#and then he starts thinking about all the kids who will be looking up to HIM? and will be buying/winning his figured

[no-144444]

i love love your writing i probably binged some of them haha! i was wondering if you can write smth about their partner having intense baby fever. i was thinking you can do oscar or ollie or the whole grid, really up to you ❤️

꩜ summary: you say something, and it tips his world upside down

꩜ pairing: oscar piastri x fem! reader

꩜ a/n: thanks for requesting!

Family functions weren’t exactly Oscar’s forte, but you made them bearable. Kids running around, adults too drunk to remember to hold their tongues, and you and Oscar, usually sat in the corner of the garden on kid duty. You were wonderful at it, listening intently, sorting out arguments in seconds, all while holding onto one of Nicole’s friends daughter’s 5 month old baby. He’d tried to take her off your hands, but she’d started crying immediately. He watched in awe, totally enchanted by you. 

“We should have a kid,” you said, as casual as anything. His world tipped on its side. Yeah, maybe he thought about it occasionally. Like in those moments when you’re so wonderful with Penelope, or his own family, or Lando’s nieces and nephews, or maybe in those moments when you know exactly what to say to anyone to calm them down, or often those moments when he was balls-deep inside of you seconds away from cumming. “What do you think?” you turned to look at him with that innocent ‘I didn’t just give you a boner and make you want to cry at the same time’ look. He turned his attention back to the park in front of you both, Family Fun Day in full swing. 

“I’d like that,” his voice was a pitch too high and he coughed despite himself. “I mean- yeah. I think we should. Affirmative,” he felt like he’d passed out and woken up with his hand on his forehead, ready to salute. You chuckled and leaned against his shoulder, his cheeks already a bright shade of red. The baby in your arms wriggled, but it didn’t faze you. None of it seemed to. 

“You’re such a dork,” you chuckled, then you were quiet for a moment, soaking it all in. The garden in front of you, littered with kids of all ages, and you couldn’t help but think of you and Oscar with your own little hoard of kids who looked exactly like you two. You watched as he helped out one of the girls, she’d fallen and hurt her knee, and he sat her on the remaining space on the bench between you, and played ‘I-spy’ until she felt good enough to go back out there. “You’ll be a great dad though.” 

Again, his world flipped on its side. He cleared his throat, shocked that even after years of being together, you could still make him feel like this. He took a deep breath. It was the fact that it was definitive. Not ‘you would’ be a good dad. You will be a good dad. No questions asked. “You’ll be a great mum.”

“I hope so,” you answered dreamily. “Some little toddler running around looking like us.”

He swore he’d died and gone to heaven when he thought about that. Mornings with you, sunlight streaming in, a little girl or boy who had your eyes and his hair or vice versa, babbling away while he helped you make a morning coffee, and helped them with homework, or reading, or anything they’d ever want. It pulled at his heart more than he’d want to admit. “Yeah,” he smiled. “That’d be nice.”

mclaren masterlist

navigation for my blog :)

[ninisdollie]

pinky promise - park sunghoon 𓈒ིུ ❤︎

‎ ₊ㅤ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Ⳋ᧙ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ⁺

"In which Sunghoon is completely obsessed with his dumb, beautiful, sparkly girlfriend"

‎ ‎ ‎ ⁺ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ❤︎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ⊹　₊ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ͏͏✧ Content: +18MDNI

fem! reader x sunghoon, bimbo! reader, established relationship, i made reader extra bimbo so she has a boob job and a nose job, fluff, crack, not a full smut scene but dumbification, humiliation, unprotected sex, creampie.

hate comments will be deleted and blocked!! likes and reblogs are appreciated.

notes: this was on my drafts for so long omg, my bimbo reader x member saga continues, who should be next? let me know <3

The first time Sunghoon saw you, he didn’t really like you, he thought you were a walking headache.

You were in his economics lecture, twirling a glittery pen and chewing pink gum like it was a full-time job. You wore a tiny top which was definitely inappropriate for college, with the word “PRINCESS” bedazzled across the chest, your notebook filled with hearts and sparkly stickers instead of actual notes. You were staring at the ceiling probably thinking about which shade of pink was your favourite. He thought you were ridiculous.

He also couldn’t stop looking at you.

Your perfect blowout, impossibly shiny and curled at the ends like you'd just stepped out of a salon. The soft swoop of your lashes. The way your perfume, something sweet and expensive, lingered in the air whenever you walked past. The sound of your gum popping mid-lecture. It was maddening.

When you waved at him across the hall the next day, he looked behind him like you had to be talking to someone else.

You started sitting next to him in class. Talking to him between lectures. Asking him dumb questions like, “Do you think cats get embarrassed when they fall?” or “What if my lip gloss is too sparkly for school—like, legally?”

He tried to ignore you. He really did. But then you started bringing him little things, an extra coffee, snacks with cute sticky notes that said “Don’t forget to eat, cold boy” and before he knew it… you were just there all the time. 

Everyone knew who you were, daddy’s girl, had a nose job at sixteen  and a boob job at eighteen. Everything about you screamed money, privilege, and zero shame. You parked your bubblegum-pink convertible outside like you owned the damn place, engine still purring, music blasting some sugary pop anthem. Designer sunglasses perched on your nose, lips glossed and shiny like a reality show.

And Sunghoon hated girls like you. 

Until he didn’t anymore. 

You drove him fucking crazy.

And nothing pissed him off more than the fact that no matter how many times he rolled his eyes at you or snapped at you to “use your brain for once,” he always ended up with you curled up on his lap by the end of the night, pouting, giggling, and completely unaware of how obsessed he was.

The bowling alley lights glowed neon pink and blue, a dreamy haze over the slick floor and rows of plastic seats. You bounced up to the lane, pink ball cradled in both hands, wearing a pleated micro skirt that had absolutely zero business being worn in a bowling alley.

Sunghoon already had one hand to his temple.

“Okay, okay—watch me this time,” you chirped, sticking your tongue out with confidence that was completely unearned.

He watched. Unfortunately.

You swung horribly. The ball dropped with a loud thud that made a few kids in the next lane flinch, then rolled with tragic optimism straight into the gutter, again.

A long, painful silence.

You turned around with a hopeful smile, one acrylic nail to your bottom lip, your brows sticked together 

“Did I hit… like, any of them?”

Sunghoon stared at the untouched pins. 

“You hit my will to live. That’s what you hit.”

You burst out laughing, completely unfazed, trotting back to him with a giggle and zero shame. 

“It’s not my fault the ball’s heavy! And slippery! And the floor is so weird, like, what even is oiling the lane? Is that real?”

Sunghoon blinked, already regretting choosing bowling for your weekly date. 

“Yes. That’s real. It’s literally part of the sport.”

You leaned dramatically onto his shoulder, rolling your beautiful eyes decorated with pink shimmery eyeshadow. 

“Ugh, sports.”

He side-eyed you, lips twitching like he was trying very hard not to smile. 

“You are unreal. Actually brainless.”

“Brainless and beautiful,” you hummed proudly.

He handed you a bottle of water with the calmness of someone who had already accepted defeat on every level, of someone that loved his girlfriend so much even if she was getting on his nerves. 

“At this point I’m surprised you didn’t throw the ball backwards.”

“Oh my god, is that allowed?!”

He closed his eyes. 

“I’m going to need a refund on this date.”

You gasped, playfully smacking his chest. 

“You love this. Don’t lie.”

“I love winning. You’re making that impossible by association.”

You let out a dramatic whine and flopped down into the seat next to him, pink gloss shining under the lights. You looked up at him through your fake lashes, blinking innocently. 

“You could let me win…”

He turned to you, full deadpan. 

“Not even if I was dying.”

You pouted. 

“What if I kissed you?”

His expression faltered. Just slightly.

He hated how easily you got to him, how ridiculous you were, with your glitter and your fake tan and your complete inability to understand basic physics, and how despite all of that, his stomach still flipped like a middle schooler every time you leaned in close.

“…Still no,” he mumbled, avoiding eye contact.

But his ears turned just a little pink.

You grinned. 

“Okay. One more try. Watch this.”

Sunghoon leaned back with a long, suffering sigh, arms crossed as he watched you approach the lane like you were about to do a runway walk, not a sport.

You tossed the ball.

This time… it clipped the edge. Wobbled. And one lonely pin wobbled, wobbled…

Then fell.

You screamed. 

“I got one!”

You spun around, throwing your arms up like you’d just landed a triple axel in the Olympics.

“Babe did you see that?! I got one!”

Sunghoon clapped once, dryly. 

“Congratulations. You’ve reached the motor skills of a toddler.”

But when you threw yourself into his arms, giggling with pride, he caught you instantly, hands settling at your waist like second nature. Your breath was warm against his cheek, your lip gloss a little smeared from all your shouting, and god, you looked so proud of yourself.

So happy.

He couldn’t help it. His jaw softened, and his eyes flicked down to your lips. You noticed, grin stretching a little wider.

“Still not letting me win?” you whispered.

He groaned softly, then finally leaned in, brushing your lips with his, warm, slow, and just a little smug. His kisses were always the sweetest, but also the neediest, like he couldn’t resist tasting your cherry gloss on his tongue and how your plump lips - natural, because your father refused to let you get another thing done - moved against his. 

“You’ll never win,” he murmured against your mouth.

“But I got you to kiss me,” you whispered back.

He pulled away with a tiny smirk. 

“That doesn’t mean you’re not terrible at bowling.”

You beamed. 

“So you admit I’m good at something.”

Sunghoon sighed, defeated.

“Yeah. Being annoying.”

Later that night, your legs were draped lazily across Sunghoon’s lap as you half-watched a rerun of Gossip Girl on his TV, spooning pink-frosted ice cream into your mouth with the tiny gold spoon you refused to let go of. Sunghoon had tried to take it from you earlier, saying it was impractical.

You nearly bit his hand.

Now he sat there, half-annoyed, half-smitten, poking at the remote and occasionally shooting side-eyes at your terrible taste in TV, which he was definitely not going to admit he had started following.

“I still don’t understand how someone could bowl that badly,” he muttered out of nowhere, shaking his head like he was personally offended.

“I have delicate wrists,” you said simply, licking ice cream from your spoon. “I’m not built for violence.”

“You’re built for chaos.”

“You’re built for being rude.”

“I’m built for reality,” he muttered.

You grinned, wiggling your toes against his thigh, until you suddenly sat up with a little gasp.

“Wait—I forgot!”

“Oh no,” he said immediately.

You bounced off the couch, your fuzzy pink slippers flopping, and grabbed your oversized Juicy Couture tote.

“I got you a present!”

Sunghoon looked like he was preparing for war.

 “A what?”

“A little something,” you said brightly, pulling out a small, glossy pink box wrapped in a glitter ribbon. “A sexy thank-you gift. Because I’m sweet like that.”

So, he opened it.

And immediately froze.

Inside was a pair of black boxer briefs. At first glance, normal. But upon closer inspection, covered in little high-res photos of your face.

Pouting. Blowing kisses. Winking. Tongue out.

He held them up in horror.

“What the actual hell—”

You squealed.

“Aren’t they adorable?! Look, I picked the kissy face from my summer vacation selfie. That one’s your favorite, right?”

His jaw dropped slightly.

“You put your face on underwear.”

“Your underwear,” you corrected proudly. “It’s a custom print!”

He blinked again.

“You seriously expect me to wear these?”

“You’re gonna love them.”

“They’re deranged.”

“They’re personalized.” You pouted, staring at the boxers on his hands so proudly “You’re so ungrateful. I almost ordered the thong version.”

His nose scrunched.

“Why is that worse?”

“They had hearts that said ‘Daddy’s Favorite’ all over the front. You would’ve looked so cute.”

“I’m going to take your access to online stores.”

“You’re in love with me.”

He groaned, but the corners of his mouth twitched.

“I feel like I’m in a relationship with a walking pop-up ad.”

You rolled onto your side and propped your chin in your hand. “You say that, but I caught you smiling. Admit it.”

He looked down at the boxers again, defeated.

“I’m going to burn these.”

“You’re sooo going to wear them to bed.”

“I am not.”

“I’m going to take a picture when you do.”

He looked at you with genuine concern.

“You should donate your brain to the science, i genuinely have no idea how the fuck it works.”

You grinned wider, then crawled into his lap and tugged the boxers from his hand, holding them up between you like a trophy.

“You know,” you said playfully, brushing your lips against his jaw, “you’re kind of hot when you’re annoyed.”

His hands settled instinctively on your waist, and despite the chaos, despite the insanity of your gift, he didn’t push you away. His fingers tightened slightly, eyes narrowing.

“You’re insane,” he muttered again.

“And you like it.”

You kissed him softly, sugary-sweet and smiling against his mouth, and he let out a low breath like he was surrendering to a war he’d already lost.

“Thank God you’re cute and have fake boobs” he said under his breath.

“I’m gorgeous,” you whispered, kissing him again. “And you’re obsessed with me.”

He sighed, resting his forehead against yours.

“Unfortunately.”

You laughed, nuzzling into his chest as he wrapped his arms around you, and somewhere on the coffee table, your face-covered boxers sat like the world’s most deranged declaration of love.

And the next morning, when you woke up early and peeked under the blanket?

He was wearing them.

In the bedroom, Sunghoon worshipped you 

He spoiled you, yes. Bought you pretty things, let you crawl into his lap just to be kissed, whispered soft pet names against your throat like they meant something sacred. But when it came to sex, he didn’t just spoil, he ruined.Constantly. Proudly. He loved how soft you got under him. How pliant. How you went quiet and fuzzy the second he touched you, all that usual chatter melting into breathy gasps and broken whimpers like you’d been made to be used.

It wasn’t just sex. It was a ritual.

That was the part that made his blood run hot, the way you gave in so easily. Like your body had memorized what he needed before he even asked. Like you were wired to fall apart for him.

You were perfect for him. Sweet. Obedient. Dumb in all the ways he liked.

Sometimes you wore lace just to catch his attention. Sometimes you whined for his hands in that sugar-sweet voice you knew drove him crazy. And sometimes, like that night, you were already breathless before he even undid his belt, squirming under his gaze like you needed him more than air.

And Sunghoon? He lived for it.

He lived for the way your thighs twitched when he called you his dumb little doll. For the way your breath hitched when his voice dropped and he ordered you to spread your legs. For the way you sighed his name like a prayer every time he said, “Good girl.”

He teased, he degraded, he controlled every second,  and yet never once crossed your boundaries. Even when he was deep inside you, voice low and filthy in your ear, hands gripping your hips tight enough to bruise, the care never left his touch.

And when it was over, when you were limp and trembling in the sheets, too blissed out to speak, he always gathered you into his arms. Always pressed a kiss to your temple. Always whispered soft, quiet things while he cleaned you up and tucked you into his chest.

But tonight, you knew you were pushing it.

The second you made that little comment — pouty and venom-laced — about him forgetting his wallet at brunch, you felt the air shift. Saw that flicker in his eyes. Not anger, not quite. No, Sunghoon never wasted energy on petty things.

It was something darker.

And now, your wrists were pinned above your head with one of his hands,  fingers wrapped snug around your wrists, his rings cold against your skin. Your legs spread wide, your body flushed and trembling, caught in that hazy place between bratty resistance and desperate submission.

“Still got that attitude, baby?” he murmured, voice low and slow as his free hand traced a path down your torso, nails grazing just enough to make you twitch. “Or did I fuck it out of you already?”

You opened your mouth, maybe to whine, maybe to say his name, but all that came out was a gasp when his fingers slid between your thighs, two slow strokes over your soaked panties. He smiled like a man who knew exactly what he was doing to you.

“God, look at you. All that attitude earlier and now you’re fucking dripping.”

His hand cupped your sex through the fabric, warm and heavy. His palm pressed down, applying just enough pressure to make you buck into it, and he tisked, shaking his head like you were being difficult again.

“Didn’t I say you don’t get to be in charge tonight?”

His fingers gripped your jaw, turning your face to meet his. The heat in his eyes made your breath catch.

“You know the rules, baby,” he whispered, brushing his thumb over your bottom lip. “No thinking. That pretty little head of yours belongs to me tonight.”

You whimpered. Nodded. Your voice barely worked, hazy, pliant, floating somewhere between arousal and surrender.

“Mhm… yours.”

And fuck, did that make something snap in him.

He released your wrists only to grab your hips and flip you onto your stomach, not bothering to be gentle. His hands gripped your ass, kneading the soft flesh as he leaned over you, breath hot against your ear.

“That brat from earlier?” he growled, rutting his hips against your ass. “She gone now?”

You nodded frantically into the sheets, muffled moans escaping your lips.

“You sure?” He dragged his cock, hard and leaking, along your soaked slit, just enough to tease but not enough to satisfy. “Because if I hear another whine outta that mouth, I’m not gonna let you come. Understand me?”

“Y-yes—” you managed, though it came out as more of a sob. “I’m sorry…”

He chuckled darkly.

“That’s better.”

And then he was inside you — deep — all at once. No warning. No slow stretch.

Just a sharp, claiming thrust that knocked the air from your lungs and left you shaking. You gasped, nails digging into the sheets, tears prickling at your eyes from the overwhelming fullness. He stilled for a second, letting you adjust because even mean, he never hurt you, and then he began to move. Hard. Every thrust deliberate, punishing, meant to remind you of exactly who was in control.

“There she is,” he whispered, dark eyes eating you alive. “My sweet, stupid girl.”

He set a brutal rhythm, one hand gripping your thigh while the other held your jaw in place so he could watch your expression crumble.

“Stay dumb for me,” he growled, voice ragged now, hips slamming into yours. “Don’t think. Just take it.”

“This what you wanted?” he hissed between clenched teeth, skin slapping against yours with a filthy rhythm. “Act like a brat so I fuck you stupid?”

You couldn’t answer,  your mind was blank, body on fire, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of him. He leaned down, pressing his chest to your back, lips at your ear. 

“You’re such a fucking mess for me. So easy to break. Just a few minutes and I’ve already got you drooling on the sheets.”

His hand slid under you, between your thighs again, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, fast circles in sync with his thrusts. You choked on a moan, loud, needy, helpless.

“Look at that. Can’t even form words anymore,” he mocked, voice dripping with smug satisfaction. “My dumb little doll. All that sass earlier and now you’re too fucked-out to talk.”

Your thighs were trembling violently now, breath coming in shallow pants as the pressure built, your orgasm looming, cruel and inevitable.

Sunghoon knew. Of course he knew. He groaned, low and rough, hips slamming into you deeper.

“You close, baby?”

You sobbed something incoherent.

“Use your words. Come on.”

“Y-yes—yes, I’m—please—!”

He didn’t let up. Not for a second.

“You gonna come all over my cock after being a fucking brat in public? You think you deserve that?”

You shook your head, didn’t trust yourself to speak, but your body betrayed you, tightening around him as the orgasm hit. It crashed into you hard, like lightning through your veins, and you screamed, stars bursting behind your eyes. You didn’t even register him groaning your name, hips jerking as he came inside you moments later.

The room spun. Your limbs felt heavy. Your brain buzzed with static. And yet, even as your body trembled in the aftermath, Sunghoon’s touch softened, his voice dropped.

“Good girl,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your spine. “Took me so well. You did so good, baby.”

His hands rubbed slow, grounding circles into your thighs and lower back.

“You okay?”

You managed a nod, dazed, boneless, but safe.

Because no matter how rough he was, no matter how mean he got when you pushed his buttons, Sunghoon always took care of you after.

“Hoonie?” You whispered, soft voice after a while.

He stroked your arm, kissing softly on your shoulder before looking at you.

“Yes, babygirl?”

“Do you love me?” You batted your fake eyelashes, still perfect on your eyes even after the intense sex session.

He looked at you with shiny eyes, as if he couldn’t believe you were asking him that.

“Of course, baby. I love you.”

“Pinky promise?” You put out your hand, sticking your pinky and he laughed softly before locking it with his.

“Pinky promise.”

[ktownshizzle]

Pigments & Playlists | myg

✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x female Reader ✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: Between makeup and music, you find the one person worth blurring the lines for. ✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: coworkers to lovers, idol au, older woman (by a few years), fluff, smut ✎ ˎˊ˗ Warnings:  Undercut Yoongi! Undercut! Him being such an attentive thoughtful king, nothing major i think this is a pretty light read, cursing, jk being the annoying younger brother type, lots of makeup brands and seventeen references, MC has thirsty thots for yoongi but who can blame her, part two is where we will have the action (trust) but savor the cuteness of part one for now ✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 5.6k ✎ ˎˊ˗ Posting date: June 8, 2025 ✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: Hello! I have been talking about this makeup noona fic for a while and it’s here. This is a two-shot (don’t y’all make me make it a series!) Thank you so much @tea4sykes for betareading.

Series Masterlist | Yoongi Masterlist

You drag your Züca makeup trolley behind you, wheels gliding against the marble floors. Your phone is tucked between your ear and shoulder as you walk, eyes scanning for a sign, the one marking the next chapter of your career.

Wonwoo’s voice crackles in your ear.

“I’m gonna be fine… No, I’m not gonna have a new favorite… That’s impossible… Just focus on your training, okay?... Seriously? Bye, Wonwoo.”

You sigh, tap the end button, and slide your phone into your back pocket.

Ah, so this is what the 21st floor looks like.

The floor dedicated to the men who built the HYBE building from the ground up.

You laugh to yourself. Does this mean you made it, too? It kinda does, doesn’t it? 15 years doing makeup, five years with Seventeen. Specifically: Seungcheol’s unruly brows, Mingyu’s overzealous sweat glands, and Wonwoo’s refusal to exfoliate. You weren’t just part of the team—you were theirs. The noona they teased mercilessly, trusted absolutely, and sometimes trauma-bonded backstage while waiting for hair dryers to cool.

Now you’re here. Reassigned. Promoted, actually. You’re now the lead makeup artist of Bangtan Sonyeondan, with eight makeup artists and hair stylists in your team. The mission? Make BTS the prettiest fuckin’ boys in all of history. Maybe even prettier than Seventeen? Fat chance. You’re too biased with Sebong.

At the end of the hallway, you spot the door marked:   BTS.   Authorized Personnel Only.   No Cameras. 

And for you, there’s No Turning Back.

You take a breath. Pull your kit and push forward.

No one notices you at first. That’s fine. That’s how you like it. You don’t want to feel like the new kid, all awkward smiles and intros.

You set your kit down by the makeup mirrors and start laying out your brushes. Foundation. Concealer. Lip tints. Focus. Routine.

“Y/N-noona?”

Seokjin. The only one you’ve met before. He had a style consultation for his MV and you were basically asked to lead it as a sort of audition to this new role that you were considered for.

You spent hours scouring the internet for reference pics. But for you his visual was very straightforward. Matinee idol. Heart-achingly handsome, but still kinda attainable, if that even made sense. Full lips–you’re going to be playing this up as the focal point. Maybe dried fig or muted berry for pigment, just the lightest touch. He’s got thick, fluffy natural hair that you’ll need to tame with some lightweight products to push it back to a clean, slick leading man vibe.

“I don’t need botox anymore,” was what he famously said after an hour under your skillful hands. And the rest is history.

“Hello, Seokjin,” you nod.

“Have you met the rest of the members?”

“Haven’t had the pleasure.”

“It’s fine, they’re not important.”

“Yah!” Jimin shouts without looking, obviously eavesdropping. “Don’t talk shit about us, hyung. Hi, Y/N-noona.”

Jungkook glances up and strolls over, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

“Noona, I’m Jungkook. Wait—ohhhh. You’re Seventeen’s makeup noona?”

“You make it sound like I’m their property, but… yeah. Now yours, though.”

He giggles, bunny teeth on full display. “Mingyu’s like, in love with you.”

You can’t tell if he’s joking. Probably. Maybe. You don’t know.

“I should text him,” Jungkook adds, already reaching for his phone, laughing.

Your cheeks go warm immediately. Good thing you already wore blush—at least it hides some of the embarrassment burning through you.

Before you can figure out how to respond, one of the senior hair stylists calls your name from the next room.

Saved by the bell.

You mutter a quick excuse and step away, heart doing something it definitely shouldn’t be doing around these fine men you didn’t expect to affect you this much.

You pull up the sleeves of your black blazer, checking your makeup station one last time. You just finished your pre-production meeting  with your team, going through today’s run of show and the shoot concept one last time before it begins.

The pegs are taped up on one of the walls, one for each member. You’re confident you can pull this off–you cannot not. It’s your first damn day and you sure as hell want to prove your worth.

Thankfully, your team is not all new. Half of them have been with BTS for years, while the other half are just like you, reassigned, when a few of the long-standing makeup noonas stepped away—schedule conflicts, burnout, one just had a baby. So naturally, BTS’s glam rotation shifted. Jungkook, Jimin, and Yoongi needed new regular artists.

Your right hand woman and the most senior from the tenured makeup girls, Hyein suggested you take him. “He’s not high maintenance. Just likes it quick and consistent.” And since working on him might be quicker than the rest, you will always have time to do quick checks with your junior members.

That’s how you ended up with Yoongi.

And truthfully? You are kind of glad.

You’ve always thought his face was interesting. Not just in a “he photographs well” way. Because most of them do. But there’s something in his bone structure that keeps your eyes coming back. Sharp where you don’t expect. Soft in places that should be angular.

You spend some time studying his features through online references, as you have done with Jin, and as you always do with new artists you handle.

His eyes are slightly mismatched. One double lid, one monolid. Not obvious. It gives him this quiet asymmetry and you already plan to adjust his liner differently every time, because you want to work with it, not against it.

His skin is bright, borderline unfair. “Brighter than your future” as one Tiktok said. He has a few scattered freckles that only show up in certain light. 

Two scars on his forehead near his left brow and one just north of it, then there’s another tucked under his right eye. You don’t intend to cover them up unless he tells you to. If anything, you think this makes him look a little badass. Seems like that’s the persona he’s going for anyway.

His lips are a soft kind of full—not pouty, but plush. Tinted naturally pink like he’s always just bitten them. Shame how in older photos, his top lip shape seems to be blurred with concealer. None of that now that you’re in charge.

And then there’s his hair. Always changing. Sometimes blonde, once ginger, sometimes brown red, once, briefly, a mint shade that made him look like a faerie. Now it’s coal black, natural. Undercut.

The first time you meet Yoongi, he bows and says exactly four words. “Welcome to the team.”

Not the warmest of welcomes, but it’s fine. You think he doesn’t say them unkindly. Maybe he’s just one of those brooding, mysterious idols. Still waters run deep or whatever.

You nod back, introduce yourself.

He eases back into his chair and closes his eyes. For the entire time.

His skin is warm under your fingers. Breath even. Doesn’t flinch when you brush under his eyes, around his cherry nose. When you’re finished, you say so. He glances at his reflection once in the mirror, moves his face left then right, then at you.

“Thank you. I like it,” he says, then walks out.

Cool.

The second time, he beats you to the glam room. He’s in the chair already, in a fuzzy yellow cardigan, hair ruffled from outside. There’s a faint sheen of sweat still drying on his temple. He gives you a tiny nod when you enter.

“Hey. How’s it going?” Four words. Same as last time.

“I’m well,” you respond as you unzip your brush case and start setting up. 

Once you’re done, you pull out a portable bluetooth speaker from the bottom of your trunk. 

“Do you mind music?” you ask Yoongi, who’s busy with his phone.

He shakes his head. “Play what you want.”

You power up your speaker, scroll through your playlist, and hit shuffle to an old 2000s playlist–the music of your youth.

Midway through, you hear a faint sound. And as you push the silicone applicator to his lips, you feel the gentle vibration as he hums along to the second verse of “Iris” by the Goo Goo Dolls.

You don’t comment, but for some reason, this realization makes you happy. The chorus swells.

The next time you meet, he asks to pick the music. You don’t mind. In fact you’re curious what some acclaimed musical genius like him would listen to.

“Want my speaker?”

He shrugs.

You hand it over.

He scrolls for less than ten seconds before music clicks on.

Is that Ring Ding Ding?

You both pause. Look at each other. Then laugh.

“Respect,” you murmur, hiding your smile. 

“It’s a classic,” he says, solemn as a priest.

After that, you start talking. Just… little things. Safe things.

Mostly about music.

You find out he’s got strong opinions about snare sounds in 90s R&B. He then shifts the playlist to that.

He tells you about working with Tablo and and you don’t know how bright you’re lighting up until he teases you, “want me to get you an autograph or something?” You admit you’ve had a crush on him for years. “Like what do you mean he’s ivy league smart and hella goofy, too?”

Then, you tell him about your teenage boy band phase (it’s not just Backstreet Boys and *NSYNC, you were even into the more obscure ones from the UK). You also admit you mourned for Aaliyah and Left Eye.

He confesses he went through an intense BoA obsession and that he may still be in love with her—even tried to copy her hair for one of his concerts.

Things escalate when you both try to rap the second verse of “Nice & Slow.” You fumble spelling U-S-H-E-R five seconds in, and it all goes downhill from there.

“It’s the H!” he hoots. “He says it differently.” You realize he is right. Koreans have that extra syllable.

Somehow, between blending pigments and sharing playlists, something opens up between you.

It’s not fast. It’s not grand. But it’s happening.

One morning, your playlist shuffles itself into an old ache:  “Don’t Wanna Cry” by Seventeen. You freeze only for a second, at Wonwoo’s ulgo ship ji ana, but Yoongi notices.

You try to focus on the foundation you’re patting onto his cheek, but something twists in your chest.

“Missing your old team?” Yoongi asks.

“They’re my boys,” you say, kind of offhand. Kind of not.

Yoongi doesn’t say anything, but you feel his eyes on you through the mirror. He doesn't look annoyed or anything. Just still. Like he’s filing the words somewhere he’ll come back to later and you’re not sure why that makes your throat feel tight.

He’s good at silence, Yoongi. Knows when not to push. But the space he leaves is always heavy. You don’t know what to do with it.

But Jungkook does.

The maknae is sitting in the next chair over, scrolling on his phone, waiting for his makeup artist. At the mention of Seventeen, he perks up instantly, like a dog hearing a treat bag.

“Tell me something Mingyu can do better than me,” he challenges.

You blink at him. “Excuse me?”

“Noona.” He throws in a dramatic sigh. “Be honest.”

You have no idea why Jungkook wants to make this a 1 v 1 showdown between him and Gyu, but you’ll play along. It’s cute.

You glance at Yoongi again. He’s looking down now, pretending he’s not listening as he scrolls his phone, but the corner of his mouth is doing that twitchy thing that says otherwise.

You smirk. “I mean… I liked both your Calvin Klein campaigns.”

Jungkook puts his phone down slowly, like he’s processing emotions. “He only got that gig after I enlisted.”

“He still looked good though,” you sing-song.

“I—wow.” He shakes his head. “You really gonna do me like this in front of hyung?”

You hold up a hand. “Didn’t say he was better.”

“But you implied it,” Jungkook fires back, boba eyes bulging out of its sockets. “What else?”

“I mean, Mingyu is pretty good in the kitchen.”

That does it.

“No way,” Jungkook says, leaning forward like he’s about to attack. “Now I have to invite you over. I’m making dinner. Full spread. Five courses. Hyung can come, too.”

Yoongi doesn’t look up. “Don’t drag me into your ego crisis.”

“I’m including you out of respect,” Jungkook grumbles. “And as the primary witness to this… whatever shit this is.”

You shrug. “A free meal’s a free meal.”

“I’m gonna blow your mind, noona.” He sinks back in his chair with a groan. “Fuckin’ Mingyu…”

You laugh, then glance at Yoongi again. He’s finally looking at you, quiet but engaged. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something just a little tighter around his eyes.

So, you’ve assimilated with the team well enough. Jin greets you with food. Tae compliments your hair quite frequently, offered to braid it once. Jimin tries to read your texts over your shoulder.

You laugh with them. You start to care for them. But you’ve become especially fond of Yoongi.

Maybe it’s the way he watches without crowding. Maybe it’s how he listens so carefully when you talk about songs you love. Maybe it’s the way he only speaks when he has something real to say.

Unlike the maknaes, you won’t see him bouncing off the walls. He doesn’t demand attention. But he holds it anyway.

And lately, you’ve started wondering what it would feel like to hold his.

You were about to grab coffee when some delivery guy arrives with a monstrous amount of packages. Laura Mercier. MAC. Make Up For Ever. Jung Saem Mool.

It’s a ridiculous haul—glass bottles clinking, compacts stacked like poker chips, a forest of lip tints and pencils all jammed into branded boxes. The Beauty Boondocks. Guess this is part of your life now and you’re loving it.

Working with the biggest group in the world means this. A constant courtship by brands desperate for one sliver of the BTS glow. One backstage photo of Taehyung swiping lip balm on, or Jungkook half-blurred with a concealer palette in the background, and that’s a million views and sold-out SKUs easy.

You’re on the floor of the glam room, crouched between piles of cardboard, trying to sort products by category and fighting the growing sense that you’ve just been buried alive by luxury capitalism.

Suddenly, Yoongi walks in, he pauses just beside the door.

“Wow,” he says. “This is what Jungkookie’s house looks like the day after he gets a free night.”

You look up, a brow arching. “Online shopping problem?”

“Massive,” he replies dryly, stepping over a few boxes. “Once he ordered five different bed mattresses.”

You’re a bit stunned. Partly because you did not expect anyone to show up, much less Yoongi. Secondly, Jungkook’s house must be huuuge?

“He does not have 5 bedrooms if that’s what you’re thinking. There was one in his living room for a while…”

Yoongi crouches beside one of the larger boxes, tilting his head to read the logo printed on the side.

“So what’s all this?”

“Makeup, hair products, tools, etcetera…” You gesture vaguely, hands full of crinkle paper and unopened mascara tubes. “Brand offerings. Welcome to the chaos. No thanks to you guys.”

He glances around, taking it in. “Why are you doing this alone?”

“Sera called in sick. Hyein’s sorting more stuff in another room. The rest are on a day off or are in Hobi’s LV shoot. Though honestly, nobody told me about this shipment.”

You expect him to leave it at that. But instead, he lowers himself to the floor, his long legs under him, and grabs a box cutter from a nearby table.

Wordlessly, he drags a new box closer, slices through the tape with smooth precision.

You blink. “What’re you doing?”

He doesn’t look up. “Trying to be useful to my noona.”

Wait.

My noona. My noona?!

It’s playful. Casual. Probably harmless. But something about the way he says it—low and almost offhand, like it comes naturally—snags in your chest. You’re crazy for thinking that it actually means anything else, but you can’t help consider it.

You don’t answer right away. You just stare at him like he’s an illusion: pale hoodie sleeves shoved up to the elbows, veins flexing against cardboard, hair fluffy and soft, devoid of any product.

He glances at you sideways. Sees the look on your face. Smirks. “What?”

“I’m just not used to idols volunteering to help unpack foundation samples,” you say, lips twitching, as you hold up a few NARS bottles and place them on the table.

“That’s because your boys aren’t me.”

Woah. Shots fired at Seventeen and you’re too stunned to speak. Plus, the way his eyes flick back to yours as he says it—yeah, he knows exactly what he’s implying.

Your heart thuds once in response and it’s deafening.

You return to your pile, doing your best to focus. “Well. If you’re going to help, I hope you’re not colorblind.”

“Am I getting judged?”

“Harshly.”

He chuckles.

Not a minute later he is already complaining why there are 30 different shades of pink. 

It’s late.

Rehearsals ran over, and most of the team’s already scattered. The greenroom is dim, half the lights shut off, stage outfits draped over chairs. Someone left a half-eaten protein bar on the counter. (It was Jimin.) You’re too tired to throw it out.

Yoongi’s the last one to be touched up before a promo shoot he’s doing solo. Naturally, you’re also the last one still working. You let the rest of your team pack up after their member completes their segments.

Yoongi sits in the chair wordlessly. You flick on the ring light and squint at him.

“You look exhausted,” you murmur, brushing a warm palm across his cheek to feel the texture.

He shrugs. “You look worse.”

Wha—?

“Gee. Thanks.” You crack a smile. “Asshole.” You say with no real bite.

You work in silence for a minute. You spray a serum over his face, get it to calm and cool. His skin is a bit warm, a little flushed from movement. 

Looking away, you stifle a yawn, lift your glasses and rub at your eye with your knuckle.

“You sleep at all these days?” he asks suddenly.

Your fingers start massaging the serum near his cheek and decide to tease him a bit. “Don’t talk to me. You said I look like shit.”

He smirks, but his tone is soft. “That’s not what I said.”

“I get some in,” you say lightly. “Here and there.”

He hums. Doesn’t press. But something about his tone makes you keep going.

“I wake up a lot,” you admit. “Not always bad dreams. Just… waking. Like something kicks me from inside.”

“Been happening long?”

You shrug like it’s nothing. 

“A while,” you say. “Started around the time…” you pause, study him. His eyes are so kind, the kind you’ll want to spill all your secrets to. “My previous relationship ended.”

He looks at you in the mirror. You glance down, blending gently near the corner of his eye.

“It’s stupid,” you murmur. “It’s not like I miss him. I just… guess my body hasn’t caught up yet.”

Yoongi stays quiet for a few breaths. “It’s not stupid.”

Your throat pulls tight, but you smile like it doesn’t matter. “Anyway. It’ll pass.”

You expect him to nod. To change the subject. You don’t expect what he says next.

“Call me.”

Your hand stills from dipping the brush on the powder pot. “What?”

He tilts his face up just enough to meet your eyes.

“When it happens,” he says. “When you wake up and it’s three or four in the morning just… call.”

You blink. Why did this feel so intimate all of a sudden?

“I’m always up anyway,” he shrugs, like it’s not a big deal, and you remember to breathe.

You search his face, looking for a joke, a smirk, anything sleazy, even. There’s really none. Just sincerity. Like he knows what you’re going through and wants to share your load.

“Okay,” you say quietly, willing your heart to stop pounding so loud.

He holds his palm out. You’re dumbstruck for a second before he tsks and says, “phone.”

Days after, you find a curious box in your kit. Quietly tucked between your brushes.

It says: Tae Pyeong Hwan and when you input it on Naver, it’s apparently a viral anti-anxiety drink.

There wasn’t any note. No name. But you know it’s him. And you don’t know what to feel.

You take a sachet and gulp. Willing it to work before you see him again and your heart does that flip flop thing it keeps doing when he’s around.

The first time you entertain the idea that Yoongi might be interested in you, you actually laughed. It’s not even because he’s an idol, or a billionaire, or a god among men. 

You know you’re a solid 8, maybe even an 8.5 on a good hair day. You’re established enough to have your own house and car. You’ve got enough industry connections and some seed money if you decide to start your own thing. You got it goin’ awn, okay?

You’re a catch for any man, BTS member or not.

But a younger man? Really, Y/N?!

It’s not like you're breaking the law. He’s literally 32. He’s grown. (And shit, you know he’s grown after being in a backstage quick-change with him.)

Unfortunately, try as you might, the attraction has already rooted itself in your brain. 

Are you going to do anything about it? Jury’s still out. HYBE contracts have made it clear that there’ll be no inter-office dating, but does anybody really follow that shit?

Jeon Jungkook’s apartment is ridiculously nice. Like stylish-in-a-way-that-costs-a-fuckton-of-money nice. You barely have one shoe off when he’s already tugging you in with a giant bunny grin, sliding along his hardwood floors with his silly toe-socks.

“Place looks great,” you say.

“You should see the noraebang room.”

“The what now?”

There’s a woman sitting on the couch, sipping wine with her feet tucked under her. She looks up with a soft smile, and Jungkook lights up all over again.

He gestures proudly. “This is Haeun, my girlfriend.”

“Hello, unnie.” She stands to greet you, and you immediately like her. She’s model-pretty, but not in an intimidating way. Choreographer, he tells you, for a rookie girl group. You’ve never seen her around the office, then again it’s a huge building. Interesting, a case of inter-office dating under Bang Si-Hyuk’s nose.

You’re halfway through complimenting her earrings when the door bell sounds.

Yoongi walks in and you swear the temperature in the room changes.

He’s wearing a soft cashmere cardigan in a warm, oat beige. It’s a deeper neckline than what you’ve seen him wear before and, uh, it’s gotten really warm right now.

You feel blood rushing on your cheeks as you take the expanse of creamy skin on his chest. The rest of the look: Brown slacks, clean sneakers, hair barely styled but he looks stupidly good anyway. His lips, a soft sheen to it, looks like a freshly swiped balm.

You know Jungkook prepped food but this is the kind of full-course meal you like… 

Yoongi pushes his shoes to the side, handing the host a bottle of wine. “Sorry, traffic.”

Jungkook claps him on the back. “Nah you’re good, hyung. You made it just in time. Noona’s here.” 

Yoongi stumbles forward with a tight-lipped grin to Jungkook’s shit-eating one. Did Jungkook just push Yoongi towards you? 

“Heeyyy,” you nod, smiling tightly.

Yoongi scratches the back of his neck, sits across you. “What time did you get here?”

“A few minutes ago.”

You glance to your side, and Haeun has vanished. You clear your throat, feeling 50 shades of awkward now that the object of your newest crush has arrived. You feel yourself blush as Yoongi unwittingly manspreads in front of you.

As you calculate ways you can potentially survive this night, Jungkook thankfully hollers from the other room, inviting the guests to settle in.

You sit at the dining table, Haeun beside Jungkook, Yoongi beside you. And it feels… a little like a double date. Is it? You don’t know. And you’re too afraid to ask. 

Yoongi pours you a glass of wine. 

The one he brought. 

The one you had mentioned once was your favorite.

Jungkook, dramatic as always, starts announcing each course like he’s hosting a cooking show.

Course one is an apple and walnut salad with this spicy-sweet sesame dressing. You take a bite and your eyes widen. “Okay, wait. This is actually good.”

Jungkook looks offended. “Rude?”

Course two is a creamy chestnut soup with bits of crispy pancetta. Haeun says she helped him chop things. You raise your glass to her.

Course three is grilled scallops with a yuzu butter glaze. Jungkook explains how long it took to get the sear right. You make appreciative noises, cos wow this shit’s actually fire. Yoongi hums in agreement.

When Jungkook and Haeun head to the kitchen to bring out the next course, Yoongi quietly plops another scallop on your plate.

You blink. “What are you doing?”

He starts drizzling it with sauce like a damn chef. 

“Serving you,” he says simply. “You seemed to like this one.”

“I did,” you say. “Shouldn’t I be doing that, though? I’m older.”

He looks at you then. Direct, but soft. Like he’s not even sure why you’re bringing up age right now, because it doesn’t matter. “I’m being a gentleman. Let me.”

You don’t know what to do with that. Where to look. How to sit still. All you can think is yeah, you’ll let him do anything to you at this point. And you’ll always say,

“Thank you.”

Course four is bulgogi tenderloin with a sweet garlicky glaze. Jungkook says the marinade was 30 hours minimum. Haeun nods like she’s heard that fact 20 times minimum. Okay, you kinda believe him because it was delectable.

Course five is a tangerine panna cotta. It wobbles beautifully. You groan after the first spoonful, and Yoongi actually reaches forward to pat his younger brother on the shoulder. It is that good.

“Okay. Fine,” you say, leaning back. “This wins.”

Jungkook beams. “Better than Mingyu?”

“Fuck Mingyu,” you lift your glass.  

“YES!!! Hear that, babe?” Jungkook yells in victory and actually picks Haeun up bridal style and spins her in a circle around the living room. She shrieks, laughing the whole time. 

You and Yoongi watch from the table, slightly tipsy and amused.

“They’re cute,” you murmur.

Yoongi smiles, eyes on them. “Yeah.”

“Seems that no one really follows that no dating rule in HYBE, no?”

“I do,” Yoongi notes with a shrug, and the high from the scrumptious dinner unceremoniously crashes. You’re suddenly uneasy, acidic.

“Ah,” you nod, picking up your wine glass and downing the last of it in one big gulp to push the lump in your throat. 

Play it cool. You’re a grown ass woman. Shit.

You excuse yourself, powder your nose, apply your jelly tint, and simultaneously, well, spiral. 

So Min Yoongi doesn’t shit where he eats. Okay. He apparently follows rules? Huh… Make it make sense, though? 

Why should you be so disappointed? Plenty of fish in the sea. Except when you’re pushing forty and you’re too damn tired to cast a net out.

You get back in the living room and have another round of drinks, except Yoongi who says he is driving. 

You guess it’s time to head home when you see Haeun stifle a yawn, but Jungkook convinces you to stay for a bit more, just enough for him to video call Mingyu and gloat. Between the boyish bickering and another glass of wine, you’re thankfully feeling a little floatier again.

Later, when you’re putting your shoes back on in the entryway, you glance over at Yoongi. He’s scrolling on his phone, one hand in his pocket.

Your phone pings. Kakao T. Your ride’s on the way.

“Thank you again for dinner,” you say to Jungkook. 

He nods, placing an arm around Haeun. “Anytime, noona.”

Yoongi looks up. “You booked a ride?”

“Yeah. Should be here soon.”

He slips his phone into his jacket.

“Cancel it. I’ll drive you home.”

You blink. “What?”

“It’s late. Let me take you,” he says, tone slightly commanding.

You want to say ‘yes, sir’ out loud. But you keep it together. Barely. And then of course, you cancel the ride.

Yoongi leads you to the parking garage. At some point you think you feel his hand ghosting your lower back.

The drive is quiet. He picks a playlist you both have listened to before. It’s a vibe. Music playing low. City lights reflecting off the dashboard. Yoongi’s hand rests on the wheel, rings catching in the glow. 

He smells good. The veins in his hands are flexing.

You try not to stare. Or breathe weird. 

When he pulls up to your place, he shifts into park but doesn’t unbuckle yet. You unclick your seatbelt slowly.

“You looked beautiful tonight.”

Your breath catches. Full stop.

You turn to say something—thank you, or you too, or kiss me now—but words get stuck in your throat He just smiles softly.

“Good night,” he says.

“Good night,” you parrot before you step out.

The air hits you different. Your hands feel weird. You feel like a teenager after a first date she’s not sure was a date, but definitely made her feel some type of way.

That night, when you dream, it’s his eyes. And when you wake up? You’re not sure if you want to see him again or never see him again just to keep the dream intact.

The studio is chaos in the best way. BooSeokSoon are doing what they do best: being loud, dramatic, and infectious.

You’re standing off to the side watching Yoongi line up with them, the camera propped up and ready, his face unreadable as always, but there’s a looseness to his shoulders that tells you he’s in the mood to play. (And that he took a shot of something before he went in.)

You pull a balm from your pouch and swipe it gently onto his lips before he steps into frame.

“Cherry again?” he asks.

You nod. “Your fanbase will thank me.”

He smirks. “Noted.”

And then they start.

BSS hits every beat like their entire career depends on this one Tiktok challenge. And Yoongi? He’s keeping up. Relaxed, slightly silly, effortlessly cute.

You still don’t get Tiktok honestly.

When the music cuts, you clap before you even realize it.

They check playback, talking over each other. You wipe the sweat that has formed in Yoongi’s temple with a dab of tissue. But, as everyone focuses on the phone, Yoongi looks over at you.

“Which take was better?”

Caught off guard, you stammer, “the uh-i think the second.”

He hums, then he tells the girl he likes the second clip. BSS agrees.

You look at the boys as they chorus agreement, but when you glance back at Yoongi, he nods once, slow and soft. That grin of his (the real one, not the camera one) edges onto his face. It says, Go ahead. I know you miss them.

And you do. 

Before you know it, Seungkwan is already crashing into your side.

“Noonaaaa,” he sings, throwing his arm around you. “Still pretty..”

Seokmin grins, pulling you into a side-hug. “We were just talking about you yesterday.”

“Don’t do it again. I had an awful coughing fit yesterday. Should have known it was you morons.”

“You’re still superstitious.” Soonyoung shakes his head.

The exchange is quick, familiar, a little chaotic. Just like always. But it feels good, like slipping into a jacket you forgot used to fit perfectly. A few more jokes, a photo, and they’re off. There’s someone yelling about dinner, someone else remembering they have a shoot in twenty minutes. 

The social media crew also left, as well as the hair stylist who has another thing in ten. You stay behind, gathering your things. 

Yoongi’s still here, too. He’s at the far end, wiping sweat from the back of his neck with a towel. He grabs his water bottle, takes a long drink, then walks to the wall. You follow suit since everybody has filed out.

Click. He cut the lights.

The room drops into soft shadows, lit only by a few glow strips along the floor.

He’s by the door, tilts his head as he waits for you.

You stop just in front of him. 

“Didn’t say goodbye to your boys,” he says with a slight tease at the end.

You shrug, “They know I’ll see them again.”

He hums. “You look happy.”

“I am.”

You think that’s the end of it. Because why would you be having a whole conversation with the lights out?

He shifts his weight forward, closing the distance between you by a step. Close enough that you can see the sheen of sweat drying along his temple. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his skin. Close enough that if you breathed just a little deeper, you'd catch his scent.

Then he leans in. And before you know it, you taste the cherry balm you swiped on his lips minutes before.

The kiss is so soft, so sweet. Just as quickly as it started though, he pulls away. You feel his breathy sigh caress your cheek as he whispers your name and mumbles, “Let’s go out.” 

But before you can form any response, he opens the door.

And, in fact, goes out.

WHAT THE FUCK JUST HAPPENED?

Part Two >

A/N: Scream with meeeee! Idk. Isn’t it yoongi core to kiss, confess and yeet? I recently saw a video of when he met an american artist, he shook his hand, said i like you then looked awkwardly away. LMAO. 

Hope you had fun reading part 1! I’d appreciate feedback, like tell me any favorite scenes or what you wanna see more of.

Leave a note if you wanna be tagged on the next part :)

As always, thanks for reading you lovely, beautiful human xo

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[deswhomst]

i went into ginny and georgia season 3 like “oh this is that one guilty pleasure kinda cringey show ive liked for a few years now” but omg the writing this season was so good !!!! it was a masterpiece imo. i did not expect all that to happen—plus the acting!!! it was so well done i’m actually weirdly proud of it. dumping some thoughts here

S3 SPOILERS:

i used to really like paul but he disappointed me baddd. i’m not saying his situation was completely easy but he totally abandoned them (including ginny and austin) and i lost all respect when he hit the wall beside georgia—and i GET that georgia faking a pregnancy was wrong, too, but he got violent and that’s never okay imo.

i am SO happy that ginny confronted zion about being absent, too, because everyone keeps saying that zion is such a great father and while he’s not horrible, he has definitely lived his life while georgia had to give hers up. yes it was her choice but he could’ve fought harder, too. so im not saying i hate him or he’s totally bad but i like that there was accountability for that this season.

ginny and georgia!!! <333 i feel like this is the closest the two have ever been and i recognize the situation was very fucked up and traumatizing but i loved them being in each other’s corner. really embodied the us against the world thing

poor austin oh MY GOD he framed his own father for a murder he saw his mother commit that’s insaneee. he’s never ever going to be okay after this because even if his dad was an asshole, it was still his dad and he was good to austin so it’s bound to be scarring. like austin chose georgia over gil because like ginny said it came down to either his mom going to prison or his dad and that’s not a choice a kid should ever have to make

also see the way georgia has never once bad mouthed gil to austin even tho he abused her bc she wanted him to have a good image of his dad but gil started talking shit about georgia to austin the second he could says a lot

that scene where the CPS people (?) took ginny and austin from georgia’s house was so so sad

really enjoyed ginny and abby’s friendship this season

and omg max :(( i felt so incredibly bad for her. putting aside all the drama with her friends, the way she looked after marcus this season was so precious. she knew that if she told her parents, he wouldn’t talk to her, but she cared about him and did the right thing ultimately—i’m sure someday marcus will realise that she was really there for him and she possibly saved his life by pushing him to get the help he needs.

coming to her friends, they were genuinely mean to her a lot. max was unfair in the previous season but she clearly learnt from it and grew as a person and she kept thinking that she was the problem for a while but they did genuinely leave her out quite a lot and that never ever feels good.

the way when ginny got pregnant all she needed was her mom :((

JOE PUNCHED GIL !!!! JOE PUNCHED GIL !!!!

JOE AND GEORGIA KISSED !!!! they’re so endgame it has been obvious from the beginning but i’ll be honest i did start having my doubts when paul & georgia seemed to be doing so well. that ship has drowned now lmaoo BUT OMG THAT BABY BETTER NOT BE PAUL’S </3

also i’m kinda?? idk, happy for georgia? if she decided to keep the kid, that is, because she had ginny and austin when she was very very young and not at all stable so if she were to have a baby now in a better position in life that could be healing for her and maybe the cycle of traumatizing her children could finally end but who knows we will see. also would understand if she doesn’t want to have the baby but knowing georgia she probably will have it

[blackforestbride]

dp x dc PLUS!!!! battle of the bands

So imagine, Gotham Academy is hosting a battle of the bands to fundraise for a debilitating rogue attack (even though the Wayne money could easily cover it all, but the academy wants to show its city spirit or smth anyways)

and normally, Jon would just shrug it off, rich people stuff you know. but there's this new kid at school. he's sickly looking, with shaggy shoulder length hair, and piercing blue eyes. and he's been getting too close to damian.

this guy is totally not good enough for damian. he barely even tries in his classes and he takes everything said to him as a stupid joke! Damian is way out of his league. and NO, jon is not jealous KON. he simply knows what his best friend likes!! Just like he knows that the new kid (danny feltin? or something) is not and will never be good enough for Damian! in fact, Jon would be the better choice

back to the battle of the bands. like he said, jon would have ignored it. IF he hadn't found out that Danny would also be competing. AND, if he hadn't found out that damian would be one of the judges, as it was being sponsored by wayne co. and they needed a student judge.

so with gritted teeth, jon signs up, putting his name right next to danny's!

only to learn that the tournament enforced the anonymity of the performers to encourage more people to sign up, and the only way to be allowed to reveal his identity was to either wait for the tournament to end OR make it into the semi-finals (something platforming young artists).

well he cant quit now, forget the semi-finals.. jon would be first place! he'd prove that he could be better than danny! HE'S NOT JEALOUS SHUT UP KON

on the flip side. . .

danny wasnt really enthused about being dragged halfway across the country to go to an embarassingly rich kid school, but Ember had said that Gotham generated enough ectoplasm on its own that danny wouldn't need frequent trips to the ghost zone in risk of his ghostly side taking over and almost killing him (being in and out of the yeti's domain was tiring, and he could never hate frostbite but seeing the yeti's face drop everytime he had to be brought back to life -literally- does something to a guy y'know?)

anyways, ember said he just had to deal with it until he graduated and by then hopefully his core would be stable enough to start recycling his own ectoplasm again (he kinda felt like danni. she was right, having everyone fret over you while you know you cant do anything except wait really is tiring). which he could deal with, especially after ember rescued him from h̶̤̓́̕ĭ̴̲̮̣̭͆͒̀̔̽s̷̳̿̈́͌ ̸̢̞͚̻͐͊̿p̵̛̘̣͙͉̺͎͐̊̓̓͝ǟ̷̖̗̮̺̀̾͝ŕ̵̨̤̦̹̦̻̅̉ḛ̷͋ǹ̸͈͑̌̀ͅẗ̴̢̰́'̴̰͖̽̈́͂͌͆͝s̶̪̤̈̔̒̀̕͝ Maddie and Jack.

they weren't lying when they said molecule by molecule

so yeah, he'd do as she said. he owed her that much (and more, so much more. but this would have to do. for now).

then one day, a way to repay her fell right into his lap! literally! his new friend Damian (and Damian's friend, jon. danny thinks he's cool, but he has a little bit of a staring problem it always made him blush whenever someone stared at him so intensely) was complainign about some "inane project" his "dreadfully dull" older brother, Tim was making him do. and, danny being a good friend, asked what was bothering him.

turns out theres a musical tournament happening! its like this was made for danny! after all, what would be better in repaying ember than winning a battle of the bands in her honor! everthing was turning up fenton! or- uh.. was it McLain now..?

and on the other flip side!!

damian is soooo done. he was ready for his senior year to be nice and peaceful (as peaceful that it could be in gotham) but nooooo. his stupid, idiotic brothers just had to stick their noses where they didn't belong and volunteer damian for the student judge position for the ridiculous battle of the bands.

though... those two singers who have taken to serenading him do sound quite nice..

___________________________________________

Things I think would be funny for this

•Competitors have a teamwork round where they perform together= Jon and Danny singing into the same mic at Damian

•Jon's one sided romantic rivalry with Danny who thinks he's just really enthusiastic about music

•Tim and Kon's witty banter in the background

•side plot where Danny uses some of his powers during a performance because he got too into it and Jon catching on immediately and being suspicious as fuck

•Damian being whipped for the two masked singers who keep looking at him specifically when it's their time on stage

•Danny flirting with Jon and Jon just combusting

•Ember figuring out how to parent

•Johnny and Kitty become babysitters for Danny because he's too sick to be this reckless (and that's coming from them)

•Danny rides a motorcycle

•Jon is totally in love with Danny too btw he just has no idea how to expresses so he unconsciously emulates what Damian does when he is faced with something he doesn't understand

•Normal school time where Jon tries so hard not to spill the beans to Damian that fanny is weird and that he is totally better AND that he's a contestant

•Danny trying to hide being a contestant from ember so that he can surprise her when he wins

•Bruce unfortunately witnesses his son being flirted with via song

that's it, I'll think of something else later

anyone can use this as a prompt btw just mention me lol I wanna see

[yandereforme]

PLEASE PLEASE I beg of you do batfam x neglected reader x yandere pjo I was to late to put my answer in on the poll and I really wanted the pjo one 🥀🥀🥀

But if you don't want to your don't have to! 🗣🗣🗣

This is an awesome idea!

No, because Bruce is smart enough to attract Athena‘s attention. So imagine that you are a demigod child of Bruce and Athena. You grow up, knowing that you are a demigod being held to both a very high standard and being neglected. You spend more time with Diana than you do with Bruce, since Bruce barely pays attention to you, and when he does, he’ll only criticize you.

After a few monster attacks and several fights, you leave for camp half blood. When you get there, you expect to be utterly alone.

However, I’m going to say that this all happens when you are still pretty young. You pull an Annabeth when you run away, and you arrive at camp as an eight-year-old.

I’m picturing this happening right after blood of Olympus, and you arrive not long after the final battle. Not only are a lot of demos already dead, but almost all of these kids have PTSD of some kind.

Then, they’re faced with this eight-year-old girl who is super sweet and polite, and has this notion that she needs to take care of herself. There is no way that at least half the camp isn’t having flashbacks to when Annabeth arrived. Hell, when Annabeth meets you, she has a moment of pure PTSD because you look like younger her before meeting Luke or Thalia.

Your arrival and the little bit of kindness and you that Gotham and your time alone couldn’t wash away? That is what drags people in. Within two months of arriving, you are the darling of Camp flood. Even Clarice finds you cute, even though she will never acknowledge it. Percy and Annabeth treat you partially like their kid. The first time you meet Thalia, she is close to tears.

I’m imagining that as you grow up, you remind everyone so much of Percy and Annabeth that it is generally assumed that you are their child. Maybe for your 10th birthday, you ask them if you can start using the last name Jackson-Chase instead of Wayne.

Meanwhile, Bruce has started losing his mind. It took him a while to notice you were gone, but after he did, he lost it. You are a child, and more importantly, you were his child. This is almost like a repeat of Ethiopia, except for there are no leads to where you could be. (There are, but the mist is making everything harder.)

The kids get involved too, with all of them feeling a variety of guilt. I think you would probably be maybe two years younger than Damien and he is having a mental breakdown about you being missing, because he is so scared that you were taken or that you died, and it might be his fault.

(All of them have that fear and have been burying it for years.)

All hope seems lost until Barbara finds you in the background of a picture of a cafe on what would be your 11th birthday in New York. You are sitting two kids who look like they’re barely in their 20s, one of them looking a lot like you. The picture is taken when you are in the middle of a laugh, and you look so at peace that she almost doesn’t recognize you.

Soon, the entire bat family departs for New York, unaware of the gods watching them.

Edit: if this gets enough attention, I will expand on it



[hanquokkasjeekies]

[how they react to you being angry/horny] - hyunjin

stray kids scenarios/headcanons

bf!hyunjin x f!reader

word count: 0.7k

genre: smut (i think), established relationship

warnings: licking/sucking (this sounds weird- it's supposed to be hot) ⋆ implied sex ⋆ groping ⋆ slight dom/sub dynamics ⋆ sub(ish)!hyunjin

ot8 list

~ ~ ~

card game

“uno” hyunjin says moments before placing his final card down, laughing at your annoyed expression. and you have every right to be annoyed since you just lost for the fourth time in a row.

hyunjin collects your cards before shuffling them all together. “i guess this means you’re paying for bubble tea next time ♡”

you give him a glare before letting out a sigh of defeat. you had really wanted to win– more than anything; and at this point you'll do anything to win.

it’s beyond unfair how you’ve been defeated over and over again by hyunjin who’s just been sitting there all relaxed and… looking so fuckable…. way too fuckable to just be playing cards with.

“just one more time?” now all you want is to win once.

“fine~ you know you’ll just lose again though” hyunjin quirks an eyebrow at you, leaning forward to rest his arm on the table between you.

“what should we make the prize this round? better make it worth my time, baby” his eyes meet yours before he sucks in his lower lip, bringing his fingers up to play with it (an unnecessarily hot habit).

you look over at him in thought before taking hold of his hand and tracing the veins with your nails. “hmm– handcuffs.’

“you or me?” he asks, his eyes shining

“me, obviously, you’d wear them any day”

hyunjin doesn’t say anything, just sits up straight and starts splitting the cards. he’s buzzing with excitement and getting all serious like this card game is the most important thing in his lifetime.

~ a while later ~

hyunjin’s sitting up beside you and waving around his last card in your face. if he’s trying to make you mad– it’s definitely working.

“i told you i’d win-”

“i know.” you cut him off quickly, your irritation showing.

but then you have a thought, the kind of one that should come with a levitating light bulb, and you place your hand on his chest sweetly, “you’re just too good, hyunnie~ my smart, pretty boy, aren’t you?”

his face flushes from the sudden praise. you push him back and he lets you, easily falling to the floor as you hover over his large frame.

you trace your fingers down his shirt before leaning down to whisper right beside his head. “so you’ll let me win, won’t you? since you’re so smart– i'm sure you know what’s best for you.

“we’ll see about that, sweetheart.” he tries to sound stern but it comes out a bit breathy and how his eyes are sweetly gazing up at you doesn’t help.

you smile and lift his hand up to your mouth before kissing his palm and knuckles.

“no, wait, stop– this is-”, he pauses as you take the tip of one of his fingers between your lips, your hot tongue swirling around it as you suck, “...cheating.”

with hyunjin under you, slowly unravelling, the frustration from your losing streak has long gone and been replaced by a smug feeling– knowing you’re the only one who can make him like this.

you pick up the long forgotten card hyunjin dropped next to him. “so it was green” you say before reaching over to place your ‘pick up four’ card on the pile.

with hyunjin pinned below you like this between your thighs, he can’t do anything and he doesn’t even complain when he sees you discard all your cards onto the pile and a satisfied “uno” leaves your lips.

“congrats”, he says wryly, “so, um… will you take care of the little problem you created?”

you look down at the bulge pressing against your thigh. “no way… i only sucked on your fingers, hyunnie, how are you hard already?”

“fuck– i don’t care, just help me out, yeah?”

you place your hand lightly over his dick, watching him shiver. “hmm, okay… but only since you lost, and you probably need help getting over that pathetic defeat ♡”

ot8 list

[stylesispunk]

So. Joel with a reader who has a bad habit of calling him “dude” or “bro”. She doesn’t even mean to do it, it’s just a big part of her vocabulary for some reason. Maybe she’s been hanging around Ellie a bit too much… maybe it’s a habit she’s always had and just can’t seem to kick, slipping up every now and then.. how would he feel??

Hi baby! I'm not sure if this is what you had in mind, but it went like this!

"CALL IT WHAT YOU WANT IT BUT THAT!"

gif credits to @/bratmillers

Pairing: jackson!Joel Miller x fem!reader

Summary: You have the bad habit of calling Joel dude or bro and he is done with you.

warnings: none really. mutual pinning and perhaps me being meh.

Joel Miller swore he could bear anything. Yes, the thousand times he had almost died but survived. He could handle clickers, raiders and a freezing winter that made his skin burn out.

But as everyone, he had a weakness, and his was that he couldn’t handle being called “bro” one more time.

Because that weakness came with you, and yes, you were his weakest point.

It had started the moment Ellie had come into your lives. But after arriving at Jackson and being here for a couple of months, fitting in the routine of your new quiet life. You became different, you fit here just perfectly, but just as Ellie, your mouth ran faster than your brain. It was like the both of you had become the extinction of each other, a fruit of the same tree.

After all it felt like that. The three of you were a family.

But Joel hated the way you called everyone “bro” and “dude” because you called him the same and that made him felt less important for you.

“Dude, you scared the hell out of me”

“Thanks for the help, bro”

“Dude, you’re a lifesaver”

He fucking hated it. He didn’t say anything, because what was he supposed to do? Call you out in front of everybody? Tell you it made him feel like some awkward kid on the outside of your life, while he wanted to be at the very center of it?

After one particularly rough patrol the both of you stepped inside the house.

You kicked off your boots and your jacket while groaning, “Bro, remind me why we signed up for this again?”

And Joel had stiffened, jaw tight, ears hot.

Ellie, who was sitting on the couch, holding a comic in her hands, just grinned like a damn Cheshire cat.

Joel didn’t say a word just muttered something under his breath and made for the stairs, boots heavy on the steps.

“You know?” she drawled, “you keep calling him bro, people are gonna start thinking you’re not into him,” she teased, biting into an apple.

You flushed. Heart stammering inside your ribcage “Ellie.”

“What? I’m just saying. Dude, did you see that face? Poor old man looks like he’s gonna combust every time you do it.” She wiggled her eyebrows at you.

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “It’s a habit, okay? I don’t even realize I’m saying it. It’s like breathing.” You glanced the stairs Joel had walked on for a bit “Besides, it’s because of you.”

“Yeah, and it’s killing him.”

You peeked at her through your fingers. “Really?”

Ellie grinned. “Swear to god. Next time you call him dude, watch his face. It’s like someone just stabbed him in the heart and kicked his puppy at the same time.”

You groaned again, dropping your head back against the couch cushion. “Fuck.”

“You might want to do something about it,” Ellie sing-songed. “Unless you wanna keep breaking his poor old man heart.”

“Hey, he’s not that old.” You defended him.

Ellie snorted. “Please. The man grunts more than he talks. That’s how you know.”

You huffed out a laugh despite yourself. Then silence settled between you, the fire crackling softly.

“You think I ruined it?” you asked quietly.

Ellie glanced at you, expression softening a little. “I think that if you go up there right now and maybe try calling him something that’s not bro, you’ll be fine.”

You nodded, anxiety crawling in your chest, determination setting in, but still not ready to face it.

“What are you waiting for?” she asked, exasperate “Go get your man, dude!”

You stood, raking a hand through your hair. You flipped her off without looking back and headed for the stairs.

You took the stairs slower than you probably should’ve. Each creaky step felt louder than the last, like the whole damn house was tattling on you.

By the time you reached Joel’s door, you half-considered turning around and blaming it on Ellie. She was the one who started it, after all.

You lifted your hand and knocked softly.

No answer.

“Joel?” you called; voice weirdly tight in your throat.

A beat, then his rough voice came through the wood.

At least, you hadn’t called him dude

“Yeah?”

“Can I… come in?”

Another pause. Then, “Yeah.”

You pushed the door open to find him sitting on the edge of the bed, fiddling with the strap of his watch like it had personally offended him. He didn’t look up right away, and when he did, his brown eyes met yours, a little guarded, a little vulnerable and everything hit you right in the chest.

“Hey,” you said softly, stepping inside and closing the door behind you.

He made a low sound in response that came out as more of a grunt.

You chewed your bottom lip, feeling your palms go a little clammy.

“Listen… I, uh. I wanted to say sorry.”

That got his attention. He straightened, frowning slightly. “For what?”

“For—” you exhaled, gesturing vaguely. “The whole bro, dude, thing. I know it probably sounds dumb but… Ellie kind of pointed out I do it a lot. To you. And I didn’t mean to make you feel like…” you trailed off, not sure how to finish the sentence without sounding like an idiot.

Joel set the watch down and finally gave you his full attention, his brow furrowed.

“Like what?”

You swallowed. “Like you’re just some guy to me.”

That’s it. You had confessed it.

But the room went quiet. The kind of quiet that felt heavy and you felt the rush up to your cheeks.

If Ellie had played a joke on you…

Joel’s jaw tightened, and he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.

“Well,” he said gruffly, “I’m not mad. Just…I kinda wish you’d call me something else.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “Yeah?” you smiled, shyly.

“Yeah.”

You took a cautious step closer. “Like what?”

He gave a small, crooked smile, a little shy, a little rough around the edges. “I dunno. Something different to bro” he said, making a sign with his fingers.”

A soft laugh bubbled out of you. “I can do that.”

Another step closer. You were standing right in front of him now, and Joel tilted his head up to look at you. His gaze was warm and steady in a way that made your stomach flip.

“Okay then,” you said, voice quieter now. “How about… Joel?”

He chuckled “Really? What if I call you kid?” he challenged.

You opened your mouth in offense, hand to your chest “I’m not a kid.”

“I know, you are past thirty-five already.” He said, smiling at you.

You gaped at him. “Excuse me? Past thirty-five? I’m in my prime, old man.”

He laughed outright at that, the warmth in his eyes unmistakable now. “Yeah, you are.” The way he said it, softly, honest, a little rough around the edges, sent a flush creeping up your neck.

You cleared your throat, trying to recover.

“Okay, so… deal. No more bro, no more dude.” You said, trying to recover from your own shame, but your heart was pounding like a drum in your chest.

Joel’s smile softened, the teasing still lingering in the corners of his mouth. But then, without another word, he reached out and caught your wrist, not rough, just steady, fingers curling gently around yours like it was the most natural thing between the two of you. This kind of touch.

You looked down at where he held you, then back up at him, breath hitching.

“Come here,” he murmured.

And before you could overthink it, before you could make another dumb joke or call him dude by accident, Joel tugged you in and kissed you.

It was this perfect, slow, finally kind of kiss, the kind that said everything neither of you had been brave enough to say out loud. His hand slid from your wrist to your waist, steadying you, anchoring you to him, while your fingers instinctively found the fabric of his shirt.

When he pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his voice was low and rough.

“Been wanting to do that for a while. You had been killing this whole time with the dude thing”

A crooked grin tugged at your lips, the flush in your cheeks impossible to hide now.

“Sorry,” you murmured, though you didn’t sound sorry at all.

Joel shook his head, his thumb brushing a slow arc against your waist. “Yeah, you are. But it’s alright.” His voice dropped even lower, the corners of his mouth twitching. “I got something better to call you now anyway.”

Your stomach flipped. “Oh yeah? Like what?”

He smiled, warm and a little smug. “Mine.”

And you swear you could’ve died happy right now.

[wosospacegirl]

Stuck with you - part 10

Summary: Y/n’s used to Alexia’s overprotectiveness and the pressure of her career—but Kika? The shy, socially awkward teammate who’s starting to make her feel things she didn’t expect.

Warnings: Alexia and the girls are orchestrating a plan; there are no chairs left, and a game of charades makes everything messier than it was—thank you, Alexia!

Word count: 5k

a/n: omg...first kiss?! :O

..

It had been two weeks since Y/n and Kika last talked. Two weeks since the park incident.

Alexia, of course, couldn't mind her own business–something she didn't do before meeting Olga. Olga had taught Alexia the fine art of nosiness, and she had absolutely run with it.

Since Y/n refused to say anything about the whole situation (again), Alexia went straight to Kika instead.

At first, Kika tried to avoid her, but after Alexia convinced Romeu to do separate groups based on the players' positions, Kika had nowhere to run. 

The downside of this plan was that everyone could see that Alexia and Kika were having a conversation, and worst of all, Vicky could hear it too.

Vicky was Alexia's baby. 

She would never admit it to anyone, but the kid had a special place in her heart, not the same as Y/n (which Alexia also wouldn't admit), but when she saw Vicky listening to their conversation and making hand gestures to Y/n and Jana on the other side... she snapped.

Vicky looked sad, but Alexia bought her a box of chocolates after training, and the kid was happy again.

What really struck Alexia was how dumb and dramatic Y/n and Kika both were.

When Kika explained what happened, completely stumbling over her words and feeling nervous that her captain was asking her about it, Alexia didn't even know how to react.

She knew Kika was a sweetheart–a little awkward, sure–but from the way she told the story, Alexia could tell she hadn't meant to say what she said. She was just nervous and blurted it out.

Yeah, she could have worded it better, but still... Y/n was also too impatient; she didn't even stay to hear what Kika really had to say. 

Alexia was trying to tell that to Y/n, but the kid was stubborn and didn't want to have any conversation surrounding Kika.

Alexia tried multiple times to explain it, though. Always in the car, always after training, when she knew Y/n couldn't run away from the conversation. She would start the engine, wait for Y/n to climb into the passenger seat, and then properly trap her.

"Kikinha didn't mean it," Alexia said for what felt like the twelfth time that week. "I talked to her. She said she was anxious and just... blurted it out."

Y/n pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling sharply. 

Her day had been awful. She had twisted her ankle during a training session, which meant two days off training and physio with Paulo.

 Paulo wasn't her favourite physiotherapist; he always pulled and pressed too hard on her skin, and it hurt more than it helped. Her favourite physiotherapist was Luana, and she was on vacation somewhere warm with her family.

At least someone on the Barcelona team was having the time of their life, enjoying a good beach with people that mattered. Clearly, that person wasn't Y/n, not when she was trapped in a car with La Reina.

"Alexia," Y/n muttered, eyes closed. "Why are you so invested in me and Kika? Just leave us alone. Hell, leave me alone."

She tried to open the door, but Alexia had locked it. 

Great.

"Because I think she's a great girl–"

"Alexia!" Y/n snapped, turning to look at her. "I don't need you to tell me who you think I should date or not. It's not up to you!"

"Vale, vale" [okay, okay] Alexia said, raising her hands as if she was guilty, which she was. "No need to yell at me."

"I have every reason to yell at you," Y/n grumbled under her breath.

The rest of the car ride was in silence. For a moment, it seemed like Alexia had finally given up. But of course not. 

She had a plan. And plans needed collaborators.

Alexia was Capitana; after all, she could get people to help her with the snap of her fingers.

..

First, she talked to Romeu. 

It was a very professional conversation, or Alexia tried to make it out to be.

"I need you to pair Kika and Y/n together during training–always", Alexia said casually, as they watched the team run drills during her water breaks, her bottle in her left hand.

Romeu raised an eyebrow, looking at Alexia weirdly. 

Normally, Alexia wouldn't really ask stuff like that. "And why would I do that?"

"They have good chemistry," Alexia replied.

"On the pitch? You mean?"

"...Sí," Alexia said, watching as Y/n made a pass and sent it to Kika, who passed it to Pina for a goal.

Cata didn't even try to save it. Goal.

Romeu sighed, understanding where Alexia was going with it and already regretting it. "Just don't get me fired. And if y/n asks me anything, I'll tell her it's all you, Putellas."

..

Y/n started noticing a pattern, and it was starting to piss her off.

Every training, every drill, every media duty... she and Kika were always stuck together. Even when it made no logical sense. Even if it clearly wasn't the easiest choice.

When the media team asked for two pairs to film a card game challenge for the barça youtube channel, Vicky and Jana were already paired up, and Esmee (who had been sitting next to Kika) was absolutely ready to go. But somehow, the staff asked Esmee to switch with Y/n.

Y/n, who wasn't even mic’d up. 

Who didn't even know what card game they were playing. Who didn't even know they had any media duty that day because it obviously wasn't sent to her own personal agenda.

She wasn't even with them; she was stretching on the other side of the pitch among other girls, when Carla yelled her name and beamingly asked her to join them.

She couldn't say no. Be all in a day's work.

In the end, Y/n was the only one out of the four girls who was still in her training kit. Her once-white shorts were green from the grass, her hair a messy ponytail, her neck still dripping sweat while Kika, Jana, and Vicky looked pretty, clean, and even had makeup on.

It would be comical if it weren't so ridiculous.

Jana and Vicky were sitting on one side of the table, while Kika and Y/n were on the other, the last two awkwardly playing Uno and trying not to make eye contact while pretending to be excited for the camera in front of them, talking about the most ridiculous things Carla could ask them.

"What's your most embarrassing moment?" Carla asked just as Y/N tossed a nine red on the table.

"Hmm…I once took a screenshot of my Instagram DMs and didn’t realise the other person would get a notification," Jana said, throwing down a nine green.

Y/N didn’t have any greens. 

She was already hating the game.

"Once I fell at La Masia and my pants literally tore. I had to borrow another girl’s shirt to cover myself. It was so embarrassing," Vicky said, putting down a 'choose the colour' card. 

She chose yellow.

Yes! Y/N had yellow.

"When I was a kid, my cousin dared me to steal eggs from this little farm shop near our house. I did it, my dad caught me, and he made me apologise for each egg in front of every single customer there," Kika said, smiling. "I’m still not a fan of scrambled eggs to this day."

They all laughed, even Y/N. But her smile disappeared when Kika placed another 'pick a color' card and chose fucking green.

"It's your turn, Y/N," Carla said.

Y/N frowned, drawing a card from the deck. 

Red. Nope.

"Well, my most embarrassing moment is…" Another card. five blue. "That once I pretended to read this book–" Seven yellow. Still no green. "--and I got caught. I hadn’t read a single page."

The air around the table shifted a little. Jana gave her a knowing look, Vicky was grinning, and Kika stared, surprised, like she hadn’t expected Y/N to bring that up. Well, Y/n didn't expect it either; it just came out.

Y/N ignored them and pulled one more card. Finally, eight green.

She placed it on the pile, and the game kept going.

After that, Y/n and Kika barely spoke. Kika looked like she wanted to say something, but she didn’t. Y/N didn’t ask either. 

She needed a shower desperately.

So, once again, everything stayed polite and cordial between them…professional. Y/N didn’t know if she liked that or not.

Still, it felt good to say something about the book club. It made her feel lighter. Maybe the fans wouldn’t understand when they saw the video, but Kika would. That mattered.

..

It continued. 

The weird pattern that no one was acknowledging, the pattern that only Y/n seemed to notice. Y/n hadn't told anyone about it either. Who would she even talk to? 

Alexia? Jana? 

She knew they were behind it all. It would make zero sense to ask them to stop. It was like they were playing a twisted game of puppets with Y/n and Kika. As if they were dogs that they could take on walks together for the sole reason of socialisation. 

Still, Y/n couldn't tell how much Kika was involved in it. Given Kika's personality, she probably didn't know anything. Kika wasn't like that, she was more of a 'go with the flow' type of girl.

She would not force any interaction between y/n  and herself. She hadn't done it before, no reason to start now.

Kika always looked genuinely surprised when they ended up paired together in random team duties, like she wasn't expecting that to happen. As if it hadn't crossed her mind. 

It had only confirmed what Y/n already knew deep in her heart: it was definitely Alexia and the other girls doing it. 

They were pulling some strings to get Y/n and Kika together as much as they could. At first, it was okay; Y/n even thought it was rather funny how they would go out of their way to make it happen.

But now? It was getting weird.

And not awkward weird–but amateurish weird.

They weren't subtle before, and now they weren't even trying to hide it.

And it was distracting. 

In less than a few days, Y/n  and half of the Barça girls were leaving for Las Rozas de Madrid, a city near Madrid, where the Spain confederation would gather for another camp.

She needed to focus. She already got called up, alongside Alexia, Jana and other girls, but it didn't mean she could slack off.

Still, it looked like Y/n was the only one who actually cared about representing Spain's colours.

Last week, Y/n and Sydney were having lunch, just the two of them. Sydney was talking about the online school program she was doing, and Y/n was invested. 

Alexia made her go to a regular school, even after she got promoted to the A team at a young age, so it was fun to see how different it was now.

Everything was normal…until Kika showed up..

She stood by the table with that awkward smile on her face–the one that made y/n want to kiss her right away– asking if she could sit with them because all the tables were occupied.

Y/n and Sydney nodded, of course.

But even as y/n  smiled politely, putting her chair a bit to the left to give space to Kika, Y/N glanced around. 

All the tables were full? The restaurant had barely opened. And it wasn't like Barcelona's restaurant would get a lot of people. Most of those who ate there were players and staff members.

But then, y/n, she saw it. Right by the corner of her eyes, trying not to get caught.

Ona, pushing a table three times her size back into the 'storage room', a small room hidden on the left side of the restaurant, near the bathrooms.

Sydney and Kika were engaged in a conversation that y/n didn't pay much attention to. She took a sip of her water, and then turned her head to the other side– her eyes widened when she saw it: Alexia and Esmee were moving chairs, putting them against a wall…?

This was getting out of control.

Did they think they were in a rom-com novel? Did they think it was funny? Cute?

"Oh, no!" Sidney said suddenly, eyes fixed behind Kika.

Y/N followed her gaze. Vicky was at another table, attempting (badly) to make hand signs. Vicky should just quit the whole hand gesturing thing and stick with talking.

Before Kika could turn around and catch her, Sydney stood up from her chair.

"Sorry guys,” she said quickly. “I-I have to go, hmm, dentist appointment."

Y/n looked at her deadpan. 

"Dentist? We have training, team training in the afternoon."

Sydney shrugged. "I can't miss it…brace stuff," she pointed at her teeth. 

Braceless teeth.

"You don't even have any braces on!" y/n  said exasperatedly.

"I'm getting them today!" Sydney said, rolling her eyes. "Anyway, bye you two. Have a good lunch.

Y/n and Kika were alone at the table.

Y/n was mad. She ate her fish, cutting it with more force than necessary. Kika was quiet, but she could feel her eyes on her. 

She was nervous, y/n could tell.

"Uhm," Kika said finally, "they’re acting weird, right?"

Y/N blinked. "Huh?"

She pointed at Alexia's, Vicky's and Esmee's table. They all looked innocent now, eating and chatting. As if they hadn't moved actual furniture from the Barcelona restaurant just to play dolls with Y/n and Kika.

“It’s like they’re doing something behind my back,” Kika said. “And I don’t really know what it is.”

“Yeah,” Y/N muttered, “I feel that too.”

“Do you know what they’re doing?”

Y/N stared at her. At her warm brown eyes. At her shiny black hair that somehow always looked like it had just been washed. It always smelled good.

“I think I have an idea,” she said.

..

Y/n was halfway through taking off her shirt in the changing room when she caught sounds coming from the door. Some were giggles that she immediately recognised as Vicky and Sydney. Others were low grunts, annoyed, those came from Aitana and Marta.

Y/n knew exactly what it meant. 

Her eyes flicked to the calendar stuck on Ona's cubby: Thursday. 

The second Thursday of the month.

Merda.

She had to hide.

Quickly, Y/n slammed her cubby and slipped out the door toward the showers. She stepped inside and froze, barely daring to breathe, not moving a muscle as she tried to blend in.

Is that why hunted animals felt? It felt weird to have this much adrenaline on her body if she wasn't on the pitch.

Then, she heard.

Unmistakable.

"Nenaaa," Alexia called dramatically, dragging out the last syllable.

Y/n counted her breaths, the sound of her heart beating against her ribs louder than she wanted. 

She felt like she had to pee. She always did when she was nervous. When she was a kid, she hated hide and seek because of that. She always had to leave her hiding spot to go to the bathroom.

She felt like a kid again. 

But it wasn't her mom who was after her,

It was Alexia.

Alexia was much worse.

The shower door slammed open, and one by one, the curtains next to her were pulled back with an aggressive clang of metal.

Death was near. 

It was coming for her.

Her stomach dropped, her heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst, and then, Alexia yanked open the curtain next to her, a mischievous grin across her face.

"Well, hello there."

Y/n screamed, making Alexia roll her eyes.

"Ay, dramática!" Alexia teased, but she was already reaching out to pull Y/n from the shower.

"Alexia! No," Y/n snapped, standing her ground. "I'm not going."

"Yes, you are," Alexia said firmly. "You've gotten away the last four times because you were–" she made quotation marks with her fingers, "--cramping."

"Not my fault you always pick the stupidest days when I actually am on my period!" Y/n shot back.

"You are going."

"No, I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm your captain, you need to do as I say!" Alexia insisted, voice sharp.

Y/n scoffed right in her face, stepping aside and turning around on Alexia. "Oh, please."

Alexia begged, hands raised as if she were ready to plead for something. "Just this once."

"No."

"Nena!"

"Alexia, I'm not playing fucking charades with the team."

"Why not?" Alexia asked, raising an eyebrow as Y/n pulled open the bathroom door.

"Because Kika will be there, and I still can't look her in the eyes without feeling like an idiot."

Y/n should have been smarter.

She should have seen the way Alexia's eyes widened the moment she said Kika's name. She should have known better than to mention something about someone in a bathroom connected to the locker room.

As the door swung open, there they all were…the whole team, including Kika. Kika looked red, shifting uncomfortably on her feet, while the rest of the players exchanged awkward looks.

They had just overheard Y/n saying she didn't want to join Barcelona's weekly team bonding because of Kika. Because she felt weird.

Great.

At least she hadn't said that looking at Kika made her feel stupid because of how pretty she was. That would have been way more embarrassing.

Y/n barely looked at anyone as she pushed past them, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her face set in a scowl that said she just wanted to get out of there.

Alexia was right behind her.

"You're coming, right?" she asked in that annoying manner of hers, using her captain voice, as if Y/n couldn't say no even if she wanted to.

Alexia always got her way. 

She always did that by being annoying…she annoyed people until they gave up. It worked for her with everything.

Y/n mumbled something in a low voice, it was more like a grumble. 

"She's coming," Alexia called out loudly, grinning as the rest of the team nearby cheered. "Yay!"

Y/n rolled her eyes hard.

Idiotas, she thought.

"It's gonna be fun!" Vicky said happily, wrapping an arm around Esmee. "It's the last game night before the international break–we need to…bond!"

"Yes!" Pina chimed in. "Kika, Esmee, Ewa, Ingrid, Frido–they are leaving and we aren't going to see them for like, two weeks!"

"I wish I wasn't going to see you–" y/n looked straight to Alexia, Jana and Vicky, showing exactly who she meant by that. "--for the last two weeks."

"Ay, malhumorada!" [grumpy] Pina said teasingly. "I think I know what you need and that is se–"

Patri shut Pina up with her hand, giving her a warning glare. 

"Creo que no quieres hacerla enojar más ahora, Pina" [I don't think you want to make her more mad now, Pina.]

"Por qué no? Me encanta cuando se enoja." [Why not? I like when she gets mad]

Pina dodged when Y/n threw a shin at her. 

Everybody began to change into their clothes and engage in their own conversation.

Y/n reached for the door to leave, but then she suddenly felt someone close behind her. She stopped, tensing, then slowly turned around.

Kika.

Her cheeks still burned red, eyes cast down to the floor.

They hadn't spoken since the restaurant, and Y/n kept telling herself she would say something. But every time she saw Kika, she just turned around and walked the other way.

Right now, running wasn't an option for either of them.

"Look, I'm sorry about what I said," Y/n blurted out quickly, the words spilling out faster than she could think them through. 

"I didn't know you were in the changing room, and Alexia was annoying me, and when I get like that, I just start rambling and can't stop…and..."

Kika held up Y/n's shirt. Oh yeah. She had taken that off and left it on the bench while she was running away from Alexia.

Y/N looked down–yep. She was still standing there in just her sports bra. She wasn’t usually shy, but now it felt weirdly intimate, too exposed.

"It's cold," Kika murmured. "You should put it on."

For a moment, the noise of the locker room, the rest of the team, everything just faded away. 

Y/n felt something shift inside her. It was like it was just her and Kika there.

She missed Kika. She wanted her friend back.

..

Y/n hated these stupid team bonding games, and she knew exactly why. 

Alexia was the one responsible for deciding who did what in charades, and Alexia had a talent for making everything as awkward as possible.

First up were Vicky and Ona. Their word was something simple: car. They breezed through it without breaking a sweat. The team cheered as they guessed it on the first try.

Then came Sydney and Esmee, paired together. Their word was "football player." Easy, nothing to stress about. They literally just had to pretend to kick a ball around, and everyone laughed along, guessing right away.

But when it was Y/n and Kika's turn, because, of course, Alexia had paired them. The word Alexia handed over was written in bold letters on the paper: Girlfriends.

Y/n's eyes flickered nervously as she clutched the paper to her chest, shielding it from Kika's view. She looked at Alexia angrily, ignoring everyone around her.

Without thinking, she thrust the paper back towards Alexia.

"No," she said firmly.

Alexia's brow furrowed. "You can't refuse to play charades. It's the rule." She put the paper back into Y/n's hand.

"Fuck the rules," Y/n shot back, rolling her eyes hard. 

Honestly, she had been doing a lot of eye-rolling that day. Maybe she was going to get a headache from all of that.

"Language," Alexia warned, frowning. She hated curse words. That's why Y/n used them so much.

"Look," Alexia continued, voice turning serious but still calm, "you either do the charades, or you don't play."

Y/n smiled brightly, like she had just found the solution to global warming.

"Perfect. Then I'm not playing."

"No!" everyone in the team said at the same time, even those who clearly weren't enjoying themselves, like Graham. Pina and Patri exchanged looks of disappointment, while others shook their heads in frustration.

Alexia sighed heavily, shooting Y/n a look of exasperation. "Can you please stop being so annoying and do one fucking charade? It's just a game."

"Change it," Y/n said, staring at Alexia. "Pick something else, anything else."

Then Salma, as a very good friend, interjected. "That's not fair," she said, arms crossed. "We didn't get to pick. We had to do whatever Alexia wrote for us."

Y/n rolled her eyes. "Salma, you had to do a dog. You just barked, and they got it right."

"Still! It's not fair. We have rules for bonding nights."

"You don't get to pick and choose just because you live with Alexia!" Ona said. "This is… special treatment, it's against the law!"

"What law?" Y/n turned to Ona. "This is a charade game–for fun!"

"You don't look like you're having fun," Vicky mumbled.

Y/n held the bridge of her nose. "That's because I'm not!"

It wasn't possible that she was the only one seeing how ridiculous it all was–not just the charades, but the whole social experiment they were doing with her and Kika!

"What's even on the paper? It can't be that bad," Kika asked again. "Look. If it's like a chicken or something, I can do it. You don't need to."

Her tone was gentle, but even Y/n could see she was getting impatient.

The poor girl had been standing in the middle of Jana's living room for twenty minutes while Y/n argued with Alexia about doing a charade that Kika didn't even know about.

Y/n ignored Kika, turning her attention to the evil master behind it all. 

"Alexia, if you don't change it, I'll just head home."

"Head home?" she heard Kika whine behind her, as if she were a kid. "But I wanna play charades! If you go, I won't have a pair!"

Y/n was seconds from losing it.

"Kika, not now," Y/n said, looking at Kika 

"Just play the game," Aitana said, waving her hands. "Sí?"

"Just fucking do it," Vicky said as if she was bored out of her mind just waiting.

"Have you always been this fun?" Jana asked ironically.

"It's the last time we're going to see each other for a few weeks!" Even Ingrid chimed in. "Try, nena."

In seconds, the whole team erupted in a mess of words, telling Y/n that she should do whatever was written on the paper. 

That she was annoying, that she wasn't fun, that she was ruining game night.

And then it all became too much.

She turned around, feeling her heart beat faster, but not for the reason she wanted–but from frustration, from anger.

For weeks, the team had treated her and Kika as if they were small avatars in a Sims game. Pushing and pulling them together. Putting them in awkward situations.

She had had enough of it.

If they wanted a reaction, they were going to get it.

She locked eyes with Kika, walking toward her with forced determination.

She held onto Kika's waist and pulled her close. The last thing Y/n saw before she closed her eyes was Kika's surprised ones.

In a second, the room that was so chaotic became silent. You could hear the sound of Jana's faucet leaking drops of water.

Y/n could feel Kika's heart beating against her own as she deepened the kiss, her hands pressing against Kika's skin. 

It felt good. It was a very good kiss. 

Somehow it felt familiar, like it wasn't the first time they were kissing.

Kissing.

She was kissing Kika. In front of everyone. 

Merda. 

It wasn't even a spontaneous kiss or a romantic one. It felt good–fuck it felt amazing–it made Y/n warm inside, but it was all performative.

It absolutely wasn't in the way Y/n wanted it to be. She didn't even ask if Kika was okay with it. Hadn't looked her in the eyes before going in, she just walked to her and did it.

Fuck it.

She broke the kiss, breathless. And she stared at Kika's brown eyes, her hands still on Kika's waist. Y/n didn't know what to do, didn't know how to move.

It was like they were bound by electrostatic energy, Y/n kept planted on her feet, Kika too.

There was silence, but then, Vicky decided to break it.

"Okay, let me guess…your charade was kiss?" She said awkwardly. Jana quickly smacked the back of her head.

Y/n looked at Kika one more time before taking a step back and turning to Alexia. 

She threw the paper clutched in her fist in  Alexia's direction, who, just like everybody else, looked absolutely stunned.

It was like they expected an elephant to just materialise in Jana's living room rather than having Y/n and Kika kiss. Honestly, Y/n felt the same.

She didn't imagine she would be kissing Kika when she woke. 

Y/n expected a bit of teasing from the team; laughs, maybe. Instead, there was just silence. Complete and awkward silence. 

Everybody was looking at the scene, some with their mouth agape, others with a hand in front of their mouth, in shock. Everybody was frozen too, as if they didn't want to move, or else the room would turn into a complete turmoil.

They knew this wasn't supposed to happen. They knew they pushed it too far.

Kika stood in the middle of the room, cheeks pink, lips parted slightly, watching Y/n. She didn't seem angry, nervous, or embarrassed, just very much surprised.

Y/n could help but notice how her own gloss was on Kika's lips. 

She didn't like that, she wanted to wipe it away from her face. But she also wanted to put it back there.

The thought felt like a a slap, and suddenly, the realisation hit her. Her chest felt tight, like she couldn't breathe.

This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. This wasn't how she had imagined kissing Kika for the first time…not in front of everyone, not out of anger, not as some weird performance to prove a point to Alexia or to the team.

Kika deserved better than that. They deserved better than that, but Y/n didn't even know if there was a they to begin with.

Y/N cleared her throat.

"Here's your charade," she said slowly to Alexia, but her voice cracked, even though she tried very hard to be firm.

It was all her fault. Alexia had decided to care, and she didn't know the difference between doing that and intruding. 

Did she think Y/n was so incapable of dealing with her own relationships? But even as the anger rose again, Y/n felt something else underneath, because now she had ruined whatever chance she might have had with Kika by turning their first kiss into a show.

Y/n looked down as she walked to the door, her hands shaking. 

She could still taste Kika's lip balm, something sweet, maybe strawberry, and it made her stomach twist with guilt… and maybe longing? Y/n wondered if Kika felt the same about Y/n's gloss. Well, she didn't want to know the answer to that now.

But then Y/n  remembered that Alexia wasn't the only one to blame in this situation, that every single one of her teammates was involved in this in some sort of way. They had all watched her struggle, watched her and Kika dance around each other for weeks, and instead of giving them space (like any good person would do), they had turned it into a game.

She stopped on her track and turned her head, eyes pointing at all of the girls, except Kika. She couldn't look at Kika again, not yet…maybe not ever.

"Stop hiding the fucking chairs from the restaurant, it's ridiculous."

Then, she held the doorknob and was out in the hallway outside of Jana's apartment. She knew that her last sentence was rather nonsensical now, but she didn't care.

Y/n heard Kika call her name, she sounded soft and confused...maybe a little hurt, too, but she didn't turn around. She pressed her back against the closed door for a moment, just to breathe, just to ground herself.

She squeezed her eyes shut. What the hell had she done?

Y/n had nothing to say now, not to herself or to others. 

At least she couldn't form any thoughts in her head that didn't involve the way Kika's waist felt on her hands, how her palm still burned from touching her, or the little sound she had made when Y/n had deepened the kiss.

Y/n opened her eyes, taking one last breath before going to the elevator. She had a suitcase to pack and a flight to catch.

..

The next day, Y/n was getting her suitcase ready. She and Alexia were leaving for Ciudad del Fútbol in a few hours, their flight was scheduled soon, just a few hours away.

The other times Y/n was called up to camp, all she felt was excitement, happiness to have a change of scenery, to meet longtime friends who played out of the country, excitement for playing against other teams. But now the whole preparation felt mechanical, stiff, as if it were just another chore, just another responsibility she had to fill.

Olga was on the floor next to her side, folding a pile of clothes Y/n had just taken off the wardrobe, not caring to check if they were appropriate for the weather. Olga was doing it for her, though; she was used to it: making the suitcase of a grumpy footballer. Some would say it was her speciality.

Alexia was also in Y/n's room, a bit far to the left, digging through Y/n's drawer to get her sports gear together into her sports bag. She was being helpful, at least.

"So..." Alexia started, carefully, trying hard to keep her tone casual. It didn't work.

"No," Y/n interrupted without even looking at Alexia.

"But–"

"Alexia, cállate ya." [Alexia, shut up.] Olga gave her a look that shut her up right away.

Olga already knew about everything. Y/n had told her the night before.

From the team trying to set her up, to Alexia giving her a "girlfriend" charade on purpose, and how it had led Y/n to kiss Kika.

"Idiota," Y/n had mumbled the last night as Olga followed her to her room, noticing how stressed the girl was. "Your wife is an idiota! And I'm even more of an idiot than her!"

"What did Alexia do now?" Olga had asked, holding the bridge of her nose.

It all spilt out of Y/n. Olga didn't have to press forward; Y/n talked about everything willingly. She rambled, words came tumbling out of her mouth fast and without much logic. 

She talked about how confusing it was to like someone. How hard the last month had been. How she missed Kika. How it hurt to see her and feel the awkward tension growing between them.

How the girls were acting weird around her, like she felt like she and Kika were just entertainment. How Alexia went from being completely emotionally reserved to a full-on matchmaker in the matter of a few weeks.

How this whole situation had grown out of control, and Y/n felt like it wasn't just hers anymore.

How messy it all was.

Olga just listened to her. She always did; she was a very good listener. Then she sat on the edge of the bed and hugged Y/n, grounding her, giving Y/n the comfort she needed so much.

"Es complicado ahora," [it's complicated now] she said softly. "But it won't always feel like that... It'll be better in the morning."

She pressed a kiss to the top of Y/n's head as the door cracked open.

"Nena... I'm sorry–"

Olga didn't let her finish.

"Go away, Alexia," she said. "Go take a shower."

Y/n didn't see Alexia's face; her head was buried in Olga's shoulder, but she could only picture the lost puppy face Alexia had on. For once, she felt grateful that someone was handling things for her, even if it was small. She was tired of having to deal with it all.

When Y/n was a kid, they had promised her that liking someone was like feeling the sun on your face on a winter's morning, but for Y/n, liking Kika was like carrying stones on her back. They were heavy, and always there.

..

a/n: heheh here's the kiss!! <3

Tag list: @footy-lover264 , @fortifyde, @naomigirmadefender , @neutraiise , @milkveed, @browercc , @ace-of-baked , @ikzzzya , @sky-the-trans-guy00 , @knight-16, @wosohk04, @evaissleepy13, @papimapileon , @unpoppablebubbles @whiskeredshrimp-blog

[kurapikasgfff]

(in which your loving husband nanami kento will do anything you tell him to)

(fluff, there might be some spelling mistakes sozz, pls enjoy)

“buy me this lol” was the message attached with a video which you sent to your husband, kento. the video you sent him was a large juicy seedless watermelon, of course you weren’t expecting him to actually buy it, you were only joking around after all..

moments later you hear keys jingling against the door lock, you get up from your seat on the sofa getting ready to greet kento when he comes in. you quickly make your way to the door, “ hey, baby-” but your words immediately get cut off when you see kento holding a huge watermelon, it looked similar to the one in the video, surely he didn’t actually…

“hey sweetheart, how are you doing? i bought the watermelon you asked for.” kento says slipping off his shoes and properly stepping into the house, he kisses you on the cheek and makes his way to the kitchen counter.

“kento.. why did you actually buy the watermelon?” you say perplexed as you follow him to the kitchen. “what do you mean, love? you’re the one who asked for it, no?” kento says placing the watermelon on the counter.

“i was just kidding kento! obviously you didn’t actually have to get it..” you say.

“oh…” he says looking at the watermelon. “so you don’t want it?” he says returning his gaze to you.

“well- no i didn’t say i didn’t want it either..” you say laughing softly, not actually expecting the juicy watermelon to be in your very presence. “this one looks exactly like the video.. where did you even get it?” you say, with your hand resting on the watermelon.

“I stopped at that market by the river.” kento answers.

“you mean the one that’s 2 hours away!?” you say shocked, not expecting him to go such great lengths just for a watermelon. “babyyy, why would you go that far for a watermelonnn?” you say in disbelief.

“it wasn’t for the watermelon, it was for you.” kento says, his eyes still on you. “I will always do anything you tell me to, love.” he says wrapping his arm around your waist, kissing you on your temple.

“aagh- I know that but…” you say in a loss at words, “fuck, you’re just so good to me.” you say hugging him.

“I will do anything for you, sweetheart. you know that.” kento says embracing you back.

(p.s, guys i’m gonna start working on the requests soon, so don’t think I forgot about it or anything like that, tyty)

[gtzgoblin]

I've been thinking about this episode all week because I'm gonna have to watch it again with my kid this weekend but I just can't get over Belinda. She started off such a strong character, she was calling the Doctor out on his shit, she didn't want to be there, he was being almost sinister in his attempts to keep her with him and like the time didn't pass for her to be the way she was in the Space Eurovision episode never mind the end of the last one.

Now don't get me wrong, I have a kid, I would go into the box with my kid in a second if there was any risk there. I understand why Belinda did that in character at that moment. But when she vanished, the only person bothered by that was Ruby (which I did feel terrible for her about, don't get me wrong, I was desperate to give her a cuddle coz she's been hard done by these last two series as the Doctor dropped in and destroyed her life as ever). If Belinda had given any sort of unease (in the series to suggest she was a mother and time had changed or at the end when Ruby was creating) I'd be more open to the ending but, like, the Doctor has then saddled this woman with a little kid she had no knowledge of before the event - he literally changed time to make it so - and Poppy didn't even turn out to be his. Now Belinda has an ex and has to work nights and it just could have been written so much better even without changing the ending if they really had to go there - but they didn't! The other weird baby went to Carla. In the Space Babies ep Poppy wanted the Doctor and Ruby to be her parents. Ruby was the one who knew she was gone and cared. I don't understand why Belinda ended up with her when she'd shown absolutely no wish for a kid outside of a situation where she was brainwashed.

And on top of that why was Ruby the only one who knew? Why couldn't Belinda be the special one in that occasion? Her character was just watered down through the series and like, the companions have their flaws, but I've been watching s11 and by the end of that series Yaz has tonnes more depth and she's much younger and much more wobbly in herself (due to age). Amy Pond had a similar storyline and it broke my heart.

The episode itself, and most of the series, I've enjoyed on a surface level (that left me with a bad taste in my mouth admittedly) but that's all down to the acting of the cast, who have been wonderful. Ncuti, Millie, Varada, all of the UNIT cast, Anita Dobson and Archie Panjabi were fantastic (and the Ranis exit sucked too, what a let down) I hated Conrad because Jonah Hauer-King was so good (when Ruby was going on about his dad my heart stopped coz me and my husband had a bet on whether the Master and Lucy Saxon were his parents).

I get that things out of the series' control happened, and things had to change because of it, but everyone deserves a good send off and that send off for poor Ncuti was not only lacklustre (excluding Jodie, but again, she didn't need to be there) but overshadowed as much as his first one (still not over DT getting an award for the regeneration when it was Jodie's exit) which is absolute bullshit for the MAIN CHARACTER of the show. He should have had a better, more pointed regeneration. Even the Rani hitting him with a damn laser or Omega getting him (I'd rather we forgot about Omega altogether though, that also sucked) would've been better than him changing time for no reason.

And why couldn't he have gone to find the real Poppy on his way out, seen her happy with her family, or brought those babies back to earth where someone could've looked after them instead of making Belinda a one-dimensional incubator and happy about it?

Ugh, go back to the £5 budget and filler episodes running down corridors that are flashing red against a Dalek, or something bad CGI with big teeth please. Two of my favourite ever episodes are the Jodie one with the Dalek and the time loop and the Matt one in that hotel with the minotaur and they were just classic Doctor Who: show string budget, non-compicated plot, some cool companion events, the Doctor shows off after thinking it's all doomed.

That's better than this.

(P.S. did I misinterpret the genetic bomb thing? Is that how the Master wiped them all out or not? If so, how did he keep some of them in the cybersuits (I'm guessing he chose specific people he hated most to be exempt), he'll be furious at bigeneration (I stand by that that's a stupid concept though I'm glad Anita is still lurking somewhere), and also how did the Doctor then bigenerate if he's not technically a Time Lord? Is he a Time Lord? I never got the nuance of that so decided to just ignore it...)

(P.P.S I fucking hate gimmicks so I'm not touching that regeneration with a barge pole)

(P.P.P.S if DT doctor regenerates will he regenerate, will he turn into Ncuti again, will he turn into someone else, go backwards into Jodie, or will he just explode and destroy the earth?)

if you asked me a week ago how i thought 15 would die i would have guessed succumbing to his injuries after rescuing rogue from hell and dying homosexually in his arms but. no. instead he dies forcing a baby onto a woman who has never shown interest in motherhood. great...

[mydarlingclaudia]

cw : major character death, baby death, angst

Simon Riley who says he’s still married even after your death when people hit on him

Simon Riley who still wears his wedding ring and keeps yours on the same chain as his dog tags

Simon Riley who lost not only you, but the baby you were going to have the day you died

Simon Riley who keeps the nursery the same as it was when you painted it and set up the crib

Simon Riley who shows up to the pub on Fridays an hour or two later than the rest of his team because the show you used to watch all the time only airs at eight p.m. on Fridays, he hasn't missed an episode

Simon Riley who goes to you and your babies joint grave first thing each time he gets back from deployment, there's a third joint part on the tombstone for him one day

Simon Riley who keeps the house the exact same as you left it, he even unfolds and refolds your clothes and the babies when he can't sleep

Simon Riley who doesn't really talk about it, doesn't check in with your family, doesn't take Price's advice when he tells him he should take time off after your death

Simon Riley who wakes up some mornings thinking you're in the other room with your baby, only to remember you aren't

–

You met through a neighbor, your sink had broken and she had pointed you in the direction of the scary guy down the hallway who had fixed her shower last year. He was in your flat for three hours, came out a bit sweaty and with grease on his hands and shirt, but he made your sink better than it was before it started leaking and he walked back down the hall with cash in his pocket.

The next time you see him is when you ask him if he knew anything about cars and if he'd mind taking a look at yours. He gets the check engine light to turn off and makes that wrong-sounding whirring sound to go back to normal, instead of cash, you offer dinner.

He didn't even think to turn you down, he wasn't due back on base for another week, he could use some company. You learned Simon wasn't a handyman or plumber, it was just an odd job he got good at, the military is where his duties lay, no wonder you hadn't seen him around much before.

After deployments, he comes over for dinner each week, then you start going out for dinner and go out to see movies and he starts to show up at your doorstep with flowers. The kiss comes first, officially dating comes second.

The longer you were together, the harder it was to be away on deployments. And you're everything Simon could ever want. Too good for him, too understanding and patient. But Simon still comes home to you, he still kisses your shoulders and lets you wash his back, he still wants to marry you.

And he does, he puts a ring on your finger that looks like the one his mom used to wear before she just took it off one day and never put it back on. He buys you a nice house with a backyard and a fireplace, plans out the whole wedding with you, he does everything right.

Pregnancy comes next, he never saw himself as a dad, but he got more and more comfortable with the idea as your pregnancy progressed. The nursery was yellow, you put a little mobile with seals and starfish and otters over the crib, Simon put the rocking chair together and painted it blue.

He held your hair back when you puked in the mornings, cooked most of the meals you ate over the nine months, did all of the massages, went to all the check-ups, even took that paternity leave he was convinced he'd never use.

He held your hand all through the delivery, your baby girl came out completely silent, one of the nurses in the room with you was new and he didn't know why she started crying at first.

He had thought he'd seen enough blood in his life for it not to really startle him the same way it did when he was a kid, but you and bleeding out being used in the same sentence put a whole new sense of terror in him. The nurses actually had him leave the room, there was only one way it could go, he knew that, but he sat in the hallway bouncing his leg like he was waiting for good news.

He drove home alone that day.

Simon spends his days waiting around now. You were really the only one for him, he knew that far too soon, but by now, he would've been picking his daughter up from her first day of school, maybe you'd even have another baby on the way. When he's not deployed, going through the motions aimlessly, he's daydreaming.

He's sad, of course he is, what else are you supposed to feel? But he doesn't cry as much as he probably should. He imagines school pictures in his wallet and hanging on the walls of your house, birthday party invitations stuck onto the fridge and date night's marked on the calendar.

He goes into the nursery sometimes, like he's waiting up with the baby, trying to get it to fall back asleep. He'll spin the mobile and sit back in the chair that he was meant to hold his daughter in and just stare at it, even after it stops moving, he stays.

Your grave is so heartbreaking to see, but it's comforting, also. That you'll always be there, you and your daughter, and one day, he'll be right next to you again.

[ghouljams]

What do you think it would take for Gaz and wife 4 to act on their feelings? Or do you think it's one of those will-they-won't-theys where they'll be on their deathbeds thinking maybe things could have been different?

It would be impossible for Gaz not to act on his feelings eventually. There's just no way around it. You have more patience than him, more willpower. Everything that basic training was supposed to beat into him, you have in spades. He blames John for it, at the end of the day no woman your age should be quite so militant with herself. It kills him, because you have these moments where you're so damn-

You bounce on the balls of your feet when you're excited, your eyes shine when you see a patisserie, you point out stray cats and stop to pet strangers' dogs. And your ass jiggles, and your tits bounce, and your smile makes his stomach flip, and your voice pitches into that baby coo and it drives him crazy. Crazy.

You're naive, sheltered by a man who was trying to keep you from seeing what he really was. You're bubbly, and bright and childish in the best way. You drag Gaz out of himself and into the sunshine to stop and look at multicolored hydrangeas while you babble about soil Ph and root systems. You are radiant, you are so very scarred.

You fall asleep in his bed, waiting for him to find the beach toys he bought for your kids. Exhausted from the flight and the sun and life. And he traces the softness of your cheeks with his rough fingers. And he hopes you'll wake up before he does something stupid like kissing you. And he hopes you never wake up, that you both stay in this moment where you're a mum and he's a dad and you're both caring for the same little ones, and you're both sharing a bed, and you're both here. Together.

Together.

And you wake up with fluttering lashes, and he pulls his hand away.

"I thought you were going to kiss me," You say, voice a million miles away.

"I thought so too."

"Why didn't you?" It's so simple a question, and the answer is so complicated. You both know why, both know there's a labyrinth between you, always leading you back to the start. And just as clearly Gaz knows that if he ever wants out he'll have to grab a pickaxe and start chipping at the opposite wall.

"I guess I thought it wouldn't be appropriate," He says instead, "you being asleep and all."

[yammpi3]

𓏲 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖ 𝑷𝑳𝑬𝑨𝑺𝑬 𝑫𝑶𝑵𝑻 𝑻𝑬𝑳𝑳 𝑰𝑾𝑨-𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑵 𝑰𝑴 𝑰𝑵 𝑳𝑶𝑽𝑬 𝑾𝑰𝑻𝑯 𝑯𝑰𝑺 𝑶𝑳𝑫𝑬𝑹 𝑺𝑰𝑺𝑻𝑬𝑹 .ᐟ.ᐟ ⋆.˚

synopsis. Oikawa Tooru has a hopeless crush on his best friend’s older sister — and he’s doing a terrible job hiding it.

- Oikawa fell for you way earlier than he’ll ever admit— probably around his second year, when you dropped by the gym to bring Iwaizumi an umbrella and told him to “don’t be dumb and get sick.” You weren’t even talking to him, but he was completely wrecked.

- He’d never met someone who could shut down his dramatic little speeches with just a look. The first time you raised an eyebrow at him for being too loud in the gym, he went quiet for a full three seconds. Iwaizumi thought he was broken.

- Still, he plays it cool. Or at least tries to. Around you, he switches to this very obvious polite version of himself — bowing a little too perfectly, speaking just a bit more formally than usual, like:

“Ah, Iwa-chans sister! Always a pleasure.”

Iwaizumi throws a volleyball at him every time.

- He makes excuses to hang around you. If Iwaizumi’s walking home with you, suddenly Oikawa is too.

“Oh? You’re going that way? Haha, what a coincidence!” He totally wasn’t waiting around for fifteen minutes or anything…

- He gets flustered so easily and tries to play it off with that usual smirk. You tell him his hair looks nice, and he nearly walks into a streetlamp.

“I mean, it always looks nice,” he mumbles, ears turning flush pink.

- He has this secret little habit of memorizing your favorite snacks or drinks from the vending machines. He’ll act like he just “happened” to grab an extra and offer it to you all casual — but inside he’s screaming.

- You once ruffled his hair and called him a good kid. He didn’t sleep that night. He laid awake thinking, I’m not a kid. I could be boyfriend material. Real boyfriend material.

- He actually does get jealous, makes it known in his own way. If someone else flirts with you, he suddenly starts talking louder, cracking more jokes, throwing in little humble brags like,

“Oh yeah, I’ve had scouts looking at me lately. No big deal.” (It definitely was though.)

- But the second you smile at him, he softens. Completely. It’s obvious in his gaze— he looks at you like he’s trying not to get his hopes up.

- Iwaizumi definitely knows. He just hasn’t said anything. Yet. He gives Oikawa a death glare every time he gets too close to you, but deep down… he can tell Oikawa’s actually serious about you.

- Oikawa jokes around a lot— calling himself the “future brother-in-law” just to rile Iwaizumi up. But if you ever took him aside and said,

“Do you really like me?”

He’d go completely still. Look you right in the eyes.

And say, with no teasing this time,

“Yeah. I do.”

© yammpi3 2025. All work belongs to @yammpi3. You can repost if you want to support my blog/writing! Please don't modify, translate, or plagiarize in any way on ANY platform.

[savvyscribbleswriting]

Pairing: Logan (specifically worst!Wolverine) x fem!Reader

Summary: After you catch your friends badmouthing your talkative nature, you start holding back. Logan is not having it.

Word Count: 7.1k

Genre: Smut (18+; MDNI!!!)

Warnings: no use of (Y/N); strong language; angst (with a happy ending); self-hatred; slow burn; explicit sexual situations; oral sex (female receiving); face sitting; breast play; p in v sex (him on top); mentions of clawing; Logan has a bit of a pain kink; reader is described as a talker; reader’s friends are secretly the worst; Logan is the best; Wade, Vanessa, and Peter are supporting characters (and also the best); Mary Puppins and Blind Al cameos; Logan gets called “Wolverine” once

Author’s Note: I didn’t think I’d be going back to Logan smut so soon, but here we are! Enjoy!

P.S. I DO NOT OWN WOLVERINE, DEADPOOL, OR ANY OTHER CHARACTER(S) IN THE DEADPOOL/MARVEL UNIVERSE!!! I ALSO DO NOT OWN ANYTHING/ANYONE THAT IS WITTILY REFERENCED!!!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You loved to talk.

You had always been that way. It wasn’t because you loved to hear the sound of your own voice or anything malicious like that. You were just a passionate person who had this natural ability to have long-winded conversations about a variety of topics.

When you were a kid, adults found it cute and just let you be. As you got older and more self-aware, you found yourself abruptly stopping and blushing in embarrassment, only for people to assure you that you were alright. In short, you had never gotten much criticism when it came to you talking a lot. If anything, your friends encouraged it. You had two friend groups, though.

The first group included Wade Wilson, a blabber mouth himself with a colorful vocabulary. It was your shared tendency to go on and on about everything that made you instant BFFs. Through him, you met the rest of your little group – Vanessa, Wade’s on-off lover who was great for good old-fashioned girl talk, and Peter, who had his own way of making the simplest things seem life-changing. There was one more person, but you didn’t see him as a friend.

He was different, special, the love of your life.

He was Logan.

Logan was pretty, strong, pretty strong, and pretty silent for the most part. You had met him a few times before, but things didn’t really click between you two until a month later. You were having a sleepover at Wade’s apartment, cuddling Mary Puppins on the couch and waiting for him to come back with the latest limited edition ice cream. (“It’s from the people who made ranch ice cream!” he insisted.) You don’t know how you got started, but you ended up giving this long spiel to Logan about this couple on this TV show that you and Wade were binging that Logan could give two shits about. He can’t lie, he was a bit annoyed at first, thinking of you as the female Wade. But if he was so annoyed, why didn’t he go and hide in his room? And why did he slowly start to warm up to the sound of your voice and your energy?

You finally looked his way and noticed his glazed eyes. It was something you were all too familiar with - you had gone too far and left the other person so far behind. You let out a small, embarrassed laugh before curling in on yourself and stuffing your face with popcorn. “Aaannnddd you don’t care about any of that! I’m so sorry! I’ll shut up now!”

“No, no!” Logan exclaimed. “It’s not that!”

You scooted back a bit more in surprise.

“I mean, yeah, I don’t know the first thing about reality TV – except there’s nothing real about it – but… I like hearing you talk about it.”

Your expression softened. “Really?”

“I don’t say something unless I mean it, sweetheart,” he said. The nickname made you blush for a whole other reason. It was a sight Logan could see himself getting used to.

About two weeks after that, you two started seeing each other romantically. “I love it! Very ‘grumpy-cat-and-sunshine-dog,’” as Wade put it during another one of your sleepovers. With you, though, Logan wasn’t as grumpy. You loosened him up and acted as a light in his darkest moments. For his part, Logan protected you and made sure you were always taken care of and happy. You two made a cute, almost perfect couple. Plus, the sex was amazing.

You were as vocal in the bedroom as you were out of it. You talked to Logan about what you wanted, how good he made you feel, how good you wanted to make him feel. You would moan, giggle, pant, scream. Logan never knew what song you were going to sing once he got you underneath him, but he got a good concert every time. That was the analogy you used when you were talking to your other friend group.

Three girls that you’d known since college made up this second group of yours – Addy, Jennifer, and Claire. You had so much fun with them back in the day, something that changed drastically once you all graduated and began living your own lives. That’s when the four of you decided to meet at least once a month to catch up. This time, it was lunch at a local Italian restaurant. Addy was gunning for an A.D.A position. Jennifer was producing some great content for her company’s social media. Claire was getting ready to be a stay-at-home mom with her first child. And you were currently going on about your own accomplishments at work and how it had drained you a little bit and how you hoped to plan a little getaway with Logan at some point in the future, maybe a cabin in the woods somewhere because he loved stuff like that and it would allow you to let off as much steam and be as loud as you wanted. All three girls’ eyes nearly popped out of their heads, something that did not escape you and made you abruptly stop and blush as usual.

“Oh, God! I’m so sorry! TMI! I know! I know!” you hurriedly said.

Addy, Jennifer, and Claire quickly spoke on top of one another.

“No! Not at all!”

“You’re fine, girl. Don’t worry about it.”

“People have sex.”

Addy kept talking as she dug into her salad. “I’m glad he makes you so happy. We all are.” Jennifer and Claire nodded in unison.

You smiled at their validity. “Thanks.” As you slurped up your spaghetti, you could feel the sauce staining your face. “God, I’m a mess! I’m gonna go the restroom real quick.”

You maneuvered out of your seat and headed to your destination, which was fortunately right next to your table. You cleaned any trace of sauce from your face before doing the same with your hands. Satisfied, you headed back when you heard something that made you stop in your tracks.

“I swear, I could shove an entire pizza in her mouth to get her to shut up.” It was Addy.

“Are you serious?” That was Claire.

“Yes! Even in college, I couldn’t stand how much she ran her mouth.”

“If I had a boyfriend like hers, I’d run my mouth off, too. He’s hot.” Last but not least, Jennifer.

You found yourself moving as close as you could to the opening next to your table without being seen. You thought maybe if you listened more, you’d find out that Addy was talking about someone else. Or if she was talking about you, then Jennifer and Claire would come to your defense. Oh, how wrong you were.

“I’m honestly surprised they’ve lasted this long,” Addy said after taking another bite of her salad. “He’ll probably dump her soon, though. I can hardly stand her when we meet once a month. I can’t even begin to imagine how anyone could put up with her for an entire day, for weeks, hell months on end!”

“Yeah! Remember how many boyfriends she had back in the day?” Jennifer asked. “She would complain about how they dumped her because she was ‘too much’? What they actually meant was she talked too much. You’d think she would’ve taken the hint and grown up by now.”

“I don’t know if that’s completely fair,” Claire tried. “At least she’s aware of how much she talks and stops herself sometimes.”

“Yeah, after about an hour of yapping like a freaking dog,” Addy scoffed. “Just watch. A month from now, she’s going to come crying to us about how Logan broke up with her and play the victim for a week straight by whining about how much she loved him and how she thought he was the one…”

“Blah blah blah…” Jennifer piped in.

“And then she’ll move onto some other guy and talk his ear off and talk our ears off about him and how much she loves him and how she thinks he’s the one…”

“Blah blah blah…”

“And then she’ll come crying to us about how he broke up with her-“

“Blah blah blah!” Jennifer finished, this time with a laugh that Addy matched in pitch and bitchiness. Jennifer then stopped to ask, “Hey, do you think she’d be too distracted by the sound of her own voice to notice if one of us flirts with Logan?”

“I think she loves him too much to allow any of us to flirt with him,” Claire managed to get out.

“I mean once they break up, Claire,” Jennifer clarified pointedly.

“Ooo, good point!” Addy exclaimed. “You know when she brought him to Claire’s house for that barbeque? I was trying to move past him to get another margherita and I touched his arm and his muscles were so firm! Ugh, I can only imagine what they feel like wrapped around-“

You’d had enough at that point. It took all your strength not to run back to the restroom so you could throw up. Instead, you walked out and stood next to Addy.

“Hey, girls. I’m actually not feeling too well, so I’m going to head out,” you said as evenly as you could.

“Oh, are you sure, hon?” Addy asked, looking concerned. Jennifer and Claire shot their own looks. You didn’t believe a single one of them.

“Yeah,” you said, plastering on a smile. “I don’t think that spaghetti is agreeing with me. I’m just gonna go home and take it easy. I’ll text you later.”

“Well, okay,” Addy shrugged. “Talk later.”

“Feel better,” was all Jennifer offered.

“I’m sorry,” Claire said.

Addy got up to give you a hug, but you were quick to move away from her. You simply waved goodbye to them and made your exit. Before you got to your car, you took one last look inside and saw Addy and Jennifer laughing it up while Claire just ate her food.

You were feeling so many different things on the drive back. Betrayal. Anger. Sadness. Shame. Stupidity. Confusion. As soon as your body hit your bed, it all came out in waves. You clung to your pillow and curled up as tightly as you could. All you could focus on was getting all the pain out of your system by crying your eyes out.

You accomplished your goal about an hour later. With no more tears left, your eyes just stared at your ceiling as your brain began to turn. Each new thought made you spiral downward.

You talked too much. You knew that. Other people knew that. They had been telling you for years that it was no big deal, but they were wrong… or lying. They were all lying. Deep down they hated your talking. They hated you. Your friends hated you. And it wasn’t just Addy or Jennifer or even Claire. It was Wade, Vanessa, Peter… Logan. They all secretly wished you wouldn’t talk so much, or at all. If you kept talking like you did, they were going to leave you. Logan would leave you. You couldn’t bear losing Logan. You loved him too much. You had to change. You had to be better. You would be better. You’d stop talking. From that moment on, you were no longer going to say anything. You were just going to bite your tongue and give everyone some peace and quiet. Everyone will be happier. Logan will be happier. It was for the best. Everything would be fine.

You just had to stop talking.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Logan leaned against the wall outside of your apartment. He had been having a rough week and couldn’t wait to see his favorite girl. He also couldn’t wait to see your face light up when he revealed his plans for date night – dinner at your favorite diner and a movie. He let himself imagine your sweet voice for a moment, talking about how excited you were and how wonderful he was.

He finally heard the doorknob turn and pushed himself up to meet you. You looked beautiful, as usual.

“Hey,” he greeted you.

“Hey,” you echoed, giving him a quick peck on the lips.

“So, I was thinking we could go to that diner you love and then catch that movie you’ve been talking about,” he explained.

Your eyes widened as did your smile. The only thing that came out of your mouth was, “Great.” You then moved past him to exit the building.

Logan stood there slightly confused. He was expecting a bit more from you. He quickly shook it off and jogged to catch up to you.

“Wade and Blind Al went to see the movie last week,” he said, holding your hand. “She said he was shit at explaining what was going on.” You hummed in response. That was it. Now Logan was even more confused.

Things didn’t get much better as you two walked to the diner. Any attempts at conversation made by Logan were met with either small noises of acknowledgement or one-word responses. He finally confronted the matter once you sat down and got your drinks.

“Seems like I’m not the only one who’s had a bad week,” he started.

“Huh?” you asked, looking up from your water.

“Usually, you’re going a mile a minute. What’s got you down, baby?”

“I’m… fine.”

Logan didn’t believe that for a second. You could see that and put on your best smile. “Nothing’s wrong. Really. I’m just… taking things in. Enjoying the moment, you know?”

Logan wanted to dig deeper, but then the food came out and you busied yourself with your burger and fries. Although he wasn’t completely satisfied with your answer, he decided to let the matter go for the time being. The night was still young. He figured by the time you two got to the theater, you’d be back to being yourself at least a little bit.

However, you were quiet as a church mouse from beginning to end. You didn’t have any little outbursts when the characters onscreen did something stupid or surprising or romantic or whatever. Even when Logan asked what you thought on the walk back, fully expecting you to go in-depth about how one actor stood out as being good or horrible or how the direction was unique or stale or even how the music was great or God-awful, you merely responded with, “I liked it.”

He suddenly stopped and forced you to do the same.

“Alright, can you please tell me what’s wrong?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean can you please tell me why you’ve barely talked all night?”

“I told you, I’m just taking everything in.”

“Yeah, and I don’t buy that.”

“Well, it’s the truth,” you insisted, trying to lead Logan back in the direction of your apartment. He didn’t budge. Instead, he grabbed you gently by the arms, holding you in place.

“Sweetheart, please...”

“I’m fine, Logan,” you said as you tried to wiggle your way free.

“Come on, you tell me everything. It shouldn’t be hard to tell me what’s going on now.”

“It’s nothing! I swear!”

“Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s not-“

“I SAID I’M FINE!!!” you exploded, pushing your way out of Logan’s grip. You turned on your heels and continued your journey, not bothering to wait or even look back at Logan.

He stared at you in shock. He never saw you get like that before. Something big must’ve happened for you to be acting like this, but obviously the best course of action wasn’t to press you on the matter. There were times when he needed space before opening up. Maybe you were the same way right now. He decided to back off and give you as much space as you needed to get back to being you.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next time you spoke to Logan was a couple days later, just before you two met up with Wade, Vanessa, and Peter at the bar. You apologized for snapping at him, but you didn’t explain why like he secretly hoped. He took what he could get, though.

Everyone was so excited to see you. You greeted each of them with a warm smile, a “hey” or “hello,” and a small hug. You then got settled in with Logan in a booth, his arm instinctively going around you. He figured maybe you’d start feeling better if you were surrounded by your best friends.

Vanessa talked about her work and uptight boss.

Peter talked about a new self-help book he was reading.

Wade talked about trying this new recipe for chimichangas that ended up tasting horrible so he gave it to Mary Puppins, only for her to think the same thing and throw up in Logan’s shoes.

Logan got onto Wade for talking about Mary Puppins throwing up in his shoes.

You, however, remained silent. All you did was drink, munch on the cheese curds Wade got for you all, and listen to everyone tell their stories. There were a few times Logan caught you opening your mouth to say something only to close it. Fortunately, it wasn’t just him who noticed your change in behavior.

Vanessa, ever the observer, took advantage of a break in Wade’s story to ask, “Hey, are you alright?”

Your eyes widened. “Hmm?”

“You’re pretty quiet tonight,” she explained.

Wade gasped. “OMFG, yeah! I’m on my third banana daquiri and you haven’t said a peep! I’m zipping my mouth now, girl. Go on, give us everything!”

Logan looked at you closely. Would this be the time you finally let it all out?

“There’s… not that much to say, honestly.”

Logan tried not to let his disappointment show. Wade and Vanessa, meanwhile, could not hide their confusion.

“Really?” Wade asked. “But it seems like you’ve always got something to share. I feel like I’m on the Drew Barrymore Show when I’m with you.”

“Oh, I love her!” Peter commented, not really getting the gravity of the situation. “I wish she would come back to acting. I love the movies she does with Adam Sandler. What was that one where she can’t remember him so he-“

“Yeah, yeah! I know that one!” Wade snapped his fingers wildly. “It’s… it’s uh… God damn it! What is it?” He turned to you for an answer.

“I don’t know,” you mumbled. “I’m going to the ladies’ room.” You peeled Logan’s arm off so you could get up. You then scurried away without another word, leaving everyone to stare after you stunned, even Peter who now understood that something was wrong. All eyes landed on Logan.

“What did you do?” Wade asked, accusatorily.

Logan whipped his head around. “What did I do?”

“Yes! She’s usually all over you and spilling all the tea. Now the tea and passion are colder than the Arctic! She’s never acted like this before and I assume it’s because the two of you are in the middle of a lovers’ quarrel. So I will ask again, and remember that you are under oath, what did you do?!”

“Wade…” Vanessa began.

“I didn’t do anything,” Logan beat her to it.

“Liar!” Wade pointed a finger, which Logan was quick to swat away.

“I’m not lying! She’s been like this ever since our date the other night. I’ve been trying to figure out what’s wrong with her, but she won’t budge.”

“Can you think of anything that might’ve happened to her before you saw her?” Vanessa asked more gently than Wade, who was still giving Logan the stink eye until he was proven innocent.

Logan slumped back in his seat. “No,” he sighed as he finished off his beer.

“Maybe she should read my self-help book,” Peter offered. “I can give her my copy once I’m done. It’s got a great chapter on communication.”

Vanessa shook her head. “She’s never needed help before, Peter, especially when it comes to communication. I don’t think that’s what this is.”

“Well, you’re the girl expert here. What is it?” Logan inquired.

“I don’t know, but whatever it is she needs to know that we are here for her. We can’t do that if we’re not a united front.” She directed that last part at Wade, who finally settled down.

“Alright, Arrested Development,” he said under his breath as he sipped his daquiri.

“Oh, I love that group! It was the only rap I was allowed to listen to back in the day…” Peter went on and on, even as you returned from the restroom.

You situated yourself back under Logan’s arm and continued your silent treatment. You tried to look as normal as possible. That didn’t stop Logan, Wade, and Vanessa from being concerned about you, which lasted even after you said your goodbyes and walked arm in arm with Logan into the night. They hoped that this was just some weird phase and not something permanent. Sullen, sad, and quiet didn’t really suit you.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You had managed to be quiet with Logan.

You had managed to be quiet with friends.

The real challenge was if you could manage to be quiet in the bedroom.

After another one of your dates with Logan, you dared to let him into your apartment for the night. Before long, you were making out like teenagers on the edge of your bed. He only left to turn on the lamp on your nightstand so he could see your pretty face. Once he returned in front of you, he helped you out of the bottom half of your clothes and kneeled down to help himself to your sweet pussy. As he licked your folds and did small, teasing swipes to your clit every now and then, you moaned in delight.

Suddenly, it hit you - you needed to tone it down. You quickly bit your lip, closed your eyes, and concentrated on not making too much noise. You were doing alright for a few minutes until Logan slowly lifted his head up.

“You enjoying this, baby?” he asked, his hold on your legs loosening slightly.

You nodded and hummed as you guided his head back down to your center. He went back to eating you out, a bit more cautious than before in case you changed your mind. You let a moan slip once or twice so as to not raise his suspicions, but it wasn’t enough. After another minute of this, he lifted his head up again to look at you.

“Are you sure you want this?”

You nodded again vigorously, your hand coming down on his head hard and quick to push him back down. “Yes.”

Logan sighed. “No, wait.” He pulled himself away and leaned back on his knees.

You chased after him. “No, no, no! Please! Don’t stop!”

“I’m not starting again until you tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing is wrong.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s not-“

“You’ve said only a handful of words this entire week. You don’t talk to me. You don’t talk to Wade or Vanessa. I’ve been giving you space hoping that you’ll open up, but I can’t do it anymore. You need to starting talking now.”

You tried grabbing his hands to pull him closer to you. “Please, just-“

He shook his head. “No. Not until you talk to me.”

“I… I…” Tears started forming at the corners of your eyes. “I can’t.”

“Of course you can. You love to talk.”

“YEAH AND THAT’S THE FUCKING PROBLEM!!!” you snapped, the dam finally breaking. You moved away and hid under your blankets so he couldn’t see you cry. He could hear you, though, and it broke his heart. It was the one sound he didn’t want to hear from you.

Logan slowly got up and moved to the other side of the bed. He laid down next to you, propped himself up on his elbow, and rubbed up and down where he felt your arm under the sheets. This went on for a good long while until you poked your head out for some air. Logan took a peek over your shoulder and saw that your face was red and puffy.

“Hey, hey…” he cooed, rolling you over to face him. He moved your hair out of the way and wiped away the rest of your tears. You were still under the covers, save for your head, while Logan was on top of them. That didn’t stop him from pulling you closer to him. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, taking in his warmth and smell.

Once he heard and felt your breathing even out, he tried again.

“I’m sorry. I just… You never not have anything to say. So when you stopped talking, I got worried. I just want you to be happy. I love you.”

You slowly lifted your head to look him in the eyes. “I-I love you, t-too,” you gulped out.

“Then please, please baby, talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong.”

You thought long and hard about it. This wasn’t working, at least not the way you were doing it. You needed to tell him. Maybe once you explained yourself, he would respect your decision not to talk so much. With a deep breath, you sat up and let it all out.

“A few days ago, I had lunch with my girlfriends, Addy, Jennifer, and Claire. You remember them. I went to the restroom and when I came back, I overheard them talking about me. They were saying that I talk too much and should learn to shut up. They said that’s why I couldn’t keep a boyfriend and they were surprised you were still with me… but that it wouldn’t be long before you dumped me. And then they talked about trying to get with you once you were single. Addy even said she was trying to feel you up at that barbeque a while back. God, that made me sick to my stomach. I just left and thought about how I could be better for you. So, I tried not talking as much. I thought if I pulled back, you’d appreciate it and wouldn’t leave me. I know you’ve never said anything about it before, but I know deep down you must think I’m such a loud mouth who doesn’t know when to quit, and you’re right. From now on, I just want to listen to people. I want Wade to let me know about all his crazy adventures, like that time he stole an ice cream truck so he could chase after some drug dealers… which is kind of cool but kind of scary because I imagine an ice cream truck would be much more difficult to navigate than a car. And I want to give Peter the chance to talk about the books that he’s reading. He told me about this one book that’s about the origins of ramen noodles that I really want to look through because that was basically my diet back in college. I think it was everybody’s diet in college. And I want Vanessa to tell me more about her boss who hates her for some weird reason. He’s probably jealous because he knows she could run that entire place by herself because she’s that fricking smart and badass. And you… I want you to tell me everything. Tell me about how Wade gets on your nerves by using all the hot water. Tell me about that taxi driver who cut you off the other day. Tell me about how they don’t make beer like they used to. For once, you talk, and I’ll listen. I won’t talk. I won’t interrupt or try to make it about me. I just want you to have your say because you deserve that. You deserve everything because you’re just so wonderful. I know you don’t think so sometimes, but you are to me and I just want-“

Logan tried to hold it in, he really did. But the more you kept going on tangents the way you do, getting worked up the way you do, talking the way you do, he couldn’t do it anymore. He slowly cracked a smile that turned into a shit-eating grin, which then gave way to a chuckle that snowballed into a big burst of laughter.

You looked at him in disgust. Here you were, pouring your heart out to him and trying to reason with him, and he was laughing. “What the hell is so funny?!” you demanded.

Amidst his fit, he noticed how serious you were. He stopped and took a few deep breaths before answering. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry.” He cupped you by the cheek and looked at you so tenderly. “It’s just… you were going on and on, like you used to…”

You realized your mistake and groaned loudly. The whole point of you doing this was to give other people the chance to talk, and here you were talking away like your usual, annoying self. You learned nothing. You were hopeless.

Logan shushed you and came in closer. “I like it. I like it because you’re so happy and sweet and random. You’re you. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

He kissed you softly on the lips. Although you loved the sensation, you pulled away. “But, the girls…”

“Fuck ‘em,” he growled, his lips trying to take over yours again.

You pulled back again. “But they’re right!”

“So what? If it’s such a problem, they should’ve said something to your face and not behind like your back like it’s high school or some shit.”

“But-!”

“Damn it, will you just let me kiss you?!”

You opened your mouth to argue, but one look from Logan made you promptly closed it. You nodded, giving Logan permission to bring you right back to his lips where you belonged. The kiss started out sweet, then grew to be deep and passionate. Logan raised himself up a bit to help you take the rest of your clothes off. He tossed them to the floor as you pawed at his own clothing. He guided your hands over the buttons on his shirt and pants and eventually his tank top and underwear.

Once he was naked, he joined you under the covers. You continued kissing each other as your hands roamed each other’s bodies. You giggles turned to moans as Logan switched from ghosting lightly over your skin to squeezing your thighs and hips. He then guided you on top of him, lowering himself down so your pussy was just above his face.

“Are-Are you sure?” you asked hesitantly.

“Hell yeah,” he said, his grip on your hips strong. As you began to lower yourself, he stopped you. “But you gotta promise me one thing first.”

You nodded, urging him to continue so you could get to the good part.

“Don’t hold back. Talk. Moan. Scream. Boss me around. Praise me. Give me a show, baby.”

You inhaled sharply. He wanted you to go full out, give him one of your famous concerts. “Okay,” you whispered, hoping you wouldn’t disappoint him.

He guided you to his face, his tongue exploring your folds once again. He went back and forth in time with you grinding against him. You tilted your head back and your hands found a grip on your headboard as you let out a big sigh of relief.

“Fuck, Logan. I love how you make me feel. So hot. So sexy. Nobody has ever made me feel the way you do.”

Logan smiled at the music you were making. You two were just getting started, though. As he continued working on your pussy, one hand kept its hold on your hip while the other snaked up to cup your breast. Your hand went over his and helped in palming and squeezing. You panted, “God, I love the way you play with me. I love how you squeeze my breasts. I miss it so much when I’m by myself. It’s not the same without you.”

Logan surprised you by lightly pinching your nipple and flicking his tongue close to but not quite on your clit.

“Yes! Yes, Logan! Keep going!” you begged. He hummed, which sent even more pleasure through you.

His tongue finally reached your clit but went back to slow licks. His hand also went back to palming and squeezing your breast. You whined, happy that he finally made it to his destination but disappointed that it was going to be another little while before you got to yours.

“Please, Logan, go faster! I want to cum so badly! I wanna cum for you! I wanna make a mess all over your face! Please, please make me cum!”

How could he refuse you when you were asking so nicely? After a minute or two he started to pick his speed up again, kneading your hip and breast in time with his tongue. You moved with him as best as you could, your breathing getting quicker.

“Oh, shit! Fuck! Just like that! Yes!”

Logan hummed again, opening his eyes slightly. He moved the hand that was on your breast so he could get an unobstructed view of you from below. Your eyes were shut in concentration. Your mouth hung open with all sorts of pretty sounds falling from it. Your breasts were bouncing as you moved back and forth. A sheen of sweat made your skin glow. You were a vision.

He returned to his task with renewed vigor. He started licking your clit with fast, swift flicks as his hand went back to play with your nipple. You gasped in delight. Your moans grew in volume and pitch as you could feel yourself getting close to the edge.

“Shit! Don’t stop! Please don’t stop! Right there! Oh, fuck! Please! Oh, God! Oh, my God! I’m cumming! I’M CUMMING!”

You came with a scream, your body stilling to let the overwhelming feeling wash over you. Logan held you in place as he sucked as much of your sweet nectar as he could. Once he got every last drop, he slowly helped you off him and onto your back under the covers.

Your head landed on the pillow with a soft thud, your brain not being able to handle much else after being rattled like it had been. You opened your eyes and allowed them to get used to what little light your lamp provided. You also noticed your legs felt weird together after being spread out for so long. As you tried to steady your breathing, you suddenly let out a cough.

“Need some water?” Logan asked.

All you were capable of was humming a response to him. He accepted that and ventured to the kitchen, quickly cleaning off any leftover cum with a paper towel before finding a couple of water bottles in your fridge. He was back by your side in no time. He handed you a bottle and you clinked them together, each of you sipping a generous amount. The cool water healed your vocal cords tremendously.

The first words out of your mouth were, “Thank you.”

“For what?” Logan asked, setting his bottle on the nightstand along with yours.

“For everything. For taking care of me. And for taking care of me after taking care of me.”

“Well, don’t thank me yet, sweetheart.”

“What do you mean?”

Logan’s hand went up and down your side before stealthily bringing you back to him. “You didn’t think that’d be the end of it, did you?”

Your eyes widened. “Wh-What do you-?”

“The way I see it, you still need to make up for being so quiet these past few days. So, I’m going to give you more to talk about.”

Before you could respond, his mouth was on yours. His hand hoisted your leg over his waist before traveling to your ass to massage it. His other hand went around to hold your head in place, his kiss never wavering. Your arms instinctively went around his neck to bring you impossibly closer to him. His chest hair rubbed against your nipples, which made your pussy wet all over again. Only Logan, you thought.

As you began grinding against him, you pulled your head back to talk. Logan took the opportunity to pepper kisses along your neck and turn them into small bites.

“Logan… Oh, Logan…” you breathed out. “You take such good care of me. Make me feel so good. I want you so much.”

He moaned at your praise. “I want you, too, baby,” he said against your neck. You could feel him start to move you on top of him and promptly stopped him.

“No, no!”

He stopped his biting and looked up at you.

“I want you on top. I don’t think I can handle riding you again.”

Logan smiled cockily. “Okay.”

With that, he hovered over you. He took a moment to watch you. Your hands went from his neck to his arms, gently squeezing to feel the muscles. You then went to feel his chest and stomach, taking in his hair and abs.

“You are so beautiful, Logan,” you said in awe, looking him square in the eye.

He stared in awe back at you and slowly pushed his way inside you. You closed your eyes again, taking in the sensation of his large dick penetrating you. No matter how many times you made love to him, you never quite got used to his size. He made sure your leg stayed wrapped around him so he could go a little deeper inside of you. You gasped at the action, which turned into moans as he moved in and out of you. Your held onto his arms.

“God, you feel so good inside me. I love how hard your dick gets, how it stretches me out.”

Your hands eventually landed on Logan’s back. Once he started to go a bit harder with his thrusts, your nails began to claw at him.

“Shit, baby!” he hissed.

You abruptly stopped. “Does that hurt?”

“Yeah, but in a good way. Don’t stop,” he begged, not stopping his own movement.

You flashed a wicked smile. “Okay...” You went back to clawing at him, your nails digging deeper into his skin as you teased him. “So, Mr. Big-Bad-Wolverine likes a little pain? I’ll have to keep that in mind for next time. Maybe I’ll have to see if I can restrain you with ties or handcuffs. Then I can do whatever I want with you. Bite you. Claw you. Tease you. See how much you can take.”

As you weaved your tale, Logan picked up his speed. You could feel his grip on your leg getting tighter. You wouldn’t be surprised if you walked (or hobbled really) away with some bruises. The thought made you egg him on even more.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Being so helpless and at my mercy?”

“Just for you, baby,” he said.

“Yes, just for me. You’re mine. No one else’s.”

“Just yours,” he agreed before kissing you again passionately. He used all his energy to hammer into you. You stopped clawing at his back to hang onto him.

“Logan, don’t stop!” you said against his mouth. “Fuck me! Fuck me hard!”

Logan’s response was a deep growl. Your tongues fought for dominance and occasionally your teeth clanked together as he kept going. His lips found their way back to your neck, licking at your sweat and nipping at all your favorite spots. You felt yourself getting to the edge again, only a hair’s breadth away from falling over.

“Oh, God! Shit! Logan! Oh, Logan! I’m gonna cum again! I’m cumming!”

“Cum for me,” Logan said, biting your shoulder hard.

And cum you did with another loud scream.

This triggered Logan’s own climax, which he powered through. His movements against you eventually slowed down until he was just laying still on top of you. Your breathing found his rhythm and matched it. He slowly brought your leg down as your arms fell on either side of your head. He rolled over onto his back, staring at the ceiling alongside you.

Once he felt centered, he reached over to grab the water bottles. He handed you yours, which you took without even looking, and clinked them again. You both went ahead and finished them, tossing them on top of your scattered clothes on the floor.

“Do you feel better?” Logan asked, turning his head to look at you.

You continued to look at the ceiling as you said, “I always feel better after you fuck me.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

You finally turned your head to him. You knew what he meant. You turned the rest of your body to him and he did the same. You took a bit of time before giving him your answer.

“I think so. I’m still hurt by what the girls said about me. But… you’re right. They should’ve just told me and not gone behind my back. I’m going to text them that I overheard them and see what they say. They’ll probably try and cover it up or find some way to spin it. Claire might apologize, though. She’s a good friend, just so shy. But if she doesn’t, if any of them don’t apologize or tell me the truth or something… I don’t know. One thing I do know, though, is that if my talking really was so annoying and bad, more people would’ve been honest with me about it. And if it was a problem for you, you wouldn’t have stuck around as long as you have, not even if the sex was mind-blowing… which it totally is. I’m going to be so sore tomorrow. But, like, you’re the most honest person I know. You don’t take shit from anyone. If you didn’t like me talking so much, you wouldn’t be with me in the first place. It’s like you said, you don’t say anything you don’t mean. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m sorry. I love you so much.”

Logan just stared at you. It was really a sight for him – you being back to your passionate, articulate, wonderful self.

“Um, I’m actually done talking,” you said. “It’s your turn now.”

He laughed, which brought about your own laughter. He then scooped you in his arms and kissed your forehead.

“I love you, too,” he whispered. “And anytime you need me to remind you, just tell me. Keep on telling me everything. Okay, sweetheart?”

You nodded.

“Nuh uh,” he tutted, gently grabbing you by your chin to look at him. “Use your words. I know you can.”

You rolled your eyes but were betrayed by the smile forming on your lips. You inched closer to his lips and whispered, “Yes, sir. I will tell you everything…”

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Author’s Note 2: Electric Boogaloo: Thank you so much for making it to the end! I ask that you NOT post this story as your own, please. Instead, give it a like/review/bookmark/reblog/all of the above wherever you read it.

Archive of Our Own

[suliigwp]

PART ONE OF 'THAT ONE'

The Sainz Boy

Carlos Sainz x Reader

SULI: I cannot explain to you what me andy phone and my Tumblr have gone through to get you to this moment of reading this fic— This fic is fully finished but ummmmm it's 15k+ words so my phone nearly blew up that's ok— this is part one, mostly about how the bond started when they were kids and a little snippet for what's to come in future chapters- idk if it'll be two or three parts but I have a feeling it's gonna be three — also I completely BUTCHERED Carlos' mom's name I remembered it being something else I'll fix it tomorrow DW ignore it please🫶 love you

Based on This!

Warnings: started writing it with the 1920's in mind but I imagine it's not accurate so just — the past, this is set in the past

Nine and Ten

It was the kind of summer morning that clung.

Even before the sun was fully up, the tiles beneath her bare feet were warm — too warm. The shutters groaned as the breeze pushed through, carrying the smell of dry herbs, copper polish, and that particular sharpness of ripe apricots left too long in the bowl.

She sat on the edge of her bed, legs swinging. Her nightdress clung at the knees, and her ribbon had slipped in the night again. She didn’t bother fixing it. Let the maids fuss if they wanted.

From the hallway came the slow shuffle of slippers and the brush of skirts — the housemaids lighting lamps in the darker corners even though the sun had begun to bleed gold across the floors. Somewhere down below, the heavy rattle of kitchen pots echoed up through the stone.

She slipped quietly out, past the linen-draped parlor, through the long corridor of portraits whose eyes never blinked, and out into the courtyard where the fountain bubbled gently beneath its layer of fallen flower petals.

The adults were already at breakfast under the arbor. Her father’s voice — low and steady — met her first.

“—not a word to the neighbors yet. Let them arrive quietly, without fanfare.”

Her mother sniffed into her porcelain teacup, pale pink lipstick staining the rim.

“As if she ever arrives quietly. That woman hasn’t taken a discreet breath in twenty years.”

“It’s not the lady I’m concerned about.”

“Mm. The boy, then?”

“He was sick all winter. Something with the lungs. They say the air here will do him good.”

Her mother lowered her cup with a soft clink. “Poor thing. How old is he now?”

“About her age.”

That stopped her. The girl. Standing half in shadow near the courtyard steps, where the trellis hung heavy with wisteria.

“Who?” she asked.

Her father turned, just slightly. “The Sainz boy. They're arriving this afternoon.”

She blinked once. The name didn’t ring familiar — not exactly. But it echoed. Like a dream she’d overheard.

Her mother waved a hand.

“You were children together, years ago. Played in the orchard one summer. You wouldn't remember. Pale little thing with knobby wrists. Looked like he’d break if you touched him.”

“I think she bit him,” her father added drily.

She frowned. “I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

“He must’ve deserved it.”

Her mother gave a long-suffering sigh, dabbing her lips with a monogrammed napkin.

“Well, try not to do it again. The family is staying through the season. Their estate’s been opened up. There’ll be dinners. Appearances. It would be nice if you behaved like a young lady for once.”

She looked at the apricot jam glistening on the table. She had no appetite for it now.

“And what does he look like now?” she asked. Voice light, feigned indifference.

Her father exchanged a glance with her mother, then shrugged.

“God knows. Boys grow like weeds.”

Her cousin chimed in with a grin. “Maybe he’s handsome now. Wouldn’t that be funny.”

She kicked him under the table.

He yelped.

“Enough, both of you,” her mother snapped, folding her napkin neatly.

From somewhere inside, a clock began to chime.

No one said it aloud, but they all heard the same thing:

The Sainzs were coming back.

And things would not be quiet

Got it — here is a fully rewritten, more immersive version of the scene. The dialogue at the end is now subtler, truer to how cautious and proud kids would really behave in the 1920s. The tone leans literary, character-focused, and richly atmospheric.

By noon, the heat pressed in like wool.

The gravel drive had been raked twice. The maid dusted the same vase for the third time. Someone had even sent the stable boy out to watch the road, as if he might ward off lateness by sheer force of will.

She sat perched on the stone banister of the terrace, legs swinging just above her polished shoes. Her stockings itched. She was told not to scratch.

Below, the estate shimmered in the midday sun — olive trees trembling in the breeze, the path down to the orchards like a ribbon unraveling into dry grass and memory.

She remembered it only in pieces: one summer, years ago, when she was too small to sit at the adult table and too sharp-tongued for the nursery. There had been a boy. He cried too easily and wouldn’t climb trees, but he had soft hands and a way of watching things that made her uneasy. She’d pushed him. Maybe bitten. Maybe not. No one ever told the full truth in this house anyway.

A flutter of voices snapped her upright.

Her mother swept onto the terrace in a haze of lilac perfume, lifting her skirt slightly to keep it from the dust. A parasol snapped open. The sound made the girl flinch.

“Sit like a lady,” her mother hissed, barely glancing at her. “They’re almost here.”

“Who?” she asked, though she already knew.

“The Sainzs.”

The name tasted foreign in the heat, too sharp for the soft, sleepy morning.

“There will be a boy,” her mother added. “Your age. You remember him, don’t you?”

She shrugged.

“Be kind.”

She didn’t answer. She was already watching the road.

At first, it was only the distant hum of tires on gravel. Then the glint of black metal, long and gleaming, parting the heat haze like a mirage. The Hispano-Suiza came to a stop beneath the cypress trees, its engine sighing into silence.

The driver stepped out. The back door opened.

Señora Sainz emerged first — a tall woman with skin too pale for the southern sun and lips painted the red of crushed cherries. She wore a dress better suited for Paris than the countryside, and she didn’t smile as she stepped down, sweeping her eyes over the house as if deciding whether it was worth remembering.

Then came the boy.

He was thinner than she remembered — not frail, exactly, but spare. Neatly dressed, with the stiffness of someone who'd been taught early not to fidget. His hair was dark and combed flat; his hands stayed politely at his sides. And when he lifted his head—

His eyes met hers.

The world didn’t stop, not exactly. But something in her paused.

He didn’t smile. Neither did she.

Her mother stepped forward, voice bright as summer porcelain.

“Señora! It’s been far too long.”

The women embraced with the stiffness of people who disliked each other but knew how to hide it. Polite kisses were exchanged. Remarks about weather, travel, health.

She barely heard any of it.

Her eyes were still on the boy.

He looked at the terrace, at the archway, at the columns — and then finally back at her. When he did, he inclined his head, a fraction too formal.

“Hello,” he said.

His voice was low, hesitant but careful. The kind of voice that had been taught what not to say, but not quite what to say.

She stood, slowly.

“You remember her, don’t you?” his mother asked lightly. “You used to follow her like a shadow.”

His ears flushed pink. He didn’t look away.

“I remember the orchard,” he said.

That surprised her.

She almost said something. Almost made a joke, or teased, or bit like she used to.

But he looked too serious for it.

“We could walk there,” she offered instead. Not warmly. Not kindly. Just… neutrally. A gesture, more than a welcome.

He blinked.

Then, slowly, nodded.

“All right.”

Their mothers didn’t notice as the children slipped down the terrace steps, past the fountain, toward the trees.

Absolutely. Here’s the continuation in the orchard — detailed, immersive, full of the quiet tension that builds when two children from different worlds are trying to understand one another, especially under the 1920s pressures of appearance, pride, and silence.

The gravel path gave way to cracked earth and roots.

Down here, the estate opened up in ways the house never did—less polished, less watched. The olive trees leaned in over the narrow path, old and knotted like they remembered every secret ever whispered beneath them.

Neither of them spoke.

She walked slightly ahead, out of habit. Not out of confidence—never that—but because she’d learned long ago that if she didn’t move first, no one else would. Her fingers trailed against the tall grass, the smell of dust and sap thick in the heat.

Behind her, Carlos kept pace.

The orchard was older than both of them. Some trees grew at odd angles, leaning as though bored of standing upright. Green figs hung heavy on branches, their weight threatening to split their skins. Bees drifted lazily through the air.

“It’s smaller than I remember,” he said, finally.

She turned. He stood beneath a fig tree, his hand hovering near one of the fruits but not touching it.

“You were smaller,” she replied.

Carlos raised an eyebrow—not insulted, just thoughtful. “You bit me once.”

She rolled her eyes. “Everyone says that. I don’t think I did.”

“I think you did.”

“You probably deserved it.”

That earned a pause. He nodded slowly. “Maybe.”

The word sat oddly between them—an admission, not quite forgiveness. She watched him as he stepped off the path, brushing a low-hanging branch aside. He was careful with the tree, like he thought it might bruise.

“You’ve gotten quiet,” she said, crossing her arms.

He glanced over. “My father doesn’t like noise.”

Something about the way he said it made her quiet too.

She dropped her gaze, toeing the dirt with her shoe. “Mine doesn’t like much of anything.”

They stood like that for a long moment. The wind stirred the grass. Somewhere in the trees, a cicada screamed like it had something to prove.

“Do you live in Madrid now?” she asked eventually.

“Mostly. Paris, sometimes.”

“Do you like it?”

Carlos considered. “It’s different.”

“From here?”

He nodded.

“Different can be better,” she said. “Or worse.”

“Or just different.”

There was a maturity in that answer that made her uneasy. Not because it was wrong—but because it was true. And she hated when people her age said true things like that. It made her feel behind. It made her feel seen.

They walked again, slower now, the distance between them less exact.

At the edge of the orchard, a rusted bench sat under an arch of honeysuckle. She dropped onto it unceremoniously, dust kicking up around her stockings. Carlos hesitated—then sat beside her.

Their shoulders didn’t touch. Not quite. But they could have.

“You’re not what I expected,” she said.

“You never are,” he replied.

That startled a breath out of her—almost a laugh. Not quite. She looked down at her hands instead.

“They’ll make us be friends, you know,” she murmured.

“They’ll try,” he said.

And then, after a pause:

“We don’t have to make it easy.”

She looked up at him sharply.

He didn’t smile. But the glint in his eye was unmistakable.

Neither of them said another word.

But they didn’t go back inside, either.

Late June

The sun came in streaks through the lace curtains, making patterns on the parlor rug. Dust danced in the light like it had a life of its own, and the ceiling fan turned lazily above, stirring nothing. The air was heavy—one of those afternoons where the whole house seemed to sweat.

He was sitting stiffly on the velvet settee, one ankle crossed over the other, pretending to read Ivanhoe. He held it like a shield. Every so often, he turned a page too quickly for someone who was truly reading it. His suit jacket was too formal for the weather, but he wore it anyway. Always did.

She watched him from the doorway, barefoot and bored and entirely unimpressed.

“You look like you’re dying,” she said flatly.

Carlos looked up without surprise. “I’m reading."

“You’re pretending,” she said. “You're ten, you can't read that well. And No one actually likes Ivanhoe.”

He didn’t argue, which meant she was right.

She stepped into the room, curls unruly, cheeks pink from the heat. In her hands, she held a stolen napkin filled with biscuits from the breakfast tray.

She tossed it on the table between them with a lazy thump.

“Peace offering,” she said. “Or maybe bribery.”

“For what?”

“For climbing the tower.”

Carlos blinked. “The watchtower?”

“Obviously. Unless you’ve found another ancient stone structure in the back garden?”

He glanced toward the window. “It’s not allowed.”

“That’s why it’s fun.”

She was already walking toward the back door, not waiting to see if he followed. Her bare feet slapped softly on the wood floor. She didn’t look back until she was outside, standing in the harsh, blinding light of summer.

He hesitated only a second before closing the book and rising to his feet.

The watchtower had been part of the estate for longer than either of their families. It stood at the far edge of the property, past the gardens, past the fig trees—half-choked by ivy and pride. No one used it. No one dared.

The climb was hot and rough. The stone steps were narrow, crumbling in places, and the air grew thicker with the scent of old dust and sunbaked lichen the farther they climbed. She went first, light on her feet, daring him with every look back over her shoulder.

He followed in silence, never asking for help.

At the top, the world stretched out before them—hills rolling toward a hazy blue horizon, trees casting long shadows that looked like arms reaching for home. Wind moved through her hair and pulled at his jacket like even the air wanted him to relax.

She dropped onto the cracked stone ledge and stretched out her legs.

“You can see everything from up here,” she said, shielding her eyes. “Even the orchard. Look—there’s your father. Talking to mine.”

Carlos stepped beside her, hands on the edge. “Looks like a duel.”

She smiled slightly, but it didn’t last.

He sat beside her, careful not to touch. A beat passed in the quiet.

Then she reached for the napkin between them, unwrapped it, and offered him the last biscuit.

“It’s the best one,” she said. “I saved it.”

“Are you being nice to me now?”

“Don’t get used to it.”

He took it anyway.

Absolutely — here's the Orange Scene, written in rich, detailed fic style, following the mood and tension of their growing friendship that feels too deep for ten-year-olds, but unmistakably present.

Mid-July

The heat was different in the orchard.

It wasn't the dry, dusty heat that pressed against your back like a warning. It was thick here, fragrant — oranges and figs split open in the sun, sap running from broken bark, bees humming lazy hymns as they floated from fruit to fruit. The air felt gold. Sticky. Alive.

She walked with a half-limping sort of gait, barefoot again, a blister forming from where her sandal had rubbed raw the day before. The orchard was her escape — it was always empty around this hour, the adults inside sipping chilled vermouths and talking about how things used to be better, or worse, or something.

The trees arched over her like a church, quiet and full of ghosts.

And then she heard it — the soft, wet sound of teeth sinking into something ripe. A low grunt. A rustle of grass.

She turned the corner, and there he was.

Carlos sat with his back against the largest orange tree, legs stretched out in front of him, a sun-streaked book lying face-down beside him. There was juice on his chin, running down his hand, and in his lap was the guilty corpse of a peeled orange.

He looked up as if he’d been caught stealing gold.

“You’re not supposed to eat them,” she said coolly, folding her arms over her chest. “They’re for the house.”

Carlos didn’t move, except to wipe his wrist on his trousers.

“It fell,” he said. “Technically.”

“So did Eve’s apple.”

He blinked at her, then slowly brought another segment to his lips and bit down.

“Tell someone,” he said, not rudely, just plainly.

She hated that about him — that soft, unreadable calm. He never barked back, never cried. He just said things like facts, and you had to dig for the rest.

She marched over, dropped to her knees beside him with more force than necessary, and snatched a segment from the half-eaten orange before he could react.

She ate it in one bite, juice slicking her bottom lip. Her fingers brushed his — barely — but it felt like a spark regardless.

“That one was mine,” he said, glancing at her hand.

“You stole it first,” she said, licking her thumb. “This is redistribution.”

Carlos let out a low sound — something between a laugh and a scoff — and leaned his head back against the bark. The leaves above filtered the light, casting strange shapes across his face. His eyes had gone warm, half-lidded.

“It’s better than the ones in the bowl,” he admitted, after a pause.

“That’s because it’s forbidden,” she whispered, in mock-reverence.

They sat like that for a while. Not speaking. Not needing to.

Every so often, one of them would reach for another slice. They shared the rest without speaking.

When the orange was gone, she didn’t get up.

And neither did he.

Late July

It started raining sometime in the afternoon.

Not a soft, summer sprinkle either — but thick, pouring rain that turned the garden paths to mud and rattled the old window panes. The air smelled of stone and lavender soap, and the walls of the house felt closer than usual. Narrower. As if they were watching.

She wandered toward the room that connected the two estates, ancestors sharing a love for each other, having a room to celebrate together, the music room, because it was the only place no one ever looked for her.

The door was open just enough. The light inside was low — muted greys and the pale gold of storm light slipping through lace curtains. Dust motes swirled like tiny ghosts in the air. The piano sat untouched in the corner, as grand and unsmiling as always.

And he was there.

Carlos.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, back against the couch, a book open beside him, though he wasn’t reading it. His eyes were half on the window, tracking the drops. His hair curled a little when it was humid. She’d noticed that before.

She hesitated.

He looked over without speaking. Just... looked.

“I didn’t know anyone else came here,” she murmured.

“Neither did I,” he said, his voice quiet.

She closed the door behind her. Tiptoed over like the rain might hear her. She sat down a few feet from him, mimicking his posture, legs crossed beneath her skirt.

The silence settled like a blanket.

Outside, thunder rolled.

“They’re fighting again,” she said, suddenly. “My parents.”

Carlos didn’t react right away. He didn’t ask what about. He didn’t offer a fix. He just nodded, like that was enough — like it made sense.

“They fight about things I don’t even understand,” she said. “I think sometimes I’m the thing they’re really angry at.”

She hadn’t meant to say that.

It came out like a secret slipping between her ribs.

Carlos turned toward her, slow and still, his expression unreadable in that familiar, maddening way.

“That’s not your fault,” he said. “Whatever it is.”

She stared at him. He wasn’t even looking for her eyes — just speaking the truth like he always did, like the truth was just something you picked up off the floor and handed over.

“Do your parents fight?”

“Sometimes,” he said. “But mostly... my father just doesn’t listen.”

She watched the rain trace patterns down the glass.

“Do you want to be like him?” she asked.

That one surprised him. He blinked, and for the first time, something uncertain flickered across his face.

“No,” he said, after a long breath. “I don’t think I do.”

“Good,” she whispered. “You shouldn’t.”

A pause.

And then, softly:

“You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met.”

She didn’t say it as a compliment. Not quite. It was just... true.

Carlos looked at her for a long time, as if memorising something. Then he reached over without a word and handed her one of the handkerchiefs he always carried in his breast pocket.

“Here,” he said. “You’re crying.”

She hadn’t noticed.

But she took it.

And she didn’t give it back.

August

It was a Sunday, hot and windless.

The kind of day where the sky looked painted on — too blue, too flat — like someone had forgotten to give it clouds.

The suitcases were already loaded into the boot of the car. Her mother was making a show of pretending not to cry, fluttering around the garden with a lace handkerchief and too many instructions for the maids. Her father was clapping Señor Sainz on the shoulder, talking in those low, rich tones that only grown men used when they wanted to sound important.

The children — if they could still be called that — stood near the stone wall, just out of earshot.

Carlos had his hands in his pockets. His shirt was pressed, and his shoes were too new. His hair looked brushed for once, but still curled slightly near the ears.

“You’ll come again next summer?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

Carlos looked at her for a moment, then down at the grass.

“Maybe. Papa says we might spend it in Madrid next year.”

That hurt more than she thought it would.

“I see,” she said, her voice cooler than she felt. “Madrid sounds nice.”

Carlos looked up, watching her carefully, like he didn’t want to miss a flicker of her expression.

“You could write,” he said.

“Girls don’t write boys,” she replied, chin lifting just slightly.

“Who says that?”

“Everyone.”

Carlos didn’t answer. He pulled something from his pocket — not the usual white handkerchief but a small, worn coin. It looked foreign, heavy. Bronze, maybe. He held it out.

“Here,” he said. “For good luck.”

She took it with both hands.

Their fingers touched — not the clumsy, accidental brushes of before, but a pause. A hold. The kind that said more than either of them could say out loud.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Carlos didn’t smile, not really. But his lips curved slightly, like he was holding something back. She wondered — not for the first time — what kind of man he would grow up to be.

“Don’t forget me,” she said, as softly as a breath.

“I won’t,” he said. “I couldn’t.”

And then the car door slammed. A final noise. A punctuation mark.

He looked over his shoulder once as he was ushered inside. Just once.

But she’d remember it for the rest of her life.

The coin stayed in her pocket all day. She didn’t cry until nightfall, when the lights were out and the cicadas were too loud to blame the sound on anything else.

Sixteen and Seventeen

The brushes sat still for a moment in her hand, hovering just above the canvas.

She squinted slightly, assessing the blue she'd blended — it was almost right, but not quite. Too much ultramarine. Or perhaps not enough light. The morning sun filtering through the tall windows hit the parquet floors in warm streaks, brushing against her skirts and the edges of her easel like a visitor trying to make itself known.

The soft scratch of bristles on canvas filled the quiet room, accompanied by the steady and the whisper of autumn wind tapping at the windowpanes. The scent of oil paint clung to the air — linseed and turpentine and something faintly floral from the soap she’d used to scrub her hands earlier that morning.

Sunlight drifted in long golden bands across the floor, pooling at the base of her easel where an unfinished painting rested. Her strokes had grown slower lately. She wasn’t sure what she was painting anymore.

Behind her, the morning paper rustled.

Her father cleared his throat — not out of impatience, but in that careful way he always did when he wanted her to listen before she spoke.

"Your mother received a letter this morning."

She kept painting, eyes narrowed slightly. "From whom?"

"The Sainz family."

The brush hovered mid-air. Her hand stilled. She didn’t turn around.

"Oh."

She turned slowly, eyes narrowing ever so slightly — not in suspicion, but in preparation. "I thought they were still abroad. Italy, or Paris?"

He folded his paper and set it aside with a heavy sort of grace. "They’ve returned to Madrid. For good, this time. Lucía writes that the children have grown — as you both have — and that it's high time for proper introductions to be renewed."

"I don’t think we need introductions," she muttered, more to herself than to him.

Her father smiled faintly, catching it anyway. "No. But circumstances are different now. You were what — ten? Eleven? You played in orchards and threw oranges at each other. That hardly counts as acquaintance in the eyes of society."

She frowned. Her hand tightened around the paintbrush.

"They’ve returned to Madrid — permanently, it seems," he said, standing now, unfolding the letter with the familiar crinkle of soft paper. "Lucía writes warmly. She hopes to see us again. Says she remembers you — and Carlos — quite fondly."

There was a beat of silence.

She set her brush down carefully on the palette’s edge.

"They’re inviting us for the autumn season," her father continued gently. "To stay with them for a time. It’s been long enough. Too long."

"And you want to go."

He didn’t answer at first. He moved toward the window instead, pulling aside the lace curtain with a thoughtful glance at the trees outside.

"I think," he said, "that it’s time you were seen. Properly."

She frowned. "Seen?"

He looked at her now — really looked — with that soft, furrowed expression that always made her feel small and known at the same time. "You’re nearly seventeen. The world’s going to look at you differently whether you like it or not. You’ve grown up in this house, among paintings and books, and we’ve let you be... free. But you’re a young woman now. And sooner or later, the world is going to notice."

She sat straighter, fingers curling against her lap.

"I don’t want to be noticed," she said softly.

"I know," he replied. "But it's not about being paraded, not truly. It's about being seen in the right light, by the right people. The kind of people who understand who you are. What you could be."

"Wealthy men," she said, sharper than she meant it.

His mouth quirked slightly. "Not just that."

He stepped closer, resting a hand gently on the back of her chair. His voice softened.

"I’m not trying to marry you off. Not yet. But... I want you to have choices, darling. Real ones. You’ve always seen more than you let on — the way you observe, the way you listen. You deserve to walk into a room and know you belong there."

She swallowed hard.

"And Carlos?" she asked, quieter now.

He hesitated — not out of discomfort, but with care.

"He’s grown too, I imagine. He was always a good boy. Polite. Clever. I think you two were rather fond of one another, once."

"That was a long time ago."

Her father nodded. "Yes. But some things remain."

The silence between them wasn’t heavy. It was thoughtful, familiar.

He tapped the letter against his hand once before placing it neatly on the table.

"We leave in two weeks," he said. "We’ll stay through the season, perhaps longer if it suits us. You’ll need a few new gowns. Something light, perhaps in that soft green you favor. Your mother’s already written to Madame Eloise."

She said nothing, only reached for her brush again. Her hand moved almost instinctively, painting the gentle slope of a shoulder — fabric just beginning to take shape. She wasn’t even aware it resembled him until the stroke had dried.

Her father leaned down, kissed the top of her head — a quiet, habitual thing — and left the room without another word.

And though she wouldn’t admit it aloud, her heart had already started to beat a little faster.

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