#but actually I think I love it even more now

[catnippackets]

yet another reason why queer romance in media that is very subtle or more queer-coding than actual explicit rep is so much more compelling than the wealth of straight stories that are out there is bc I think a lot of romance writers forget that you have to like. show not tell. and imply things. and if you hustle things along and put two characters together for the sake of it instead of really working to build their relationship and show how well they work with each other it's not really going to be as interesting to people. and for some reason, a staggering amount of people do not know how to write romance properly so you get a very bland forced dynamic that either feels like an afterthought (he's a boy and she's a girl, hey they could be together because that's what happens!) or the only thing that matters about their characters (see her? she's the Love Interest. that is all she's there for)

however if you're being censored and you literally can't make your characters say "I love you" or kiss or maybe even hold hands you're going to have to come up with more creative ways to tell your audience that they're in love and that usually results in the most poetic beautiful stuff you've ever seen that's SO much more interesting than two characters who make eye contact and go into the slow-mo rose petals scene that's basically screaming at you "hey look at these two. they're in love. you're supposed to be invested in their relationship now. do you get it?" eye contact held for slightly too long in an emotional scene is more compelling. a hand very lightly touching their back is WAY more compelling.

and might I add this is not even impossible to achieve with uncensored straight romances at all like Pride & Prejudice is wildly popular for this exact reason. how many times have I seen people going insane over the hand flex scene. they didn't even kiss in that movie unless you count the extended ending. and everyone loves it. because it's done RIGHT.

tldr; romance is hard to write and you have to put in the effort if you want people to care about your ship. now go forth and imply something

QUICK EDIT TO ADD ALSO when things are more subtle that gives people more space to interpret the dynamic as whatever they want. something might be subtle because that's all they're allowed to show, but something might be subtle because that literally what it's supposed to be. as an aroace person I personally see a LOT of queerplatonic vibes from more subtly played relationships and it's so incredibly exciting and heartwarming for me. and that's a whole new realm of relationship that I think should also be given more attention

[sceletaflores]

HEY THERE SUGAR BABY!

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ೃ⁀➷ 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 give him your hand.

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 wash 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!

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 32: September 2024 - Part 3

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Text Messages: Emilie Abadie & Victoria Verstappen

Emilie: So I’ve decided i’m planning Belle’s baby shower. You in?

Victoria: YES god yes i thought you’d never ask

Emilie: i knew you were my people

Emilie: we are going to destroy her with love

Victoria: as it should be

Emilie:Belle said the nursery will be jungle-themed But like classy jungle. not neon animal prints. think: baby Tarzan but with better lighting

Victoria:So tasteful jungle. Earth tones? Greens? Wood accents?

Emilie: YES. I was thinking “woodland safari” vibes like if Paddington Bear took a gap year in Tanzania

Victoria:I know exactly what you mean

Emilie:We do green and gold

maybe some dried eucalyptus and baby’s breath??

wooden signs?? one that says “A little wild one is on the way” and makes me cry in public???

Victoria: That’s actually adorable. Okay: green, gold, maybe ivory or beige accents. Nothing with leopard print unless it’s ironic.

Emilie:Sent

 also we are getting little elephant sugar cookies

and a cake topper that’s a baby lion wearing a crown

and we’re doing a “write a wish for baby” station or i riot

Victoria: You know Belle’s going to sob, right?

Emilie: that’s the GOAL she deserves the most beloved jungle baby shower in history

Victoria:No jungle noises sound machine. I draw the line at simulated monkey shrieks.

Emilie: coward.

Victoria: Okay, next item: guest list. How big are we going?

Emilie: Small enough to keep it personal. Big enough to make Belle cry at the sheer volume of love.

Victoria: So like… emotionally intimate but logistically bold.

Emilie: Exactly. Also: I vote no gender rules. Men are absolutely allowed. Max is not escaping this with a handshake and a gift bag.

Victoria: Agreed. If she carried the baby, he can carry a platter of mini quiches.

Emilie: Yes. It’s 2025. Equal opportunity baby shower sobbing.

Guest List: First of all, Belle and Max. Obviously. 

Victoria: Obviously. Me, you.

Emilie: Oscar’s Lily? She will cry and also judge the dessert table with me.

Victoria: Oscar too. 

Emilie: oh definitely he and Belle have a weird soft sibling vibe.  Also he’ll bring snacks and quiet competence. I’m counting on him to make Lando behave.

Victoria: Speaking of: Lando?

Emilie: I don’t care if he pretends to be cool and unfazed. He’s coming and he’s writing a wish for the baby. But he must be emotionally supervised.

Victoria: GP + wife?

Emilie: 

He brings emotional calm. And probably good wine. But he has to promise not to bring team merch as a gift. This is not a Red Bull onboarding event.

Victoria: So… the Leclercs?

Emilie:

😬

Emilie:

I’ll message Alexandra and Charlotte and say they’re absolutely welcome—if they can keep their boyfriends leashed and emotionally housebroken for the duration of the event. 

Arthur is easy. He’s scared of me. 

Victoria: Reasonable.

Emilie: If Charles tries to do a grand gesture apology in the middle of Belle unwrapping a swaddle set, I will throw him into the dessert table.

Next name on the landmine list: Pascale.

Victoria: 

Easy. I’ll just have my mom deal with her. She’ll smile, say something cutting, and suddenly Pascale will be quietly eating a macaron in the corner reflecting on her parenting choices.

Alternatively:  And we’ll simply seat my dad near her.

Jos won’t say much. He’ll just… exist.

Stoic. Imposing. 

Any Leclerc who tries to stir up drama will get one look and remember their mortality.

Emilie: Jos Verstappen as emotional bouncer. I want that printed on a T-shirt.

Victoria: Exactly. You want passive-aggressive guilt spirals? Not with Jos around. He has no time for emotional mess unless it involves lap times or tire degradation.

Emilie: He’ll stand there like a wall of paternal disapproval and every problematic relative will instinctively behave.

Victoria: Perfect. Now back to the important question: Do we get little wooden animals as name cards or is that too cute?

Emilie: I’m literally crying. She’s going to feel so loved.

Victoria: That’s the point. This is her village. And it’s feral, organized, and absolutely ready.

Victoria: I’ll draft the invites. Do we want them printed or digital?

Emilie: Printed. On seeded paper. That turns into wildflowers. Because I’m an emotional menace and Belle will cry.

Victoria: You’re unwell and I love it. Okay, I’ll message the stationery girl I used for a friend’s baby shower. Prepare to be impressed.

***

Text Messages: Emilie Abadie, Alexandra Saint Mleux & Charlotte Di Pietro

Emilie:

Ladies 💚

so: I’m planning belle’s baby shower

You’re both invited

But

If you want to bring your boyfriends, please keep them on emotional leashes

Charlotte: Oh my god

Alexandra: Understood short leash or retractable?

Emilie:

I don’t want belle opening tiny socks while Lorenzo gazes into the distance like he just read a tragic poem, Charles makes it all about himself and if Arthur even thinks about giving an unsolicited speech, i swear—

Charlotte:

we’ll drug arthur with complimentary cupcakes

Alexandra:

I’ll sit next to him and kick him under the table if he starts twitching

Emilie:

Thank you. you’re doing the lord’s work.

Charlotte:

Where is the shower, btw?

Emilie:

Scouting locations

But probably… the restaurant where she and max had their first date

And also had their wedding reception 

Charlotte:

NO

Alexandra:

wait

ACTUALLY?

Emilie:

Iconic, right??

She won’t expect it

It’s sentimental, it’s beautiful, and Max won’t get lost trying to park

Charlotte:

You’re such a menace

I love it

Emilie:

Thank you

Now go warn your men.

This is not the time for family therapy. this is the time for jungle plushies and emotional overwhelm.

Alexandra:

Copy that.

I’ll handle charles.

May god help us all.

Charlotte:

I’ll handle Lorenzo. 

Arthur will be given a cupcake and a babysitter.

I’ve got this.

Emilie:

You two are the real MVPs

***

Text Messages: Emilie Abadie & Lily Zneimer

Emilie:

tell your boyfriend he’s babysitting Lando at Belle’s baby shower

Lily:

Excuse me???

Babysit Lando yourself.

He’s your boyfriend, Emilie.

Emilie:

He’s not my boyfriend. 

I’m on belle-duty

Full emotional concierge service. I don’t have time to stop Lando from stealing baby cookies or making jungle noises

Lily:

Honestly fair

But Oscar’s not a zookeeper

Emilie:

He’s calm. He’s emotionally balanced. He’s got that soothing energy that makes toddlers and unstable drivers relax

Lily:

You make my boyfriend sound like a sentient weighted blanket

Emilie:

am i wrong?

Lily:

No. Which is the annoying part.

Fine. I’ll let him know he’s on Lando-watch.

He’s going to ask if that includes snacks

Emilie:

it absolutely includes snacks.

preferably ones he can throw at Lando if needed

Lily:

God help us all

Let me know if you need any help. I am surprisingly good at calligraphy. 

***

Text Messages: Oscar Piastri & Emilie Abadie

Oscar:

So.

Apparently I’m your boyfriend’s designated babysitter at the baby shower?

Emilie:

Not my boyfriend. But yes. You are Lando’s designated babysitter. 

Level 3 supervision.

You may use snacks and Max glares as reinforcement tools.

Oscar:

Why me

Emilie:

Because he listens to you.

And you’re calm.

And I trust you not to join him if he tries to tape a “future world champion” sign to Belle’s bump.

Oscar:

You’re assuming I won’t be too busy hiding behind a fern.

Emilie:

You have won two Grand Prixs. You can handle one emotional jungle-themed social gathering.

Oscar:

Lando has already texted me a design for baby-sized racing boots. They have wings on them, Emilie

Emilie:

Do NOT let him give those to Max. Max will use them

Oscar:

He also wants to “casually mention” naming the baby after Senna. I told him to stop texting and go hydrate

Emilie: 

You see? This is why you’re perfect for this job

Oscar:

I hate how right you are

Emilie:

You love it. You love being the responsible one. you love keeping all of us feral little gremlins alive

Oscar:

I tolerate it.

Because I love Belle.

And because if Lando breaks something during a baby shower I will never emotionally recover

Emilie:

This entire event is going to be a mascara massacre and we are going to LOVE it.

Oscar:

I’ll bring tissues. And a tranquilizer dart. For Lando, not Belle.

Emilie:

I’m putting you on the spreadsheet as “handler: Norris, L.”

Oscar:

Add hazard pay.

Oscar:

Also, you should maybe tell Lando that he isn’t your “boyfriend” because he sure acts like you are his girlfriend. 

***

The Singapore humidity clung to everything like a second skin. Belle had given up on pretending her hair wasn’t frizzing and was now sitting with her feet up on a second chair, aggressively sipping her iced bubble tea and watching Lando Norris spiral.

“I swear to god,” she muttered, “if he sighs one more time like the ghost of heartbreak past, I’m going to throw this at him.” She held up the tapioca pearls at the bottom of her cup as evidence.

Lily looking far too put-together for how disgustingly warm it was, raised a single brow and followed Belle’s gaze.

“Oh. He’s doing the walk again.”

It was the third time Lando had passed the hospitality tent in the last twenty minutes. No pit stop. No purpose. Just dragging his feet like a heartbroken protagonist in an indie film. Sunglasses on. 

Hoodie in this weather. Hands in pockets. Pout firmly in place.

Belle deadpanned, “This is the emotional equivalent of when he lost that podium.”

“He’s not even trying to hide it,” Lily added, stirring her drink. “Oscar told me he’s been playing Emilie’s old voice notes like he’s crafting a scrapbook of despair.”

Belle just sighed. “He’s been like this since after Baku. He asked Max yesterday if emotional scurvy is a real thing.”

“I—what?”

“Apparently he thinks he’s developing ‘separation-related vitamin deficiencies.’” Belle mimed air quotes, then rolled her eyes. “Max offered him a banana. He said it wasn’t the same.”

Lily cackled. “That’s so dramatic.”

“He stared out at the water this morning like he expected Emilie to emerge from the mist on a gondola,” Belle muttered. “I can’t keep doing this. Max is getting secondhand annoyed.”

“Should we… check on him?”

“No,” Belle said flatly, pulling out her phone. “We’re escalating.”

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Belle: I’m saying this with love. But your boyfriend is wilting.

Emilie: ??? What are you on about

Belle: Lando. He’s stomping around the paddock like someone took away his favourite toy. Or like he hasn’t been hugged in a week. Which, coincidentally, tracks.

Emilie: It’s been 8 days, actually. Not that I’m counting.

Belle: Well he is. By sulking in the motorhome and making Oscar fetch him snacks like a Victorian child in mourning.

Emilie: I’m— 😭😭😭 Not the Victorian child

Belle: He told Oscar he had a phantom pain in his chest when he saw a girl with blonde hair at breakfast.

Emilie: NO

Belle: Yes. Oscar nearly choked on his toast. Then offered to print you out and tape you to the door of Lando’s driver room.

Emilie: I hate this paddock so much 💀

Belle: Anyway. Come to Singapore. Save us from the sadness. And I want bubble tea.

Emilie: This feels manipulative.

Belle: It is manipulative. I learned from the best. Also I’m hormonal and pregnant and will cry if you say no.

Emilie: You weaponized your unborn child. Wow. I knew you’d be dramatic.

Belle: I prefer theatrical. You in?

Emilie: ...Send me your hotel info. I’ll book the flight.

***

Belle knew exactly what she was doing.

She sipped her mocktail with the air of someone completely innocent, despite the look Max kept shooting her over the rim of his glass. It wasn’t her fault Emilie’s flight had landed early. It also wasn’t her fault that Lando had spent the last week moping around the paddock like a Victorian poet with a tragic case of unrequited love. Honestly, Belle was doing the world a favour.

Max leaned a little closer, voice low and teasing. “You’re very pleased with yourself.”

She smiled, eyes following the familiar silhouette weaving through the crowd just outside the McLaren hospitality. “Maybe.”

Max chuckled. “Should I be worried you’re this good at scheming?”

“You should have been worried ages ago,” she said sweetly.

From across the terrace, Lando appeared — animated, arms waving in some exaggerated retelling of his qualifying lap to Oscar and a few mechanics. His curls were damp with sweat, his cap backwards, his smile wide. But Belle noticed the way it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Not like it used to.

Max caught the shift too, the smile slipping into something softer. “He misses her.”

“I know,” Belle murmured. “So I fixed it.”

Max huffed a laugh. “You really are dangerous.”

“Only when I care.”

Then, like clockwork, the front entrance of the hospitality tent shifted open — and there she was.

Emilie.

Hair pulled back into a low bun, sunglasses perched on her head, wearing a linen jumpsuit that somehow made airport fatigue look chic. She scanned the terrace quickly — eyes darting past engineers and drivers and sponsors — and then landed on them.

Belle gave her the world’s smallest nod.

And Emilie moved.

Belle barely contained her grin as Lando caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, turned—

And froze.

His whole body stiffened. Like seeing a ghost. Or a miracle.

“Holy—” Lando started, voice strangled.

Emilie reached him in a few strides and before he could say anything else, she threw her arms around him.

Belle watched as his whole frame seemed to melt. As if someone had taken the tension and twisted it loose. His arms went around her, one hand cradling the back of her head like he didn’t quite believe she was real.

“Hey, idiot,” Emilie murmured. “You didn’t think I was missing night race dumplings, did you?”

Lando made a sound that could only be described as emotionally overwhelmed baby giraffe. Belle saw Oscar smirk in the background, muttering something to a nearby PR rep that made them both laugh.

Max looked down at Belle, his voice warm. “That was very kind of you.”

Belle rested a hand on her bump, heart full. “They needed a win.”

“And what about you?” he asked, gently nudging her side.

She tilted her head up at him. “I’ve already got mine.”

Max’s smile softened, eyes flicking to her belly, then back. “You’re going to be a terrifying mother.”

Belle grinned. “I can only hope.”

Across the terrace, Lando and Emilie stood wrapped in each other, oblivious to the world. And Belle allowed herself a rare, smug moment of satisfaction.

Mission: Get Lando to Stop Sulking – complete.

***

It was the kind of heat that stuck to your skin like honey. The kind that lingered long after the engines had gone quiet and the fireworks had faded.

Singapore at night always felt like a fever dream. And tonight — with Lando Norris standing on the top step the podium for the third time this season, champagne-soaked and shining under the floodlights — it felt almost mythic.

Belle watched from the edge of the paddock chaos, tucked just behind the barriers near Parc Fermé, her hand resting on the curve of her belly. Max had pulled off a brilliant second place — not a win, not what he always wanted, but tonight it hadn’t mattered. Because Lando had driven like a man possessed. Like a man who had something — or maybe someone — to fight for.

And Belle had seen it happen in real time.

The checkered flag. The scream over the radio. The disbelieving, almost frantic way Lando had leapt from the car and paced like he didn’t know what to do with the adrenaline. Then — like gravity had found him again — he turned.

Emilie was already there.

She’d made her way down with the mechanics, badge flashing, heart in her throat. Belle didn’t know if someone had told her to go or if she’d just known. But the second Lando spotted her, the world shrunk.

No PR officials. No cameras. No team principals. Just her.

He didn’t hesitate. Not for a second.

One stride. Two. And then he was in front of her, grabbing her face like a man starved of touch, of home, of her. And kissed her.

Right there. In Parc Fermé. Helmet off, fireproofs half-zipped, shaking with emotion — he kissed her like she was the trophy. Like the whole damn weekend had led to this.

The crowd exploded. Screaming, cheering, wolf-whistling. Someone from McLaren hooted so loud Belle actually jumped.

And Belle?

Belle smiled.

Because Max had just pulled himself out of the RB20, sweat-slick and grinning like a man with no regrets. He walked toward her slowly, soaking it all in — the cheers, the chaos, the way Lando and Emilie were still wrapped around each other like teenagers in a romcom.

He reached her, pulled his cap off, and kissed her forehead.

He slid his hand over hers, resting it gently on the swell of her belly. “Think he felt that?”

“The baby?” Belle asked. “I think he just learned about true love and strategic PR in one go.”

Max chuckled. “Good. He’s ahead of schedule.”

Lando was still laughing, still breathless as he lifted Emilie off her feet and spun her once, like he didn’t care who was watching. And maybe for the first time all year, Belle thought he didn’t.

Because this wasn’t just a win.

It was his win.

And maybe — just maybe — it was the beginning of something more.

Belle looked at Max, his face glowing in the floodlights, proud and unbothered, hand still holding hers like he’d never let go.

Yeah. She thought, not for the first time that season, this is a good life.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/F1TeaDaily 🚨 BREAKING: Lando Norris WINS the Singapore Grand Prix!!! 🧡 Also Lando Norris KISSES A WOMAN IN PARC FERMÉ AND IT’S NOT HIS MUM OR HIS DOG?! More at 11.

@/gridgossipgirl lando norris just kissed someone in parc fermé. I repeat. HE KISSED HER. ON THE MOUTH. this is not a drill.

@/dannyricssmile lando norris kissing someone in parc fermé with the confidence of a man who has been Wifed™ someone check if she’s wearing a ring I’m begging

@/padockcryptid don’t get me wrong I’m happy he won but WHO THE HELL IS THAT GIRL AND HOW DO I BECOME HER

@/emiliesarchive hi yes the girl lando kissed is named emilie and she’s been seen around the paddock Spain, and she hangs out with Lily and Belle and once max verstappen handed her a juice box while glaring at lando. I knew something was up.

@/mrsoscarpiastri lando: wins a race lando: immediately turns into a fanfic boyfriend honestly it’s disgusting. i’m obsessed.

@/alexdoesmemes lando norris kissing his gf like they’re at the climax of a 2000s romcom while max just chills in p2 like a supportive older brother who knew the whole time cinema

@/BelleLeclercUpdates the way belle verstappen SMILED when she saw them kiss 😭 mother knows mother approves

@/sunshinef1girl i don’t want a boyfriend. i want a lando norris singapore gp 2024 parc fermé kiss.

@/quadrantclown lando: “I don’t talk about my private life” also lando: plants a cinematic kiss in front of three thousand cameras and god himself 🧍‍♂️

@/F1FictionReal so you’re telling me:

he wins

he kisses the girl

she wore a sundress

belle verstappen plotted this

max just smirked like he knew all along this isn’t a race. it’s the finale of season 3 of a netflix romance.

@/F1Girlie999 Lando Norris winning Singapore and then KISSING HIS GIRL like he's in a damn romance movie? Yes. Inject that into my veins.

💥💥💥💥💥

@/padDOCKwives every time i think f1 can't get more cinematic... lando wins. the lights. the heat. the sweat. the kiss. and in parc fermé?? someone call netflix.

@/F1StatManiac i don’t know what’s more impressive — Lando’s racecraft under pressure — or the grip he had on his girlfriend’s waist post-race 👏👏👏

@/bitchyforboveralls that was not a kiss that was a statement that was a thesis that was a roman empire

@/mclarenmediaarchive i will be studying the footage of that kiss like it's the zapruder film frame by frame. hand placement analysis. full body language breakdown.

@/f1fanatic89 lando. norris. won. and then kissed a girl like he’s the lead in a wattpad fic. is this growth???

@/gridgossip THE WAY HE JUST— HE JUST— DROPPED THE HELMET AND WALKED STRAIGHT TO HER THIS IS A ROM-COM I AM NOT OKAY

@/softverstappen someone said he kissed her like a man unburdened by poor strategy and I haven’t stopped laughing

@/wheelsemotions lando norris. won a race. kissed the girl. looked like a movie. and you want me to act normal about it????

@/gridwivesanonymous is this the lando norris arc where he finally gets the girl and the trophy?? oscar and max fewtrell better be flower girl and ring bearer

@mclarencultleader I just know Max looked at Lando and said “about damn time” and Belle clapped like it was the season finale someone confirm pls

***

The city outside still buzzed with post-race energy — horns in the distance, neon lights flickering against the windows. But inside their room, it was quiet.

Belle sat on the bed, one hand resting on her belly, her other tracing the condensation down a glass of water. Max was sitting at the edge, still in a t-shirt, hair damp from the shower, staring at nothing in particular.

“They said it on the broadcast,” Belle said softly. “That this might really be it for Daniel.”

Max didn’t respond at first.

He just nodded, slowly.

Then: “Yeah.”

Silence stretched again.

Belle watched him, her thumb brushing slow circles on the curve of her stomach. “Are you okay?”

Max exhaled through his nose. “He was my favourite teammate.”

There wasn’t any hesitation in the way he said it.

Not the kind of fondness people say in hindsight. But the honest kind — the kind with real warmth, buried under everything else that had changed since 2018.

Belle tilted her head. “Why?”

Max’s lips curved slightly, a quiet little thing. “Because he made the team feel lighter. Like… we could actually have fun. Even when the car was bad. Even when the pressure was worse.”

He paused. “He used to laugh in the briefing room just to make the engineers smile.”

Belle smiled too, just a little. “That sounds like him.”

“He was fast,” Max added, almost defensively. “Like really fast. People forget that. But he made it look easy because he was always joking. Like it wasn’t costing him anything.”

“And was it?” Belle asked.

Max hesitated. “Yeah. I think it was. But he never let it show.”

The baby shifted under Belle’s hand — a tiny kick, gentle but certain.

“Do you think he’ll be okay?” she asked.

Max looked over at her. “I think he’ll be loved. And I think that’s better.”

He reached across the space between them, hand warm over hers, where their son stirred.

“He made F1 better,” Max said quietly. “For all of us. And I don’t think people say that enough.”

Belle leaned her head against his shoulder. “Maybe it’s your turn to be that person now.”

Max snorted softly. “I don’t think I’m the new Ricciardo.”

“No,” she said. “But you’re someone else’s favourite now.”

He looked down at her — at her hand over his, the baby beneath — and let the silence settle again.

“Yeah,” he said. “I guess I am.”

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Daniel Ricciardo

Belle: Hey. I just wanted to say — thank you.

For everything.

For being kind to Max when he was 19 and furious at the world. For making him laugh when no one else could. For being a teammate, but also a real friend — the kind that sticks.

I don’t know if you realise how much of an impact you had on him. But I see it every day.

(Also: thanks for not killing him when he was an arrogant teenager with a death wish. I know it was close sometimes.)

He’s really going to miss you. We both are.

Belle: Also. Don’t disappear off the face of the earth. You’re not allowed.

You still owe this baby hundreds of Max Verstappen stories that will one day horrify him. Preferably with impressions and questionable accents.

The baby needs to know the full lore of 2017 Max, and I feel like only you can deliver it properly.

Belle: You’re family. You always have a place with us.

Daniel: 😭😭😭 Mate you’re actually gonna make me cry right now. I love you guys. So much. Tell Max I’m not gone. Just… onto the next corner.

And tell the little Verstappen I’ll bring the snacks and the stories. Even the embarrassing ones. Especially the embarrassing ones. 😎

***

[suliigwp]

HIII omg i love your writings!! got this idea while i was in the bathroom blasting alchemy by taylor swift and you were the first writer i thought of that i know would slay this! Reader is a known singer but she doesnt really write love songs which charles is completely fine about. His friends ask and tease him about it and he brushes it off then one night on one of her tours she sings alchemy for the first time while charles is watching from the crowd. His whole world stops and maybe even tears up then he just goes on for days bragging about it. HUMOUR AND FLUFFF WHATEVER U WANT THANK YOU SO MUCH

WHERES THE TROPHY?

Charles Leclerc x Singer! Reader | fluff

SULI: hiii omg you have no idea how much it means remembering me first🥹 thank you soooo much!!!!! — very cool because I actually do have a singer!readers series coming up but none of the love interests is Charles sadly— but I really love singer au's and this was so much fun to write! Thank you so much for requesting, love you, hope you enjoy🫶

I'm absolutely obsessed with this song — stream "The alchemy" now!!!

Warnings: none, short and sweet, Twitter post at the end

Charles liked to think he had you figured out.

At least, the version of you the world didn’t get to see — the quiet one, the tired one after long studio nights, the version that wore his hoodie to bed and snuck kisses onto his shoulder when you thought he was sleeping.

He liked being the silent inspiration, the person behind the curtain. You were his in private — that was more than enough.

"She doesn't write love songs."

That was the line Charles Leclerc had come to know and love. He’d heard it in interviews, read it in headlines, and smiled through every late-night talk show where someone inevitably asked, “So, do you really not write about him?”

The camera would zoom in, the crowd would laugh, and you’d flash that sly little grin. “Don't worry, if I wrote a love song,” you always said, “you’d know it.”

Charles didn’t mind. In fact, he was fine with it.

You were his.

Even if the rest of the world liked to think you belonged to them.

The fans, the cameras, the interviews — they all wanted pieces. But Charles had long made peace with being the part no one else got to hear in the songs.

Because you didn’t write love songs.

Everyone said so.

You said so.

And Charles believed it. Until the night you didn’t.

...

back, first year of dating

“You still haven’t written a song about me,” Charles teased from the couch, bare feet on the floor, one arm lazily slung around your waist. His eyes were half-lidded, lips curled into that soft smile he only gave you when the world was quiet.

You rolled your eyes, brushing your fingers through his curls. “You say that like you’re not already in every other one.”

“Yes, but I want the main character treatment,” he said, dramatically pressing a hand to his chest. “The standing ovation. The bridge that emotionally ruins people.”

You just laughed, kissed his cheek, and said, “Maybe when you win Monaco.”

He groaned. “Cruel woman.”

...

He hadn't told you he was coming.

You were in the middle of a sold-out run through Europe, and Charles was drowning in simulator sessions and car debriefs. But when he saw the gap in his schedule, he booked the ticket quietly, packed light, and told his engineers he was leaving for “something more important than tyre degradation.”

Barcelona was a quick flight from Monaco. Your show there had been sold out for months, and he knew better than to try and sneak in through backstage. So he did what no one expected:

He lined up like everyone else.

He didn’t tell you. You were always happiest on stage, and he wanted to be just another face in the crowd that night. Just a quiet, anonymous dot in a sea of lights and sweat and noise.

Hood up, cap low, a simple black tee that did nothing to hide how gorgeous he was. He bought a pit wristband from resale (triple the price, but whatever), pushed into the crowd, and waited.

His heart beat harder the closer it got to showtime.

He didn’t know why. He’d seen you perform dozens of times. Hell, he’d watched you rehearse in sweats with a tea bag hanging out of your mouth. He lived with you.

But something about tonight buzzed different.

The lights dimmed.

The crowd erupted.

And then you appeared.

...

You always had a certain way of standing still — calm, rooted, like you didn’t need fireworks to be the most magnetic person in the room. Charles felt the shift the second you stepped up to the mic.

“This one’s new,” you said softly.

The crowd stilled.

“I wasn’t planning to play it live yet, but…”

You paused, and smiled.

“He’s here tonight.”

The girls around Charles screamed.

He went still.

No.

You’re not—

The opening chords were simple, soft. A rhythmic pulse like a heartbeat.

"Shirts off, and your friends lift you up over their heads, Champagne sticking to the floor"

The lyrics felt so close, so personal, Charles swore you were staring right at him, even though you couldn’t see him through the crowd.

"Cheers chanted, cause they said, There was no chance, trying to be The greatest in the league"

And then.

Then.

“Where’s the trophy? He just comes running over to me.”

Charles’s knees nearly buckled.

The lyric struck him like a punch to the gut.

He didn’t even breathe for a second — chest tight, hands shaking, mouth parted in stunned silence.

You remembered.

Monaco.

That day.

The crowd, the flags, the win — his first home win. The one he had chased like a ghost for years.

He remembered the noise, the champagne, the cameras flashing. But more than anything, he remembered you, standing behind the barrier, tucked to the side — quiet and glowing and waiting.

He hadn’t even thought.

He just ran.

Straight to you. Through the crowd. Past everyone. Helmet barely off.

You caught him in your arms like you’d been waiting there your whole life.

“Where’s the trophy?” the reporter had asked him after.

And he’d smiled before glancing over at you.

...

By the time you hit the final chorus, Charles had completely given up pretending he was okay.

His eyes were glassy. His cheeks were damp.

A teenage girl next to him elbowed her friend and whispered, “That guy is, like, sobbing.”

He didn’t even notice.

When you sang the last line and let the guitar fall quiet, Charles couldn’t move.

The stadium exploded in sound.

You bowed.

The lights went out.

And he just stood there — one hand pressed over his heart, whispering the lyric under his breath like a prayer.

...

Backstage, everything felt like static.

You were mid-change when a tech knocked on the greenroom door.

“Uh… sorry, there’s a guy trying to come back here. He says he’s your boyfriend? Hoodie, cap, extremely beautiful—kind of panicked?”

You laughed, heart already racing.

“Let him in.”

Charles barrelled into the room like a man possessed.

“You—” he said, voice raw.

You turned, makeup still smudged, hair frizzing from sweat, and barely had time to open your arms before he was there — pulling you into him like he hadn’t seen you in years.

“Monaco?” he whispered.

You nodded against his chest.

He pulled back just slightly, hands cupping your face, eyes red-rimmed and earnest. “You remembered.”

“Of course I did.”

“You wrote about it.”

A breathless laugh. “You wrote about me.”

You shrugged playfully, nose brushing his. “Guess you’re the main character now.”

His grin cracked wide and helpless, and then he kissed you. Soft, slow, deep — the kind of kiss that says thank you and I love you and I’m never letting this go.

“You’re screwed now,” he whispered, grinning against your mouth.

“Why?”

“Because I’m going to brag about this forever.”

...

And he did.

The next morning:

And for the rest of the season, no matter how many podiums he earned, Charles had one answer to every post-race interview:

“Where’s the trophy, Charles?”

“She’s probably watching from home.”

Taglist, comment to be added;

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[rafesangelita]

♡ when dilf!rafe and bunny!reader first met

warnings: suggestive language

a/n: inspired by this gif — it’s soooo dilf!rafe and bunny coded, i just had to include it in so y’all could get my visual.. and also feel free to read more about dilf!rafe x housebunny!reader here ! leave req’s or discussion posts about them in my ask box, these two are one of my fav au’s to write for!!

sipping on an ice water, you hummed sweetly as the breeze from your little handheld fan blew gently through your hair, the chilly air providing you with some form of relief against the blazing outer banks sun. you had been out here on the golf course for about three hours now, the fanny pack hugging your hips already filled with crispy blue hundreds from the wealthy patrons of the country club. having met your money goal for the day, you decided a break was deemed necessary, considering you still had a few hours left until you were able to clock out.

it wasn’t until you spotted a group of men swinging their golf clubs far off in the distance, that you decided to make your way over there, plastering on your pretty smile that never failed to make the men empty their wallets to you. one of the men had turned around at the sound of the soft hum of the golf cart engine, the other two following suit as you stepped off, the zipper of your baby pink lululemon jacket zipped down just far enough to expose your cleavage and the dainty little tiffany and co. heart pendant on your necklace. “hi, there!” you chirped, “my goodness, everyone here looks like they can use a drink..”

at your flirtatious tone, the guys exchanged suggestive looks with each other before a certain one with cerulean eyes caught your attention. he gave you a once over, his jaw clenching as you bent over to grab the flavored liqueurs you had in stock. he was so tall, his broad shoulders alone made your imagination run wild as you pictured your nails digging into his flesh, his sharp facial features causing an influx of butterflies to flutter in your tummy. “you’re a lifesaver, bunny.” topper, the man you recognized from yesterday, was quick to give you his drink order, both of you making small talk as rafe watched you intently.

he waited until kelce and topper disappeared back to their original spots before finally towering over you, a surprised gasp leaving your lips when you turned around and found yourself face to face with the man you shamelessly imagined yourself getting fucked by. “i’ve never seen you around here before.” his voice was low as he spoke, almost as if he knew what you were thinking and he was teasing you for it. “this is my second day on the course..” you trailed off, your cheeks heating as the space between you two lessened. rafe loved seeing how nervous you grew under his stare, a smug grin gracing his lips as you lifted your head to meet his gaze.

“how’s it going?” he adjusted the cap on his head, the gold ring on his index finger glinting underneath the sunlight. despite making really good money at the country club, you knew this job wasn’t something you could see yourself doing long term. “it’s alright.. it wasn’t my first choice but it’s funding my shopping sprees so far, sooo.. good enough!” at the mention of shopping sprees, rafe cleared his throat. “what was your first choice?” he asked, taking a sip from the alcohol in his cup as you started twirling the ends of your hair. “well, i was nannying on the mainland, so i was hoping to do the same thing when i decided to move here, but i just haven’t had much luck..”

it was like a lightbulb went off in rafe’s head, his eyes flickering down to your glossy lips. “no, shit? you know your way around a house?” you nodded, your lashes fluttering up at him as he decided right then and there that you were going to go home with him. “my son is actually out of the house right now for school, but i would love to have someone there to maintain things for me.. maybe even meal prep or just have dinner ready for me when i get home from work?” you smiled sweetly, looking past him to see topper and kelce already packing up their equipment. “i would love to do that for you.” that statement was like music to rafe’s ears.

“yeah? can you start right now?” you gasped when rafe took your wrist, spinning you around so his frontside was completely flushed against your ass. making sure the guys were gone, and there was no one else around to see you two in this compromising position, rafe rested his chin in the curve of your neck before whispering in your ear. “you’re the prettiest fuckin’ thing i’ve ever seen.” his hand snaked around your waist, a shiver running down your spine as he slipped his fingers underneath your skirt and cupped you just in time for you to reach back and palm him through his pants.

“let’s get out of here, i’ll give you a house tour once i’m done breaking you in.”

[yoonlyhan]

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ in which itoshi sae confesses to you

“i hope i'm making it clear to you that i'm not doing all of this for us to be just friends.”

...huh?

somewhere out there... people are drinking their boba tea, eating fried chicken, or partying at a club. the earth continues to spin and life goes on but somehow you were frozen in time. all while sae's words echoes in your ears.

“i hope i'm making it clear to you that i'm not doing all of this for us to be just friends.”

“i hope i'm making it clear to you that i'm not doing all of this for us to be just friends.”

“i hope i'm making it clear to YOU that i'm NOT doing all of this for us to be JUST friends.”

oh shit.

your train of thoughts stopped when you heard sae scoffed. “you're overreacting,” he said. “were you that oblivious?”

sae shakes his head and walks away. you immediately walked to his side and gently elbowed him as your eyes stayed on the ground and mind stucked on his words.

“what are you saying? i didn't even said a word or anything. you, however, dropped a bomb.” you said slowly and carefully, afraid that you'll say something different.

in your peripheral vision, you saw that sae place his hands inside of the side pocket of his track jacket as he continued to walk on the same speed as you.

“you were looking at me as if i grew two heads.”

“i think you did...”you sighed. “you're making my vision blurry with your confession back there.”

you hold your breath. then gulped. you hoped it was actually his confession because what was it if not that? sae just told you indirectly that he doesn't want to be just friends. of course, your mind would go on different directions just to end up on a single conclusion.

it was clearly a love confession.

the silence stretched between you then you felt sweat sliding down from your forehead.

what the hell? why am i the nervous one here? you thought.

you stopped walking while sae also stopped after a few steps forward. your gaze slowly slide to his back. sae's relaxed form made you nervous, thinking you were probably hallucinating earlier.

“do you like me, sae?”

sae turned his head to look at you. his hands still in the inside of his pockets and his expression unchanged and your focused was on his parted lips.

“you're such a clueless idiot.”

“do you?” your brow lifted, urging him more. “i'll stay oblivious if you won't say it.”

sae now turned his body around to you. his unfazed expression slowly and noticeable soften as he continue to pin you down with his longing stare.

“i do,” he slightly tilts his head. “thought i was obvious with it.” he hums.

you snickered then walked up to him. “no way, i had a feeling but you actually like me?” you shake your head with a smile then you lift your head to look at him.

“sae, that confession was so not romantic.” you teased.

he lift an eyebrow at you. “do it have to be romantic?”

“yes, it should make my heart beat fast and loud. it didn't, you know?”

lies. it's like escaping your caged ribs right now.

sae shrugged and turned away from you to walk. you immediately poke his sides vecause he chose to ignor you but he caught it before you can poke him for the third time. sae then pulled your hand to intertwined with his and put it back inside of his side pockets.

oh, so he do likes you.

notice how i slip gnarly there ehe ( ¬ᴗ¬)

masterlist ♡

© written by @yoonlyhan. don't plagiarise my content. u will be blocked :x

credits to @strangergraphics for the wonderful divider ♡

[ggukivrse]

THE ART OF PRETENDING - JJK | 04

summary. when you and jungkook show up to your much anticipated graduation trip and realise neither of you had the guts to tell your friends about your recent break up, there’s only one thing you can do to keep the trip from falling apart: pretend.

but somewhere between fake kisses and real feelings, you start to wonder if letting go was ever the right choice at all.

pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre/warnings: exes to lovers, fake dating, idiots to lovers, mutual pining, fluff, (eventual) explicit sexual content, swearing, alcohol consumption, i want them to fuck already sigh, ft. seokjin, namjoon, hoseok, jimin, taehyung, yoongi + four female ocs

word count: 5.2k

notes: i actually managed to get this one out early as promised yipeee!! this was very hastily edited cuz i wanted it out by today, but tysm to j @tranquilreign for beta reading!! idk what i’d do without u pooks :’) likes, comments, reblogs, asks and feedback are very very appreciated! enjoy reading my lovies <333

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⤷ chapter four — halley’s comet

i was good at feeling nothing, now i’m hopeless / what a drag to love you like i do

Jungkook used to call you sunflower in the summer.

Not because of the flower itself — he never cared much for metaphors like that. But because every time the sun was out, you’d tilt your head back, eyes closed, face tilted towards the sky like you were trying to soak up every last drop of light. He’d tease you for it — call you predictable — then press a kiss to your forehead like it was instinct.

You tilt your head back now and the sun kisses the same spot. His lips don't.

And for some reason, it's the only thing you can think about now as the warmth bleeds across your skin, soft and steady. The boat rocks gently beneath you, the scent of salt lingering in the air. Laughter bubbles up from the other end of the deck, and you open your eyes behind your sunglasses, squinting toward the sound.

"Hyung, I still can’t believe you actually pulled this off," Namjoon says, nodding at Seokjin, who’s standing at the front of the boat.

Seokjin doesn’t even try to hide his smug grin. "Please. When have I ever let you down?"

"Should we make a list?" Yoongi mutters from his seat, but his tone is lazy, not sharp. He’s nursing something with ice in it and hasn’t moved much since boarding.

The engine hums beneath the conversation. You’re all sprawled out across the deck, sipping on melting drinks and soaking in the sunshine.

Somewhere behind you, Hoseok curses as a gust of wind nearly steals his hat. Haeun laughs too loud. Taehyung’s lying flat on his back with his eyes closed, Yasmine tracing lazy shapes on his chest with her finger.

Ari shifts beside you, adjusting the corner of the towel you’re both lying on so that it doesn’t bunch beneath her back. Her arm brushes yours, warm from the sun, and you feel her turn her head toward you even before she speaks.

“You guys okay?” she asks, soft and easy, like she’s just making conversation. Like she isn’t cracking open the air between you and Jungkook with three simple words.

Your body stiffens — not visibly, not enough to draw attention — but your fingers freeze mid-swipe against the condensation of your cup. You don’t answer right away. You can’t. Your brain rushes to catch up.

You glance toward the other end of the boat. Jungkook’s there, laughing at something Jimin just said, the wind catching at the hem of his shirt. Too far to hear you. Too busy to notice.

You look back at Ari.

“Huh?” you say, feigning light confusion, buying time. “What do you mean?”

She lifts her sunglasses slightly onto her head and looks at you more directly, less playfully now. “You and Jungkook. Did you guys have a fight or something?”

You blink at her. Then shake your head, too fast.

“No,” you say. “No, we’re fine. Why?”

Ari shrugs one shoulder, almost like she regrets asking. “I don’t know. You just feel... off. A little.”

You exhale through your nose and angle your face away from her, pretending to squint at the water. “We’re not off. We’re just... tired, I guess.”

“Okay,” she says, but it’s not full agreement.

You finally glance back at her, trying not to let anything show. “Do we really seem that weird?”

She hesitates, then gives a small, knowing smile. “Not weird. Just a little different.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Different how?”

“Dunno,” she says, settling back onto her elbows. “Usually you guys are either glued together or trying to beat each other at whatever game’s going on. Now it’s just... less of that.”

You almost laugh, but not because it’s funny.

Ari doesn’t push. She never does. She just lets the silence sit for a moment before speaking again. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make it a thing. It’s not a big deal.”

You shake your head. “No, it’s fine. I get it.”

She glances toward the others. Jungkook’s crouched by the drink cooler now, talking to Hoseok about something. You look away before he catches you watching.

“You know,” Ari says after a beat, “it’s not like people expect couples to be perfect all the time.”

You swallow. “We’re fine, Ari.”

She holds her hands up. “Okay. I believe you.”

And you think maybe she does. But she’s still watching you with the kind of look that says she knows something’s sitting underneath. Something you’re not saying.

She lies with you for a few more short minutes in silence before slipping away with a soft pat to your leg, joining Kiara and Haeun near the back railing.

You let your head fall back against the towel with a quiet sigh. The sun blurs through your lashes and your drink is nothing but sugar water now, flat and warm. You swirl the straw absently, trying to shake off the weight of that conversation.

It’s not like she was wrong.

You just wish she didn’t see so much.

The spot beside you shifts slightly, and you glance over just in time to see a cold can held out toward you.

“Figured you'd want something actually drinkable,” Jungkook says, nodding toward your cup as you take the drink from his hand.

You lift the can to your forehead before cracking it open. The cool metal soothes your skin. “Thanks."

"No problem." He lowers himself onto the towel next to you, close enough that your arms brush when you both move to get comfortable. You don’t move away. Neither does he.

You tap the can against your thigh, condensation already dripping down your leg.

Jungkook stretches his legs out beside you, arms behind his head, gaze on the sky like he’s trying to read something in the clouds. The silence between you is comfortable, but your chest still hums with the residue of Ari’s voice. You tap your can against your thigh again — once, twice — then let the words tumble out before you can second-guess them.

“She asked if we were okay,” you say, not looking at him.

Jungkook turns his head slightly, but doesn’t speak.

“Ari,” you clarify. “She asked if we had a fight.”

He lets out a slow breath through his nose. “What’d you say?”

“I said no.”

A pause.

“And then?”

You shrug. “I said we’re just tired.”

Another silence, thicker this time. You feel his eyes on the side of your face, steady and searching. You refuse to look at him.

“She didn’t buy it,” you add after a beat. “Not completely.”

Jungkook sits up slowly, arms resting over his knees. His tone is quieter now, more careful. “Think anyone else noticed?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Probably not. Ari’s always been... observant.” You finally glance at him. “She wasn’t pushy or anything. Just— curious," you say with a shrug.

Jungkook simply hums in response.

You watch the side of his face. There’s a faint shadow along his jawline, the kind you used to trace with your thumb when you thought no one was looking. You shake the thought loose before it sticks and take another sip of your drink.

“I mean, what do they want us to do?” you mumble. “Make out on the boat?”

Jungkook chokes on a laugh — not the soft kind, but the genuine kind that comes out sudden and loud, like it caught him off guard.

You glance at him. “I’m serious.”

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still grinning. “You say that like it’s the most ridiculous thing in the world.”

“It is,” you deadpan. “You want to traumatise Yoongi? That man hasn’t moved in an hour. You think he’s got the energy to witness that?”

That makes Jungkook laugh again, head tipping back. For a second — one small second — it’s just him, sunlight caught in the strands of his hair, smile easy and unguarded like it used to be. You look away.

He leans back beside you, bumping your arm with his in the process. “Okay,” he says. “So, no making out on the boat.”

“Glad we’re setting boundaries.”

He gives you a sidelong glance. “We just have to... I dunno, turn it up a notch.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Like what?”

He shrugs, still watching the clouds. “Be a little more couple-y. You know. Lean on me sometimes. Laugh at my jokes.”

You scoff. “You think me laughing at your jokes is what’s gonna sell this?”

“Absolutely,” he says, deadly serious. “That’s the most unrealistic part of our relationship now. If you start doing that, everyone’ll think we’re closer than ever.”

“Right,” you deadpan. “Because this all hinges on me fake-laughing at your stand-up routine.”

He grins. “Exactly.”

You shoot him a look, but there’s no heat behind it. “So what else? You planning on feeding me grapes next?”

“I could,” he says, suddenly thoughtful. “But someone might throw themselves overboard if I do.”

Your mouth twitches before you can stop it — not a full laugh, but close. More breath than sound. You shake your head like you’re trying to brush it off, but the smile lingers for just a second too long.

There’s a beat of silence. A shift in tone that’s almost invisible, but not quite.

“Maybe just... ease into it,” he says. “We don’t have to overdo it. Just the little things.”

“Little things like what?” you ask, suspicious.

He shrugs. A breeze moves across the deck and a strand of hair falls across your face, sticking to your lip.

Before you can reach for it, his fingers are already there — brushing it back behind your ear.

You freeze.

Not too dramatically. Not enough for anyone to notice. But inside, everything stills.

Jungkook doesn’t pull away immediately. His fingers linger for a second longer than necessary — maybe two. Then he draws his hand back like nothing happened.

“See,” he says, “this is why Ari’s catching on. You’re a terrible actress.”

You blink, caught between five different emotions. “Excuse me?”

He huffs out a laughing breath. “You didn’t even flinch the other day when Taehyung almost touched a jellyfish, but this? I tuck a little hair behind your ear and you go full statue.”

“Because it’s weird!” you protest, flustered now. “You don’t just— touch me like that anymore.”

The words tumble from your lips before you can stop them, and there's a pause.

Jungkook goes still. You watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows thickly, and for a second, you think he might actually say something real — something raw.

But then he exhales through his nose, masking it with a crooked half-smile.

“Right,” he says, voice lighter than it should be. “My bad. Next time I’ll just let it smack you in the face.”

You narrow your eyes at him, but your mouth twitches like it wants to smile.

He notices. Of course he does.

“You’re trying not to laugh,” he says.

“I’m trying not to shove you off the boat,” you correct.

“Same thing.”

He lets your words hang in the air, smiling in that way he does when he knows he’s gotten to you, just a little. It’s not smug exactly. It’s softer than that. Like he’s letting himself enjoy something small, something fleeting — and trying not to ruin it by pointing it out.

You shake your head and look back toward the horizon. The water is endless, all shifting blue and gold, and the sun is starting its slow descent, softening everything it touches.

Jungkook sits up, arms resting on his knees. You don’t look at him, but you can feel the shift — the way his attention settles on you in full.

“I meant it,” he says after a moment.

You glance over. “Meant what?”

He shrugs one shoulder, careful. “That it’s the little things. That’s how people believe it.”

You arch an eyebrow, sceptical. “People? Or you?”

There's humour laced in your words, but your smile falters when he meets your gaze.

“Both.”

The breeze picks up again, brushing against your skin, tugging gently at the edge of your towel. You catch it with your elbow, more for something to do than anything else.

You’re the one who looks away first — not because you’re uneasy, but because if you don’t, you might say something you can’t take back.

The silence stretches, and eventually you lie back, arm draped over your eyes to shield them from the sun.

“I’m still not fake-laughing at your jokes,” you murmur, voice flat but quiet. “Just so we’re clear.”

Jungkook laughs, but it’s lighter this time. The warmth that usually comes with the sound isn't quite there.

“Fair,” he says. “But maybe... maybe don’t flinch like I’ve slapped you every time I touch your arm.”

“I make no promises.”

He smiles. “Didn’t expect you to.”

The room is quiet except for the occasional hiss of steam from the bathroom and the soft swish of fabric as you move. The sun is lower now, casting long shadows across the floor, and the salty breeze sneaks in through the crack in the door.

You’re barefoot, crouched beside the dresser in a black satin dress that fits cleanly at the waist and skims your frame like it was made to. It’s simple, elegant — the kind of thing that photographs well even when you don’t try. Your hair is mostly curled, but the last roller is still clipped near the crown of your head, half-forgotten.

You’ve been retracing your steps for the past ten minutes. First calmly. Now a little less so.

“Come on,” you mutter, pushing aside a pile of folded clothes with the back of your hand. “Where the hell are you…”

You wore the earrings all day. You remember clipping them in this morning before the boat ride, the pearls small and elegant, the kind that sat just right against your jaw. They’d survived volleyball, swimming in the pool, even lying half-asleep by the sea. But now, just when you're supposed to get dolled up for one of Yasmine’s “sunset glam” photoshoots, one is gone.

And of course, it's your favourite pair. A gift from your mom the day you turned twenty.

You crouch next to the bed and run your hand along the rug for the fourth time. No glint of metal. No satisfying clink. Just a couple stray bobby pins and a sock that might be yours, might be his.

The bathroom door opens behind you with a quiet click. You hear it before you see him.

“Hey,” Jungkook calls out. “Have you seen my—”

He stops.

You glance up from your crouch to see him standing just outside the doorway to the bathroom, towel-drying his hair with one hand. He’s in sweatpants that hang dangerously low on his waist, and nothing else. His skin is still damp, a faint sheen catching the last of the light. His hair sticks up in unruly spikes, and there’s a crease from the towel pressed into his shoulder.

He pauses when he sees you on the floor in your dress, face flushed with frustration, one roller still pinned in your hair.

You straighten up. “I lost my earring.”

Jungkook blinks once. Then twice.

You don’t wait for a response. “The pearl ones. I wore them all day, I definitely had them on earlier. I think I might’ve lost it on the boat or something, or maybe at the beach, I don’t know. Fuck— if I dropped it in the ocean, I’m going to lose my mind.”

You brush past him towards your bag, and start digging through the little zip pouch where you sometimes toss jewellery when you’re tired. “And Yasmine’s going to have a meltdown if I’m not ready in five minutes. I mean, not a real meltdown, but she’ll definitely give me that disappointed look. You know the one.”

You don’t know why you’re rambling. Maybe to fill the silence. Maybe to ignore how he’s still standing there, towel now slung around his neck, jaw ticking like he’s trying very hard to keep his expression neutral.

He steps back into the bathroom without saying anything. You hear the low rustle of a drawer opening. When he re-emerges a few seconds later, he’s pulling a plain black t-shirt over his head, the fabric catching slightly against damp skin. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just crosses to his side of the room and scans the floor near the nightstand.

You risk a glance at him, then look away quickly. “It’s fine,” you say, quieter now. “You don’t have to help. It’s probably gone.”

He crouches down anyway, lifting the corner of the rug with one hand.

He doesn’t look at you or ask any questions. Just scans the floor like if he stares hard enough, it’ll reveal something.

You sigh, pressing your fingers to your temple. “I just really liked those earrings.”

“I know,” he says quietly.

You glance back at him.

He’s sitting back on his heels now, hands braced on his thighs. There’s a faint crease between his brows, like he’s still somewhere else.

Then he says, without looking at you, “You look good.”

The words are soft, sincere even, but they catch you off guard.

When you don’t respond right away, he clears his throat and stands, walking over to the dresser and running his hand along the edge, like the earring might have magically perched itself there.

You swallow. “Thanks,” you say finally, voice low.

He nods once, then double taps on his phone screen to check the time. “They’re probably waiting.”

You nod too, even though you still haven’t found the earring. The one that made you feel just a little more like yourself. The one that matched.

You take one last look at the floor, then straighten slowly. You adjust the roller in your hair without thinking, but your fingers move sluggishly now.

Jungkook’s already at the door, hand resting on the knob like he’s waiting for the right moment to say something. He glances over his shoulder.

“I’ll tell them you’ll be a minute.”

"Thanks."

He shuts the door behind him softly, and you let out a quiet sigh, turning toward the small jewellery box on the nightstand.

You sift through it with practiced fingers and pull out another pair — not the ones you wanted, but good enough.

As you clip them in, your hands move on instinct, your thoughts somewhere else entirely.

The bathroom door clicks shut behind you, the sound too sharp against the stillness of the room.

Your skin is clean, warm, dewy from the last step of your skincare routine. You pad across the floor and let your body fall onto the bed softly. The air leaves your lungs in a long, tired sigh as your legs dangle off the edge, your hair still damp from the quick rinse you took after coming back. The mattress dips beneath you, then settles.

The room smells faintly of clean cotton and the trace of your conditioner — the kind you only use for special things, because it costs a little too much and reminds you a little too much of before.

Your dress from earlier lies draped over the back of a chair, the earrings you ended up going with still sitting in your palm. You set them down on the nightstand without much care.

You’d smiled for the camera. You’d posed, you’d laughed, you’d tilted your head at just the right angle. It was fun in the moment and everything had gone well. The pictures were probably beautiful.

But you’re annoyed. And tired. And the kind of restless that only comes when something small goes wrong and you know it’s not about that small thing at all.

You sit up just enough to grab your laptop from the side table and the camera from the dresser. Yasmine had given it to you after begging you to upload the pictures onto your laptop since she didn't bring hers.

The familiar beep of it powering on is strangely comforting, and you scroll through a few thumbnails before plugging it in. A progress bar creeps across your screen as the files transfer. Slowly, of course. Nothing ever moves fast when you want it to.

You stretch out again, laptop resting on your stomach, and start clicking through the images as they load.

At first, they’re all from today.

Yasmine behind the lens, as always. The golden hour light is flattering. Everyone looks sun-kissed and effortless — mid-laugh, mid-step, mid-spin. You see yourself in frame: eyes half-lidded, wind teasing your hair, smile tugging at your lips.

There’s a shot of you and Kiara, and one of Ari piggybacking Haeun into the water. A blurry one of Jimin striking a ridiculous pose mid-jump while Taehyung points in mock horror. They'd come to join in at the end, both more than a little tipsy.

You click through them slowly, deleting a few accidental ones and some you don't think are the best.

Then, without meaning to, you scroll a little too far.

Today bleeds into yesterday, and yesterday into the last few years. One second it’s this trip, and the next it’s pictures you'd uploaded from your own crappy little camera. A party in someone’s dorm. A night spent crammed onto a too-small couch. A table cluttered with takeout boxes and half-empty cups.

You didn’t even remember some of these being taken.

Your face in mid-yawn. Jungkook blurry in the background, reaching for popcorn. Yoongi asleep on a beanbag with a party hat sliding off his head.

You find yourself smiling as you click through them all, before your finger comes to a still.

A thumbnail catches your eye. One of a video with no further label or context.

You pause, cursor hovering, before double clicking on it.

The video starts with a shaky frame — the camera shifting as you adjust it, then settling as you hold it up with both hands.

Jungkook stands in front of a claw machine, sleeves pushed up, jaw set with quiet determination. The glow of the machine paints him in soft neon blues and reds. There’s a Totoro plush front and centre, slightly tilted, half-buried under a heap of other prizes.

Your voice comes from behind the camera, already amused. “This is a lot of pressure, baby.”

“I’ve trained for this,” he says, without looking at you.

“You’ve failed three times.”

“That was just a warm-up.”

You huff a laugh. “That’s what you’re calling it now?”

Jungkook moves the joystick with purpose, eyes narrowed like this is life or death. The claw slides left, then back, then hovers over the plush.

“This is it,” he says.

“I believe in you,” you deadpan. “I mean, statistically, you have to get it eventually.”

The claw descends. You both watch as it surprisingly manages to grip the Totoro. Not perfectly — it's a little too far to the side — but it lifts nonetheless.

“No way,” you breathe.

It swings. Wobbles. Then drops cleanly, right into the chute.

There’s a second of stunned silence from you behind the camera.

“No fucking way," you laugh, genuine disbelief laced in your voice.

Jungkook bends down, reaches into the machine, and pulls out the plush. He turns toward you, holding it out with a smug smile.

“You actually did it! Oh my god— wait, let me see— he’s so cute!”

The frame swings back up, catching you reaching out for the Totoro, turning it in your hands, squealing softly like you can’t believe it’s real.

And Jungkook — he’s looking at you.

The camera somehow manages to catch it perfectly.

He’s not laughing or gloating, just watching you. A soft smile pulls at his lips, dimples making an appearance against his cheeks. His eyes are steady but a little dazed, like he’s taking in more than just the moment. Like he can’t help it.

You don’t see it in the moment — too distracted as you hug the plush to your chest and start thinking of what to name it — but the camera does.

“Can't believe that you actually managed to get it," you say, shifting the camera to show the plushie properly.

“Course I did,” he says. “You wanted it.”

You giggle, mumbling "Cheesy fuck." But the smile is clear in your voice, and Jungkook simply laughs before the screen cuts to black.

You stare at the screen for a while, fingers still resting on the keyboard, frozen in place like even they know you’re not ready to move yet.

There’s a warmth spreading low in your chest, starting at your ribs, curling in your stomach, settling somewhere just under your collarbone.

You’re still smiling. Just a little. That soft, involuntary kind you used to get around him when he said something dumb on purpose. Like when he tried to teach you how to play some impossible game at the arcade and kept losing so dramatically you suspected he was doing it just to make you laugh.

You thought that part of you had burned out. Gone cold after the breakup. But sitting here now, wrapped in soft clothes and the hush of this room, staring at a frozen screen where his laugh used to be — you realise it didn’t.

It just went quiet.

And now it’s creeping back in through the cracks, blooming in your chest with a stubborn sort of gentleness.

Because the truth is, you remember that night. You remember how he looked, focused and determined and weirdly proud of himself over a claw machine. You remember the weight of the Totoro plush in your hands. You remember walking home with him, the two of you talking about what you’d name it and him insisting that if it was going to live in your bed, he should get visitation rights.

And you remember how easy it was to love him.

Not in a dramatic way, but through the small things. In the way he listened. In the way he noticed when your shoelace was untied before you did. In the way he always, always looked at you like that — like you were it.

And not just the way he looked at you, but the way you felt looking back. Because even after everything, even after the silence and the distance and the effort you’ve poured into pretending you’re fine, the truth is that it never really went away.

That warmth tightens in your throat, a little too full to swallow. You blink down at the laptop, like maybe it’ll help. Like maybe if you just sit still enough, breathe slow enough, you can keep the feeling contained.

The screen has gone to sleep now, casting the room in a dim glow. Outside the window, you can hear the ocean, its soft waves rolling in and out quietly.

You close your eyes, just for a second.

But the quiet moment is interrupted when the door opens with a small click.

You sit up just enough to slam the laptop shut, a little too fast, the sound echoing louder than it should in the soft hush of the room. Your pulse jumps. You don’t even know why. Reflex, maybe.

Jungkook pauses in the doorway.

“Oh,” he says, voice low and a little slurred. “Shit. Thought you were asleep.”

He’s leaning on the doorframe, one hand still on the handle like the room is swaying more than it is. His top is slightly damp around the collar, and his hair’s a mess.

You blink at him. Say nothing at first.

He squints toward the laptop on your lap. “You working on something?”

“No.” You slide it aside, shake your head once. “Just… photos.”

He nods like that’s a satisfying answer, though you’re sure he didn’t really hear it. His attention shifts to the bed, and then without warning, he pushes off the door and flops onto the mattress beside you.

Not the far side. Not right on you either. Just… close.

You instinctively scoot half an inch back.

“Whoa,” he mutters into the pillow, one arm sprawled above his head. “This mattress is nice as fuck.”

You glance down at him. He’s half on his side now, eyes on the ceiling, a faint smile tugging lazily at his mouth.

“Why didn’t you come down?” he asks, sudden but not sharp. Just curious.

“I was tired,” you say.

He hums — thoughtful, but not convinced. “Lame excuse.”

“I’m allowed to be tired.”

“You’re always tired.”

You exhale, not quite a sigh. “You’re always drunk.”

That pulls a muffled laugh from him. He turns his head toward you slightly, cheek pressed into the pillow. “Not always.”

You glance at him. “Tonight?”

“Not my fault,” he mutters. “Jimin dared me to match his shots. Dumb fuck.”

You shake your head — not at him, but at the image of it in your head. “Sounds like him.”

Jungkook shifts again, rolling fully onto his side to face you. His arm stretches out across the blanket, fingers dragging idly over the fabric between you like he’s drawing invisible lines without thinking.

The air dips quieter. Softer.

“You smell good,” he mumbles, almost absently.

You reach up, brushing your hair off your face. “Shampoo, probably.”

He hums again, eyes heavy-lidded now. “The one you always stole from me.”

“I didn’t steal it,” you say, casually.

He smiles into the pillow. “Right. Borrowed forever.”

You shake your head — more amused than you’d admit out loud — and look away, toward the open window where the breeze has picked up just enough to shift the curtains.

"You looked really good too. In that dress. I mean— not that you don't look good without it. Not like without it, without it, just— y’know, you always look… pretty."

You can't stop the quiet laugh that tumbles from your lips despite the heat spreading across your cheeks. "Go to sleep, Kook."

He hums in response, and it doesn't take long for his breathing to settle into something slower.

You pull the blanket up over your lap and lean back against the headboard, trying not to think too hard about the warmth pooling between you.

You shift slightly, pulling the blanket higher.

The laptop is still balanced on your legs, almost forgotten now. You reach over and place it on the nightstand, careful not to knock over the earrings still sitting there. One catches the light and glints for just a second before going still again.

“Can you move?” you murmur, nudging his leg with yours. “I need the blanket.”

Jungkook groans dramatically, but rolls away from you, flopping flat on his back with one arm thrown over his face. “You’re so demanding.”

“You’re in my way.”

“You’re lucky I like you.”

The words slip out so fast and so soft you don’t have time to react before he’s already tugged the blanket down to your waist with one hand, helping, not thinking.

You lie back slowly, head against the pillow, trying to keep to your side. Jungkook moves around beside you — one knee bent, one leg stretched out. His foot brushes yours once, unintentionally.

His arm loosely drapes across your waist as he gets comfortable. You glance down, but say nothing. He’s already half-asleep, breath evening out, face turned toward you like he’s forgotten where he is.

You don’t move his arm, though, you don’t lean into it either.

You just let it be.

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[l0s3rd0wnt0wn]

"GET WELL SOON!!"

MARK GRAYSON X FEM WB!READER

Bio: Mark got beaten up again, so you try your best to cheer up your sick boy. Based of this post

He's invincible for Christ's sake, so how does he get beat down like some D-tier hero? This sucks. It just sucks sitting down in bed with a broken leg and a fractured wrist. God, this sucks. It's just sucks. Everyone else is out fighting crime, and he's home watching dumb trash TV. He's about to lose it; if he doesn't get any action, he just might go insane from all the boredom. But he can barely get up, and his mom gave him specific rules not to leave the house when she's not around, and the other guardians are watching out so he won't leave bed. Ugh, this just isn't fair. It's just a broken leg and a bruised wrist; he can still kick ass, he thinks.

SLAM

"What the?" Mark sits up but instantly feels lightheaded from all that lying down. "Do not fear, fellow citizen, for Invincible is here!" you yell, wearing your signature yellow, blue, and black costume, flexing your very non-existent muscles at him with a big smirk. "I am here to cheer you up," you say with a wink, hitting him with some corny finger guns. Mark let out a surprised laugh; he couldn’t believe his eyes. This was probably the worst impression of him ever, like when parents hire a fake Spider-Man to come to their kid's birthday party. But he'll play along; plus, you really do look good in that suit. "Wow Invincible showed up to cheer up little ol' me," he chuckled, covering his mouth with his good hand.

"Yup!" you said confidently, pointing at yourself with a grin. "I'll do whatever you wish," you said, doing a little spin for him, making him laugh a little bit more. But you see, saying you'll do whatever he wishes was your very first mistake; your second mistake was not letting him check you out in this little invincible suit. "Oh really? You'll do whatever I say and some more?" he questioned, rubbing his chin with a good hand. "Well, that wasn't what I—" Oh, what the heck, he's bedridden; it's not like he could do anything. "Yeah, that's actually what I meant. Your, dear Invincible, will do whatever you ask!" Big mistake, huge.

"Can you do a little spin for me, Invincible? I want to see the suit; I mean, I never got to see it up close." You felt a strong surge of pride, and you couldn't help but do a little spin for him, slower than the first one, so he could see everything from the front to the back, the way it hugged your curves so nicely and how stretchy the material was so that it wouldn't be too tight. There were some parts that were a bit too tight, like around the chest area, but it was no biggie. Mark let out a whistle, watching it, which just boosted your ego more. "You like?" You did a dynamic pose for him. "Oh, I love it!" You couldn't control the little giggles that escaped your lips. "I made it myself. I wanted to wear it to a convention, but I felt this was better." Lies, you really made it for him. "Well, you did an amazing job, baby. I mean, Invincible," he said with a soft smirk on his face.

You sat on his bed, just for him to pull you into his lap. You keep forgetting how strong he is, even when he's half-broken. "Are you sure you can hold me? You're still a little... well, broken," Mark frowns and flexes his very existing muscles. "Does this look broken to you?" You wanted to laugh and blush at the same time. "No, sir!" You saluted him. "Good girl. Now, can the great Invincible show me her secret identity?" he said, gently rubbing your hip in a little circle, just for you to shake your head. "Nope, secret!" You giggle, "Not one peak," you shook your head again, and Mark makes a mock-upset face. "UGH! You're not fun. How about this: why don't you take care of me, then?" he asked, a wicked little grin on his lips. "Like what? I could make you something to eat—" Then his lips were pressed against yours. Oh, that's what he meant.

Mark's way of kissing was kind of like conquering you, if that made sense. His arms were wrapped around you, pulling you closer until you were both chest to chest. He devoured you with one kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth, tasting you, needing you, drinking in every whimper and gasp while letting out heavy breaths of his own. Then you heard a rip followed by a tear; his hand was clawing at the back of your suit, ripping it like confetti. "H-Hey, quit that!" But he didn't; he kept on ripping like you were some Christmas present waiting to be unwrapped. He had ripped the front and the back of the suit, making you pout. "You could have just unzipped it." It took you so many nights to make this. "Sorry, sweet thing." He wasn't sorry; you could see it in that devilish smirk. "No panties, huh? Invincible..." And here comes your shame: "It didn't look good because of the panty lines," but to be honest, it really didn't look good with the panty lines either. "Or you were planning this." His fingers flicked your clit, making you gasp, and his thumb slipped between your folds, feeling your wetness. "Definitely planned." He acted so cocky, like his cock wasn't throbbing at the idea of you in a custom-made hero suit just for him. "Come on, Invincible, why don't you cheer up your sick boy?"

"M-Mmh-" his hands were practically glued to your tits; even with a broken wrist, it didn't stop him from grabbing and pinching just to make you smirk as you bounced on his cock, barely even taking him in. Your mask was already lifted over your head; he needed to know your "secret identity." It was actually an excuse to see your cute little fucked-out expressions, like how your eyes would roll to the back of your head if he bucked his hips while you were riding or how you let little tears leave your eyes when overstimulated. "F-Fuck, baby!" you whined, feeling him fuck into you mid-ride. You pushed his hips down to stop him from bucking again. "Y-You asked me to take care of you," soft pants left your kiss-swollen lips. "Let me do that; you're hurt." He let out another needy whimper; it was getting harder and harder for him to keep control of himself when you looked so cute like this, with little baby hairs sticking to your forehead from sweat, how your hips always stuttered just a little when you tried to grind down on him, and the way you let out small curses in between when he was just too much. So Markus sat back and watched the view of his little Invincible.

But a part of him didn't like how you were doing all the work, his pretty girl, so why not help you just a little? And by a little, he means a lot. He wrapped both arms around you and pulled you closer to him so the two of you were face to face. Both of you let out pathetic little "ahh ahh ahh" sounds as you fucked like rabbits in heat. Mark bent his good leg up so he could get a better angle, hitting that spot that left you quivering. You tried to get out of his grip but remembered he's the hero here. "F-Fu... my g-god... y-you're so... w-warm... and... tight, shit!" He bit his lip hard; just feeling you was enough to make him cum, but he had to hold out. "Fuck!" He looked to see your blissed-out face. "God, you're so pretty like this," he breathed, nipping at your lips, trying to pull you into one of his very sloppy kisses, and it worked like a charm. You felt him grip your thigh, a sign that he was close, but at the same time he was moving, there was no way in hell he was pulling out or letting up on his pace. He moaned into your mouth, his cock twitching as he came inside you, thick hot ropes of cum painting your insides. "I-I really did like the suit," he choked out in between gasps, just for you to slap his chest; there was literally no suit left.

[tragedy-machine]

I love "Charles becomes even more affectionate with Edwin after they get together" as much as the next person, but the thought of Edwin becoming the clingy one, in his own way, is really lighting up my brain

Because after years of repression, after pining for so so long, after thinking he got rejected and that he'll just have to carry this love in his heart alone forever, Charles actually tells him he loves him back? His dream boy? And now they're together, and he's finally free to express his love, and it actually makes Charles happy?

He's free to touch and kiss Charles?? And Charles actually welcomes all of it with a smile??

They'd be no kissing in public, of course. Or no picking Charles up and spinning him. Or no sitting on his lap with other people present.

But he can stare at Charles all he wants now. Can stand just a little closer to him in hopes that Charles will touch him. Can pull him into a kiss as soon as the door of the agency closes after their last client for the day. Can keep Charles pressed to him on their sofa instead of going back to work

And I think that's beautiful

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

✏️ Writing Dialogue That Sounds Like Real People, Not Theater Kids on Red Bull

(a crash course in vibes, verbal economy, and making your characters shut up already)

Okay. We need to talk about dialogue. Specifically: why everyone in your draft sounds like they’re in a high school improv group doing a dramatic reading of Riverdale fanfiction.

Before you panic, this is normal. Early dialogue is almost always too much. Too polished. Too "scripted." So if yours feels off? You’re not failing. You’re just doing Draft Zero Dialogue, and it’s time to revise it like a boss.

Here’s how to fix it.

─────── ✦ ───────

🎭 STEP ONE: DETOX THEATER ENERGY I say this with love: your characters are not all quippy geniuses. They do not need to deliver emotional monologues at every plot beat. They can just say things. Weird, half-finished, awkward things.

Real people:

interrupt each other

trail off mid-thought

dodge questions

contradict themselves

repeat stuff

change the subject randomly

Let your characters sound messy. Not every line needs to sparkle. In fact, the more effort you put into making dialogue ✨perfect✨, the more fake it sounds. Cut 30% of your clever lines and see what happens.

─────── ✦ ───────

🎤 STEP TWO: GIVE EACH CHARACTER A VERBAL FINGERPRINT The fastest way to make dialogue feel alive? Make everyone speak differently. Think rhythm, grammar, vocabulary, tone.

Some dials you can twist:

Long-winded vs. clipped

Formal vs. casual

Emojis of speech: sarcasm, filler words, expletives, slang

Sentence structure: do they talk in fragments? Run-ons? Spirals?

Emotion control: are they blunt, diplomatic, avoidant, performative?

Here’s a shortcut: imagine what your character sounds like over text. Are they the “lol okay” type or the “okie dokie artichokie 🌈✨” one? Now translate that into speech.

─────── ✦ ───────

🧠 STEP THREE: FUNCTION > FILLER Every line of dialogue should do something. Reveal something. Move something. Change something.

Ask:

Does this line push the plot forward?

Does it show character motivation/conflict/dynamic?

Does it create tension, add context, or raise a question?

If it’s just noise? It’s dead air. Cut it. Replace it with a glance. A gesture. A silence that says more.

TIP: look at a dialogue scene and remove every third line. Does the scene still work? Probably better.

─────── ✦ ───────

💥 STEP FOUR: REACTIVITY IS THE GOLD STANDARD Characters don’t talk into a void. They respond. And how they respond = the real juice.

Don’t just write back-and-forth ping pong. Write conflict, dodge, misunderstanding. If one character says something vulnerable, the other might joke. Or ignore it. Or say something cruel. That’s tension.

Dialogue is not just information exchange. It’s emotional strategy.

Try this exercise: A says something revealing. B lies. A notices, but pretends they don’t. B changes the subject. Now you’ve got a real scene.

─────── ✦ ───────

🔍 STEP FIVE: PAY ATTENTION TO POWER Every convo has a power dynamic, even if it’s tiny. Who’s steering? Who’s withholding? Who’s deflecting, chasing, challenging?

Power can shift line to line. That shift = tension. And tension = narrative fuel.

Write conversations like chess matches, not ping pong.

─────── ✦ ───────

✂️ STEP SIX: SCISSORS ARE YOUR BEST FRIEND The best dialogue is often the second draft. Or third. Or fourth. First drafts are just you figuring out what everyone wants to say. Later drafts figure out what they actually would say.

Things to cut:

Greetings/closings ("Hi!" "Bye!"--skip it unless it serves tone)

Exposition disguised as chat

Obvious thoughts spoken aloud

Explaining jokes

Repeating what we already know

Readers are smart. Let them fill in blanks.

─────── ✦ ───────

🎧 STEP SEVEN: READ IT OUT LOUD (YES, REALLY) If you hate this step: too bad. It works. Read it. Mumbling is fine. Cringe is part of the ritual.

Ask yourself:

Would someone actually say this?

Does this sound like one person speaking, or a puppet show with one hand?

Where does the rhythm trip? Where’s the breath?

If you can’t say it out loud without wincing, the reader won’t make it either. Respect the vibe.

─────── ✦ ───────

🏁 TL;DR: If you want your dialogue to sound like real people, let your characters be real. Messy. Annoying. Human. Let them interrupt and lie and joke badly and say the wrong thing at the worst time.

Cut the improv class energy. Kill the urge to be ✨brilliant✨. And listen to how people talk when they’re scared, tired, pissed off, in love, or trying not to say what they mean.

That’s where the good stuff is.

—rin t. // thewriteadviceforwriters // official advocate of awkward silences and one-word replies

P.S. I made a free mini eBook about the 5 biggest mistakes writers make in the first 10 pages 👀 you can grab it here for FREE:

[nekonaps0]

TWST Boys Take Care of Their Drunk Girlfriend pt1

✦part2 part3

✦characters: House warden

You guys really loved the “drunk boys” post, so I thought I should share how would they take care of their partners when they are drunk.

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle panics. At first, he’s flustered, cheeks red, muttering about responsible drinking, but as soon as he sees you're truly out of it, his worry takes over.

“You…You shouldn’t have more than two glasses my rose. Oh, what am I going to do with you…”

He’ll hold your hand tightly, help you sit down somewhere quiet, and gently scold you while brushing hair out of your face. He’ll carry you home himself if needed (yes, despite his size!), tuck you in, and make you drink water before letting you sleep it off. He may stay up watching you breathe, just in case.

Leona Kingscholar

Leona is annoyed but secretly soft. He’ll click his tongue and grumble about how “you should know your limits,” but he’s already picking you up like a sack of potatoes and carrying you off somewhere private.

“You really think I’m lettin’ you stumble around in front of a bunch of creeps? Not a chance, herbivore.”

He’ll get you something greasy to eat, shove water into your hands, and hold your hair if you get sick. He might even let you cuddle into his chest, one arm lazily thrown around you, tail flicking as he mutters:

“Sleep it off. I’ll keep watch.”

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul goes into overprotective boyfriend. The moment he sees you're drunk, he turns coldly efficient, ordering Floyd and Jade to clear the area, finding you a quiet room in the Lounge, and getting you water and everything you need.

“Don’t worry, my pearl, I’ve got you. I would never let anything happen to you… not on my watch.”

He’s anxious inside, heart pounding because he hates how vulnerable you are right now, but he masks it with calm care. He’ll keep talking softly to you, soothing you, and might even confess:

“You trust me this much, even in this state? I won’t let you down.”

Kalim Al-Asim

Kalim is concerned but so, so loving. He’ll be full of energy and worry, asking you a million questions at once. Are you okay? Do you need food? Water? Another hug?

“You’re so cute when you’re tipsy! But also… oh no, you’re not gonna throw up, right?!”

He’ll get you blankets, sit you in his lap, and feed you fruit or bread while playing soft music. He doesn’t mind your clinginess, in fact, he’s grinning the whole time and kissing your face nonstop. You might fall asleep on his chest to the sound of him humming a lullaby.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil is dead serious and deeply nurturing. The minute he notices you’re drunk, his protective instincts activate. He becomes your personal nurse and makeup remover.

“Oh, darling. Look at you. This won’t do. Come here, love.”

He takes you to his room, helps you change into something comfortable (without even a hint of lewdness), removes your makeup with expert hands, and makes sure you’re hydrated and clean before bed.

“You’ll hate yourself in the morning if you sleep like that. Trust me, I know.”

He lies beside you afterward, brushing your hair and murmuring quiet praises, reassuring you that you’re still beautiful even like this.

Idia Shroud

Idia is overwhelmed but surprisingly sweet. He’s panicking at first

“What do I do? What if she throws up on my electronics?!”

but once he sees how helpless and clingy you get, he softens.

“Y-You okay? Do you wanna lie down? Wait, not on my bed… actually, okay, fine, you can use the bed.”

He fumbles through preparing a safe space for you to rest, blankets, snacks,everything you need and sits on the floor beside you like a nervous little cat. If you pull him into bed, he’ll freeze, then wrap an arm around you with a shy smile:

“You’re warm. Kinda nice… don’t puke on me, though!”

Malleus Draconia

Malleus is devastatingly gentle. The moment he senses you all flushed and dizzy from the alcohol, he’s at your side, lifting you into his arms like a knight rescuing his princess.

“My love… you are not well. Let me carry you.”

He’d take you to his dorm or somewhere safe and quiet, brings you blankets to warm you, conjure cool water, and stroke your hair softly as you mumble nonsense against his chest. He speaks in soothing tones, like an ancient lullaby.

“Rest now, my dear. I shall watch over your dreams.”

He’s in awe of how much you trust him in your most vulnerable state and takes that responsibility seriously.

..............................................................................................................................

Hi guys✨ sooo be ready because I have a lot of finished works what I write in the past (I was too scared to share them in the past 🥲) so I planing to post those works today.

[emisafan]

Honestly such good advice. I've been doing the same and even the worse parts of life feel a bit better now, just because I don't go adding to my issues by looking for signs of people hating me anymore, but for signs of that it's actually the opposite.

I don't know who needs to hear this. Stop assuming everyone secretly hates you. Stop pretending to *know* everyone secretly hates you. You don't. Stop thinking no one cares. Even a person following you here on tumblr might care about you more than you know and is happy to see when you post and wonder when it's been a while. You don't know what your impact on people truly is. If you're already someone who's got anxiety, depression or some other thing, then please, try to see what people do around you and really try to put in positive light. For example, being offered help isn't being made fun of. Asking for help isn't giving up or saying "I'm too dumb for it". It's simply being offered or asking for help or even getting another opportunity to learn, and you are *not* being a nuisance. And I know it's hard, I've been there and sometimes I'm even back there, bc noone's perfect and that's fine.

Once you start finding some of these things, they'll come to you easier. Much like looking for well hidden frogs in a terrarium - once you spotted one you'll see there's actually been 20 staring you in the face. Like many things in life, it's just something that needs practice. Being positive in general.

Sharing a meal, getting in a subtile way praised like @time-compass mentioned are good to look out for, but also maybe you'll notice that someone paid attention, remembered what food you like/dislike, noticed whatever your favorite colour/animal/videogame/media... - just what you faves are. And maybe they send you.... idk a picture of a horse bc they know you love them so much - memes from the fandom you're in even though maybe they aren't, but they came across it and thought of you. People that hated you wouldn't see a post and think "Oh this is for [person] I know they'll love it/ it's totally their style." I'd assume they wouldn't think of you at all. And if they really did hate you and still engage with you in some way then that is definetly their problem bc either they're in denial or wasting their time - and that should really not be something *you* need to think about.

Just as you need to remember that you aren't forcing them to be in your presence, I want you to remember that you aren't forced either. (If you are I think that's a whole different problem) Maybe you can even try and see what you do when you try to show you "secretly" like/love (not specificaly romantic) them and see of they return something similar in their own way. (Keep in mind everyone's different, and that's beautiful.)

I think that's all I wanted to say to this, it's a lot now anyway. Maybe someone will see it and think it's helpful, maybe not, but that's not for me to decide.

They should invent a method of asking for reassurance that nobody secretly hates you that doesn't make people secretly hate you.

[reiding-writing]

hi lovely, so in love with cold!reader series

i was thinking if you could maybe write about her finally letting spence console her and letting down her guard after what happened with her killing the unsub that reminded her of the professor

love ur work !!!

x

UNDER DURESS. /spencer reid/

spencer convinces you to go to therapy.

s11!cold!reader h/c 3.7k series masterlist. main masterlist.

AN | there’s not actually a whole lot of consoling in this— MENTIONS OF RAPE AND SA. VERY CONTEXT DEPENDENT ON PREVIOUS PARTS OF THE SERIES.

It’s been three weeks since the shooting.

The paperwork is finished, the internal review is closed, and the bureau cleared you. “Justified use of force,” they said. You ticked every box. But none of that matters, not really, because Spencer’s still watching you like you might shatter. He doesn’t say it outright, but you see it in the way he hovers—fingers twitching when you’re quiet too long, gaze narrowing when you stare too hard at nothing.

You’ve barely slept. Barely spoken, outside of the necessary. Even now, curled up on the sofa with a book you’re not reading, you feel the weight of his eyes from across the room.

The silence between you isn’t peaceful. It’s brittle.

He waits until your tea goes cold in your hands. “I think,” Spencer says carefully, like he’s rehearsed it a hundred times, “you should talk to someone,”

You don’t look at him. You flip a page you haven’t read. “I talk to you,”

“That’s not what I mean,”

“I know what you mean.”

There’s a beat. You feel him shift on the armchair, lean forward. He’s not touching you—he knows better—but you can feel him, somehow. Like gravity. Quiet and unyielding.

“I know you said you weren’t ready,” he tries again. “And I’ve been trying to give you space. I just��I think it’s time,”

Your jaw tightens. “I am the someone that people talk to. I’ve done this job for almost ten years. You think I haven’t heard worse?”

“That’s not what this is about,”

“Isn’t it?”

“No,”

You snap the book shut and toss it on the coffee table a little harder than necessary. “I don’t need a therapist.”

He sighs, and that does it—that sigh, the disappointed one, full of worry and patience and all the things you can’t stand. You finally look at him.

“What?” you say, sharper than intended.

His eyes meet yours. Not angry. Not even frustrated. Just worried, heartbroken almost. “I know you don’t think you need it,” he says. “But something’s wrong. You shot a man, and you haven’t said more than three words about it. Not to me. Not to anyone,”

“I don’t need to say anything about it,”

“He was sexually assaulting comatose women,” Spencer says, voice quiet but firm. “You pulled the trigger without hesitation. And yeah, it was justified. But it wasn’t just about him, was it?”

Your stomach flips. Cold and sudden.

“I’m not having this conversation with you,” you mutter, standing up.

Spencer doesn’t follow. Just watches you pace the room like a caged thing.

“It’s not just the shooting,” he says after a moment. “It’s Wittchen. It’s what happened to you. The way you never talked about it. The way you still don’t,”

You freeze.

That name—the one you never say anymore—doesn’t need repeating. You know who he means. You see his face in your mind the moment Spencer mentions him. The mentor you admired. The predator you survived. The man who ripped out women’s wombs and then put a bullet in his own head, right there in front of you, ten years after the first time he ever touched you.

You close your eyes. Will the memories back down. They rise anyway.

Spencer’s voice breaks through again, softer now. “You don’t talk about him. You don’t even say his name. And I get it—I do. But this thing with the doctor, it wasn’t random. And if we don’t talk about it, it’s going to keep coming back. It’s going to keep hurting you,”

“I’m not a wounded animal,” you snap. “I’m fine.”

He stands now. Crosses the room slowly. You feel his hand hovering near your back, hesitant.

“Can we stop pretending I don’t know you better than that?” he says gently. “You haven’t slept more than two hours a night since it happened. You flinch every time someone touches you unexpectedly. You’re constantly on edge. That’s not ‘fine.’”

You shake your head. “Therapy won’t help.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know,” you say, spinning to face him. “I’ve got a PhD in psychology, Spencer. I know every move they’ll make before they even make it. I’ve read every study. Sat in on casework. I’ve written papers on trauma responses. I know the process, the techniques, the language—hell, I could run the session myself. And I promise you, it doesn’t work on someone who already knows what’s coming.”

Spencer doesn’t argue. He just looks at you with those eyes, full of soft, unbearable concern.

“You’re not a theory,” he says. “You’re a person,”

You scoff and turn away again, dragging your handover your face. “Don’t be poetic. It doesn’t suit you,”

He huffs a soft laugh behind you, but it’s humourless. “I’m serious. You’ve built this fortress around yourself, and you’ve convinced yourself that knowing the mechanisms of therapy makes you immune to it. But it doesn’t. It just means you know how to dodge,”

You don’t reply. You’re too busy listening to the blood pounding in your ears.

Spencer steps closer. He doesn’t touch you, not yet. Just lowers his voice and says, “He hurt you. And he kept hurting other people, and somehow you’ve turned it into this thing you carry alone, like you deserve to,”

“Don’t,” you say. “Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“Don’t act like you understand,”

“I don’t,” he admits. “Not completely. But I was there, remember? I was the one who stayed up with you, that night on the jet home. I was the one who cleaned the blood off your shoes. I’ve seen the way you deal with pain, and it’s not healthy. You bury it. You don’t even let it scar,”

You want to scream. Or cry. Or break something. But none of those things are you. So instead, you breathe—slow, measured, the way they taught you in profiling.

He finally places a hand on your back. Warm. Solid. Kind.

“I’m not trying to fix you,” he says. “I just want you to let someone in. Just once. Let someone help you carry this,”

You swallow hard. “And if I can’t?”

“You can,” he says. “You don’t want to. That’s different,”

You hate how well he knows you. Hate how right he is.

Eventually, he says, “There’s someone I trust. She’s not bureau. She’s good. And discreet. I’ll come with you. Just for the first session,”

You’re already shaking your head.

“I can’t—”

“Just once. That’s all I’m asking,”

He’s so damn earnest. All heart and quiet strength and unshakeable loyalty. And he’s not just doing this for you. You can see it in the tight line of his shoulders, the tension around his eyes. He’s scared. You don’t want him to worry about you.

You don’t believe in therapy. You don’t believe in healing. You believe in repression and control and building walls high enough that the world can’t touch you. But Spencer does. He believes in you.

And maybe—for him—you can give this a shot.

You exhale slowly. “I’m not promising anything.”

Spencer’s shoulders ease just a little. “That’s all I’m asking.”

“And if she’s a nightmare?”

He smiles, faint but real. “Then we leave. No questions asked.”

You nod once. “Alright.”

He kisses your temple then, so gently it almost breaks you. You close your eyes and let it land.

—

The office is warm, neutral-toned, and utterly unimpressive. You register the little things first—the pale green walls, the bookshelf organised more by aesthetic than utility, the faint smell of peppermint tea lingering in the air. There’s a chair opposite a sofa, both upholstered in the sort of beige that’s meant to be calming. Everything about the space is designed to soothe.

You don’t feel soothed. You feel like an animal under observation.

Spencer sits beside you, close but not touching. He offered his hand in the car. You left it hanging in the air between you. Not because you’re angry with him—though maybe you are, a little—but because you’re trying to contain the slow boil inside your chest. And physical contact makes the pressure worse.

The therapist—Dr. Marin—is younger than you expected. Mid-thirties, perhaps, with tidy hair, sensible shoes, and a file tucked neatly under her arm. She smiles when you walk in. Not too wide. Just the right amount of warmth. Professional empathy, textbook-grade.

You hate her immediately.

You sit with military posture, legs crossed, hands folded. Spencer shifts beside you, clearly trying to act as some sort of emotional buffer. It won’t help him.

“Thank you both for coming,” Dr. Marin says gently, settling into her chair with smooth, practiced ease. “I know this isn’t easy,”

“I was promised discretion,” you say coldly. “So I hope your receptionist doesn’t go bragging about this to her coffee group.”

Dr. Marin doesn’t flinch. “My receptionist doesn’t know your name. She’s instructed not to look at appointment details. Your file is encrypted,”

“Hm.” You glance pointedly at her notes. “Shame about the handwritten file, then. Bit old-fashioned.”

She smiles politely. “I find writing helps me remember what matters,”

“How quaint,” you reply, and cross your arms. You’re already dissecting her—pacing her breathing rate, watching her eye movements, evaluating tone, posture, proximity. You’re sharper than she is. Smarter. You let her know it in every word, every glance.

Dr. Marin looks at you steadily. “Would you prefer not to be here?”

“I was given little choice.”

“Spencer said you agreed.”

“Under duress.”

Her gaze flicks briefly to Spencer, then back to you. “And what is it you feel you were coerced into discussing?”

You snort softly. “That depends. Are we here to talk about the time I shot a serial rapist in the head, or the time my ex-Professor killed himself in front of me after gutting women that reminded him of me?”

Spencer stiffens beside you. You don’t even look at him.

Dr. Marin doesn’t blink. “Why do you think you brought up both in the same sentence?”

“Convenience,” you reply dryly. “I assumed we’d skip the whole 'establishing trust' phase.”

She sits back slightly, tilting her head. “Would you say you trust Spencer?”

“He’s my partner.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I don’t answer loaded questions.”

“Which part do you think was loaded?”

You narrow your eyes. “Let’s not play, Doctor. You know what I do for a living.”

“And you know what I do,” she replies, calm but sharp. “So let’s drop the performance.”

Spencer glances between you both, clearly uncomfortable. “Maybe we could just—start with what happened? At the hospital? Or Stanford?”

You wave a hand. “What happened is I did my job. Twice. And in both cases, men who couldn’t handle their urges ended up dead. One by my hand, one by his own. End of story.”

Dr. Marin’s tone remains perfectly even. “Do you think that’s the end of it?”

“I think if you keep asking the same question with different phrasing, we’re going to waste a lot of time.”

The next half-hour spirals into a game of verbal dissection.

You pick apart her methodology. You challenge her use of person-first language. You point out every time she pauses too long, every instance she uses a textbook phrase you find beneath you. You ask her if she was taught CBT by someone who’s actually published or if she’s just memorised bullet points from a slideshow. You highlight how she crosses her legs inconsistently, which—according to certain behavioural studies—could suggest discomfort or an overcompensation for projected authority.

You’re not just avoiding the subject. You’re laying landmines around it. You know exactly what you’re doing.

And Spencer sees it too.

“Babe,” he says eventually, gentle but exasperated, “Please, this isn’t fair. To either of you.”

Dr. Marin doesn’t speak.

Not immediately.

Then—she closes the folder on her lap.

And her tone changes.

“You’re not avoiding me, with this defensiveness,” she says, voice harder now, cutting clean through the room. “You’re avoiding what he did to you. What it meant. He was a therapist himself, was he not?”

You flinch—barely. But she sees it.

“I read your academic background,” she continues. “I know about your thesis. I know about your clinical work. I know who supervised you.”

You stand abruptly. Spencer’s hand grazes your arm but you shake him off.

“This is unprofessional,” you hiss.

“This is necessary,” Dr. Marin replies. “You’ve turned your trauma into a weapon. You’ve used your intelligence to bury yourself under theory and diagnostics so you never have to feel anything.”

Spencer rises, trying to reach you, calm you. “Let’s just—sit, okay? Just—just listen.” But you’re already trembling.

Dr. Marin presses forward. Not physically. Just with her words. “You’re not here because you want to move on,” she says. “You’re here because you love someone who’s begging you to get help.”

You bark a laugh. It’s humourless. “So what? What’s the grand insight, Doctor? That I’m too broken to fix? That I like being damaged?”

“No,” she says. “That you’re terrified of not being broken. Because then you’d have to figure out who you are without the pain.”

Who are you? Without the guilt, without the memory of his hands on your skin, without the screaming and the silence and the endless dissociation. What’s left of you that matters?

You feel the words clawing up your throat before you can stop them.

“You think I want to dwell on the fact I gave myself an abortion at twenty-two?” you spit, venomous and trembling. “You think that’s something I like remembering?”

“I think you want to punish yourself.”

The silence after that is thick and total.

Spencer looks like he’s been struck. Your jaw clenches so tight it aches. And then— You leave.

You don’t say goodbye. You don’t look back. You don’t even wait for Spencer. You slam the door behind you and step into the cold air like it might freeze the words off your skin.

—

Spencer stands awkwardly. Caught in the aftermath. He looks at the door, then back to Dr. Marin.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, voice thick with shame. “She’s not—she’s not like that.”

Dr. Marin smiles. Not unkindly. Just... knowingly.

“She’ll come back,” she says, leaning back in her chair, her tone calm. Certain. “When she’s ready.”

Spencer nods slowly. He hopes she’s right. He really, really hopes she’s right.

—

You don’t slam the door. You let it click shut behind you and drift to the sofa like your bones are hollow. You don’t even take off your coat. Just curl into yourself, legs tucked under you, arms folded tightly across your chest. Like if you squeeze hard enough, maybe you’ll keep it all in.

Your face is hot, but your tears are long gone. You cried at twenty-two, bent over a bathtub with shaking hands and a mess you didn’t know how to clean. You cried at thirty-three, when a bullet tore through a man’s chest and left you in a lecture hall full of fluorescent ghosts. You don’t cry now. You just sit.

Red-eyed. Empty. Listening to the clock tick louder than it ever has before.

You hear Spencer follow a few seconds later.

He doesn’t speak when he enters. Doesn’t rush to you. He sets down his bag gently, shrugs off his jacket, and walks into the living room like he’s entering holy ground. Quiet. Careful.

Then he sits beside you, close enough that you feel the warmth of him, but not close enough to crowd. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t ask if you’re okay.

He knows you’re not.

So he just waits.

And waits.

And waits.

The silence stretches until you can’t stand it anymore. You shift slightly—just enough for your shoulder to brush his. Then, softly, barely louder than breath, you whisper, “I hate her.”

Spencer smiles. It’s small, but sincere. “That’s okay.”

You don’t respond.

He makes tea without asking. Puts the kettle on like muscle memory, retrieves your mug—your mug, the one with the chipped rim and a faded headshot of Sigmund Freud that Morgan got you as a gag gift—and drops in a peppermint bag without ceremony. No sugar. No lemon. Just the way you like it. You don’t move from the sofa. You just watch him from across the room, as if you might vanish if you blink too long.

He brings the cup to you, holding it out without expectation. You take it. Don’t drink it. Just hold it between your palms like it’s some kind of anchor.

“She was right.”

Spencer looks at you, startled by the admission, but he doesn’t say anything. Just tilts his head slightly, encouraging.

“I mean—she wasn’t, but she was.” You draw a slow breath, eyes fixed on the tea. “She doesn’t know anything about me, but she still—”

Spencer stays silent. Listens.

“I’ve spent years building a life around not being someone who lets things in. And she saw that in ten minutes. She didn’t even blink when I tried to pull her apart. I’ve made grown men cry doing less than that,”

He hums softly. “I know,”

You glance at him. “Do you think I do it on purpose?”

“The tearing people apart thing?”

You nod.

He shrugs gently. “I think… sometimes you confuse being in control with being safe. And people who try to touch the parts of you that aren’t safe—those are the ones who get hurt,”

You exhale. Shaky. But not angry.

“She said I want to punish myself,”

Spencer’s eyes flick to yours, gentle and cautious. “Do you?”

You don’t answer. Because you don’t know. Maybe?

Maybe not in a conscious, theatrical way. Not in the sense of throwing yourself into danger for the thrill of pain. But… in the silence after that abortion, when you didn’t tell anyone. When you went back to class the next day with blood on your jeans and shook his hand like nothing had happened. When you kept the secret even after graduating. When you watched him die and still refused to cry in front of anyone. Maybe all of that was punishment. Maybe that’s what the coldness has been.

“I didn’t want to be that girl,” you say suddenly. “The one with the story. The victim.”

Spencer reaches for your hand.“You’re not a victim,” he says. “But you’re not a villain, either.”

You pull your hand away, slowly. Not rejecting him—just needing space to think. “Why haven’t you ever asked about it?”

“Because I figured you’d tell me when you were ready.”

You look down at your lap, at the half-drunk tea in your grip. The silence feels different now. Not brittle, not heavy. Just… still.

“I was alone,” you say. “I didn’t have anyone back then. No one I trusted. He made sure of that,”

“I know,” Spencer says. “But you’re not alone anymore,”

Something cracks in your chest. Small. Hairline. You take a breath. “She said I’ve built my identity around the trauma,”

He nods. “Do you think she’s wrong?”

“No.”

And that, somehow, is the most painful admission of all. Because you did. You’ve spent years being the cold one, the sharp one, the one who doesn’t flinch, doesn’t feel, doesn’t need. You built a fortress out of diagnoses and defence mechanisms, and somewhere along the line, that fortress became your skin.

“Spence?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think there’s anything left of me underneath it all?”

He doesn’t hesitate. Not even for a heartbeat.

“Yes.”

You look at him. “How do you know?”

“Because I’ve seen it,” he says. “I’ve seen the way you look at children when they’re scared. The way you read three pages ahead in every file, just so you can warn me if something’s going to hurt. The way you wake up gasping but never wake me—not because you don’t feel it, but because you’re protecting me.”

Your throat tightens.

“And the way you laughed,” he adds, quieter now. “That one time we got caught in the rain and ran home. You laughed so hard you couldn’t breathe.”

“I was furious,” you murmur.

“You were alive.”

You go still. Alive. It’s a word you don’t use often. Not when describing yourself. You’ve always described yourself in more clinical terms—functional, operational, stable. Alive implies something else. Messiness. Emotion. Living.

And you’re not sure you’ve been doing that for years.

You sip your tea finally. It’s lukewarm. But you drink it anyway.

“I’m not going back,” you say after a long moment.

Spencer nods. “Okay.”

“Not yet, anyway.”

“Okay.”

You glance at him again. “But you’re going to want me to,”

He gives you a faint smile. “Eventually, yeah. I think it’ll help. But it has to be on your terms.”

You nod. Then pause. “She wasn’t a bad therapist.”

“No,” he agrees. “She really wasn’t.”

You sigh. “I still hate her, though.”

He chuckles softly. “You’re allowed to.”

[vervielle]

hii to celebrate pride month i drew a little art of my favorite gay rocks

Also all except the first are doodles I haven't shared yet

sorry i couldnt do more i am kind of going through a personal rut but heeyyyy at least i finished school its summer time gangy #survived another month hahahaha.. hha... WOOOOOO I'M GONNA BE MORE ACTIVE NOW HOPEFULLY WOO WOO

[dystopiansewerrat]

Omg just became observed with your motorsport au!! Your art is gorgeous!! And your human designs for everyone is amazing!! One of my favourite things about aus is seeing how everyone fits into it! And I think Mags and Megs being Hot Rod's mentors that he enjoys driving crazy fits so well! And so does Ratchst being Drifts mechanic that's so cute! You said Hot Rod, Bumblebee and Optimus are all related which I love! How are they related exactly? Do you have any other backstory and connections you'd like to share?? I just love this au and want to learn more about it!! Xxxxxxx

I cannot explain how much grateful I am for people interested to this. I never expected anyone to feel invested in it, and it truly means a lot to me. Thank you for being so kind and invested in this<33 this truly keeps me going<3

I like the idea of Bee and Rod being adoptive brothers because of a big decision Optimus made earlier. He was at the top of his career, then took a hiatus due to an injury, and suddenly dropped the news that he was expanding his family, casually. It’s kind of a mystery, really, since he’s not even married… is he?

I love the realization I had they are having now about how their pasts are actually connected because of Op!

Meanwhile Op is probably just at home, trying to catch up with everything…

[cattheraccon]

i remember back when i was 13 i cut my hair short just to look like kairi from kh1 and i really liked it, then i kept cutting it short mostly for cosplay purposes and once someone misgendered me and it felt SO.GOOD.

i remember lots of times where i thought "i wish i werent born a girl" and that sort of stuff. and then i stopped thinking about it for a long time (because i got in a toxic relationship with a guy who believed in very strict gender roles)

and then when i felt free to be myself i started thinking about it again and i remembered how much i loved having short hair, so i thought about cutting it again and when i did it felt so nice!

and i realized i enjoy wearing clothes without assigning a gender to them, just whatever felt right for the moment, so i started experimenting a bit, and now im closer to finding what i actually like for the first time in my life!

i realized that im probably not quite trans because i dont wish to be any other gender and most of my dysphoria comes from how im percieved rather than my own body, and i found out that im probably non binary, or genderfluid, and it finally seems like it fits!

and with that identity in mind i not only feel more comfortable trying on mens pants and baggier clothes and stuff like that, i also feel more comfortable wearing more femenine things like crop tops and shorts and maybe even tight shirts! and thats because i finally feel like i have found myself, outside of the gender stereotypes that have been enforced onto me since i can remember, outside of what is expected of me. i am who i am regardless of what others see in me or what they expect me to be, my face, my voice, my body, my genitalia, none of that matters. the only thing that truly matters is me and my own identity.

I see a lot of ‘cis’ women say they wish they were androgynous in the way men were or they wish they were pretty in the way men were. This is your sign to go try to do that. You may find you enjoy being an androgynous woman. You may find you no longer identify as a woman. You may find you don’t like androgyny. You will not know until you try. Cut your hair if you’ve always wanted to but have been afraid to. Shop in the men’s section if you’ve been too nervous to. Wear clothing with an androgynous  silhouette. Experiment with binding, take baby steps with compression bras if you want. Wear unisex scents. Live life. Try things you want to try. A lot of cis women do not understand the joys of mens pants and mens deodorant. I think everyone should try both of those things.