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pohtaytoh · 2 days ago

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ENCHANTED

⍣ ೋ Manon Bannerman x F!Reader

Y/N, the homebody that she is, was forced into attending a party because her friend needed a companion—someone who could drive her home when she gets wasted—and so, here she was, on a couch, surrounded by unfamiliar faces, when she spotted someone that made her think, maybe parties aren't so bad after all.

It was the 31st of December, which meant in a few hours, everyone would be celebrating New Year’s Eve. This meant Y/N would have to deal with her loud neighbors for the umpteenth time again this week. Don't get her wrong, they’re all sweet; they give her food that they prepared—sometimes she's grateful because she doesn't have to cook after a tiring day at work—even inviting her to their weekly barbecue party sometimes; however, she prefers keeping to herself, so she always declines their invites with a smile and a lie.

“Oh, I apologize; I need to finish some papers that are due tomorrow. Thank you for the invite, though.”

“I had a tiring day at work, and I am not really in the mood for some barbecue. I’m sorry, enjoy your party though!”

These were her usual excuses, her neighbors, bless their kind hearts, always seemed to accept them without question, perhaps too caught up in their own lives to notice the hesitation in her voice or the subtle way she taps her foot on the ground impatiently as she attempts to retreat back into her cozy apartment.

Tonight, the festive din was already starting. The scent of grilled meat and a medley of spices blew through her open window, mixing with the distant sound of pop music. She sighed, adjusting her headphones, but even the loudest of her classical music playlists couldn't entirely drown out the joyous chaos next door. She had just settled in for a quiet evening of reading, a mug of chamomile tea steaming beside her, when her phone buzzed. It was Maya, her oldest and most insistent friend.

“Y/N! You HAVE to come with me tonight!” the message read, followed by exclamation points and emojis.

Y/N groaned. Maya was notorious for her sudden urges to go out, especially when it involved a party she deemed "unmissable." Y/N typed out a quick, polite refusal. “Sorry, Maya, you know I’m not really a party person. I was just about to settle in for the night.”

Her phone immediately rang. Y/N knew better than to ignore Maya’s calls when she was on a mission. She answered, bracing herself.

“Y/N! Don’t you dare tell me you’re staying in again!” Maya’s voice was a high-pitched whine. “It’s New Year’s Eve! The one night of the year everyone goes out! You can’t just… read a book.”

“I can, actually,” Y/N countered, a small smile playing on her lips. She knew Maya meant well, but her idea of a good time and Y/N’s were polar opposites.

“No, you can’t! I need you. Seriously. It’s for a very good cause.” Maya’s tone shifted, becoming more earnest. “Look, I’m going to Liam’s party, it’s his birthday in a few hours but he decided to celebrate earlier for New Year’s Eve. You know how I get when I’ve had a few drinks. I need someone who can drive me home when I get wasted and I trust you enough to do that. Please? It’s only for a few hours. I promise I’ll make it worth your while. I’ll even buy you that ridiculously expensive coffee maker you’ve been eyeing.”

The coffee maker was a tempting offer. Y/N had been wanting to buy it for months, still, the thought of a crowded, noisy party sent a shiver down her spine. “Maya, you know how uncomfortable I am in those kinds of environments.”

“I know, I know! And I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. Think of it as a selfless act of friendship or just you stepping out of your comfort zone, pretty please Y/N? With a cherry on top?” Maya begs, desperation in her voice.

Y/N sighed, her usual defenses crumbling under Maya’s determination to make her come. She loved Maya, despite—or perhaps because of—her stubbornness and doing what it takes just to get what she wants. Maya did have a point about needing a ride. The last time Maya had gone to a party without a designated driver, she’d been pulled over due to speeding and ended up traumatizing some bypassers with her singing.

“Fine,” Y/N answered with a sigh, already regretting it. “But I’m not staying long and I’m definitely not socializing.”

“Yes! You’re the best! I’ll pick you up in an hour! Dress cute, but comfortable. You’re my designated driver, not my arm candy.” Maya’s cheerful voice was replaced by a dial tone.

Y/N stared at her phone, a sense of dread settling in. This was her New Year’s Eve plan: chaperone her drunk friend at a party full of strangers. Fantastic.

An hour later, Y/N was reluctantly climbing into Maya’s car, wearing her most un-party-like outfit: dark jeans, a plain long-sleeved shirt, and comfortable sneakers. Maya, on the other hand, was a vision in sequins and glitter, already humming with an excited energy.

“Ready to face the crowd?” Maya chirped, pulling out of Y/N’s driveway.

Y/N offered a weak smile and “As I’ll ever be.”

The drive to Liam’s place felt longer than it was, each block bringing Y/N closer to the inevitable sensory overload that she will feel. When they finally arrived, the house was already vibrating with loud music, visible even from the street as colored lights flashed through the windows. There were people everywhere, laughing and talking loudly.

“Here we go!” Maya exclaimed, practically bouncing in her seat. She parked the car a few blocks away, making Y/N question her life choices even more.

As they approached the house, the noise intensified. The air was thick with the scent of various perfumes and colognes, mixed with something vaguely alcoholic and sweet. Y/N felt a familiar tightening in her chest. She hates crowds. She hates small talk. She hates loud music that makes it impossible to hear herself think.

Maya, oblivious to Y/N’s internal turmoil, grabbed her hand and dragged her through the group of people at the door. Inside, the house was a kaleidoscope of swaying bodies, flashing lights, and loud noises. Y/N immediately became overwhelmed, her gaze darting around in search of a peaceful nook or relief.

“Okay, plan of action!” Maya shouted over the music, her mouth close to Y/N’s ear. “I’m going to find Liam and say hi, then I’m getting a drink. You… find a couch or a corner and just… exist. I’ll check in on you later. Please do stay safe, don’t accept drinks from strangers okay? If it gets too overwhelming, I’ll be in the kitchen.”

Maya then pointed at the place mentioned, making the latter feel relieved because it was near her. Y/N then nodded mutely, grateful for her friend’s understanding of her social limitations. She watched as Maya disappeared into the crowd. Left to her own devices, Y/N began her mission: find a couch.

She maneuvered through groups of laughing people, trying to make herself as small and unnoticeable as possible. The living room was packed, the kitchen was even worse, and the backyard, visible through a sliding glass door, looked like a small music festival. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she spotted it: a relatively unoccupied two-seater couch tucked away in a dimly lit corner of what appeared to be a den. It was a haven.

Y/N practically dove onto the couch, pulling out her phone and pretending to be engrossed in it. She scrolled aimlessly. She took a few deep breaths, trying to ground herself. This was fine. She was safe. She had a mission and a comfortable couch.

Time crawled by. Maya had checked in twice, both times looking progressively more disheveled and cheerful. Y/N had successfully avoided eye contact with anyone, perfectly content that she was alone. She was even starting to get used to the muffled thump of the bass.

She was just contemplating whether it was too early to text Maya about leaving when her eyes drifted across the room. Her gaze swept over the usual partygoers – couples dancing too close, groups engaged in conversations, individuals hunched over their phones and then, her gaze averted.

Across the room, leaning against a bookshelf filled with what looked like actual books – a rarity at most parties she’d been dragged to – was someone who immediately stood out. They weren’t shouting or dancing wildly. They were simply… observing.

It was a woman, she had dark hair that framed her face beautifully. She was wearing a stylish yet neutral outfit, a top and trousers, the complete opposite to the flashier clothes everyone was wearing around her. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and her eyes, even from this distance, seemed to hold a quiet intensity. She had a serious look on her face and a small furrow in her brow, as if she were deep in thought and not paying any attention to what was going on around her. She held a drink but she hadn't taken a sip in the time Y/N had been watching her.

She had a certain vibe about her, a faint charm that drew her in. She looked lost. She was like Y/N, just observing what was happening around her.

For a little while, her anxiety subsided. An unusual calmness settled over her and she found herself just observing her. She was simply there, she wasn't loud or demanding of attention and that was very attractive for some reason. Y/N was completely enchanted by the woman across her.

She shifted slightly, her gaze sweeping over the room, and for a moment, her eyes met Y/N’s.

Y/N’s breath hitched. She quickly averted her gaze, her cheeks flushing. Busted. She felt a wave of embarrassment wash over her. She had been staring. Like a total creep. She ducked her head, pretending to examine a loose thread on her jeans.

When she dared to look up again, the woman was still looking in her direction, a small smile playing on her lips. Her heart did a strange little flutter. She hadn't looked away in disgust or amusement. She smiled.

A small, hesitant thought began to form in Y/N’s mind. Maybe parties weren't so bad after all.

Y/N was uneasy in a way she hadn't expected because of their brief eye contact and the faint smile. She attempted to return to her phone's scrolling, but her eyes kept returning to her. Still there, she leaned against the bookcase and occasionally sipped her drink slowly. She was still standing. She hadn't joined any conversations. She was only watching.

This intrigued her. Most people at parties were actively trying to engage, to be seen, to be heard. She was doing the exact opposite, and it made her stand out even more.

A small part of her wants to approach the mysterious woman but what? Walk up to her and say what? "Hi, I've been silently judging everyone from my couch, and you seem equally bored?" No, that wouldn't do.

She thought about texting Maya for advice but she was probably already very drunk and would push her to do something extremely awkward or embarrassing, like dance on a table.

As she debated her next move, or lack thereof, the woman shifted again. This time, she straightened up, took another slow sip of her drink, and then, to Y/N’s surprise, started to move. Not towards the dance floor, not towards the kitchen, but slowly, purposefully, towards her corner of the room.

Y/N begins to get nervous, heart thumping. Was she coming over here? Was she going to confront her about staring? Her mind raced through a dozen awkward scenarios. She considered pretending to be asleep but that was just ridiculous. She could just… ignore her? No, that was rude.

She stopped a few feet away from Y/N’s couch, her gaze still fixed on her. She had kind eyes, Y/N noticed now, a warm, intelligent brown that crinkled slightly at the corners. There was a gentle curiosity in them.

“Mind if I join you?” she asked, her voice low and surprisingly calm amidst the surrounding chaos. It wasn’t a pick-up line. It was a genuine question, almost a shared plea for quiet.

Y/N blinked, momentarily flustered. She hadn’t expected her to speak. “Oh. Uh, no. Not at all.” She scooted over slightly, making more room on the two-seater couch.

The woman nodded in thanks and settled onto the couch beside her, maintaining a comfortable distance. She didn't immediately launch into small talk, which Y/N was immensely grateful for. Instead, she just sat there, taking another sip of her drink, her presence a quiet anchor in the chaotic room.

The silence wasn't awkward. It was… comfortable.

“Quite the party,” she finally said, her voice just loud enough to be heard over the music. She gestured at the room.

Y/N chuckled softly. “That’s one way to put it. I’m usually not much of a party person, so this is… an experience.”

The woman turned her head slightly, meeting Y/N’s gaze. A genuine smile touched her lips this time, softening her features. “Me neither. I usually prefer a quiet night with a good book or, you know, just not this.” She gestured again, amusement in her eyes.

“A fellow homebody!” Y/N felt a surprising surge of relief. It wasn't just her. “I was dragged here by a friend who needed a driver.”

“Ah, the classic,” she said, a hint of laughter in her voice. “I’m here because Liam’s a mutual friend, and well, you know how these New Year’s Eve things are. Hard to say no without offending anyone.”

“Liam?” Y/N repeated. “Maya’s friend Liam?”

“You know Liam?” she asked, a flicker of surprise in her eyes.

“Maya’s my friend,” Y/N explained. “She mentioned Liam a lot.”

“Small world, I guess,” she mused. She extended a hand. “I’m Manon, by the way. Manon Bannerman.”

Y/N’s eyes widened slightly. Manon Bannerman. The name was familiar. Y/N had seen her face on social media, in magazines, as one of the members of the highly anticipated global girl group, KATSEYE. Her mind reeled. Of course she was here. Liam often hosted parties for people in the entertainment industry. Y/N, however, was so far removed from that world that she hadn't even considered it.

“Y/N,” she managed to say, shaking Manon’s hand. Manon’s grip was firm, elegant, and surprisingly gentle. A small jolt, almost electric, passed between them.

“Nice to meet you, Y/N,” Manon said, her smile widening slightly. “So, what kind of books do you usually read when you’re not accompanying your friend?”

The question was so unexpected, so perfectly her, that Y/N found herself smiling genuinely for the first time that night. “Oh, all sorts. Mostly science fiction. Classics, some contemporary, anything with a good plot and interesting characters. You?”

“Pretty much the same,” Manon said, her eyes lighting up. “I’m a big fan of historical fiction, actually. Anything that can transport me to a different time and place.”

They fell into a surprisingly easy conversation, the party noise fading into the background. They talked about books, about their hobbies, anything that comes to mind. Y/N found herself relaxing, the tightness in her chest easing. Manon was easy to talk to, her responses thoughtful, her presence calming. She didn't interrupt, she listened, and her quiet observations mirrored her own.

It was almost uncanny. It felt like talking to a version of herself, but with a different voice and a much more appealing face and it was surreal to be having such a normal conversation with someone who was, to many, a global idol. Manon didn't act like one; she was simply Manon.

The celebration got louder as the evening went on. The atmosphere in the house was approaching an extreme level as the clock struck midnight. However, Y/N and Manon stayed in their peaceful nook, talking.

They found a mutual dislike of overly sugary cocktails, a love of unknown independent films, and an agreement that pajamas were the best party wear. Y/N felt lighter than she usually did in social situations. She didn't feel compelled to act or be someone else when she was around Manon. She didn't have to explain why she was quiet, Manon appeared to get it.

“So, what’s your New Year’s resolution, Y/N?” Manon asked, a mischievous glint in her eye as the music shifted to a more upbeat, countdown-appropriate tune.

Y/N thought about it. "Probably to continue successfully avoiding big gatherings," she laughed. "Unless I am forced into them once more."

Manon chuckled. “That’s unique. Mine is to finally get more than five hours of uninterrupted sleep and maybe finish that personal passion project I keep putting off.”

“Oh? What kind of project?” Y/N asked, genuinely curious.

Manon hesitated for a moment, a slight blush dusting her cheeks. “It’s… a collection of everything, actually. Mostly about observations from touring and everyday life. Very raw, very personal. Poetry, journal with pictures, unfinished songs, you name it, it’s there.”

“That’s incredible,” Y/N said, genuinely impressed. “I’d love to read it sometime, if you ever decide to share it.”

Manon’s gaze met hers, and for a moment, the air crackled with a silent understanding, a hint of something more. “Maybe I will,” she said, her voice a little softer.

Suddenly, Liam’s booming voice cut through the party. “Alright everyone! Ten minutes to midnight! Head out to the back! The fireworks display is about to start!”

A cheer erupted, and the already dense crowd began to move toward the back of the home and into the backyard. Y/N instinctively tensed, feeling the familiar claustrophobia begin to creep in. She glanced at Manon, expecting to see a similar unease. Instead, Manon simply offered a small, understanding smile.

“Want to try and find a less crowded spot?” Manon suggested, her voice calm. “There’s usually a little patch of grass by the far fence. We might get a decent view there.”

Y/N felt a wave of relief. “That sounds… perfect.”

In search of the place Manon mentioned, they cautiously made their way through the ecstatic crowd. A sea of faces, heads cocked upward, and an atmosphere of anticipation filled the lawn. Outside, the sky felt wide and open, yet the music inside was still deafening.

They found the spot, a small, relatively unpopulated patch near a tall hedge, far enough from the main crowd but still offering a clear view of the sky. The air here was cooler, fresher, and the crowd felt more distant, less overwhelming.

The first explosion burst into the pitch-black darkness as they had just taken their place. Before exploding into a kaleidoscope of breathtaking red and gold, it flew upward as a slender, blazing streak. The crowd let out a collective gasp and then cheered.

Y/N watched, fascinated. It had been years since she'd seen fireworks up close. Beside her, Manon leaned back slightly, her head tilted, her profile illuminated by the flashing lights. Y/N glanced at her, catching a glimpse of the joy on Manon's face in that brief moment, a soft, awe-struck expression that was both beautiful and vulnerable. It was a look Y/N rarely saw on people, a genuine appreciation for something simple and grand.

Another firework exploded, releasing a spray of glistening silver that resembled weeping willow branches. The audience gave a louder cheer.

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” Manon murmured, her voice soft, almost lost in the boom and crackle, but Y/N heard it perfectly.

“They really are,” Y/N agreed, her gaze still fixed on the sky but feeling a strange, new warmth bloom in her chest. She wasn't just watching fireworks; she was sharing this moment, this quiet awe, with someone who felt it just as deeply as she did. It was a connection that felt almost… magical. Almost enchanting.

Her gaze then averted towards the woman beside her, studying her features with a soft smile on her face. Manon, sensing that she was staring at her, met her gaze. They looked at each other in the eyes before Manon laughed, ignoring the way her cheeks flushed.

“I know where this is going, you’re going to call me beautiful now, aren’t you?” the latter jokes, coughing a little to cover her embarrassment. She didn’t know why Y/N staring at her made her shy, she’s so used to people staring at her but Y/N’s was different. Way different.

“Well, you do look beautiful.”

Before Manon could even reply, another explosion of fireworks erupted, interrupting their moment. Y/N found herself instinctively leaning closer to Manon. Manon didn't pull away. In fact, Y/N felt her shift closer.

The superstar doesn't know what to say after Y/N dropped the compliment. It sounded really genuine. She couldn't help but blush, however, she tried her best not to show it.

Suddenly, Maya appeared, weaving through the crowd, her hair slightly disheveled, her eyes bright with alcohol and excitement. She spotted Y/N and Manon on the couch and her eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed in a playful, knowing way.

“Y/N! There you are! And who is this gorgeous person you’ve been hiding from me?!” Maya slurred, leaning heavily on Manon’s shoulder.

Y/N felt her cheeks flush again, a different kind of flush this time, a mix of embarrassment and something else she couldn't quite name. “Maya, this is Manon. Manon, this is Maya, the friend who dragged me here.”

Manon, ever the calm one, offered Maya a polite, amused smile. “Nice to meet you, Maya.”

“Oh, darling, it’s New Year’s Eve, it’s lovely to meet everyone!” Maya giggled, then suddenly clapped her hands together. “It’s almost midnight! We need to find Liam and do the countdown!”

She tugged on Y/N’s arm. Y/N looked at Manon, a silent apology in her eyes.

“It was really nice meeting you, Manon,” Y/N said, a genuine regret in her voice. She didn't want the conversation to end.

“You too, Y/N,” Manon replied, her gaze lingering on hers. “Happy New Year.”

Maya, impatient, finally managed to pull Y/N to her feet. As they were swept away by the current of people heading towards the main living room, Y/N glanced back. Manon was still sitting on the couch, watching them go, a thoughtful expression on her face. She lifted her hand in a small, almost imperceptible wave. Y/N returned it, a shy smile on her face.

The countdown was a blur of shouting, confetti, and the taste of cheap champagne. Maya shrieked with delight as the clock struck midnight, pulling Y/N into a tight, slightly damp hug. Everyone around them was hugging, kissing, wishing each other well. Y/N, however, felt a strange sense of detachment. Her mind kept drifting back to the quiet corner, to the shared laughter and easy conversation with Manon, and the silent, shared moments under the exploding sky.

As soon as she could, Y/N quickly pulled herself away from the noisy crowd. “Maya,” she said, her voice firm, “I think it’s time to go home. You’ve had enough.”

Maya, surprisingly, didn’t argue. She swayed a little, giggled, and then nodded. “Okay, Y/N. Your duties are finally fulfilled. Lead the way.”

It was as difficult to navigate out of the party as it was to enter. Now, people were even more uncontrolled, dancing in spontaneous circles and pouring drinks. Y/N kept an eye out for Manon, but the living room was too crowded, too dark, too full of moving bodies to spot her. A small pang of disappointment settled in her chest. She hadn’t even thought to ask for her number. What a rookie mistake.

Outside, the cool night air was a welcome relief. Y/N helped a stumbling Maya into the passenger seat, then got behind the wheel. The streets were surprisingly busy, even at this hour, with people still heading to and from parties.

“That was… something,” Maya mumbled, already half-asleep.

“It certainly was,” Y/N agreed, a smile on her face. She thought of Manon, the fireworks still seemed to echo in her mind, not just the ones in the sky, but the ones she felt inside her.

A little, square piece of paper dropped from Maya's sequined handbag and landed on the dashboard as she was driving. When Y/N took a quick look at it, her heart leaped. It was a card. With just a name and a brief, handwritten note on the back.

Manon Bannerman

On the back, “I’d like to know you more, call me and maybe I'll show you that collection of mine.” was written.

Y/N’s breath hitched. She picked up the card, her fingers tracing the elegant script. A wave of warmth spread through her. She had given it to Maya to give to her. She had thought of her. A genuine smile bloomed on Y/N’s face, a smile that reached her eyes. Maybe, just maybe, New Year’s Eve parties weren't so bad after all because sometimes, in the most unexpected of places, you’d meet the most unexpected people. People who you can share a connection with.

She carefully tucked the card into her wallet, a sense of anticipation bubbling within her. The new year had just begun, and it was already full of unexpected possibilities. For the first time in a long time, Y/N felt genuinely excited about what the future might hold and it all started with a quiet moment on a couch, a shared aversion to parties, and a captivating stranger with kind eyes, who happened to be Manon Bannerman.

a/n: I feel like I could have done better with this. I'm not satisfied and I do apologize if there are errors. I lost my motivation to write. Oh well, things happen in life. Thank you for giving this a read! I'll try to make a better one next time.

#katseye #katseye manon #manon bannerman #manon bannerman x reader #katseye manon x reader #manon #manon x reader #katseye x reader #ENCHANTED

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divine7th · 12 hours ago

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ROMANCE SAJA HEADCANONS.

notes: thank you to one of my dearest friends who requested i do this. it is my first time so please be gentle with me as i might make a teensy mistake here and there. but i hope you all like these! i got a couple ideas from reading through other x reader fics and such, and just from personal things i like, so maybe i’m projecting onto romance a little. can you blame me?

this is completely safe for work, just wanted to clarify that upfront. essentially pure fluff or whatever the romance genre calls it. no specified gender, written in third person. keep in mind these are simply headcanons and my effort at creating them. this is intended to have a poetic feel!

if enough people like this, then i’ll think about making a part two or a full-on fic. thank you in advance for taking time out of your day to read this! i appreciate it, truly. ♡

• romance being a hopeless romantic, through & through. like, catastrophically so. the type to leave handwritten notes tucked between the pages of books you’re reading, or to dramatically sigh while staring out windows during rainstorms because it reminds him of some tragic love ballad from three centuries ago. he probably has a collection of pressed flowers from every meaningful moment you’ve shared together, carefully preserved in an old leather journal that smells faintly of vanilla and something mysteriously ancient.

• color coordination becomes an art form with him. he doesn’t just look into flower meanings, he studies them like they’re sacred texts. receives a bouquet of yellow roses mixed with purple irises? he’s already googling (with your patient help, of course) whether the yellow represents friendship or jealousy, and why someone would pair it with wisdom and valor. the wrapping paper patterns get analyzed too. polka dots apparently mean playfulness, while stripes suggest structure. you’ve never met someone who can turn a simple gift into a philosophical discussion about the intentions behind paisley print.

• he craves authentic connections but can’t resist turning on the charm like it’s a reflex. flirting is basically his default setting, the way some people unconsciously hum or tap their fingers. he’ll sweet-talk the barista, compliment the grocery store clerk’s earrings, and somehow make small talk with your neighbor feel like the opening scene of a romantic drama. but there’s a difference between his casual flirtation and the way he looks at you, like you’re the only person in the room worth seeing.

• cooking becomes his love language, and honestly? he’s surprisingly skilled for someone who still struggles with the microwave timer. maybe it’s centuries of practice, or maybe demons just have better instincts for seasoning. either way, he treats your kitchen like his personal stage, dramatically tossing ingredients while humming old melodies under his breath. requests for specific dishes turn into quests. you mention craving authentic italian carbonara? suddenly he’s researching the perfect pancetta, muttering about egg temperatures, and refusing to use anything but freshly cracked black pepper. your happiness is his michelin star.

• his mental catalog of your preferences rivals government databases. not just the obvious stuff either. he notices you pause a half-second longer when looking at vintage bookmarks, or how your eyes light up at the sight of those tiny succulents in ceramic pots shaped like animals. suddenly these items start appearing in your space like magic, accompanied by his sheepish grin and some elaborate excuse about “just happening to walk by” whatever shop he definitely went out of his way to visit.

• the demon reveal probably ranks as the most terrifying moment of his very long existence. picture this: he’s been dropping hints for weeks, testing the waters with casual comments about “old times” and “you wouldn’t believe some of the things i’ve seen.” then one evening, maybe you’re both a little wine-drunk and sentimental, and it just tumbles out of him in a rush of panic and honesty. he’s prepared for screaming, running, maybe some creative cursing. instead, you just blink slowly, ask if that explains why he’s so weird about technology, and reach for his hand. the relief nearly knocks him sideways. he’s never been more grateful for your bizarre ability to roll with the supernatural punches.

• flirting is supposed to be his specialty, his signature move, the thing he’s perfected over decades of practice. so why does he turn into a flustered mess whenever you flip the script? you compliment his eyes and suddenly he’s forgotten how to form coherent sentences. you test lipgloss on him, claiming it’s “just to see the color,” and he’s convinced his heart might actually explode from the casual intimacy of it all. his hands get embarrassingly sweaty, his usual smooth responses turn into stammered nonsense, and he’s pretty sure you can hear his pulse from across the room. turns out being on the receiving end of charm is a completely different skill set, one he’s hilariously unprepared for despite all his confidence.

• there’s a protective streak in him that runs deeper than casual jealousy, rooted in centuries of having to guard what matters most. he’s not about to go full territorial beast mode (he’ll leave that dramatic nonsense to mystery, thank you very much), but there’s definitely a possessive edge that surfaces when other people get a little too comfortable in your space. it’s not controlling or suffocating, more like the satisfied smugness of someone who knows exactly where they stand in your heart. when some random person starts laying on the charm a bit too thick, he materializes behind you like he’s got built-in radar, sliding an arm around your waist while delivering the world’s most politely threatening “hey, baby” directly into your ear. the follow-up “who’s this?” comes with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, all casual friendliness with an undertone of “i will absolutely remember your face forever.” he’s ridiculously confident about your relationship, wearing his love for you like a badge of honor, and honestly? the way he gets all quietly smug about being your person is almost endearing. almost. if it weren’t for the fact that he sometimes forgets to tone down the intimidating demon aura when he’s feeling particularly pleased with himself.

• his fascination with pulse points borders on artistic obsession, like he’s discovered some secret map to your soul written in the rhythm of your heartbeat. sure, traditional lip kisses hold their own magic, but there’s something about pressing gentle touches to your wrist that makes him feel like he’s participating in some ancient ritual of devotion. maybe it’s the vulnerability of that thin skin, or the way he can literally feel your life humming beneath his mouth, but he’s completely captivated by these tender spaces where your essence flows closest to the surface. your neck becomes his canvas, the delicate spot behind your ear his masterpiece, each soft press designed to watch you melt into that adorable flustered state he adores. he’s learned exactly which locations make you shiver, which ones cause that telltale blush to creep across your cheeks, and he absolutely revels in the power of turning you into a swooning mess with nothing more than the whisper of his mouth against your inner wrist.

• poor jinu has become an unwilling encyclopedia of everything related to you, thanks to romance’s newfound habit of turning every conversation into a dissertation about your wonderfulness. this is unprecedented territory for him, considering he’s historically kept romantic details locked away tighter than state secrets. but something about you has completely rewired his brain’s filter system, and suddenly he’s that guy who brings you up in completely unrelated discussions. the other saja boys have started placing bets on how long it takes him to steer any topic back to you. discussing dinner plans? “oh, that reminds me of this incredible dish they made last week.” talking about upcoming schedules? “i wonder if they’ll be free to watch our performance.” jinu bears the brunt of these enthusiastic monologues, getting detailed reports about your latest adventures, your opinions on everything from weather patterns to movie choices, and extensive analysis of that adorable thing you did yesterday that made romance’s entire decade.

special tags: @kk-iki, @mustardd, @untamed-and-unfiltered, @gunshots4

a warm thank you to evie and max for pitching in and giving me ideas when they could, and most of all to kiki who is and has always been my inspiration for writing in general. this is for you.

#🍏 𓈒 #kpop demon hunters #kpdh #kdh #saja boys #romance saja #kpdh x reader #kdh x reader #romance x reader

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flowersfromnaboo · 2 days ago

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— ⠀ ִ ࣪ ׅ 𐔌ㅤ BUT SHE DOESN’T KNOW WHO I AM !

ft. ellie williams

— ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 ellie is once again following you around like a lost puppy. ellie—the girl who’s been trying to win your heart since… forever? and you can’t help but notice how sweet she actually is (and you absolutely hate yourself for it).

warnings / tags : emotional cheating? ‘cause reader has a boyfriend. and that’s pretty much it. plus she’s kinda mean and if you’re not into that.. don’t read i guess.

!! notes : this is the first fanfic i’ve written after a year of not writing… 😣😣 i’m NERVOUS and this probably will turn into a series..

lime milkshake for your friend. strawberry milkshake for yourself. one am in the morning.

“i think you’re being too harsh on that williams girl..” your friend, cindy, says as she takes another sip of her drink.

yes. one in the morning. and here you were—out with your best friend, sipping milkshakes. a big ritual, actually. something you both did at least twice a month. milkshakes and gossip. well, mostly gossip.

“who even is that williams girl?” you ask, mimicking her and taking a slow sip of your own.

“girl.. don’t even,” answers cindy, rolling her eyes. “you know damn well who.”

and you just twirl the straw in your milkshake, acting like you’re transfixed by the pattern of melted ice cream and strawberry. but the truth is, you were just trying to avoid looking into cindy’s eyes.

because she was right. of course she was. she always had to be the “reasonable one” and for what?

you weren’t that mean, were you? you were just letting her know you weren’t interested, yeah, definitely.

but you’d said that a week ago.

a week ago. that’s when things changed, at least for you.

you started getting that weird feeling in your stomach whenever she did something stupid. sometimes you even started smiling at her. you didn’t know what was going on, you thought you were probably… possessed or something, because this could not be happening.

“yeah.. okay.. ellie williams,” you mutter, finally saying the name out loud like it was a very secret spell. “she’s nothing even that cool.”

cindy raises an eyebrow. “was i dreaming or didn’t she literally walk you to class in the rain last week? no umbrella. just her hoodie.”

rolling your eyes, you scuff the toe of your shoe on the floor. “i know right? she’s just so dramatic.”

“and, she gave you the last blueberry muffin at lunch.”

“i literally hate blueberries.”

“… she also remembered your cat’s birthday.”

"... okay that was kinda cute."

cindy throws her hands up. “yes, exactly!”

you groan, leaning back into the booth. “why is she always just… i don’t know… around? like, she just appears. in the library. outside chem. by the vending machine. i turn around and boom—ellie. like some fucking lovesick ghost.”

“okay she’s not—“

you cut her off and just continue rambling. “and she’s so hard to ignore! she’s literally everywhere, cindy. gosh.. she’s literally your boyfriend’s cousin. and your boyfriend? he’s always around! and that means ellie is too. every movie night, every group hang, every. single. time.”

cindy just blinks at you. “okay..”

“and she’s so nice! too nice, actually. see, last week she got me a coffee. my favourite coffee. she remembers how i like my coffee, cindy. literally my coffee order.”

“okay but like… why don’t you just give her a shot? wouldn’t hurt, trust me.”

you blink. “excuse me?”

“i mean.. come on. she’s been into you since, like what…? forever?” cindy shrugs. “and it’s not like you actually like your boyfriend.”

you freeze like she just slapped you across the face. oh, how you hate hearing the truth. “don’t be ridiculous, i love my boyfriend.”

the single raised eyebrow from cindy shows her lack of enthusiasm. “do you, though?”

“i do,” you say, too fast, in a tone that sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself more than anyone else. “you sound absolutely crazy right now.”

she crosses her arms. “sureeee.”

you wave your hands up high. “i do! i love him. he’s... he’s good. he always picks me up after class. his mom thinks i’m nice. we—we watch movies together.”

cindy stares at you as if she expects more to the story.

but you go on all the same.

“and we've been a couple for, like, seven months! that’s a long time. that means we stick together. that’s commitment. you don’t just drop all that because someone’s cousin looks at you like you hung the fucking stars.”

cindy laughs, all sure and annoying. “girl, you’re so in denial and it’s funny. you talk about loving your boyfriend, but you keep talking about the girl who gives you more napkins without you asking.”

you try to talk back, you really do. but the words stick in your throat.

because you know: your boyfriend is nice. easy to guess. safe.

but ellie?

ellie makes your heart act up in ways it shouldn’t when you’re “in love” with someone else. she makes you feel… edgy? but in a good way—like you’re more alive. like your blood is loud when she’s near. it’s just weird, honestly.

you shake your head hard, as if that’ll clear your mind.

"yeah, i’m not doing this," you say.

#ellie williams #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams x female reader #the last of us #lesbian

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four-toast · 3 days ago

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Content Warnings: Mental Health Struggle, Mention of Substance Abuse, and Mention of Self-Harm and Suicidal Ideation

Note: I'm not diagnosing Barty with any specific mental illness. I felt more comfortable making it general than trying to paint an accurate representation of one specific disorder. I'm truly sorry that this one is kind of heavy (content-wise), and I'll try to stick to lighter themes for the foreseeable future (unless, of course, anyone wants more of this type of thing, in which case, I'll try my best). Most importantly, take care of yourself. This DOES end on a good note. Not necessarily happy, but things get better.

My Friend of Misery

The kitchen was dim, the only light coming from a lamp in the living room. Evan sat at the table watching as Barty opened the cupboard and reached for a glass and the bottle of firewhiskey. He didn't meet Evan's eyes as he poured.

“You forgot the ink order,” Evan said flatly. “Again.”

Barty took a sip before replying. “I know.”

“You also forgot to take the deposit to Gringotts. And meet with that woman about the sleeve. And you've got a pile of half-finished sketches in the office.”

“I know.”

“Really? Because you say you do, but I don't think you're actually listening to me.”

“I'm right here, Ev. Hear you loud and clear.”

Evan scoffed. “Sure you do.”

Barty rubbed his eyes. “Look, I heard you. I just forgot.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“I didn't do it on purpose, Evan. I'm not trying to let you down.”

“You are, though,” Evan snapped. “Every single day, I wake up not knowing if you're coming in with me. I'm running out of excuses for you. Do you think that's fair?”

“No.”

Evan's voice rose. “You think it's my job to hold everything together?”

Barty looked up sharply. “I didn't say that.”

“You need to be here. I can't do this alone. I can't do your job and mine.”

“I’m sorry, alright? I forget sometimes.”

“Merlin, Barty! It’s your shop too!”

“I’m tired!” Barty snapped. “I’ve been exhausted for months, Evan. I can’t sleep, I can’t think straight, and I wake up feeling like shit every fucking day. I feel like my brain wants to rip me apart. I can barely get out of bed in the morning, so how the fuck do you expect me to tattoo anyone and run a business?”

“And you think I don’t see that? You think I haven’t noticed you drifting further every day? I’m trying to help you, Bee! I’m right here! But you keep shoving me out!”

“You don’t know what it’s like in my head,” Barty muttered. “You can’t-”

“You won’t let me in! That’s the problem!” Evan barked. “You’re not the only one struggling, Barty! You’re making me feel like we don’t matter anymore!”

“Don’t say that.” Barty’s voice dropped. “Don’t you dare say that.”

“Then act like we matter!” Evan barked back. “We’ve got a little girl who depends on us for everything! She loves you so much, Bee! She looks at you like you hung the damn moon! She needs you!”

Barty blinked. “Don’t bring her into this.”

“No. No, I will. Because I’m running out of things to tell her when she asks why Daddy doesn’t tuck her in anymore. Why he won’t sit and draw with her. Why he flinches every time she tries to hug him. She notices, Barty. She’s five, not stupid. And every time she asks where you are or why you’re sad, I have to look her in the eyes and lie to her. She thinks it’s her fault.” His voice was thick. “She thinks she broke something inside you and that you don't love her anymore.”

Evan hadn't even finished his sentence before Barty's wand was in his hand. For a moment, Evan braced himself, waiting for the man he loved to turn the wand on him. He waited for a silent curse to hit him square in the chest. He waited for Barty to cross a line he couldn't uncross.

But instead, Barty flicked his wand toward the hallway and muttered, “Silencio.”

Evan lowered his voice, though he knew he didn’t need to. “You can shut me out, but you’re not being fair to her.”

Barty slammed his cup on the counter. “Oh, shut up, Evan!” he snarled, taking a step towards him. “I don’t understand why you care so much. She’s not even your kid.”

Evan’s breath caught in his throat. “What did you just say?”

Barty’s jaw clenched. “You heard me.”

“She’s not my kid?” Evan repeated. “Is that what you think?”

“She’s not. She’s mine.”

Evan stood, shaking with an anger he hadn't felt in a long time. He walked over to Barty, fists clenched at his sides, knowing that if they weren't, he'd throw a punch. Give him a black eye, knock some sense into him. Barty didn't have the right to say that, no matter how fucked in the head he was.

“You know,” Evan said, eyes locked on Barty. “I’ve kept my mouth shut about a lot over the years. I never once said anything about your mistakes. Not the cheating, not the lying, not the drinking.”

Barty looked away.

Evan’s voice was dripping with anger now as he grabbed Barty's collar and forced him to meet his eyes. “I should’ve been livid that you couldn’t keep it in your pants. You slept with so many people, yet I stayed. I stayed because I’ve loved you since we were thirteen. I stayed because you’re the only person in the world who actually understands me. I stayed when you came home blackout drunk on our anniversary. I stayed when you found out your mum was sick and you locked yourself in the bathroom with a knife for eight hours. I stayed when you forgot my birthday. Twice. I stayed when you ruined Nessa’s first Christmas because you got too overwhelmed and vanished for three days. I stayed when you couldn’t sleep for weeks and kept snapping at us over nothing.” Evan’s voice broke. He couldn’t hold the tears back anymore. “I stayed even when it hurt. Not because I wanted to be a hero. Not because I didn’t have a choice. I stayed because I love you. Because I love that little girl. Our little girl.”

Barty’s lip quivered, and for a moment, Evan thought he might finally say something. Anything. But still, he said nothing. So Evan kept going. The dam had already broken. There was no point in holding anything back.

“I stayed when you refused to talk to anyone because you said you were fine. I stayed when I found you crying on the bathroom floor, and you told me to leave you the hell alone. I stayed when Nessa woke up screaming for you after a nightmare, and I had to tell her you weren’t home. I sat on her floor until sunrise, humming that awful lullaby you made up. She hugged me so tightly that my arms went numb.”

He loosened his hold, his voice steadier, but no less furious. “I’ve cleaned up your messes. I’ve covered your shifts. I’ve smoothed over your incessant mood swings. I’ve watched the man I love disappear. But I stayed, Bee. I chose to stay. And if you’re so desperate to push me away, fine. Do it. But don’t you dare stand there and tell me she’s not mine. Do you remember the morning we found her? Because I do. I opened the door because someone dared to knock on the door so fucking early in the morning. And there she was: this tiny bundle. I didn’t even think before I picked her up. Because I loved you. Because no matter how fucked up we were, I wanted a kid with you. Because I took one look at that little menace and I loved her.”

Barty still didn’t say anything.

“When I came into the room with her in my arms, you looked at her like she was about to explode. But I never hesitated. I fed her, I changed her, I woke up with her for the first few nights because you were terrified. I held her through her first fever when you locked yourself in the bathroom and wouldn’t come out.”

“I-”

“She’s mine in every way that matters, Bee. She’s been mine since the moment the universe dumped her in our laps. She called me Papa before she called you Daddy.” Evan’s voice cracked.

“You don’t get to take her away from me because you’re spiraling. You can’t weaponise the one thing in our life that’s never been up for debate.”

Barty’s voice came out hoarse and small. “I wasn’t trying to weaponise her.”

“Then what were you trying to do?” Evan snapped.

Barty didn’t answer. He stood there, chest heaving. “I don’t know,” Barty said finally. “I just… Everything’s so loud all the time, and I can’t think, and it’s like I’m failing at everything. You’re the perfect father, and I’m just a fucking loser. She’d be better off without me. I should've…” He shook his head. “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it, Ev.”

But it was too late.

Evan stared at him, jaw tight. “You don’t get to undo it just by saying you didn’t mean it. You said it because you wanted to hurt me. And congratulations, you did.”

“Evan…”

“Get the fuck out of my sight.”

Barty didn’t move. He looked at Evan, maybe for permission to stay. “I’ll…”

Evan turned away, shoulders tense and fists clenched at his side. “Don’t,” he said quietly. “Just don’t.”

“Do… Do you… want me to leave?” Barty whispered shakily.

Evan didn’t answer right away. His breathing was uneven. He knew that if he opened his mouth now, all the anger would come spilling out again, and he didn’t have the energy for another explosion.

So instead, he closed his eyes and said, “Stay. I’ll sleep out here.”

“I don’t want that,” he murmured.

“Well, that’s what I want,” Evan shot back.

Barty didn’t say anything else. He walked past Evan, brushing a hand against his back as he did. Evan tensed up. He watched as Barty went down the hallway to the bedroom and slipped inside, shutting the door softly behind him.

Evan stood frozen for a moment, his fists still curled tight, jaw locked. But then he just couldn’t hold himself together anymore. He collapsed on the floor, back against the cabinets. He sat there in the dim light, wrapping his arms around his knees and pressing his forehead to them, just like Nessa did when she was upset.

He didn’t know how long he had stayed like that.

Long enough for the fury in his eyes to die out. Long enough for the tears to dry up, leaving him empty and aching. Long enough not to notice the tiny footsteps.

“Papa?”

Evan didn’t look up right away. “Hi, Bug,” he whispered.

She stepped closer. “Why are you on the floor?”

“I… I needed to sit for a bit. That’s all.”

“Why?”

He swallowed hard. What was he supposed to say to her? He couldn’t lie. Not again.

“I don’t know how to explain it, Ness. Everything just… everything hurts right now.”

Nessa crouched down beside him, blinking up at him with wide eyes. “Is it because Daddy’s sad again?”

“Yeah.”

“Did he make you cry?”

“A little.”

She was quiet for a moment. Then she touched his arm and smiled. “When I cry, you sit with me, so now I’ll sit with you.”

He let go of his knees and crossed his legs. She crawled into his lap and rested her head against his chest. Evan let out a shaky breath as he wrapped his arms around her.

“Papa, why is Daddy sad all the time?”

“Nessa, look at me,” he said softly. She adjusted herself and looked up at him. “None of this is your fault, okay? Don't ever think this is something you did. Daddy’s sad, yes, but he's also sick. Very sick.”

“When I’m sick, you give me medicine and put me in the bath and hug me until I feel better. Maybe that’ll work for Daddy.”

“No, Bug, not that kind of sick. Daddy’s sickness is in his head. It tells him bad things that aren’t true, and it makes it really hard for him to tell what's real and what's not. When the voices get really loud, Daddy forgets that he has people who care about him, and he gets really sad and angry. But none of that is your fault, alright? You are the best thing that's ever happened to him, and he loves you more than you'll ever know. Daddy needs help, but until he accepts that, we just have to be here for him. Even when it's hard. We can't give up on Daddy because he's already given up on himself.”

Nessa studied him for a moment. “I won’t give up, Papa. I want Daddy to feel better.”

“I know you do, love,” he whispered. “And I want that too. But it’s going to take time.”

Nessa rested her head against his chest again. “Maybe if he remembers how much I love him, the bad voices will go away and he can go back to being my Daddy again.”

“I hope so.” He rubbed her back. “Love doesn’t fix everything, but it’s a start.”

They sat like that in silence for a long time. Evan could feel her breathing start to slow, and he felt the tension leave his body. If Nessa could be strong, then he could too. Barty needed both of them.

Then Nessa’s small voice broke the silence. “Are you going to sleep with Daddy tonight?”

“I don’t think so, Ness.”

“But where are you going to sleep?”

“On the couch. Daddy and I need some space tonight.”

“But you can’t sleep on the couch!” Her brow furrowed in determination, just like Barty’s did. She tilted her chin up and looked at him firmly. “It’s scary in the dark.”

“I’ll be okay.”

“No,” she said, getting up. Merlin, she looks just like Barty. She placed her hands on her hips. “You’re not sleeping on the couch,” she declared.

“Nessa…”

“Nope.” She grabbed his hand and began pulling him to her room. “That’s final.”

Evan sighed and stood up, letting her pull him down the hallway. She walked just like Barty, that brisk “don’t mess with me” pace, her head held high. When they reached her bedroom door, she stopped for a second and turned around. Her eyes fell on the closed door across the hall.

“Papa, you stay here. I’ll be right back!” Nessa said, running into her room. She grabbed her favourite teddy and tucked it under her arm. “Daddy shouldn’t have to sleep alone either.”

“Ness, I don’t think-”

She ignored him, walking past him and opening the door without knocking. Evan took a step back, retreating around the corner.

“Daddy?”

A pause. Then Barty said, “Yeah, Bug?”

“I brought you Mr. Snuggles.”

Silence.

“He helps me when I feel sad,” she said. “And Papa said you’re sad. Mr. Snuggles is really brave, so maybe he can help you be brave too.”

“That’s… That’s really kind of you, Ness,” Barty said, his voice cracking. “Thank you.”

“He told me he doesn’t mind staying with you tonight.”

Barty laughed a little. Choked, but still a laugh. “Well, that’s good. I could use some company.”

“You made Papa cry.”

“I know. I didn’t mean to.”

“Then you should say sorry.”

“I will,” Barty whispered hoarsely. “I promise.”

“Okay. Just don’t be mean to him again. He loves you so much.”

“I know,” Barty murmured. “I love him too.”

“You need to sleep, Daddy. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

“I’ll try, Baby.”

Nessa stepped back into the hall, gently closing the door behind her. She reached for Evan’s hand and squeezed it. “I gave him Mr. Snuggles. And I told him he needs to sleep.”

Evan blinked hard, forcing back tears. “You’re amazing, you know that?” he murmured.

“I know,” she said with a sleepy grin. “Can we go to bed now?”

Evan nodded and followed Nessa into her room. He watched as she crawled under the covers, scooting back toward the wall. “Come on, Papa. I made room for you.”

He hesitated for a moment, but Nessa lifted the blanket and looked at him with wide eyes. He climbed in beside her, and she immediately pressed against him. She grabbed his hand and gave it a small squeeze.

“Papa?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you think Daddy's sleeping?”

“I hope so,” he replied, brushing her hair out of her face. “But even if he's not, he knows he's not alone, so that counts for something, right?”

She hummed in agreement. After a few minutes, her breathing evened out.

Evan hadn't realised he'd fallen asleep, but he woke up the next morning to the sun pooling in a golden puddle on Nessa's floor. She was gone.

He shot out of her bed, trying to figure out where she'd gone. It wasn't like her to leave. Every time she slept with him and Barty, even though she usually woke up first, she'd lie with them until one or both of them woke up.

The door was cracked open, the hallway still dark. Evan ran a hand through his hair as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. As he walked across the room, he stretched, trying to relieve the tension that had settled in his back as a result of sleeping in a bed that was much too small for two people.

His and Barty's door was still closed, and he stopped outside, wondering if he should peek inside. Perhaps Nessa had gone to make sure Barty was okay. That little girl loved harder than anyone he'd ever met, so he definitely wouldn't put it past her.

With a shaky breath, he turned the door knob and was met with complete darkness. Stepping in slowly, he let the door close softly behind him. In the darkness, he could just make out Barty's silhouette, curled on his side, one arm clutching Mr. Snuggles, the other under the pillow.

Evan sat down next to him, careful not to jostle the mattress too much. Without thinking, he reached out to brush the hair out of Barty's face, just as he'd always done. Barty didn't stir, but his breath hitched.

His hand lingered for a moment, resting on his cheek. He hadn't seen Barty sleep like this in weeks. No tossing and turning, no muttering, no flinching. Just… still.

After a while, he reached out and rubbed Barty's shoulder. “Bee,” he whispered. “Hey. Can you wake up?”

Barty stirred, eyelashes fluttering as he slowly opened his eyes. “What's wrong?” he murmured hoarsely.

“Nothing, everything's fine. Just wanted to check on you. I might take Nessa to Diagon Alley today.”

There was a pause before Barty whispered, “Is she okay?”

“She's fine,” Evan said softly. “More than fine, actually. Brave, bossy, slightly terrifying. Just like you.”

Barty made a sound. A laugh?

“I just wanted to let you know. You don't have to come if you're not up to it, but I didn't want you to wake up and not know where we were.”

He nodded. Evan got up to leave, but Barty reached out and grabbed his hand. “Wait. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said what I said last night. You… I love you so much, you know that? And I'm sorry that I'm like this. I want to get better, but I don't know how. I just…”

“I know. You don't need to apologise.”

“But I do. I wasn't fair to you. Or her.”

“Just stay here and rest today, alright? We'll be home by dinner.” Evan dropped his hand and walked to the door.

“Bring me back something sweet?”

“You know I will,” Evan smiled as he shut the door behind him.

Once in the hall, he caught a whiff of something that smelled suspiciously like burnt toast. That would explain where Nessa was. Great.

He and Barty both sucked at cooking charms, even though Charms had been Barty's best subject in school, so they had broken down and picked up some Muggle appliances. It took some getting used to, but Nessa loved cooking with them, so it had turned out to be a good investment.

When he stepped into the kitchen, she was sitting at the table, slightly burnt toast covered in way too much butter in front of her.

“Good morning, Papa!” she beamed.

“Morning, Bug,” Evan said softly. “You’re up early.”

She smiled. “The sun woke me up. And your snoring.”

Evan shot her a look of mock offense. “I don't snore.”

“Yes, you do!” she said, kicking her legs as she picked up the toast and took a small bite.

Evan was about to say something else when he heard quiet footsteps come down the hall. He turned to see Barty, wearing one of Evan's old jumpers. He still looked tired, and sadness lingered in his eyes, but he was out of bed, and that was something. He was trying at least.

“You do snore, you know.” His voice was low and strained, as if even such a simple sentence took away his energy.

Nessa squealed. “Told you!”

Evan smirked and took a seat next to Nessa.

Barty didn't say anything as he sat across from them and rested his arms on the table, putting his head down.

Evan watched as Nessa eyed Barty hesitantly. She glanced up at Evan with wide eyes before she turned her attention back to Barty. She chewed her lip for a second before hopping down from her chair and walking around the table.

“Daddy? Do you want some of my toast? It's sorta burnt, but it's still yummy.”

Barty didn't move, and Evan watched Nessa's face drop. She stood there for a bit longer. Then, she reached over and grabbed her toast, setting it next to Barty. “It's okay if you're not hungry now. You can have it later.”

Evan's heart broke. It wasn't fair to her to have to grow up so fast. He reached out and tapped the table. “Come here, Bug.”

Nessa turned. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, love.” He patted his leg, and she crawled into his lap without hesitation. “Daddy just needs some time. I think he's a little overwhelmed right now.”

She nodded and nestled against his chest. Evan pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

“How about this?” he murmured, brushing her hair out of her face. “What do you say we take a little trip to Diagon Alley today? Just you and me.”

Nessa's eyes lit up. “Can we go to Quality Quidditch Supplies? I know I can't have a broom yet, even though Rigel has one, but I just want to look.”

“We can go anywhere you want, Ness.”

She hopped down and started down the hallway. “I'm going to get dressed, and then we can go!”

Evan laughed. “I've still got to clean up breakfast and shower. And nothing's even open yet. We'll leave at nine.”

“Fine,” Nessa groaned, shutting her door.

Once he was sure she wasn't coming back out, Evan turned his attention to Barty. He stood slowly, not wanting to startle him. He doubted Barty had fallen asleep again, but he didn't want to risk it. Evan sat down next to him, placing a hand on his back.

“Didn't think you'd get out of bed today,” Evan whispered.

Barty looked up. He looked terrible. He needed a shower and a shave, his eyes were dark, and Evan's old jumper was much too big for him, making him look smaller than he was. “Wasn't planning on it.”

“I'm proud of you.” He pressed a kiss to his cheek.

Barty smiled. A small smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, but a smile nonetheless. “You should probably get going. You know how she gets.”

“I should probably clean-”

Barty cut him off. “No. Go. I'll take care of it. Maybe not right now, but later. It's the least I can do.”

Evan hesitated for a moment, studying Barty's face: pale, hollow, but familiar. His Barty was in there somewhere.

“You sure?” he asked quietly.

Barty nodded. “Yeah, I need something to do. Take my mind off everything.”

“Alright. Are you sure you'll be fine alone today? I can write to Cas, Dora, or Reg and see if one of them can stop by later.”

“No. I don't… I don't need them to see me like this. I'll be okay. Spoil your daughter today, alright?”

“You sure you'll be alright alone?”

“Merlin, Ev. I'm not going to try to off myself, if that's what you're implying.”

“That's… That's not what I meant. I can stay if you want. We can go some other time.”

“No, go. I'll be fine. I'll send for you if I need anything. Promise.”

Evan stood, pressing a kiss to Barty's head before he headed into the bedroom to grab some clothes and then went into the bathroom.

He turned the shower on, and steam began curling up the mirror, blurring his reflection as he undressed. He stepped under the hot spray, letting it wash over him.

He pressed his palms flat against the wall, and as the water beat down on the back of his neck, he began to cry. Just a few tears at first, but they started coming faster and faster, and soon, he couldn't stop them. He wished he could fix it. All of it. Barty, Nessa, everything. None of them deserved this.

For a while, Evan stood like that. He wished he could've stayed right there all day, letting the water wash everything down the drain. But he couldn't. Nessa was waiting for him.

He exhaled softly and finished showering. When he turned off the shower and stepped out, he felt lighter. He knew he couldn't fix everything in one day; he knew it would take time. He toweled off and dressed quickly, thankful that the mirror was still fogged up.

Evan took a deep breath and opened the door to find Nessa sitting in the hallway, wearing her favourite yellow dress that Pandora had given her for her birthday. “Daddy ate the toast,” she whispered.

“That's good, Bug. That's really good.”

She stood and wrapped her arms around his waist. “Thank you, Papa.”

“For what?” he asked, picking her up.

“For everything.” She kissed his cheek and reeled back, a look of confusion on her face. “You didn't shave, did you?”

“Do I need to?” he laughed.

“I think you do,” she smiled, sticking out her tongue.

“Alright, alright, hang on.” He set her down, and she ran off down the hallway. He chuckled to himself as he pulled out his razor.

When he finally emerged from the bathroom and headed out to the living room, Nessa gave him an exaggerated thumbs-up. “That's better.”

“Go say bye to Daddy and we'll leave, okay?”

“I already did.”

Evan smiled and lifted her up. “Of course you did.” Together, they walked into the kitchen, where Barty was still sitting at the table. “Bye, Bee. Take it easy today, alright? I love you.”

Barty smiled. “Love you too.”

With that, they disapparated. Within seconds, they were standing outside the shop. “Papa,” Nessa groaned. “What are we doing here? I don't want to go to work with you.”

“I know. And I'm not working, necessarily. Just have a few things Daddy forgot to take care of. That's all.”

He unlocked the door and listened to Nessa's incessant complaints as he put in the ink order, grabbed the stack of sketches from the office, and grabbed the deposit. “Alright, we just have to stop at Gringotts and then I promise the rest of the day is about you.”

They stepped back out onto the cobblestone street, the sun casting a warm glow over the Alley. For it being so early, the street was surprisingly busy. Shops were just opening and witches and wizards, young and old, weaved in and out of doorways.

Nessa skipped ahead, her dress fluttering with every bounce. Evan watched her and smiled, pocketing the deposit and adjusting the bag over his shoulder. As they approached Gringotts, Nessa began to slow down, looking up at the towering marble columns. She paused at the bottom of the steps.

“Papa?” she asked. “Are the goblins going to be mean today?”

Evan took her hand and led her up the stairs. “They’re not mean, Ness. And besides, we’ll just be in and out.”

As they stepped through the door, Nessa tightened her grip on Evan’s hand. He steered her over to the nearest available teller. “Vault 692,” Evan said, placing the deposit and slip on the counter.

“Rosier-Crouch?”

“Yes.”

The goblin gave a sharp nod, picked up the slip, and glanced at the information. He barely looked up. “Deposit accepted. Funds will reflect by midday.”

“Thank you.”

Without another word, the goblin returned to his ledger. As they left the bank, Nessa looked up with a shy smile. “That wasn’t scary.”

“Told you,” Evan said, nudging her shoulder.

Nessa giggled and spun in a circle. “That means it’s finally my turn!”

“Your turn for what?” asked a familiar voice to their right.

Nessa’s eyes widened in delight as she whipped around to see her favourite person in the whole world stepping out of Flourish and Blotts. “Uncle Reg!”

With that, she ran off towards him, flinging herself into his arms. He caught her with practiced ease. “How’s my favourite niece today?”

“Uncle Reg,” she laughed. “I told you you're not allowed to have favourites!”

“Oh, how silly of me. How could I possibly forget that?” He pressed a kiss to her cheek before setting her back down. “Shop’s not open today? Or is Barty taking care of it?”

Nessa glanced back and forth between Evan and Regulus, clearly trying to figure out whether or not she should say something.

“Figured we deserved a day off. Bee’s been… Well, you know how he gets. Last night was… Anyway, he stayed home, and I decided this little monster needed to get out of the house.”

Regulus nodded solemnly. He was all too familiar with Barty’s outbursts and mood swings. “Well, hopefully everything’s alright. If he needs it, I can get Sirius to pull some strings over at St. Mungo’s.”

“You do know he’d never let you do that, right?”

“Worth a try.”

Nessa fiddled with the hem of her dress. “Um, Uncle Reg?”

“Yes, my love?”

“Can you… Are you busy?”

Regulus smiled and bent down to meet her eyes. “Unfortunately, I am. Last-minute meeting with the Romanians. Something about trade tariffs. Delightful stuff.”

Nessa looked down. “Do you have to go?”

His expression softened again. “Oh, my dear girl. Sadly, the Ministry doesn’t take well to truancy. Even from me.”

Evan put an arm around Nessa’s shoulder. “Come on, Bug, let’s let Uncle Reg get back to work, okay? We’ve got loads to do, don’t we?”

She smiled. “Oh yeah! Can we get ice cream?”

“Now?”

“Oh, Evan, ease up on her. If Miss Nessa wants ice cream at nine in the morning, then she’ll have ice cream at nine in the morning,” Regulus said, slipping some coins into her hands. “Well, I’d best be off.”

With a pop, Regulus disapparated. “See, Papa? Uncle Reg said I can have ice cream.”

Evan rolled his eyes. “Fine. But don’t tell Daddy. I won’t hear the end of it.”

“Deal!” She said as she grabbed his hand and dragged him down the street towards Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour. The moment they stepped inside, Nessa ran to the counter and stared in awe at all the different options.

“Papa,” she sighed. “They all look so good! How do I pick just one?”

Evan laughed. “I don't know, Bug. You like the strawberry one.”

“Yeah, but I always get that.”

“But you know you like it.”

“I guess. What are you getting?”

“Nothing. Way too early for ice cream.”

“But Uncle Reg said-”

“I didn't say you couldn't get any. I just said I'm not getting any.”

“Oh. Why? Is it because you’re old?”

Evan took a deep breath and rolled his eyes. “Be glad I love you. Now come on, we can't stand here all day.”

In the end, Nessa decided on the strawberry ice cream, just like usual. They went outside and sat at one of the wrought iron tables. Nessa happily ate her ice cream, kicking her legs under the table as she did. Evan watched her with a satisfied smirk on his face, glad to see his little girl was having a good time.

“Papa,” she said, ice cream dripping down her chin. “Can we go to Flourish and Blotts next? We can pick out a few books for Daddy.”

“I think he'll love that,” Evan smiled, taking a napkin and wiping her chin. “But you, my love, need to finish that ice cream and let me get you cleaned up.”

By the time the day was done, Nessa had dragged Evan into Flourish and Blotts, Quality Quidditch Supplies, Sugarplum’s Sweet Shop, and had made a very convincing argument as to why they should go explore Muggle London. Evan was thoroughly exhausted.

Thankfully, it seemed Nessa was also running on fumes. Her little hand wrapped around his pinky, and she nestled close to him as they walked slowly through the waning crowd. Evan looked down at her with a smile.

“Hey, Bug, let's head home, yeah?”

She offered a sleepy grin. “I'm not tired.”

“You just keep telling yourself that.”

“I just…” she mumbled, rubbing her eyes. “I'm not ready to go home.”

Evan scooped her up, her legs curling around his waist as her head settled onto his shoulder. “Don't you want to tell Daddy what we did today?”

She nodded. “Do you think he'll like what we got him?”

Evan chuckled. “Daddy's four favourite things in this world are you, me, books, and chocolate frogs. I think it's safe to say he’ll be happy.”

He adjusted his hold on her before disapparating, appearing outside the door to their flat with a soft pop. He unlocked the door and pushed it open. As soon as he did, he was hit with the smell of something burning. Shit.

“Bee, we're home!” Evan called cautiously.

“In here!” Barty responded, stepping out of the kitchen. He looked good. Really good. Evan felt his breath catch, just for a moment. Gone was the hollow-eyed shell of a man he'd left behind that morning—the one swallowed by a jumper two sizes too big, drowning in exhaustion. Now, standing in the soft light of the kitchen, Barty looked like he'd wrestled his demons. He certainly hadn't won, but he'd put up a good fight.

He wore fitted black trousers that hugged his lean frame, a sleek black turtleneck that made his sharp jawline look almost criminal, and the polished leather boots he only dug out for special occasions. He'd shaved, making his razor-like cheekbones ever more prominent. His lips were pressed in an all too familiar smirk that still made Evan blush.

His hair, still slightly damp, curled softly at the nape of his neck, and his eyes, still hiding a quiet intensity, were clearer now. He'd regained some of his signature confidence, standing taller as if he'd decided he wasn't going to let himself crumble.

Evan didn't say anything at first. He couldn't say anything. He just stared, lips curled in silent appreciation as he looked him up and down. Barty looked… well, hot. Unreasonably hot.

“Like what you see?” Barty smiled as he turned in place.

“Are… is everything okay?”

Barty sighed. “Yeah, I'm… better. Not good, but not as bad as I was. Still really loud up here,” he said, pointing to his temple. “But it was nice to just be alone today.”

Nessa squirmed in Evan's arms, and he set her down. She looked up at him, then glanced at Barty, and turned back to Evan. “Papa…” Tears were welling up in her eyes.

“Hey, hey, what's wrong?”

The dam broke. Tears poured from her eyes, and she covered her face with her hands. Evan was about to pick her up, but Barty beat him to it. He wrapped his arms around her, lifting her up and pulling her into a hug.

“Nessa, hey, what's wrong? I'm right here, it's okay,” Barty whispered, swaying side to side.

“You… I… I thought…”

“Calm down, deep breaths. I can't understand you.”

Nessa's lip quivered as she looked up at Barty. “You were happy that we weren't here today?”

Barty blinked and knit his brow. “Nessa, no… That's not what I meant.”

She shook her head, her little eyes shiny with tears. “You said being alone made you feel better. Does that mean… You don't want me and Papa around?”

Evan stepped forward, but Barty met his gaze and mouthed, “I got her.”

He brushed her hair from her face. “Bug, look at me. I'm so sorry. That's not what I meant. I don't feel better because you weren't here; I feel better because I had time to think. To really think. To think about things I don't let myself think about when you and Papa are here. But not having you here? Knowing that you and Papa were having a really fun day without me? That was so hard. I wanted to come, I really did, but I needed today for myself. Not being with you was terrible.”

She sniffled. “That's not what you said.”

“Nessa Rose Crouch, I love you more than anything in this world. I'd do anything to keep you safe, even if it meant destroying myself. I'd set fire to the world if I knew it meant you'd never be cold.” Barty pressed a kiss to her forehead. “And I promise you, being away from you and Papa isn't something I ever want. Sometimes, we just have to take a step back to heal a bit so we can keep being the best version of ourselves for the people we love. I'm going to get help, okay? I realised I can't handle this alone, so I'm going to do everything I can to make sure I never make you feel like any of this is your fault. I'm going to do everything I can to make sure something like this doesn't happen again, and if it does, I want to make sure I know how to handle it.”

Nessa's face softened. “I missed you.”

“I missed you more,” Barty said, wiping a tear from her cheek. “Now, come on, I made dinner. I want to hear all about what you did today.”

“Um, Daddy, I don't want to hurt your feelings, but I don't think that smells like we should eat it.”

Barty laughed. “You know what, Ness, I think you're right. I'll leave the cooking to Papa from now on. How does that sound?”

Evan smiled. “If you're feeling up to it, there's that new Muggle place up the road. I'm not cooking tonight.”

That night, after a long dinner, over which Nessa relayed every detail about their day to Barty, and a drawn-out bedtime routine, Barty and Evan finally put Nessa to bed.

Now, it was time for them to talk. To really talk.

The air between them was quieter, not as tense, but not perfect. They sat across from each other at the table in complete silence.

Evan spoke first. “So… are we just going to pretend yesterday didn't happen?”

Barty looked down. “No. I don't think we should.”

Evan let out a breath. “Good, because you hurt me.”

“I know. I don't even know why. I just…”

“You do know why. You were drowning, and you didn't want to go down alone. You wanted to take me with you. Wanted us both to be fucked up so it wouldn't feel so terrifying.”

Barty flinched but nodded. “That sounds about right.”

They sat in silence for a long time before Barty spoke again. “I don't think I ever realised how much of my shit falls on you. I mean, I knew, but… I don't know, I guess, I didn't know.”

“I didn't want you to know. I didn't want you to feel like a burden or guilty. But it's hard. And when you said she wasn't my daughter… You don't know how much that hurt me.”

“But I do feel like a burden, and I do feel guilty. I have since she was born. I'm sorry for every time I checked out, every time I disappeared. I want to be here, but I don't know how. I want to try.”

Evan studied him. “That's the first time you've said something like that.”

“Look, I reached out to Sirius—you know, Reg’s brother?—he’s a Healer over at St. Mungo's. Made an appointment for next week.”

“You did?”

“I did.” Barty finally met his eyes. “I'm tired of not being here. I'm going to get help. Real help.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

Barty swallowed hard. “I'm scared, but it's something I need to do.”

Evan took his hand. “Hey, I'm right here. Not going anywhere.”

Barty smiled. “Thanks, Babe. Really.”

Evan stood. “There is one thing.” He ran a hand through his hair nervously. “Um, if you're up to it…”

Barty raised an eyebrow in suspicion. “Yeah?”

“Um, well… as much as I love that outfit on you, I think it'd look better on the floor.”

Barty laughed. A real laugh. “Well, come on then, what are you waiting for?”

---

And there it is! I'm actually really proud of this one! It's a bit long (these three really just grabbed my wrist and dragged me along, if I'm being honest.) I've loved answering everyone's asks so far, so KEEP 'EM COMING. Once again, I apologise for the heavy theme, but I promise I've got some fluff lined up. Take care!

#rosekiller daughter #rosekiller oneshot #evan rosier #barty crouch jr #rosekiller #into this house we're born #children of the revolution au #marauders #marauders era #rosekiller au #girl dad rosekiller #slytherin skittles #dead gay wizards from the 70s #dead gay wizards

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demonpoppyseed · 3 days ago

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Eric helping Assad run lines for a play he's auditioning for

@franzthemeerkat 🫶

Eric looked up from his book for the sixth time in ten minutes, peering over his glasses at Assad.

He couldn’t concentrate like this, with the kid pacing and muttering to himself just feet away in the luxurious but not overly large hotel room they’d been sharing since the third day of shooting. Technically, Assad had his own room downstairs, but Eric didn’t think he’d been in it in over a month, when he’d bashfully gone to retrieve his bag of toys from under the bed, and he wasn’t about to ask him to return to it now. Still...

“Ahem,” he said pointedly.

Assad kept up his pacing and muttering, oblivious.

“AHEM,” Eric tried again.

No dice.

Eric sighed. He set down his book on the table next to his chair and got up, placing himself in Assad’s path.

Assad nearly ran into him. Eric grabbed him by the shoulders, forcing him to still.

“Oh,” Assad said, blinking as if coming out of a trance. The furrows in his forehead melted away and he gave Eric a little grin that was far too shy to be aimed at someone who’d held his hair back while he vomited after eating a bad oyster and held him in the shower through a panic attack and fucked him about sixty times in as many days. “Hi.”

“Hey, babe,” Eric said, rubbing Assad’s shoulders. “I love you, but you’re driving me crazy.”

Assad frowned down at his own bare feet.

“Sorry,” he said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and gripping his script tight enough to crinkle the edges of the paper.

“Listen,” Eric said. “I can’t fucking read with you doing that, so why don’t you let me run lines with you?”

It had to have been at least the sixth time he’d offered. Assad huffed.

“I really don’t understand what the issue is,” Eric said. “I’m here. Use me.”

Assad looked up at him through his eyelashes incredulously. Eric waggled his eyebrows at him, which finally got him a laugh. He grinned.

“I told you,” Assad said. “It’s a father-son thing.”

“So?” Eric said, letting his hands wander slowly down to squeeze Assad’s waist before traveling lower and slipping into the back pockets of his jeans. Assad rolled his eyes, fighting back a smile.

“So it’s weird!”

Eric laughed.

“Wasn’t weird when you were calling me daddy last night.”

“That’s— that’s different!” Assad protested weakly, even as he tilted his hips closer to Eric’s as if pulled by a magnetic force.

Eric kissed him, just a quick little peck on the lips, and grinned when Assad chased his lips.

“C’mon,” he said, squeezing his ass. “I’m serious, let me help.”

Assad gave him an exaggerated sigh.

“Fine,” he said. “But when I don’t get the part because I’m making eyes at Willy, I’m blaming you.”

“You’d better not be making eyes at anyone else’s willy,” Eric said, letting Assad’s ass go to snatch the script out of his hands. “I don’t know why you want to do this play anyway.”

“It’s a classic,” Assad said, crossing his arms and swaying in place a little. “And it’s going up in New York.”

“Ah, so an excuse to see me more,” Eric joked.

“Yes, actually,” Assad said. He bit his lip. “Is that a problem?”

Eric thought his heart must have sprouted wings at some point, because he could feel them flapping in his chest. He shrugged.

“No,” he said.

“Well,” Assad said, fiddling with the sleeves of his own shirt. “Well, alright then.”

“Side four,” Eric read off the top sheet before flipping through the rest of the pages. “Is that where we’re starting?”

“Yeah,” Assad said. “They had me do Biff and Willy’s last scene in the first audition, now they want to see me do the younger scenes. Make sure I can play high school, I guess.”

Eric snorted.

“Are you kidding? You still look like you’re in high school.”

“Tell that to my receding hairline.”

“Oh, please.”

“Anyway, you know it’s not about that. The actor’s always in his thirties. I’ve just gotta, you know, perform it.”

“Well, we know you can do that.”

“Would you just— Are you gonna help or not?”

Eric looked up from the sides. He wasn’t sure why Assad was so agitated about this. He’d seen the kid before auditions before, and he didn’t usually get jittery like this.

Eric let his shoulders drop into a bit of a hunch.

“Now look, Biff,” he said, dropping right into it, “when you grow up you’ll understand about these things. You mustn’t—you mustn’t overemphasize a thing like this. I’ll see Birnbaum first thing in the morning.”

Assad took the sudden cue in stride.

“Never mind,” he said, his eyes immediately taking on a damp sheen.

Eric licked his lips. It probably reflected poorly on him that he couldn’t see Assad cry without getting worked up.

“Never mind! He’s going to give you those points. I’ll see to it.”

“He wouldn’t listen to you.”

“He certainly will listen to me. You need those points for the U. of Virginia.”

“I’m not going there.”

“Heh? If I can’t get him to change that mark you’ll make it up in summer school. You’ve got all summer to—”

“Dad . . .” Assad said, his voice breaking.

Without thinking, Eric stepped forward into his space.

“Oh, my boy . . .”

Assad’s nose scrunched up.

“See,” he said. “It’s weird!”

Eric pretended to peer down at the script through his glasses.

“No, that’s not right,” he said. “Your line is, ‘Dad.’”

Assad gave him a playful little shove.

“Really leaning into the role there, dad.”

“Mmm,” Eric said. “She’s nothing to me, Biff. I was lonely, I was terribly lonely.”

Assad continued, but he’d lost some of his commitment.

“You—you gave her Mama’s stockings!”

Eric grabbed the front of his shirt and shook him.

“I gave you an order!”

“Don’t touch me, you—liar!” Assad said, making no effort to get away from him. Eric gave him his best intimidating glare, and was satisfied to see it send a shiver up Assad’s spine.

“Apologize for that!”

There was a brief pause before Assad spoke again. He cleared his throat.

“You fake! You phony little fake! You fake!”

He shook himself out of Eric’s grip and backed away. The script said he should be sobbing, Eric noted, but unfortunately he was still just a little misty-eyed.

“I gave you an order! Biff, come back here or I’ll beat you! Come back here! I’ll whip you!”

“You promise?” Assad said.

Eric rolled his eyes.

“Why does it seem like you’re not taking this seriously?” he said. “You clearly care about getting the part.”

Assad shrugged.

“I told you,” he said.

“No,” Eric said, shaking his head. “I’m not buying it. You get off on the dad thing. That’s not it.”

Assad chewed his lip. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and shrugged again, then dragged his feet across the floor until he was close enough to lean in and whisper into Eric’s ear without having to look him in the eye.

“Maybe I don’t want to think about you dying,” he whispered. “Ever think about that?”

Eric sighed. He did think about it. His own death didn’t bother him much, but every once in a while he imagined Assad in a black suit, hopefully at least fifty years old, with white in his hair...

“If I was gonna kill myself, I would have done it by now,” he deflected. He let the script drop to the floor and wrapped his arms around Assad, awkwardly pinning the kid’s arms to his sides and squeezing him tightly.

“If I give you a whipping will you at least stop pacing while you practice?”

Assad nuzzled into the hair above his ear.

“No promises,” he whispered.

#zamasian #mine #flash fiction #prompts

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a-high-femme · 25 days ago

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#I’m tired of feeling stupid all the time at this jobbbbb #I’ve made a few tiny mistakes with formatting in the past couple of weeks because my attention has been split #(which means my attention to detail is NOT what it usually is)#so my boss signed me up for an online training on using proper firm styles and I just. that isn't my issue #I don’t even use firm document styles in my current role. that’s for people who deal with legal documents and I don’t do that. lol.#the issues I’ve had are like… I edited and sent along an office closure template that the facilities manager sent me #and I didn’t clock that he’d sent it to me in aptos instead of calibri because I lowkey have font blindness for all of the bland ones #so I got an email back from my manager that said ‘hi Molly. not sure why the font below is aptos. can you please change to calibri? thanks.#(which is in my opinion a very silly email to send because it took her longer to type that out than to just change it herself but whatever)#(I know that she sent it specifically so I would know that it was an issue)#but like. mistakes like that don’t mean that I need to learn about the firm document styles in word.#ADDITIONALLY I could only lock in for part of the training (thank goodness it isn’t very relevant to my current role bc I missed the middle #because I didn’t have the docX add-on in word which was necessary to import firm styles #so I spent the middle portion of the training session going through my ribbon options and add-ons and toggling with things independently #until I got what I needed #ANYWHORE #I am tired of feeling dumb. I’m not dumb. I’m curious and good at investigative work/problem solving when left to my own devices #I’m just a bit fried lately and I would love if my life would settle down for 4 minutes so I could focus up #also let me be so clear I don’t have beef with this manager. she’s the manager I’m actually okay with and I hate disappointing her #my other manager can kick rocks 😭 she should not have been given an assistant and she’s making my life hell #I think I’m gonna go to IT dad Scott on the 34th floor today bc he is always nice to me #and yesterday he clapped me on the shoulder and told me that he’s been here for like 9 months now and he still uses the excuse that he’s ne #and he encouraged me to also use this as an excuse #my stuff #ignore this #I am going to be so real though for a moment… I think I need a big hug? I think that would maybe fix me a bit. or make me cry. unsure.

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seilon · 5 days ago

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i know this is just a convoluted form of procrastination but hm it’s a unique kind of suffering to be unable to do work you have to do because all your energy is being taken up by not succumbing to a hardcore depression spiral

#I’ve been stuck inside this god forsaken house too long and im pretty much out of things to look forward to long term #i hate being reminded that people my age often Do Things in the summer with their Friends #like go on day trips and shit #when you only have like one consistent friend and no ability to drive and you live hours away from anything worthwhile trip-wise #there’s not really much hope #just sort of. wasting days months years of my life I’ll never get back #sitting in this room #sorry I just saw a post about ‘beach days’ and I realized I haven’t really had one of those in at least a decade. maybe more #not in the way the post is implying anyway #to be fair it’s significantly harder to have something like that when you live in the pacific northwestish area anyway #I love the beaches in norcal but they’re not That kind of beach #I’d still love to be over there though. where the temperature isn’t oppressive #anyway. I keep telling myself I need to stay inside and limit my activity anyway because im still only a little less than two weeks post op #so there’s an excuse #but it doesn’t really make me feel much better. I rarely have this much free time and I just feel like im wasting it rotting in my bed #I hate being reminded that people have friends and they do things with their friends. makes me want to kill myself. I haven’t made friends #in so many years.#anyway let’s see if I can manage getting fucking anything done or if I’ll just lay here uselessly until time runs out #kibumblabs

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fingertipsmp3 · 19 days ago

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Does anyone else have a friend who’ll ghost you for weeks but if you fail to reply to their messages for like 2 days they immediately assume you’re dead

#being the only reliable person in your social circle is fucked up. why does everyone else get to gallivant and lose their phone and shit #and i decide to rot for a couple of days and i get calls to my landline. excuse me #look i’m doing my best but i’m genuinely under fucking duress right now #my workplace has been like the last days of rome since… well basically since i started working there again. summers are SUPER busy #also my allergies are smacking me the fuck around #i got my shitty scalp rash cleared up… thanks again to the person who mentioned colloidal oat and thanks also to the pharmacist #who sold me e45 shampoo and some fast acting antihistamines #but now i’ve been diagnosed with rosacea all across my face. i’ve got a giant scab just above my nose from where my eczema got really #inflamed. and i’m pretty sure i’m getting a stye??#every time i breathe outdoor air i sneeze like 5 times and can’t breathe through my nose for an hour #i physically can’t take any more benadryl. i’m not sleeping right. i’m tired in the day. from benadryl #i bought fexofenadine today and i’m hoping it works because i’m working back to back this weekend and the cafe has a fucking outdoor #section. so every time i go there i basically get assaulted by pollen directly into my lungs #like i just. god #i love my best friend but she’s a lot and it’s like.. we can never Just have a chill night eating takeaway and catching up #she doesn’t have the capacity #she also refuses to accept me for who i am. i think she literally just doesn’t believe that i like being a hermit #i don’t want to be pouted at while i refuse to go places because i feel unwell. i just want to be left alone #personal

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onika-t-maraj · 6 months ago

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…

#the last month has been so exhausting #my husband’s been slowly going insane from his depression and I don’t know what to do anymore honestly #he wants so badly to fulfil his dream and become a wrestler #but feels it so far out of his reach and keeps making excuses on why it can never be #he told me that he thinks maybe if we’re split up he’d be able to do #and I asked him how that made sense #and he said that it’s because things have been easy for him and that he has had love in his life #that that was part of the reason why he wasn’t succeeding #i explained to him that I’ve been without love and support before and thought that my loneliness and spite would be enough #to carry to my dreams #and I told him it was nothing but loneliness and spite filled days #and that I didn’t begin to get to where I wanted to be until I had love and support in my life #but he disagreed and kept insisting that we should divorce #I flat out asked him how he was gonna accomplish his goal when he’s homeless and how I would accomplish mine if I were homeless #ofc he didn’t have an answer #I told him that I was sorry that our marriage was dragging him down #but that I still believed that he could do both; that not all wrestlers are solitary people without connections #that following your dreams isn’t supposed to be easy but it shouldn’t be lonely either #I dunno #he’s still sad #and refusing to my advice to see a therapist

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opqrstuv04 · 10 months ago

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Going to see twenty one pilots tomorrow with my roommate and my dad and sister, and DNP in November :)) middle school is back in a big way baby!

#truly I feel so happy with who I am becoming recently #getting back into some of my more middle school interests that have ALSO grown and evolved like I have #has not only been fun but it’s also allowed me to reflect on the ways in which I’ve changed #and what I’ve learned about myself AND what I still have yet to improve on #I’ve learned I love live music and performances! So now that’s going to be a priority for me when I can afford it!#my knee-jerk reaction to getting back into dnp was “ooh cringe” despite telling myself for years that cringe culture is unhelpful #and now I’m going to go see them in Nov because 1) I love live performances and 2) I’m still working on letting myself enjoy things #and I’m doing hard things- I’m making decisions that will create tension bwe me and my parents not to be contrarian but bc me making my own #decisions is part of being an adult. And I’m practicing how to be okay w that #AND I’m going to start telling myself that I like being gay. That I enjoy that about myself that I have actual positive feeling about it #I feel like I’m stuck in a glass closet sometimes where like yes I’m “out” but I don’t do anything besides acknowledge it without negativit #I want it to be something positive in my life #NEW MINDSET!!#okay tag essay over but honestly my short personal posts are just excuses for me 2 write basically diary entries in the tags. God bless 👍🏻#💌

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sceletaflores · 1 month ago

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HEY THERE SUGAR BABY!

|| pedro masterlist || update blog || inbox || taglist || ao3 ||

ೃ⁀➷ PAIR: Harry Castillo x fem!reader

ೃ⁀➷ WC: 10k

ೃ⁀➷ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, smoking, drinking, boss/employee relationship, reader is a personal/executive assistant, very much a work husband/work wife dynamic, inescapable sugar daddy tendencies, no actual sugar daddy/sugar baby relationship despite how the title and previous tag makes it sound lmao, harry castillo is a cool boss, romcom tropes cause i’m feeling romantic, slow dancing, first kiss, heavy petting in a limo, oral sex (fem!receiving), multiple orgasms, p in v, porn with way too much fucking plot, no use of y/n.

ೃ⁀➷ NAT’S NOTE: i usually don’t like to write for a new character before i’ve watched the movie but you dangle the idea of a hot billionaire work romance in my face and expect me not to bite at it? i’m just not that strong. also i have zero idea what his actual job in the movie is, i think it’s a basic ass finance bro wall street type job and that bores the hell out of me so he’s an architect because i said so. he's my barbie i can make him do what i want! this whole thing was mainly an excuse to write about my satc, carrie and big vibe slash fantasy but way less toxic. hope y’all love it, mwah!

ೃ⁀➷ NAT’S HEADPHONES: MATERIAL GIRL - Phlotilla

dividers by angel @saradika-graphics!

an architect and his assistant walk into a gala…

You’ve been working with Harry Castillo for four years, two months, and thirteen days.

You know this because his calendar starts and ends with you.

Your name’s not embossed on the front of the seventy story building sitting pretty on 57th street, not splashed across the cover of Architectural Digest, not signed neatly at the bottom of those pristine renderings that get passed around in glass boardrooms and land multi-million dollar deals.

But you know the build order of every project in the past five fiscal years. You know which of the project managers can’t be trusted with deadlines, which board members need their egos stroked, and every single name attached to each of the contracts spanning across five continents.

You were three years out of school and six months into a soul sucking accounting job that felt more like glorified coffee-fetching with a minor in emotional labor when Harry called.

Well—technically, his HR director called, but Harry noticed you, or noticed your resume stacked with respectable internships and juicy recommendation letters. Or maybe it was the fact that during your third round interview, you corrected one of his junior partners on a misquoted quarterly budget breakdown.

Either way, two weeks later you were standing in a glass top floor office owned by one of the most powerful men in the city.

And yes, you knew who he was before he hired you, of course you did.

Harry had been New York’s golden boy since the early aughts, when his first building went up in Tribeca and every magazine with a spine declared him the second coming of Frank Llyod Wright.

He was a genius, innovative. One of the youngest Pritzker Prize winners in history who got the kind of press coverage that made people think “architect” was synonymous with “celebrity”.

Now, at 47, Harry Castillo is an institution in the world of design.

Castillo Atelier is the best firm in the city, maybe even in the world, depending on which Real Estate Digest cover story you read. His name alone makes most clients practically foam at the mouth and drop seven figures without seeing a single blueprint.

You’ve been his executive assistant longer than it took you to get your shiny Business Administrations degree from Colombia, and if anyone knew Harry better than his mother or his therapist, it was you.

You have every number of his black American Express card memorized, front and back. You have every password to every account imaginable tucked away neatly in a file labeled “BLACKMAIL MATERIAL” on your desktop.

You schedule his life down to the minute, from site visits in Abu Dhabi to dental cleanings in Midtown. You know his shoe size, the name of his best tailor's teenage daughter, which marble supplier he trusts in Verona. You know the entry code to his West Village brownstone and you’re on a first name basis with the doorman at his Fifth Avenue penthouse.

You know he drinks his coffee black but only before noon and he switches to espresso, that he smokes Marlboro Golds even though he swears up and down he’s quit, and that when he’s stressed, he starts sketching towers with spiral staircases that’ll never pass code.

It’s morphed into a strange kind of intimacy. Not romantic, but not exactly a normal boss-employee relationship either.

He's the kind of boss who makes you want to roll your eyes at the word, because it's not that simple—not that sterile.

It's late nights spent in his dimly lit office where he sheds his suit jacket and hands you a perfectly poured wine glass without asking when you're the only two left in the building. It's sitting shoulder to shoulder on a leather couch, going over zoning permits while his arm rests behind you, not on you, but close enough to count.

Harry’s careful with you, in a way that’s not always obvious. He buys you the books you idly mention wanting to read in passing and custom David Yurman earrings fitted with your birthstone. If he was ten years younger and you were ten years dumber, you might’ve mistaken it for something else.

As it is, you just tell yourself he likes spoiling things that work well. Like his thousand dollar espresso machine. Like his Aston Martin. Like you.

You should feel like an accessory.

Instead, you feel like a centerpiece—like you’re the sun that his life revolves around.

You can’t tell which is worse.

Today, like most days, starts with you getting to the office an hour before him.

You take the elevator up to the seventy third floor, unlock his office, and flick on the lights. The space is gorgeous, minimalist in a way that doesn’t ever feel cold. Floor to ceiling windows, sleek dark wood floors, and exposed beams.

There’s an open notebook on his desk from the night before, a few handwritten notes scrawled in sharp, narrow pen strokes that he gave up on halfway through and started sketching in the margins.

You roll your eyes, smothering a fond smile as you walk out of the room and to your own desk. It’s less than six feet from his door, close enough that you can always hear clipped phone calls or the soft sounds of Prince playing from his sound system.

You drop your bag, start up your desktop, and begin triaging the day. Your inbox is in a constant state of full to the brim no matter how good you are at your job—bursting with emails from developers, calendar shifts, a client breakfast cancellation.

The whole office smells like bergamot and bergdorf. Someone sent over a Diptyque candle and Harry hasn’t stopped lighting it. Luckily for you, it’s strong enough to keep the scent of lemony luxury permeating long after it’s been blown out.

It’s still not enough to magically cancel out the stress of pushy demands disguised as business and city bureaucracy, but you can still pretend it is.

You’re bouncing between five open tabs and sending increasingly frantic texts to the head of operations about a late shipment of imported glass by the time you finally hear a soft ding from the elevator followed by crisp footsteps coming your way.

Harry rounds the corner holding a pastry bag, Ray-Bans on, hair still wet from the shower and curling around his ears. “Good morning, sunshine.”

You don’t look up from your screen. “You’re late again.”

“No,” Harry tuts, leaning his hip against your desk and dropping the bag in front of you. “You’re just early.”

“I work here.”

“Funny, so do I.”

“Do you?” You finally look up, brow arched. “I forget.”

He’s wearing that suit. The one that makes your job harder in the most inappropriate HR violating ways. Deep blue pinstripe with the burgundy Gucci tie you handpicked last year. It’s fitted like it had been tailored by the hands of God.

He tilts his head, peering at you over the edge of his glasses. “Is that any way to treat the man who bought you breakfast?”

Your eyes cut to the white paper bag, Mah-Ze-Dahr. You don’t need to look inside it to know what it is, a twenty dollar pistachio crunch croissant. Your favorite.

You don’t have time to respond before Harry drops his glasses on your desk, settling into the chair across from you. “Remind me never to take a meeting in Soho before noon again.”

You set the bag aside and continue typing with a soft shake of your head. “You said that last week, and the week before that.”

“And yet I keep doing it.” He rolls his head on his shoulders with a soft sigh. “That’s insanity, isn’t it? Doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result.”

“That’s Einstein,” you say, pointedly ignoring the way he’s looking at you. “Maybe you just like the punishment.”

Harry huffs, amused. “I pay you too much to psychoanalyze me.”

You open a new tab, click on a high priority labeled email and turn your screen in his direction. “Yet you don’t pay me enough to deal with your ex-wife’s lawyer hassling me before seven.”

That certainly gets his attention, his spine straightening as he leans forward, squinting at your screen. “She didn’t.”

You nod, resting your chin on your palm as his eyes flit over the lengthy body. “She did.”

You watched the divorce unfold like everyone else. It was loud, expensive, and painfully public. She was a former model turned gallery owner with a sharp tongue and better connections than half the industry. When she aired Harry out in New York Magazine the tabloids had a fucking field day.

The headlines were vicious. Castillo’s Castle Crumbles. From Manhattan’s Favorite Power Couple to Demolition Duo. Architect of His Own Downfall?

“Christ.” Harry sighs, leaning back and running a hand through his hair. “She promised she’d keep you out of this.”

“She lied.” You turn your screen back around, grabbing a pen to quickly scrawl the lawyer’s number across the front of a Post-It. “She wants her name off the Lakewood project or she’ll go to the press about the Montauk property.”

He drags a hand down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fucking hell.”

You slide the Post-It note across the desk. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

He doesn’t thank you, not out loud, but the way his eyes linger on the note before he tucks it into his jacket pocket says enough.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says, and it’s almost a throwaway comment—but his voice dips a little, gets low in that way that always makes you want to chew glass or scream into a designer throw pillow.

You shrug. “You say that a lot, but I don’t see any new raises.”

His grin is lazy, charming. “You know I’d bankrupt this company to keep you.”

You roll your eyes so hard it should count as cardio. “Please don’t. I like having dental.”

Harry laughs—really laughs—and it’s unfair how good it sounds, how it worms under your skin and stays there.

You turn away, forcing the warm feeling in your stomach to the back of your mind, and pivot. “You have a conference call with Dubai at eleven, lunch with the Fairstein developers at Cipriani, and there’s some plans in the Berlin file that still need to be signed.”

Harry nods once, shifting into business mode at the drop of a hat. “Well, I’ve got my marching orders.”

He checks his watch, stands, and straightens his jacket with a lazy kind of grace. You hate the way your eyes catch on the curve of his wrist, the way the cufflink glints in the morning light. Custom Cartier, a gift from some foreign diplomat client last Christmas. You remember because you signed for the delivery. Wrapped it, even.

Just before he steps into his office, he pauses. “I mean it.” His voice softens, and for a flicker of a moment, he looks at you like he’s trying to tell you something without saying it out loud. “This place doesn’t work without you.”

You glance up, heart skipping in your chest, ready with some practiced quip, but he’s already gone—door shut, his silhouette framed behind the frosted glass like a shadow you can’t shake.

This is how it always is—business talk sugarcoated in flirtation, or flirtation buried under years of knowing exactly how the other one works. If he weren’t who he is, and if you weren’t so damn good at ignoring how often he looks at your mouth when you talk, it might’ve gone somewhere dangerous already.

Instead, it lives in the margins. Like the ones he doodles spiral towers into. Like the ones in the secret planner buried in the very bottom drawer of you desk where you write down things like:

Remind Harry to eat something before 3.

Book flights for Hong Kong.

Don’t fall in love with your boss.

That last one’s underlined. Twice.

The rest of the morning floats by, you busy yourself with three different screens and sporadic bites of croissant and sips of coffee until one of the newer interns shows up with the mail.

You thank her and flip through the small mountain of envelopes until one catches your eye. A sleek black one with loopy silver lettering on the front. To Castillo Atelier, with a familiar logo stamped on the corner. You rip the gold seal, and slip the card out.

The AIA New York Chapter cordially invites Harry Castillo & Guest to the prestigious 2025 Architecture Gala | The Metropolitan Museum of Art | Black Tie.

You blink, and read it three more times before a deep sigh rips itself from somewhere deep in your chest. You skim the rest, going over fine print and steadily sighing louder the more you take it in.

You really should have known, it’s around that time. Award season, charity galas, old rich people stuff. Only this year, Harry Castillo and Guest are in separate states, in separate houses, and very much not on speaking terms.

Nor will they be on them in time for Friday night, or any other night in the foreseeable future.

You stand, letter in hand. Your heels click against the floor until you’re standing just outside Harry’s office, mulling over how bad it would reflect on your part if the invitation mysteriously found its way to the bottom of your trash. You knock anyway.

“Come in,” came the reply—his voice low, rough like it always is after the lunch rush, like velvet dragged over concrete.

You stepped inside, closing the door behind you with a soft click.

Harry is at his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, Dior frames perched halfway down his nose as he looms over the stack of blueprints you left on his desk a few hours ago.

You don’t let yourself look at the tan column of his neck as you lean against the door. “You got a minute.”

He looks up, relaxing in his chair. “For you? Always.”

You hold up the invitation like it’s a warrant, shaking it gently. “You’ve been summoned.”

Harry’s eyes bounce from your own to the thick card stock, you watch the recognition register in his eyes. He sighs, “The gala.”

You nod, crossing your feet in front of you. “You’re being honored.”

He shakes his head with a laugh. “I was hoping they’d forget about me.”

Who possibly could?

You arch your brow. “It’s a lifetime achievement award.”

“I’m not even fifty.”

“Apparently, they’ve run out of old white men to honor.”

Harry chuckles, but it’s a tired sound. He rubs slow circles over his temples, tousling the salt and pepper hair scattered there. “Tell them we’re busy, send a fruit basket.”

You can’t explain the feeling that floods your chest, a mix of something like compassion and pity. It makes your heart ache, just a little bit. Enough to make you really feel it, enough to make you bury it before you can really dwell on why it hurts so much.

Harry puts on a spectacular front, but you know him too well. You know that the divorce has weighed on him, that’s it made him question himself. You know it was a massive shot to his self esteem, as both a person and as a company.

You also know deep down it’s not the company that you care about.

“No.” You shake your head, making your way over to his desk.

He looks up at you, brow raised. “No?”

“No,” you emphasize, setting the invitation down on his desk. “You may think this is pointless, and that you’re too young—”

“Watch it.”

“—But you deserve this,” you finish, tapping a manicured nail on the card. “You deserve a whole room full of people fawning over you for no reason other than the fact that you’re you.”

Harry's eyes find yours again, slower this time. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at you—really looks at you. And for a second, it’s too much. Too focused, too quiet, too…tender. It’s the kind of look that makes your skin prickle, your stomach twist.

But you don’t flinch under the weight of his stare. You never do.

He leans forward, resting his arms on the desk. “Okay.”

You blink. “Okay?”

“Okay.” He nods, lacing his fingers together. “I’ll go.”

It feels anticlimactic somehow. You expected more of a fight—more pushback or maybe even a snide comment about black tie events like this becoming less about the accolades and the charity and more about new wave firms bustling around like show ponies scuffling over who signed the best contract with the most zeros tacked neatly on the end.

Instead, he just says okay. Like it’s simple. Like you aren’t the reason he’s saying yes.

You narrow your eyes at him, suspicious. “Just like that?”

“You make a compelling case." Harry shrugs, reaching for the invitation. “Besides, you know I love it when you compliment me.”

You huff, shaking your head, but you can’t fight the smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth as you lean on his desk. “You’re ridiculous.”

“So I’ve been told.” Harry nods, but he’s smiling wide enough to outdo your own.

He looks down at the invitation, scanning over the text languidly. He hums as he reads, dragging his thumb across the raised font.

You let yourself watch him, cataloging all the details you’ve already memorized a thousand times. Your eyes trace the shape of his brows, the deep set lines that fan out from the corners of his eyes, the strong arch of his nose, the soft curve of his lips.

When he’s done, he taps it against his palm once and looks back at you. “And who, pray tell, is coming as my guest?”

You tilt your head. “I can get you someone,” you offer, even if the words make your stomach churn as you say them. “You want blonde or brunette? Bashful debutante or discreet NDA?”

Harry doesn't answer right away.

He leans back in his chair, looking at you like you're a puzzle he’s not quite finished solving. Like you’re a building he’s still sketching, still drafting, still trying to figure out if the foundation can handle the weight of what he wants to build on top of it.

“I don’t want someone,” he says finally.

The words land softer than you expect, but they still hit like a hammer to the chest.

“You should bring someone,” you deflect, professional, clean. “It’ll look good. The press will be there.”

“I’m aware,” he says, still watching you. “Which is why I don’t want just anyone.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. Not with the way his voice sounds—quiet, certain, threaded with a dangerous kind of warmth that makes your pulse kick.

Harry reaches up to slip his glasses off his face. “I don’t want someone,” he says again, voice even. “I want you.”

He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like your pulse doesn’t trip itself up three times over.

You blink. Once. Twice. Then scoff, forcing a laugh. “Excuse me?”

“Come with me.”

It’s too sincere, too heart stoppingly warm.

Your stomach drops. Then flips. Then rises again in the same way an express elevator does at fifty floors a second. “Harry—”

He cuts you off. “Don’t make that face.” He points at you with his glasses, shaking his head. “You’ll look incredible in black tie. And I trust you more than any PR wrangled plus–one they’d set me up with.”

You shake your head, brows pinched. “This isn’t just some client dinner at Nobu I’m playing third wheel at, Harry. This is extremely important. It’s the goddamn Met for architects.”

Harry just smiles, squinting at you. “When have I ever let you feel like a third wheel?”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

You just stare at him, lost for words. The city buzzes beneath you, the familiar noise of traffic and life blending together.

Harry doesn’t look away, he keeps your gaze, quietly drumming his fingers along his desk. It’s infuriating, the way the setting sun bathes him in a soft golden light, illuminating the smile on his face. A smile that makes it clear he knows he’s already won.

It makes you hesitate, the weight of it. Because it would be a date. Maybe not on paper or by any certain labels—but in every meaningful, messy, deliciously complicated way it matters, it would be.

Harry Castillo and guest, you filling the role perfectly.

You hold his gaze for a few moments longer, dragging it out just enough to make it seem like you’re putting up a real fight.

Finally, you cross your arms over your chest with a low sigh. “Okay.”

He cocks his head, smug grin on his lips. “Okay?”

“Okay,” you repeat, raising a shoulder more casually than you feel. “I’ll go.”

“Really?” His tone is suspicious, but his smile doesn't budge. “There’s no catch?”

“You made a compelling case." You push off his desk, smoothing your hands down the front of your pencil skirt. “Besides, you know I love it when you compliment me.”

Harry laughs, a rich, warm sound. “I should’ve known.”

“I’ll need a dress,” you say, slowly making your way to the door. “I think the rest of the evening off should give me plenty of time to find one, don’t you agree, boss?”

Harry shakes his head, easy as anything. “I’ll take care of it.”

You pause, hand on the doorknob. “Tell me you’re not trying to play sugar daddy, the interns are already gossiping.”

He arches a brow. “If the shoe fits.”

“Harry.”

“Okay, okay.” He raises his hands in surrender, another laugh spilling from his chest to make the room just a few degrees warmer. “I’ll handle it. Trust me.”

You roll your eyes, pulling the door open before you do something stupid like smile back. “Do I really have a choice?”

Just as you go to leave, he calls your name—softly. It stops you mid-step.

You glance over your shoulder.

He doesn’t say anything else right away. Just looks at you like you’re something he’s still trying to figure out how to know, even after all this time.

“Thank you,” he says finally. Quiet. Sincere.

Your throat tightens. Not because of the words—even if you give him shit for it, he’s said them before—but because of the way he says them now. Like he means it for more than just the RSVP. Like he means it for staying. For putting up with the late nights, and the stress, and the divorce fallout, and the birthday gifts he forgets until the day of.

You nod, once. “You’re welcome.”

And then you slip out the door before the silence swells too much and gives you away.

You’re not in love with him. Not yet, but something about the way he looked at you—like you were both a solution and a problem—makes your chest ache in a way you don’t quite know how to ignore anymore.

You’ll go to the gala. You’ll wear something ridiculously expensive, if Harry has any say on the matter. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll let yourself enjoy it.

Just a little.

The package arrived that same night.

A man in a suit knocked on your door and had you sign for a box bigger than your work desk. He had to help you drag it into your hallway and denied the tip you tried to give him, assuring you it was already taken care of.

There were no labels on the box, no receipt or return address or anything other than an obnoxiously large gold bow wrapped neatly around all four sides.

Well, that and a note taped to the front.

Your name was written in a familiar, looping handwriting that you’d recognize by touch alone. You peeled it off with careful fingers, and with more ceremony than necessary, flipped it open.

“Make them think I built you myself - H.”

You stared at it for an embarrassingly long amount of time, not bothering to stifle the smile on your lips as you ran your thumb over the ink. You were alone anyway.

The box groaned a little when you finally opened it, layers of black tissue paper rustled softly as you peeled them back.

And there it was.

Midnight blue. Backless. Heavy silk. The kind of thing that knew how to behave under dim lights and the weight of eyes.

You could already feel it—how it would cling to your waist, slip along your thighs when you walked, turn your skin into something luminous. You didn’t even need a mirror.

Of course he picked this one. Of course he knew your size.

You reached for it, fingertips grazing the fabric like it might evaporate, still slightly dazed. There was an overwhelming aura about it—like this wasn’t just a dress, but a thesis.

A statement. An intention, signed and sealed in French seams.

And somehow it still smelled faintly of him. Not in a creepy way. In a way that made you wonder if he’d touched it before it left the boutique. If he’d looked at it and pictured you, just for a moment too long. If he’d smiled when he imagined what you’d say.

You unfolded it like you were handling a newborn, held it against your body and turned toward the hallway mirror, half laughing at yourself, heat rising to your cheeks.

You turned this way and that, staring at your reflection in the dim light, pretending—just for a second—that he was behind you, watching.

Your phone buzzed on the counter. One sharp vibration, tearing you out of your little fantasy world and back to the present.

You crossed the room still holding the dress to your chest, and bit your lip when you saw his name at the very top of your screen.

Hairy

Try not to cause a scene unless you want to make headlines. I’d like to keep your promotion rumor free, for now.

You laughed softly, thumb hovering above the keyboard for just a moment before you started typing.

You know this is deranged behavior, right?

You hit send before you could overthink it, watched the read receipt pop up a second later before the three little bubbles came to life.

They vanished, then reappeared.

Hairy

I’m aware.

But I have impeccable taste. That absolves me of quite a lot.

See you at 8.

You swore softly under your breath and set the phone down like it was overheating.

You looked back at the dress. At the mirror.

God help you—you were going to wear the hell out of it.

Friday comes both too fast and too slow.

You glide through the whole rest of the week pretending this is normal—just another event, just another night of shaking hands and schmoozing.

You tell yourself it doesn't mean anything, but the butterflies in your stomach don’t listen quite as well.

You hardly see Harry at work, most of his time spent across town busy with clients like he always is near the end of the week. You can’t tell if it would have helped or hindered your nerves to see him before you both showed up to one of the most prestigious events held in his field, together.

Maybe it’s better this way.

Now, you’ve spent the better part of the evening after work pacing the floor of your apartment in a silk robe, nerves reaching a fever pitch.

Your phone is blowing up from its spot next to you on your vanity with calendar alerts and panicked texts from Harry about the misplacement of a single Prada tie he just has to wear even though he has hundreds of others to choose from lining an entire wall of his walk-in. You know that, you’re the one who hung them.

You do your hair and makeup on what feels like auto–pilot, the playlist you put on to distract you playing softly in the background until your phone lights up again, buzzing with a text that cuts through the static like a wire to your nerves.

Hairy

Found the tie, crisis averted.

Just need you now. Be there in 15.

You take a deep breath, exhaling through your nose and sending a quick thumbs up before you're standing on shaky legs.

The dress has been hung safely on the back of your bedroom door since you unboxed it. You take a second to just stare at it, before reaching for it with reverence, like touching it too fast might break the spell of the whole evening.

It slips from the hanger like water through your fingers, the fabric heavier than you remembered, or maybe that’s just the weight of new expectations.

You slide it on slowly, smoothing it over your hips, tugging the zipper up with a practiced hand. It fits perfectly, almost like it was made to your exact measurements.

Your reflection stares back at you in the mirror. You barely recognize her. Poised, elegant, flushed with anticipation. You look like someone who belongs next to a man like Harry Castillo.

The thought alone makes your pulse thrum a little faster.

You swipe on lipstick last—something deep and sultry, a few shades bolder than you usually wear, because tonight is different.

You’re not just the assistant tonight. You’re his date. Sort of. Kind of. Not really.

But he asked you to come, he wanted you there, with him.

The buzzer sounding from your door slices through your thoughts.

With one last deep breath, you grab your phone, your keys, and the clutch you’re borrowing from a fashion editor you sometimes get drunk with at Bemelmans, and you walk out the door.

The click of your heels echo as you make your way down the hall to the elevator.

Harry is the first thing you see as the doors to your building slide open.

He’s leaning against the limo waiting for you, the door open next to him as a cigarette dangles between his fingers. He looks like he stepped straight out of a GQ spread. His Kiton suit fits him like a glove, the charcoal velvet hugging broad shoulders and tapering at the waist like it was stitched directly onto him.

You make your way down the stairs until you’re standing on the pavement. Harry looks up at the sound of footsteps.

The cigarette stops halfway to his mouth.

For a moment, he just stares.

You can feel his eyes on your body like a caress, ghosting from your heels all the way up to the Cartier necklace he bought you after you saved a merger in Thailand, resting gently on your collarbones.

The silence stretches, taut like a violin string.

You clear your throat, fighting the urge to squirm on the spot. “Is it too much?”

Harry blinks, like the sound of your voice broke him out of a trance. “No,” he breathes, shaking his head distractedly. “It’s perfect.”

Your heart lurches in your chest, fluttering wildly like a Monarch trapped beneath a mason jar. “You don’t look half bad yourself, Castillo,” you murmur, trying for playful, but your voice comes out too soft, too breathy.

He smiles at that—slow, crooked, absolutely devastating. The kind of smile that makes your knees a little weaker than heels this high should allow.

“Well,” he says, flicking his cigarette into a nearby trash can. “We’re already late, we might as well make an entrance.”

Harry offers you his hand, and without thinking, you take it.

“We might as well.”

The Met is bathed in glowing opulence—decked in gold and white, chandeliers like constellations above you. There’s jazz swelling from a live quartet near the Temple of Dendur and the room comes alive with it.

You glide through marble halls on his arm, greeting developers and designers and too rich donors who want nothing more than to be photographed with nights' most respected attendant.

Harry is a natural here—effortless. He laughs, he charms, he plays the part of the adored genius.

You also play your role perfectly.

You smile. You exchange polite hugs and shake hands. You whisper names into his ear just before he needs them.

The two of you work the room like a well oiled machine. Not a screw out of place.

“You do realize they all think I’m sleeping with you,” you murmur as you pass a table full of ancient structural engineers throwing pointed looks at the two of you.

“Let them,” he says, not missing a beat.

“Isn’t that bad for business?”

Harry looks at you sideways. “Who’s going to call us on it?”

You don’t answer. You don’t look away either.

There’s champagne, and a brief moment where a reporter mistakes you for his fiancée. Harry doesn’t correct her. You do, of course, all while violently fighting the heat crawling up your neck. You don’t miss the way his mouth quirks when you do.

Dinner is some overly fussed beet amuse-bouche followed by lamb you barely taste. You’re seated next to Harry at the center of a table surrounded by board members and art world fixtures who all speak in the same Upper East Side cadence that makes everything sound like a question and an insult.

But Harry listens to you. He lets you finish your thoughts. He asks you what you think of the new public art installation in Battery Park and snorts when you call it “egregiously derivative” even when the rest of the table frowns.

“You’re such a snob,” he murmurs, voice low against the shell of your ear.

You smile behind your glass. “And yet here I am, slumming it with my boss.”

He grins bright enough to rival the candle light. “Lucky me.”

At some point, about halfway through a debate about the authenticity of modernism in design, you notice the way his knee brushes against yours under the table and stays there. You don’t move. He doesn’t either.

It’s become a theme. The touch. The contact.

Harry kept his hand on the small of your back most of the night, it was practically glued to the spot before dinner began. This is no different, except for the fact that this touch is hidden. It's shielded from the prying eyes of members and photographers and reporters.

It’s just for you.

The awards are handed out shortly after.

Harry’s name echoes across the room to rounds and rounds of applause. The speech is short, tasteful, elegant, moving. He stands under a golden spotlight and says something about legacy, about cities and their hearts and how architecture is just the blueprint of human longing.

You watch him from your seat at the table, heart caught in your throat. He looks radiant on stage, confident and alive in a way you haven't seen in months.

You clap until your palms sting.

When the speech is over, he doesn't have a foot off the stage before many of the other attendees swarm him. You let out a slow breath as you watch him receive hugs and kisses and claps on the back.

You only slip out onto the terrace when everyone at your table has left to join in, clutch in hand.

The cool night breeze is a welcome escape, soothing as it blows across the bare expanse of your skin and seeps into the rich fabric of your dress.

It’s not that you weren’t enjoying yourself, that you weren’t enjoying watching Harry. You just found it, almost hard to breathe all of a sudden. The range of different emotions swirling through your stomach certainly didn’t help, but that was a problem you could repress and compartmentalize for sometime in the near future.

You’re maybe five minutes into your emergency cigarette when he finds you, your heels kicked off as you sit on a marble bench.

“You never smoke.” he says, setting his award down next to you and plucking the cigarette from between your fingers, taking his own slow drag. His lips seal directly over where your own were just a second ago, circling the ruddy lipstick stain wrapped around the filter.

You look out to the city, exhaling a steady stream grey. “I also don’t usually wear a custom made, six thousand dollar dress or fake laugh at old men who won’t stop calling me ‘darling’ while they openly stare at my tits.”

Harry hums at that, amused, the smoke curling lazily from his lips as he tips his head back to look at the sky. “You handled it like a pro, you were brilliant tonight.”

He holds out the cigarette, reddened embers float down from the tip, losing color as they fall until they’re nothing but a black speck on the pristine sea of white beneath your feet.

You take it, your fingers brushing against his. “I’m very good at pretending.”

His eyes shift to you, the kind of look in them that settles somewhere deep and heavy in your chest. “I know.”

There’s a beat of quiet between you, filled only by the wind brushing through the terrace hedges and the distant echo of jazz from inside. The city glimmers out past the railing, a mirage of light and motion.

You clear your throat, raising the cigarette to your lips. “You didn’t have to come find me.”

“I know,” he says again, softly this time. “But I wanted to.”

You turn to face him fully. “Because you couldn’t remember Natalie Rebuck’s name, or because you were worried I’d throw myself off the balcony?”

He doesn’t smile. He looks at you too seriously for either of those to be one off jokes. “Because you’re the only person I wanted to see.”

That stills everything in you. Just—stills it.

There’s nothing ironic about the way he says it. It’s not teasing, not playful. Just a quiet truth. And somehow, that’s more disarming than anything else he could’ve said.

“You saw me fifteen minutes ago,” you manage, your voice not quite as sharp as you want it to be.

“Yeah.” He shrugs and says it again, slower this time. “And I missed you.”

It’s that same tone. Soft, reserved. Gentle enough that it makes you feel like the only person in the world and sick to your stomach all at once. The cigarette hangs limply by your side, dwindling to nothing between your fingers. You wonder, idly and far too late, if you can even smoke in a dress like this.

The silence stretches on like taffy. You’re just about to respond when the music starts up again inside. It’s something old and very romantic. Maybe Sinatra, or Ella. You can’t quite place it.

Harry seems to, perking up instantly. He glances through the open door, where many couples inside are pairing off and filling the dance floor one by one. He looks back at you, eyes glinting dangerously under the terrace lights. “Dance with me.”

You can’t help the laugh that bursts from your chest, eyes wide with disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

“I just won a very important and highly coveted award given out only once every single year.” He takes a step closer, offering you his hand. “You’re telling me I don’t get one dance?”

You shake your head, inching back the tiniest bit. “I don’t dance with my boss.”

He winks, warmth sparking to life in his eyes just beside the glow of the lights. “Good thing I’m off the clock.”

You stare down at his outstretched hand for a second too long, lips parted in soft protest, breath caught somewhere behind your ribs. There’s something so deeply unfair about the way he’s always been able to make you feel like the only woman in a city of millions. Even now. Especially now.

You give him your hand.

You still hesitate even as you stand and slip your heels back on. You glance at the terrace doors and wearily eye what feels like a sea of people. “Out here?”

“No,” he says, turning your hand over in his and brushing his thumb along your pulse point like it’s nothing. “Inside. Just one song.”

You hesitate again. Not because you don’t want to, but because you do. Too much. And that terrifies you.

But then his hand tightens just slightly around your wrist, grounding you. His palm is warm, and you realize—of course he knows. He always knows. Knows how to read a room, read a blueprint, read you. Better than he probably should.

He tugs gently, and you let him lead you back inside.

The terrace doors hush closed behind you and the city disappears, replaced again by the ambient, golden warmth of the Met’s grand hall. You weave through the swaying bodies with ease, like they part from the sheer energy you must be oozing as you find a spot in the center of the room.

Harry draws you in close.

Too close for coworkers. Too close for anything you could explain away come Monday. But not close enough for the ache it sparks low in your belly. One hand finds the dip of your waist, the other laces your fingers in his. His touch is elegant. Familiar. A little too knowing.

You slide your arm around his neck and let him sway you into the rhythm. You’re too aware of every point of contact. The velvety fabric of his tuxedo beneath your hand. The graze of your thigh against his leg. The way he smells—Tom Ford, Tobacco Vanille. But there’s something else, something hidden under it that’s just Harry.

The rhythm is slow. Intimate. His hand is an inescapable plane of heat on your back, just beneath the dip of the dress, the pad of his thumb draws tiny, absent circles against your spine.

He hums the melody under his breath as you move together, you can feel the deep rumble of it against your chest.

“You’re trembling,” he says suddenly, quietly—whispered against the shell of your ear.

“No I’m not,” you lie, pulling back to meet his gaze. “It’s probably the nicotine.”

Harry laughs, the corners of his eye crinkle endearingly as he does. “Is it?”

You nod. “It is.”

The music hums all around you, but you hardly hear it. It fades away into the soft air of complete nothingness, same as all the people around you wane and dwindle until you’re almost certain you and Harry are the only two left standing.

You can’t break away from the weight of his gaze, drawn to it like heavy metal to a magnet. His gaze sweeps across every inch of your face, like he’s seeing you for the first time.

“You look so beautiful tonight,” he murmurs, so softly it nearly melts into the melody. “You always do, but tonight…” His voice tapers off as if he can’t quite land on the word. He doesn’t need to.

“Harry…”

He shakes his head. “I mean it, you are absolutely gorgeous.” He spins the both of you slowly, his eyes never straying from you. “And that’s the least interesting thing about you.”

It feels like a physical blow, but it lands in the softest way possible. His words washing over your skin feels a million times more luxurious than the miles of silk encompassing you.

You wonder if this is how it starts—not with fireworks, but with slow dancing in a museum full of strangers with your boss whispering something like worship in the space between you.

It’s nothing. It’s everything.

“Well,” you reply, voice shaking and almost far away. “You did hire me because my resume reads like a Vogue spread. You said it yourself, the firm doesn’t work without me.”

It should ruin the moment, bringing up work—where your relationship actually stands in the real world, outside of this fantasy of a night—but Harry doesn’t let it.

He just shakes his head, brows pinched together like he’s deep in thought. His hand tightens around yours, he’s so close now that you can feel the steady beat of his heart.

Can he feel yours?

“When I look at you, and I think of all that you are…” Harry trails off again, the chocolate brown of his eyes shining under the twinkling lights as he holds your gaze. “That doesn’t even cross my mind.”

Your breath stutters, and you know—you know—that if you speak, it’ll all come tumbling out. Everything you’ve been trying not to say, not to want. The feelings you’ve tried to laugh away or roll your eyes at or bury under hundreds of deadlines and calendar alerts buzzing from two separate phones and all the plethora of ways you’ve told yourself this can’t happen.

“I…”

And then he kisses you.

And then you can’t speak at all.

It’s slow at first, but not hesitant, not unsure—deliberate. Harry kisses you like he’s been carving space for it, like it’s been trapped in him for too long. His lips are soft, but sure, coaxing rather than claiming.

His hand slides from your waist all the way up to cradle your jaw, leaving behind a trail of heat along the plane of your spine. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, you can feel the faint callous left behind by countless pens and pencils.

Your hands bury themselves in the soft curls of his hair as you melt into his body. It’s so simple, the shift. You’ve spent so long running, so long lost in the dark waters of denial that you almost can’t believe how easy it is—how perfectly you fit together.

It’s like the last piece of a puzzle finally falling into place, slotting into all the others that came before it.

Harry exhales shakily, lips barely parting from your own. “Christ,” he whispers, forehead touching yours. “You’re—”

You kiss him again before he can finish.

His lips part under yours with a sigh that borders on desperate, and the heat crackles between you now, undeniable. Dizzying. When your mouth opens to him in turn, he groans low in his throat, like the first taste of you has broken something open inside him.

Slow becomes hungry. Your hand slides to his jaw, thumb brushing the rough edge of stubble. He tastes like champagne and citrus and the heady edge of smoke

The kiss turns molten under your fingertips.

You feel it in your knees, in your chest, in your core—the sharp, sudden ache of need blooming within you that has nothing to do with polite society.

When you finally pull apart, it’s only because air insists you do.

Harry rests his forehead against yours once again, his eyes still closed when yours slip open. His cheeks are flushed, his lips slick and smeared with the barest hint of your lipstick. You can feel his breath puff over your skin in short, quick pants that you match.

He opens his eyes, and your knees nearly buckle at the look in them. His pupils are blown, wide and black as ink under the lights. Your pulse is a drum in your throat, beating just as loud and fast in your ears.

He swallows hard. “We should leave.”

Your voice is barely a whisper, but it’s just as firm. “Yes.”

The ride back to the office is a blur.

You’re not even sure how Harry got you out of the Met so quickly, how you made it past the new swarm of admirers once again trying to shake his hand or take a photo or congratulate him.

The limo was already waiting by the time you made it out the doors. You barely remember the valet, just the cool feeling of the seats beneath your thighs and the sharp click of the partition going up behind Harry’s head.

His eyes pin you to your seat, hot and heavy and impossibly dark as the hum of the engine carries you through the city, velvet wrapped and haloed in streetlight.

He hasn’t even touched you yet, not really, but your skin feels like it’s blistering beneath your dress—your pulse high, your thighs pressed tight together in anticipation that makes your stomach twist and flutter.

“Come here,” Harry says, voice low, rasped from restraint and heavy need.

Two words. That’s all he says.

Your legs move before your brain catches up, straddling him in the backseat like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hands come to your waist as you settle into his lap, and fuck—he’s hard already, thick and burning a plane of heat against your high.

“You have no idea,” he breathes against your neck, mouthing at the skin just under your ear, “what you do to me.”

“Tell me,” you whisper, even as your eyes slip shut, hips rolling forward instinctively against him

Harry groans—deep and pained and real. “You walk into a room and I can’t think. Not clearly. Not rationally. It’s all static, it’s all you. Your eyes, your mouth, your fucking mind—” He nips your jaw, tongue chasing the sting. “You kill me.”

You moan, your hands digging into the strong muscle of his back. It draws a ragged growl from Harry’s throat, his fingers twitching on your hips.

“Are you wet for me?”

You’re nodding your head before you even realize it. “Yes.”

He curses under his breath, burying his nose in the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder. “I haven’t even touched you properly, and you’re already making a mess.” His voice is rough velvet, soaked in lust. “What do you think that says about you, sweetheart?”

“That I want you,” you breathe, already half-gone. “So fucking badly, Harry.”

Harry lets out a slow breath through his nose, his touch slides down your thighs, bunching your dress. “What I want…” He trails off, slipping his hand under your skirt. You gasp as his fingers skim the waist of your panties. “is to spread you open, taste how needy you are. I want to make you come with my mouth before I even think about fucking you.”

His fingers brush over the soaked center of your panties and he groans, low and dark. “Fuck.” He presses the pads of his fingers into you through the fabric—just enough pressure to tease, to leave you gasping. “This all for me?”

You whine, high and light in the back of your throat as you nod frantically. That’s not enough for Harry.

His eyes narrow, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Use your words, baby. Who made you this wet?”

“You,” you whisper. “You did.”

“That’s right.” He slides the lace aside to run two fingers through your folds slowly. Your hips jolt, and he grins against your throat.

Your head drops against his shoulder, hips bucking against his fingers. He holds you in place with an iron grip, not letting you grind down for friction just yet. You feel the twitch of his cock beneath you, straining against the fabric of his tuxedo pants.

“Harry—” you gasp, breath breaking as he circles your clit with the barest pressure. Just enough to tease.

“Mm, I know,” he murmurs, kissing your throat. “I know what you need, but not yet. I want you squirming by the time we get to the office. Can you be good for me and wait, hm?”

Your stomach clenches in anticipation, your cunt throbbing between your legs. You’re not sure how much more desperate you can get, grinding on your boss in the back of a limo while his hand is up your skirt seems like the highest form of desperation.

Still…

You nod—barely—because your throat is tight with need, but Harry clicks his tongue.

“I said use your words.” It’s not mean, the demand. The tone of his voice. It’s strong, rich with the same power and authority you’ve seen countless times over the past few years.

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I’ll be good. I’ll wait.”

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, brushing his mouth over your jaw like he’s proud of you, like he’s already rewarding obedience.

He keeps his hand there the whole drive—just resting. No pressure. No movement. Just the heat of his skin against your soaked center, the weight of his hand where you need it most, while the city blurs past the tinted glass. It’s maddening.

Every bump in the road jolts you slightly. Every turn shifts your hips, makes his fingertips graze your clit. It’s not enough. It’s torture. You bite your lip raw trying not to move, not to grind down and take what you want.

It would be so easy, you’re pathetically close to the edge as is.

But you told Harry yes, breathed it against his shoulder in soft surrender.

You promised to be good, and you’re dying to see what it gets you.

Getting up to Harry’s office is a mess of stumbling feet and frantic hands that refused to stop touching any longer than they have to.

Harry kisses you against the door, your back pressed to the frosted glass. His mouth is hot and hungry and unrelenting, like he’s trying to make up for the months of waiting with every glide of his tongue.

You’re the one who breaks away just long enough to fumble for the keycard clipped inside his jacket, but Harry’s already sliding it free with one hand while the other stays around your waist.

The lock beeps open and you stumble through the door, breath ragged, dress askew. Harry kicks it shut behind you, his lips never leaving yours as he walks you backwards until the tops of your thighs hit his desk.

You barely have time to gasp before you're lifted—effortless—onto the surface of his desk, papers fluttering to the floor beneath you as he spreads your legs apart with both hands.

“Lean back,” he says hoarsely, helping you as your hands fumble for balance. The cold glass of the desk kisses your palms. “Let me see you.”

Your dress is hiked up around your waist, pooling all around you like ink, your thighs parted. Harry looks at you like he’s starved. His eyes drag up your body like a man measuring the cost of ruin and deciding to pay it gladly.

He makes quick work of his jacket, only needing to shuck it off his shoulders after you made quick work of the buttons back in the elevator. He collapses back into his chair with a shaky breath, sliding in between your legs.

His hands find the waistband of your ruined panties, eyes glued to your core as he peels them down your legs. “Fuck,” he mumbles, running his index finger through the wet mess that greets him. He kisses the inside of your thigh once, then higher, and higher. “So beautiful.”

His mouth is on you in a second—hot, wet, consuming.

He licks a long stripe from your entrance to your clit, groaning like he’s tasting something decadent.

“Shit.” Your moan is loud, hips jolting off the desk. “Harry—”

“Christ,” he groans against you. “You taste—Jesus. I could stay here all night.”

He takes your legs in his hands, throws them over his shoulders and he devours you—there’s no other word for it. Messy, greedy, reverent. His tongue works in tight, filthy circles, alternating pressure, pulling gasp after gasp from your throat.

He sucks your clit, slow and deep, lips sealing over it and pulling it into his mouth. His tongue flicks once, twice, and your hips jolt off the desk.

“Fuck, yes—right there—don’t stop—”

His hands spread your thighs wider, thumbs digging into soft flesh as he groans into you, like you’re the thing getting him off.

Your head falls back with a cry, hands burying themselves in his hair. “God—Harry—”

“That’s it,” he mutters against you, voice vibrating into your core. “Use my mouth. Take what you need.”

You don’t even realize you’re doing it—rocking forward, grinding down on his face like it’s instinct. His nose bumps your clit perfectly, the stubble on his jaw sending aftershocks through your skin. He hums with satisfaction, like he knew you’d lose control, like he wanted it.

You’re already squirming, already close all over again. Your head lolls back as you cry out, desperate and high and wanton.

“Look at me,” he demands, voice muffled. “Right here. I need your eyes on me, honey.”

You do.

You look down and see him between your thighs, hair mussed, lips slick, eyes nearly black. He’s never looked more beautiful. Or more ruined.

Your fingers tighten in his curls, yanking—he groans like he likes it, grinding his mouth harder against you, tongue flicking over your clit until you cry out, arching into his face.

“Harry—Harry, I’m gonna—”

“Come,” he commands. “Let go for me.”

And you do.

Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave—sharp and blinding. You cry out, thighs trembling, nails digging into the wood of the desk as Harry keeps licking you through it, gentle now, savoring every second.

Only then does he pull back, licking his lips like he’s just finished dessert. He rises to his feet slowly, towering above you.

“Beautiful,” he pants, voice rough and heartbreakingly earnest. “You’re so beautiful like this.”

You can barely breathe, your chest rising and falling with every sharp inhale. But you still reach for him, pulling him down by the collar of his shirt. “Please.”

Harry doesn’t hesitate. He undoes his belt with one hand, the other bracing beside your head as he kisses you again—filthy, deep, you taste yourself on his tongue. “I need to be inside you,” he says, voice wrecked. “Now.”

You shift, moving to turn onto your stomach.

“No,” he says sharply, hands tightening on your hips. “No, I want to see you.”

Your lips part on a soft breath, something dangerous squirming to life under your skin. “Okay…”

The sound of his zipper rings in your ears, and you glance down just in time to see his cock freed from the soaked cotton of his boxers. It’s thick and flushed, rosy tip already slick with precome. Your breath catches when he strokes it once, twice, eyes pinned to your cunt like he’s imagining exactly how you’ll take it.

“You ready?” he asks, soft again, lining himself up with your shaking entrance. “I need you to say it.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “I want you, Harry.”

He pushes in slowly—so slowly—and your back arches, a shocked moan catching in your throat at the sheer stretch of him. He’s thick, unrelenting, and your body clamps down around him greedily.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, pressing his forehead to yours. “You feel like fucking heaven.”

You gasp, nails digging into his arms as he fills you. “Oh god—Harry—”

“That’s it,” he groans, teeth gritted as he bottoms out. “That’s my girl. Taking me so fucking well.”

He doesn’t wait long after that. The first thrust is slow, the second is harder. By the third he’s fucking into you like he can’t get deep enough, the desk creaking beneath you, the sound of skin on skin filling the dim office air.

You clutch at him, gasping as he hits every spot that makes you see stars.

Harry fucks you with purpose, with hunger, but he never loses that softness—his thumb on your cheek, his lips pressing kisses to your jaw, your shoulder, the hollow of your neck, the swell of your breast. He cradles your head in his hands so you don’t knock it into the glass.

It’s all too much. Too much and not enough.

It feels like home, like this is where you should have been instead of running every chance you got, like a coward. Your hands dig into his shoulder, his name falling from your lips over and over.

“Yes.” He kisses you again, bruising and messy like he’s trying to taste the way it sounds right off your tongue. “Say my name.”

“Harry—fuck—Harry!”

“That’s it,” he growls, fucking into you faster now, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the office. “You’re mine now, aren't you? You're finally going to let me have you?”

“Yes—yes—oh my god—”

“Say it.”

“I'm yours, Harry—yours—fuck, I’m—”

He pulls you tight against him, fucking you so deep it’s like he’s imprinting himself inside you. “Come for me, sweetheart. Show me how good I make you feel.”

You come with a sob, clenching around him, unraveling completely beneath his weight and his words and the unbearable sweetness in his eyes as he watches you fall apart.

“I’m gonna come,” he grits out, thrusts growing erratic. “Where do you want it, sweetheart? Tell me.”

“Inside,” you whisper. “Want to feel it. Please, Harry…”

That’s all he needs.

He spills inside you with a groan—deep and raw—thrusting once, twice more before spilling into you, his mouth dropping to your shoulder with a quiet, reverent moan of your name.

New York’s skyline shines through the window, bathing you both in a shimmering light.

The only sounds filling the office are the light, gentle breaths as you both come down. The dull hum of the city underscores it, muted and fuzzy around the edges.

Harry’s hands don’t stray from your hips, his thumbs absentmindedly draw small circles over your bare skin. The night plays through your mind in flashbacks, each snapshot of all the moments where things shifted like a slideshow behind your eyes.

The stairs of your building, the touch of his hand on your back, the looks from across the room, the terrace.

“Fuck,” you say suddenly, raising your head off the desk in alarm. “Harry, your award. You left it on the terrace.”

It’s quiet, until his shoulders start to shake and the unmistakable sound of laughter fills the space between you.

“It’s not funny!” You slap his shoulder, but you’re still smiling. “That was the whole fucking point of tonight.”

Harry lifts his head, meeting your gaze. “Was it?”

You look back, puzzled. “Wasn’t it.”

Harry chuckles again, shaking his head fondly. He leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, slow and indulgent. “I’ve already got the only thing I wanted tonight.”

Your heart does a small, dangerous thing in your chest. “Well, this is definitely going in my yearly review.”

Harry hums. “I look forward to reading it.”

You don’t muffle your laugh, you don’t turn your face to hide your smile. You only raise your hand, carding your fingers through the sweaty curls laying on his forehead.

Harry turns his head, pressing one last kiss to your palm.

You’ll email the AIA tomorrow, for now, they can wait.

MINI NAT’S NOTE: if you would have told me a year ago that i would be writing for a pedro pascal character in a movie that chr*s ev*ns is ALSO in, i would have laughed in your face, HARD. oh how the sands of time can change us.

anyway this actually wasn't the harry fic i originally wanted to post. i was working on something completely different when this idea manifested in my brain and i immediately jumped ship…but in my defense this is the fastest i've written something since the semester ended so ofc she's being uploaded. thank you so much for reading, love you!

3K notes · View notes

verstappenverse · 4 months ago

Text

Lessons in Jealousy

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: You’ve been in love with Lando as long as you can remember, but to him, you’re just his best friend. Enter Max your longtime frenemy who offers to help make Lando jealous. But as Lando finally starts to notice you, you wonder if you were chasing the wrong heart all along.

11.3k words / Poll Winner / Masterlist

Celebrations were in full swing tonight, laughter and clinking glasses filled the paddock lounge, and there was Lando in the middle of it all. He’d just finished another impressive race and with each victory the swarm of admirers seemed to grow. You’d spent years watching him like this, taking it all in from the sidelines. From kids at the karting track you’d been through nearly everything together. Yet somehow he never seemed to see you in the same way you saw him.

The thought stung. He saw you as his constant, his dependable best friend, and though your heart had tried, time and time again, to beat in time with his, it seemed that it may never be.

As you sat on the edge of the lounge sipping a drink, feeling like you’d blended into the wall, a familiar, annoyingly smug voice brought you back to reality. Max Verstappen leaned against the wall beside you, arms crossed, a small smirk playing on his lips as he nodded towards Lando.

“Never gets old huh?”

You’ve known Max almost as long as you’d known Lando, which is to say, too long. Your friendship with Lando was easy, uncomplicated, and comfortable from the start. Max though? That was different. With Max, it was like fire and ice.

You weren’t sure exactly when it started, but from the moment he entered your orbit, it was as if the universe had decided you two were destined to push each other’s buttons. If Lando was easy warmth, Max was the kind of heat that could burn. He had a knack for getting under your skin, for knowing exactly what to say to rile you up, to make you bite back with sharp words and narrowed eyes. And you weren’t innocent in it either, you knew what set him off, what made his jaw go tight, what made his hands flex against his thighs like he was physically restraining himself from responding.

You rolled your eyes, trying not to let him get under your skin. “You’re always so observant Max. Maybe try worrying about your own life?”

“Come on, it’s practically a free show,” he laughed, eyes not moving from Lando who was currently entertaining a particularly beautiful fan with one of his charming stories. You’d tried to accept his constant stream of dates, pretending that each one didn’t hurt a little more than the last, but the look in his eyes when he gazed at her… it stung.

“Surprised you have time to comment on my life Verstappen,” you shot back, not bothering to turn.

“It’s hard to miss. Every time I turn around there you are. Just trying to understand it.”

You glanced up at him. “Understand what?”

“Do you have a life outside of following him around?” he asked, raising an eyebrow

“Do you have a life outside of annoying me?” You fire back, hiding the warmth rising to your cheeks.

Every time you saw Max his quick wit and sometimes annoyingly perceptive comments rubbed you the wrong way. Lando would just laugh whenever you and Max got into your usual back-and-forth.

“You guys are worse than siblings,” he would tease.

Max seemed to enjoy poking at your devotion to Lando, teasing you about your years spent watching him with starry eyes, never once making a move. And yet, somehow, every taunt felt calculated, like he was trying to unravel something only he could see.

Max’s moved closer to you, his expression shifting into something almost thoughtful. “You know,” he said, his voice lowering, “I almost feel bad for you sometimes.”

“Excuse me?” Your eyebrows shot up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, you know exactly what I mean. I’ve watched you for years, following him around like he’s the last guy on earth.”

“Because he’s my best friend,” you retorted, feeling defensive. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

Max tilted his head, considering you. “Right. And that’s why you look at him like he hung the damn moon?”

“That’s not—” You opened your mouth to argue but snapped it shut. Arguing with Max was like arguing with a brick wall. He always had a way of pushing buttons you didn’t even know you had.

He shrugged. “Look, I just don’t get it. You’ve been waiting around for him forever. And for what?”

“Yeah, you’ve mentioned that already. What exactly are you getting at?”

His gaze flickered. “You need a new approach.”

You raised an eyebrow. “A new approach?”

Max nodded. “Simple psychology. Stop hanging around like his shadow. Make him notice you’re not always there.”

“So, your grand plan is to just play hard to get?”

“Not just play,” he corrected, a sly smile on his face. “Be hard to get. Lando’s used to always having you around, if you change that up it’ll get under his skin.”

The thought took you by surprise. You’d spent years at Lando’s side, always dependable, always there. The idea of pulling back felt...risky. But Max was right. It was a small risk compared to the years of waiting you’d already put in.

“I could help you, you know.” His voice was so casual that it took you a moment to process what he’d just offered. When you turned to him, he wore an expression of mild amusement. “Give him a little push. Maybe make him notice you for once.” His eyes glinted.

You stared at him, caught between skepticism and intrigue. “And what would you get out of it?”

Max crossed his arms, that signature confidence settling over him. “Maybe it’ll be fun,” he said with a wink, then shrugged. “Or maybe I just want to stop seeing you look miserable every race weekend.”

His expression was unreadable, but something about the way he was looking at you made your stomach twist.

What did you really have to lose?

You decided to give Max’s plan a try. Over the next few weeks you started making yourself less available. At first it felt unnatural, like you were playing a role in someone else’s life. Instead of rushing to Lando’s side after each race, instead of being the first person to celebrate his podiums or commiserate his losses you found other ways to spend your time. What you didn’t expect was how quickly your free time started being filled by Max.

He had a habit of appearing at the exact moment you might have otherwise gone to Lando, redirecting your focus with an effortless pull. If Lando was occupied, Max would materialise leaning against a wall, arms crossed, an eyebrow raised as if he’d been waiting for you to notice.

What was worse? You didn’t hate it.

You started seeking him out. Not consciously at first, but enough that he noticed.

“Still following orders?” he’d ask whenever you showed up in his garage, as though challenging you.

“Believe it or not I’m here by choice,” you’d reply, trying not to smile at his cocky grin.

That was the thing about Max he pushed, he prodded, he provoked. But for all his sharp edges, he had a way of making you think, of making you see things differently. You found yourself spending more time with Max in a way that bordered on ridiculous. You started joining him for lunch, sitting in on debriefs you had no real reason to be in, talking strategy like you actually belonged there.

And more and more, you started to notice things you hadn’t before.

The way Max listened, really listened, when you spoke. The way his brow furrowed when he disagreed, the way he challenged you, not to be difficult, but because he wanted to hear your reasoning, wanted to understand your perspective. Beneath the arrogance, beneath the ever-present smirk and the witty remarks, there was an intelligence and insightfulness you hadn’t fully appreciated before.

The longer you took to text Lando back, the more he started to notice. At first he joked about it, throwing an arm around your shoulders like he always did.

“You’re getting popular, huh? Who’s keeping you so busy?” he asked, a little laugh in his voice. But there was something else in his gaze confusion, maybe even curiosity.

You only smiled, shrugging it off, but you could feel the shift.

“Let me guess,” Max said as you both sat outside the team’s motorhome later that week, watching Lando down the pit-lane goof around with a few fans, occasionally glancing in your direction, “he asked you to meet up tonight, didn’t he?”

You sighed, folding your arms. “Yeah, he did.”

Max scoffed, shaking his head. “See? It’s already working. He’s starting to realise you’re not always there when he wants you.”

You let out a short laugh, though there was uncertainty beneath it. “I don’t think that’s true. He probably just—”

Max turned toward you then, his teasing fading into something more serious.

“You really don’t see it do you?” he said, almost as if he were realising something in real-time.

You frowned. “See what?”

“This.” He gestured vaguely at you, at the space between you, at whatever invisible shift had taken place in the past few weeks. “You’re different when you’re not waiting around for him.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Different how?”

Max leaned in slightly, voice lowering just enough to make you feel like he was letting you in on some kind of secret. “You’re not trying so hard to be the girl you think Lando wants. And, for what it’s worth I think this version of you…the real you, is a hell of a lot more interesting.”

The words settled in your chest, warm and unexpected, leaving you momentarily without a response.

Late one afternoon Max showed up at your hotel door twirling his car keys around his finger. “Come on,” he said, eyes gleaming with something that looked dangerously close to mischief.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Come where?”

He leaned against the doorframe like he had all the time in the world. “I figured it was time to see if you’re actually capable of driving or just a glorified spectator.”

Your brows shot up. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he said, grinning now. “Let’s go.”

Naturally, you took that as a challenge.

The two of you spent hours racing each other, bumping karts, stealing inside lines, and throwing accusations of dirty tactics back and forth. Sure, it was fast, intense, competitive but there was so much laughter, a kind of easy camaraderie that felt strangely liberating.

You had just pulled off your helmet, hair a mess and adrenaline still buzzing through your veins, when you spotted Max watching you with a small, unguarded smile

“You’re actually pretty good out there,” Max admitted, his voice amused.

You raised an eyebrow, smirking as you took a sip of water. “High praise from the world champion. Should I be flattered?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “You’ve got guts.”

You scoffed, leaning against the railing beside him. “Only because it’s you. It’s survival instincts Verstappen.”

Max turned slightly, his arm brushing yours as he studied you. “Oh, so now you’re saying I make you better? That’s interesting.”

You rolled your eyes. “That’s not what I said.”

“Mm.” He tilted his head, mock thoughtful. “Sounds a lot like what you said.”

You huffed, nudging him with your elbow. “Fine. If it makes you feel better you make me drive more aggressively.”

His grin widened. “See? You do get better when I’m around.”

You let out a laugh, shaking your head. “No I just want to beat you.”

Max bumped his shoulder against yours, casual, easy. “Same thing.”

You shook your head, unable to fight the grin pulling at your lips.

“Seriously,” he said, his voice softer now, “I think you’re tougher than you give yourself credit for. Definitely tougher than most people realise.”

Something about the way he said it made you pause, the words striking somewhere deeper than you expected.

Things slowly started to shift between you and Max. Little moments that should have been insignificant but somehow weren’t.

Like the way Max always seemed to find you in a crowded room, even when you weren’t looking for him. How he started waiting not in an obvious, deliberate way, but just enough for you to notice. Just enough that you felt it.

Or the way he’d pass you a drink at an event before you could even ask for one, like he already knew what you needed. The way he’d brush his knee against yours under the table at dinners, wordlessly checking in. The way he always had a sarcastic remark at the ready, but if anyone else gave you a hard time, he was the first to shut it down.

And then there were the more obvious moments.

Like how somewhere along the way, you had just become part of his post-race routine, not just because you were waiting for him, but because he was waiting for you too. Whether it was dinner, drinks, or decompressing in a hotel room after a long day. You just ended up there like you belonged, the same way he always ended up beside you.

Or the time he offered you a seat on his plane without a second thought, the invitation so casual it almost felt meaningless. You don’t need to fly commercial just come with me. As if it was the easiest thing in the world, like it was obvious you’d say yes. And when you did, the entire flight passed in quiet conversation and comfortable silence, his jacket draped over you when you fell asleep somewhere over the Atlantic, something you only noticed when you woke up, groggy and warm, finding Max pretending as if he hadn’t been watching you.

It wasn’t the same as following Lando around, lingering in the spaces he occupied, hoping he’d finally see you. With Max, you weren’t just there, you were wanted.

At some point, the teasing had shifted, too. It was still there, sharp as ever, but there was something gentler beneath it. A knowing look. A lingering glance. The more time you spent together, the harder it was becoming to deny.

As the paddock wound down one evening and the last traces of daylight faded into the horizon, you stepped out to find Max waiting for you. He was leaning against his car, arms crossed over his chest, that ever-present smirk playing at his lips.

You slowed your steps, eyeing him warily. “What?”

Max smirked, tilting his head slightly. “I just wanted to see you. Is that so bad?”

Your heart stuttered for a fraction and you couldn’t stop the smile that spread across your face. “Depends on the reason.”

He just grinned, rolling his eyes. “Get in the car. I have a spot I want to show you.”

You didn’t question it. That was the strange thing about Max, you never quite knew what he was up to, but somehow, it always felt like it made sense in the moment. So, you got in.

The city lights faded behind you as Max drove further out, leaving the familiar chaos of the paddock behind. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable if anything, it felt easy, like neither of you needed to fill it just for the sake of it, he just drove. One hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on the gearshift, his posture relaxed but focused.

You leaned your head against the window, watching the world blur past. “So, am I going to get an explanation at some point, or are we just driving until we run out of gas?”

Max huffed a laugh, his fingers tapping against the steering wheel. “Patience, princess.”

You rolled your eyes at the nickname, but the blush rising to your cheeks threatened to betray you.

Eventually, he pulled off onto a secluded hilltop, a place that overlooked the distant glow of the city below. The sky stretched wide above you, stars blinking against the dark canvas of night.

“Didn’t peg you as the type to stargaze,” you murmured as you stepped out of the car, glancing at Max as his gaze lifted to the sky.

He smirked, his eyes reflecting the faint glow of the stars above. “I’m full of surprises.”

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. “That’s one way to put it.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying you. “And what’s the other way?”

You pretended to think, tapping your chin. “A walking contradiction. Impossible. Infuriating.”

Max chuckled as he looked back up at the sky. “You forgot irresistible.”

You let out a scoff. “Oh, right. How could I forget that?”

You sat beside him, close enough to feel his warmth in the crisp night air, but not close enough to touch. As your conversation continued late into the night, you started to realise there was a lot more to Max than you had ever really understood.

He was talking about his early days on the track, the relentless pressure, the suffocating expectations, the way the sport had consumed him before he was even old enough to fully understand what it meant. And with that came the isolation of a life that revolved around racing before he had the chance to figure out who he was outside of it.

“You don’t exactly seem like someone who needs…anyone,” you said, your curiosity genuine.

Max gave a small shrug, his gaze flickering toward the horizon. “You get used to being alone in this world. Everyone wants something from you, so you learn to keep people at a distance.”

His honesty caught you off guard, the vulnerability in his words settling in a way you hadn’t expected. “Then why are you helping me?”

He let out a short laugh, but his gaze held yours. “Maybe because I understand what you’re going through. More than you know.”

The words hung between you, heavy with meaning.

You weren’t sure what to say. This was new territory, uncharted, and unfamiliar.

Several weeks later you were all out at a club, the night was loud, the place packed with bodies. The bass thrummed through your chest, neon lights casting shadows over familiar faces as you navigated through the crowd. Lando was here, you’d spotted him earlier laughing with a group of people you barely recognised caught up in his own world.

You had found him, weaving through the crowd, your hand grazing his arm as you leaned in close, your voice barely cutting through the music. But the moment lasted no more than a few seconds before he brushed you off, distracted, his attention elsewhere. A joke thrown over his shoulder, an easy grin at someone else, and suddenly you weren’t even there.

Maybe it was the drinks, or the music, or the fact that he had no idea how much this all meant to you, but for the first time, it felt different. Like a crack forming in something you’d always assumed was solid.

So you had stepped away, retreating to the edges of the club, frustration twisting in your chest as you rested against the cool wall. Your shoulders slumped, exhaustion creeping in not just from the night, but from all of it. The waiting, the hoping, the years of being right there only to be left standing in the background.

That was how Max found you.

“Still hoping for a miracle?” His voice cut through the music, and when you turned your head, he was beside you, leaning casually against the wall like he hadn’t just read your mind.

You sighed, tilting your head back. “I don’t know anymore.”

For once, Max didn’t smirk, didn’t tease. When you glanced at him, his expression was softer, the usual sharpness in his eyes replaced with something closer to concern.

“You don’t have to wait for him you know,” he said simply.

You exhaled, turning to face him fully. “And what else am I supposed to do?”

He shrugged, but his gaze didn’t waver. “Maybe you’re too close to see it, but you’re worth a lot more than being someone’s second choice.”

Max’s words his unwavering certainty planted a thought in your mind that you weren’t ready to face. “I know you’re trying to help,” you admitted, your voice quieter now, “but it’s complicated. I’ve been friends with Lando for so long it’s hard to just—”

“Walk away?” Max interrupted gently. “Sometimes that’s the best thing you can do for yourself.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but Max shook his head, as if letting you off the hook.

“Forget it,” he said, his tone lighter. “I know you’re not ready to give up on him.” And then he pushed off the wall and walked away, disappearing into the crowd before you could stop him.

But as you stood there, alone in the darkened corner of the club, Lando’s laughter echoing from somewhere across the room, you found yourself wondering if Max was right. And if he was…what the hell were you still waiting for?

One late night, you found yourself sitting with Max in the quiet hum of the Red Bull garage. His hands moved animatedly as he explained his thoughts on the upcoming strategy, eyes sharp with focus, completely absorbed in his own thoughts. He spoke fast, precise, running through every possibility, every variable, like his mind was operating on a level most people couldn’t even grasp.

It was mesmerising to watch.

“You’re staring,” he noted, barely looking up from the data, but the smirk in his voice was unmistakable.

You blinked, caught off guard, heat creeping up your neck. “Am I?” you deflected, tilting your head. “Maybe I’m just realising you might actually know what you’re talking about.”

Max let out a short chuckle, leaning back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest as he studied you with an infuriating level of amusement. “Careful,” he mused, his eyes glinting. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were impressed.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “Let’s not get carried away.”

His smirk widened, his voice dropping slightly as he leaned in. “Too late. I’m taking it as a compliment.”

You rolled your eyes, but the small smile you couldn’t quite hide gave you away. “Fine. I guess you’re a lot better at this than I may have originally gave you credit for.”

Max raised an eyebrow, his smirk deepening. “That almost sounded genuine. Say it again, I just wanna make sure I heard you right.”

You nudged his arm, laughing despite yourself. “Don’t push your luck Verstappen.”

Max just grinned, and he looked at you then like he knew something you didn’t, but before you could respond your phone buzzed on the table between you. You didn’t even have to check the screen to know who it was.

Lando.

You picked it up, your stomach tightening as you read the message. A simple, casual miss you.

Two words that once would have sent your heart racing now felt hollow. Forced. Like an afterthought rather than something real. Your fingers hovered over the screen before you exhaled quietly and set your phone back down without replying.

“What did he say?” Max asked, his tone unreadable.

“Nothing important,” you murmured, brushing your thumb over the edge of the table.

Max didn’t press, but the atmosphere felt heavier, like there was something you’d both acknowledged without needing to say it aloud.

Then, with a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes, Max stood, stretching his arms over his head. “Come on, it’s late let’s get out of here.”

You nodded, standing as well, but before you could say anything, he glanced at you, something unreadable across his face. “Goodnight princess,” he added as you headed your own way, his tone light, teasing like nothing about this night had affected him at all.

But when you looked at him, really looked at him, you saw it. The shift in his expression. The way his smirk faltered for just a second, like there was something else he wanted to say but wouldn’t.

Days later you were standing beside Max the night air was warm, thick with the lingering heat of the day. It could’ve been anywhere, a quiet corner of the paddock, or a rooftop overlooking the city, it didn’t matter. What mattered was the way Max wouldn’t look at you.

He had been quiet all day. His jaw was tight, his fingers tracing the edge of the bottle in his hand, his eyes fixed on the ground like he was thinking about something he didn’t want to say out loud.

You exhaled, shifting beside him. “You’re acting weird.”

Max scoffed lightly, shaking his head. “I’m not.”

You arched an eyebrow. “You are. You’re never quiet this long unless you’re planning something dangerous.”

At that, he let out a breath of laughter, but it faded quickly.

“I don’t get it,” he said suddenly, watching you over his drink.

You frowned. “Get what?”

His jaw clenched slightly before he spoke, his voice quieter now, more measured. “How can he not see it?”

A strange sort of unease curled in your chest. “See what?”

“You.” His voice was steady, intent. “You’re always there, supporting him, understanding him…I don’t understand how he doesn’t see how incredible you are.”

Your breath caught, heat rushing to your face at the sheer honesty in his tone. Max didn’t say things he didn’t mean. He didn’t hand out compliments just for the sake of it.

“Max…”

He shook his head, setting his drink down on the ledge beside him. “He’s blind, or maybe just afraid. But you deserve more than this.” His lips pressed together for a second, like he was trying to keep his emotions in check. “You deserve someone who doesn’t take you for granted.”

You swallowed, a mix of emotions swirling inside you. “It’s not as bad as you make it sound,” you admitted, your voice softer now. “I know he cares about me, maybe not in the way I’ve always wanted him to but…” You hesitated, trying to find the right words. “When things got hard, when I needed someone, he’s never turned his back on me.” A small, almost sad smile crossed your lips. “We’ve been through so much together. He knows me better than most people do.”

Max’s expression was lost, but he didn’t interrupt.

“It’s just sometimes, it’s hard,” you admitted finally, your voice carrying the weight of years of unspoken doubts. “Because I know he cares really, in his own way, but I don’t know if it’ll ever be enough.” You shook your head, exhaling slowly. “Not in the way I want it to be.”

Max’s gaze softened slightly, the edge of his earlier frustration fading just a little. “You can’t keep waiting for him to notice,” he murmured finally, breaking the quiet. His voice was steady, but there was something else there too.

You shifted beside him, wrapping your arms around yourself. “I’m not waiting—”

Max cut you a look.

You sighed, looking down at your hands. “Okay. Maybe I am.”

Max exhaled, running a hand through his hair, glancing out into the night. For a moment, you thought that was the end of it that he would just drop it like he always did when you didn’t want to listen. But then, just as you were about to change the subject, he spoke again.

“I just don’t get why it has to be him.”

Your head snapped up, eyes locking onto his. “What?”

Max’s jaw tightened, like he regretted saying it out loud. But he didn’t backtrack. He never did. Instead, he exhaled sharply. “You act like he’s the only person in the world who could ever make you happy.”

Your stomach twisted. “That’s not—”

“Isn’t it?” His voice was level, but there was an edge to it, something restrained. He ran a hand over his jaw, looking away for a second before turning back to you. “I’ve seen you wait for him. Years. And I keep wondering…”

A lump formed in your throat. “Wondering what?”

Max swallowed, his hands flexing at his sides like he wanted to shove them in his pockets or maybe run them through his hair again, anything to distract himself. But he didn’t. He just looked at you.

“Wondering when you’re gonna realise you don’t have to.”

The words hit you like a punch to the stomach.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

Because what the hell were you supposed to say to that?

He leaned back against the ledge, tilting his head slightly. “For what it’s worth,” he said, his voice softer now, no teasing, just quiet sincerity. “I just want you to be happy. That’s all.”

You exhaled, looking down at your hands, the weight of everything settling deep in your chest. “Me too.”

Max nudged your knee with his, a small attempt to lighten the moment. “You’ll figure it out.”

You glanced at him, searching his expression, and found nothing but warmth in his gaze. “Yeah?”

He nodded, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah. You always figure things out when it matters.”

You huffed a small laugh and just like that, the tension lifted, fading into the night. Maybe nothing had changed. Maybe everything had. And for the first time, you weren’t sure if you were waiting for Lando at all. Or if you were just afraid of what would happen if you finally stopped.

Lando’s behaviour changed even more in the following weeks as he felt your absence grow.

The late replies that once went unnoticed were now met with double texts. The easy, casual invites had turned into persistent attempts to recreate days together “just like old times.” He was calling more, messaging at odd hours, throwing your name into conversations like a tether, as if trying to remind you of your place in his world.

It should have felt like everything you had ever wanted. The attention, the shift, the proof that maybe this had been the answer all along. And yet, somehow, the thrill of getting Lando’s attention wasn’t as satisfying as you’d imagined.

And then, one night, everything changed.

It wasn’t a grand gesture, no dramatic moment of realisation. It was just Lando, the two of you standing together slightly separated from the crowd. You had noticed it the way his eyes lingered, the way his laughter softened when it was just the two of you, like he was seeing something new.

And then, just like that, he finally said it.

“You’re one of the most important people in my life,” he admitted. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Let me take you out,” he said suddenly, almost like he was realising it in real time. “Just us. Properly.”

Your heart pounded as you stared at him.

This was it.

Lando, finally seeing you. Finally wanting you.

For months, years really, you had waited for this. Dreamed of it even.

And when the moment finally arrived, you said yes.

A real dinner, just the two of you. No last-minute paddock meet-ups, no half-hearted invitations tacked onto group outings. A proper date. The kind you had imagined more times than you could count. And yet, as you sat across from Lando at a sleek, candlelit table, dressed in the outfit you’d spent way too long picking out, the excitement you had expected wasn’t there.

Instead, a strange mix of anticipation and dread settled in your chest.

You tried to ignore it.

Lando was smiling at you, talking animatedly about something, golf, or maybe a new sim rig setup, but you found your mind drifting. The restaurant was perfect, the kind of place you used to imagine him taking you to.

But something about the moment still felt…off.

You forced yourself to focus.

Lando leaned back in his chair, exhaling as he ran a hand through his hair, his fingers raking through the curls like he was trying to ease some unseen tension. “Everything is just so busy at the moment,” he admitted, shaking his head slightly. “Sponsor stuff, sim training, and, you know, the actual racing.” He let out a small laugh. “Barely any time to breathe.”

He smiled then, but there was something searching in his gaze. His fingers tapped lightly against the stem of his glass before he lifted it, taking a slow sip. “But I guess you’ve been busy too.”

You blinked at him. “What do you mean?”

Lando tilted his head slightly, the candlelight flickering in his eyes as he studied you. “I don’t know,” he said, voice lighter than his expression. “It just feels like I don’t see you as much anymore. Not like we used to.”

The words settled between you, and suddenly, the air felt heavier.

You hesitated, fingers curling around the stem of your wine glass, rolling it between your fingertips as if that would steady you. “Yeah…I guess things have just been different lately.”

Lando nodded slowly, but his gaze didn’t leave yours. “Different how?”

“I don’t know,” you said carefully. “I guess I’ve just been… busy.”

Lando hummed, unconvinced. “Busy with Max?”

You inhaled sharply, the directness of his words catching you off guard. He wasn’t teasing, wasn’t smirking. He was asking.

You placed your glass down, exhaling. “We’ve been spending more time together, yeah.”

“I figured,” he said finally, his voice even. “You two have been… close lately.”

You swallowed, feeling a strange mix of guilt and something else, something you weren’t ready to name. “It’s not like that,” you said quickly, but even as the words left your mouth, you weren’t sure they were true.

Lando studied you for another second, then sighed, shaking his head with a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m not mad, you know,” he said, softer now. “I just… I guess I didn’t realise how much things had changed.”

Your chest tightened, but you didn’t know what to say. Because neither had you.

Lando nodded, then he leaned forward resting his elbows on the table, his voice dropping slightly. “Did I do something wrong?”

You swallowed, caught off guard. “No. Of course not.”

And it was true, wasn’t it? Lando hadn’t done anything wrong. Not really.

But even as the words left your mouth, doubt crept in.

Lando smiled then, that boyish grin that had always made your heart stutter in the past, the one that made it so easy to believe that maybe this could be something real. Something right.

“I’m glad,” he said, his voice lighter now, more assured. “Because I’ve missed you. And I’m really glad we’re finally doing this.”

You smiled, sipping your wine. “Yeah, it’s nice. Kind of reminds me of when things were simpler.”

The conversation flowed easier after that, the awkwardness from earlier slipping away, replaced by something familiar. Comfortable. For the first time that night, it felt like just you and Lando again. No second-guessing, no pressure, but deep down you knew there was still that lingering uncertainty in the back of your mind.

The next evening you found Max leaning against the hotel’s outdoor railing, looking out over the city lights. He glanced up as you approached, and you saw it the tightness in his jaw, the way his fingers curled slightly against the metal railing.

“You okay?” you asked, coming to stand beside him.

Max let out a slow breath. “Long day.”

You hesitated before speaking. “I went out with Lando last night.”

His jaw tensed. “I know.”

You studied him for a moment, the way his expression gave nothing away, the way his shoulders seemed just a little more rigid than usual. “Going out with him again tonight?” His voice was calm.

You frowned, something about the way he asked making your stomach twist. “Yes. I thought that’s what you wanted. Isn’t this your plan?”

Max finally turned to you then, he exhaled through his nose, a humourless chuckle escaping before he shook his head. “Yeah,” he said, voice quieter now. “It was.”

“Max…”

He looked away, his fingers gripping the railing a little tighter. “Maybe it wasn’t the best idea after all.”

You blinked, taken aback by the shift in his voice, the weight behind the words. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Max let out a slow breath, shaking his head slightly, like he was frustrated, like he was frustrated with himself more than anything else. “Forget it,” he muttered, pushing off the railing.

“No,” you countered quickly, “tell me.”

He hesitated, his gaze searching yours, but whatever he was looking for he must not have found it, because instead of answering he took a step back. “Trust me, it doesn’t matter,” he sighed, turning towards the door.

You watched him go, frustration rising in your chest. “It does matter Max,” you called after him, but he didn’t stop, didn’t turn back.

His words hung in the air between you as he walked back inside. It wasn’t like Max to admit something like that to let something slip in a way that made him sound uncertain. He was always so sure, so stubborn, so relentless in his convictions. But tonight? He had let you see it. For the first time, you weren’t sure who this plan had really been for.

His words lingered in your mind long after he’d said them.

Dinners with Lando should have felt like everything you’d been waiting for. The perfect setting, the glow of candlelight, the easy rhythm of conversation. And yet, despite it all, the way he smiled at you from across the table, the familiarity that once felt effortless, something was missing.

It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t awkward. But it felt… off. Like a song played just slightly out of tune. Like you were reaching for something that wasn’t there anymore, grasping at the edges of a feeling that had already slipped through your fingers.

And worse, you couldn’t stop thinking about Max.

His easy smile, the way he always saw through you, the way he challenged you and pushed you in a way that never felt like a game. Just enough to make you feel. Just enough to make you realise that somehow he had carved out space in your life when you hadn’t even been looking. You weren’t sure when it had started, this creeping awareness, this feeling that had settled in the back of your mind, refusing to be ignored. But it was there now. Constant. Unshakable.

Sitting across from Lando you realised something that terrified you. You had outgrown the idea of him, outgrown the dream of what you thought this would be.

And yet, things didn’t get any better from there. If anything, they got worse.

Lando’s sudden attention and Max’s constant presence pulled you in opposite directions, leaving you stranded somewhere between what you had always wanted and what you had never expected to find. And then, one evening, everything came to a head.

It was after another race, the energy in the paddock still buzzing as people came and went, but you had stepped away from the noise, needing a moment to breathe when the familiar hum of certain voices caught your attention.

You hadn’t meant to eavesdrop.

But the second you recognised Max’s voice, low, tight, edged with frustration, you froze.

“You know, you’ve got a real gift for not seeing what’s right in front of you,” he said, his tone sharper than usual.

You frowned, your heart already racing as you stood up, moving closer to the edge of the doorway.

Lando’s reply was instant, defensive. “What’s your problem Max?”

Max let out a hollow laugh, sharp and humourless. “My problem?” he repeated, his voice dripping with frustration. “My problem is that you’ve had her in front of you for years, and you still can’t see her.”

Your breath caught, your body going rigid where you stood, hidden just out of sight.

There was a beat of silence, then Lando’s voice again, louder now. “What are you even talking about?”

Max scoffed, the sound filled with disbelief. “You know exactly what.” His voice was rising, the usual restraint gone. “She’s there, every race, every time you win, every time you screw up. Every time you need someone, she’s there.” His voice wavered for just a second before he pressed on, his words cutting through the air like a blade. “She’s the one who backs you up. Who understands you. Who makes excuses for you when you don’t even deserve them.”

Lando exhaled sharply, the sound more irritated than guilty. “Jesus Max you’re acting like I don’t care about her.”

Max let out a bitter laugh. “You don’t care about her. Not in the way you should.”

Lando’s voice sharpened. “And I suppose you do?”

Silence.

The kind of silence that wasn’t empty, but charged, pulsing between them like the prelude to a storm.

Your stomach twisted violently, your pulse hammering in your ears.

When Max spoke again, his voice was quieter, but no less intense. “She’s incredible Lando,” he said, his frustration bleeding into something raw, something real. “She’s smart, she’s funny, she’s… beautiful.” His voice cracked slightly, like saying the words out loud was taking something from him. “And you’re too blind to see it.”

Lando was quiet for a second. "You’re being dramatic.”

Max’s voice was flat. “Am I?”

“What’s your deal man? Since when do you care so much?” Lando prodded.

There it was.

The question you had never dared to ask yourself.

“Because I…” He stopped, inhaling sharply like the words had gotten stuck somewhere in his throat. But when he spoke again, they came out hoarse, unguarded in a way you had never heard from him before. “Because maybe she deserves someone who actually sees her.” His voice was thick with something fragile. “Someone who doesn’t just notice her when she’s not there.”

Max wasn’t just arguing anymore. He wasn’t just frustrated with Lando. He was hurt.

Lando shook his head, disbelieving. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” Max shot back, stepping forward now, his voice taut. “How is it fair to her? How is it fair that she’s spent years—years Lando waiting for you to notice something you never have? And now you suddenly care? Now that she’s not standing around waiting for you to decide?”

Lando opened his mouth, but Max cut him off.

“No, you don’t get to act like you’re some innocent guy in all this,” he snapped, his voice sharper than you’d ever heard it. “You don’t get to pretend you’re confused when you’ve spent this whole time taking her for granted.”

Lando’s face twisted, frustration flashing in his eyes. “You don’t know what you’re talking about—”

Max took another step closer. “Then tell me I’m wrong,” he challenged, voice low, dangerous. “Look me in the eye and tell me that you’re not just doing this because she finally pulled away. Tell me that if she had never distanced herself, if she had never stopped running after you, if she never came to me, you still would’ve done something about it.”

Lando’s mouth opened slightly, like he wanted to argue, like he needed to argue.

But he didn’t.

Because he couldn’t.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Max exhaled sharply, shaking his head. His voice, when he spoke again, was quieter now, resigned. “If you really care about her…if you actually see her like you should have a long time ago then prove it. Otherwise…” He swallowed, his jaw tightening. “Otherwise, let her go.”

Your entire body had gone numb, frozen in place as the weight of his words crashed over you.

Lando didn’t answer and you couldn’t listen anymore.

You found Max outside the paddock, walking with quick, purposeful strides, his shoulders tense like he was trying to outrun what had just happened. His head was down, his fists clenched at his sides, his usual easy confidence stripped away.

You followed him before you could think better of it, your own heart hammering in your chest, your mind racing with everything you had just overheard.

“Max,” you called, your voice unsteady.

He didn’t stop.

“Max!” you yelled.

He stumbled back a step, his eyes widening when they met yours, realisation crashing over him in real time.

Shock. Guilt. Panic.

You saw it all flash across his face before he masked it, his expression shuttering, his jaw tightening as he instinctively tried to school himself into neutrality. But his fingers curled at his sides, his shoulders rising and falling with deep, unsteady breaths.

He knew.

He knew you had heard everything.

His mouth opened, like he was about to say something, an excuse, maybe, a brush-off, but you didn’t give him the chance.

“What was that?” you demanded, breathless, your pulse still racing.

Max hesitated, and for the first time since you’d known him he looked unsure. His entire frame stiffened, his lips parting before he pressed them into a thin line, calculating his next move weighing whether to tell the truth or run from it.

Finally, he let out a breath, voice rough when he spoke. “I would never take you for granted,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “I would never make you wonder where you stand. I would never make you feel like you weren’t enough.”

His eyes never left yours, as he continued. “If he can’t see what’s right in front of him, if he doesn’t wake up every damn day knowing how lucky he is just to exist in your orbit. If he can’t see you, if he can’t want you the way you deserve to be wanted, fully, completely, without hesitation..."

“Then maybe I can.” his next words coming out softer, but no less certain. “Because I already do.”

The world stilled.

Your breath caught, your body betraying you as warmth spread through your chest, through your limbs, through every single place Max Verstappen had ever touched in some way.

For weeks, months, you had been fighting it. Pretending it wasn’t there. Telling yourself that this was about Lando.

But standing here now, with Max looking at you like this, like you were something to be fought for you couldn’t lie to yourself anymore.

The days following Max’s confession were a blur of introspection and uncertainty. Lando reached out, texting, calling, sending you memes like nothing had changed, like he was trying to pull you back into the rhythm of what you’d always been.

But everything had changed.

Because every time your phone lit up with his name, your thoughts drifted to Max. The quiet strength of his presence, the way he had seen you, really seen you, long before you had even admitted it to yourself. Because for all the sniping and bickering, for all the fire and ice between you, Max had always been there. Not in the soft, obvious way Lando was, but in the way that mattered. He’d challenge you, push you, piss you off, but when it counted, when you really needed someone, Max showed up. No grand gestures, no sentimental speeches. Just him. Standing beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And eventually, you knew what you had to do.

You needed to talk to Lando. Really talk.

You found him at the track, sitting in the back of McLaren’s garage, staring at his phone like it held answers he didn’t know how to ask for. He looked up when you approached, his expression flickering with something between relief and apprehension.

“Hey,” he said, shoving his phone into his pocket. “You finally decided to stop avoiding me?”

You sighed, sliding into the seat across from him. “I wasn’t avoiding you.”

Lando raised an eyebrow. “Oh so you just happened to stop texting back? And just happened to be everywhere except where I was?” His voice was teasing, but his expression betrayed him.

You exhaled, gripping the edge of the table as you tried to steady your emotions. “I needed space to figure things out.”

Lando’s smirk, the one he always used to defuse tension, flickered, then disappeared entirely.

“Lando,” you said cautiously, searching for the right words, unsure of how to say what needed to be said. “I care about you…I always will…but I also care about Max.”

His brows pulled together instantly. “What do you mean?” His voice wasn’t defensive, but it was careful, like he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.

You took a steadying breath, your pulse quickening. “I’ve spent a lot of time with him this year, and somewhere along the way something changed,” you admitted, the words feeling heavier as they left your lips. “I see us all so differently now. And it’s… complicated.”

Lando’s expression shifted, his jaw tensing slightly. He blinked a few times, like he was still trying to process what you were saying. “So… you’re saying you like him?”

You hesitated, but there was no point in denying it anymore. “Yeah,” you said softly, your heart pounding. “I think I do.”

Lando leaned back in his seat, dragging a hand down his face before exhaling slowly. His lips pressed together, his mind working through something you couldn’t quite place.

You could see it, the initial reaction he was fighting, the part of him that didn’t like it, the part that was still struggling with the idea of losing whatever the two of you had once been. For years, you had been his, his closest friend, his safe space, the person who had always been there, no matter what.

And now, you weren’t.

For a long moment he didn’t say anything. He just stared at the table, brows furrowed, jaw still clenched like he was trying to work out how he really felt about this.

“Lando?” you prompted hesitantly.

He let out a breath, shaking his head. “I mean… I guess I should’ve seen this coming, right?”

You frowned. “Lando—”

“No, I mean it,” he interrupted, sitting up straighter. “You and Max…I don’t know. It makes sense, I guess.”

You searched his face, trying to gauge how much of that was genuine. “You don’t have to pretend to be okay with it.”

Lando sighed, shaking his head. “I’m not pretending.” He paused, rubbing his palms over his thighs before looking back at you. “It’s just weird you know? I got so used to you being my person, even if I was too stupid to ever do anything about it.” His lips twitched into a small, almost bitter smile. “And now you’re…his?”

You swallowed, shifting slightly in your seat. “I don’t know what I am yet.”

He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table. “You two have spent years arguing about everything. I always thought you hated each other half the time.”

You let out a short, almost incredulous laugh. “We do sometimes.” You shook your head, a small smile playing at your lips as memories flickered through your mind. “We push each other’s buttons, we argue, we drive each other insane. But somehow…it just makes sense now.”

Lando drummed his fingers on the table, nodding slowly as he processed your words. “So what you’re saying is you like the way he pushes your buttons?”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s not just that.”

He smirked slightly. “But it is a little bit that.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Maybe. But it’s also the fact that he sees me. He pushes me to be better. He doesn’t let me fade into the background or sit around waiting for someone to notice me.”

Lando let out a slow breath, nodding. “Yeah. That sounds like Max.”

You hesitated. “I know this isn’t what you wanted to hear.”

“It’s not. But that doesn’t mean I don’t get it.” He glanced away for a second before looking back at you, his gaze softer. “Does he make you happy?”

The question caught you off guard.

Did Max make you happy?

The thought of him alone sent warmth spreading through your chest, and you realised you were smiling before you even had the chance to answer.

“Yeah,” you admitted softly. “He does.”

Lando watched you for a long moment, then let out a short chuckle. “Then that’s it isn’t it?”

You frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, if he makes you happy, then you should go for it.”

You blinked. “Just like that?”

He gave you a small, almost exasperated smile. “No, not just like that. I don’t love it, okay? I don’t love the idea…” He ran a hand through his hair. “But I’ve known Max a long time. And yeah, he can piss me off…” A smirk ghosted over his lips before fading just as quickly. “But he’s a good guy. And if he’s the one who finally made you feel seen then I can’t be mad about that. And I know that if he cares about you the way I think he does, then he’s going to treat you right.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, your chest tightening.

“This might not mean much, but…” he started, voice softer now. “I’m sorry.”

Your brows furrowed slightly. “For what?”

“For not being what you needed. For noticing you too late.” He swallowed, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know if things would have been different if I had figured it out sooner, but you deserved better than waiting around for me to get my shit together.”

Your chest ached at his words, but there was no anger, no resentment just an understanding that you had both needed to reach.

“I do love you, you know,” Lando added. “Maybe not in the way you wanted. But you’ve always meant a lot to me.”

You reached across the table, squeezing his hand briefly before pulling away. “And you’ll always mean a lot to me too.”

Lando smiled then. “Just don’t let him gloat too much about this, alright?”

A laugh bubbled out of you, and for the first time in months, it didn’t feel weighed down by uncertainty.

Things between you and Lando weren’t perfect. Maybe they never would be again.

But as you sat there, sharing a smile that still felt familiar, you realised something important.

You hadn’t lost him.

And maybe you were finally allowing yourself to find something new.

You went to Max the next night, your heart pounding with every step, anticipation buzzing beneath your skin like electricity. No more waiting, no more pretending. Every nerve in your body was alight with the urgency of it, the sheer need to see him, to tell him.

The moment he opened the door you could tell something was wrong. He stood there, gripping the handle tightly, his posture tense, like he had been expecting bad news. His hair was slightly disheveled, he looked restless, unsettled, like he was carrying a weight he didn’t know how to put down.

You hesitated, swallowing hard. “Can I come in?”

Max stared at you for a second longer, as if debating whether letting you in would make this better or worse. But then, with a sigh, he stepped back, holding the door open.

You slipped inside, the air in the room heavy, thick with unspoken words. The faint scent of his cologne lingered in the space, and you noticed the half-empty water bottle on the bedside table, the hotel key tossed haphazardly on the desk. It looked like he had been pacing, maybe sitting at the edge of the bed, getting up, sitting back down, as if he hadn’t been able to sit still since the last time you saw him.

Max ran a hand over his face, exhaling slowly before turning back to you. “I get it,” he muttered before you could speak, voice gruff, like he had already convinced himself of the worst. “You don’t have to say anything.”

Your brows furrowed. “Max—”

“No, really.” He let out a breathless, almost bitter chuckle, shaking his head. “I already know how this goes. I saw you with him yesterday at the McLaren garage.” He forced a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re here to tell me that this was a mistake. That I got the wrong idea. That you’re choosing him.”

His words stung, not because they were true, but because he actually believed them.

Your throat tightened. “Max, that’s not—”

“If you’re happy, then I’m happy.” His voice was quieter now, you knew he was telling the truth, but still he was guarded, like he was preparing himself for impact. “That’s what matters.”

Something inside you cracked.

You stepped forward before you could second-guess yourself, reaching for his hand. He flinched slightly at the contact, his fingers twitching against yours, but he didn’t pull away.

“Did you mean what you said?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Max’s brows knitted together, his body going still. “What?”

You swallowed hard, your thumb brushing over his knuckles. “About seeing me, wanting me?”

For a second you saw it that flicker of hesitation, the instinct to lie, to brush it off, to save himself from whatever heartbreak he thought was coming. His lips parted, as if he was about to say something dismissive, something easy.

But he couldn’t do it.

He couldn’t lie to you. Not about this. Not when it had been clawing at him for months, maybe years.

His mask slipped, the exhaustion, the frustration, the sheer weight of everything finally crashing down as he exhaled. His voice when he spoke was raw, unfiltered, like he had no choice but to lay himself bare.

“Every word,” he admitted, his gaze burning into yours. His fingers twitched against your hand, his grip tightening just slightly, as if he needed something to hold onto. “I meant every fucking word.”

You had spent so long waiting, waiting to be noticed, waiting to be chosen, waiting for something that was never going to happen. And all this time, Max had been there. Right in front of you. Seeing you in a way you had never even thought to ask for.

Relief flooded through you, mingling with something that had been building for so long, something inevitable.

Your breath came shakily, your fingers trembling slightly as the truth tumbled out before you could stop it. “I think…” You swallowed hard, meeting his gaze, the weight of the moment pressing down on you like gravity itself. “I think I’ve been waiting for the wrong person.”

His entire body reacted, like the words had physically hit him, like he had been bracing himself for heartbreak and suddenly, inexplicably, found himself with something else entirely.

Hope.

His eyes searched yours, desperate and overwhelmed. “I didn’t plan this,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, his hand hovering near your cheek fighting against every instinct telling him to touch you. “But…I can’t pretend it isn’t real.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine.

It was real. It had been real for so much longer than you had even realised.

You let out a breathless, almost disbelieving laugh. “Neither can I.”

“You mean that?” he asked.

“I mean it,” you whispered, leaning into his touch, feeling the warmth of his palm against your skin. “I see you now,” you breathed, voice steadier than you expected. “And I don’t want to wait anymore.”

Max’s lips parted slightly. “Fuck,” he breathed, his forehead pressing lightly against yours as his other hand settled on your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that.”

Your fingers curled against his chest, gripping the fabric of his hoodie like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. “Then why didn’t you say anything?”

Max let out a breathless chuckle, shaking his head against yours. “Because I’m a fucking idiot.”

You laughed, though it was shaky, uneven, because your heart was pounding so loudly in your chest that you were sure he could hear it.

Max’s hands flexed against you, like he was still struggling to believe this was happening. “I tried not to want this,” he admitted, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Tried to push it down, to ignore it, to pretend like it wasn’t tearing me apart every time I saw you waiting for him.” His grip on you tightened, his forehead pressing harder against yours, his breath warm against your lips. “But once there was even the slightest chance? Once I realised I wasn’t crazy, that maybe—maybe you could feel this too?” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “There was no turning back. I knew.”

“Knew what?”

“That I’d never want anyone else,” he admitted, his voice breaking slightly. “That it’s always been you.”

The words sent a shockwave through you, your entire body reacting before your mind could catch up. A soft breath escaped your lips as you surged forward, your hands gripping his hoodie, your mouth finding his in a kiss that was everything, all the months, years of unspoken feelings, of stolen glances, of tension neither of you had been willing to name.

Max groaned softly against your lips, his hands tightening on your waist as he pulled you against him like he needed you closer, like there was no air without you. He kissed you like he had been starving for this, like he had spent so long convincing himself he couldn’t have it that now, finally, he was never letting go.

You gasped against his mouth, and he smiled into the kiss, tilting his head slightly to deepen it, to savour it, to own it. His hands slid around your back, holding you flush against him, his heartbeat racing just as fast as yours.

When he finally pulled back, just enough to press his forehead to yours again, his breathing was uneven, his lips swollen from the force of it. His fingers trailed down your arms, finding your hands, lacing your fingers together, he let out a quiet laugh.

“What?” you asked, grinning as you fought to steady your breathing, still feeling the ghost of his lips against yours.

Max shook his head, brushing his nose against yours. “I just…I never thought I’d get this,” he admitted, his voice lighter now.

Your heart clenched at the honesty in his voice, the way he looked at you like you were something impossible that had somehow, miraculously, become real.

His voice was quieter when he spoke again. “I’ve felt like this for longer than you probably realise.”

“Oh Max…”

He shook his head. “No, I need to say this.” His hands squeezed at your waist, his touch grounding, reassuring. “I used to tell myself I was just looking out for you. That I was just annoyed whenever you talked about him because I didn’t care…but the truth is I was jealous. So fucking jealous.”

His confession sent warmth flooding through your chest, making your fingers tighten in his hands.

“I’d see you standing by him, always waiting, always looking at him like he was the only one for you, and I’d tell myself that it didn’t matter. That you deserved each other.” He swallowed hard, shaking his head. “But I could never really believe it.”

Your throat felt tight, your heart hammering against your ribs. “Max…”

“I spent so much time telling myself you’d never see me that way,” Max continued, his voice dropping even lower, more intimate. “That even if I wanted you, even if I needed you, it didn’t matter. Because he was always the one you wanted.”

Your breath caught, the truth of it settling deep inside you.

“But then…” He smiled, just barely, like he still couldn’t believe it. “You started choosing me. It wasn’t all at once. It was little things, sticking around in my garage longer than you needed to, texting me first, showing up even when you had no reason to.” His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, his gaze dipping down for a fraction of a second before meeting yours again. “And I realised I couldn’t just be your backup plan. I couldn’t just be the person keeping you distracted while you waited for him.”

You exhaled shakily, tilting your head just slightly into his touch. “Max…” You exhaled shakily, swallowing past the lump in your throat. “You were never just a distraction. You were never a backup plan. You—”

“I know,” he interrupted, smiling more now. “I know that now.”

His fingers brushed over your jaw, achingly gentle, his thumb traced along your cheek, making it impossible to look anywhere but at him.

“For so long, I told myself it wasn’t real. That it was just something in my head. Something I could turn off if I wanted to.”

You felt your chest tighten at the confession, at how much weight he had been carrying alone.

“But then you started pulling away from him,” Max continued, exhaling sharply, his voice almost breaking. “And I—” He shook his head, like the memory itself made him unravel. “I realised I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t pretend I didn’t want you.”

“When we first made that stupid plan I thought, this is my chance to help her. I thought, if I can just get her to stop waiting around for him, maybe she’ll be happy.” He swallowed hard, his eyes flickering between yours. “But I never planned for you. I didn’t think I’d be the one falling harder every second we were together.”

“You’re the one who sees me,” you finally said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Not just when it’s convenient, not just when I’m standing right in front of you, waiting. You see me, even when I don’t know what I want. You make me feel like I matter,” you continued, your fingers smoothing over the lines in his jaw. “Not just because I’m there, not because it’s easy, but because you choose to. Every time.”

A shaky exhale left his lips.

And you weren’t finished.

“You’ve never made me feel like I had to earn my place with you,” you whispered, your thumb brushing against his cheek. “I don’t have to be louder, or funnier, or wait for my turn. I don’t have to prove I belong with you. I just do. You are the person who makes me feel safe, who pushes me without ever making me doubt myself. You don’t just listen, you understand. You don’t just show up, you stay.”

“And it’s not just that,” you continued, voice steadier now. “It’s the way I see you too.”

“I don’t think you even realise it,” you murmured, shaking your head slightly. “How rare you are. How brilliant you are. How you notice things before anyone else does. How your mind works so fast it’s almost unfair.” You let out a small breath of laughter, your hand still cradling his jaw. “They don’t see how funny you are, how effortless it is for you to make people laugh, even when you’re not trying. How much you care even when you pretend not to.”

Before either of you could say anything else, he kissed you again, slow and deep and certain, like he was making up for all the time he had wasted. You sighed into it, your arms winding around his neck, your body pressing into his as his hands gripped your waist, anchoring you against him.

He kissed you like you were his like you had always been his.

“I hope you know,” he murmured against your temple, pressing a lingering kiss there, “that I’m never letting you go now.”

A wide grin broke across your face as you squeezed his hands in return. “Good,” you whispered. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

Max let out a laugh, one full of relief, full of joy, full of you. He kissed you again, and again, and again, each one lighter, each one full of laughter, all full of something so impossibly right.

3K notes · View notes

starkeyszn · 2 months ago

Text

MISS POSSESSIVE ⌇

pairing: rafe cameron x wife!reader

inspo + credits: angelitaaaaaa on c.ai

mr cameron and mrs cameron, both very well known people on kildare island. you and rafe have been married for 3 years, and have been looking to get a new house. rafe wants the best for you both, and has hired the woman who states she’s only had ‘positive feedback and experiences’ on her cv.

“so for the kitchen, i definitely want an island-”

the ringing of a cell-phone made you pause mid-sentence, looking up to rafe. he pulls his cell-phone out of his pocket, “i’ve got to take this, i’ll be right back.” he says, kissing your temple before he excuses himself.

you watch him with a smile, as he exits the room, before you turn your attention to the woman in-front of you. you take a step forward, eyeing her up and down, before leaning against the side of the table. your left hand planting itself on the surface, the diamond on your wedding ring sticking out, glistening in the sunlight.

you look up to woman, eyes narrowing slightly, “chloe,” you begin, your voice dripping with faux sweetness. “it is chloe, right?”

she wrings her hands together, nodding her head, you notice she goes to open her mouth, you cut her off before she can get a word in, “i’m sure you’re- very good, at what you do. otherwise, rafe wouldn’t have asked for you to be here, and for your input.”

“but—please stop speaking to my husband, as if i’m not here.” your eyes narrow, locking in onto the woman’s.

her eyes widen, but she shook it off, looking away for a second. murmuring your name, “miss, i have designed many successful projects.”

“you may call me mrs cameron.” you interject, before she could continue. “and this is not just going to be one of your ‘successful’ projects, this is going to be our home. if you want to keep your job, i suggest you stop fluttering your eyelashes at my husband, and keep your hands to yourself.”

you see the woman visibly stiffen, not expecting a confrontation. her face slowly draining it’s colour. she swallows, before you continue, “or you can go and climb back in to your tacky coloured car, and drive back to washington, take your pick.”

“well, i’m so sorry, mrs cameron, because i would never-” she was quick to cut herself off, noticing rafe re-entering the room, looking up from his phone as he placed it back into his pocket.

his brow raises, glancing between the women. sensing some tension in the air, as you slip off the table. “everything okay?” he asks, his arm finding its place on your waist.

“peachy.” you nodded, smiling to him.

the interior designer shifted her gaze from you to rafe, her expression morphing into a forced smile. she cleared her throat before speaking. “everything is fine, mr cameron.”

rafe studied her for a brief moment, his blue eyes narrowing as he still could feel the unspoken tension. his hand on your waist tightened slightly, almost possessively, as he kept you close to him. “good.”

chloe seemed abit flustered by his intense gaze, but she was quick to compose herself, remembering your words, and redirecting her attention to the house plans laided out on the table.

you had a smile on your face, knowing she wouldn’t make eyes to rafe again, as she kept taking deep breaths, and keeping her eyes focused on the house plans.

STARKEYSZN — i saw this and absolutely loved it, i think it’s a fifty shades of grey reference? but i’m not entirely sure… : requests are open ╱ anon emojis are open

#works ୧ ‧₊˚ 💌 ⋅#༉‧₊˚. wife!reader 🐩#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron x reader #rafe fanfiction #rafe cameron blurb #rafe cameron fluff #rafe cameron fanfiction #outerbanks rafe #rafe outer banks #rafe x you

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sunsburns · 2 months ago

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track 10 — mark grayson (invincible) !

⟢ synopsis. you totally don't have a thing for mark, that would be crazy ... unless

⟢ contains. 18+, mark grayson x fem!reader, nsfw, oral (m & f receiving), cunnilingus. mark is kinda subby, friends with benefits but they like each other, reader is so down bad it's embarassing, and mark isn't any better, gets a little nasty when it comes to cum, mark is a proud moaner, mentions of porn, both mark and reader are lowkey pervs.

⟢ wc: 15k+

⟢ author’s note. mark is an eater, sue me. there's stupid jokes thrown in here, just a long written work of me pushing the casual sex with mark idea. i also like the idea of having an alien boyfriend and making mark more alien than human. a lot of it was inspired by this work from ao3!

You’re such a pervert.

At least, that’s what Mark and William would call you if they saw the way your eyes trailed, lingered, on the way fingers slipped into the holes of bowling balls, your gaze locked on the flex of forearm muscle tightening beneath warm, sandy skin. Veins rising just under the surface. The smooth way wrists rolled as they brought the ball up, perfectly casual, totally unaware.

You exhaled slowly through your nose. The warmth in your stomach was beginning to simmer into something heavier, something you refused to name in the middle of a public bowling alley, under neon lights and the scent of cheap nachos.

Mark would turn scarlet if he caught you. You knew the exact look—eyebrows shooting up, eyes wide and blinking, stammering over his own breath like a shy bastard. And William? God, he’d never let you live it down. He’d smirk like the devil himself, a wicked grin twisting on his face as he realized you’re not so different from him, seconds away from pointing across the lane with an audible gasp like he’s scandalized.

You huffed and slouched deeper into the worn leather seat, folding your arms across your chest like it might shield you from the shame of your own libido. Or at least from the sight of Mark, now lining up his shot.

Why did you even agree to this again?

Third-wheeling William and Rick’s bowling date for the millionth time had officially become the sad little cherry on top of your tragic sundae. You were no longer just the single friend. You were the perpetually single friend. The “don’t worry, you’ll find someone eventually” friend. It made you want to tear your hair out of your head.

Worse still was when Amber and her new boyfriend showed up. You’d run out of excuses not to come by then—tried “midterms,” “period,” even “funeral” once, which William did not find funny. (You still do.)

Maybe that was an exaggeration because you know how competitive William and Amber get so there wouldn’t be much love to go around if the game was close, but still!

And maybe it wasn’t always like this. Maybe they didn’t completely leave you out. They included you in the group cheers, the trash talk, and even the occasional victory dance when one of you got a lucky strike. You weren’t invisible. Just… orbiting. A little too aware of the way everyone else had someone to orbit with.

But tonight was different.

Because Mark Grayson was here.

You hadn’t expected it—had already accepted your fate as the designated third wheel, again—but when William pulled up and you opened the car door, there he was. Sitting in the back seat. Tugging at the sleeves of his sweater. That stupid, kinda cute grin on his face when he saw the shock on yours.

Mark Grayson. The best friend turned part-time cryptid. A guy you maybe saw once every other week if the planets aligned and there wasn’t a kaiju climbing out of Lake Michigan. These days, he showed up in the group chat typing out things like “Sorry I’ve been MIA, was in space lol” or “brb gotta swim in a volcano for endurance training :(” like it was completely normal and not the kind of thing that made you feel a weird cocktail of secondhand stress and... butterflies.

He was still the same guy who sent you videos of raccoons screaming into bird feeders at 2 a.m. Still remembered to say “hi” to your mom over text. Still promised you he wasn’t dead every now and then. But sitting beside him in the car—seeing his knee bouncing, his jaw shifting with a soft grin like nothing had changed—it hit you just how much had.

He looked… older. And maybe you looked older too but it was like he’d seen things and hadn’t told anyone. His eyes had that faraway shine he got when he was lost in thought, and even with the quiet hum of William and Rick’s shitty playlist and the greasy scent of drive-thru fries between you all, you could feel the shift in the air. A little quieter. A little heavier.

You had to play it cool. Pretend your entire body hadn’t immediately started sparking like faulty wiring the second he said your name and nudged your knee with his. You had to stop smiling so hard that your cheeks hurt.

You had to act like this was any other night. Like he wasn’t the reason your stomach had butterflies and your thighs had opinions.

You leaned your head against the window, hiding your face, hoping the dark would swallow the flush climbing your neck. You muttered something sarcastic about “the prodigal son returning,” and Mark just chuckled, that same warm, dorky sound that always made your stomach twist.

He said, “You act like I’ve been gone for five years. It’s only been, like, two weeks.”

You gave him a flat look. “You missed two birthdays, Mark.”

He winced. “Okay, technically I was there for William’s. You just couldn’t see me.”

“Yeah,” William piped up from the front seat, smirking. “Because you were in orbit.”

Mark shrugged with a guilty laugh and you were smiling the whole car ride.

Not because he was saying anything particularly funny—though he did, at one point, launch into a truly terrible pun about black holes and bowling balls—but just because he was there. And you wouldn’t have to sit alone all night, nursing a soda while Rick and William played footsie over the ball return.

By the time you all reached the bowling alley, cheap neon lights flickering overhead, you were already white-knuckling it through the evening. The floors stuck just a little to your soles, gum-slick and soda-stained, the way only old alleys could be. It felt like someone turned the heater up to just uncomfortable, and you were nearly sweating through your shirt despite the chill of your drink between your hands.

You’re trying your best not to blare your teeth because neither Rick nor Mark would understand how badly you need to sink them into something. And the last thing you need is William playing Cupid again. If he catches even a whiff of this (and he will, the man could sniff out sexual frustration like a fucking bloodhound) you’ll spend the rest of the night dodging his attempts to set you up with someone’s cousin. Or sibling. Or roommate. Or ex.

So instead, you cross your legs, pressing your thighs together like a lifeline, grateful for the thick fabric of your jeans creating friction, if nothing else. You chew furiously on the nachos Rick ordered for the table, salt and fake cheese mixing with the lingering taste of your own desperation, pretending to be invested in the score.

You tried to have a little shame with the way you were staring—really, you tried. But your casual glances across the lanes kept narrowing, funnelling, zeroing in on one person. And the way Mark moved tonight was ridiculous.

You were practically biting your fist, hating how much you loved the way his shoulders shifted under that stupid sweater—the very same one he used to wear in high school. Still threadbare in places. Still soft-looking. Still familiar. Except now, it clung a little tighter to the broader frame he’d grown into, hugging his chest and upper arms like a secret he hadn’t meant to keep from you.

You don’t even think that yellow button-up he used to pair it with would fit anymore. Not unless he wanted to pop a few buttons and really give you something to talk about in therapy.

Mark had filled out in ways you didn’t quite expect—broader shoulders, a thicker chest, and maybe, just maybe, he’d gotten taller too. It was subtle at first, the kind of change that didn’t register until he handed you his old, beloved Seance Dog t-shirt one afternoon like it was nothing. You remembered how the sleeves used to sag on him, how the shirt had always hung a little loose, and yet it had fit obscenely tight the last time he wore it. The fabric had clung to his torso like a second skin, sleeves straining around his biceps, the hem inching up every time he moved, flashing bare slivers of skin that had no right being that distracting.

You still kept that shirt. Obviously. You told yourself it was sentimental value.

But he looked good tonight. Unfairly so. Maybe he’d always looked good and you were just blind before. Or maybe being away from him for so long had cracked something wide open. Or, worst-case scenario: your hormones were finally staging a mutiny.

Mark kept adjusting the sleeves of his sweater, rolling them up to his elbows like he didn’t know what he was doing. As if the sight of his forearms—tan and veined, the muscles shifting under his skin—wasn’t actively short-circuiting your brain.

You tried to be normal about the way you watched him walk over to the ball return, fingers ghosting across the slick surfaces like he was reading them in braille. You watched his hand pause on the biggest ball available, the one no one else bothered with, and he lifted it like it was made of foam. You felt your pulse stutter at the way his fingers—pointer, middle, thumb—slid into the holes like they belonged there, like they knew what they were doing. His forearm flexed, slow and subtle, and something deep in your stomach clenched in a way that made you feel both ashamed and violently alive.

His skin barely shifted from the strain. Just a soft pull. A ripple. The gentlest whisper of effort. But you admired it all the same. The slight dip of muscle at his elbow. The veins running up his arm. The quiet strength of his grip.

You tried not to imagine Mark’s hands on your hips. Or in your hair. Or in your mouth. Or worse—inside you. You tried not to think about what kind of sounds he might make. Was he a moaner or does he just groan? Would he whimper? Would he say your name like it meant something?

Would Amber tell you if you asked her?

She probably would. She’d smirk, hand you a drink, and tell you to stop being a pussy and go find out yourself.

You shift in your seat again, squeezing your thighs tighter, desperate for relief, for control, for anything other than this maddening ache.

Mark throws the ball. It gutters. Again.

He looks back at you immediately, face scrunching like he’s trying to play it off, but you catch the flicker of embarrassment behind it. You give him two exaggerated thumbs up, all supportive sarcasm. He returns the gesture with just as much sass, which makes you laugh, which makes your heart thump, which makes everything worse.

God, he really does hate bowling. He’s terrible at it. And somehow that only makes you want him more.

If you had a dick, you’re sure you’d be dealing with a painfully obvious hard-on by now. Instead, you’re left to wonder how wet your jeans are getting and whether the people around you will just assume your nipples are hard from the cold. (You wore a bra tonight. Thank God for small mercies.)

You shouldn't be thinking about one of your friends like this. Not someone you barely get to see anymore. You don’t want to ruin this with whatever’s going on in your head. But it’s too late, isn’t it? You’re already undressing him in your mind, mouth full of nachos, pupils blown wide.

You take another bite, chewing mindlessly, trying to remember when exactly this started. When Mark became more than just your high school buddy. When the sight of him made your lungs forget how to work. When you stopped seeing him as just Mark—and started seeing him as something else. Someone else. Someone you wanted.

“I suck.”

You hear Mark huff as he comes back from the floor. His frown is apologetic and self-deprecating as he drags his feet.

“And blow.” William snickers, rising from his spot next to Rick for his turn. His teasing tone is sharp and playful, drawing laughter from you and Rick alike.

“Fuck off,” Mark retorts, his irritation softening the moment—and then, like it’s nothing, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, Mark makes his way to you. And it’s stupid, the way your breath stills just a little. Just a second.

His face shifts when he gets close, softer now. “Hey,” he says, with that quiet little smile of his.

“Hi.” You try not to sound breathless.

“I suck at bowling,” he says again, collapsing into the seat beside you.

Now, being close enough to catch even the faintest trace of his cologne—the familiar scent that you and Debbie painstakingly chose for his birthday last year. You remember that bottle, both of you debating over what “smelled like Mark.” This one had lingered on your coat for days after he hugged you once. Reminds you that some parts of him have not changed at all.

Mark reaches for the biggest nacho on the plate, of course, he does, and he ignores your reminder that the centre nacho was meant to be saved for last.

“Too late,” he says, crunching into it, unbothered.

Your eyes dart over to the flickering scoreboard. There, Mid-game Mark is branded with a lowly score of twenty-five—a number so absurd it makes you laugh at his expense.

“Jesus,” you snort, trying to hide your smile behind your hand. “How does that even happen? I thought you had powers or something.”

“Doesn’t matter if I do. William knows I’m shit at bowling.”

That makes you smile, and you tease, “And you’re still here.”

“Where else would I be?” Mark shrugs, his tone light, but then he adds, “Besides, I’ve missed you.”

Your stomach does a sharp little flip.

“Have you?” You arch an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” he says, without hesitation. His eyes don’t leave yours.

Then Rick laughs at something William shouts from the lane, and Mark seems to remember where he is. The spell breaks. He coughs, awkwardly. “I mean—I’ve missed all of you guys. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” you echo, smiling despite yourself.

And god, maybe it’s not a big deal. Maybe it’s nothing. But maybe it’s also everything. Like the way he always used to wait for you to catch up in the hallways. Like how he still texts you song lyrics when he can’t sleep. Like how he sat next to you without even asking.

To try to muster up all your courage, hoping you do not sound like a loser.

“If you’ve missed me so much,” you tease, bumping your knee against his, “we could’ve just gone out ourselves, you know. I wouldn’t make you suffer like this.”

Mark looks at you then. Really looks at you.

“Are you free tomorrow by any chance?”

Your heart stutters. You pretend not to notice. “I don’t know.”

His face falls, just a bit. The corners of his mouth twitch like maybe he’s bracing for a punch. “Seriously?”

You shrug with a stupid grin that threatens to betray every thought swirling beneath the surface, and you almost feel bad—but not really. “I might have to move a few things around. Very demanding schedule, you know.”

“Right,” he says, eyes flicking upward in that way you remember so well, a glint of playful hope that sends your stomach into a flip. “If you push doom scrolling till after seven, do you think we could get lunch and boba? There’s a new store that opened up near my place.”

You pretend to think, tapping your chin. “That might work.”

“My treat.”

“Would you look at that,” you breathe, smiling so wide it aches. “My entire day just cleared up.”

He grins, “Uh-huh. Cheap ass.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “What was that?”

“I don’t know,” Mark says with a shrug that’s far too casual to be innocent, looking anywhere but at you. “Must’ve been the wind.”

It takes everything in you not to laugh. God, you’re hopeless. Every time he looks at you like that—like there’s some inside joke only the two of you share—it hits something soft and dangerous inside your chest. It shouldn’t feel this personal. He’s always like this with you. Right?

Before you can fire back something smug or clever, William calls your name like he’s been waiting for the perfect moment to interrupt. You roll your eyes but the irritation’s fake—your bark never really had any bite when it came to Mark, not when he looks at you like that. Not when he smells like that. Not when you’re sitting so close, you’re painfully aware of just how wet your panties are from… from what? A smile? A little eye contact? Pathetic.

Still, you’re smiling like an idiot when you hop off the bench and head to the lane. The energy in your chest is all fizzy and too much, too fast, but you try to channel it into something, anything else.

You take the ball and accidentally hit a strike. A perfect one.

You blink. “Holy shit.”

Laughter and chaos erupt behind you, and Mark shouts, “You fucking cheated!”

────────────

You don’t have a crush on Mark. You really don’t.

Because if you did, you probably would’ve told Amber not to go out with him after she asked if you were cool with it.

If you had a thing for Mark, you definitely would’ve wallowed in self-pity with your sad Spotify playlist and your arms elbow-deep in a bag of chips that one night he posted a photo with Eve in the middle of the jungle or wherever.

If you liked Mark—even a little bit—you probably would've pulled your hair out strand by strand when you found out he started dating Eve for real.

But that didn’t happen. So. You don’t have a crush on him. Obviously.

Totally.

And whatever weird, fluttery, buzzy feeling that’s dancing through your chest and your stomach right now? It’s definitely just the boba. Or something they put in the syrup. Maybe the taro’s gone off. Definitely not the way Mark’s eyes crinkle when he’s smiling at you. Not the way he showed up to your little lunch date(?) wearing that stupid shirt you always teased him for owning five of. Or how he paid without even asking, the casual kind of chivalry that makes your heart thud and your brain scream (even if he already told you it was his treat).

Your relationship with Mark has never been anything extraordinary. It’s… simple.

As simple as being friends with a half-alien can be.

You’ve always loved Mark’s company, though. You love the way he talks about all the dorky, nerdy shit that made him a bit of a loner in high school—the same stuff he still brings up now with zero shame. You like listening to him talk about it, even when you don’t understand half the words. Even when you know you’ll never, ever watch that weird Super Dog cartoon he keeps insisting would change your life. Not until he finally watches that limited-run K-drama you’ve been begging him to get through since last summer, anyway.

But anyway, you enjoy those moments you get with Mark—even if they’re rare. You enjoy spending time with him, catching up, listening to his stories, and then trying to make your own mundane ones sound even half as cool. You know you’ll never top the time he went to Mars. That story lives in a league of its own. But you still love the way his voice softens when he talks about spending a quiet afternoon with his mom, or the way he lights up when Oliver does something new—like picking up skateboarding or learning a dumb trick that’s only impressive because he’s small and determined.

Mark tends to set the bar pretty high without even trying.

And not just with stories. With everything. With how he lives, how he treats people. Without ever meaning to, Mark’s somehow managed to ruin dating for you. He’s set your standards insanely high. You’ve caught yourself comparing people to him—his kindness, his loyalty, his dumb sense of humour. You still wince when you remember William’s reaction to the last guy you matched with on Tinder.

“He’s like… a whiter version of Mark.”

You haven’t opened Tinder since.

“You okay?”

Mark’s voice cuts through your spiral, pulling you back. You blink like you’ve just come up for air.

“Sorry, yeah,” you say too quickly, shifting in your seat like that might shake the embarrassment off. You meet his eye for just a second—he’s already looking at you, head tilted, brows pulled together in quiet concern.

Your fingers tighten around your cup, the condensation beading under your skin. It’s cold. Which is helpful. Because you’re warm. Too warm. For no good reason. Definitely not because of how intently he’s looking at you, like he’s trying to read between your pauses.

You clear your throat. “Wait—so Cecil had you training on the moon?”

There’s a tiny hitch in his rhythm, just for a beat. You think he might’ve been expecting you to actually answer him, to say what’s on your mind. But Mark lets it slide. He shifts in his seat a little and starts talking again, picking up the thread of his story like it’s no big deal.

And you try to listen. You do.

You don’t get many chances like this—just you and him, no one else around. No William. No supervillain attack halfway through a sentence. Just… a booth, a couple of half-finished drinks, and him.

You want to soak up every second. But he makes it so damn hard for you.

You catch bits of the story—something about the new suit being way more annoying to get on, something else about Oliver cracking the concrete trying to ollie down the front steps—but you’re barely keeping up. Your brain is foggy and not in a cute, dreamy way. You’re kind of just… watching him.

The way he talks with his hands. The way he smiles halfway through a sentence, like he already knows the punchline’s only funny to him but he’s gonna say it anyway. The way he leans in a little when he’s excited, like he’s trying to make you feel the moment with him.

You laugh when he laughs, even if you miss the joke.

Because as long as he keeps talking, you don’t have to say anything.

You just get to sit there. And pretend like this is enough.

The thing was, Mark has always technically been an attractive guy. Tall, kind of annoyingly fit, with that sharp jawline that only got better with age. Charming in a way he didn’t even realize. At least you’d always known it. But you never thought you’d live to see the day (or the week… okay, the past few months—maybe even the year) where you’d start to see him that way.

Like, really see him. In that oh no kind of way.

You’d brushed it off for a while—blamed it on nostalgia, on hormones, on whatever. But bowling last night had been a bit of a breaking point. Something about the sleeves pushed up his forearms, the way he leaned over to aim, that boyish little grin when he finally knocked a pin down—it undid you. And you hadn’t exactly been subtle about the way you were gawking.

Still, it didn’t really hit you until this morning. When you woke up a little dazed, sheets tangled between your legs, and the ghost of a dream clinging to your skin. His voice had echoed in your head, low and warm and familiar. His touch—blurry, but undeniably his—lingered along your shoulder, your back. Your neck.

You’d jolted up like someone caught you.

So. Yeah. Maybe you had the hots for your best friend. Maybe your body wanted something more than side hugs and occasional shoulder touches and the familiar comfort of leaning into him during movies. But that didn’t mean you had a crush or anything. Right?

…Right.

So what if you’d taken a little longer getting ready today? Or if you picked a nicer perfume—the one you usually saved for special occasions—and spritzed a little extra behind your ears, just in case. Not because of him. Just… because. And if you fixed your hair in the mirror three separate times before leaving? Totally normal.

You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything.

Except it’s really hard to hold onto that thought when he’s sitting across from you looking like that.

His hair’s messier than usual, the curls a little looser like he ran his fingers through it instead of brushing it out. His light blue shirt clings in all the right places and you’re seriously starting to wonder if any of his clothes still fit him properly or if he just enjoys tormenting you. His biceps look like they’re threatening the seams and you hate how aware of it you are.

He's rambling about something now—probably a mission, or a weird encounter with a reporter who keeps calling him the “hot one.” He laughs, wide and open-mouthed, and you try to focus on his words but you’re too busy watching how his lips move. How easily that laugh bubbles out of him. How pretty his eyes are when they squint at you like this, catching you staring.

You should say something. Anything.

“You’re, uh—” you blurt out, then immediately regret it. He glances up, curious. You clear your throat and gesture vaguely at him. “You look nice. That’s a good shirt on you.”

He blinks. “Oh. Thanks,” he says, smiling like it’s no big deal, but his ears go pink. “Didn’t even realize—kind of just threw it on this morning.”

Of course he did. Of course he looks like this with zero effort. Meanwhile, you were practically putting on war paint to get your eyeliner even.

“It’s a good colour on you,” you add, a little quieter. Your fingers pick at the sleeve of your own jacket, trying to act like you’re not slowly disintegrating under the weight of your own thoughts.

There’s a beat. You feel his gaze again—steadier this time. Like he’s trying to see through the cracks.

“You got all dressed up too,” he says casually, elbow on the table, chin resting on his palm. “Special occasion?”

You scoff. “What, like I can’t look decent unless it’s for something?”

“I mean,” he teases, lips twitching, “you’re usually in sweats when we hang out.”

“That’s because you’ve seen me in every stage of human degeneration. There’s no mystery left.”

Mark laughs, deep and genuine. “There’s still a little mystery.”

You’re not going to ask what he means. You’re not.

Instead, you take a sip of your drink to hide the flush in your cheeks. You focus on the way the cold clings to your fingers, grounding you. Because if you let yourself keep staring, you’re going to do something stupid. Like, ask him if he wants to come back to yours. Or kiss him right here across the table.

You sneak another glance at him. He’s already looking at you. Again.

You want him so bad it’s physically painful.

And yeah, sure—maybe you’ve imagined what it’d be like if you were just a little bit closer. Not just physically. Closer in a way that means good morning kisses and bad jokes whispered into collarbones and brushing your teeth side by side, sleep-crinkled eyes and soft Sunday smiles. All those tiny, stupid, quiet things that make you feel like you belong to someone.

And if you let yourself feel it for just one second longer—you know exactly who you want to belong to.

You hope that whoever glances your way in this too-cute, hipster boba café thinks you’re on a date. God, you hope so. The way the two of you are sitting, drinks in hand, talking in that soft, familiar rhythm of long-time friends—it has to read as a date. Right?

Some unhinged voice in the back of your head keeps whispering that it is one, even if you never officially said it. Even if you didn’t dare call it that aloud.

You tried to drown that thought out while getting ready. Told yourself over and over—it’s just lunch. Just boba. With Mark. Your friend. One of your best friends. Who you’ve known since middle school. Who’s saved your life and seen you ugly cry at three in the morning. Who also happens to be alarmingly hot and stupidly nice and smiles at you like you’re some secret he’s been keeping warm in his pocket.

And who, to your absolute horror, you’ve recently started thinking about in ways you should not think about Mark Grayson.

He was already seated by the window when you got there. The sunlight poured in softly, and his forearms rested on the table. He was already sipping something dark with brown sugar pearls stuck to the side of the cup and scrolling on his phone, brow furrowed just a little.

You cringed remembering the way you froze at the entrance. Really froze. Long enough for a group of teenagers behind you to shuffle awkwardly around and brush past with a few muttered “excuse me”s and half-laughs. Embarrassing.

When you finally slid into the booth in front of him, Mark looked up and smiled, “Hey.”

And damn it if that stupid word didn’t do something to you.

“Hey,” you said, trying to sound normal. “You beat me here.”

“I was excited,” he said, with that casual, open honesty that always got you. “Sue me.”

He then pushed a drink toward you. You hadn’t even realized he ordered for you—but it was your usual.

“Thanks. You remembered?”

“Course I did.” He shrugged like it was nothing. “Not that hard to remember the most annoying boba order in existence.”

You kicked him under the table. “Bitch.”

He grinned, totally unfazed. “Affectionately.”

You bring your forearms up to rest on the table, leaning in just slightly. The move feels natural—too natural—and you let your head tilt as you look at him, willing yourself to snap out of the storm in your head and focus. Present moment, please. Now would be nice.

The sunlight through the window catches the edge of his jaw, carving golden light into soft angles. His lashes cast shadows. His fingers tap lightly against his cup, unhurried. Your own drink is already gone—sucked down while you tried not to have a crisis about whether or not this felt like a date. Because it does. It really, really does. It feels like one in the quietest, scariest, most electric kind of way.

You’re trying not to jump across the table. God, what the fuck is wrong with you?

You’re insane, that voice in your head shrieks. Clinically. Emotionally. Hormonally.

Your eyes fall—again, helplessly—to his lips. And it hits you that this might be the first time you’ve ever really stared at them, but it also feels like you’ve always known them. You could probably sketch the shape from memory: the soft dip of his top lip, the way the corners twitch up just before he smiles, the slightly darker flush of colour when he bites down to keep from laughing.

You know them the way you know your favourite songs—effortlessly, intimately, over and over.

And it’s only then, maybe a little too late, that you realize his mouth isn’t moving.

Shit. What was the last thing he said?

You snap back to his eyes, expecting to find a look of confusion, maybe amusement. Maybe even irritation. You’d deserve it. You’ve been undressing him with your eyes the entire afternoon.

But you’re surprised when you find a peculiar, absent look on his face.

Mark’s face is distant. Still. His brown eyes are half-focused like he’s listening to something very far away. His hand continues tapping slowly on the side of his cup, but he’s not drinking it. Hasn’t drank from it in a while, actually. Probably because he’s been talking this whole time and you’ve been too busy losing your mind to pay attention.

“Mark?” you say, softly.

He doesn’t react.

Which is strange. Because you know how sharp his senses are, superhearing and all, he could probably hear a raindrop land five cities over if he tried. But right now, he’s staring so intently, so deliberately, that for a split second, you actually worry something might be wrong.

Until you shift. Just a little. Barely an inch.

And his gaze follows the movement, dragging downward like it’s magnetized.

You glance down.

Oh.

Right. The neckline. You forgot you picked this shirt. Or at least, you forgot what it might look like sitting across from someone like Mark.

Your stomach twists with something that’s equal parts heat and embarrassment. You want to roll your eyes—of course this is what’s got him so distracted. For all his superhero nonsense, you’re still friends with a guy.

“Mark,” you say again, this time with a little more bite, trying not to smile.

His eyes flick up from your chest, blinking rapidly. His mouth opens in a small “oh,” a hum catching in the back of his throat as he scrambles to respond, but doesn’t quite manage it in time. A second later, the realization hits, and his entire face ignites. His cheeks go so red you almost feel bad for him. But you find it sort of adorable.

He coughs, clearly trying to recover. His hand rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck.

“Sorry,” He says, smiling meekly at you. His hand drops back to the table. “You just— I mean, I— You look really... goob. I mean boob. Good. I mean good. You look good.”

A shy grin splits your face open as your skin starts to warm. “Thanks. You look goob, too.”

He lets out a breathy laugh, groaning, biting down on his straw. “Fuck off. I’m so sorry.”

“No, no, no,” you say, waving him off with a laugh. “I’ll allow it. That was... actually kinda sweet.”

He smiles at you, all shy and embarrassed. A little crooked. Like he knows what he just did and has no idea what to do with himself now. You’re pretty sure your heart is about to explode into a thousand glittering pieces right there on the table.

You sit there, breath caught somewhere between your ribs, watching him as he ducks his head, and chews on the boba pearls like they hold the secret to surviving this moment. And all you can think—loud, panicked, impossibly clear—is:

You want to kiss him.

And not just kiss him. You want him in a way that’s full-bodied and reckless. You want him with the force of every stupid dream you’ve ever had. You want him in that dizzy, hands-in-hair, clothes-on-the-floor kind of way. You want to ruin this whole perfectly lovely friendship in the worst possible way.

And maybe it’s the way he’s still not meeting your eyes. Or maybe it’s how warm your skin feels. Or how the sunlight is pouring in too golden and soft and romantic and cruel.

“Mark,” you say.

He looks up at you, eyes wide and mouth disgustingly full. “Yeah?”

“I think we should fuck.”

He chokes. Immediately. You watch in real-time as he sucks his drink the wrong way and practically launches into a coughing fit. A splash of tapioca pearls and brown sugar milk flies out of his nose and hits the table.

“Oh my god—” you mutter, reaching across to grab a stack of napkins.

Mark is flailing. Coughing, sputtering, waving a hand like he’s trying to say something but also very much trying not to die. His face is bright red. He’s laughing and coughing at the same time. It’s a mess. A scene. People are staring.

“I’m fine,” he wheezes, between hacks. “I’m—you—what?”

You try to smile, a little nervous. “I said I want to have sex with you.”

Mark goes absolutely still.

He stares at you, wide-eyed, stunned into silence. His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. You watch his gaze dip—just barely. Lower. Lips. Throat. Chest. Then back up again.

“You—what—where is this coming from?” he finally blurts.

“I don’t know,” you say honestly, fingers playing with your straw wrapper. “It just sort of... fell out of me.”

“Fell out of you?” he repeats, completely scandalized.

“I... I've been thinking about it for a while now...” You're starting to feel dread sink into your stomach, thick and slow like honey, but bitter like poison... or puke. What the fuck have you just done?

Your words hang there, dangling over the edge of a cliff you just shoved both of you off of. You can’t look at him. Not properly. Not when your face is on fire and your chest is tight and the booth feels too small. Not when the air feels heavier with every second he doesn’t say anything.

You’re seconds away from bolting. Or vomiting. Or both.

“It's been driving me crazy, believe me,” you manage, voice thinner now. “But uh, if you want to say no, say no."

“Oh my god. You’re serious.”

“...Yeah.”

“Like you want—”

“Yes.”

“Me?”

“Yes, Mark, you.”

He leans back slightly in the booth, and he looks away for a split second—at the window, the floor, anywhere that isn’t your face—but it doesn’t last. His eyes are back on you before you can even blink. “I just...” he starts but then trails off again.

“Can you just... like, reject me?” you finally puff out, cheeks burning. It comes out too quickly like you’re trying to outrun the silence. Your voice is too casual to be convincing, but you try anyway, like saying it first makes it sting less.

“Reject you?”

“I’m... I’m sorry I just threw this on you. I wasn’t thinking.”

“You want me to reject you?” His voice is quiet now, but not confused. There’s something else in it.

“So I can like, move on. Change my name. Move to a different state, maybe.”

The joke lands like a dying leaf. Your laugh is brittle. Empty. It’s all just armour at this point.

But Mark huffs a soft laugh of his own,

“I’m not... I’m. not gonna reject you.”

"You're not?"

He shakes his head slowly like he's still trying to believe this is real. His eyes meet yours, and this time he holds it. Locked in. No flinching. No looking away. All that stunned awkwardness melts into something steadier, something careful. Measured. Wanting. Like he’s finally letting himself consider what it would mean to say yes.

“No,” he says. “That would be stupid. And William would never let me live it down.”

The tension cracks just slightly, pulling a small, breathy laugh from you—something trembling and alive. Your pulse spikes. Your throat’s dry. You're still not sure you're breathing right.

“So... you want to—?”

“Yeah,” he says. Quick. Blunt. No room for misinterpretation.

Then again, softer. Like he’s scared of how much he means it.

“Yeah.”

Internally, you’re both reeling—because that “yeah” didn’t sound like a joke. It didn’t sound like some impulsive sure why not. It sounded like he meant it. All of it.

Mark glances down at his hands like he needs something to look at besides you. “I’ve been thinking about it too. Just didn’t think you were—y’know, thinking about it.”

“Well, I was. I am,” you admit, heart pounding. “And it was... getting really hard to just not say anything.”

He leans forward slightly, elbows on the table, voice lower now. This is no longer a conversation for public ears.

“So what... we just do this?” he asks.

“We could... just try it. See if it works.”

His eyes flick to your mouth again, and it makes your stomach flip.

“Like, casual?” he asks, but there’s a quiet tension under the word. Like he’s testing it out on his tongue and it doesn’t quite fit.

“Sure. Casual. For now.” It comes out a little breathless.

Mark smiles, but it’s not a smug one. It’s nervous. Small. “Right. For now just friends. Who, uh... sleep together.”

You nod, mirroring that same small, nervous grin. “Exactly.”

“But we’re still friends,” he says.

“Of course.”

“And more if we like it.”

“Definitely.”

“So I can take you on a real date if all goes well?”

“Please, do.”

He nods. “So, for now, we can still hang out. And do stupid shit. And eat takeout and talk about movies and—”

“—and maybe also make out sometimes,” you add, trying for lightness, though your voice wavers with the weight of wanting.

Mark pauses. “And definitely do more than make out.”

You blink. “You’re getting bold all of a sudden.”

He shrugs, but his eyes are glued to you now. “I just... don’t want to mess this up. But I also really don’t want to go home without kissing you.”

You inhale sharply.

“Well,” you say, grabbing your drink as an excuse to hide your grin, “your place is closer than mine.”

His expression flickers—first surprise, then realization. “Oh, so like... now? We’re doing this right now?”

You nod, trying to act like it’s nothing, like your insides aren’t vibrating with panic and anticipation. He stands before you do, waiting like he’s afraid you might change your mind if he moves too fast.

When you join him, you don’t touch—but your whole body is practically leaning toward him, every nerve tuned into his orbit. You leave the shop like that: side by side, hearts hammering, skin buzzing, still pretending this isn’t happening. But it is. Oh, it is.

The short walk to your car is deceptively casual on the outside, but inside, you’re spiralling. Spiralling and floating all at once. You’re aware of every breath, every step. A storm of want and nerves and what-ifs spinning in your stomach.

By the time you’re seated behind the wheel, your hands are trembling slightly on your thighs. You try to be subtle about it. Meanwhile, Mark slides into the passenger seat with a blush high on his cheeks—bashful, like he’s already guilty of something. Like the thought alone is enough to make him flustered.

He fiddles with his phone, plugging it in like it’s the most important task of the century. He scrolls through songs like his life depends on picking just the right vibe, and maybe it does. You pretend not to watch him, even though you feel like you're burning a hole through the corner of your eye. He’s acting like everything’s totally normal, like the two of you didn’t just agree—very plainly—to have sex. And god, that boyish fake-casual routine of his is so unfair.

Your breath hitches when the music finally starts. Some song you barely recognize filters through the speakers, but you barely process it. Your fingers twitch around the wheel.

You’d started the engine but never shifted into gear.

Mark glances at you.

Fuck.

That’s it. That’s your last straw.

Because he’s looking at you like he’s waiting. Like he’s curious and soft and a little bit shy, and it cracks something open in your chest. You’ve seen this man punch meteors. You’ve seen him dent walls and bleed for people he loves. And right now, he looks like he’d melt if you so much as leaned in a little closer.

So you do.

You lean (jump, really) across the center console, breath shallow, no hesitation left in you, and press your mouth to his—hot, urgent, not the least bit gentle (you could’ve broken your nose against his steel skin).

He lets out a muffled, surprised sound that you feel more than hear. But he kisses you back immediately, like his body was already on the edge, just waiting for the signal to move. His hands come up to your sides, cradling your ribs so carefully it hurts, like he thinks he’ll crush if he squeezes too hard (he can).

He leans into it fast. His nose bumps yours, and there’s a soft gasp when your lips part. It’s messy. Desperate. Hungry. You sigh into his mouth, tilting your head, and his fingers twitch against your waist. Then his lips part wider, and that’s your cue—your tongue finds the seam of his mouth, dragging across his lower lip before slipping in.

He groans.

Low, breathy, and real.

One of his hands slides lower, skimming the hem of your shirt, the very edge of his pinky brushing against the exposed skin of your side. It makes you tremble. He’s so gentle, like he doesn’t quite trust himself with you yet. Like he’s holding something precious.

You don’t know how long it goes on—seconds, minutes. But the car rocks faintly when he shifts in his seat, and that’s when you start to pull away. Slowly. Breathlessly.

You look at him—his lips parted, eyes still shut, like he’s chasing the kiss even as it slips from him. And god, you’ve seen that look before, but you never let yourself believe it was real. Now you can’t deny it.

Mark blinks at you. Once. Twice.

Then he leans in and kisses you again.

It’s different this time. Short. Sweet. A soft press of lips. Like punctuation at the end of a sentence you’ve both been trying to say for months. It tastes like sugar and burns fire.

He leans back into his seat, finally, hands settling awkwardly over his lap. You notice the way his fingers twitch—nervous, restrained. You could scream. From the heat in your blood. From relief. From how right it all feels.

“Sorry,” you say, even though you’re not. Not at all. You’re still tasting him on your lips. Still humming with the knowledge that he wants you—wants you—the same way you want him.

The way your voice lilts upward, a little smug, is what makes him scoff, eyes rolling.

“Yeah, sure,” he mumbles, shifting in his seat. “Just couldn’t wait, could you?”

You roll your eyes right back at him, grinning as you finally pull the car out of the parking lot. “Yeah, yeah. Fuck you. You said you didn’t want to go home without kissing me, so—I did you a favour.”

“Oh, did you?” he fires back, all sass, and the way he says it makes your stomach flutter.

You scoff, but it’s affectionate. And even though you’re driving now, even though the moment has passed, you can still feel it, thick in the air between you—the tension, the promise, the want.

“Yeah,” you say again, quieter now. A little breathless. “Yeah, I did.”

You park in front of his house and kill the engine.

Neither of you move.

“…So,” Mark says, finally.

“So.”

His head tilts toward you, a slow grin tugging at his lips. “Race you inside.”

“What?”

You don’t get the chance to say more before he’s already yanking open the door, half-tripping over himself in his rush to get out. You watch him scramble up the walkway, basically vaulting over the three porch steps. You just blink, mildly stunned—and vaguely reminded that he could’ve flown the two of you back to his house if he hadn’t insisted on you driving. Your car sits quietly behind you, utterly abandoned, as you step out and lock it with a flat expression.

He’s waiting for you at the front door, breathless and smug.

“I win.”

“You cheated,” you mutter, strolling up behind him.

“Nuh-uh.”

His hands fumble with the keys, like he’s suddenly forgotten how locks work. You wait behind him, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his back, the way his shoulders tense slightly when you’re that near. It makes something in your chest squeeze, soft and wild.

The lock finally clicks. He pushes the door open and steps aside dramatically, gesturing for you to go in. “Milady.”

You roll your eyes but smile as you pass him.

Inside, it’s quiet. Familiar. You’ve been here a million times. Your gaze flicks around automatically. Debbie must’ve gotten a new carpet recently—soft beige with delicate lines you don’t remember from the last time you came over. You hum softly under your breath, grounding yourself in the domestic detail. Always a little surprised, somehow, by the size of this place. It’s modern and clean, tastefully decorated. It smells like laundry detergent and something faintly citrusy. It smells like him.

You turn around and he’s right there. Looking at you like you hung the stars and accidentally knocked one loose when you kissed him in the car.

And then he kisses you again.

No hesitation this time. Just Mark, pulling you in by the waist, cupping your face and his mouth finds yours with a kind of aching slowness—soft, cautious, almost reverent.

You melt into him instantly. Your fingers fist into the front of his shirt, knuckles brushing his chest as you pull him closer, grounding yourself in the warmth of him. He lets out a sound—a mix between a sigh and a groan—and it sinks low into your belly, heat blooming there with terrifying ease. He kisses you deeper, more sure now, like he’s already memorized the shape of your mouth.

His hands slide down your back, warm and soothing.

“Mom’s out with Oliver,” Mark murmurs against your lips like he knows you were about to ask. His voice is low, rough from disuse and want. “Won’t be back for a while.”

“Lucky us,” you mumble, and you barely finish the words before he kisses you again, harder this time, lips parting yours with such gentle insistence that your knees almost give.

He makes this delightful little sound, hands shifting to cradle your head gently, fingers threading through your hair like he’s been waiting a lifetime for the chance.

“So lucky,” He agrees, regretfully breaking away when your body tenses in a silent request for air. You’re disappointed too. Who needs breathing, anyway?

“Did you wanna watch a movie first?”

He’s not even out of breath.

“Not really,” you reply with a breathless laugh, cheeks already sore from grinning so much. Your hands are still resting against his chest, fingertips twitching with the need to keep touching him. He grins back, nodding once, and starts guiding you backwards through the house.

He’s careful with you. You’re walking blind, caught in the middle of another kiss when he gently redirects you away from a stray shoe, his hand tightening briefly around your waist to steer you around Oliver’s skateboard left smack in the middle of the foyer. You barely notice it. All you can focus on is his mouth, trailing kisses to the curve of your neck, the press of his lips to the slope of your shoulder. You shiver when his teeth graze your skin.

He doesn’t stop.

Not until you’re pressed up against the wall at the bottom of the staircase, both of you panting between kisses that grow hotter, messier. His hands bracket your hips, thumbs stroking small circles that send sparks crawling up your spine. He groans when your hips roll forward again his, instinctive, your body reacting before your brain can catch up.

You think you hear him whisper your name.

You’re tugging at the hem of his shirt, desperate to feel more skin, and when your fingers slide beneath it and skim along his stomach, he freezes. Not with fear—but like he’s overwhelmed. Like he’s trying not to fall apart from something as simple as your touch.

And then, in a breathless pause, he pulls back just enough to speak. His forehead leans into yours, eyes fluttering closed as he exhales shakily.

“I imagined this being sweeter,” he pants. “I’m sorry.”

You nearly melt on the spot.

Because the way he says it—it’s not embarrassed. It’s earnest. Vulnerable. It takes everything in you not to scream with joy.

God, if he knew how often you’d imagined this too—how many nights you’d curled up thinking of how it might feel to kiss him, touch him, have him like this—he’d probably panic and fly halfway across the city.

Instead, all you manage is a broken little whimper as your fingers twist in his shirt, dragging him closer. “God, Mark, that’s so hot.”

His eyes blink open, stunned. “It is?”

“Yeah,” you say, breathless.

And that’s all it takes.

You don’t even remember deciding to move, but suddenly you’re being rushed up the stairs, feet stumbling as Mark pulls you with him. Your shoes get kicked off somewhere mid-way, lost in the blur of hands and mouths and shared laughter.

He’s hovering, quite literally gliding over the ground, but he seems to barely notice. His feet skim the steps, weightless with something that appears like joy.

Mark fumbles the doorknob twice before finally swinging the door open. Since he’s still kissing you, still pushing you gently forward, you almost tumble inside. He catches you easily, a strong arm firm around your waist, the other bracing himself against the doorframe.

He doesn’t even seem like he notices all that much, floating upwards for a moment before he’s kissing you silly all over again. It’s hot and wet and when he opens his mouth slightly, you follow, your lips parting just enough for your tongues to meet.

Your body fits against his like it was made for it, warm and pliant, your cheek brushing against his as he angles his head and deepens the kiss. You think you never want to stop kissing him. It’s addicting. He’s a drug and you’re hooked, irrevocably.

You think you might be trembling, just a little.

You decide, boldly, to shove him backwards.

He lets you.

He trips over something in the mess of his room—could be a book, a shoe, or a part of his suit. You don’t get the chance to look. He stumbles until his back hits the wall beside his closet, half-collapsing against the old Seance Dog poster, and you swear he grins against your mouth.

You pull back just enough to breathe, just enough to look at him. Mark’s lips are kiss-swollen and flushed pink, cheeks dusted a deep red. His eyes are heavy-lidded, pupils botched wide with want. He chases your mouth again, barely containing a whine when you press your hands a little harder against his chest to keep him in place.

“Oh, Mark,” you murmur, lips brushing the corner of his mouth before trailing down to his jaw, then his throat. You press a hot, open-mouthed kiss beneath his ear and feel him shiver. “You’re so fucking pretty.”

“I—” The breath he exhales is ragged, shaky. You feel the way his pulse jumps strangely beneath your tongue as you mouth at the delicate skin of his neck. The slight scrape of your teeth draws out a sound you could get drunk on.

The afternoon sun floods into the room in slats, casting golden stripes across his skin. Everything smells like him. The colour of his t-shirt matches his walls, and the thought makes you smile stupidly as you glance up at him again. He’s smiling too. It’s infectious.

You can still feel the strength of the heat rolling off of his skin. “No one’s ever called me pretty before,” he mumbles against your mouth.

You pull back, eyebrows furrowed. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not…”

A frown tugs at your lips as your hands drop to the hem of his shirt with a wordless plea. He pulls it off obediently, albeit somewhat distractedly. “That’s fucking criminal.”

Where it lands doesn’t even matter—your eyes are fixed on his chest. His bare chest that you’ve been given permission to properly ogle at. You swear you feel your mouth salivate a bit.

“I feel like I should’ve known sooner,” he teases, breathless.

You blink up at him. “Known what?”

“That you liked me. I mean—look at you.” He gestures toward your face with a sheepish grin. “You’re drooling.”

“I��m not drooling,” you huff, making a face even though your cheeks are warm. “I’m admiring. Big difference.”

Mark quirks an eyebrow at you.

“And yeah,” you say, fingers dancing along the waistband of his jeans now, just teasing. “You’re pretty stupid for not knowing sooner.”

He scoffs, but the look in his eyes is warm and soft and maybe a little reverent. You don’t let him say anything else.

“Stupidly pretty,” you murmur, crashing back into him, pressing your mouth to his again with more heat than before. You lick into his mouth, then drag your lips along the column of his throat, down to that same aching spot on his neck. You feel his hands tighten on your waist, and he exhales a shaky, desperate breath like it’s the first one he’s had in minutes.

Your hands roam more freely now, gliding across the newly exposed skin like you’ve earned the right. You’ve seen Mark shirtless before—countless times, actually—but never like this. Not with your breath catching in your throat and your hands trembling just slightly with want. Not with your mouth practically watering as you finally get to touch him like you’ve always wanted to.

Well… unless that one time you helped him put sunscreen on his back last summer counts.

Because this is different.

This time, he’s letting you feel. Explore. He lets you be a little mean and even tug at the trail of hair leading under his pants.

He’s warm in the way fresh sunlight is; comforting, radiant, and magnetic. Your fingers trail down the groove between his pecs, slowly. You knew his body is obviously muscled since his Invincible suit doesn’t leave too much to the imagination, but it’s different feeling warm, sculpted skin than the cool spandex (or whatever it’s made out of.) You trace the faint outline of each muscle, letting your hands dip lower until you reach the ridges of his abs.

And just beneath them—your hand pauses.

You feel it. A soft, rhythmic thrum under your palm. Not quite a heartbeat. Not quite human. It’s steadier than a pulse, more like a hum—like something alive and electric and ancient ticking in the hollow of his chest. It makes your breath hitch.

How alien is he? You wonder.

But the thought doesn’t scare you. If anything, it makes your stomach swoop. You press your hand flat against the faint, vibrating sensation, mesmerized.

Mark watches you, breathing a little heavier now. His hands are wandering too—palms gliding down your sides with more confidence than before. You gasp when he gropes your ass, hard, the pressure unexpected and firm. He pulls you flush against him, and you yelp, catching yourself on his chest with a small, surprised laugh.

His chuckle is low, rumbling beneath your cheek as you bury your face in his skin. It’s so warm. You want to wrap yourself in it.

Then his lips are back—just behind your ear, kissing that soft spot that makes your thoughts short-circuit. You feel yourself sway forward, dizzy with heat and hunger.

Your mind flickers between two options: Pull your shirt off or pull him to the bed.

Instead, your knees hit the carpet before your brain can stop you.

His hands dart forward to pull you back up, brows furrowed with concern, but you’re already reaching for his belt.

“Oh,” he sighs, startled and wide-eyed. “You don’t have to—”

“I wanna,” you murmur, voice dripping with intention as your hand palms him over his jeans. “Please let me.”

You press your cheek against the bulge, coddling it like it’s already yours, your breath catching as you drag your nose slowly along its length. You mouth at the fabric, teasing him with slow, open kisses, and then you look up, eyes wide and sparkling and pleading.

“Please, Mark.”

His knees nearly buckle.

“Yeah,” he exhales, voice hoarse. “Yeah. Okay. Yeah.”

He looks stunned, dazed, like he’s dreaming something too good to be real. His hands cradle your face so gently it makes your stomach flip, thumbs brushing your jaw.

He’s like a furnace, radiating heat in waves. Like a lantern in the dark. Bright and alive and everything in you aches to touch him more.

You kiss his clothed cock again, slower this time, almost reverent, and he shudders. You can hear the faint rasp in his breath, the catch in his throat as your fingers finally undo his belt and tug his jeans down.

He steps out of them awkwardly, kicking them to the side—and that’s when you notice the blur of colours on his boxers. You blink. Then squint.

And laugh.

“Is that…” You grin, tugging the elastic waistband back with a finger to get a better look. “Seance Dog?”

Tiny cartoon super dogs dance across the fabric, all in different poses—one in a wizard hat, a few riding on yellow stars. You let the waistband snap back against his skin with a cheeky pop.

Mark’s ears go red.

“It was laundry day,” he mumbles, flustered and pink.

“I think it’s cute,” you giggle, ducking forward and pressing a kiss right above the stupid little dogs. “So stupidly cute.”

He tries to say something in return, but you’re giggling all over his very real, very hard dick, kissing at the shape of it, and whatever excuse he was about to make dies a quick death.

“Whatever,” he mutters under his breath, trying and failing to glare at you.

You flash him an innocent look, resting your chin on his hip. “I swear, it’s cute.”

“You’re just saying that because you have me half-naked.”

“Maybe,” you smirk, batting your lashes. Then: “Are you gonna let me suck your dick, or…?”

He groans. His hand flies to his face to hide the actual whimper that comes out, and when he peeks between his fingers at you—grinning like you’re the devil—he can’t help but laugh. A breathless, half-embarrassed noise that melts into the warm air between you.

“Are you gonna stop teasing me, or what?”

You decide to be nice. Because honestly, you're not sure if you'll ever get the chance to be here again. A jagged breath escapes Mark’s lips when you finally tug his boxers down and free his cock from the cotton confines. He’s flushed deep and aching, and the heat low in your stomach tightens at the sight of him. He basically springs out, and you actually flinch a little as it bounces against his stomach. Hard, red, and glistening at the tip with precum.

You blink. Wow.

Okay. Wow.

He's pretty everywhere, but this is... a lot. In the best way. Surpasses all of your expectations. 10/10.

It twitches in front of your face and you feel the warmth radiating off him like a space heater turned up too high. Your hand hovers—hesitant for just a second—before you wrap your palm around him, slowly, carefully, like you’re holding something precious.

He twitches again.

The muscles in his stomach tense, flexing like a ripple under his skin, and you can’t help it—you smirk. Have you mentioned how insanely good he looks right now? That gorgeous, pink-tinged flush creeping down his chest, all the way to the tip of his cock?

Your brain short-circuits. Just pretty boy, pretty boy, pretty boy playing on repeat in your head like a broken record.

Mark exhales a shuddering sigh, and it punches straight through you. “Warm…” he whispers, dazed, eyes hazy and half-lidded. He looks drunk off you already.

“William wasn't kidding,” you mutter, half to yourself as you breathe again.

Mark blinks. “What?”

“He said you had a big dick.”

Mark chokes. “William—he’s never—what?”

“Said you guys used to stand side by side and measure them.”

“Fuck off—he did not say that—”

“Is it true you used them as lightsabers?”

“Oh my god—” Mark groans. He sounds like he’s dying. You don’t know if it’s the secondhand embarrassment or the way your thumb brushes right across his tip.

Maybe both.

“Shut the fuck up, asshole,” he mutters, playfully pushing at your face. You bite your lip, triumphant.

Without thinking, you tighten your grip. Just a little. Just enough to make him keen.

His laugh dissolves into a broken sound, somewhere between a moan and a whimper, and the hand that had pushed your face away now finds a new home buried in your hair.

You lean in and press a soft, teasing kiss to the flushed tip. His cock twitches again.

Mark’s breath catches in his throat.

Your hand never stops moving, a slow up-and-down that has him trembling. You kiss him again, right on the slit, and feel the heat pulsing against your lips. You run your tongue up the underside of his cock, tracing that thick vein from base to tip, and Mark makes a strangled, broken sound—like he’s holding on for dear life.

You push back his foreskin with your thumb and swirl your tongue in a lazy circle around the head. A droplet of precum smears across your lips and you hum against him, taking your time.

You glance up at Mark, checking back in.

“That’s good,” He affirms, voice breathy. “That’s really fucking good.”

Every sound he makes engraves itself into your brain.

You trail kisses down his shaft, your tongue learning every ridge, every pulse, every twitch like you’re memorizing him. Your pace is slow and calculated, and Mark is panting now, legs tense, body twitching under your every touch. You glance up—and fuck—he’s flushed all the way to his ears, lips parted, eyes glassy.

You wrap your lips around the head and sink down.

“Fuuuck,” he whispers, throwing his head back, and staring at the ceiling. His hips jolt upward, pushing deeper into your mouth. It’s a messy rhythm at first, but you welcome it, the way he shivers and gasps when he hits the back of your throat.

You work what you can with your mouth and use your hand on the rest, pumping steadily in time with the bob of your head. Your spit slicks his cock as you move faster, drool dripping down your chin and his shaft.

His thighs are shaking, abs tensing with every gasp. You can feel his restraint fraying—see it in the way his fists clutch the cushions, how his hips start jerking forward, chasing more of the heat and wetness of your mouth.

His cock pulses, thick and hot on your tongue, and he’s babbling now—words half-formed and strangled:

“F-fuck- shit, shit, shit—I’m gonna—ah, fuck me, yeah, f-fuck, I’m— wait shit—”

He pulls your head off at the last second, the hand in your hair tugging, gentle but frantic. You let him, breath caught in your throat, barely registering it until he’s panting and his cock twitches one more time before he cums.

Hot, white ropes spill across your face.

The first hits your cheek, thick and warm. Another lands across your nose, streaking upward toward your brow. It catches on your lip—your open mouth still parted. You blink in surprise but stay still, a little stunned by how hot your skin suddenly feels under each drop.

His moans taper off into little whines, his breath catching in his throat as he watches—eyes wide, pupils blown out wider and darker than you’ve ever seen eyes do before. It’s a strange feeling when you’re reminded that Mark isn’t fully human, even though he mostly looks like it.

You watch his pupils shrink back to normal size and he shakes his head like he’s trying to focus. And his voice cracks. His thumb brushes along your jaw, then dips lower, gently dragging through the mess he left on your chin like he's trying to process the sight of you. Like he can’t believe what he’s done to you.

“Holy shit,” he gasps, blinking down at you. “Fuck, I didn’t mean to—I should’ve warned you—sorry.”

You look up at him, breathless, heart thudding loud in your ears. A grin starts to creep onto your face before you can stop it. You try to fight it—you should be playing it cool—but you can’t help it. Your smile is slow and sweet and so telling. You fucking freak.

“That was…”

“Gross. I know. I’m sorry.” he interrupts, still flushed red and clearly panicking a little.

“I was gonna say hot,” you murmur.

Mark exhales hard, something unsteady and relieved loosening in his shoulders as he leans down to pull you up. You don’t complain when your knees sting, don’t comment on the ache blooming in your thighs. You barely notice it.

His hand comes to cradle your face, and you brace for a kiss—maybe something soft and grateful. Instead, Mark kisses you like he’s starving. Tongue sliding against yours, mouth open and frantic, tasting you, tasting himself. He licks your teeth, then your lips—wet and shining—and then your cheek, dragging his tongue through his own cum, whimpering into your mouth when he tastes it again.

Get a load of this fucking freak, Jesus Christ.

He doesn’t stop. Licks across your skin with deliberate, dirty reverence. Over your chin, your cheekbone, even the curve of your nose—slow and deliberate, like he’s savouring it. His cum. Your skin. You.

He whimpers. Literally whimpers. God. And then he moans. Loud.

You just laugh, soft and dreamy, trying to stay grounded even as every nerve ending in your body feels like it’s sparking to life, flames consuming you. You’re still dressed, and yet you’ve never felt more bare. More downed.

Mark steps out of his boxers and pants, bunched around his ankles. His skin is slick with sweat, flushed with exertion, and glowing with something golden. You’ve never seen anyone look more gorgeous in your life. You realize, with a quiet sort of devastation, that you’d do anything to stay in this moment.

He leans in again, kissing you hard, both of you ignoring the sticky trail still clinging to your face. Your mouth, your skin—it’s all his. And he kisses like he knows it.

You kiss him back like you need him to know it’s mutual.

The ache between your thighs throbs now, sharp and insistent, but you almost forget it when Mark groans—a deep, low sound that vibrates in your chest. He cradles your jaw in both hands, pulling back just far enough to whisper, “Keep kissing me. Don’t ever stop.”

You nod, dazed, breathless. “I won’t.”

You kiss him again. His lips. His cheek. His nose. His forehead. He shivers under each one. You want to kiss him until your lips go numb, until time forgets the two of you ever existed as anything other than this.

And then—without warning—Mark starts to float again.

You feel it before you see it: the weightlessness, the subtle lift of his frame. His hands never leave your face, but his body hovers, high enough that you have to crane your neck to meet his lips. He laughs breathlessly, as though he forgot he could even do this, and he takes you with him—gently, almost reverently.

Your back hits the bed seconds later, soft and warm, and you sprawl out beneath him. Mark hovers above, eyes shining with something deep and giddy and overwhelming. His smile is wide and blinding.

Your heart thrums beneath your ribs, loud and full and dizzy, and you grin back up at him, dazed, knowing he can hear it.

You reach down, fumbling with the button on your jeans. Your fingers are clumsy, adrenaline and nerves making them tremble, and you curse under your breath. Mark dips down to help, but he’s no better—his hands fumble too, and the both of you dissolve into breathless, giggling laughter. His body presses into yours as he tries again, lips brushing yours between chuckles, and eventually, together, you manage to get them off.

He tosses them behind him with a careless flick—there’s a loud crash as something topples off your nightstand. You both flinch, wide-eyed.

You glance toward the sound but don’t move. “What was that?”

Mark snorts against your lips. “Lamp. Maybe.”

Neither of you moves to check. Not when his weight settles over you again. Not when his hands find your waist and slide beneath the hem of your shirt, warm and certain. His touch is steady now, smoothing up your sides, slipping along the curves of your ribs like he’s mapping out every part of you.

He pulls away just enough to look at you, a funny-looking grin on his face as he watches his hands ruck up your shirt gently. When he lifts the top higher, the fabric bunching at your ribs, you raise your arms to help, and for one breathless second, your hands meet midair—yours and his, tangled in the cotton.

Mark yanks it off with a breathless little laugh and lets it fall off the edge of the bed.

His gaze drops. His smile fades.

There’s a beat of stillness where he just looks at you. Really looks. His eyes drag over your chest—mismatched bra and all—and he blinks slow, like he’s committing it to memory. You swear he stops breathing.

His thumb lifts, brushing along the strap of your bra where it sits on your shoulder. He plucks at it gently, eyes fixed on the way the fabric moves beneath his touch. He does it again, slower this time, dragging the pad of his thumb over the edge of the cup. The way he stares—it’s not even lust, not exactly. It’s something softer.

The intensity of his gaze makes you want to shy away for just a second. You sit up and jab his side.

He jerks with a yelp, eyes flying back to yours.

You raise a brow, fighting your smug grin. “Who’s drooling now?”

Mark rolls his eyes, mock offended, but the flush on his cheeks betrays him. He opens his mouth to respond, and you swipe your thumb across the corner of his lips like you’re wiping something away. Annoyed, he groans loudly.

“Yeah, yeah. I get it.”

He catches your fingers in his hand. Brings them to his mouth. Nips at them playfully. You squeal, and then he kisses your knuckles so soft it makes your stomach swoop.

And suddenly, the teasing slips out of you like air from a balloon.

You lie back without thinking. Just melt into the bed. Mark follows you down, still holding your hand. He kneels between your legs, gaze pinned to you like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. When he finally lets go of your hand, it’s only to cradle your face in one palm, thumb brushing along your cheekbone like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.

“You’re so beautiful.”

The words are quiet. Like a secret. Like he doesn’t even mean to say them aloud.

You flush hard, suddenly self-conscious in your bra and underwear—the colours don’t match, the cut’s nothing special, there might be a stain if he looks hard enough—but Mark’s eyes don’t so much as flinch.

You swallow, trying to think of something to say. “Says you,” you manage, reaching up to tug him down. “You were wearing Seance Dog boxers not five minutes ago. And I still almost cried from how good you look.”

He lets out a breath of a laugh, forehead bumping yours.

And then you kiss him sweetly. His lips press to yours like he’s trying to say something through it, like he’s trying to give you all the things he doesn’t have words for. One of his hands roams lower, down your side, curving around the bend of your thigh. He hooks your knee up and around his waist like it’s instinct, fingers digging into the plush skin just beneath your ass, and pulls you closer so he can grope your ass and do some other decidedly not-so-sweet things.

He discovers you’re wet under his palm through the rough fabric of your panties. No surprise there for you, you’ve been wet for a while now, but a deep sound tear from the back of his throat, so far that it almost sounds like a growl. It’s hard to separate your thoughts from him. Kissing him, sweet and warm, blazing and getting hotter.

You barely have time to think of anything else but your beautiful friend who happens to be an alien superhero. Your head’s too full of him to do anything but gasp when he moves again.

A ghost of a touch—just one finger dragging down the centre of your panties, light enough to drive you insane—pulls a small, breathy sound from your lips. And then he’s doing it again, tracing over your clit, featherlight and teasing. You’re not sure if your face simmers from embarrassment or sheer eagerness, but it’s hot either way. Your breath stutters. Your hips twitch, helplessly.

“Y’like that?” Mark mutters against your mouth, voice thick and a little rough, and you nod against his lips without hesitation, a soft whimper slipping past them.

“Good,” he breathes. “Good… lemme know if I’m doing this wrong.”

The words hit you like sunlight breaking through clouds—so warm and sweet it makes your chest ache like a cavity. That twist of pleasure low in your stomach tightens a little more, and you have to resist the instinct to roll your hips against his hand. He’s being so careful, and it just makes you want him even more.

“I don’t think there’s anything you could do wrong, Mark,” you sigh, and he kisses you again, deeper this time, his tongue brushing yours in a way that makes your toes curl.

You pull away on a light, breathless hum, licking your kiss-swollen lips as you blink up at him. There’s the tiniest flicker of disappointment on his face, quickly replaced when your hands slide up to the straps of your bra.

“Take this off?” Phrased like a question, secretly a plea, a demand wrapped in velvet and you’re verging on begging. Mark huffs, pretty lips curving upwards.

His hand slips away from between your thighs, trailing heat across your skin as he reaches behind you to unclasp your bra. The second the strap loosens, he watches you slide it off, his gaze dropping like gravity’s pulling it down.

His pupils dilate in that weird, telltale alien way they do as he takes in the sight of your tits.

A warm palm comes up to cup one breast, his touch tender, adoring—and then he leans in and bites. Not hard, just enough to make you hiss and gasp, the shock of it sparking in your chest. Your nipples peak to attention. His mouth is everywhere all at once, licking, sucking... marking you. You barely recognize the sounds leaving your throat, broken and wanting.

You’d caught a glimpse of yourself in his mirror earlier—faint love bites trailing across your neck, purpling and pretty—and now you can feel him adding more. You wonder idly if he’ll wear the ones you gave him too, or if his body will heal them away before sunset.

Mark drifts lower, slow and steady. You sink your fingers into his hair, threading through soft, inky black strands, and he rewards you with a kiss pressed just beneath your breast. Then your ribs. Then the centre of your belly, nose bumping your navel as he licks slow, warm stripes up and down your skin, teasing just along the underside of your boobs again.

It’s almost too much. You’re breathless from how soft he’s being. From how much he clearly wants you. From how he’s taking his time.

You look down at him, chest rising and falling. He’s already looking at you—of course he is. You follow the line of his nose, the curve of his jaw, the soft arch of his eyebrows. There’s this little furrow at the corners of his eyes you know is from years of smiling, and your heart just about splits open at the sight of him.

You have it so bad for him that your hips jerk up instinctively, needing more contact—needing him—just because his eyes catch yours and hold.

Mark presses a soft, sweet kiss to your knee. “I’m so excited I think I might pass out,” he mumbles, voice thick and a little shaky, the words dragging warmly over your skin. The tip of his nose nudges along the inside of your leg, tracing a slow, lazy path downward—knee to thigh—his breath fanning across sensitive skin.

Then his mouth finds you.

One gentle kiss through the thin fabric of your panties, right against your cunt. You twitch, a sweet noise pushing past your lips.

He follows with a slow lick, dragging his tongue in a teasing stripe over you, the wet, thin barrier of your underwear doing nothing to dull the pressure. You huff breathlessly, your brows drawing together as he hums low against your clit.

The duvet crinkles beneath you as you sigh and sink into it. There’s a low throb curling deep in your gut, spreading like wildfire.

“Mark,” you sigh his name like it’s a prayer.

He hums again, this time lower, rougher. His fingers dip beneath the elastic of your panties, warm and tentative, but he doesn’t pull them down just yet. His mouth moves lower, nose pressing in just right, and it steals the air from your lungs, your exhale lilted with a moan.

“I feel like we should have music playing,” he murmurs.

“Music?” you echo, half-dazed, raising an eyebrow you’re pretty sure he can’t see. His only answer is the smirk you feel more than see, pressed right into your skin.

And then he moves the gusset of your panties aside.

He groans—an actual, full-bodied moan—like the sight of you just knocked the breath out of him. He dips a finger into his mouth, wetting it, and mutters something under his breath about giving you a heads-up, that he’s not exactly an expert and most of it comes from the porn he watches (those homemade ones, the amateur videos couples post on Twitter which he swears are genuine clips of what sex is like).

You almost laugh—almost. You're about to tell him not to worry, that you probably know even less—but then his finger presses against you, tentative but eager, and slowly, carefully, he sinks in and you can’t help the soft groan that burns through you.

“Fuck, Mark,” you gasp, the words catching somewhere in your throat. He withdraws immediately, eyes flicking up to yours in question, and sucks his newly wet digit finger into his mouth.

“Good?” he asks.

You nod frantically. “S’good. So good.”

“Fuck—can I?” He asks, and you nod. You don’t know why he’s asking, you gave him a green light ages ago, but your hips lift to help him anyway as he hooks his fingers in your panties and pulls them down. “Y’taste so good,”

Mark leans down and puts his mouth on your hot cunt again. Every slow, willful stroke of his is timed perfectly to the beat pulsing through you. His hands hook under your thighs and pull your legs apart wider, his mouth slanting over you in a way that makes your back arch off the bed.

Your hand tangles in his dark, inky hair and tightens reflexively when he finds your clit again. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t slow, even when you tug. His tongue moves with growing confidence, and the velvet heat of his mouth spreads slick across you, every pass making you ache harder.

A breeze from the window flutters the curtains, the only sign the outside world still exists. But in here, everything is warm and golden and humming—all soft sheets and quiet gasps, all Mark Grayson.

If the tug hurts, Mark doesn’t show it. He hums again, deep and greedy, and your hips rock helplessly against the slope of his nose. Your fingers tighten, your eyes squeeze shut.

“Oh god,” You whine prettily. “That’s— uh— fuck, that’s really good.”

Between your thighs, you hear and feel the moan Mark gives back. Your thighs twitch, caught in that impossible pull whether to close around his head and warm his ears or keep them open just to feel more. Your hips continue to move instinctively, helpless rolls up into his face. And he takes it appreciatively.

His tongue drags down your folds, and he sucks and slurps, slow and purposeful before flicking at your fluttering entrance. It makes you squeal, a sound you barely recognize as yours.

“Fuck,” he rasps, pulling back just enough to speak. His voice is hoarse, soaked in arousal. “You’re so wet.”

You can only blink, dazed, caught somewhere between disbelief and bliss. Mark sounds like he’s in heaven, like this is as good for him as it is for you—maybe even better. And god, if he keeps talking like that, you’ll never recover.

His chin and lips are slick, shining in the low light. You don’t know if he’s been talking to you the whole time, but you can’t dwell. Not when he’s back on you, plush lips locking around your clit and lavishing across the length of your slit. He moans into you, tongue dipping deep, greedy and soft and insistent.

The pressure in your core coils tighter, the pleasure winding up like a string pulled taut. Your chest rises and falls in sharp, shallow breaths. Your voice dissolves into a string of high, breathy little “yes, yes, yes,”s and Mark’s name, over and over, like a mantra.

He mutters something again, something messy and mumbled into your cunt. It takes you a second to realize he’s tapping at your hand where it’s buried in his hair. You lace your fingers with his, and he sighs like you just gave him oxygen.

“Please,” he says into your skin, almost frantically, “please cum on my face. Please, please, s’only fair.”

Your mouth parts, breath catching. He’s so beautiful—messy hair, flushed cheeks, his lips swollen and wet, eyes dark and heavy with lust. He glances up at you, and for a second, his eyes meet yours. But then his lids flutter shut, a shiver rolling down his spine as he moans again into your pussy.

“Fuck,” you swear.

“Yeah?” Mark hums before slowly sinking a finger inside you again. It’s slow, precise. Intentional Pumping the digit in and out of you with ease.

“Yeah, yeah,” you whisper.

“On my face?”

“Yes.”

“Promise?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Pinky promise?”

“Fuck yes, Mark,” you snap, voice rising. “I’ll cum on your fucking face—shut up!”

You see it then—that look on his face. A smug, delighted one. The same one he wore last night at the bowling alley when he finally knocked down a pin after guttering every ball. But now, it’s laced with morale, more self-satisfied, delighted, proud. Like he knew what you’d say. Like this was always going to happen.

And he just wanted to piss you off.

“Fuck you,” you mutter.

Mark chuckles, wicked and low—and then he adds a second finger.

A pressure builds low in your belly—slow at first, like a ripple pulling tight across your core, until it's urgent, searing, and impossible to ignore. Every movement Mark makes intensifies it, the flick of his tongue, the curl of his fingers inside you, the way his mouth works your clit. It’s not subtle anymore. It’s all-consuming. Flickers of starlight burst behind your closed eyelids, and you feel like you’re floating—no, caught, tethered to the sheets by his arm locked firmly over your hips.

“…Just like that,” you whisper, breath hitching. The words spill out instinctively, barely more than air. But they light him up—you can feel the way he doubles down, how he hones in on every sweet spot with sharper focus. “Keep going. ‘M close… so close, Mark. Please, don’t stop. Please just—”

Your mouth drops open. Not a sound escapes. Not even air. You go still, caught in that heart-stopping moment where everything tightens—every nerve pulled taut.

Then it rocks through you like lightning—white-hot and blinding. Your whole body jerks, legs trembling as the orgasm washes over you with no restraint. A whimper bursts from your throat, then another, and then it’s just breathless moans and helpless groans as you claw for something—anything. One foot presses into Mark’s back, anchoring you. Your fingers tangle in his hair again, desperate. The sheets twist beneath your spine,

Mark moans into you, a sound that hums right through your bones. He doesn’t let up—he licks you through it with soft, steady strokes, like he knows exactly what your body needs. Gentle. Sure. So fucking sweet.

When you finally manage to push him away, trembling and spent, he pulls back slowly—like he hates to leave you. He drags his fingers out of you, and plants a soft, lingering kiss to your swollen clit. A farewell, like he’s grateful for it. When he lifts his head, his face is shining with slick, lips pink, eyes dark and dazed.

His grin is crooked, eyes sparkling. “I think I did good.”

“Could be better...”

He rolls his eyes and leans in slow, almost shy. Like he’s giving you the chance to pull away. You don’t. You kiss him back eagerly, tasting yourself on his lips.

“You should sit on my face and suck me off next time,” he says, his voice low and serious. “After our date. Obviously.”

“Obviously.”

The idea of a date and a possible next time sends a thrill right through you, low and giddy and a little unhinged.

“I wanna fuck you first,” you murmur, your breath still uneven, chest rising and falling against his. The words come out raw and honest, no hesitation, and it sends a shiver down Mark’s spine. You feel it, the way he literally trembles.

He groans softly, tucking himself into your side, arms curling around your waist like it’s the most normal thing to do. “Maybe next time,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to the curve of your neck. His eyes are shut tight, and he clings to you like your words rewired something inside him.

“You need a minute?” you ask, fingers stroking along his back.

“Just a minute… You?”

“…Yeah.”

“Okay, good. I don’t have condoms anyway.”

You snort, eyelids heavy as you nuzzle into him. “When’s your mom getting home?”

“Probably not for another couple hours.”

You glance at him, still breathless, still kind of high off him. “Wanna fly to the store and get some? Pick up takeout on the way?”

He groans dramatically. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You grin. “We can plan out our date after, too. I’ll even read an issue of Seance Dog.”

Mark grins back, a lazy, cocky tilt to his mouth. “Fuck yes. Can I pick the takeout?”

“Sure, you’re paying anyways.”

#mark grayson x reader #mark grayson smut #invincible x reader #invincible smut #faye’s writing ⭑.ᐟ #mark’s empire

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