#and meet their expectations. it was hell. it was hell.

[mooningningg]

★ neighbor!toji who hates cats.

like, genuinely can’t stand the furry little shits. he doesn’t like their smug little faces, the way they knock things off counters just to be dicks, or how they pretend they don’t hear you. and don’t get him started on litter boxes. fucking nightmare.

so imagine his surprise when he walks into his bedroom, towel slung over one shoulder, just out of the shower, boxers low on his hips, and sees a goddamn cat sprawled across his bed like it owns the lease.

“the fuck,” he mutters. it’s just laying there. long-haired. smug. elegant. creamy white with a dark chocolate face and big, arrogant blue eyes. a balinese, he realizes vaguely, the kind rich people have. the kind that don’t shed, supposedly, but always do.

he narrows his eyes. “how the hell did you get in here?” the cat blinks at him. stretches. yawns. toji scowls and approaches cautiously— ready to hiss back or kick it out, but when he leans in, the damn thing rubs its tail along his arm. purring. like it owns him.

“…you’ve got balls,” he mutters, eyeing the collar. black leather with a gold tag, bougie as hell. he squints. ryu. he figured you’d give your cat a dramatic ass name like ryu. ‘return if found, xoxo’ followed by your house number. fucking typical.

which is how you open your door five minutes later to find him standing there, rain in his hair and your cat dangling from his hand like a sack of flour— gripped by the scruff of the neck, exactly how a mother cat would carry its kitten, except way more pissed off.

except he’s not looking at your cat right now.

no, his eyes, sharp, green, unmistakably male, had dropped the second the door creaked open, lingering for a beat too long on your tank top. no bra underneath. you hadn’t expected anyone. hadn’t planned to be seen.

your arms immediately shoot up, crossed tightly over your chest.

toji’s jaw shifts, one twitch of amusement, maybe something else— before his gaze finally drags up to meet yours.

“…you lost somethin’,” he says, voice low and gravel-thick.

you blink. “ryu!” you gasp, reaching out and scooping your cat into your arms. your voice goes soft, sing-song, like all common sense has left your brain. “oh my god, where did you go, huh? You little brat, did you bother the nice man?”

toji watches the entire thing, you burying your face in fur, cooing, holding him like a baby— with a blink that borders on disbelief, “…that thing sleeps on your bed?” he mutters.

“yeah,” you say, rocking ryu gently in your arms. “he’s a good boy.”

“to who?”

you pout at him, gently petting ryu’s ears. “you’re just jealous ‘cause he didn’t bite you.”

toji huffs a laugh— just a quiet one, sharp at the end. “trust me, sweetheart. If I want somethin’ biting me, I’ll ask for it.” you freeze. eyes wide. cheeks burning.

shit. toji gives a lazy shrug, entirely too relaxed about it, voice smooth when he adds, “your boyfriend must love him.”

you glance up, confused. “huh?” he nods to your arms, to ryu, now purring like a traitor against your chest. “the cat. he’s a clingy little shit, ain’t he?”

“oh,” you breathe out, then laugh nervously. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

He raises an eyebrow. “…no?” you shake your head, arms still stubbornly crossed. “my parents are… strict. About that stuff.”

Toji takes a beat. nods a little to himself. figured. A girl like you— sweet voice, bare legs, no clue what kind of effect you’ve got standing there, flustered and still trying to act like it’s just a normal tuesday. “shame,” he says, easy. “a pretty thing like you?”

you stiffen. but not in a bad way. his voice is deep, too deep, too easy for your fluttering nerves to handle— but before you can overthink it, you suddenly blurt out: “Um, sorry, while you’re here—could I ask something kinda weird?”

he gives you a look. everything about you is weird, that look says, but he doesn’t say it. “Go on.”

“The pipe at the back,” you murmur, shifting Ryu to one arm. “My mom’s been bugging me to ask someone. It leaks sometimes when we run the washer. Could you maybe take a look?”

you sound shy. hopeful. like you don’t even realize you’re asking Toji — him — the guy who grunts instead of waves and definitely gives “not my problem” energy from across the street. toji should say no. he always says no. but when he sees you again— tank top, shorts, holding your cat and trying to act casual with a blush crawling up your neck, he finds himself nodding.

“…yeah. I’ll check it out.”

you brighten immediately. “Really? Thank you! You don’t have to right now, I mean—”

“Later’s fine,” he cuts in. “When it’s not so fuckin’ hot.” you giggle. “Okay. Deal.”

he turns to leave, boots heavy on the concrete. and just before he steps off the porch, he glances back over his shoulder, “Keep your windows locked,” he mutters, nodding at the cat. “Don’t want another break-in.”

you nod, still cradling Ryu. “I will. Thank you again, toji.” he gives you a look. something unreadable. and then, softer than anything else he’s said tonight, “Anytime, pretty girl.” and he’s gone.

taglist, @blogster-b33

[lillilybells]

I know you only posted part 3 of family dinner 17 hours ago BUT I NEED MORE like I crave it I’m on my hands and knees begging I need a part 4 MAYBEEE a part 5 btw I love your writing so much it’s helping me get more into DC than I already is

Family dinner IV✧₊⁺

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

pairing|damian wayne x reader (feat. The batfamily)

summary|meeting the family.. again?

word count|1216 warnings|punching, tears, teen romance.

notes|thank you anon!! im definitely gonna do more parts for this series, i hope you like this one<3

prologue part1 part2 part3 part5

You were just at the manor, minding your own business. Damian had invited you over for what was supposed to be a quiet night—until the emergency alert came through and he had to leave with the rest of his family.

It wasn’t unusual. You were used to nights like these: hanging out with Alfred, playing with Titus and Alfred-the-cat, doing your nightly routine, then crashing in Damian’s massive bed like a cozy cryptid. You were practically part of the wallpaper at this point.

Except tonight, Alfred wasn’t home either. So you were alone in the huge, echoey manor with just Damian’s pets for company.

It was eerie, but manageable—until you wandered into the Batcave.

You’d only gone down to grab your jacket. You weren’t expecting to get punched in the face.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

Barbara had picked up on a potential data breach tied to Wayne Enterprises. Coincidentally, she’d been having a girls’ night with Stephanie when she spotted the alert.

They figured they’d swing by the cave—check the systems, poke around, maybe catch a weird anomaly or two.

What they didn’t expect was a random teenage girl in sleep shorts, poking around the Batcave like she owned the place.

"...Did Bruce adopt another one while I wasn’t looking?" Steph whispered.

Barbara squinted. "No way. We’d have heard something. She’s not in the system."

The two of them exchanged a silent nod and did what Batfam members do best when faced with an unknown variable: they blindsided you.

Steph hit you first. You hit the floor next.

“Great,” Steph muttered, brushing hair out of her eyes. “Now what?”

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

Your head throbbed as you came to. Muffled voices floated in and out—then a sharp voice cut through:

“We should call them-”

Blink.

A tall blonde with a smug expression and a bo staff pushing your head up by your chin.

Blink again.

A red-haired woman in a wheelchair, arms crossed, gaze like steel.

You were tied to a chair. Very securely.

“Okay,” Stephanie started, looming over you, “who the hell are you, and how’d you get in here??”

“I—this is a huge misunderstanding—I'm Damian’s girlfriend—” you started to explain, panic bubbling.

Steph let out a laugh so loud it echoed.

“Damian Wayne? Our Damian? You’re his what?”

“I swear! I’m (Name), we’ve been dating for a while. He invited me over— you can ask him!”

Barbara frowned and moved to the computer console. “I’ll call him. Stay put.”

“Not going anywhere,” you muttered, tugging lightly at the rope.

“Let me get this straight,” Steph leaned in again, “You really expect us to believe that emotionally constipated kid has the capacity to actually date anyone? Someone like you? What would you even see in him?”

“Hey! He has a lot of great qualities,” you huffed. “He’s thoughtful and smart, and... and gentle—sometimes.”

Both women exchanged glances.

“Okay,” Barbara said, coming back. “He’s not answering.”

“Convenient,” Steph mumbled. Then louder, “Tell us who sent you.”

“No one! I already told you, I’m his girlfriend—”

“You’re not even his type,” Steph interrupted, shaking her head. “No offense, but he usually goes for goth murder girls.”

“What.. what do you mean? What type? Since when did Damian have a type?” You questioned, expression going pouty, Steph’s hand around her staff relaxed a little.

“Well, there was Flatline—super deadly, undead-ish, wore skull makeup. You’re... not that.”

You blinked. “He dated someone named Flatline?” The fact that he dated someone besides you was news to you.

Barbara nodded. “She’s tough. Killed him once, actually.”

“She what?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Then there was Emiko,” Steph added. “Total badass archer—”

“They never dated,” Babs cut in.

“Really? But they were like, a thing—”

“Mutual crush. Never happened.”

“And I think he had a thing for Raven once—”

“Oh, gross,” Steph gagged.

“Who’s Raven?” you asked weakly, trying to process it all.

“demon girl goth chick with trauma,” Steph deadpanned. “He has a type. And no offense, you’re... kind of sunshine and slippers. It just doesn’t add up.”

That’s when you started crying.

Not a dramatic sob—just quiet, messy tears that betrayed how much their words stung.

Barbara softened. “Hey—”

“She’s faking,” Steph snapped. “Classic distraction tactic—”

Just then, the Batcave’s entrance hissed open.

Dick stepped in. “Hey—what’re you guys doing down he—”

His eyes landed on you.

“Why is (name) tied to a chair?”

Steph and Barbara froze.

“You know her?” Steph asked, voice high-pitched.

“Of course we do.” Jason strolled in behind him, helmet under his arm. “That’s Damian’s girl.”

Duke followed next. “Wait—why is (name) crying?”

Tim popped in from the shadows. “You guys made (name) cry? Oh, you’re dead.”

The girls shared a look. This was not going as planned.

Then—

“What the hell is going on here?!”

Damian’s voice boomed through the cave, sharper than a throwing knife. He stormed in, cape billowing, eyes wide when he saw you.

He was by your side in a second, slicing the ropes with a batarang.

“Well, it was nice knowing you guys” Jason quipped, the rest watching from beside him from a safe distance.

“Beloved—what did they do to you? Who touched you? Are you okay?” he asked, voice unusually soft now, his hands gently cupping your wrists.

“I’m fine,” you sniffled.

Then came the burst of apologies.

“We’re so sorry Damian-“ 

“We didn’t know-“

“And we didn’t do anything to her- we didn’t even hit her-“ Stephanie tried salvaging the situation.

“They punched me!” you corrected, glaring at the girl.

“Okay—to be fair—” she started.

“You punched her?” Damian growled, turning to them with a look that could’ve made even Bruce nervous.

“Well, we thought she was an intruder—”

“She didn’t seem like your type,” Steph mumbled.

A deadly look was sent her way, contradicting his soft touch soothing your bruised wrists.

Barbara sighed. “Look, we’re sorry, but you should’ve given us a heads up.”

Bruce walked in then, scanning the scene. “...Do I want to know?”

“Steph and Babs met (name),” Tim supplied.

Bruce raised a brow. “And tied her up?”

“We were caught off guard,” Steph defended weakly.

“clearly weren’t the only one.” Dick mumbled.

Bruce turned to you. “You alright?”

You nodded.

“Everyone else—out.”

They scattered out like cockroaches, murmuring apologies and complaints as they fled. Bruce gave Damian a look, then followed them out.

Once it was just the two of you, Damian finally took a breath.

“They’re fools. You shouldn’t have had to deal with that,” he muttered, brushing a tear off your cheek.

“It’s not just that...” you admitted. “They told me about Flatline. And Raven. And... Emiko. You never told me about..”

He tensed.

“I didn’t think it mattered,” he said after a beat. “They weren’t you.”

You sniffed again. “It’s not like I’m mad, I just... I thought I was the first you let in. With how your family acted, I assumed...”

He tilted your chin up. “You are the first I let in.”

You blinked up at him.

“The rest? Names in the wind. You're the one I trust with everything.”

You smiled softly, eyes a little red, but finally at peace.

“So... I finally met all your family.”

“You haven’t even met half of them yet.”

[ybklix]

𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐧 𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐚𝐫

summary: your swimming instructor is hot.

─ pairing: christopher bahng x fem reader ᛝ warnings: smut, pwp i guess, oral sex, cum eating, praise, boob play, cunnilingus, fingering, unprotected sex, pet names, semi-public sex, chris has a big heart (dick), fuckboy!chris (a little) ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ word count: 4.8k

masterlist ⭒ taglist

wen’s note: i’m ovulating (insert the freaky silver sonic gif) and him at the pool mmm, i had to pause my elaborated wips for a tiny commercial break and say this:

“For God’s sake, you’re pushing 30 and you don’t know how to swim!”

Your best friend teased you. You rolled your eyes. Only one part of what she said was true—you didn’t know how to swim.

“So? It’s not like I’m going to swim in the ocean,” you replied casually.

“Then why the hell are we going on this trip? There will be lots of pools, too.”

“Well, a lot of people can’t swim, Devon.”

“I’m just helping you out. It would be better if you knew how, don’t you think?”

“Well, what’s your solution? I can learn there. I’m sure there will be lots of instructors and safety measures.”

You licked your ice cream, feigning annoyance at being called out so suddenly. You and your best friend had been planning the perfect summer on this beautiful beach for a long time. You had worked hard to pay for your respective relaxation getaways... everything was well planned, but now it seemed that the only problem was that you didn’t know how to swim.

“Hmm, you know, my cousin Hyunjin knows the guy who works as a lifeguard at the country club pools. I don’t know if it’s his place, but I think so. I’ll ask him to teach you. I’ll go with you.”

He was hot. Incredibly hot.

They both were. Hyunjin, Devon’s cousin, and that guy whose name you still didn’t know. You felt your cheeks burn as soon as you saw the two men. You weren’t expecting any of this... two really attractive men, shirtless, looking like models.

You were relaxed, sure that you would learn to swim in no time, just in time for your trip. But with them as your instructors, you felt hotter than the strong summer sun itself. Luckily, you would soon be wet, with water, of course, to cool you down.

The two guys were standing in front of you. You were embarrassed to be wearing a one-piece swimsuit and not a bikini like Devon was wearing so freely. Both guys were a dream. You knew very little about Hyunjin, you had never seen him in person, but you always found him attractive. But right now, standing in front of you, he was a thousand times better than any random photo of Devon’s family you saw around. Slim but muscular body, short dark hair, thick eyebrows, and a truly unique and attractive face, the kind that took your breath away. His lips and eyes must be your favorite part of Hyunjin.

But all your attention and eyes were on the man to his left. Slightly paler than Hyunjin, longer, darker hair, thinner eyebrows, and an unforgettable face, not to mention his well-sculpted, muscular body. Big pecs and broader, stronger shoulders compared to the other guy. There was something about him... that made you nervous.

And the feeling, on that hot summer afternoon, was incredibly mutual. The intensity of his gaze on you was so... indiscreet, but you liked it.

“I’m Chris, nice to meet you... I’ll teach you how to swim...”

Chris. Now you knew his name.

“To Y/N!” Devon was quick to respond, pointing at you enthusiastically.

Chris knew. He knew from the moment Hyunjin suggested it, but at first he didn’t want to, especially since the country club belonged to their best friend, Seungmin, and his family. Chris was only there for a couple of weeks in the summer, helping out and watching over the exclusive—and wealthy—members of that club, most of whom were children swimming or unhappy wives who wanted to see him shirtless in the afternoons from time to time. But when he thought about it, two pretty girls, whom he would help learn to swim, wasn’t so bad. A little distraction. Girls in bikinis? Why not? He even accepted with joy and asked Seungmin to borrow the pool area after his work hours.

He knew it was you because Devon greeted his cousin enthusiastically. Chris looked at Devon for a second, licked his lips as he turned his eyes to you. Piercing you with his gaze again. He didn’t know what to expect either and was fascinated, especially by you, the shy girl next to her friend. You had that look. It was inevitable for Chris not to desire you, even if only a little. He blamed the heat wave.

“Alright, let’s get started,” Chris clapped his hands, encouraging everyone.

“Ah, not me. I’m going to get a little tan,” Devon interrupted, walking casually toward the chairs.

It was an indoor pool with large windows, perfectly sized for the sun’s rays to shine through.

You bit your lip nervously, approaching Chris, who was slowly walking toward the enormous pool, which looked terrifyingly deep, but the beautiful water and tiles made it appear a lovely blue.

“Hyunjin!” Devon called out to him. “Come here, you have to tell me what happened with Saetbyul.”

Hyunjin looked at you and Chris, confused, unsure if you needed more help and if he should get in the pool, until his cousin called him over for some gossip.

And so it became the perfect excuse, the moment you let him touch you, gently, almost uncertainly, teaching you how to swim. Touching your thighs discreetly, your arms, and your waist. It was magical. It felt so good, just you and Chris... and Devon not bothering you at all.

But it didn’t last long. According to your friend, you’d be ready in a week. You’d learn to swim, at least the basics. But it wasn’t enough, yet it was the only time you had left before your trip.

After the first session, feeling incredibly attracted to Chris and slightly and disturbingly aroused by his closeness, by his voice, by how good he looked wet, by how he gave you gentle instructions... Devon said, “He’s really hot.” But she never tried anything with him. You knew she wasn’t interested, and that put you in a very good mood. But still... You didn’t dare to ask her if maybe you could start going to the classes completely alone. You didn’t even know why—you knew exactly why, because all of him— you wanted to, it wasn’t like you were taking the first step, but alone, maybe, just maybe, you could let yourself go more...

Of course, you started wearing your bikinis right after the first class, hoping he would get the message.

And of course, he got it. You wanted it as much as he wanted you, even though you tried to hide it behind that shy look that drove him crazy.

So, you were ready. Apparently. At least you knew something decent. Like floating, losing your fear a little, moving in the water. But to really learn, it took more time, or at least that’s what Chris told you... And you became more shy, yet you dared to ask him flirtatiously if he could teach you better once you both had time, with a clear connotation of another meaning. You needed him, badly. The whole week was delicious torture, for both of you, in fact.

It was too short a time. You learned very little about each other. Like how professional and good Chris was at swimming. That he was a sweet 27 years old—which excited and thrilled you so much, it was such a beautiful age, just enough to teach you many things in another area... a dirtier one that didn’t let your thoughts rest. You knew he was good, at mostly... everything.

And just when it was the last day, when between sighs you had to say goodbye and modestly thank him for his help, head down and sad that you might never see him again and that you would miss having him around so much, he suddenly blurted out:

“We can meet tonight, alone... just to practice better.”

Your eyes widened with excitement as you nodded. Your heart raced, yes, of course, to practice. Both of you knew exactly what that meant.

And you were a nervous wreck.

He would be lying if he said he never did something like that. But he gets what he wants and who he wants. You were no exception. From the moment you both exchanged that look that spoke volumes, from the moment you trembled at his touch, he knew.

He wanted to destroy you. He wanted to rip that little bikini in two and devour you whole. And you were about to leave, to have more fun with a foreigner who didn’t deserve you. He wanted you for himself first.

And yet you… it was definitely not something you did. But your impulses to try won out. Leading you to the point of getting into his car, to take you to the well-known pool, which was faintly and almost romantically lit at night through the windows and the dim lights of the pool. It didn’t look dark or scary, but magical.

“So, c’mon, let’s get in the water.”

You blinked in disbelief at how quickly he began to act. Taking off his shoes, socks, shirt… and practically undressing himself.

You looked away, embarrassed and scandalized, when his attractive hand reached for his shorts to take them off. You had barely appreciated him in a full outfit, with a nice shirt covering his incredible abs and chest, his shorts… he looked just as good out of the ordinary as you knew him, shirtless and soaked. Also, you had barely enjoyed a pleasant chat in his car, and now… everything happened so fast.

Chris chuckled at your shy reaction. As if you hadn’t seen him like that before, in shorts and no shirt. Only this time it was slightly different, wearing his boxers.

“Come on, I’ll teach you better.”

You were blushing. You would have died to see how attractively he took off his clothes, one by one. But you didn’t. You turned slowly, uncertainly, to look at him, doing your best to meet his eyes. But you almost sighed when you saw his sculpted body in just boxers.

Fuck. It was happening. And it was turning you on too much.

“Mmm, sure, I’ll get chang-”

“No need for that, you can… just take your clothes off. There’s no one else here.”

He spoke to you, soft, slow, seductively, raising his eyebrows, almost alluring, challenging you.

You giggled nervously. But you obeyed him, just for the adrenaline rush of being spontaneous for once in your life. Chris’ smile widened as he watched you take off your clothes and realized how easily he had persuaded you…

Oh, he knew you were going to be delicious.

He admired you, as if he hadn’t already seen you like that before, half-naked, covering only your breasts and private parts... but this time you were more vulnerable, in a way, and he could see it in you.

He stepped forward, jumping into the pool unexpectedly, to break the tension between you at that moment. From your shy but penetrating gaze exploring his body, his abs, his delicious and subtly outlined cock in the fabric of his underwear... and for him it was exactly the same feeling—the curve of your breasts, your sweet mons pubis...

Chris got into the water, perhaps to calm down a little from how incredibly aroused and hot he was just from seeing you, having you close, and imagining a lot of not-so-nice things.

“Isn’t the water freezing?” you asked him.

He got out after submerging himself, looking so handsome, his hair slicked back, his manly face looking certainly so soft.

“Mmm... no, you have to get in.”

You bit your lip, hesitating to trust him. You stood with your arms crossed. You felt uncomfortable in your underwear, even though you knew it was absurd. And you slowly got in, letting out a squeal when your body floated on the cold water. You closed your eyes and shivered as every part of you bristled.

“You said it wouldn’t be cold!”

“Mmm, it’s not for me,” he said amused.

You laughed and submerged yourself completely to wet your head. Then you started swimming a little, gently, away from him.

“See? You’re doing great!” he exclaimed, losing track of how long he had been smiling just looking at you.

You turned to look at him, happy. You were at the deepest point of the pool, so you decided to play with him a little. As soon as you turned around, you pretended to sink, flapping your arms desperately and fearfully, alerting him instantly.

“Y/n? Oh, shit!”

Chris’ smile completely disappeared, and he swam quickly to you, grabbing your arms tightly and pulling you up to the surface so you could breathe. He looked at you with concern, scared, his eyes wide open.

“Are you okay?”

You looked at his expression and smiled amusedly. As soon as he saw your mocking look, he didn’t relax his face, but continued to frown, this time in annoyance.

“Fuck! Y/n, that wasn’t funny!”

You laughed in his face.

“Sorry, Chris. You should have seen your face! You owed me one for making me get into the cold water.”

Chris wasn’t entirely upset. Within seconds, your sweet laughter was contagious to him. He let go of you and swam out of the pool.

“What are you doing?” you asked, confused.

You almost drooled at the sight of his muscular body emerging from the water, then standing at the edge of the pool as the water dripped off his body and his boxers clung to his skin. You gulped. He certainly had a good bulge.

“I’m going to leave you there for being a bad girl with your instructor,” he joked.

“Come on, you can’t leave me here...”

“Why not? It seems you’ve learned so much that you’re even joking around.”

“I’m sorry, Chris.”

You both knew he was just playing around. But the truth was that you were still afraid to move on your own at the deepest point of the pool. Looking down still made you dizzy, especially at night when the tiles played tricks on your mind and made it look dark and endless. You needed him to guide you.

“Mmm, I’ll consider your apology. Now get out of there on your own.”

He looked at you, expectantly. His gaze made you tremble. You were somewhere between scared, amused, and turned on.

“Please,” you almost whined, “you know I can’t swim here.”

“Then why did you go there in the first place?”

“Chris, please...”

The way you asked tickled a very specific part of him. From the moment he invited you, he knew he was going to fuck you. You both knew it, and he couldn’t put it off any longer. He needed you.

“Mmm, say it again.”

“What?”

“Beg some more, and maybe I’ll rescue you.”

This time he spoke more seriously, more deeply. Now you were so curious about what might happen if he approached you again.

“Chris...” you spoke more slowly, giving him almost bedroom eyes, “Please. Come here. Help me. Isn’t-not helping me against your lifesaving rules?”

You were like a helpless little whore—you had to confess, looking boldly at his cock, and asking for something else entirely...

Chris sighed and discreetly adjusted his growing erection. He was beginning to feel overwhelmed by desire and eroticism, so he quickly entered the water, gently took you by the arm, and placed you right in the middle of the large pool, at a depth where you felt comfortable.

You noticed how he avoided eye contact with you and suddenly became abrupt. He got out of the pool again, sitting on the edge and dipping his feet in the water. He was beginning to wonder... should he really start something sexual with you? Wouldn’t it be too soon? You were so sweet that he almost didn’t want to corrupt you.

“Is something wrong?” you asked softly.

You positioned yourself directly in front of his legs, in a strategic spot, right between his thighs. You tilted your head, waiting for an answer.

He got nervous. You, on the other hand, thought he would really do it. That he would kiss you as soon as he got close to you. But nothing, you got nothing but strange behavior all of a sudden, so you decided to act on your own... giving him those subtle signals of how much you needed and wanted him. Right now.

“Mmm, nothing, keep swimming. I’ll supervise you from here,” he cleared his throat. Your gaze was killing him.

As soon as you put your hands on his knees, he almost lost control.

“Why did you act like that all of a sudden?” you pouted.

Chris sighed again, thinking of all the things he could do to that pretty little face of yours. Right now. Fill you with his cum, make you cry, rub his cock on your lips, fuck, he was so hard. And his growing erection didn’t help; it was more than obvious, it was there, right in front of you.

“Like what?”

“Something... distant... cold...”

You didn’t know what you were talking about. Your gaze drifted away, slowly lowering, making the sweet journey from his eyes, his lips, his wet abs... to his noticeable cock. Was he hard? Or why did it look even bigger than before? Your mouth salivated. You confirmed it as soon as you saw his cock throbbing. All because Chris reacted to your intense gaze.

“Babygirl, my eyes are up here,” he said, with a cocky grin.

He felt flattered. If only you could see your expression right now... your bright eyes, the impression on your face.

You looked him in the eyes, quickly, your cheeks red. “I’m sor...”

Chris leaned in, leaving you speechless and placing his fingers gently on your chin. Now that he knew how badly you wanted him too, there was no turning back. You looked into each other’s eyes, and he whispered in a slightly hoarse, demanding voice:

“Go ahead, taste me. See how fucking hard you got me, princess.”

You swallowed nervously. Your heart raced faster, and without wasting any more time, you settled yourself better between his legs once he opened them wider for you. You looked at him and then at his large erection. You had never experienced being aroused underwater before, the wetness of your pussy lost in the pool water, throbbing hard in an almost weightless, relaxed sensation.

You never thought that the first thing your lips would taste and touch would be his cock, but there you were, trembling with excitement and pulling down his underwear to reveal something even bigger that he had kept well hidden.

You appreciated his fully erect cock for a moment, its slight curve, its intimidating presence on its own, and its prominent vein running along its entire length. His cock was big. And if he fucked you, you could fantasize about how much it would overwhelm you and make you whimper. The visual image filled you with even more desire. You were so lost, almost drooling at the thought of having him.

You made a small effort to raise your body higher, to position your mouth at just the right height, gently resting your arms on his thighs, and you began to caress him. His cock throbbed in your hand, and at your touch, Chris let out an exquisite moan from his lips. He was so needy. You could see it, his cock so pink and aroused, and just of thinking about everything that could happen. Everything that is happening right now, filling every one of his senses.

You licked his pink glans, continuing to stroke and gently pull his rigid length, which aroused him even more, to the point of making him bite his lip and pant in desperation. He responded very well to every little thing you did to him.

You circled his tip with your tongue, savoring the taste of his flesh as you took more and more into your mouth while looking him in the eyes. Your mouth opened wider and wider, trying to accommodate the thickness of his cock. Chris whimpered, suddenly feeling the warmth of your mouth. He admired with some difficulty, as he was letting himself be carried away by the pleasure, your wet eyelashes, your body under the water... your sweet expression distorting into something obscene, taking his cock in your mouth, your eyes wanting to cry little by little, your lips surrounding his rigid manhood.

Chris held on tightly, letting his body fall onto his hands pressed against the floor, marking his veiny arms, letting you do almost all the work, allowing you to please him at your own pace.

You began to suck him, to manipulate his cock to your liking, leaving him whimpering, breathless, and so close to orgasm. You sucked and licked consistently until you tasted his precum, until you took his big cock to the back of your mouth, teasing your throat. His throbbing, large sex filled your cavity and drove you crazy in many ways—making you extremely aroused, making your poor pussy restless, begging for more and more, and, as you choked and drooled on his hard dick, it was messy and hot. The sound of your heart beating intensely echoed in your ears, the obscene sounds of your mouth satisfying his sexual desire and stimulating his genitals, but above all, Chris’s sweet whimpers filled the room.

“Fuck, it feels so, so good.”

You continued, taking breaths from time to time, staining your hand with your saliva and his sticky fluids every time you pulled away and pretended to be brave again, giving him oral sex once more. There was something so exquisite about Chris, besides his gasps and his hot, throbbing cock stimulating your mouth. You were being used so badly, your legs moving desperately under the water, but you couldn’t stop, not until you achieved exactly what you both wanted. Chris came in your mouth, whimpering loudly, breathing deeply as his well-satisfied cock spilled its hot, exquisite semen. It filled your mouth as his penis and him continued to collapse in orgasm inside your cavity, going straight to your throat, making a mess and dripping from the corner of your lips.

You took his cock out of your mouth and drank as much semen as you could. He took his cock and rubbed his large manhood, still covered in his white cum, over your lips, gently slapping your face. You smiled, licking every last bit of him around your mouth. This was exactly what you wanted from the moment you met him... But you were still so turned on.

“Good girl, you drank all my cum? Look at you. Now it’s my turn. Come here, get out of the water, please.”

His words excited you, and you obeyed him. The summer fun was still going strong. So, you sat down on the edge of the pool too, and Chris adjusted his cock again and came closer to you, gently wiping your mouth and erotically inserting his thumb into your mouth, making him moan at the sensation of your warm tongue touching his finger. Then he pulled it away from you and finally kissed you, slowly but desperately, with an intensity that left you wanting more. His tongue made its presence felt, playing with yours, making the act dirty enough to then move his lips to your neck, while one of his hands quickly unhooked your bra and tossed it aside.

His mouth played and reveled mercilessly in your breasts, in your wet skin, while one hand squeezed your other breast, pinching your nipples... and the other sucked hard, making you whimper. It was slightly painful pleasure, the kind that only stimulated you to the limit, but the action softened once his fingers pulled aside the fabric of your panties to caress and attend to your clit. You squealed in response, almost wanting to close your legs as a reflex. You were so wet that Chris had to slide his fingers over your entire pussy just to differentiate between the soft, slightly sticky moisture of your arousal and the simple water from the pool.

And suddenly, he slid inside two of his fingers, working harder and harder on you, thrusting into you and overwhelming you with the sensation of his mischievous tongue using and stimulating your nipples, to the point of leaving them sensitive.

His fingers were long, moving, and working exquisitely on you, and if he continued at that pace, you could come for him. But he had other plans, sweet plans to eat you out completely.

His lips moved down your abdomen. He smiled when he saw you shudder and when he reached your navel, he moved away from you a little, removing his fingers from you, which he was only using to stimulate your entrance, and slowly slid your panties down to leave you completely naked.

Chris moaned and his cock throbbed again in desperation—even though he was still so sensitive there—at the sight of your mons pubis looking tenderly soft and appetizing to his libido and insatiable desire for you.

He got back into the pool, controlled your body to position himself in the same way you were, with his face in front of your intimacy, placing your legs on his broad shoulders, and finally began to satisfy you.

He first gave a warm and sizzling lick all over your vulva, raising his gaze lasciviously, inviting you to witness and pay close attention to how crazy he was to turn you on with his skills.

Then Chris finally sucked your clit, licked it, gently pushing it with his strong tongue just to tease you, and then sucked it hard, pressing his swollen lips against your pussy. And that’s how your wildness unfolded. At first, he licked you all over, patiently teasing you while his hands squeezed your thighs and he panted over your pussy, reveling in your taste and soft sensation:

“Mmm, fuck, yessss.”

Then he began to suck you with a voracious hunger, leaving you on the edge, stimulated, trembling, so overwhelmed by the new sensations—his tongue licked and stimulated the right places, his lips and nose pushed into your pussy right on the softest of spots, and even his teeth gently nibbling you were paradise. He knew exactly what he was doing. You had never experienced anything like it, making your pussy throb almost his name alone, so wonderful that you even rolled your eyes gently.

Chris didn’t hesitate to delight in you, he wanted to do it ever since he put his hand on your abdomen and guided you to teach you how to float. He knew that your little pussy was going to be a delight, so he didn’t waste an inch of you. He sucked your clit, tangled his tongue in your labia, pushed your entrance with it; he made you tremble, whimper, stimulating you as your moans of pleasure were a soft melody to him, until he finally tasted your sweet orgasm. You were as sweet as a warm summer evenning, he could have you every damn day.

“Mmm, fuck, I need to fuck you, now. Okay, babygirl?”

You nodded, breathless, still trembling and processing the intense sensation of orgasm.

Chris quickly got out of the pool, sat down, took out his cock, and guided your body to position yourself on top of him, holding you by the waist. You bit your lip, understanding perfectly that you were going to ride him. You sighed, preparing to take his cock.

“Take all the time you need, baby,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“It’s okay. It’s just—that you’re so big,” you replied breathlessly.

Chris smiled, and you finally gathered the courage to position his cock at your entrance and slowly slide down onto it. You both gasped. You had taken in just over half of his length and were already whimpering, feeling it push against your insides, but you wanted to be braver and let yourself fall onto it, letting out an almost hot cry. His cock throbbed inside you, hitting right against your cervix. And Chris wasn’t far behind; the feeling of his cock feeling practically crushed and compacted in such a tight, warm pussy made him see stars.

You were about to move, completely ready. Both of you could taste the sweetest, panting, hot sex. But the sudden lighting of the entire place interrupted and scared you.

Shit. Chris could already guess what it was, but he didn’t even have time to hide you. His cock was buried deep inside you.

“Chris... are you...? What the fuck?!”

Yes. The owner and his friend, Seungmin, had just entered the room, backing away and closing his eyes in terror at the sudden pornographic image.

“Are you fucking in my pool?!!”

You saw the unknown guy in terror and surprise, and then at Chris... but you had to admit that it was kind of funny, thinking that at least you both tasted each other deliciously.

𐙚 general taglist: @rylea08 @hann1bee @iovecb97 @armystay89 @lolareadsimagines @ayyonoona @do-you-remember-summer-127 @wildtokay @korthbum @hyune-sssne @oddracha @choso4u @life-is-a-game-of-thrones @bokkiesluv @thvsuga @myrkhive

⊹ chris taglist: @cherricola-star @biscuitthefirst @vernorica124

[hoe4hotchner]

hallooo,, i hope you're doing good lovely<33 i wanted to request a hotch x wife!doctor reader where Aaron is mildy injured after a case. the team urges him to get his injuries checked out at the hospital but he keeps declining for no reason (the real reason is because reader is one of the best doctor's there, and would freak out and scold Hotch for getting injured). the team eventually forces him to go to the hospital and they meet reader? (they also maybe see hotch getting scolded for getting injured xd) thank you in advance🤍

Doctor's orders | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Wife Doctor!reader | WC: 1.9k | CW: Injury (gun shot grazing) hospital setting.

Hotch had been shot before.

He’d been stabbed, concussed, and bruised within an inch of his life... hell, he’d even once dislocated his shoulder while wrestling an unsub twice his size in the woods outside of Boulder, Colorado. And in every single one of those instances, he’d remained infuriatingly calm, stoic, and in control.

So when he returned to the local precinct in Bethesda with his shirt soaked in blood, favoring his side and gritting his jaw, no one expected him to break stride.

But when he waved off medical attention again, even Emily crossed her arms.

“You’re not serious,” she snapped, watching him blot at the torn fabric of his dress shirt with a paper towel like it was no big deal. “Hotch, you’re bleeding. Through gauze.”

“I’ve had worse,” he muttered.

“That’s not the point,” Rossi interjected. “You don’t get a gold star for playing martyr. Go get checked out.”

“I don’t need to be checked out.”

“You do,” JJ said firmly, glancing toward Morgan for backup.

“Look, man, I get it,” Morgan added. “Hospitals suck. But this one’s twenty minutes away, and we will drag you there if we have to. Besides Savannah will kill me if I don't take you to a hospital.”

Hotch visibly hesitated. He opened his mouth to argue again, but then, clamped it shut. It wasn’t fear in his eyes. Not pain. Not stubbornness.

It was something else entirely.

And Garcia, who’d been quietly observing from the sidelines, narrowed her eyes. “Wait a second,” she said slowly. “You’re not avoiding the hospital because you hate doctors… You’re avoiding it because you’re married to one.” Garcia had snooped.

The room went quiet.

JJ’s jaw dropped. Emily turned on her heel. “Wait... wait. You mean the reason you’re refusing medical attention is because your wife works there?”

Hotch didn’t respond. He just wiped his brow and winced.

“Oh my God,” Garcia gasped, covering her mouth with both hands. “You’re scared she’ll scold you.”

“I’m not scared of my wife,” Hotch said flatly, and Morgan snorted.

“You sure about that, boss man? ‘Cause you look like you’re about to march to the principal’s office or dig your own grave.”

“She just… worries,” Hotch muttered.

“I bet she does,” Emily said with a grin. “Considering how often you get shot at work.”

“Enough,” Hotch sighed. “If it’ll get you all to stop badgering me, fine. I’ll go.”

“Excellent,” Garcia chirped, already pulling up directions on her phone. “Because I would very much like to witness your wife read you the riot act.”

The emergency department at Bethesda General Hospital was bustling with the usual chaos: trauma codes being called over intercoms, gurneys wheeled past in a blur, and nurses moving with the speed and focus of people who knew lives were at stake if they didn't run faster than a cheetah.

And in the center of it all—calm, commanding, and terrifyingly efficient—was Dr. Hotchner.

“Prep O.R. 3,” you instructed without looking up from the chart in your hands. “Page ortho, and tell Dr. Li I need her on consult.”

“Yes, Doctor,” your intern said quickly, practically sprinting to do your bidding.

You turned just in time to see your husband walk through the sliding doors, flanked by six BAU agents who all looked like they’d come for the show.

And Aaron... oh, Aaron... looked guilty as hell.

You spotted the blood at his side immediately and froze. “Oh my God,” you said, voice sharp. “What happened?”

“I’m fine,” he said quickly.

You blinked. “You’re bleeding through a towel, Aaron.”

The use of his name earned you a few surprised looks from the team. Hotch winced.

“I didn’t want to interrupt your shift,” he said, tone low, which only made your eyes narrow.

“Uh oh,” Emily muttered under her breath in a sing-song tone. “He’s in trouble.”

“Is this from the case?” you asked, already stepping forward to pull the towel away. Your fingers were gentle, but your eyes were assessing his injury, no-nonsense. “How long ago?”

“About two hours.”

“Two hours!? You’ve been walking around like this for two hours!?”

He shifted under your gaze. “It wasn’t that bad. I kept pressure on it.”

You exhaled slowly and turned to the nurse behind the intake desk. “I need a bay prepped now.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“I’m walking. Not being wheeled,” Hotch added stubbornly.

You didn’t even look at him. “We’ll see.”

The team shuffled awkwardly, clearly trying not to smirk too much.

“You can wait here,” you told them over your shoulder. “I’ll patch him up and return him in one piece. No promises on whether or not he’s limping.”

Hotch gave them a long-suffering look as you led him down the hall, your hand at his back. “I told you this would happen.”

“You let it happen,” Rossi called after him.

Ten minutes later, Hotch was perched on a trauma bay bed with his dress shirt peeled off, the deep graze on his left side now cleaned and being carefully stitched.

You worked in silence for a moment, your hands steady even as your brows furrowed.

“I wasn’t trying to worry you,” he said softly.

You didn’t respond right away. When you finally looked up, your expression was softer, but no less serious. “Aaron,” you murmured, “you came in bleeding. I’m your wife. I deserve to know when you’ve been hurt.”

He looked down. “I didn’t want to interrupt your work.”

“This is my work. You’re my husband, and also, in case you forgot, I’m one of the best trauma physicians in this hospital.” You tied off a stitch and gave him a pointed look. “Do you think I wouldn’t notice if you walked into the bedroom tonight trying to pretend you hadn’t been shot while leaving a trail of blood on the floor?”

He sighed. “I wasn’t shot.”

“You were grazed. Close enough.” You stepped back to dispose of the gauze and gloves. “You’re lucky it didn’t hit anything major.”

“I know.”

You softened again as you returned to him, brushing a hand along his shoulder. “I’m not mad. I’m just… worried. Every time you walk out that door, I worry. So when you come back hurt and don’t tell me? Yeah, I get upset.”

His hand came to rest over yours. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re forgiven. But next time? You don’t delay treatment because you’re afraid of a scolding.”

He huffed a laugh. “It was a very convincing scolding.”

You smiled, leaned in, and kissed his temple. “You deserved it.”

When the two of you returned to the waiting area, Hotch was in clean clothes, a set of hospital scrubs, his wound bandaged, and a list of care instructions tucked under his arm.

The team perked up at the sight of you.

“Well?” JJ asked.

“He’ll live,” you said dryly. “No thanks to his decision-making.”

Garcia grinned. “Did you give him The Look? The whole 'I married you, not your death wish' thing?”

“I may have included a variation,” you replied with a smirk.

Hotch sighed, resigned. “Can we go now?”

“Nope,” Emily chirped, handing him a coffee. “Not until we get a photo of you in those scrubs. For the file.”

“What file?”

“The ‘Hotch Gets Owned by His Wife’ file,” Morgan said.

“It’s getting thick and we just started it,” Rossi added, sipping his espresso. "It was nice meeting you."

You chuckled, brushing a hand through Aaron’s hair. “He’ll behave now. Doctor’s orders.”

Hotch muttered something under his breath, but you swore you caught the faintest smile tugging at his lips.

The car ride home was mostly quiet, apart from the occasional hiss from Hotch when the seatbelt shifted against his bandage.

You didn’t say anything, but your hand rested on his knee the whole way.

By the time you walked into the house, the familiar rhythm of your shared space slowly began to dissolve the lingering tension. You took your shoes off by the door; Hotch placed his bag down a little more heavily than usual.

“You need to sit,” you said, already toeing into the kitchen.

“I’m fine.”

“Aaron.”

He exhaled. “I’m sitting.”

When you returned with a glass of water, two Advil, and the strict instructions for how often he could take them, he was in the living room exactly as you’d ordered, but not without the smugness of someone who was used to giving the orders, not taking them.

You handed him the water. “You’ll need to stay on the pain meds at least through tomorrow. No stairs. And I swear if I catch you trying to answer a single email tonight...”

“You’ll what?” he said, raising a brow.

“I’ll forward them all to Strauss and tell her you’re delirious and talking to ghosts with an attached doctor's note.”

That made him chuckle, and you hated how handsome he looked doing it, bruised, and still somehow making you feel like the one who’d just lost a battle.

You sighed, sinking down onto the couch beside him. “I mean it, Aaron. You can’t keep doing this.”

He looked at you then, really looked, quiet guilt spread across his features from the way his brows furrowed.

“I know.”

“I’m not just your doctor, you know. And it’s like you forget how terrifying it is to see you walk in with blood on your shirt and a towel shoved under your ribs like that’s normal.”

“I don’t forget,” he said softly. “I just… sometimes convince myself it’s easier not to worry you.”

You reached up, brushing your fingers along his jaw, gentler now. “I’d rather be worried than kept in the dark. That’s not how this works. We’re a team. You get to yell at me for missing lunch or losing sleep during a thirty-six-hour shift, and I get to yell at you for treating bullet grazes with paper towels.”

His lips tugged into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but close enough. “Okay,” he said. “Deal.”

You let out a breath, leaned forward, and kissed his temple, then his cheek, then the edge of his mouth. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I thought I was ‘infuriatingly reckless.’”

“You can be both,” you said, settling your weight against him carefully so you didn’t bump the injury. “But right now, you’re a patient. So that means feet up, water, meds, and...”

He groaned. “A heat pack.”

“Yes, a heat pack,” you repeated, shooting him a look. “You know the protocol. Don’t test me, Agent Hotchner.”

He muttered something about bossy doctors and curled further into the couch.

You disappeared for a moment, returning with the hot pack and a blanket and the remote already queued up to one of those slow-burn crime shows he liked but pretended not to enjoy because they were painstakingly inaccurate.

You placed the heat pack gently against his side, then draped the blanket over both your legs. “Anything else I can get for you, Mr. Hotchner?”

“Just this, Mrs. Hotchner,” he said quietly, curling an arm around your waist and pulling you in close.

You let yourself melt into his chest, sighing as your cheek found his heartbeat.

“Next time,” you whispered, “you come to me the minute you’re hurt. No detours. No delays.”

“I promise.”

You didn’t look up. “Swear it.”

He kissed the top of your head. “I swear.”

"And I want to meet your team properly, without having to patch you or them up!"

"Deal."

[linxnnalyn]

Hello again it's ⭐ anon! Sorry my request was a bit confusing I was still a little sleepy when I sent it in! I meant poly! Huntrix (also yes Rumi is very hot I agree 100%)

- ⭐ anon

Poly! Huntrix with a stylist! S/O

࣪𖤐.ᐟ note -> I WANT THEM ALL SO BAD OMG HIHIHIHI

࣪𖤐.ᐟ warnings -> none.

࣪𖤐.ᐟ content includes -> fluff, reader has been their stylist since day 1, idk what else to add I just yap.

۫ ꣑ৎ The girls of HUNTR/X have a very specific style in mind for each of their songs, so their HUNTR/X’s stylist needs to know their way around different types of styles and know how to perfectly capture the mix of ideas and images Rumi, Mira and Zoey are going for and thinking about while also somehow mixing their own preferences in. And that is where you come in.

۫ ꣑ৎ Somehow you were the only one that was able to perfectly capture their different personalities, styles and images into the perfect costumes for their debut song, outfits that just scream HUNTR/X. And Rumi, Mira and Zoey immediately knew they had to have you for their designer so you were hired on the spot and have been their designer throughout their whole career!

۫ ꣑ৎ It is unsurprising that you’re close with Rumi, Mira and Zoey. After all you are their friend and someone they share everything with, except the fact they are hunters of course. They would often sit in your work room, talking about their next song as you work on their outfits, taking their own sketches and ideas and combining them with your own. They actually even let you hear the song to get a better idea!

۫ ꣑ৎ It is honestly unsurprising that all of you would fall for each other. It was just a matter of time, really! Rumi, Mira and Zoey were actually already in a relationship prior to meeting you and none of them were surprised that they all fell for you because honestly you are perfect in their eyes. The only problem was if you felt the same and how would you react to finding out about them being hunters.

۫ ꣑ৎ You admittedly have a crush on all of them, but you would never tell them that! You are their stylist for hell's sake! Being friends with them is already crossing professional boundaries not to mention that they were all already in a relationship with each other, and you couldn’t just expect all of them to have feelings for you! You only realize their feelings for you when they confess to you.

۫ ꣑ৎ Once you start dating they practically force you to move into their massive penthouse. You can’t say no. You are stuck with them forever now. Rumi, Mira and Zoey were very hesitant to tell you about being hunters at first but when you were almost killed during the whole Saja Boys thing they knew they had to explain everything. And thankfully you took it well!

۫ ꣑ৎ Rumi was scared that you wouldn’t accept her marks so she still hid them whenever you were around, which obviously pissed off both you and your other girlfriends, leading to the three of you forcing her down and kissing her marks until she learns to accept them and love them. You actually even started implicating the marks onto some of Mira's and Zoey's outfits so all three could match in a way!

۫ ꣑ৎ Mira and Zoey love to drag you and Rumi everywhere with them, especially the bath house. Both you and Rumi are such overworkers that Mira and Zoey just have to pamper you two when HUNTE/X is on break. You’re their only stylist and refuse to hire anyone to help you so you’re quite literally the only one making their outfits so you are often stuck in your studio making their outfits.

۫ ꣑ৎ You’re the only person allowed to touch their wardrobes. Not even backup stylists or staff members are allowed to steam, press, or lay out their outfits unless you're physically unavailable. It’s a rule the girls put in place themselves because, according to them, only you know how the outfits are meant to fall, how the fabric is meant to move when they dance, how every accessory should be positioned for maximum impact.

۫ ꣑ৎ The public doesn’t know you’re dating them (nor that they are dating each other), but fans have caught onto how all of their outfits seem to be tailored by someone who really gets them. You’ve become a bit of a mystery online, with fashion accounts speculating about the “genius behind HUNTR/X’s wardrobe.” Not even a lot of the staff know who you are because you are always in your studio working, not letting anyone in.

[timsrins]

“i grew one centimeter.”

you look up, deadpan. rin is standing there just past your bedroom door. he stands like a ghost, no greeting whatsoever, just straight to the point. as blunt as his brother’s bangs. 

“nice to see you too, rin. hello. yes, i missed you too. i haven’t seen or heard from you for fourteen days. i thought ego sent you off to war. i already got my stationery prepared, i was about to write you a letter confessing—”

“i grew. one centimeter.”

he says it again, like repetition will make it more meaningful. like the metric system is the most important thing in the world right now. he’s still by the door, arms by his side, shoulders stiff, and his bag hanging on his back. you don’t know whether he’s proud or just incredibly weird about measurements.

“as i was saying,” you continue, undeterred, “if you didn’t tell me beforehand that ego sent you guys training, i would’ve thought he killed you off for some petty reason. but then i thought, no, ego isn’t that bad. he’s actually a really good mentor. so you getting killed off was out.”

“i said i grew a centimeter.”

you finally lower your phone, staring at him like your brain has frozen halfway through processing. there’s a beat of silence. one. two. maybe three. hell, might as well take five.

“…okay,” you say slowly. “what do you want me to do about it?”

he meets your gaze without blinking. not a hint of irony. voice low and flat and utterly serious.

“praise me.”

you just stare.

nothing comes out of your mouth. you physically cannot form a response because what the hell did he just say to you. you refuse to believe this is happening. what the hell happened? where the hell did ego send him?

your eyes narrow in pure disbelief. like you’ve accidentally walked into the wrong conversation. like you’re still waiting for the punchline and realizing, with growing horror, that there isn’t one.

“praise you?”

“i worked hard,” he says, cutting you off like that explains everything.

“... for growing?”

“sleep schedule, posture work, morning trainings, meditating, yoga.” he says it with that same mechanical efficiency he uses when analyzing plays on the pitch. “ measurable progress.”

you just keep looking at him.

he looks back, completely unfazed.

he’s serious. itoshi rin is dead serious.

this man walked straight to your apartment as soon as training ended just to tell you that he grew a single centimeter and expects verbal validation for it. 

“you’re unbelievable,” you mutter.

but your body betrays you—because even though your face is blank and your tone is flat, you reach up a hand and let him bend down and touch his head to your palm.  you press your palm to the top of his head like you’re measuring it yourself.

okay, maybe he does feel the tiniest bit taller.

you drop your hand and sigh in defeat. as always you can never say no to him. curse you and your soft spot for one itoshi rin.

“congratulations on your one centimeter progress. growth arc of the century. it’s very impressive and inspiring.”

and like that, rin just plops onto you.

literally. like gravity ceased to exist for a moment and he decided your body was the most suitable mattress in the world. you grunt under his weight, your back hitting the couch cushions as he crashes on top of you like a human plank. his duffel bag falls to the floor with a thud, completely ignored.

“rin—”

he doesn’t say anything.

doesn’t have to.

his arms slide around your waist with zero subtlety, his face burying into your shoulder like it’s instinct. you’re still half-frozen from the whiplash of the past five minutes. your brain hasn’t even recovered from the praise me incident, and now he’s lying on you like he lives here (he does.)

you feel him breathe out. slow, deep, and heavy. the kind of breath someone takes when they’re finally safe. when they’re home.

and then—he bites you. not hard. just enough to feel his teeth graze your shoulder. no warning, no reason. like a cat acting out affection.

“did you just bite me?”

he hums. that’s a yes. completely unapologetic.

you tilt your head, staring at the ceiling like it might offer you clarity. it doesn’t. “you’re insane.”

“missed you.” rin says it so quietly. mumbled into you skin like he’s etching his word in your being and it makes your heart do its stupid backflips. 

he presses closer, like he can’t get enough. like fourteen days was fourteen lifetimes.

and just when you think he’s settled, he mumbles again:

“…still want that praise.”

you close your eyes. not in annoyance, but because itoshi rin is exhausting (affectionately) and unfortunately, yours.

[nousporix]

back to being delusional about boy next door phainon.. (bnd!phainon??) who wears form-fitting shirts for better or for worse.

it's embarrassing to admit that you were watching him move in the whole time. you have a reputation amongst your neighbors for being quite the eager beaver, always volunteering your help whenever you see someone in need. you planned on doing the same for this newcomer too! but when you caught a glimpse of his face, you hesitated. hell, the mere size of the man was enough for you to reconsider your offer to help.

instead you decided to watch from afar. this new neighbor seems pretty capable; even from this distance, you could see his muscles rippling as he hoisted his furniture into his house with relative ease. (you have to pinch yourself for that thought.) how could you help someone like that?

after some deliberation, you decide that you could help him unwind. surely he'd be tired after all that hard work, so you prepare a refreshing drink and some light snacks to take over once the sun sets. that way, you get to help out and meet him all at the same time.

when the time comes, you find yourself at your new neighbor's doorstep, small tray of refreshments in hand. you raise your free hand to rap your knuckles on the door, but just before you can, it swings open. the sudden movement startles you and you nearly drop your gift. you scramble to recover but your neighbor is swift; he catches you with one hand and steadies your tray with the other, a small exclamation of surprise on his lips.

"i'm so sorry!" you can feel your skin heating up with embarrassment. "i-i just wanted to say hi since i noticed you moving in earlier. i wasn't expecting you to open the door. are you okay? did anything splash on you?"

as you're inspecting his white shirt, he chuckles quietly. the sound makes you freeze and in that instant, you finally start to process the person that you're standing in front of. he's much bigger up close — a fact that only makes your face burn hotter. his hair is almost as white as his shirt and his blue eyes, though bright, gaze at you warmly in spite of your fumbling.

maybe this was a mistake.

"it's alright," he assures you. once you're steady on your feet he takes a step back. you're not sure what expression you're wearing, but he suddenly looks apologetic. "i probably stink, don't i?" he chuckles awkwardly. "sorry."

his smile is so charming — too charming. you blink at him a few times. "some first impression this is, huh?" you joke. when he laughs, you feel the tension starting to leave your body. you introduce yourself and properly offer the refreshments. "i'm really sorry about all this. i'm not usually this clumsy, i promise."

"i wouldn't mind if you were," is his reply. you have to avert your eyes to avoid dwelling on the flirty undertone of his statement. he introduces himself as phainon; due to special circumstances, he was forced to move here from aedes elysiae, a small town several miles away.

"what made you move here in particular?" you can't help but ask.

phainon stares at you for a moment, his expression unreadable. "this place has a certain allure to it, i suppose. wouldn't you say so?"

it's too hot to think... god help me. i wanna write a fic like this or smth, idk..

[leighsartworks216]

Silly snowcrow scenario where Sylus is amicably divorced from his wife, but they had two little twins together that they share custody of. He makes sure they have all the care and support they need, and supports his ex as much as he can (financially, housing, food, in any way she needs)

But he's starting to get back into the dating scene. He misses having a partner, and honestly he doesn't have much in the way of a social life. So he starts using one of those dating apps, not really expecting to find anything lasting, but at the very least he can start meeting people

He comes across the profile of a famous cardiac surgeon, much to his surprise. He reads over the description, raising a brow at the very straight forward answers to the set questions. At the very bottom is the note, "My colleagues forced me to make this."

Sylus is intrigued. The doctor is rather hot, and he's not a patient so there's no conflicts there... Why the hell not, he thinks as he swipes right

Zayne checks his phone during his break. He's gotten several messages from the app, mostly people using really really terrible medical pickup lines, or asking legitimate health questions that he dismissively tells them to see their own doctor about. He looks at the list of people who want to match with him with little interest. Some of them are pretty, yes, but he doesn't honestly have the time for a serious relationship and most of them already sent him those crummy messages

But one profile has him stop his swiping. A handsome man with striking features who exudes confidence. Photos of him working on a motorcycle, setting up a phonograph with an old vinyl, hugging a lion (what?). The first line in his bio says he's a single father of twins, with a warning not to waste his time if they don't like the idea of kids. "Looking for a friend or a date"

He looks over the profile again and again, as though it's an important set of research data. On this whole site full of people looking for sex, maybe a friend is a good start. So he swipes right

He gets back to work and fears the message that may greet him when he returns

Fast forward to their third date

The first date was nice, if a bit awkward at first. They spoke for a while through the app beforehand, and decided on a diner near the hospital Zayne likes. He was embarrassed to buy sweets, but Sylus must have noticed him looking at the fresh display because he encouraged him to get whatever he wants. (And more - Sylus bought him extra macarons to take with him)

Their second date already saw leaps and bounds in their comfort with each other

This one promises to be just as nice as the last two, a peaceful walk around the park, until Zayne gets an apology message. "My ex needs me to look after the kids today. I'm sorry to have to cancel"

He isn't sure what possesses him to reply "Would they be able to join us?"

Sylus apologizes again when he goes to pick Zayne up; it's a reflex with his two boys. The second Zayne is in the car, he's being bombarded with questions from the back seat. Zayne can see the tension in Sylus' shoulders, the grip on the wheel, the glancing over, the worry that his boys will scare his new friend/prospective partner away before they even reach the park. With every question Zayne answers, he can see the tension melt away

Aaaaaand idk what else to say to this rn BUT the twins falling asleep on the way to drop Zayne back off at home. Sylus pulls up to the curb and whispers his gratitude for being patient with his sons. Zayne smiles and assures him it was no trouble, he's dealt with plenty young patients in his time as a surgeon

Zayne's about to climb out when a hand holds his. He watches, heat rushing to his ears, as garnet eyes lock on him, as Sylus brings his hand to his mouth and kisses his knuckles. Another thank you, a sultry "I had a nice time today", and a simple question about when next he'd like to go out

[exitingmusic]

▬▬ι════════════════════════════════════ι▬▬

Maybe you were too sensitive, maybe you were too insecure to date a man as pretty and popular as Satoru Gojo.

He did nothing wrong of course, never passing up on a moment to praise you or show you off. It was the other people that just made you tick.

Sometimes they'd look surprised when he introduced you, laughing it off and giving some excuse, oh I wasn't expecting this to be your girlfriend. Sometimes they'd be downright rude, insulting you directly in front of you or talking behind your back. Sometimes they'd look confused, like they didn't know how Satoru Gojo could fall for someone as normal as you.

To be honest, you couldn't blame them.

You didn't know why he wasted time on you either. You didn't know how he could be so caring and affectionate and not expect anything from you in return. He'd pay for your dates, hell, sometimes even before you'd come in, he'd hand his card to the waiter. He drops off gifts at random times, for nothing special, just saying he wanted to spoil you. In public he always had an arm around you or a hand on your back. He never looked at other women, he defended you, he always stuck with you.

When you did see his eyes, he looked at you like you hung the very stars in the sky. He looked at you like you were everything.

He brought you to meetings, to gatherings, anywhere and everywhere. And sometimes when the host would sneer at you, refusing to give you even a chair, he'd simply get up, set you down, and ask for a chair himself, "You didn't get the strongest a chair?"

It didn't matter if you were with his friends, his students, or his superiors, he always made sure you were the first priority, interrupting any snobby sorcerers to ask if you needed anything loudly.

You didn't understand what you did to deserve this. Of course you were grateful, but you felt like your gestures were too small for his tastes.

Sure you did small things. You cleaned up around the house, picked fresh flowers to put in vases, cleaned his fancy clothes and washed his blindfolds. Sometimes you'd get him gifts too. Some were hand made, like drawings or the lego flowers you got him. Others were bought, like the rack for his sunglasses or funny shirts you found online or his favorite album on record.

Whenever he got them, he looked too happy for it to be fake. He listened to that record over and over, not because he liked the songs, but because you gave it to him. He used the sunglasses rack, knowing he always lost his pair, but also because you gave him it. He wore and laughed at the funny shirts, wearing them to sleep or around the house or out, because you gave them to him. Any art you made, framed and displayed around every corner of the house, no matter how much you disliked the piece.

He loved how he could come home to you after a long day or mission and just melt in your arms. No one was watching either of you there.

Satoru Gojo didn't have to act like the strongest with you.

He could be Satoru Gojo. He could be just a man so in love with you that he couldn't even think. He could be someone you held with such tenderness that he nearly cried each time.

And when one time you asked him if you were worth all it, all the time and money and love spent, he nearly fell to his knees.

How could you, his goddess, his one believe he was above you, that you weren't worth him?

It didn't matter where he was, as long as you were with him.

In another life, he was on stage, crowds staring up at him with adoring eyes. But his eyes were on you, front row, giving you a look of love he couldn't share to anyone else, or at fan meetings where he refused to let them touch him, only you got to do that.

In another life, he couldn't act the loving, tender roles without staring at you, off set. He couldn't give such soft gestures to anyone but you. He always made sure to have you next to him in interviews, to make sure you got as much attention as he did.

In another life, he got into his car, but not before blowing you a kiss from the paddock. He made sure you had all the passes, just to get you close to him whenever he went into that metal death trap of a car.

In another life, everything he painted was reminiscent of you. Maybe it'd be themed only using the shades of your eye color, maybe it'd be a portrait of you, maybe it'd be a private piece for himself. All he knew was you were his muse.

He made it his personal mission to make you see reason. Wherever you went, he was already there, attached to your side. Whenever you glanced too long at something while shopping, you found it on your doorstep the next day. Whenever someone tried to insult you, he just snapped at them and spun on his heel, already planning to make life miserable for them.

He made sure you didn't have to share him with anybody. He made sure he was worth it all, just for you.

▬▬ι════════════════════════════════════ι▬▬

[heavenlybodies333]

Pain in my ass -A.H Hotchsdaughterpov

Aaron Hotchner x intern!reader crossover w/ hotchners daughter

You’d been standing in the hallway ten minutes before the meeting, exchanging casual words with the new IT intern—bright-eyed, eager, a little too quick to flirt, but you hadn’t been.

You didn’t even see him coming until he was behind you, voice smooth, “If your done flirting," he’d said professionally. "Briefing starts in five."

By the time you made it to the conference room, Reid and Prentiss had already sat down. You took the seat beside them, heat crawling up your spine. But you held your head high. You were good at your job, goddammit. Or so you thought.

Until Hotch turned his back to the projected slides and addressed the room with a cool, “The family interviews should’ve been confirmed by now.”

Silence. Your blood turned cold.

“I assumed our intern handled it,” he added smoothly, voice hard and clipped like a scalpel. “If she wasn’t too busy.”

It was not your responsibility. He hadn’t even asked you to—

You sat through the rest of the briefing, fists clenched, teeth grinding right up until the end of it.

“Hotch,” you snarled, storming after him down the corridor.

He didn’t stop.

“Hotch, don’t walk away from me.”

Still nothing. His long legs moved smoothly through the bullpen, his file clutched tight in one hand.

You reached his office seconds before he did—and when he pushed the door open, you shoved it closed behind you and slammed it shut.

He turned sharply, eyes blazing. “You do not slam doors in my office.”

You stepped into his space. “And you don’t fucking humiliate me in front of everyone like I’m some idiot.”

His jaw flexed. “You didn’t do your job.”

“You didn’t give me the assignment.”

“I shouldn’t have to spell everything out for you.”

You stepped forward, finger jabbing into the front of his dress shirt. “You embarrassed me. You humiliated me in front of the team for something you never told me to do. And why? Because I dared to—what—laugh at a boy in the office?”

“You were flirting,” he growled.

“You’re jealous,” you hissed, voice lower now, sharper, cutting right to the bone. “You hate that I’m younger than you, that I could talk to someone my own age, that I—”

“—don’t even know what the hell you’re talking about,” he snapped. “You’re an intern. This is work. Grow up.”

Your chest stung. Your throat closed. But you held his gaze, trembling with rage, with humiliation. "I don’t care what fantasy you’ve cooked up in your repressed little FBI mind, but talking to another man isn’t a crime. You humiliated me in front of the entire team for what? To remind me you still get to fuck me when you feel like it? To mark your territory?”

His jaw ticked. "Watch your tone."

"No." You shoved his chest again. “You don’t get to pull rank in the conference room because your dick got insecure in the hallway.”

Something flickered in his eyes. "You’re confusing professionalism with jealousy. I’m your superior. If I ask you to book an interview—"

"You didn’t ask me, Aaron!"

“I expect you to act like a professional in this office.”

You swallowed, your voice cracking. “I was just talking to someone. What the hell is wrong with you?”

The air between you turned suffocating. You blinked, shaking your head, and backed up fast. “You know what? Don’t answer that. I don’t care.”

You turned, heart hammering, lips trembling, and yanked the door open—leaving fast, storming down the hall with your eyes stinging, and you hate that they are. You never wanted to be the girl who cried at work. Not for a man. Especially not for your boss.

The elevator dings. You hurry toward it, head ducked and throat tight—but when you turn the corner, you’re too focused on not crying to notice the figure leaning near the elevator. Until she speaks.

"You ever think maybe he yelled at you because you’re bad at your job?"

Your head snaps up. She’s smirking like she’s been waiting, like she timed this perfectly.

"Excuse me?"

"I heard you fucked my daddy."

Your whole body stills. It takes a second. A full, blinking, rewinding-the-tape second. And then you see it. The resemblance. The sharp eyes. The mouth. The same impatient authority in her posture, that carefully buried fury. All of it.

Oh. Fuck. For a second, you want to lie. Pretend you don’t know what she’s talking about. Pretend none of it ever happened. But something about her—the way she looks at you like she’s already won—makes your spine lock.

"You’re his daughter," you say slowly. "Guess you didn’t take after him in the ‘private’ department."

She smiles. "No. But I did inherit his ability to ruin people."

You don’t move. She takes a step in. "I mean, I totally get it," she says, voice all sticky-sweet venom. "The older man thing? The authority? The whole scary boss fantasy? Super hot. I’m just saying—he tends to go for girls who don’t burst into tears after being told to do their job."

That lands. "You think he picked you because you’re special?" she murmurs, too close now. "He picked you because you were there. Convenient. Disposable."

You don’t breathe. She leans in, her voice just above a whisper. "My dad’s a complicated man. But if you think he’s going to throw away his career for a girl who can barely take notes in a briefing—you’re even dumber than I thought."

You’re frozen. You don’t say anything. You can’t. Your tongue is useless and your brain’s full of static. She turns on her heel and walks away without looking back.

You slammed the elevator button harder than necessary. You stepped inside not letting the tears fall until the doors closed.

Later that night you’re already two margaritas deep when you sneak away from your friends, the club music rattling the floor of the shitty college bar you probably shouldn’t even be at.

You don’t even think as you pull out your phone. The contact is already there. You’ve stared at it too many times. You swipe up.

The line rings.

Once.

Twice.

He picks up on the third.

“You’re late,” you slur, barely audible over the sound of club music pounding behind you. “Took forever.”

“Where are you?” he asks immediately. He hears you shut a door. The music dulls.

“Bathroom. Bar. My friends are being dumb. I just…”

You pause. “I hate you,” you whisper.

Hotch exhales, rubbing his temple. “Have you been drinking?”

You giggle. “Don’t act like you care.”

“Go home. Now.”

“You embarrassed me,” you say, voice catching. “And I didn’t even do anything. Just talked to someone. You think I’d want anyone else when I had you?”

Hotch’s breath catches.

“Don’t call me again tonight,” he says after a long pause. “You need to sober up.”

“She was waiting for me,” you said suddenly.

He didn’t respond.

“In the hallway. Your daughter,” you spat. “Just standing there. Like she fucking knew what happened in your office. Like she wanted it to happen.”

Silence again. You imagined him sitting there, pen in his hand, jaw clenched, eyes burning holes through his desk.

“I wanted to hit her,” you whispered. “I didn’t. But I wanted to.”

“You’ve been drinking,” he states, voice flat.

“Yeah, no shit.” Your voice breaks. “Are you jealous?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he says, “You sound pathetic.”

“Oh, fuck you,” you snapped, voice shaking, eyes welling again. “She was a cunt and I’m sure that from the fact that she has a absent father—,”

“Shut up.” His voice sliced across the line like a gunshot. “Don’t speak about her again.”

Your mouth fell open. “Are you serious?”

“You are drunk, and you are out of line.” His voice was frigid now, controlled, cruel. “You don’t get to make assumptions about my family. You don’t get to drag her into this.”

Tears spilled before you could stop them. You bit your lip, hard, trying not to sob. “She looked at me like I was a joke.”

He didn’t say anything.

“You made me into one.”

Still nothing.

Your voice broke. “Do you even care what this is doing to me? That I cry over you every single night like some stupid little girl who thought the man twice her age wanted her?”

Hotch exhaled. A slow, deep breath like he was tired of you. Like you were a burden.

“You need to go home. I’m not doing this with you.”

“Why?” your voice cracked, aching and small. “Because I’m not worth it?”

Silence. “Don’t call me again.” He says finally.

The line clicks dead. You sit there, shaking, broken, tears streaming down your face, hating every word but feeling trapped in the same endless fight.

a/n: this pov felt necessary lmao

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

[itneverendshere]

omg i got an idea for bitchy!pouge!reader x rafe if you're taking requests hehe 🫶 what if there's a gala that's important to rafe, he'd be there because he wants to, not just because his father told him to go. he didn't tell her because he knows it's not her thing but reader went as a surprise 🫢 and he shows her how much he appreciates it in the bathroom, if you know what i mean 🫣

things we do for love - r.c (+18)

pairing: bitchy!pogue x rafe warnings: smut

Rafe likes this gala.

Weird, right? His dad isn’t breathing down his neck for once, and this one is about him. His new investment project, whatever the hell Ward’s calling it now that Rafe’s proving he isn’t just a trust-fund burnout.

People are here to meet him, shake his hand. He’s still expected to wear the stupid black-tie bullshit and say the right things, but he doesn’t mind. It’s not a punishment.

You’re not here, though, and he didn’t expect you to be.

His girl has zero tolerance for anything involving oysters, classical music, or polyester chairs with satin bows. Nah, you would’ve roasted this entire event before even walking in. 

That’s why he doesn’t force you; he learned his lesson. He didn't want the fight again or make you feel like he needs you to “play nice.”

Rafe's halfway through a conversation with a Palm Beach investor and a woman who looks like she could’ve been born at the actual country club when he sees you, standing by the champagne tower, wearing black.

It’s not your typical black, ripped fishnets, combat boots, leather-jacket-over-a-tank-top black you always wear when you’re on the back of his bike with a hand around his waist and a cigarette tucked behind one ear.

It’s not gala black either, or floor-length, or boring. This one’s tight, off-the-shoulder, velvet maybe? You look like you walked out of a fucking daydream.

He blinks, jaw slack, mid-nodding at something about “long-term liquidity", the woman keeps talking, he stopped listening minutes ago.

Your hair is done, pinned back with a clip. Makeup soft, smoky, disguised as someone with manners.

What the fuck. 

His girl, his pogue girl, looks like she walked off the cover of some luxury magazine his stepmom probably subscribes to.

You catch his eye across the room, one brow cocked, lips curling into that infuriating smirk that makes his palms itch. You still have your typical bite in your posture.

Holy shit.

Rafe excuses himself rudely, doesn’t care.

Oh yeah. That’s his girl, wrapped up in sin, and that same filthy mouth he’s going to kiss until it bruises later.

By the time he makes it across the ballroom, you’ve already disappeared into the crowd, finding you near the back hallway, sipping from a flute of something expensive he knows you hate.

You’re a beer girl through and through.

You’re cheap lager in a sweaty bottle, denim shorts, and bare thighs sticking to his leather seat, laughing with your whole chest while foam spills over your knuckles. You’re shotgun contests in backyards, swearing with every sip, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand and still managing to look like a fucking goddess to him.

You’re doing it for him.

“You—” He grabs your arm, “Are out of your fucking mind.”

He’s genuinely rattled.

Rafe fucking Cameron, who notices everything about you, your moods shift by the purse of your mouth, how your thumbs fidget when you're trying not to punch someone, didn’t see this coming.

Your grin widens.

“Nice to see you too, Country Club Ken.”

He’s fucking stunned. In awe. Proud, turned on, confused. 

Rafe laughs—all disbelief and starstruck eyes.

“How’d you even get in?”

You drag your teeth along the rim of the flute before answering.

“Name-dropping works wonders when you sound threatening. Told the lady at the door I was your fiancée. She looked fucking terrified and let me in.”

Rafe’s jaw clenches in a fuck-I-might-propose-to-you-right-now-in-this-hallway way.

“Fiancée?” he repeats, salivating at the thought.

“Girlfriend seemed too informal.”

The beaming cracks across his face—dumb, crooked, so obviously in love it’s embarrassing. His body can’t contain it, and he still can’t believe you’re here.

For him.

You raise an eyebrow at the look. “What?”

“You came,” he sighs, still dumbfounded.

“Unfortunately.”

“For me.”

You roll your eyes.

“No, I came to network with all the fuckin’ rich divorcees.”

He laughs again, dizzy and warm, stepping closer, hands greedily taking your waist.

You stare up at him, that familiar glint in your eye. “What?”

“It's a real classy dress,” His voice is suspiciously low, eyes dragging down the length of you.

“I did,” you confirm, raising a brow. “Weird, right?”

“Fucking terrifying.”

You look down at yourself, exaggerated. “Too much?”

“Too much for them,” Rafe jerks his head toward the ballroom, “This is only for me.”

You snort, but your eyes soften enough for him to see it.

“Big night for you.”

“You hate shit like this.”

“I do hate shit like this.” Your smirk twists a little more genuinely. “But I do love you, so.”

“You’re unreal. Y’know that?”

You roll your eyes. “Save it.”

“No, seriously—” Rafe’s gaze flicks between yours, trying to piece you together in this dress, in this moment, in this gesture—“You said no when I asked if you wanted to come. Flat-out, too. Rolled your eyes, called it elitist dick-measuring bullshit.”

“It is elitist dick-measuring bullshit,” you deadpan.

“Right,” he huffs a chuckle, shaking his head. “So what changed?”

You give a little shrug. “You deserve it.”

His brows lift. “You got a heart now?”

“Don’t make it a thing,” you warn, already growing defensive while your eyes give it away.

Rafe leans in closer. 

“You do have a heart,” he murmurs, teasing and reverent all at once.

“Don’t—” you start, but he cuts you off.

“Baby,” he grins, heart soaring to finally see your glare, which only makes his mouth stretch wider. “You can play mean all you want, you’re a softie for me.”

“Don’t call me that shit.”

“A soft little pogue girl with a velvet dress and a big scary heart.”

You smack his chest. “Rafe.”

He remains unfazed.

“You crashed a gala and told the staff we’re engaged.”

“It was a lie.” You huff, cheeks heating in a way you hate. “God, you’re so annoying.”

Rafe kisses your cheek, hovering at your mouth. 

“And you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You suck in a breath, shit. There it is again, that dumb flutter in your stomach you always pretend doesn’t exist.

“Don’t get sappy. I’m leaving before the speeches.”

“No, you’re not. You gotta stay for mine,” He hums, pulling you flush against him. “Plus, gotta thank my girl properly.”

“In the middle of a gala?”

“In the fucking bathroom.”

Your giggle comes out breathless; your gaze narrows.

“C’mon,” he whispers, a secret between you two and this hallway. “Lemme show you off.”

You tilt your head, skeptical. “You want me to meet your investors?”

“No,” he smirks. “I want them to see the girl I get to go home with.”

Your jaw clenches, hiding the way that does something to your chest.

“You’re a simp.”

“Yeah.” 

His thumbs trace small circles into your sides, every breath mingled.

“Don’t make me regret showing up.”

“You couldn’t."

You shove him in the chest to disrupt the moment.

“I swear, if you get all teary-eyed in that speech, I’m leaving and taking a bottle of Dom on my way out.”

Rafe rolls his eyes, stepping back to lace his fingers with yours.

“Deal,” he concedes. “But only if you stay long enough to hear me say your name.”

“You better not—”

He’s already tugging you along toward the glow of the ballroom.

“Too late. Wrote it in last night. You’re the closing line.”

Goddammit.

“Rafe—”

His name is announced minutes later over the microphone, and everyone turns, applause echoing off the ceiling. He glances at you before heading up to the podium, his hand brushing yours in a silent stay.

You cross your arms, trying not to look invested.

He starts talking, stiff at first, still learning how to sound like the heir they all want him to be. You smile because he’s doing so well, and you know he doesn’t enjoy public speaking, even though he’s a natural troublemaker.

He thanks the investors, his dad. The team. The crowd-pleasers.

“And there’s one more person I need to thank.”

Oh god.

“She’s probably gonna kill me for this. She’s not big on speeches. Or… most of the people in this room. No offense.”

There’s a polite ripple of laughter, and you feel your shoulders drop.

“But she’s here tonight. And it means more than I can say.”

Your heart pounds in your ears as he glances at you through the crowd, with those stupid shiny blue eyes.

“She reminds me that none of this matters if I forget who I am. If I forget the people who matter. She was the first person who told me I wasn’t a mess—she used different words.”

Laughter again. Your throat tightens.

“But she’s here. And she loves me enough to show up. And I hope she knows that everything I’m building, everything I’m doing, it’s not for me anymore.”

Fuck.

“I love you,” he says, the easiest truth he’s ever spoken. “Thank you for believing in me.”

Your vision blurs.

You hate that, this room and these people.

Hate how your mascara is not waterproof. Motherfucker pulled out the big guns and you weren't expecting it. You slip out quietly, head straight to the bathroom to fix yourself.

You lean on the marble sink, baffled at your reflection. Your stupid, soft, teary eyes. Stupid beating chest. Stupid Rafe Cameron with his heartfelt bullshit and his “I love yous.”

You love him so much it hurts.

You’re a bitch to everyone else, even to him half the time. But he never asks you to be different, or flinches when you hiss or tease or roll your eyes, which is half the time you're together.

You hear the door creak open and mutter, “Occupied.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

His voice.

You whirl around. “Rafe—”

He looks stricken, scared he went too far.

���Shit—did I? I didn’t mean to embarrass you or make it weird, I—fuck, I saw your face and thought maybe—”

“Stop,” you cut him off.

Rafe's brows pinch. “You’re crying.”

“I know, dumbass,” you snap, cheeks hot. “Don’t point it out.”

“Was it too much? Did I mess up? I wanted them to know how proud I am of you. That you’re mine.”

“You didn’t mess anything up,” You mutter, arms folding.

He’s quiet, studying you. “Then what is it?”

You spend a good minute taking him in. Hair messy, tie loosened around that delicious neck. A face you know better than your reflection. A heart you never thought someone like you could love.

“It’s you.”

Rafe blinks. “Me?”

You nod, breath shallow.

“You’re just—ugh, you’re so fucking good to me and you’re you and I’m so fucking in love with you I don’t know what to do with it.”

Rafe’s mouth opens a little, he wasn’t expecting that.

You shove your hands into his jacket, pull him close by the lapels, and whisper, “I’m gonna suck you off now.”

He chokes on a breath, eyes wide. “Wh—here?”

You’re already dropping to your knees.

He looks around like someone might walk in. “Baby, the board chair is out there—”

“Where’s that big talk about making it up to me in the bathroom, huh?”

Rafe's eyes flick to the door, then down at you, kneeling in that dress, heels kicked off.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” He mutters, breath shaking as you unbuckle his belt. “I meant later.”

You grin.

“Yeah, and I meant now. Don’t make declarations if you can’t take the consequences.”

He laughs disbelieving. “This the consequence of loving you?”

You tilt your head. “One of them.”

He can’t argue when your hands are tugging at his waistband, when you peek up through your lashes with that look that says stay still.

“Fuck,” he hisses when you free him.

You don’t hesitate, leaning in, licking a greedy stripe up the underside. He groans, head thudding back against the door.

“We’re at a fundraiser—”

“And I’m literally on my knees because I can’t stand how much I love you,” You remind him, before wrapping your lips around him.

That shuts him up immediately.

His hand flies to the back of your head, and he doesn’t push because he knows better. You set the pace. You always do. A control he’s happy to give you, especially when your mouth is warm, perfect, and you’re looking up at him like that.

You hum low in your throat, getting a kick of watching him shudder, pulling back slowly, spit slicking his length, your tongue traces the tip to be cruel. 

“Still think this was a bad idea?”

“G-gonna come in two minutes if you keep looking at me like that.”

 “And let them find you with your pants down and my lipstick on your dick? Classy.”

He lets out this broken laugh that turns into a curse as you take him in again, deeper this time, your nails kneading around his thighs, hollowing your cheeks as your head bobs with a rhythm that’s all confidence from knowing his body better than anyone else.

You’re relentless yet affectionate, too. One hand creeping under his shirt, rings hot against his stomach, making a loud noise yourself when he groans like that.

Rafe marvels at your smudged lipstick and glassy eyes, and that filthy mix of the two of you at the corners of your mouth between sucks.

“I love you,” he says again, suddenly, it’s being quite literally pulled out of him. “Fuck, I love you.”

You smile with your mouth full, humming around him, the vibration making him jolt forward before he yanks himself back.

“Shit, don’t—don’t do that unless you want this over,” He warns, breathless.

In your typical fashion, you do exactly the opposite of what he begs of you. You take him deeper, your nose brushing against his stomach, throat tightening around him, and his knees almost giving way.

“Fuck, okay—Jesus, okay—Gonna—fuck, baby, I’m gonna come,” Rafe grits out, trying to pull back, but you lock your hands around his hips, shoving him deeper instead.

In seconds, he spills into your mouth with a guttural bitten moan, one hand slammed flat against the wall, the other trembling in your hair as his body gets used to the feeling.

You take all of it.

When he finishes, it’s with a strangled gasp of your name, his hands shaking where they cradle your jaw, a low “Holy shit” stuttered into your hair as he collapses halfway forward.

You wipe your mouth daintily on the back of your hand and stand, brushing imaginary lint off your dress.

Rafe’s still against the door, dazed.

“Baby?” You ask, casual.

He dumbly blinks at you.

“That was…” He trails off.

You kiss his cheek.

“Don’t say I never support your career, Country Club. Go finish your little speeches.”

“Not until I return the favor.”

[itoshiabi]

She's my girlfriend, ok?

Haruka gets jealous seeing you with Kiryu and blurts out that you’re his girlfriend. Flustered, he holds your hand and warns you not to talk to other guys again.

You had no idea what to expect when Haruka finally invited you to meet the rest of Bofurin.

"I'll be there too," he said coolly, barely glancing up—but his ears betrayed him, red and flaring. "So… don't be weird."

You blinked. "Weird? I'm literally the most normal person in your life."

"Exactly," he muttered.

Still, no matter how awkwardly he delivered it, you know it's a big deal. Haruka Sakura doesn't just bring people in. He doesn't share his world. But now he is.

And so—here you are.

Standing awkwardly near the edge of a sunlit rooftop training space, the faint smell of turf and sweat in the air, a group of delinquent boys are adjusting flower pots—yes, actual flower pots.

You blink at the bizarre contrast. "What the hell…?"

One of the boys— with purple hair and a cute smile— suddenly speaks when he spots you. "They're Umemiya's babies"

You freeze, then look at him with shock.

"Umemiya, as in the leader of bofurin?"

He walks over casually, hands in his pockets. "Yeah," he says excitedly. "Anyways, you must be the girl Sakura's always staring at his phone over."

You freeze. "Huh?! He stares at his phone?!"

"Yeah," the guy hums, rocking. "All the time. Doesn't even try to hide it."

You gape. "That doesn't sound like him."

"Oh, he pretends to be subtle," the boy says, grinning friendly. "But it's obvious. Especially when he starts smiling like a lovesick idiot."

You don't know whether to melt or combust. "Seriously…?"

"Dead serious. I'm Kiryu, by the way."

You nod, cheeks warm. "Nice to meet you."

Kiryu gestures to the shady part of the rooftop where a bench is tucked beside some flowerpots. "Wanna sit and watch for a bit? Safer over there."

You hesitate—but he's polite, and honestly, you do want to see what Sakura's life looks like from the inside.

"Sure," you say.

The moment your back is turned, Sakura sees you.

He's been talking with Suo and Nirei about the recent fight, expression unreadable. But the second his eyes land on you—you, standing beside Kiryu, laughing, looking too comfortable—he stops cold.

Something ugly and unfamiliar lurches in his chest.

He sees Kiryu lean closer.

He sees you smile back.

And he loses it.

"Sakura?" Suo looks at him cautiously, raising a brow. "What's up?"

Sakura doesn't answer. His jaw tightens. He storms off without a word.

He moves like a shadow—silent, sharp, fast. His presence shifts the whole atmosphere.

You glance up when you hear the footsteps. "Oh hey! You're done already?"

He doesn't even look at you.

Just stops directly in front of you and Kiryu, voice cutting through the rooftop air like a blade.

"She's my girlfriend."

Silence.

Every conversation nearby screeches to a halt.

Even Kaji, who's halfway through a drink, chokes on it.

You stare at Sakura. "Wait—what?"

Sakura's eyes flick to yours, then away again, ears going crimson.

"I mean—you said yes the other night, right?" he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. "So what's the big deal?"

Kiryu raises both hands, amused, grinning, as if he didn't just tell you that Sakura blushes while reading your texts. "My bad. Didn't know she was taken."

Suo cackles from the corner. "Damn, Sakura. Didn't peg you for the type to claim it loud."

Sakura glares at him. "Shut up."

You quickly tug his sleeve, trying to pull him aside before he burns a hole through someone's skull. "Hey. Come here."

He lets you drag him away from the group, lips pressed in a firm line, face crimson, breathing heavy.

"Haruka," you say quietly. "You okay?"

"No," he mumbles.

You blink. "Because of Kiryu?"

He doesn't answer, but the way his brows pinch together says it all.

You try not to smile. "You got jealous."

"I didn't."

"You totally did."

"Did not."

"You marched over and declared your love like we were in a drama."

"I didn't declare anything," he grumbles.

"You said She's my girlfriend."

"Because you are," he snaps—then immediately looks away, face practically glowing. "Right?"

You step closer. "Of course I am."

His shoulders relax just a little—but then his eyes flick to Kiryu again, and he scowls.

You tilt your head. "You really didn't like me talking to him, huh?"

"He was leaning in," he mutters. "And you were laughing."

"I laugh with you all the time."

"That's different. That's mine."

Your breath catches.

Before you can respond, Sakura mutters, "Don't talk to other guys like that again. I'll lose my mind."

You soften, stepping into his space, whispering against the shell of his ear. "You looked kinda hot when you said I was your girlfriend, though."

His whole body stiffens.

"You—stop. Don't—say shit like that," he hisses, completely red again. "You're doing it on purpose."

You giggle. "Doing what?"

"Driving me crazy."

"I thought I wasn't supposed to be weird."

"This is worse than weird."

Despite his words, his hand finds yours. He laces your fingers together tightly, tugging you with him like he's shielding you from the entire damn rooftop.

Meanwhile, across the way, the rest of Bofurin watches the scene unfold.

Tsugeura whistles low. "I give it a week before Sakura loses it and starts walking her to class like a golden retriever."

Kiryu smirks. "I give it three days before he punches someone just for breathing in her direction."

Suo shrugs. "Two days."

Umemiya waters his plants. "We'll need to install a bench nearby. For the Haruka meltdown show."

Sakura doesn't hear any of it.

He's too focused on you.

Too aware of how your hand fits in his, how your smile undoes him, how one comment from someone else can send his self-control spiraling.

"Thanks for coming," he says quietly, not meeting your eyes, blushing as always.

You glance at him, smiling. "Thanks for letting me in."

He doesn't say anything else.

But he walks with you the rest of the afternoon, hand never leaving yours, glaring at any boy who so much as breathes in your direction.

And when you look up at him, all sharp jaw and stormy eyes and ears still blushing red—

You realize Haruka Sakura might lose his mind over you.

But he'd do it again.

And again.

And again.

[asthroophile]

𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐨𝐤𝐛𝐞𝐨𝐤𝐤𝐢 — lily ✦ 𝐒𝐀𝐉𝐀 𝐁𝐎𝐘𝐒 ✦

WC: 3k+

SUMMARY: chaos is your only companion now in adulthood— and you’re no longer sure if peace even wants to befriend you anymore.

PART: II. LOVE HERE!

You ended up lending them your sleeping bag in the end, even though they dragged Baby along with them like it was non-negotiable. Whatever. You let them go through with their sudden camping idea anyway.

You knew the fan event would be crowded, so you prepared early and headed out ahead of time to the designated location. While waiting in line, you noticed several people sleeping on the ground—one even curled up in a chair— with sleeping bags.

No way.

You stepped closer, crouching down beside one of them to get a better look at their face.

"MYSTERY? What the hell are you doing here? Wait—don’t speak yet. Did you guys sleep here overnight like a bunch of homeless people?!"

Your loud voice startled Jinu awake. His eyes widened the moment he saw you. Clearly, he didn’t expect you to show up this early.

“Oh... that. You know we’re kind of famous now too, right? So... we’re doing our own fan event too, ‘cause we’ve got fans,” Jinu explained casually.

You turned just in time to see the staff unlocking the main entrance, signaling the fan meeting was about to start.

“Let's talk behind the building later,” Jinu whispered before nudging his crew to get up. They shuffled inside ahead of everyone, securing the front row as if it were their rightful throne. You stared after your boys, unable to find the words. Okay, fine. Let them do what they want.

Inside, you managed to grab a spot in the front row too, though not quite as front and center as your boys. Suddenly, all five of them simultaneously unzipped their sleeping bags in a dramatic reveal, showing themselves to the public.

The crowd exploded with screams. Half of the fans immediately rushed to the right side where the Saja Boys had set up their “fan event.”

"They're so damn sneaky at being famous," you muttered, unamused.

Huntrix’s manager shouted something about needing more tables, but Rumi quickly requested for the Saja Boys to sit with them. You groaned. Great, your fan event was now officially hijacked by your own boys.

"Hi Mira—” you started to greet one of the girls when Abby jumped in with far too much energy.

"Boss, do you want my autograph?" he beamed, about to draw his abs on a piece of paper.

"No Abby, thank you.” You ignored his pout.

Mira, on the other hand, was staring at you. “Weren’t you the one at the hot springs the other day?”

“What? Me? Oh, no, you must’ve mistaken me for someone else,” you deflected, trying to sound casual.

“Really? That’s strange, because I’m pretty sure it was you. I remember you perfectly. What were you doing there, and which boyband were you looking for?” she asked, handing you her signed poster.

“Uh— no, I wasn’t looking for a boyband or anything. I think I was... hallucinating?”

Mira nodded, unconvinced. “So... you know these two?”

“Yup! She’s our super cool boss—” Romance chimed in before you slammed a hand over his mouth.

“Boss?"

“NOPE. Nope, I don’t know those two next to you. I’m not interested in them at all, I’m a loyal Huntrix fan, heart and soul. Hehe. Anyway, thanks Mira, bye!”

You quickly moved to the next members to avoid Mira’s questioning gaze.

Next was Zoe and Mystery. You greeted Zoe as if Mystery didn’t exist.

“Manager—” Mystery tried to speak, but you interrupted.

“Hi, Zoe!” you smiled, and she returned your enthusiasm.

“So, what do you think about our songs?” Zoe asked, trying to make small talk.

“They’re amazing! Super easy on the ears—seriously, perfect,” you replied. She beamed.

“My favorite is Golden. The lyrics just hit, and something about it feels really special.” You and Zoe chatted like old friends, completely ignoring Mystery until he poked your hand.

“Yeah?” you finally glanced at him.

“You’re not gonna ask for my autograph?” he asked softly.

You hesitated, unsure whether to say yes or no—but eventually handed him your poster. Mystery signed it, then smiled as if deeply satisfied.

“DID HE JUST SMILE???” Zoe whispered.

You nodded. “That’s the first time I’ve seen him smile like that. Why?”

“Not sure... but if he keeps doing that, I might accidentally fall for him— no, no wait, I didn’t mean that! I mean, even if he’s my type, I won’t fall for him. Big no!”

“It’s okay, I like hearing you talk. But why won’t you fall for him? He seems alright to me.”

“Yeah... I don’t know either.” Zoe laughed awkwardly. You nodded, understanding.

Next, you moved to Baby. He was casually sipping water.

“Baby?” you called.

He turned at the sound of your voice, "I figured you wouldn’t want our autographs, so feel free to skip me.”

“No, I actually want yours. I’m curious what your signature looks like.”

“Seriously?” he asked, surprised. You nodded and handed him a pen. Baby immediately signed, drawing stars and little doodles. You giggled.

“Don’t laugh.”

“I’m not mocking you, mine has stars too." You thanked him and moved on to the last pair—Jinu and Rumi.

“Okay, lovebirds. Can you stop flirting for five seconds?” you said as they were clearly too distracted to notice you had arrived.

“We’re not flirting!” they shouted in unison. Jinu spotted you and instantly switched into professional mode, while Rumi looked at him suspiciously before turning her attention to you.

“Hi, what’s your name?” she asked while signing.

“It’s (name).” She nodded, writing it down. You glanced at Jinu from the corner of your eye.

“I actually don’t really want to, but... to respect the person next to you,” you said, then slid the poster toward him. He signed it without complaint.

“Wait— you’re not his fan?”

“No way! I’m loyal to Huntrix, obviously.”

“That’s my girl!!” Rumi cheered, both of you laughing and leaving Jinu out of it.

After the laughter, you looked at Jinu and gave him a subtle nod—a reminder that you’d be waiting behind the building like he’d asked. He gave you a thumbs-up in return.

“You know her? You two seem... close,” Rumi asked curiously.

“She’s someone very close to us,” Jinu replied, putting emphasis on very. “Jealous?” Rumi kicked him under the table again, and you missed it completely.

You were admiring the poster, now decorated with signatures from your favorite idols, when the sound of approaching footsteps made you glance up.

It was your boyband.

“You wanted to talk ab—” you began, only to see them nonchalantly about to throw away the flower bouquets they had received from fans. You froze in disbelief and quickly stepped in front of the trash can.

“Wait, what are you doing? Don’t throw those away! How could you treat something your fans gave you like this?”

Baby, the closest one to you, tilted his head. “You want them?”

“They’re for you, from your fans?”

“If you want them, just take them,” he shrugged. “Doesn’t mean much to us anyway.” Just like that, he handed you his bouquet. The rest of them followed suit, each giving you theirs like it was nothing.

“Hold on— wait! Guys? I can’t carry all these!” You were overwhelmed, juggling four bouquets in your arms. Thankfully, Romance—true to his name—stepped in and took a few from you, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“You’re all insane,” you muttered, scowling. “Whatever. The event’s over, let’s go home.”

You marched off first, and they trailed behind. “Don’t forget to bring my sleeping bag,” you reminded them sharply. The sudden silence behind you made your suspicion grow—but you decided to let it go for now. Maybe they would return it.

Back at the apartment, you set the bouquets down and collapsed onto the sofa with a sigh.

“Today was exhausting,” you murmured.

Baby came over and leaned against you, all clingy for some reason.

“You want something again?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Nope. Just tired, same as you,” he said, closing his eyes. You let him rest there, not having the energy to argue.

Then Romance sauntered over and plopped down on your other side, leaning in.

“If he gets to lean, I get to lean too,” he said simply, as if that explained everything. Honestly, maybe it did.

Soon after, Abby and Mystery exchanged a look before approaching as well.

“Don’t even—” you said, holding out a hand like a traffic cop. “I’m not some plushie you can all pile on!”

“I’ll clean the apartment for two whole days,” Mystery bargained immediately.

“I’ll do anything for our manager!” Abby added, striking a dramatic pose.

You groaned. Baby and Romance snickered at their desperation, smugly enjoying their exclusive leaning rights. Eventually, you relented and let Abby and Mystery lean against you—well, on the floor, at least. Close enough.

The five of you settled in front of the TV like an overly affectionate, slightly dysfunctional family. The news was broadcasting a report about the rising number of missing people.

"Whoa, that’s insane," you murmured. "The number of missing persons tripled in just twenty-four hours?"

The boys around you nodded silently.

Then Jinu walked out of your room, now wearing one of your oversized hoodies. You didn’t even want to question anymore how they always found the nerve to barge into your room and borrow your clothes without asking.

“Move, I’m changing,” you ordered, trying to shove them off where they’d been leaning on you.

“It’s not even been half an hour,” Romance groaned.

“You guys act like I’m a human body pillow. Your posture’s gonna suffer if you keep slumping on me like this.” You gently pushed Baby off, who looked half-asleep and seconds away from using you as a mattress again.

“You're not wrong,” Abby chimed in, and you rolled your eyes— It seemed like all of them, including Jinu, had back problems or something. Whatever. They were always spouting nonsense anyway.

You stepped into your room to find something comfortable to wear, rummaging through your closet. Then, you heard a sound— like one of your fake decorative plants had fallen. You turned around slowly, only to freeze.

A large blue feline—maybe a tiger, maybe a cat, you couldn’t tell—stood by the fallen plant. Its yellow eyes glowed unnaturally, and two prominent fangs protruded from the sides of its mouth.

“Am I dreaming?” you mumbled, rubbing your eyes. Nope. Still there. The creature was curiously pawing at the fallen fake plant, as if trying to set it back in place. Then, its glowing gaze locked on you.

Your instinct screamed to run—but what if it could chase you? The creature tilted its head—then, calmly opened its mouth, revealing a folded purple letter nestled inside with "Save the Date" written across the front.

"What the hell...?" you muttered, cautiously reaching for it. You were terrified the creature might snap its jaw shut and bite your hand off, but to your surprise, it let you take it.

"Who is this even for?" you asked, looking directly at it. Then you remembered—right, it’s a cat, not a person. It wouldn't understand you.

"Okay, fine. I’ll keep it, pretty sure this isn’t for me anyway," you said, tucking the letter under your arm.

A knock came from the door. You panicked, frantically motioning for the feline to hide— somewhere, anywhere. Then you cracked the door open just enough to peek your head out.

"What?"

“I'm not allowed to come in?” It was Jinu.

"No. You already did come in earlier, you took my hoodie without even asking."

“Right, sorry. Anyway, we’ve got an event. It’s quick.”

“What event now?” you asked, stepping out and closing your bedroom door behind you.

“Sponsorship thing. Huntrix is backing it.”

You blinked. Your group had debuted without an agency, without an official rollout, and yet somehow already had a solid fanbase and now—a partnership with Huntrix, one of the biggest idol names? Unreal.

"Yeah, well, count me out," you muttered, making your way to the kitchen. Jinu followed close behind.

"No worries, you don’t have to go, just watch us on TV." You nodded, opening the fridge only to find it almost empty. Definitely not enough to make dinner. You turned to look behind you, seeing Jinu and the rest of the boys lounging in the living room.

"Okay, after you guys are done with that event, who’s coming with me to the supermarket?" you asked.

Every single one of them raised their hands except Baby. You sighed, of course, you should’ve known. But at least that meant you had a few extra hands to carry the groceries.

"Go get ready then, wake Baby up.”

“I’ll drag him out,” Abby volunteered.

“No violence,” you warned, giving him a sharp look.

“She says that, but she’s always threatening us with her frying pan,” Jinu whispered to Mystery as he joined the others.

"My frying pan only hits people who misbehave. So if you end up on the receiving end, maybe look inward first," you said flatly, sipping the last of your orange juice.

They all scrambled out the door, clearly not wanting to test your threat. Baby, still asleep, was being literally dragged by Abby. You didn’t even care anymore. You’d warned him.

Now that the apartment was finally quiet—eerily so—you felt a rare moment of peace. Everyone was out, and for once, the silence didn’t feel uncomfortable. You grabbed your phone and lazily scrolled through your social media feed, only to be bombarded with posts from earlier at the fan meet.

There were already countless edits and fancams. One photo showed in particular had gone viral: Rumi stepping on Jinu’s foot, which had somehow sparked the trending ship name Rujinu. You chuckled. Honestly? They did look good together. Then came Miromabby, and Zoestery—a particularly ridiculous edit of Zoe and Mystery with Baby Photoshopped between them like their child. You couldn’t help but laugh out loud. They had only just debuted, but their visuals were no joke—no wonder fans were already pairing them with top-tier idols like Huntrix.

You switched over to the TV, remembering that the boys were supposed to make an appearance today. Sure enough, the screen lit up with an image of the five of them, lazily leaning on one another as if they couldn’t stand straight. You squinted. Maybe Abby wasn’t joking when he said they all had back problems.

"Hey, everybody," Romance was the first to speak, his voice smooth and practiced.

"Our fan club just hit fifty million," Abby added with a grin.

Romance continued, "We’ve gotta give a big shout out to Huntrix. We couldn’t have done it without their support."

"And to our fans... thank you. We really feed off your energy," Mystery finished, his tone softer but no less sincere.

And that was it.

The program abruptly switched back to the news—more coverage on the rising number of missing people, now reported to have tripled in just twenty-four hours.

You stared blankly at the screen.

"What’s wrong with the world these days?" you muttered under your breath. So they went out, dressed up, and showed up... just to say that?

You got up from the couch, heading toward your room when a knock echoed from the front door. That was fast. You were sure the TV station was nowhere near your apartment.

Opening the door, you were greeted by the familiar faces of your chaotic housemates—already back and holding something in their arms.

"Wow, that was fast. You guys teleport or something?"

Without a word, Jinu handed you a bag. You raised an eyebrow as you took it.

“What’s this?”

“Soda. From our sponsor,” he replied casually.

You nodded, peeking inside. Meanwhile, Baby was already inching toward the entrance like he owned the place. Before he could slip past, you blocked the door with your foot.

“Uh-uh. Don’t even think about it, we’re going to the supermarket, remember? Might as well head out now.” You stepped outside and shut the door behind you, effectively ending the discussion.

Their groans echoed down the hallway, but none of them protested. You grinned. Sometimes, being the only one with a working sense of responsibility came in handy.

You already had a bad feeling the moment you stepped into the supermarket. Something was off, though you couldn’t quite put your finger on it.

"Abby, go get a cart," you ordered.

You all entered through the automatic sliding doors—and as expected, chaos followed.

“Whoa… it opened by itself!” Baby gawked, stepping back and forth like he’d discovered a new things.

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t act like you’ve just time-traveled from the 1800s.”

“I’ve never seen this before,” added Mystery, poking at the motion sensor like a cat encountering a mirror for the first time.

“Oh my god, you guys are not serious.” You scoffed, marching ahead and leaving them behind with a look of secondhand embarrassment. For the record, you didn’t know them. Not today.

You grabbed the basics first—rice, eggs, some instant noodles, oil, and the bare minimum to survive a week. That was until a cart suddenly rolled up beside you, in it: Baby, Mystery, Romance. All crammed inside like oversized toddlers.

“What are you doing?!” you hissed in horror, "Get out of there before security sees us!”

“It’s comfortable,” Romance said, completely unbothered.

“We’re just enhancing your cart’s aesthetic.” Abby added with a grin.

“You’re enhancing my blood pressure,” you growled.

“I wanted to see what it feels like to be cargo,” Baby added, kicking his legs slightly like this was the highlight of his week. Mystery just nodded solemnly like he had a philosophical reason for it.

“I... I can’t do this,” you muttered, rubbing your temples.

You yanked Romance out first, he yelped like a kicked puppy.

“Where’s Jinu?” you asked, suddenly noticing his absence.

Romance answered, “He said he was heading to the cosmetics section.”

You gawked. Why? What is he even doing there? “Mystery, go get him. Now.”

Mystery gave a quiet, obedient nod and disappeared without a word. As you waited for their return, you planted your hands on your hips, staring at the remaining members of your circus troupe.

“Act normal, I beg you,” you scolded as you tried to make them walk like actual humans. But as expected, the damage was done. An employee had already spotted your group— and was approaching.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” the man said, “Is everything alright here?”

“Yes,” you said quickly. “I’m babysitting, they're... special.”

That seemed to be enough. The employee nodded awkwardly and walked away, clearly deciding it wasn’t worth his time.

“Special?” Jinu repeated, offended.

“You want to be banned from every supermarket in this district?” you snapped.

He shut up instantly.

You continued shopping, this time dragging the cart and forcing the others to walk beside it like functioning adults. But of course, Abby dan romance kept tossing random items into the cart— like thirty packs of instant pudding.

“We don’t need this much sugar,” you growled.

“But I like pudding.”

“I don’t like diabetes.”

As if on cue, Baby dropped in three family-sized packs of super spicy nuclear ramen.

“What the hell is that?”

“Food of the brave,” he said dramatically. “If we’re going down, we’re going down with fire.”

“I’m not letting you breathe pepper fumes into the apartment again, you nearly killed the plant last time.”

“That plant was already dying.”

“That plant was my mom’s!”

Baby had the decency to look guilty—for two seconds. Then he grabbed another spicy snack and winked. “Come on, live a little. What’s life without a little burn?”

“You are gonna burn the whole apartment down.”

Jinu, very quietly, added a ghost pepper sauce bottle to the cart. You caught him red-handed.

“No.”

“But—”

“No.”

“...What if I say please with extra sadness?”

“No way.”

Mystery leaned in, “Spicy pudding?”

“Absolutely not.”

The chaos never stopped. By the time you reached checkout, the cashier looked mildly terrified. She scanned your groceries while watching your crew bicker about the best ramen flavor like they were debating world peace.

You sighed, “Remind me never to take you gremlins out again.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Romance grinned. “You love us.”

“Slightly.”

They beamed like you'd just said I love you outright. You loaded the groceries and pushed the cart to the exit. Abby, once again, paused in front of the automatic door and waved his hand to make it open.

“Still not over that, huh?” you asked dryly.

“I just wanna know if the door likes me.”

“IT OPENS FOR EVERYONE.”

You headed straight home, letting your minions carry all the groceries while you only brought your own bag. That was their punishment for causing chaos in the supermarket and nearly getting you all banned, until you realized letting the boys help cook was the worst decision of your life.

“I said cut the vegetables, not murder them!” you shouted, staring at Abby, who held up a cucumber that looked like it had been in a car crash.

“I did cut it,” he said defensively. “Emotionally.”

Across the kitchen, Baby was stirring something ominously red in a pot.

“What is that even supposed to be?”

He looked up, all innocent. “Soup.”

“It looks like it wants to eat me.”

“It’s spicy. Like me.”

“You’re giving me heartburn just by existing.”

On the other side, Mystery and Jinu were locked in a fierce debate over spice levels.

“I’m telling you, two spoonfuls of ghost pepper sauce is enough,” Mystery warned.

“That’s weak,” Jinu scoffed, already pouring in half the bottle. “I want her to remember this dinner for the rest of her life.”

“She’s gonna remember it because she’ll be hospitalized!”

“Worth it.”

You marched over, snatched the bottle from his hands, and turned the stove down. “No one’s going to the ER tonight. Unless it’s one of you.”

Meanwhile, Romance was surprisingly quiet—he’d found a bowl of rice and was now mixing it into a homemade face mask after watching a tutorial on TV.

“Romance, are you even helping?”

“I’m helping myself,” he said calmly, smearing the rice mixture on his cheek. “Self-care is important in a shared space.”

You wiped the sweat off your forehead, exhausted from yelling, when you suddenly remembered the letter. The one from that creature. The one that looked like a tiger, or a cat, or maybe both, with blue fur.

“Jinu, come here,” you called, still digging through your bag.

“What?” he asked, walking over while brushing flour off his clothes.

You pulled out the purple letter and handed it to him. “I didn’t read it, but I think it’s for you. You’re the only one here who’s even remotely sane.”

Jinu turned the letter over in his hands, then looked at you. “Where did you get this?”

Uh-oh. That question made you pause. You could lie. Or you could be honest and not end up on your own list of mentally unstable people.

“Look,” you began, already regretting this, “after I went into my room—right after you—a creature showed up. It looked like a tiger or a cat, it had blue fur. I thought I was hallucinating again, but no. I seriously thought I was going to die because it looked like it was about to eat me, but then it opened its mouth… and handed me that.”

Jinu nodded slowly. “Alright, I have to go.”

“What? Where? Dinner’s almost ready.”

“The letter’s asking to meet me. I’ll eat later.” He wiped some flour off his face and headed for the door.

You let him go. He looked too serious to stop, and honestly, you were too tired to fight it. No one else even asked where he went. Until you turned back to the kitchen and found… even more chaos.

By the time dinner was ready, the kitchen looked like a war zone. Your eyebrows smelled vaguely of chili oil, the rice cooker was crying, and somehow Abby had managed to get a single grain of rice stuck to the ceiling.

Everyone sat down, flushed, sweaty, lips stained red from the hell-soup. There was a moment of silence.

“…I can’t feel my tongue,” you muttered.

“But I can feel my soul,” Romance said dramatically, wiping a tear.

“This is the worst meal of my life,” you groaned, scanning the table of chaos.

Baby raised a spoonful and smiled. “But it’s ours.”

You stared at them—all of them burnt, teary-eyed, hopeless—and felt that stupid little tug in your chest again. A mix of exhaustion, reluctant love, and the quiet realization that this? This was your circus.

“…Fine, but next time? We’re ordering takeout.”

They all raised their spoons like a solemn oath.

“Next time,” they echoed.

🧘🏻‍♀️ hum guys, so i think this one’s a bit messy since I was in a rush with other stuff, but i hope you still like it 👯‍♀️🐈‍⬛

tag list XD : @kpopmultistans, @luluprincess230lp, @prettylittlelavvy

© asthroophile 2025. All rights reserved. Do not copy, redistribute, or reproduce without explicit permission.

[venusbyline]

more jace content, mama!!! all of your jacaerys fics have been eating DOWN lately, i swear ive been feasting on this man since the release of this show

This scenario is inspired by one of my 2024 one-shots that I wrote for Criminal Minds fandom. I re-read that and I thought "omfg I need to rewrite this but about Jace 😩😩". and well... here we go

⚠️: SMUT CONTENT. brat sub!Jacaerys Velaryon, dom sister!reader, Targcest (younger brother/older sister), rough oral sex (female receiving), cunnilingus, face-sitting, light asphyxiation, degradation kink, punishment, jealousy, minor Jacaerys Velaryon/random ladies BUT NOT REALLY, minor Aegon II Targaryen/reader BUT NOT REALLY, minor uncle/niece incest BUT NOT REALLY. no use of y/n, english is not my first language.

— high valyrian word used: Mandia (older sister)

Jacaerys loved to make you jealous. He loved to see your false stoic stare when he flirted with some random lady. You did not even know where such boldness came from, since most of the time your younger brother acted sweet — perhaps that behaviour was due to that constant flirting your uncle Aegon threw at you when he saw you in the corridors of the Red Keep.

However, when it came to jealousy and retaliation, Jace could act like a charming prince and flirt with any pair of tits he saw. Just for the pleasure of annoying you a bit — away from Rhaenyra's presence, of course.

It was obvious he would never have sex with any woman other than you, even though you were not yet married and only betrothed to each other since the childhood. You trusted your brother more than anyone else; you never doubted his love for you for a moment.

But Jacaerys liked to see you angry and with jealousy when he pretended to be interested in the nonsense those annoying girls said to him. He enjoyed teasing you enough to make your eyes rolled and to make you retreat from the gardens afterwards. And most of all, he enjoyed being punished by his beloved older sister and future wife.

"I think you were so much less annoying when your pretty mouth is shut." You scoffed, tugging on his dark, wavy hair and hearing him moan against your swollen clit, sending shocks through your body.

You groaned as you felt his plump lips around the bundle of nerves, sucking it in and releasing it with a low spitting sound.

Jace lifted his hands to grope your ass, and though you considered denying him any touch just to increase his frustration, you dismissed that idea when he began to actually grip both of ass cheeks, pulling you forward until his nose brushed harder against your sensitive clit.

Afterward, a low gasp escaped your lips as you looked down, noticing those beautiful brown eyes blinking with feigned innocence.

For Jacaerys, there was nothing better in all the Seven Kingdoms than having his older sister's thighs pressIng his head, denying him the gift of breath long enough for him to think he would meet the Heavens sooner than expected.

You rubbed yourself against every part of that pretty face, feeling your cunt growing plump and swollen from the aggressive friction.

He moaned again, moving his hips up and down, imagining his cock fucking your warm, tight walls instead of being just used by you.

"Seven Hells, your whole face is dripping..." You moaned too and grabbed his scalp tighter, tugging on the strands of hair to keep yourself steady and to continue rubbing your wet folds on the tip of his nose. "You looked like a cheap whore, brother. So addicted to eat your big sister's cunt out."

Before your brother's attempt to pull away to say something could work out, you pushed him back down, only letting go of his hair after two minutes.

With swollen, red lips, he licked the dripping juices one last time. "I love your cunt, mandia. It feels so good."

You rolled eyes in derision at the praise, but Jace could not help but smirk when he noticed your clit throb slightly. "You are so fucking pathetic, boy..." You struggled to maintain a facade of indifference. Bringing your thumb to his lower lip for a few seconds and then pushing it inside his mouth, watching as he sucked on it. "So beautiful and pathetic."

[cherrypickedchaos]

Mildly Reckless

What begins as a punishment becomes something far more dangerous feelings. When Scout meets Oscar on a speed awareness course, she’s not expecting much beyond Comic Sans and soul death. But five hours of awkward icebreakers, laminated role-play sheets, and slow-burning tension later, she’s left with something she can’t shake. A story about missed exits, emotional detours, and falling in a thirty zone.

Genre: Slow Burn, Contemporary Romance, Found Family Vibes, Banter Comedy, Soft Angst, Formula 1 RPF, Slice of Life with Fast Cars, Enemies-to-Lovers-if-you-squint

NSFW Warning: 18+ Explicit sexual content, Oral (f. receiving), Unprotected sex, Praise kink, Mild emotional angst, Intimacy anxiety, Speeding (obviously), Sarcastic commentary on road safety education

Inspired by: Little Bit More by Suriel Hess

~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~

Hell was bland, grey, and filled with stackable chairs and fluorescent lights. The devil wore a chunky cardigan and drank Diet Coke at 9 a.m. Her name was Janet. She knew this because she was here, sentenced, it seemed, for speeding. Along with the rest of them. Their sins varied in style, probably, but the result was the same: a Wednesday morning in purgatory, seated in the function room of what was technically a hotel but felt more like an insurance office that had given up.

It was 9:13 a.m. The course was meant to start at 9 sharp. Two people hadn’t arrived. Janet, all teeth and hand gestures, was deep in conversation with a woman who looked like she’d backed over a hedgehog once and still thought about it at red lights. She was nodding solemnly. Her name tag said Tina.

There was a boy in the corner, not part of the horseshoe of chairs Janet had so lovingly laid out. He looked about twelve, had his hood up, headphones in, and was sneakily vaping like he thought no one could see him. The occasional puff of watermelon mist betrayed him. He looked up once to scan the room, made brief eye contact with Scout, then looked back down like she’d passed and failed a test at the same time.

Another man, maybe fifty, maybe the kind of man who was always fifty, sat at the very front of the horseshoe but had twisted his chair to the side. He kept checking his watch. Every now and then, he chuckled softly to himself, like the universe had played a joke only he understood. His name tag said Gary. It felt correct.

She didn’t sit. She hovered by the door like someone deciding whether to attend a funeral or just walk into traffic. No chair had called to her. They all looked equally bad.

Then the door burst open. A woman stumbled in, all apologetic breath and car keys clattering. She looked exactly like the sort of person who had a full panic attack about snack day at school.

“So sorry,” she said. “I got held up on the school run, honestly, I was this close to just-”

Janet interrupted with a noise that was half sympathy, half a dolphin’s mating call. “No rush! You’re absolutely fine, we haven’t started yet. Still one more to come.”

Gary chuckled again, louder this time. It wasn’t clear if it was at the woman, or the state of society, or just some joke he’d made up in his head five minutes ago. The newcomer, Leah, according to her sticker, sat down next to Gary, still unpeeling herself from her coat and offering whispered apologies to no one in particular.

Three minutes later, the final door opened. This one came with an accent.

“Sorry, terribly sorry, traffic was a nightmare.”

He was tallish. Early to mid-twenties. Australian, unmistakably. Tan like someone who’d once lived near a beach and now missed it in a way that showed on his face. He looked like someone who usually got places on time.

“It’s no worries at all,” Janet said warmly, like he’d just offered to resurface her driveway for free.

He smiled, polite, tight, and found the empty chair beside Leah. She had no idea where to sit now. The horseshoe was almost full, save for the chair between the vape kid and Tina. She made eye contact with neither of them and slid into place like she might disappear if she didn’t make a sound. The circle was complete: Gary, Leah, the Australian (no name tag yet), the Vape Kid, herself, and Tina.

Janet clapped her hands together. “Right! Now that we’re all here, let’s get started!” No one cheered. Gary chuckled. “We’ll start with a little icebreaker!” Janet said, picking up a dry-wipe marker like it was a weapon. “Say your name, and one interesting fact about yourself. I’ll go first, I’m Janet, obviously, and I once played a dead body on Casualty!”

No one asked follow-up questions. The marker squeaked on the board behind her as she underlined WELCOME like that might make it true.

“Gary?” she prompted, her smile a hostage situation.

Gary sat up like he’d been waiting for this. “I’m Gary. I’ve met Jeremy Clarkson three times. He follows me on Twitter.”

Janet nodded. “Interesting!”

Leah went next. “I’m Leah. I have five kids under twelve. I haven’t slept in what feels like six years.”

Janet made a high-pitched noise of admiration. “Amazing!”

The Australian gave a faint smile. “Oscar. I, uh,” he looked mildly alarmed by the question “I’ve never eaten a crumpet.”

Everyone turned. Gary looked personally offended.

“Ever?” Leah asked.

Oscar shrugged. “Not intentionally.”

Janet clapped anyway. “That’s a brilliant one, thank you, Oscar!”

The kid in the corner looked up briefly when his name was called. He tugged a single earbud out. “Ty,” he said, voice dry. “I once got banned from a Wetherspoons for doing a wheelie on a chair.”

Silence. Then Tina laughed. “That’s brilliant.”

Gary muttered, “Icon,” under his breath. Tina gave him a thumbs up.

Janet made a sound like she wanted to laugh but didn’t know if she was allowed. Then it was her turn.

She looked at the floor. “Scout,” she said, because it’s the nickname she responded to nowadays. “And I once got told off by a vicar for loitering in a graveyard.”

Janet smiled like she didn’t know how to process that. “Lovely,” she said, with uncertain enthusiasm.

Then Tina, who beamed. “I’m Tina. I make miniature Victorian dolls’ houses. For rats. Not real rats, not live ones, obviously! That would be awful.”

“Fascinating,” Janet breathed. Just like that, hell had officially begun.

“Now,” Janet beamed, “let’s get into the meat of the course.”

She couldn’t tell if Janet meant that literally or spiritually, but either way, she felt a quiet dread settle in her stomach. Janet dimmed the lights, one side of the room went dark, the other stayed buzzing, and clicked her remote. The projector whirred like a dying hamster. A title slide appeared in full Comic Sans: “THE PSYCHOLOGY OF SPEEDING” beneath a stock photo of a speedometer doing 170.

Gary let out a sound between a scoff and a laugh. “Subtle,” he muttered.

“Now, I want us all to have a little think,” Janet said, strolling across the front like she was doing a TED Talk at a sixth form. “Why do people speed?”

Ty leaned further into his hoodie. The vape came out again. No one said anything.

“Let’s just call them out,” Janet tried again. “Why do we, as a society, speed?”

Gary raised his hand too early, clearly prepared to deliver a manifesto. Ty blew a smoke ring so tiny it vanished before it existed.

Leah raised a hand, hesitant. “Running late?”

“Brilliant,” Janet said, typing it into a Word doc projected onscreen. The font was still Comic Sans. “What else?”

Tina added, “Lack of awareness?”

“Perfect,” Janet nodded.

Gary raised a hand, slowly, like he was being sarcastic. “Because sometimes the signs are hidden behind trees and the councils are cash cows with speed cameras.”

Janet paused. “Interesting perspective.”

She looked down at her notes, where she had written nothing. Oscar sat perfectly still, arms folded, legs stretched out, like he wasn’t here at all.

“Scout?” Janet asked. “Any thoughts?”

She looked up. “Because we think we’re better than we are.”

The room went still.

Janet blinked. “Could you say more?”

“No.”

Oscar looked at her then, sideways, just a flicker.

Janet cleared her throat. “Right! Let’s move on to our group exercise!” Groans. “We’re going to do a little scenario analysis. You’ll be paired up. Don’t worry, no one’s being graded!”

“I work better alone,” Gary said, loud enough for no one to challenge it.

Tina turned to Ty, who immediately put both earbuds back in without comment.

“He’s a Scorpio,” she said, and moved on.

She didn’t move. Janet began shuffling pairs like a wedding planner on a budget.

“And you two,” she pointed at her and Oscar “why don’t you work together?”

Of course. Janet handed them a laminated sheet titled “SCENARIO 3: PASSENGER TENSION” Oscar took it wordlessly. They scooted their chairs a few inches closer, like strangers forced to share a table in a busy café.

Scout read the brief. “‘You are driving with a friend. They are late for a job interview. They tell you to go faster. You’re already doing 36 in a 30 zone.’”

She looked up. “This feels like GCSE drama for adults.”

Oscar cracked the faintest smile. “Worse. There’s no stage crew to hide behind.”

Scout straightened the paper. “Fine. I’ll be the one driving.”

“I figured.”

She cleared her throat. “Okay. So, we’re driving.”

“Where to?”

“Job interview.”

“Right.”

He folded his arms. “I say: ‘Can’t you go faster? We’re going to be late.’”

She turned toward him, eyes narrowed. “You’re not the one who’ll get points on your licence.”

“That’s very selfish of you.”

“I’d rather be selfish than unemployed.”

“Are you always this dramatic?”

“Are you always this calm?”

Oscar blinked. “Yes.”

Scout paused. “Fine. You win.”

Janet clapped from across the room. “How’s everyone doing?”

Oscar raised a thumb. Scout slumped back in her chair. “I’ve learned I’m not cut out for role-play therapy.”

“You were quite convincing,” he said.

She looked at him. “You didn’t sound Australian when you were pretending to be British.”

“I contain multitudes.”

They lapsed into silence again. Janet moved on, inspecting another pair like a disappointed substitute teacher.  Leah was earnestly reading her scenario out loud like it was GCSE drama. Gary was shaking his head at her with theatrical despair.

“That’s not how braking works,” he muttered.

“It’s a metaphor, Gary,” she replied, and he looked genuinely wounded. As the task wrapped, people shifted in their seats, some stretching, some yawning.

Oscar leaned in slightly, voice low. “Just so you know,” he murmured, “you’d have made a terrible getaway driver.”

Scout turned to him, surprised. “Because I wouldn’t speed?” she asked.

“Because you’d argue about it the whole way.”

She smiled, despite herself. The ice cracked. Just a little.

~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~

“Alright, let’s break for lunch!” Janet called out, as if she were dismissing a primary school assembly. “Be back in thirty minutes and remember, it’s not optional!”

Scout was already on her feet before the sentence ended. She wasn’t hungry. Not in any way food could solve. Mostly, she just wanted to be somewhere with no chairs in a horseshoe and no one trying to make Comic Sans look authoritative. She didn’t look at anyone as she left, slipping her coat on in the hallway, key fob in hand like a weapon. Her car was parked in a far corner of the lot, a slightly battered Toyota with a passenger door that didn’t open from the inside.

Rain had started, the kind that wasn’t dramatic enough to be aesthetic but just enough to make everything damp and cold and a bit existential. She reached her car. And then she heard footsteps behind her.

“Are you running away,” Oscar said, “or just very keen on sandwiches?”

Scout didn’t turn around at first. Then she did. He stood there, coatless, of course, holding a plastic bag with what looked like a sad supermarket meal deal inside. He blinked rain off his eyelashes like it hadn’t occurred to him that water was wet.

“I’m allergic to icebreakers,” she said.

He nodded solemnly. “Tragic. You’ll never survive corporate training.”

“I don’t plan to.”

There was a pause, not awkward, but deliberate. “You heading somewhere?” he asked.

“I was going to eat in my car,” she said, “like a deeply mysterious loner. Possibly while listening to true crime.”

Oscar looked at her car. “Your passenger door doesn’t open.”

“Nope.”

He tilted his head. “I’m curious but I’m scared to ask.”

“You should be.”

Another pause. He held up his bag. “I’ve got a packet of Quavers and a chicken wrap that claims to be ‘peri-peri’ but smells like betrayal. You want half?”

Scout eyed him. “Are you offering me half your wrap?”

“I’m offering you half a social contract.”

She considered that. Then popped her boot and gestured with a nod. They sat on the edge of the boot, legs dangling, staring at the rain dripping off the edge of the roof. He tore the wrap down the middle like a peace treaty and handed her the larger half without comment. They ate in silence for a few minutes. Not companionable silence, not yet, but something less hostile than the chair circle.

Eventually, Scout said, “You don’t talk much in there.”

“I do when it’s useful.”

“And when’s that?”

Oscar wiped his hand on a napkin. “Not during Janet’s PowerPoints.”

Scout smirked. “You’re very understated for someone who committed a traffic crime.”

“I was doing 38 in a 30.”

“Criminal mastermind.”

He shrugged. “What about you?”

“Roundabout incident.”

He waited.

“I took five laps,” she said eventually. “Missed my exit. Got... distracted.”

“By what?”

She didn’t answer. He didn’t push. “I was called ‘reckless’ in the citation,” she added. “Which I actually find a bit flattering.”

Oscar cracked a grin. “You don’t seem reckless.”

She looked at him. “You don’t seem like someone who’s never had a crumpet.”

“I’ve lived a very sheltered life.”

They watched the rain for a bit longer.

Scout said, “You know this doesn’t mean I like you, right?”

Oscar nodded. “Noted.”

“But I’ll take your Quavers.”

“Conditionally or permanently?”

She looked at the bag. “Let’s see how the afternoon goes.”

And they sat there, on the edge of something, or maybe nothing, waiting for the clock to run out.

They went back in when the rain got mean. Neither of them said it was time; they just stood up at the same moment and walked silently back through the side door. As Scout and Oscar walked back in, Tina was showing Janet something on her phone, “Yes, that’s the tiny chaise lounge. I sewed the cushions myself. For scale, here’s a matchbox.”

Ty had returned to his exact pre-lunch position, hoodie up, vape discreetly palmed. Leah was unwrapping a boiled egg from clingfilm, looking mildly apologetic about the smell but still doing it anyway. Gary stood by the coffee station, aggressively shaking the machine and muttering “bloody decaf” like it was a slur. The room had changed slightly, seats pushed out of alignment, condensation clinging to the windows. Janet was already at the front, holding a stack of reflection worksheets and what looked like an overly ambitious flipchart.

“Welcome back!” she chirped. “Hope you’re all fed and full of fresh perspective!”

No one answered. The final stretch began with a video. It featured dim reenactments of car accidents and a voiceover so gentle it was unnerving. There was a child’s shoe in one scene. Everyone got quiet. Ty actually took his headphones out. Leah made a soft noise that might have been a sniff. Gary crossed his arms harder. Scout felt nothing, which, alarmingly, felt like something. Oscar sat still the entire time, too still. When the lights came back up, he blinked slowly, like it hurt.

Janet launched into the finalactivity with a little too much bounce. “You’ll now write a short reflection,” she announced. “Something meaningful you’ve taken from today.”

Gary sighed. “This again.”

Tina whispered, “I’ve actually found this quite helpful.”

Ty rolled his eyes so hard it was audible. Scout stared at the page. Oscar didn’t pick up his pen. Janet floated between them like a shepherd of the emotionally reluctant.

“You don’t have to write an essay,” she said gently. “Just a truth.”

Scout started to write something sarcastic. She paused. Then scribbled it out. Wrote nothing instead. After ten long minutes of half-inked honesty and crossed out lies, Janet collected the papers like someone harvesting awkwardness.

Then she beamed. “And just like that, we’re done!” There was a shuffle of relief. Gary bolted upright. Leah gathered snack wrappers and car keys. Ty was already halfway out the door. Scout lingered just long enough to watch Oscar pick up his coat. He nodded at her, small, professional, like a mutual understanding had been reached but not named.

She nodded back.

Janet clapped again. “Drive safe, everyone!”

Scout stepped into the hall. Her car key was already in her fist. Oscar was behind her, a few paces back. She turned slightly.

“Did you write anything?” she asked.

He met her eyes. “No.”

She didn’t smile. But she didn’t leave, either. Outside, the rain had stopped. The air felt like it was waiting for something.

Scout said, “See you never, then.”

Oscar considered that. “Maybe.”

Then he walked past her, quiet and unreadable, like a man with a secret he hadn’t decided to keep yet. Scout watched him go. Then got in her car, turned the key, and didn’t drive off for several minutes.

~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~

Five months later, the pub was full of limbs. Elbows knocked into shoulders. Pints sloshed onto polished wood. Someone was already singing, and it was only 8:04. It was only the start of the busiest weekend of the year, Friday of the F1 Grand Prix weekend, and Scout was three seconds from pulling a pint over someone’s head. She never gave a toss about racing. She worked weekends anyway. And she hated anything with fan chants.

But in Cattle End, the pub ten minutes from Silverstone with sticky floors and trophy photos no one had dusted in two years, it became a zoo this time of year. Mechanics, PR girls, overly confident lads with lanyards. All of them thirsty. They were down two, maybe three staff. No one could agree how many.

She glanced at the kitchen. Sarah had bailed an hour before her shift even started, claiming she “felt a spiritual fever.” Scout was still unclear if that meant an actual illness or a horoscope issue. Either way, it left her short-staffed and borderline homicidal. The dishwasher was broken. The chef had gone home sick.

Scout, whose actual job title was bartender, was currently operating as waiter, barback, line cook, floor manager, and therapist to a man who had spilled gravy on his jeans and was blaming the lighting. She hadn’t stopped moving for hours. So, when a new group strolled in, laughing too loud, already half-drunk, she barely clocked them. Just more noise. More backs-of-heads. Until one leaned over the bar.

Short curls. Cocky grin. “Two lagers, and do you have anything that isn’t mid?” He was grinning at her like he expected her to laugh. She didn’t.

Scout grabbed two pint glasses without answering. Standard issue twats. She could do this on autopilot.

The curly one turned slightly. Called over his shoulder, “What do you want?”

And that’s when she saw him. Standing half behind the loud one. Not drunk. Not grinning. Just watching her. Oscar.

Scout froze for exactly half a second. Long enough. He didn’t look surprised. Just like someone trying not to blink first. The lights were warm. The air was loud. And still she heard the beat of recognition like it was its own sound.

Five months. And here he was. In her space.

Scout placed the two pints down harder than necessary. “Anything else?” she asked, not looking directly at either of them.

“Yeah,” Curly said, oblivious. “Another pint, whatever he’s having.”

She looked at Oscar. He was still watching her.

She raised an eyebrow. “Do you drink? Didn’t strike me as the type.”

That startled Curly. “Wait, you two know each other?”

Oscar blinked, just once. Then: “We did a speed awareness course together.”

Curly cackled. “Oh, that’s rich.”

Scout looked at him properly. “You still haven’t had a crumpet?”

Oscar smiled, slow and quiet. “Not intentionally.”

Scout poured his pint. Silence, almost delicate, as the beer filled the glass. Behind her, someone dropped a fork. A man shouted “Oi, Darren!” with no further context.

She slid the pint over. “On a scale of one to absolute hell, how bad is being out with Curly?”

“I’d take Janet’s PowerPoints.”

Curly gasped. “Wow. Betrayal. In public.”

Scout cracked a smile, thin but sharp. “If I bring you a bowl of chips, will you promise to tip?”

“I’ll tip anyway,” Oscar said.

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

And just like that, the thread tightened. Not a reconnection. Just a second loop. In a different setting. In her territory. Scout turned to the fryer, didn’t say goodbye. But her heart was louder than the bar. And she felt his eyes on her back, for a moment too long, before he returned to the big group he’d entered with.

~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~

By midnight, the pub had softened. No more crowd noise. Just the occasional clink of glass. The slow sigh of tired wooden beams. Scout had sent the rest of the staff home. She told them she had it covered, which was true. Sort of. Mostly, she wanted to be alone. Or as alone as one could be with three strangers finishing the dregs of their pints at the far end of the bar. She moved through the space slowly, cloth in one hand, glass in the other. Clearing, wiping, resetting. Restocking the crisps behind the bar. Mechanical. Hypnotic.

She overheard them, even when she wasn’t trying. The curly one, Lando, apparently, had a laugh that rang like mischief. He’d said something about “Osc always pulling the quiet card until it’s too late.”

So that was his name here. Osc. It suited him, somehow. Fewer syllables. Less room to pin down.

By 12:30, it was just the three of them left. Her, Osc, and Lando. The pub had dimmed down into golden quiet, only the emergency lights glowing behind the bar. They drifted toward her, finishing their pints, as she wiped the countertop near the taps.

Scout didn’t look at them at first, but the silence stretched just long enough to feel like invitation.

“You guys here for race weekend?” she asked, trying to make conversation if only to keep herself from sleepwalking through the motions.

Lando scoffed. She didn’t know why. Oscar, Osc, leaned on the bar, eyes still just as unreadable. “Yeah, actually. We’re two of the drivers.”

She blinked. “You’re what?”

He didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. Just waited. Lando grinned like it was a magic trick.

“I thought you were joking,” she said, slowly. “You’re both too tired looking to be famous.”

“Thank you,” Oscar said dryly.

“I meant it as a compliment. Kinda.”

There was a pause. Lando finished the last inch of his pint and said, “Osc wanted to talk to you.”

Oscar closed his eyes. “Jesus, Lando.”

Scout tilted her head. “Well, I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be,” Oscar muttered. “He’s ten drinks in.”

“I’m eleven,” Lando corrected. “But go off.”

Scout smiled, turning to grab three shot glasses out of a drawer. “You two are being a bit risky, hanging out in here when you’ve got a race tomorrow.”

Lando grinned. “Only if the FIA gets wind of it.”

Oscar looked at her. “You’re not going to rat us out, are you?”

“Depends on if you tip.”

Oscar smirked. “Still conditional?”

“Always.”

She set the glasses down and said, “You know how to play cards?”

Lando perked up. “I love cards.”

Oscar looked at the clock. “Shouldn’t you be working?”

She looked around the empty room. “Technically? I was meant to shut at 11:30. But, you know. Felons welcome.”

Oscar sat. “You’re calling us felons?”

“You’re on thin ice,” she said, shuffling a battered deck that had been under the till since Christmas.

They played Shithead. Lando won the first round by pure chaos and claimed he was “mentally undefeated.” Oscar was suspiciously good at strategic folding. Scout played like she had nothing to lose, which she didn’t. After the third round, Lando got up to use the loo, swearing he’d be back in two minutes and warning them not to rig the deck.

Oscar leaned back slightly in his chair. Scout rested her chin on her hand. “So Osc.”

He gave her a look. “You said that like it’s a threat.”

“It’s just funny. You’ve got a nickname. Like a real person.”

“Devastating,” he deadpanned. “I thought I was going for elusive.”

“You were,” she said. “And then you sat in my pub with Lando Norris.”

Oscar looked at the empty pint glass, then at her. “I didn’t know you worked here.”

“I didn’t know you were anyone.”

They sat in that for a second. Then he said, “Do you always offer card games to your customers?”

“Only the famous ones,” she said. “I heard you’re very important.”

“Extremely,” he said. “World’s most well-behaved felon.”

She smiled. “You’re a better liar than I gave you credit for.”

He looked at her properly now, not flirty, not smirking. Just curious. Like she was a crossword clue he’d finally figured out.

“You ever think about that course?” he asked.

“Only when I drive through roundabouts,” she said. “So, a lot.”

Oscar laughed, low and surprised. Scout bit back her grin.

He shook his head. “Still reckless?”

She shrugged. “Still a mystery.”

Lando returned with dramatic fanfare, announcing that he’d dried his hands with paper towels like “a real grown adult.”

Scout dealt the next hand without comment. But her hands shook just slightly, Oscar noticed.

Last game came and went with no fanfare. Scout flicked the lights up slightly, enough to signal the end. Lando took the hint, eventually. He stood, stretched like a cat in denim, and gave her a lopsided smile.

“You’re a legend,” he said. “You should run a team. Or a cult.”

“I’ll consider both,” she said, deadpan.

He saluted, wobbling slightly. “Night, Osc.”

Oscar gave a nod. “Don’t fall into a hedge.”

“No promises.”

Lando stumbled out, the bell on the door giving a pathetic little jingle behind him. Scout began the end-of-night ritual: lights down, chairs up, till shut, back door bolted. Oscar didn’t hover, but he didn’t leave either. He stood by the bar, hands in his pockets, watching her move with purpose. Like she’d done this a thousand times.

When she clicked the final deadbolt and turned toward the front door, he spoke. “You good getting home?”

She nodded, pulling on her jacket. “Yeah. That one’s mine.” She pointed to the car parked under the only working streetlamp. The battered Toyota, still a little damp from the afternoon drizzle.

He followed her gaze, then nodded.

“You two getting back okay?”

Oscar smiled faintly. “Yeah. The walk will do him good. Sober him up a bit. Might save him from a hangover tomorrow.”

Scout slipped her keys from her pocket. Then paused. It hung there for a second, that sense that something was supposed to happen next, but neither of them knew how to start it. Oscar shifted, like he might not say anything.

“Can I?” He hesitated. “Can I get your number?”

She blinked. “Like, now?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Or later, when I come in pretending to order chips and ask awkwardly in front of ten people.”

Scout snorted. “Fine.”

She gave it to him. The most awkward dictation imaginable. He typed it in with care, not repeating it back, just trusting he got it. She didn’t ask if he’d actually use it. He didn’t say he would. There was just silence, for a beat. Not uncomfortable. Not quite.

Their eyes held. A moment pressed flat between them, heat and static and something they weren’t naming.

“Osc! I think I stood in a puddle that wasn’t a puddle!” Lando’s voice rang out from the dark.

Oscar sighed. “Duty calls.”

Scout bit her lip, trying not to laugh. “You better go rescue him. Before he ends up on a TikTok.”

Oscar turned toward the door, paused, then looked back. “Goodnight, Scout.”

“Night, Osc.”

She walked to her car, turned the key in the lock, climbed in. The engine rumbled to life. The streetlamp above her flickered, as if unsure whether to stay awake.

Her phone buzzed. One message. You’ll be watching on Sunday, won’t you?

No name. Didn’t need one. Scout stared at it. Then smiled. She rolled the window down, just a crack.

And honked the horn, one loud, sudden blast. Lando screamed. Oscar laughed, full-bodied, caught-off-guard laughter, and turned to look back at her. She drove off, still smiling. Didn’t reply. Not yet.

~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~

It was 3:30pm and the bar was a war zone. Beer was flowing. Chips were burning. Someone was shouting about track limits like it was a personal betrayal. Scout was moving fast, ferrying glasses and dodging elbows, but still, every few minutes, her eyes darted up to the corner TV. The Grand Prix. Silverstone.

She hadn’t planned to watch. Honestly, she barely understood the rules. But the screen was unavoidable. And she kept checking it. Every. Single. Time.

“Hey,” she called to one of the other bartenders, breathless between taps. “What team do Lando and Oscar race for?”

“McLaren,” he shouted back. “The orange one.”

Scout nodded, which made sense, the lads on Friday had been in head-to-toe papaya. But it still felt ridiculous. Them? First and second? She looked up at the screen again.

Lando: P1. Oscar: P2. Both flying.

The whole pub roared as Lando crossed the finish line. Then again, seconds later, when Oscar followed. Scout just laughed. Half disbelieving, half proud, and she wasn’t even sure why.

An hour later, once the noise dipped and she had a second to breathe, she took out her phone and typed,

So, you’re actually good at it, huh. I thought you were just tall and humble for fun.

She hit send, then went back to work.

He showed up twenty minutes later. Still in team kit. Hair a little messier than usual. Flush in his cheeks like the adrenaline hadn’t quite worn off.

Scout blinked when she saw him. “You’re supposed to be celebrating.”

“I will,” Oscar said, stepping up to the bar. “But it wasn’t an easy day, and I wanted to make a pit stop.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Fuel or attention?”

He smiled. “Told you I’d come back.”

She folded her arms. “You want something?”

He nodded. “A prize.”

Scout leaned forward slightly. “You didn’t win.”

“Harsh. I came second.”

“No prizes here for second.”

He tilted his head. “What if I win the next one?”

“You’ll get your prize.”

He grinned. “That’s in Belgium. Three weeks.”

She raised an eyebrow. “So?”

“So, can I have something to tide me over till then?”

Her smile didn’t come all at once. It crept in, slow, sly, like she was weighing something. Then she stepped closer, just enough to narrow the space between them. His breath caught, or maybe hers did.

Without a word, she leaned in. Not dramatic, not fast, just close. Her lips brushed his cheek, barely, a fraction of a second longer than casual, far too deliberate to be nothing. Warm. Intentional. Like a promise if he was brave enough to take it that way. When she pulled back, she didn’t say anything.

She didn’t have to.

Oscar blinked. Then exhaled like he’d just taken pole. “I guess I have to win now.”

Scout smirked. “You better.”

He glanced back toward the door. “I have to go. It’s Lando’s home win, and the team’s English, so, PR and pints await.”

“Go,” she said. “Be charming.”

“You’ll be here?”

“I work here,” she said. “Felons and race winners welcome.”

Oscar hesitated. “Text me?”

Scout shrugged. “Maybe.”

They smiled at each other, wider than either of them meant to, and then he was gone, swallowed up by the street, by the crowd, by the team. Scout looked at the cheek she’d kissed. Then went back to work. Still smiling.

~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~

Scout was on break, eating chips behind the pub. Her phone buzzed. Oscar. She didn’t answer right away. He called again.

“Twice?” she said, when she finally picked up. “Bold.”

“You gave me your number.”

“Didn’t say I’d answer.”

“You honked at me.”

“You asked if I’d be watching.”

A pause. Then a smile in his voice. “Touché.”

They talked for twenty minutes. About nothing. His flight. Her boss. The pub cat that only showed up when it rained. He asked what she was doing.

She said, “Trying to eat chips in peace, but you’re making it weird.”

“Should I hang up?”

“No,” she said. “You can keep being weird.”

~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~

Friday. He sent: Got followed for going 31 in a 30. Nearly had flashbacks to Janet.

She replied: Was it the haunting spectre of Comic Sans? Then: If you get banned again, I’m not writing to the DVLA on your behalf.

They sent memes. Screenshots. A photo he took of a roundabout and captioned “Still haunted?” She replied with a grave emoji and a rat in a dolls’ house.

~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~

Ten days before Spa. It was late. Past 11. Her shift had just ended. She got the request while changing out of her uniform in the pub office.

“Why do I see pipes?” she asked when she answered.

Oscar flipped the camera. He was lying on a hotel room bed, phone above his head. He looked half-asleep, hair sticking up.

“You always answer FaceTime like you’re about to arrest someone,” he said.

“You always call like you forgot how phones work.”

She settled into the armchair, shoes kicked off. “How’s training?”

“Hot. Loud. Lando’s playlist is 70% Calvin Harris. I’m losing my will to live.”

She laughed. “You’re very dramatic.”

“I’m the oldest child. Let me have this.”

He asked how the pub was. She said a man ordered a beer at 10:59 and then asked if they had “any gluten-free Scotch eggs.”

Oscar winced. “Jail.” Then he said, quieter, “I like your voice.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. So, she said, “I like yours better when you’re tired.”

~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~

One week before Spa. She got a text first: Call when you’re free? She did. But it wasn’t Oscar who answered.

“HELLO, THIS IS OSCAR’S SOCIAL COORDINATOR,” Lando shouted into the mic.

Scout snorted. “God help me.”

“He’s busy being emotionally repressed, so I’m doing outreach.”

Oscar’s voice, “Give me that.”

Lando again, “Just confirming your attendance at the Post-Belgium Celebration Gala.”

“I haven’t RSVP’d.”

“You’re a VIP, babe.”

Then muffled fighting. Oscar finally took the phone back. “Sorry,” he said, breathless.

“You guys sharing a room or a personality?”

He smiled. “Not meant to be, but Lando hasn’t heard of privacy. So, tragically, both.”

~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~

Night before Spa. He was calm. Focused. But lighter than she’d seen him.

They talked for half an hour. He asked if she was working. She said yes, covering for Sarah again. She asked if he was ready.

“I came second last year,” he said. “I want to win it this time.”

“You better.”

“For the trophy?”

“For the bragging rights,” she said.

He smiled. “Not even a kiss?”

“Earn it.”

~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~

Race day, he won. Max second. Lando third. Scout was mid-shift, still behind the bar, when her phone rang. She ducked into the stockroom, the cold air biting at her arms.

“Hey,” Oscar said. Breathless. Grinning, she could hear it.

She leaned against a crate of cider. “So, you do know how to win.”

Oscar laughed, warm and unguarded. “I can’t wait to see you.”

This time, she didn’t pretend not to hear him.

~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~

Monday night. The pub was quiet, finally. Chairs stacked, lights dimmed, floor sticky in some places no matter how many times she mopped. Scout had just locked the front door when a shadow passed the window, and then a knock. She opened it half an inch, squinting into the streetlight.

Oscar. Wearing the same grin he’d had on screen. His hair still a little too neat, like he hadn’t fully exhaled since Sunday.

“I won,” he said.

She leaned against the frame. “You did.”

He stepped inside. The air between them changed, familiar now, but not safe. Nothing about him felt safe anymore. Not in a dangerous way. In the I might say yes to anything you ask me way.

“You came for your prize?” she asked, locking the door again behind him.

He glanced around. “I mean, I did get a pretty decent trophy.”

“Yeah,” she said, teasing. “But mine’s more valuable. No ribbon.”

He looked at her then, properly. “Come on a date with me.”

She blinked. “Just like that?”

He nodded. “You said if I won.”

She smirked. “So technically, this is me keeping my word. Not me actually wanting to.”

He smiled. “Sure.”

But he didn’t drop it. And neither did the tension. His hand found the back of his neck. He looked down for a beat. “I leave for Hungary on Wednesday.”

Scout nodded, quietly. “You racing again?”

“Yeah. But,” he hesitated. His voice cracked just slightly. “But I don’t want to wait another week to take you out. I can’t just keep texting. I want to be near you. I want-” He stopped. Cleared his throat. “Come with me.”

She laughed. Sharp. Nervous. “Are you serious?”

“I know it’s last-minute. Insane. But I don’t care. I’ll book everything. I just,” He stepped closer. “Please come.”

Her voice caught. “Oscar, I’d have to ask my boss.”

“Ask him,” he said. “Beg him. I will if I have to.”

Scout stared at him, breath shallow. Every second stretched out like elastic. Her fingers twitched.

“If he says yes,” she whispered. “I’ll come.”

That was it. That was the switch. The room changed temperature. Oscar looked at her the way people look at wishes they’re afraid to make. Their bodies pulled together, slowly, then all at once. They stopped inches apart. She touched his face, light, reverent. Ran a thumb over the arch of his eyebrow, the edge of his jaw, the corner of his mouth.

“You have a very handsome face,” she murmured. “Does it get you everything you want?”

“Almost,” he whispered.

She kept tracing. Her fingers were shaking. So were his.

“I want to do something,” he said, voice low. “Something really stupid.”

Their faces were so close now, their breath catching in the narrow space between. Scout let her fingers trace the shape of him, the curve of his cheekbone, the tension at his temple, like she was trying to remember it.

She whispered, “Kiss me.”

Oscar blinked, eyes locked on hers. “Are you sure?” he asked, voice low, trembling at the edges. “Because if I do, I won’t stop thinking about it.”

She didn’t let him finish. Her hand slid around the back of his neck and yanked him down, sharp, certain. It was everything. Not neat. Not slow. Just hungry. Familiar. Like they'd been waiting, and they had.

It was breath, warmth, and mouths catching against each other in messy, perfect rhythm. In the middle of it, they grinned. Just for a second. Teeth grazing, lips curling, breath hitching, that helpless, dizzy laugh you only make when your entire body knows it’s right.

Oscar kissed her like he’d been holding his breath for weeks and only now remembered how to exhale. Like she was the thing he was late for and willing to crash into. All the moons, and stars, and weeks, and seconds they hadn’t been touching, gone.

When they finally pulled apart, slowly, reluctantly, his forehead rested lightly against hers. She was still catching her breath when he murmured, soft and wrecked and smiling, “I am so unbelievably screwed.”

~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~

The next day, just after the lunch rush, Scout leaned against the stockroom doorframe with her phone in one hand and her best “don’t make this a thing” face ready.

“Can I ask you something weird?” she said.

Her boss, Pete, mid-forties, balding, usually seen arguing with the fryer, looked up from the rota.

“Is it about rats in dollhouses again?”

She blinked. “No. It’s sort of a last-minute thing.”

Pete raised an eyebrow.

“I’ve been asked to go to Hungary,” she said, trying not to sound like someone losing her mind. “Just for a few days. I know it’s short notice, but I covered all of Sarah’s shifts last month, including the one with the broken glass fridge, so I was wondering if-”

Pete held up a hand. “Scout.”

She stopped.

“You can go.”

She blinked again. “Really?”

He nodded. “You work your arse off. Just bring back a fridge magnet.”

~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~

She called Oscar on her break, pacing behind the bins, breath catching even before he picked up. He answered on the second ring.

“Scout?”

“I asked.”

Oscar went quiet. “And?”

“I can come.”

There was a pause. Then a very loud cheer in the background.

“Was that Lando?” she asked, grinning.

Oscar laughed. “He’s been invested.”

Another voice shouted, faint but audible: “Tell her I’ve already packed her snacks!”

Scout rolled her eyes, heart hammering. “So, Hungary.”

Oscar’s voice dropped, warm and giddy. “Hungary.”

They didn’t hang up for a long time.

~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~

The pub was closed. Chairs were upturned on tables. Lights half-dimmed. The till drawer was open, spilling pennies like it had given up on being useful.

Scout stood behind the bar, zipping up a battered overnight bag. It was too small, too worn, and definitely not big enough for the five outfits she’d crammed into it.

Across from her, perched on a stool and eating crisps like she’d been hired to sabotage her, Sarah watched with mild judgment.

“You’re flying to Hungary,” she said between crunches, “for a man.”

Scout didn’t look up. “He’s not just a man. He’s a Formula 1 driver.”

Sarah snorted. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise the specific category of hormonal collapse.”

Scout zipped the bag harder than necessary. “It’s not like that.”

“Right. So, you’re just travelling across the world to support your casual driving acquaintance in his pursuit of very fast circles.”

Scout paused. “Yes.”

Sarah raised an eyebrow.

Scout sighed. “Okay, maybe it’s slightly like that.”

Sarah beamed. “There she is.”

Scout tossed a clean bar towel at her. “Wipe that smug off your face.”

Sarah dodged it, victorious. “You like him.”

“I never said I didn’t.”

“You like like him.”

“I’m leaving the country. You can’t make me talk about this.”

Sarah leaned forward. “Do you trust him?”

Scout blinked. That wasn’t where she thought the conversation was going. She considered it. Seriously. Then, “Yeah. I do.”

Sarah nodded, satisfied. Then dropped a pub coaster into Scout’s bag. “Souvenir offering. For the speed demon.”

Scout glanced at it. “Charming,” she said.

Sarah stood, brushing crisp dust off her jeans. “Just make sure he knows you’re more than a pit stop.”

Scout smirked. “You’ve been saving that one.”

“Days,” Sarah admitted.

They hugged. Briefly. The way they always did when neither of them wanted to say anything sappy.

“I’ll cover your Friday shift,” Sarah added as she grabbed her coat. “Don’t die.”

“Don’t call in sick,” Scout shot back.

“No promises.”

~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~

When Oscar knocked, she was still trying to shove the zipper closed with her knee.

“Ready?” he asked, peeking in.

She looked at her bag. “Technically.”

He offered to carry it.

She narrowed her eyes. “I have arms, Piastri.”

He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Just trying to be romantic.”

“Try less.”

At the airport, Lando was already there, wearing sunglasses indoors like a celebrity and someone hiding from their own hangover.

“Didn’t think you’d actually come,” he said, grinning.

“She’s not imaginary,” Oscar replied.

“I never said that,” Lando lied, obviously.

Scout rolled her eyes. “Are you always like this, or just around strangers?”

“I’m like this professionally,” he said. “You’re welcome.”

They landed in Hungary on Wednesday evening. The sun was setting when they reached the hotel, a sleek modern thing with cold white lights and a lobby that smelled too expensive. Oscar checked them in. Lando vanished upstairs, claiming urgent business with room service.

Oscar led Scout to her room. He reached for her bag again.

“Don’t,” she warned.

He didn’t. Outside her door, they hovered. There was still a thread of something from that kiss, the tension of it, the spark it left in the air between them.

Oscar scratched the back of his neck. “I’m in the room above. I was thinking, tomorrow might be better for the date. Today’s a lot.”

Scout nodded, relieved. “Yeah. Gotta work up to being charming.”

“You’re already charming.”

“Tell me that again when I’m not sweating from two airports and a Hungarian taxi driver who played only Pitbull.”

He smiled. Their phones buzzed. Lando. Dinner? My room? Low-stakes vibes. No trousers necessary.

She read it aloud.

Oscar groaned. “He’s going to wear a kimono again, isn’t he?”

Scout grinned. “Shame. I was going to break out my floor-length ballgown.”

Oscar leaned against the doorframe. “Takeout and cards sound okay?”

“Perfect.”

Lando’s room looked like a teenager had been given a minibar and one million pounds. Takeout bags lined the windowsill. There was a deck of cards mid-shuffle, a giant tub of ice cream no one admitted to ordering, and four hotel robes in various states of disarray. They played Uno. Lando made up new rules every five minutes. Oscar quietly destroyed them both. Scout spent most of the night laughing and eating chips with her fingers.

At one point, Lando fell off the bed trying to prove that he could plank and reshuffle simultaneously. Scout looked at Oscar. He looked at her. That smile again, quiet and shared, like an inside joke they hadn’t told anyone yet.

It was late when they left. Oscar walked her to her door, neither of them quite ready to be done with the day. Outside her room, they paused.

She turned to him. “Thanks. For this. All of it.”

He shook his head. “You being here makes it better.”

She opened her mouth, to joke, or deflect, or say something that didn’t feel like a confession, but he leaned in first and kissed her. Not rushed. Not like the first one. Slower. Sweeter. More sure of itself.

When they pulled apart, neither of them moved away.

Then Oscar whispered, “Goodnight, Scout.”

She smiled. “Goodnight, Osc.”

He walked down the hallway. Didn’t look back. She watched the lift doors close behind him. Then stepped inside her room, heart in freefall.

She dropped her bag in the corner and sat on the bed; fingers pressed to her lips. She lay back, staring at the ceiling, completely and utterly confused, and happier than she’d ever admit out loud.

Scout lay on the bed, her thoughts a storm of the moments that had just unfolded. The kiss played on a loop in her mind, Oscar's touch lingering on her skin like the faint scent of his cologne. She knew she should be sleeping, but the buzz of electricity from their encounter kept her eyes wide open.

Her phone lit up the darkness as she reached for it, her fingers fumbling over the screen. She found his name and hovered over the message icon, contemplating whether this was a good idea. The clock on the nightstand ticked away the seconds, each one louder than the last. Finally, she typed out a message, trying to keep her words casual, her thoughts anything but. "Hey, Osc," she sent, "Can't seem to get some shut-eye."

Her screen remained dark for what felt like an eternity. The anticipation was palpable. And then, a soft vibration, the digital lifeline connecting them once more. "Me neither," he replied. She felt a smirk tug at her lips, his confession a warm embrace in the solitude.

Their conversation grew, the texts a dance of double meanings and playful innuendos. "What's keeping you up?" she asked, her pulse quickening as she waited for his response.

"I can't get the taste of you out of my mind," he wrote. The innocence of their friendship had officially transformed into something new, something thrilling.

Her cheeks flushed at his words, and she felt the warmth spread down her neck. She replied, "You're not exactly making it easy for me to sleep either."

Their digital banter grew bolder, their words a delicate balance between friendship and the beginnings of something more. "I can’t wait for our date tomorrow." Oscar sent.

Her heart skipped a beat. "Me too," she confessed, feeling the weight of their unspoken feelings grow heavier.

The conversation grew quiet for a moment, the gravity of their words hanging in the air like mist. And then, "Would it help if I sent you another goodnight kiss?" he asked.

A smile curled on her lips. "I'd like that."

The next message was a string of kissing emojis, and she couldn't help but laugh softly to herself. It was a simple, sweet gesture that somehow felt as intimate than the actual kiss they'd shared.

Their messages slowly became less frequent as sleep began to take them, sweet dreams of lips and kisses and future dates flooded their brains.

~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~

Thursdays were media day. Lando and Oscar had offered to take her to the paddock, but with a warning. “It’ll be boring. Lots of cameras. No flirting allowed.” Scout had smiled politely and waved them off. She had no intention of spending her first day in Hungary watching two grown men talk about tyre degradation.

Instead, she hiked. Found a trail that wound through hills and ruins, where she overheard a local guide tell a story about a miller who was cursed by his ungrateful wife. She kept walking, found another monument with a different miller, this one tragically drowned. She ended up by a fountain named after neither of them.

By the time she got back to the hotel, her shoes were muddy, her phone was full of photos she didn’t remember taking, and her calves were absolutely done with her.

She stepped into the shower, sun-tired and glowing. When she got out, a text was waiting: Done for the day. 7 okay for our date?

She replied: See you then.

7:00 sharp, he was at her door. Oscar, in a proper shirt. Slightly wrinkled. Hair still damp from his own shower. Smiling like he wasn’t sure if he should be nervous.

“You look nice,” he said.

“As do you,” she replied.

They walked to a small restaurant Oscar had Googled weeks ago and bookmarked, just in case. It had string lights and mismatched plates, and the table wobbled if you leaned too far left.

The date started stiff. Two people who talked all the time suddenly unsure what to say. But then she made a joke about the cursed miller wife, and he pretended to be horrified, and she called him dramatic, and he said, “You make me dramatic,” and just like that, they found the rhythm again.

Their food came late. The wine hit early. They kept leaning toward each other, without meaning to. When the bill arrived, she reached instinctively for her purse.

“Split it?” she said, casual.

Oscar looked scandalised. “Absolutely not.”

“You don’t even know how much mine was.”

He took the bill. “Doesn’t matter.”

“That’s not very feminist of you.”

“I have a larger income,” he said simply. “I can afford dinner.”

She rolled her eyes. “Brat.”

But when he didn’t budge, she let him pay. Quietly.

He folded the receipt, set it aside, and looked at her, really looked at her.

His mouth thinned into something unreadable. “Has anyone ever taken care of you?”

She blinked. Then laughed softly through her nose. “No one can stand me long enough.”

He didn’t laugh, “I will, if you’ll let me.”

They walked back to the hotel slowly, limbs loose with wine and warmth and something unspoken crackling under the surface. At the front entrance, he turned to her.

“I had a nice time,” he said.

“Me too.”

He leaned in.

She pulled back half an inch, mock-serious. “I had garlic.”

Oscar blinked. “Stop being difficult.”

He kissed her. Small, at first. Barely anything before he pulled back. Scout opened her mouth to say something. But he devoured her before she could. Hands in her hair. Her hands grabbing his jacket. A laugh caught between them. His mouth finding hers again and again like he’d missed it during the sentence he’d paused to breathe.

They stumbled through the hotel lobby. Giggles. Glances. Trying not to trip over each other’s feet. When the lift doors opened, he kissed her again. They reached his room; they barely made it inside. She didn’t even notice the door click shut.

Their mouths never parted. The air between them shifted, oxygen traded for heat. Every movement after that was urgent, like they’d both been waiting too long and were afraid the moment might slip away.

He kissed her like he was starved for her, like every second he wasn’t touching her was a second wasted. Her hands slid under his jacket, his fingers tangled in her hair, their mouths moving like they didn’t know how to stop.

They stumbled to the bed, knocking knees and giggling between gasps for air, but never once letting their mouth’s part for long. It wasn’t smooth. It wasn’t choreographed. It was real.

Clothes began to peel away, shirts tugged, jackets thrown. Her fingers fumbled at the hem of his shirt when she paused, just slightly, her breath catching.

“I don’t normally do this,” she whispered, “not on the first date.”

Oscar stilled. Instantly. He took her hands in his, gentle and grounding. His eyes found hers, searching.

“We don’t have to,” he said softly. “Not if you don’t want to. It won’t change a thing. You are,” his voice caught, “utterly gorgeous. This date’s been incredible. You’re already everything.”

She stared at him, trying to measure the weight of it. Then lifted her chin. “Do you want to?”

He laughed, quiet and breathless. “Are you kidding?” His thumb traced over her knuckles. “I want you in my brain, in my bed, on my lap, under me, above me. I want your hands on me. I want to be ruined by you. I haven’t stopped thinking about it. You deserve more respect than I could show you in one night, but I want to try. I want to worship you.”

He breathed in, eyes locked on hers. “I want a lifetime of nights between your thighs, but even that wouldn’t be enough. But I won’t move. I won’t touch you like that unless you ask me to.”

Scout didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Just stared at him, trying to memorise his whole face.

And then, finally, so quiet she could barely hear herself, she muttered, “Fuck it.”

She pulled him down onto the bed, over her, their mouths crashing again like they hadn’t already been kissing. She kissed him in sporadic, frantic pecks, her hands sliding into his hair, down his neck, across his back.

“I want you,” she whispered between kisses. “I want you.”

He didn’t hear it at first. But when he did, when the words finally registered, he froze just long enough to pull back, eyes wild and wide with disbelief. Then he grinned.

He reached for the hem of his shirt, lifting it, but her hand flew up, stopping him.

“Let me,” she said. Her voice made his knees go weak.

Her fingers brushed against the warm skin of his stomach as she slowly dragged his shirt upward, exposing the taut muscles beneath. His breath hitched when her nails grazed his ribs, light as a whisper but enough to make his body tremble. She took her time, savouring the way his chest rose and fell faster with every inch of fabric she peeled away, until finally, the shirt was over his head and discarded somewhere in the shadows of the room.

His hands hovered at her waist, desperate to touch but still holding back, waiting. She smirked at the restraint in his grip, the way his fingers twitched against her hip like he was fighting himself.

Her fingers traced the dip of his collarbone, then dragged lower, following the ridge of his sternum. Oscar exhaled sharply through his nose when her thumb brushed over the hem of his trousers, his whole body tensing like a bowstring.

"Scout," His voice was rough, barely a sound.

She silenced him with a kiss, biting his lower lip just hard enough to make him groan. His hands finally moved, gripping her waist like she might vanish if he didn’t hold on. The heat of his palms burned through the thin fabric of her dress, and she arched into it, craving more.

His mouth left hers to trail down her throat, teeth scraping lightly over her pulse point, hands sliding down her thighs, gripping firmly as he pushed her flat on the bed. The sheets were cool against her bare skin as he settled between her legs, his breath hot against her inner thigh. He pressed an open-mouthed kiss there, teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp.

She tangled her fingers in his hair, tugging lightly, but he didn’t rush. He took his time, lips trailing higher, achingly slow, until his tongue finally flicked against her. A sharp inhale. A shudder. His name tumbled from her lips, half curse, half plea. He groaned against her, the vibration sending sparks up her spine.

Her back arched off the bed as his tongue circled her, slow and deliberate, like he was mapping every tremor, every hitched breath. His hands pinned her hips down when she tried to move against him, fingers digging in just enough to leave faint marks.

"Oscar," His name shattered in her throat as he sucked lightly, then soothed the spot with the flat of his tongue. She could feel him smiling against her, the arrogant bastard, before he did it again. Her grip on his hair tightened, pulling hard enough to make him groan, but he didn’t stop.

Her breath came in ragged gasps as his mouth worked her with slow, deliberate strokes, each flick of his tongue sending shocks of pleasure curling through her. She arched, thighs trembling, fingers tightening in his hair.

His fingers joined, pressing in just enough to push her over the edge. She came with a choked cry, back bowing off the bed as pleasure crashed through her in waves, sharp and relentless. His mouth stayed on her, drawing it out, until she was shuddering, wrung out, her grip on him going slack.

His lips left her skin reluctantly, trailing back up her body with slow, open-mouthed kisses, her hipbone, the dip of her waist, the flutter of her ribs, each one leaving her shivering.

When he reached her mouth again, she could taste herself on his tongue, dark and intimate, and the realization made her whimper against his lips. His hands slid beneath her, gripping her backside as he pulled her flush against him, the rough drag of his jeans against her bare thighs sending another shudder through her. She hooked a leg around his hip, grinding down, and his groan was ragged, his forehead dropping to her shoulder.

“Scout,” His voice was wrecked.

Her hands slid down his chest, nails scraping lightly over his abs as she reached for his belt. The buckle clinked, loud in the quiet room, and Oscar shuddered as her fingers worked the button of his jeans.

“Fuck,” he breathed against her mouth, hips jerking when she palmed him through the fabric. She kissed him again, slow and deep, swallowing his groan as she finally freed him, her fingers wrapping around his length in one smooth stroke. His breath came ragged, forehead pressed to hers, lips parted as she moved her hand, slow, then faster, twisting just the way that made his thighs tense.

Her fingers tightened around him, stroking slowly, teasingly, as his breath came in ragged bursts against her neck. He shuddered when her thumb swiped over the head, his hips bucking helplessly into her grip.

“Scout,” His voice was rough, pleading. She kissed him, swallowing his groan as she guided him between her thighs, the tip of him pressing against her heat. His entire body tensed, muscles coiled, his forehead dropping to hers as he fought for control. Then she arched up, taking him in slowly, inch by inch, until he was buried deep inside her. A broken sound tore from his throat.

Her eyes widened in surprise, feeling him stretch and fill her completely. The sensation was a perfect mix of pleasure and pain that she craved. She didn't pause, though; she started moving, her hips rolling in a rhythm that sent shockwaves through her. Nails dug into his back, leaving faint marks as she held onto him.

His hands found her hips, his fingers biting into her flesh as he began to move with her, matching her tempo and deepening the penetration. Their kisses grew more frantic. Her breath was hot against his skin, her moans muffled by his mouth. His grip tightened, his hips moving faster, driving into her with a desperation that she could feel in every pulse of his cock. The room spun around them, the only sound their ragged breathing and the slap of skin against skin. Her nails scratched down his back, leaving trails of red, and she pulled away from his kiss to bite his earlobe, her teeth grazing the sensitive flesh.

The world exploded into white-hot pleasure as she came, her body spasming around him, her legs tightening reflexively to hold him deeper. He groaned, his own release following swiftly, pulsing inside her as he emptied himself into her. They clung to each other, their breaths mingling as their hearts raced in unison, lost in the aftermath of their shared passion.

As the tremors subsided, they lay there, entwined and panting. He kissed her neck, his hands stroking her sides in a gentle, soothing pattern. She turned her head to smile at him; her eyes glazed with satisfaction. He leaned in, capturing her mouth in a soft, lingering kiss that spoke of tenderness and love, a stark contrast to the raw need that had driven them only moments before.

The room was quiet, save for their breathing. Oscar’s forehead was still resting against hers, their noses brushing, his chest rising and falling in time with hers. One of her hands was still tangled in his hair. The other was resting flat against his shoulder, where she could feel his pulse racing under her palm.

Neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke. Until Scout broke the silence, breathless.

“Well,” she murmured, “you’re not bad at that.”

Oscar let out a quiet laugh, voice still wrecked. “Thank you. I do try to be a generous host.”

She smiled, cheek still pressed to the pillow. “You’re very courteous. 10/10. Would attend again.”

“You’re ridiculous,” he said, eyes crinkling at the corners as he kissed her temple.

“You started it,” she muttered.

His hand slid down her side, fingertips trailing her skin. “Are you okay?”

She nodded into him. “Yeah. You?”

He kissed her again, this time on her shoulder. “Better than okay.”

They lay there a little longer, her legs tangled with his, his fingers drawing aimless shapes on the small of her back. Every now and then, she’d shift, and he’d sigh like he’d forgotten how to breathe without her touching him.

After a while, Scout whispered, “I can’t believe I’m in Hungary.”

Oscar looked up, propping himself on an elbow. “I can’t believe you said yes.”

“I didn’t expect any of this,” she admitted. “Definitely not you.”

He smiled softly. “Why not me?”

“Because you’re” she paused. “Stable. Grounded. Emotionally literate.”

Oscar blinked. “Those are bad things?”

“No,” she said quickly. “Just unusual, for me at least.”

He laughed and buried his face in the pillow beside her. “God, your bar is so low.”

“Tragically.”

They both laughed, tired, breathless, that loose-limbed kind of laughter that only happens when you feel completely safe for the first time in a long time.

She shifted closer, draping a leg over his hip. “You know you’ve ruined all future dates for me now, right?”

Oscar smiled against her skin. “Good. That’s exactly what I was going for.”

They fell quiet again.

Eventually, he said, softer, “Do you want to stay?”

She blinked. “Here?”

“In my room. Tonight.”

Scout hesitated, not out of doubt, but because the question felt bigger than it sounded.

Then she nodded.

“I’d like that.”

Oscar exhaled, relieved. He pulled the covers over them and settled behind her, arm draped around her waist, their bodies fitted together like a habit they hadn’t known they’d already started forming. They didn’t say anything else. Didn’t need to.

~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~

Sunday. The sun over the circuit was brutal, and the grandstands were a sea of colour and noise. Scout had never been to a race before. Not properly. Not with a lanyard. Not with an actual reason to care. But she cared now. God, she cared.

She stood in the paddock behind the pit wall, half-hidden in borrowed sunglasses, chewing nervously on the straw of a water bottle she hadn’t drunk from in an hour. Her McLaren pass felt strange around her neck, like it belonged to someone else, someone important. Someone official.

Oscar finished third. Podium, yes. Not a win.

She watched from the screens as he stepped up, face unreadable. The champagne came out. Max and Lando sprayed him from both sides, and he winced, laughing, lifting the bottle over his head like it didn’t weigh more than his body.

He looked happy. Sort of. But she could see it, the slight edge of disappointment in the way he shook hands, the second-long pause when he looked out over the crowd. Still.

It was a podium.

Scout clapped quietly as the ceremony ended, but it didn’t feel like her place to be loud about it. This was his world. She was still learning how to stand inside it without knocking things over.

She waited near the back of the hospitality tent, sipping that same untouched water, until he finally reappeared, damp hair, suit unzipped to the waist, champagne-sticky and flushed from heat and adrenaline.

He spotted her immediately. Grinned. Not the smile he gave the cameras. Hers.

“You’re late,” she said.

He walked straight up to her and pressed a quick, unapologetic kiss to her cheek. “I was working.”

“Not very hard,” she teased. “Third?”

Oscar groaned dramatically. “You wound me.”

She smiled. “Still proud of you.”

He looked at her, properly, like the noise of the paddock dropped out for a moment.

“Did you watch the whole thing?” he asked.

She nodded.

“And?”

“You looked hot,” she said.

Oscar’s mouth twitched. “That’s your takeaway?”

She leaned closer. “Also, your left turn into the final sector was sloppy.”

He blinked. “You don’t even know what that means.”

“I do now,” she said, smug. “Lando explained it over toast.”

Oscar narrowed his eyes. “You’ve been talking to Lando without me?”

“He’s the funny one.”

Oscar let out a soft laugh and shook his head. “I need a shower.”

“You smell like second-hand Prosecco and regret,” she agreed.

“Come with me.”

“To the shower?”

“To the room.” He gave her a look. “For moral support.”

Scout took his hand.

“Only if I get to wear the medal.”

“It’s not a medal.”

“Then I’m not coming.”

Oscar smiled and tugged her through the tent, hand in hers, as if the podium hadn’t mattered, as if this moment did more. And maybe it did.

~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~

It had been a month. Four weeks of texts and late-night calls. Of stolen weekends and voice notes. Of seeing Oscar’s face more often through her phone screen than in person, and of laughing at photos Lando sent with no warning.

The “Piastri Pics” folder on her phone had twenty-six images now. Oscar mid-yawn. Oscar with a protein bar. Oscar blurry in a golf cart, wearing a hat too big for his head.

Sometimes Lando captioned them: “He’s doing promo and pretending not to hate it.”

Other times it was just: “This gremlin yours?”

She replied with memes. Sass. Sometimes with photos of her cat wearing tiny hats.

Oscar had texted, I miss you, one night after qualifying. She hadn’t known how to reply. So, she sent a selfie of her eating cereal in bed and wrote, patience is a virtue.

One morning, her phone rang. Sarah.

Scout considered ignoring it. She didn’t have the energy for actual conversation. But she knew Sarah, if she didn’t pick up, she’d get fourteen increasingly dramatic texts, and one meme about emotional repression.

“Hey,” Scout answered, voice half-wrapped in a yawn.

“You’re alive,” Sarah said, triumphant. “I was beginning to think you’d eloped with him. Do I need to call the embassy?”

“You say that like it’s not a perfectly viable plan.”

Sarah gasped. “Oh my god, you’re smitten.”

“I am not.”

“You are. That’s your ‘my heart’s doing weird things, and I don’t like it’ voice.”

Scout groaned and buried her face in the pillow. “Why do you know me so well?”

“Because I watched you once get genuinely emotional over a perfectly golden onion ring.”

Scout cracked a laugh.

Sarah didn’t let up. “So? What’s going on? You ghosted me after Spa. I assumed it was love or death.”

“It’s not either,” Scout muttered. “I’m just adjusting.”

“To what? Having someone who texts back within the same week?”

“No. Well. Yes, but also,” She sighed. “He’s just good. Too good. Like what if I break it? Or ruin it? Or start getting used to this and then he pulls a disappearing act and I’m the idiot who thought I could be happy.”

There was a long pause. Then, Sarah’s voice, gentler than expected “You ever think maybe you’re allowed to be happy?”

Scout stared at the ceiling. “Not really,” she said. “It’s not exactly my default.”

“Well,” Sarah said, “maybe it should be.”

Scout let the silence stretch. Outside, a dog barked. Somewhere, a bin truck screamed down the road.

Then her phone buzzed. A message from Oscar. Thinking of you. Also thinking about that weird chocolate biscuit, you made me try. Miss you anyway.

Scout smiled. Small. Real. Sarah heard it in her silence.

“Yeah,” she said. “You’re toast.”

Scout didn’t deny it.

~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~

Next, they were in Monza. Together. She hadn’t made it to Zandvoort, a shift she couldn’t swap, a scheduling mess she hadn’t wanted to admit upset her. But she was here now. And that mattered more.

They flew in on Tuesday. Spent Wednesday wandering Monza’s cobbled streets, half-lost, half-in-a-daydream. Oscar wore sunglasses and a cap pulled low; she wore a linen dress she’d forgotten she loved. They bought gelato. Argued over flavours. Took photos on a bridge where he lifted her up until she laughed so loudly a tourist took a photo of them.

Dinner was candlelit. Not pretentious, just warm. Homemade pasta, wine they couldn’t pronounce. He didn’t check his phone once. She reached across the table just to hold his fingers.

And when they got back to the hotel, to the room they’d booked together, neither of them rushed. She kicked off her shoes, sighing like she’d finished a marathon. He poured water into a glass and handed it to her like it was precious. There was no urgency. Just wanting, slow and certain.

They curled into bed, limbs tangled. She wore an old shirt of his and nothing else. He was shirtless, warm against her, tracing lazy patterns along her thigh. They talked in low voices. About nothing. About everything.

At some point, he kissed her shoulder. Then her collarbone. Then her cheek. She turned and kissed him softly, slowly, as if they had hours, and they did.

No rushing. No pressure. Just hands. Just breath. Just stillness in motion.

Oscar pulled her into his chest and whispered, “I’m really glad you’re here.”

She closed her eyes, hand sliding up the curve of his back. “Me too.”

And that was it. Not fireworks. Just skin on skin and heartbeat to heartbeat, until they both fell asleep like that, connected, content, whole.

~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~

Race day came with the buzz of electric air and pitlane chaos. Scout didn’t think she’d ever get used to it, the sound of engines and the pace of engineers, the static of radios and the glint of sun off carbon fibre. It was dizzying and addictive.

She walked the paddock alongside Oscar that morning, tucked just behind him. Lando greeted her with a dramatic bow, which earned him an eyeroll and a hug. A few other drivers passed with nods and raised brows. She caught Franco giving her a double-take. Carlos smiled. Charles said “bonjour” like he was half-joking.

Then came the girlfriends. Some waved. Some smiled politely. One, Alex’s girlfriend, gave her a warm “Finally!” and looped their arms together briefly as they exchanged pleasantries.

Scout had never felt more like a fish out of water in her life. But Oscar kept checking for her, gently brushing his fingers against hers whenever they weren’t being watched. When they reached the McLaren garage, he leaned in.

“You good?”

She nodded. “This is just a lot of expensive Lycra and weirdly tall people.”

He grinned. “And now you’re one of them.”

She snorted. “Absolutely not.”

Oscar squeezed her hand. “You’re still mine, though.”

From the paddock viewing terrace, she watched the race. It was a good one, intense, messy, tight. McLaren ran strong all weekend, and Oscar kept position like his life depended on it. He crossed the line in P2, the margin between him and Lando closer than anyone expected.

She clapped, cheered, pretended not to feel the butterflies that kicked into gear the second he stepped out of the car and lifted his helmet.

Her phone buzzed, it was the group chat Janet made, for the speed awareness course. A text from Tina, “Saw you on the Telly. Knew he liked you. Gary, you owe me a tenner.”

She laughed, and her phone buzzed twice again, Gary, “Piss off Tina.”,

And Ty, “Who is this?”

She laughed harder at that, the miserable group from hell, bringing her joy she’d never have imagined. Then came media. She watched from behind a screen in the hospitality suite, headphones half-on, a drink in hand, heart still racing.

A Sky Sports reporter asked him, “You’ve been consistently strong these last few races. Something’s clearly changed, is it confidence? Is it something in the car?”

Oscar smiled, subtle, not cocky. “I think when things outside the car are good, everything else starts to make sense.”

The interviewer nodded, not pressing. Moved on. But Scout knew. That line, that calm, measured nothing, was hers.

Her phone had since flooded with messages, but she only read one, Sarah, “Saw the podium. Tell your world champ to stop making the rest of us look bad. Also, I covered your Thursday shift. You owe me a pint and your firstborn.”

She smiled and sent an emoji rolling its eyes, as she scrolled her phone waiting for Oscar.

When she saw him again, hours later, she didn’t say anything. Just bumped her shoulder into his and handed him a bottle of water like it was some kind of inside joke.

He smiled. “You heard?”

She didn’t even look at him. “Could’ve been about your chiropractor.”

“But it wasn’t.”

“No,” she admitted. “It wasn’t.”

They ended the day surrounded by people but still orbiting each other. They celebrated with a few of the drivers, a casual dinner, nothing wild. Lando, of course, was the loudest. Charles bought the wine. Carlos stole the aux cord.

But it was Scout and Oscar who sat closest. Who kept leaning toward each other mid-laugh. Who shared food off each other’s plates. Who didn’t need to kiss to make it obvious.

When the group started dispersing, Oscar took her hand under the table.

“Come on,” he murmured. “Let’s go home.”

She didn’t ask if he meant the hotel. She didn’t care. She just followed.

~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~

The pub was nearly empty. Tuesday night, post-dinner rush, the kind of shift that dragged its heels and ended in half-empty pint glasses and a jukebox no one had touched since 2011.

Scout wiped down the bar with the kind of focus only exhaustion could produce. Oscar was stacking chairs behind her, sleeves rolled up, hair falling slightly into his eyes. He’d shown up an hour before closing, kissed her behind the storeroom door, and said, “Put me to work.”

She did.

“Don’t forget the ones by the darts board,” she called.

“On it,” he replied, slightly muffled, like he was talking through a broom.

He’d done this a few times now, just showed up, swept the floors, carried bins, dried glasses. He never made it a thing. Never treated it like a favour. He was just there. Present. Useful. Quietly hers.

She glanced over her shoulder, watching him try, and fail, to fit a chair under a table that was clearly not chair-friendly.

“You know,” she said, smiling faintly, “you’re terrible at this.”

“I’m not trained,” he said seriously. “You’ve never given me proper induction.”

“You’re stacking furniture, not operating heavy machinery.”

Oscar turned, gesturing dramatically to the mop. “Speak for yourself.”

She laughed. It came out tired, warm, real.

Later, they walked home in the cool night air, their steps in sync, his hand occasionally brushing hers. When they reached her door, he followed her in without asking. It was understood now.

They made tea in the dark kitchen. Shared a biscuit. She changed into an oversized hoodie; he borrowed her spare toothbrush. They fell asleep on the sofa, curled up together like gravity wouldn’t let them drift apart.

A week later, he was in Brazil. And she was not.

She sat in bed, knees tucked up, hair damp from the shower, her phone perched against a mug on the bedside table. Oscar’s face lit the screen, fresh from media, still in team gear, a little sun-flushed.

“You look tired,” she said.

“I’m not,” he lied.

“Liar.”

He smiled. “How was your day?”

She told him, work stories, pub nonsense, a cat she’d tried to rescue and failed. He listened. Nodded. Added sarcastic commentary. They drifted between silly and soft, like usual. But something buzzed underneath her skin. A pressure she couldn’t name.

Oscar noticed before she could bury it.

“Alright,” he said eventually, voice gentling. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said, way too fast.

“Scout.”

She chewed the inside of her cheek. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s you,” he said. “So, it’s not.”

She let out a short laugh. “You’re too good at that.”

“At what?”

“Getting me to talk.”

Oscar tilted his head. “So, talk.”

She hesitated. Looked down. Picked at a loose thread on her duvet.

“It’s just,” she started. “Sometimes I get stuck in my own head. About this. You. Me. All of it.”

He didn’t interrupt.

“I feel like I’m always waiting for the part where it stops being good,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “Like there’s an invisible timer somewhere. And I don’t want to ruin it by being too much. Or asking for too much. Or feeling too much.”

Oscar was quiet for a long moment. Then softly: “It’s not too much.”

She looked back at the screen. He looked tired, but not distant. Focused entirely on her.

“I know it’s race week,” she added quickly, self-conscious. “You’ve got other things to think about. I shouldn’t dump all this now,”

“Hey.” His voice cut gently through. “There’s never a bad time for honesty. Especially not from you.”

She smiled. A little wobbly. “I didn’t mean to spiral.”

“You’re allowed to spiral. I’ll be here when you stop.��

“Okay, now you spiral. Tell me your anxieties.”

He laughs, “I don’t think it works like that.”

“Come on, I told you mine, its only fair.” She said in between yawns.

He smiles, though it fades quickly. “I have to win the drivers championship this year. I’m capable, everyone knows I’m capable, so if I don’t, I’ll have failed. I’ll lose sponsors and supporters and eventually my place here.”

“That’s brutal,” she says. “Surely, they’d be more understanding, I mean it’s only your third year. Lando’s been here much longer than you, if you lost to him, would they understand.”

“Maybe, I guess.” He says, smiling at her. Her words won’t evaporate the pressure, but her attempt to eases his mind for a while at least.

They sat like that, the two of them, her in bed, him somewhere high above Sao Paulo, time zones apart but still orbiting.

Eventually, their words slowed. He lay back, phone propped up on his chest. She curled under her covers.

“You should sleep,” she whispered.

“So should you.”

Neither hung up. Minutes passed. Then breathing slowed. Then silence. They fell asleep like that. Together, apart. Still holding on.

~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~

The final race of the season. Everything, points, pressure, pride, had led here. McLaren had already clinched the Constructors' Championship, a runaway triumph that no one had predicted back in March. But the Drivers’ Title. That was still wide open. Three points. One race. Two teammates. One impossible decision away from glory. Scout stood at the edge of the McLaren garage, heartbeat louder than the engine tests behind her.

She’d gotten the weekend off, not because Oscar begged her boss, though he had, in a highly formal email that ended with, “Please let your excellent employee have some time off so she can watch her slightly above-average boyfriend not crash his car.” but because she’d asked three weeks ago and Pete had said, “Go win me a drivers’ championship.”

Now here she was. Abu Dhabi. Sun blinding off chrome. Heat curling off the tarmac. Cameras everywhere. The McLaren garage was buzzing, not frantic, but electric. Two drivers. One trophy.

Scout kept near the back, sipping cold water and trying not to chew her nails. Lando had stationed himself beside her, full of nervous energy and fake bravado while Oscar was in briefing.

“You ready to be the girlfriend of a constructors champion?” Lando asked with a grin.

“Which one?” she replied dryly.

He laughed, clearly keyed up. “I’ll be gracious. He can have you.”

“You’re too kind.”

They might have kept bantering, but then Lando’s parents arrived, and he peeled away, hugging them both.

Scout turned her head, and Oscar was there. No words. Just a quiet look and a soft kiss pressed to her temple. It said more than anything could have.

The race was chaos. Nerve-wracking. Incredibly fast. Visibly tense. Max led briefly. Lando gained time in the first sector. Oscar clawed it back in the third. She barely breathed. Barely moved. Her nails were gone by lap 41.

Lap 58, the final one. Oscar crossed first. By just under half a second. World Champion.

The garage exploded. Mechanics yelled. Papaya confetti somewhere. Scout didn’t know who grabbed her hand, but suddenly she was pulled toward the pit wall, to where the cars would return.

Oscar’s car rolled to a stop. He stood on it, stood on it, like a myth, fist in the air. She had maybe half a second to react before he hopped off, sprinted toward her, helmet still on, and she didn’t even think. She just kissed him over the visor, laughing, crying, pulling his head to her chest like she didn’t care that the cameras were catching it all.

“I’m so proud of you,” she whispered, voice cracked with joy.

He squeezed her hand, hard, before running back to get weighed in. On the way, he and Lando dapped each other up, something unspoken and solid in the way they clapped shoulders and grinned, still breathless.

Scout stood back, dizzy from it all, watching the podium prep. Her hands shook as she took a picture of him from the crowd, him standing there, hair damp, champagne bottle already in one hand, and that smile on his face like he finally, finally let himself believe it.

She texted him. You always look good. But sweet Jesus.

He wouldn’t see it now. Maybe not for hours. She sent it anyway, because when he took the trophy, held it up to the sky, and winked down into the crowd, she knew exactly who that wink was for.

~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~🏎️~

They were still half-high off the podium when they went out. All of them. McLaren booked out a rooftop club somewhere with too many velvet ropes and not enough ventilation. It didn’t matter. The whole team was there. Drivers from other teams came too, Charles with a mischievous grin, Alex in a shirt that should’ve been illegal. Lando was already half-sloshed and clinging to a bottle of something fizzy by the time they arrived.

Oscar didn’t let go of Scout’s hand once. They danced. They laughed. They never stopped touching, hands on waists, hips, shoulders, back of the neck. Every few songs, someone would shout “Champ!” and Oscar would blush, and nod and Scout would roll her eyes and squeeze his hand tighter.

At the bar, Scout offered, “I’ll stay sober. You should have a drink, you’ve earned it.”

Oscar smiled, not even tempted. “Nah. I want to remember every second.”

She looked at him, soft and a little in awe. “Then I’ll stay sober too.”

He touched her cheek. “You're unreal.”

“Flattery won’t get you that kiss right now,” she smirked.

They left around 2:00 a.m., tired and floaty, Scout curled in the passenger seat of a rented McLaren courtesy car that Oscar was absolutely qualified to drive but definitely shouldn’t have taken out of valet himself.

The windows were down. Her feet were bare. Her heels were somewhere in the backseat next to a McLaren bucket hat, a confetti cannon, and what she suspected might be a half-eaten protein bar.

Oscar drove, slow and steady, humming off-key to a song that had ended five minutes ago. His hand tapped the wheel in rhythm with something only he could hear. She was half-asleep in the passenger seat, wind tangling her hair, eyes on the stars.

Then he said, totally unprompted, “I’m never going to top this week, am I?”

She looked over. He was smiling, but quietly. Thoughtful.

“Like, I could win five more championships, but this one’s always gonna be the one. First one. Best one. You. Here. Everything.”

She blinked, caught off guard by the way he said you like it was part of the trophy. Then, instinctively, “If you weren’t driving right now, I’d kiss you.”

Oscar didn’t hesitate. Flicked the indicator, swerved to the side of the road, and threw it into park. “Not driving anymore,” he said, turning to her with that infuriating grin.

She stared. “You are ridiculous.”

“And you’re stalling.”

She laughed. Then leaned across the seat and kissed him. Slow. Warm. Real. They broke apart once. Briefly. Somewhere between laughter and breath-

“I’m in love with you, Oscar Piastri,” she said, plain and clear and stunned at herself.

He froze. “Say that again?”

“I’m in love with you,” she repeated, surer this time.

His smile unfurled like sunrise. “I’ve been waiting my whole life to hear that.”

He kissed her again, hand in her hair.

“I love you,” he whispered back. “Now tell me again.”

She did. He kissed her.

“Again.”

She was laughing now, breathless. “I love you.”

“Louder.”

“I love you, you absolute menace.”

“Better.”

They stayed like that, ridiculous and overflowing, kissing like they couldn’t stop even if they wanted to. Neither of them wanted to.

Between kisses and laughter and wild, breathless declarations of love, Scout pulled back just enough to look at him. “We really did meet in hell, didn’t we?”

Oscar grinned. “Not intentionally.”

She laughed, forehead resting against his. “Some kind of fate, then.”

He kissed the corner of her mouth. “Maybe. Speeding into it.”

“Unavoidable crash.”

“Accurate.”

Then, quieter, warmer, he said, “It was chance we met, but not our love. That was intentional,” His fingers found hers, laced them tight. “I choose you.”

“Every day,” she said. “Even the ones with Comic Sans and Janet.”

He laughed into her mouth. “Best thing I’ve ever been sentenced to,” he whispered.

[vxnillabxn]

Hello!!! I love your writings a lot and was wondering if you could write something about Zayne with a very "chivalrous" mc? Someone who loves spoiling him in lowkey ways, picks him up after his shift ends, delivers food between shifts and kisses his knuckles everytime they meet. I love the strong grounded chivalrous women trope a lot and I think Zayne would like someone like that too :]

Thank you!!

𐙚˙⋆.˚ zayne x fem!reader ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ fluff, fluff, fluff! ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ sfw! ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ do not translate/copy/repost! ꒰੭

﹙♡﹚i would wife this man up. literally. as i wrote this, i was thinking: hell yeah, yeah !!! he deserves all of this and more !!! thanks for the support, and thanks for requesting! i absolutely love this trope too! (˘͈ ᵕ ˘͈♡)

at first, he was a bit taken aback when you offered to drive him to the hospital.

…in his car.

and when you went all the way to open the door for him?

he was even more confused.

he didn't comment on it, though. he just kissed you goodbye and left.

little did he know that was the start of your many acts of service.

you'd ask if he had eaten yet, and if he hadn't, then you'd order a meal plus the recommended dessert of the day for him.

straight to his office, nice and warm.

if he wanted to take you out, however, you would pay. instantly. your card was already between your fingers before the employee could even say what the total was.

the last time you two went out, you took off his coat for him, and also pulled the chair so he could sit down.

he was silent, but the tips of his ears were slightly red.

you did it so confidently, too.

and he liked that, quite a lot.

when you two were back at home, you would open every door for him.

and you'd reach out for anything he might need, even when he quite literally could reach it himself —and sometimes even better than you.

he does find it cute when you open jars for him, though.

and he also loves when you take his hand and kneel just to kiss his knuckles.

he feels loved —and like a princess, low-key.

now, ever since you started treating him with such attentiveness and chivalry, he actually expects it every day.

for example, at lunch time, if there is a knock on his door, he expects the delivery person.

if you take his hand for whatever reason, he's waiting for the kissy-kiss.

if you two go out, he waits for you to open the door.

and now, whenever he lets you drive his car, he'll wait until you open the door for him.

you've spoiled him too much.

and since you always do this stuff, he gets sad if you forget.

he'll think you're mad at him, that you're tired of being like this, or maybe you think he's a grown man and he can do all of these things by himself.

and he can…

but you do them so much better —and much more lovingly, too.

obviously, he doesn't think you must do these things for him, and he won't force you to keep doing them if you don't feel like it…

but it already became a part of your routine as a couple.

so... yeah, he'll hold his hand up for you to kiss while staring at you, with a soft yet expectant gaze, like a cat wanting attention but not wanting to ask for it —explicitly.

and he'll wait for you to pick him up when his shift ends, holding the lunchbox you made for him, the scarf you bought for him, and the coffee you sent to him as an energy booster.

and you'll keep doing it, because you love taking care of him, and you also love the soft, proud smile on his face whenever someone comments on how cute your dynamic is.

he also swears he'll surprise you when you least expect it, and he'll take care of you the same way —or in his own, caring way— without ceasing your chivalrous nature.

because he's in love with it, as much as he's in love with his sweet, caring and, most importantly, his strong girlfriend.