you and held your hand, but he never pressured you or pushed you to do more. It was all PG-13 and above the waist. Ben was the perfect gentleman.

Honestly, no one was more baffled by that than you.

The problem was, however, Ben could be the nicest, sweetest, and kindest person on the planet, more innocent than little Hughie, and you’d still have a hard time fully trusting him with your heart.

But you tried not to let it affect you, to judge him preemptively, although the nightmarish memories of his dirty deeds were still plaguing you every goddamn night. They never stopped, and you weren’t sure they ever could, considering the sheer body count Soldier Boy had left in his wake during his reign of terror.

On one hand, you loved your somewhat quiet time in Philadelphia. People were different and life was different. No one was stuck to their phone all day, no one really had a fear of missing out or cared about their social media following, no one was obsessed with binge-watching trashy reality TV shows, and the extensive consumerism took a backseat altogether.

Even with a war going on, life ran at a more peaceful, unhurried pace. You sort of even began to understand some of Soldier Boy’s grievances with the 21st century. You’d always thought he had exaggerated, but he really hadn’t.

On the other hand, you missed parts of your old life – your friends, your own clothes, your own space. Worst of all, your memories of the future began to fade a little more each day.

You couldn’t remember Annie’s birthday, Hughie’s last name, Butcher’s first name, Fenchie’s face… What the fuck does MM stand for? Kimiko was from… You wanna say Vietnam? Japan? No… Fuck!

This wasn’t good by any means. You should start writing down what you could remember to read it whenever you’d forget.

Your theory regarding this particular problem was that the timeline was starting to reshape and rewrite itself. The longer you stayed in the past, the bigger the changes in the future had to be.

Spread your wings, little butterfly, and cause a hurricane!

Your fading memories were the reason why you still were trying to get yourself fully powered up again. You at least needed a Plan B, an exit strategy, a goddamn insurance policy in case things went south.

So far, you could throw an object into the air and pause it and freeze staff members around the house, even two at a time.

The click was back.

It was your remote control, while the memory bank was your Google (although a lot more graphic – memory-searching someone’s birthday brought you right to a baby’s head crowning through a vagina).

But hey, everyone’s superpower had its downsides. At least you didn’t have to time travel butt-naked.

You had the memory bank, you had the click, and now all there was left for you to find were your ruby slippers.

While you didn’t necessarily hate your life here – far from it even – a part of you missed your independence and despised the societal norms of the time. Feminism was basically considered sailor talk.

But Ben tried to never make you feel like less, even when he’d slip from time to time. You couldn’t really fault him for that. He was just doing and saying what he was raised to do – what everyone around you was raised to do.

However, he slowly began to respect you and your opinions, taking your advice more often than not. He fucking tried, and you could tell, even when he never said too much. He also never missed a beat to back you up whenever Fred or anyone else dared to doubt you.

“Oh, how nice! What are you two going to watch?” Fred asked, and you knew he was only all too eager to get rid of you again. He probably cursed Ben in his sleep for ever bringing you to the mill.

“We’re doing a double feature at the Boyd,” Ben replied.

“Yes! We’re seeing The Lady Eve first and then The Maltese Falcon,” you added with a big grin. You’d really been looking forward to visiting an old school movie theater. Who wouldn’t be?

Ben chuckled warmly and rubbed your back. “And as you can see, she’s apparently very excited. It’s almost like she’s never been to a theater before.”

Recently, Ben had started to tease you whenever you got too exuberant about a 1940s thing (not that he was aware you called them that). But it was sometimes hard to fully hide your enthusiasm once your geek brain lit up like a Christmas tree.

1942 had its pros and cons, its ups and downs, but you tried to adjust as best as you could, getting used to the idea of staying here for good.

So did Ben.

After washing off the dirt and slipping back into your clothes – an emerald green silk dress with a sweetheart neckline and cap sleeves – you strolled cheerily into Ben’s office, where he was already waiting for you.

“Alright, I’m ready. We can leave,” you told him, the excitement swinging in both your voice and smile.

“You sure about that? Aren’t you missing something?” With an amused smile, Ben then held your pair of shoes into the air. “Found them in the furnace.”

“Oh, I didn’t even notice! However did they get there?” you feigned your innocence, shifting around on your bare feet.

Ben chuckled and sauntered over to you. “I’m sure you have not the faintest clue, sweetheart.”

“Well, cut me some slack, okay? Ms. Vivian isn’t making you wear pantyhose all day long,” you sassed, grimacing.

Ben only smirked. “You know, I wouldn’t mind if you didn’t wear them.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Oh, but I think I am.” Ben’s smirk rose higher with a devilish gleam in his green eyes.

“Fine,” you huffed playfully, accepting the challenge. “They’re coming off!”

Your fingers worked eagerly to unfasten the clips of your garter belt – and oh God, how much you hated that fucking thing – and then rolled each stocking down your legs, finally tossing them on the leather chair.

“Oh, big mistake, sweetheart.” With a mischievous grin, he placed his hands on your waist and pulled you flush against his strong and firm body, instantly conquering your mouth with a searing kiss.

Ben always kissed you like there was no fucking tomorrow.

No future, no past, no doubts, no regrets. Just you and him caught in a moment.

He twirled you once and spun you backwards into his embrace like he’d shown you during your dance lessons, causing an eruption of giggles to spill from your throat. His breath ghosted along your skin in the nape of your neck, his broad chest pressing against your back, strong arms around you, holding you tight. His mouth trailed wet kisses along the exposed parts of your shoulder. His hands smoothed up and down your curves.

And then, they became a little more daring, a little more adventurous.

His right hand palmed a gracious amount of your ass over your dress while his left hand lingered dangerously close below your breast on your ribcage.

“And what exactly is your plan here, huh?” you incited, causing him to chuckle against your throat. It wasn’t like he’d never tried to test the boundaries before with you.

“You know, I’ve been thinking–“

“Uh-oh, that can’t be a good sign,” you quipped with a bubble of giggles.

“Are you teasing me, hm?” Ben pinched your sides where you were ticklish, laughing puckishly when you squealed and squirmed in his hold.

Needless to say, Soldier Boy wouldn’t have reacted with a tickle attack upon that comment.

“I’ll be good! I’ll be good!” you swore between your infectious laughter till he stopped and welcomed you back into his arms. You let yourself fall back against him. “So, what were you thinking, huh?”

“Well, I know we’re not sleeping together yet–“

“Yet? Wow, that’s some confidence you got there,” you continued to tease him.

“Yes, and completely your loss, by the way,” he retorted, spreading kisses down your neck to prove his point.

“Obviously.” You laughed softly to indulge him, but you couldn’t deny or ignore the little electric shockwaves traveling to your throbbing core. You clenched slightly, pressing your thighs a little tighter together, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

But he did and smirked triumphantly against your skin.

“As I was saying,” he continued, still carrying a smirk, but his voice dropping seductively low as he nibbled a path down your throat. His hand slid from your ass to the front of your thigh – slow, deliberate, knowing – rising higher and higher with each sinful syllable that left his plump lips. “Just because we’re not doing that yet–,” you felt the sharp smugness against your pulse point, “–doesn’t mean there aren’t… other ways I can make you feel good if you want me to, sweetheart.”

You laughed it off – barely, weakly, unconvincingly. “Ben…”

But there was no ‘I can’t,’ no ‘please,’ no ‘stop.’

“Yeah?” Amused, he kissed each vertebra down your neck, your little shivers pleasing him, his knuckles dragging along your ribs over silky fabric. “Need me to convince you a little?”

His perfect fingers tiptoed up your inner thigh – a brush, soft and fleeting. You bit your lips hard, close to tasting iron. Then, those five little sins traced up under your skirt, tugged teasingly at your garter straps, and ghosted along the hem of your panties.

And you fucking whimpered.

He smiled against the back of your head. It was like an invitation. A celebration! He’d finally won an argument.

“Yeah? You want me to touch you… there, sweetheart?” he tantalized raspily into your ear, your lobe caught between sharp teeth. His fingers teased along the cotton material, never going beyond where you wanted them.

Needed them.

His other hand then slid up your ribs, up and up and up, till he palmed your tit with the same ferocious grip he’d shown your ass.

“Or here?” His knuckles only lightly rubbed over your nipple, but it peaked underneath the thin material of your dress.

“Ben…” you moaned softly, not noticing how you sunk into him more and more. You were lost.

Pleasure. Bliss. Euphoria.

“Here it is, then.” He chuckled, victorious.

Gently, slowly, tortuously, his fingers ran along the cap sleeve before letting it fall down your shoulder. And as soon as it did, his hand generously cupped your breast. Massaged, groped, and fucking squeezed.

But his thumb and forefinger did the worst damage, tweaking, rubbing, and twisting your pebble between them till you sighed his name.

“Ben…”

“Yeah?” he answered in that same smug tone, enjoying you fall apart at his every touch. “You want more?”

“Yes,” you sighed breathlessly, grinding against him, desperate to find friction goddamn anywhere.

“Beg.” His diabolical chuckle caused your whole body to vibrate and catch fire.

You felt the outlines of his hard cock press against your ass, slotting himself right between your luscious cheeks. Each roll of his hips was deliberate. Teasing. Always teasing.

Fucking bastard…

His teeth sunk into your shoulder. His hand slipped inside your panties, cupped your whole pussy before two fingers stretched out, middle and pointer, and dove between your wet folds. Dragged and rubbed over your fucking clit.

“Well, look at that,” he chuckled into your ear. He palmed your tit roughly, fingers sliding over that little bundle of screaming nerves down low in relentlessly slow and measured strokes, gathering your wetness like it were the last drops on Earth. “And here I thought I never have any effect on you…”

“Ben…”

“Ben, what?”

The heel of his palm pressed against your pelvic bone, pushing you more against the hardness straining his slacks. Each rock, each push, each roll of his against you aimed to make you feel each inch of solid, thick, long mass. Aimed to make you wonder what he’d feel like inside of you.

Aimed to make you crumble enough for him to catch you when you’d finally fall from grace.

“Ben, please…”

You found the magic word, and two perfectly thick and long fingers breached your entrance just like that and delivered you from your misery but added to your sins.

You sang his name in fucking relief.

He curled his fingers in your drenched heat, right against that deliciously throbbing spot, scratching and coaxing every drop of arousal out of you, letting it trickle into his palm as if he were fucking saving it to drink later.

“You know–,” he rasped, breath hot against your cheek, “–this is why Ms. Vivian tells you to wear a fucking bra, sweetheart.” He rolled your aching nipple between his fingertips. “So men like me don’t have easy access and take fucking advantage of it.”

You clenched around his fingers. He grinned against your jaw.

“Although, I wouldn’t have minded if you forwent the panties, sweetheart,” he continued, deep voice thick with filth. “Wouldn’t have minded at all for those guys down there to see you fucking drippin’ for me to touch you.”

A moan bled from your lips as he ploughed his fingers harder through your wrecked pussy with every letter.

He brushed your hair to one side, hand lazily moving from your breast to your throat to your jaw, lifting your gaze to find his lust-laden and filth-filled eyes.

“You’re goddamn perfect,” he murmured, smirk twitching in the corners of his lips, making you chase them but never giving in to your desire. You whimpered, and he chuckled. His thumb pressed against your clit, adding slow circles to his torturous pumps. “Can’t wait to own every little part of yours. Can’t wait to make you mine.”

In 2023, you would’ve wanted him to choke on the possessive vile spewing out of his mouth.

But here, in 1942, with his fingers deep inside you and his voice cursing your mind, you fucking shattered.

You squeezed his fingers hard with a moaning and shuddering fuck, the last part of your resolve focusing even harder on not goddamn breaking them.

Sometimes, you still forgot he wasn’t a supe yet, made out of the same steel that was created below you, and that you could actually hurt him.

With a strangled scream that drowned out the factory noise of hammering steel beams (and red fucking cheeks), you came undone and soaked his goddamn hand.

Your frame shook, muscles trembled, and knees gave in, only to be caught and saved by him.

And then, finally, when your breathless lungs had wrung for enough oxygen, when your wild heartbeats had steadied, he let you catch his lips, perfectly desperate and starved and needy.

Your hand reached to cup his face, pulling him closer, fingers tangling in his hair, tongue down his throat. Ben groaned into the kiss, wrecked and just as desperate as you.

You twisted in his embrace as his fingers dropped from your heat. You faced him, kissing him with the sole intent to rob him of air. Your lips trailed down his jaw, his throat, and the little bit of exposed skin on his chest that was visible through the first opened buttoned of his dress shirt.

He growled when your hand reached down and eagerly palmed his rock-hard cock through his pants. Your trembling fingers hurried to unbuckle his belt, wanting to return the favor, but his hands snapped to your wrists, holding them still before gently moving them away.

“Oh no, sweetheart. We’re gonna be late for the pictures.” He smirked that smug smile again and gave you a cheeky wink. Coolly and completely unbothered, he then stepped away from you and grabbed his coat, swinging it over his shoulders and closing the front to hide his massive boner. “C’mon, let’s go!”

With an amused grin, Ben lit a cigarette and waited patiently by the door for you to snap out of your stupor and take his hand.

The crisp February air hit your face, your breath coming out in little swirling clouds as you and Ben emerged from the warmth of the movie theater. The snow-covered streets of Philadelphia were hushed, the city falling asleep as the glow of streetlamps bathed the cobblestone sidewalk in amber hues.

You adjusted the collar of your coat against the chill, tucking your hands into the pockets. Ben, sensing the shiver that ran through you, pulled you a little closer, interlacing your fingers with his.

“How’d you like the movies?” he asked, smiling softly and giving a quick peck to your temple.

“I loved them! Can’t go wrong with Bogart and Fonda,” you replied with a smile that soon turned teasing. You playfully nudged his shoulder. “So, you scared yet I’m gonna pull a fast one on you like Barbara Stanwyck did to Henry Fonda?”

Ben laughed loudly, throwing his head back. “I don’t know. So far, you haven’t really been interested in my money, so I think I’m safe. ‘Sides, I’m not as easy as Fonda.”

“You sure about that? You do look a little naive and fresh-faced to me,” you quipped, grinning.

“Well, just so you know, if you’re really trying to con me… it’s working,” he joked and stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, pulling you into his arms with a fond smile and whispering a kiss onto your lips.

Your heart wildly fluttered for a beat but was swiftly slain by a sting in the same breath. Weren’t you conning him a little? He didn’t know who you were or where you came from despite trying to warn him as much as you could. You didn’t want anything from him – not his money, not his secrets, not his death. You didn’t even know why you were doing this – why the fuck you were still entertaining this charade!

Your insides were full of butterflies and bees these days.

“Oh, yeah? Guess I’m the one who’s in trouble then,” you replied with a soft smile as you got lost in the green galaxies of his eyes.

“I don’t think you have any idea how much you’ve got me wrapped around your little finger, sweetheart,” Ben said and lifted your chin softly to meet his lips in a sweet, tentative kiss. An affectionate smile grazed his face as his large palm warmed your cold cheek. “But I think I know something else, too.”

“And what’s that?” You bit your lower lip, leaning in closer, your hands sliding up his chest to drape around his neck.

“I think you’re falling for your mark, sweetheart,” he replied with a quiet smile, resting his forehead on yours.

Your heart stopped, his words stunning you into silence, tears beginning to brim in your eyes that you tried to swallow down. Was that what you were doing? What kept you tethered here? Were you falling in love with him?

“Maybe, I am,” you admitted softly, watching a hint of a smile flash alive before he pulled you to his lips in a searing, wanting, claiming kiss.

“You know, if you were the Maltese Falcon–,” he said, voice rough and low, thumb stroking up and down your cheekbone, “–I’d follow you across continents just to keep you safe.”

“Hmm, I can see you as Bogart. You like to brood in the shadows as well,” you teased him, feeling the vibrations of his chuckle against your body as his words sunk in.

Was he–… No. That’s ridiculous. 

“Well, I did always want to be an actor when I was younger,” he shared, laughing self-consciously.

“Really? I guess I can see that. You do have a very Hollywood look,” you entertained his idea with a warm smile. You figured it was best to breeze over his actual acting skills altogether. He had looked pretty on screen when Soldier Boy had forced his movies down your throat. “And what would you want in return for saving me, huh?”

“Well–,” he licked his lips, his hands slowly, deliberately, seductively opening your coat and slipping them inside around your waist, “–there’s still a few things I’d like to unravel about you.”

Your cheeks hurt with a smile. Oh, he was a charming devil. It was hard to deny.

“I’m not quite sure I’m ready to be unraveled yet,” you said with a coy giggle, fingers gently carding through the hair in the back of his neck like a nervous tick as your heart hammered in your ribcage.

But Ben gave you a kind smile in return, his features softening with something deeper than the playful attitude. “That’s okay. There’s no rush, sweetheart. You’re worth waiting for.”

He pressed his lips to your forehead as if he was making a vow at that moment. The night felt intimate, like it was just a world for the two of you.

And you realized then that you were truly falling head over heels in love with him, unaware that Ben was already miles ahead of you.

Unfortunately, he didn’t know that, much like the Maltese Falcon, you were only a fake – a mere illusion, too.

C.

“Lying in my bed, I hear–” You adjusted your fingers on the ivory keys.

Em.

“–the clock tick, and I think of you,” you sang softly, holding the note.

Am.

“Caught up in circles, confusion–”

F.

“–is nothing new...”

C.

“Flashback, warm nights. Almost–” your fingers switched back to E minor, “–left behind.” Am. “Suitcases of memories…” F. “Time after–”

You exhaled a soft sigh, your fingers sliding from the keys with a few random notes. How did the chorus go again?

Why were you forgetting the lyrics? You knew that song by heart. Earlier, you couldn’t play Sia’s Elastic Heart either.

C.

“If you’re lost, you can look, and you will find me–” Em. “–time after time.” Am. “If you fall, I will catch you, I’ll be waiting–” F. “–time after time…”

You expelled a breath of relief. The memory fog was getting worse every day. You wondered how long you still had before not being able to remember anything at all.

“Why are you stopping?”

With a small yelp of surprise, you startled and turned to Ben, leaning against the doorframe and watching you. You didn’t know how long he’d been standing there. You hadn’t even heard him come home.

“Oh, uh, I can’t remember the rest of the song,” you replied, your cheeks blushing as you rose from the little stool to greet him, tiptoeing up to meet his lips for a sweet kiss. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

Ben chuckled. “Luckily. Otherwise, I might have missed your little performance.” He winked, caressing your cheek in his palm. “The only proof I had of you actually playing so far were the bedazzling whispers of the staff. Glad I finally got to catch it, too. You have a beautiful voice, sweetheart.”

Your brow quirked unnoticeably at his last sentence. Why the hell did that sound familiar to you? It felt like déjà-vu.

“Thank you.” Your cheeks turned pink under the soft light of the crystal chandelier in the drawing room.

“What song was that? I don’t know it. Did you write that?” Ben asked curiously.

You shook your head quickly, brushing it off. “Oh no, just something I heard once somewhere…”

“Huh. I like it,” he said, and you internally sighed in relief. He then hauled a full bouquet of sunflowers from behind his back, holding them out to you with a smile. “Got something for you.”

You took the bouquet gratefully, burying your nose in the beautiful smelling flowers. You’d told him not too long ago that they were your favorite.

“For me? Thank you, uhm… Where did you even get sunflowers in winter?” You shook your head then suddenly. “You know what? Don’t answer that. It’s probably a rich people trade secret,” you muttered, making Ben snort. “What exactly are those for?”

He offered you a warm smile. “We threw on the second furnace today. The two new ones now produce ten times as much as the others. We’re gonna get that government contract, all thanks to you.”

Should you be concerned you had a hand in helping rich people get even richer?

“I’m glad it worked out,” you said instead, smiling softly.

“Fred seemed a little nervous since you hadn’t checked his work on the second one,” Ben said jokingly.

“I’m sure it was fine.” You laughed with a playful eye roll. “Oh, uhm, I actually have something for you, too!”

You hurried back to the piano and laid the bouquet down on top of it, knowing Florence would pick them up in the next five minutes, already noticing her scurry down the hall upon hearing Benjamin’s voice. Then you walked over to a long, polished side table, gesturing Ben over to you.

His brow knitted a little more with each step he took, jade green eyes focusing on the somewhat big and clunky machine propped up on it. And then, finally, he looked at you, his expression somewhere between completely bewildered and bountifully confused.

“It’s a movie projector,” you told him while Ben kept silently staring at you like you were an alien. “Because you said you liked movies? Now you can watch them at home. You just have to steal a white bedsheet out of Florence’s linen closet. And of course, you’d have to get a movie from somewhere, but I’m sure that won’t be a big problem for you. You just need to make sure it’s 35mm.”

Ben’s eyes widened; lips curled. “Where-, uhm–” He scratched the back of his neck. “Where did you get it?”

“Oh, I built it,” you replied.

“‘Course you did…” Ben clicked his tongue.

“George had most of the materials in the shed, and he was nice enough to get the rest of them for me,” you added, barely hiding the excited grin. “Do you like it?”

Ben’s features softened, a smile curving his lips. “Yeah, I like it very much, sweetheart. Thank you.”

There was something in his eyes you couldn’t quite place – like your gift was special, which confused you greatly. He could buy himself anything he ever wanted to, including a movie projector, and you were sure he had also received plenty of gifts throughout his life. You didn’t even really want to imagine what kind of spectacle his birthdays probably had been.

“You’re welcome,” you said, and Ben pulled you closer by your hand, kissing you.

“Can I ask you something?” he asked as he withdrew from your lips, your cheeks still safely in his warm palms.

Uh-oh.

Ben had gotten curiouser and curiouser about you the last couple of weeks. It was as if he expected you to open up more, the longer the two of you were going out, which would’ve been a pretty fair assumption to make in a regular relationship. But the problem was nothing was normal about this, and you couldn’t share more with him. Not more than you already had. You’d never be able to tell him the full truth.

“I guess?”

Ben chuckled lightly at your response, caressing your cheek as if to assure you. “Where did you learn how to do all of this? I mean, this seems to go a bit beyond… regular schooling. Not that I’d know for sure.”

Ben’s little self-deprecating laugh was supposed to calm your nerves, but your heart only pounded faster by the second.

Hesitantly, you pursed your lips and exhaled a long breath. “I suppose you have a point. I-, uhm, I learned it in college.”

And downloading instructions from the memory bank. 

“College?” Ben’s brow almost met his hairline, green eyes wide in surprise. “You went to college? Where?”

“I-, uhm, I studied physics at McGill. It’s a university in Montreal,” you told him the truth. Luckily, you remembered your college’s long history of co-educational programs, including the sciences.

“French…” was all Ben mumbled, nodding along as if puzzle pieces were falling into place. “Are you from Canada?”

You snorted a giggle, shaking your head. “No, I just studied there.”

“Physics?” Ben checked once more like he couldn’t believe it, his brow intensely furrowed. But it wasn’t doubt that caused the creases – only disbelief.

“Yes,” you confirmed slowly. “I have a… PhD.”

Ben’s brows raised a little higher. “You-, uh, you’re a doctor?”

“Yes.”

“So, you’re actually… smart-smart,” Ben deduced, causing you to laugh slightly, visibly seeing the gears turning in his head.

“I guess you could say that,” you replied, worrying your lower lip as you watched his various expressions.

“Huh.” Ben hummed and smacked his lips. “Why wouldn’t you have told me that?”

He wasn’t offended but generally baffled why you’d hide an achievement this big, one you should be proud to show off.

Your lips hitched a smile of amusement. “I’m not a man, Ben. Not as easy for someone like me.”

“Right…” He nodded quietly, still thinking. Still considering you.

But he didn’t have more questions afterward. You couldn’t really read the look on his faintly freckled face, and before you could figure it out, he claimed your lips in a deep and long kiss that robbed you of your breath.

However, pulling back, his smile faltered at the corners, brows shaping back into the familiar creases. His gaze trailed down your throat, landing on a particular spot at the slope of your neck. His fingers reached out and tentatively traced along the curve.

“What?” you asked with a small giggle upon his questioning look and the ticklish touch, but your eyes were wary, your heart accelerating its beats again.

“Nothing.” He shook his head as if the thought that had crossed him was silly. An amused smile then curved his lips. “Did you know I’ve been trying to leave my mark on that little spot for weeks now? Doesn’t seem to take.”

Fuck! 

You hadn’t even thought about that. He was getting way too observant. How long could you possibly keep this up before he’d burn you on the stake?

“Oh, uh…” Self-consciously, your hand clasped that very spot on your neck, feeling your eyebrows shoot up before you tried to rein them in and keep your composure. “I don’t… bruise easily, you know? Kinda neat…”

Fortunately, Ben seemed to buy your lie, his smile widening in kind. You really had him wrapped around your little finger. And shit, did you feel guilty about it, but you were also fucking relieved.

How long would that last, though? This wouldn’t be the last time he’d ask you questions or take note of oddities.

“Yeah, guess you don’t.” The smile morphed to a smirk. “Guess I have to try harder then, huh?”

The challenge sparkled in the deep green of his eyes before he entangled you in another kiss, tongue breaching past your lips as the hands on your waist dragged you flush against him. His hands slid higher, his embrace tightening as he retreated a few inches from your lips, only to place a gentle kiss on your temple.

“You’re special, sweetheart,” he said against the top of your head as he held you, deep voice softer than you’d ever heard it. “I promise I won’t ever forget that, okay? And I’ll make sure everyone else fucking sees it, too.”

Shit.

Your heart dropped. You fought against the flood of tears in your eyes and tried to keep your breathing steady. Don’t fucking cry, you reminded yourself.

No one had ever said something like that to you. How did he know? And why on Earth did it have to be him?

And you knew then why you were still here and hadn’t ended this madness yet – because Ben was the one, across the vastness of the universe and the infinity of time, that saw you in a way no one else ever had.

He was the only one.

“Ben, I–”

Before you could form the right words to say, both your heads snapped to the hallway upon hearing the heavy thud of the front door. Who was at the door? Did he finally decide to get Mrs. Helen for you, after all?

But the tension that crept into Ben’s broad shoulders and the deeply creasing brow told you he hadn’t expected the visit either, and your stomach sank as it dawned on you.

“Shit,” Ben muttered, telling you enough with that one little curse word.

“Your parents?” you asked quietly. Ben nodded, but his worried eyes were fixed on the hall that led to the foyer. “I thought they weren’t supposed to come for a few more days?”

Ben had never explicitly said it, but you knew he was nervous about you being here when his father eventually returned. A week ago, he’d subtly introduced the idea of getting an apartment for you in the city, so you’d known Florence’s suspicion had been right all along.

You were not welcome here and were only trouble for Ben.

“Yeah, uhm…” Distraught, he turned to you then, and you swore you could see his heart beating in his throat. “You think you could, uhm–”

You nodded without him needing to say more. “I’ll sneak up to my room through the servants’ quarters and lock myself in there, alright?” you said and quickly kissed his cheek in reassurance, Frances already knowingly holding the door open for you to follow her upstairs.

▶️ Chapter 7: Lions and Tigers and Bears, Oh My!

Poor girl never stood a chance with him 😅 How did you enjoy their dates (and their little office session)? Are you nervous or excited to get a glimpse of Ben's parents in the next part?

✨ TRIVIA FACTS: The title is a quote from The Maltese Falcon (1941) with Humphrey Bogart. The movie is about a group of people hunting a valuable artifact, the Maltese Falcon, before it is revealed at the end that it was only a fake. The second movie mentioned is The Lady Eve (1941), which is about a female con artist trying to scam a millionaire on a cruise ship before she falls for her mark. I found both of those very fitting for obvious reasons 🤓

Coming Up:

And then, his eyes landed on the bed – on your clothes spread out, half-packed. He froze, demeanor shifting immediately, color draining from his face. “What the hell is going on here? Are you fucking leaving me?” The baritone voice was suddenly sharp now, carrying an edge that cut through the haze of his drunkenness.

“I don’t wanna cause more trouble for you,” you confessed quietly, panic rising in your chest.

“So that’s it? Just like that? You’re just gonna fucking walk out on me?” His voice was jagged with emotion, gripping a handful of his hair in disbelief.

“No, but I-… I don’t belong here, okay?” you argued, your tone laced with desperation. What else could you say?

“Dammit, you think I don’t fucking know that?” His jaw tightened, and for a heartbeat, there was an unsettling silence between you two. “Look, I don’t know what the fuck Dottie told you, but this-… this isn’t some game to me. You think I do this with everyone? That I’m using you because I’m bored? That I’m just some spoiled rich kid who gets whatever I want?” He stared at you, disappointment, incredulity, and betrayal swimming in his eyes.

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