#checkers meals

[waytoomuchanalysis]

Took The Locust (my brother) to see The Living Tombstone, we got sandwiches beforehand but I was too anxious to eat mine so I put it in a to go box which I then proceeded to drop on the sidewalk. This was about the third straw out of I'm not sure how many. We had to stop at CVS caus I forgot the earplugs (second straw), I sent my brother in and he came back with the earplugs and a protein shake which he downed even after his sandwich.

Then I parked unnecessarily far away from where we needed to be thinking there wouldn't be anywhere closer to park and then there was. And then we got to the venue and it was far too small for the turnout, clearly TLT's management underestimated the amount of queer gamers in Seattle as compared to other cities and I swear that bar must've been 98.6 goddamn degrees in there from all the body heat! But we eventually ended up in a pretty good spot for being packed like sardines and the show was good and I don't think anyone died of crowd crush, although we did dip out early to beat the crowds. You could've snuck ANYTHING into that venue, there was a single strung out white guy checking tickets and nothing else.

We left right before the end of the show and I checked my maps app for the icon that indicates my parked car. Surprise!!! This was the one time EVER the app didn't automatically mark where I left the car and started walking! So I internally freaked out about potentially not being able to find the car while we walked in a literal straight line back the way we came to the parking garage, which we also had to get to before it "closed" at 10 (it's online pay only so I guess that just means the attendant leaves). Then when we found the place I worried my way up the stairs because The Locust left important things in my car, I got lost trying to get out of the garage and then drove the wrong way down the street, but I recovered with a quick right turn onto a two-way and then all the stressful stuff was over.

As we drove out of the city I said "if you're hungry there's a granola bar and cheese crackers for you in my bag" and The Locust, living up to his nickname, goes "oh thank fucking god" and digs them out of my bag like he hasn't eaten all day dkdbdkdjdh

[syoddeye]

meet your match

price x f!reader | 10k | AO3

cw: dubcon, explicit sexual content, praise kink, daddy kink (mentioned), breeding kink, john price wife-hunting/wife at first sight, perfectionist/workaholic/lonely reader, stalking, manipulation

John spots the ad as he punches a pin through his card. 

It’s impossible to miss.

Bright red hearts, pink-and-white checkered borders on glossy paper someone paid extra to print. A heart-shaped tack centered perfectly along the top edge. Big looping letters—MEET YOUR MATCH SPEED DATING.

It looks absurd next to his card. A dull rectangle of plain cardstock, his name printed in clean, unembellished letters, ‘John Price - Handyman’, and his number below. No bright colors, no flourishes. Simple like the work. Honest. Keeps his hands occupied between deployments.

The disgust arrives on a delay, a spark traveling along powder. A twist in his gut, a curl of his lip. His eyes rolling hard in his skull. It’s an affront—not just to him, but to the very idea of how things are supposed to go.

He yanks a trolley free, muttering under his breath.

Who in their right mind would waste time like that? Spinning around, talking to strangers, volleying shallow questions, forcing laughter. Acting like most people don’t make up their minds in the first thirty seconds about whether or not they want someone in their bed.

The whole affair reeks.

He shoulder-checks another man in power tools, too distracted by the voices of his sergeants drifting uninvited through his head, summoned by all his grousing.

Stubborn, cantankerous Price. Twice-divorced, stuck in a year-long dry spell because he’s got a habit of scaring off any decent woman who strays into his orbit. The mean old bastard who always moans about the good ol’ days—when men met women face-to-face, not through some app where you swiped left or right like you were picking out a meal deal.

When he could pick them up right off the street, like the first Mrs. Price. Or the supermarket, like her successor.

The memories leave a bittersweet taste. An ache in his groin. It’s been a minute since he took a girl home. Since he tried.

Through the shelves, the poster shines like a fucking beacon.

He breathes sharply through his nose, shakes it off, and shoves deeper into the store.

He never should’ve looked at the bloody thing.

Four fingers’ worth of amber sloshing around in his belly, he swallows the burn of embarrassment with another glass. Lets it dull his better judgment. The tips of his ears red hot as he punches his bank card into the online checkout, grumbling some half-formed excuse to himself. 

The confirmation email arrives in seconds. He ignores it.

He spends the week installing cabinetry, letting the scream of a circular saw drown out his thoughts. Shovels dirt over it when he lays a garden path for a neighbor one afternoon, determined to bury it one stone at a time. Tamping it down along with the dirt, out of sight, out of mind.

But then the reminder lands in his inbox, bright and cheery. Evidence of his lapse in judgment. His mood sours, dragging him into the muck like a boot caught in deep, clinging mud. He knows he ought to ignore it again, chalk it up to a stupid mistake, but—

An itch flares on the back of his ring finger. He scratches it raw, but there’s no relief.

On the night of, he drives white-knuckled to the next town over, pulling into the car park twenty minutes early. He leans against his door, cigar in hand, smoke curling into the cold air as others arrive.

Most of them come in groups, chattering and laughing, familiar. He jumps from one face to the next, cataloging. His finger rests on an invisible trigger, caught between decisions—go in and see what the fuss is about, or make a quick retreat, head home, and catch some pretty face’s stream instead.

Then, a small cluster of girls passes by, giggling behind manicured hands, casting sidelong glances that scream daddy issues. He exhales a ribbon of smoke, watching over the glowing cherry of his cigar.

Whether or not he, by some miracle, finds a match tonight, there’s always the potential for a consolation prize.

As soon as he slaps a name tag onto his chest and scans the crowd, it’s obvious—he’s one of the older men present. Hell, scratch that, he might be the oldest by a fair stretch.

The younger bucks don’t spare him a second glance, too busy puffing out their chests, checking the competition among themselves. The women, though, they’re more forgiving. A few give him passing looks, flickers of intrigue as they clock him standing off to the side, arms crossed, watching.

John knows what he looks like. North of forty, gray threading through his temples, a soft layer of fat settling over the muscle beneath. Dressed sensibly, nothing flashy. Not like the men peacocking around in too-tight shirts, drowning themselves in cologne, preening. He’s here, and that’s about the extent of his effort.

And then the first round begins. He sits across from the first girl, and the second her eyes widen—not in the way he’d like—he knows exactly what kind of night this is going to be.

It proceeds as expected.

The fascination with his years, the curiosity. What’s a man like you doing at something like this? The inevitable prying. Married before? Twice? Oh, well, then. Or worse, the giddy birds, buzzing in their seats with smiles that say, yes, he is the answer to some life-long wound, a stand-in for the attention they never got from their fathers. 

Then there are the unbearably shy ones, pulling teeth just to get a full sentence out before the round is called. Good girls. Decent girls. Girls who stare at him as if he’s about to vault the table and sink his teeth into their throats.

Which is absurd.

He’s a war dog. He prefers a bit of fight. Skin in the game. Make it worth his while, tucker him out.

By the end of it, his card is full, but he’s unimpressed.

His knees and back ache from all the repetitious standing and sitting, moving from seat to seat like some wind-up toy. His jaw is sore from clenching, his temples pulsing from two hours of forced patience. Hands itching for a smoke. It’s nothing like sitting and waiting for a clean shot. That always results in at least a job well done. A mission accomplished. This? A lousy scorecard and a couple of numbers he won’t call from girls who don’t have a clue what they’re looking for?

He’s out of his fucking mind for even bothering.

It’s demeaning.

The organizer flicks on the mic, sending a screech of feedback through the speakers, and he rips the name tag from his chest, teeth grinding. He didn’t listen the first time—only a fucking moron would need the rules explained twice. He’s already angling toward the door, ready to make his exit, when he sees you.

The evening turns on its head.

The last hour wiped clean with a look.

Bright red hearts dangle from your ears. A matching necklace rests at the hollow of your throat. A pink-and-white checkered clipboard sits on your hip, a matching pen twirling absently in your fingers. Chipped crimson varnish on your thumb, like you’ve been peeling it off. Chewing, maybe. 

Glittery boots lend you height. Shoulders squared, posture straight. Doing your best to exude confidence.

Candyfloss sweet, with a pinch of salt.

You prattle on. Platitudes, mostly. How engaged everyone looked in their conversations, a playful quip about how some already seem like goddamn lovebirds. Your voice lilts with charm, a smidge warbly. You must’ve given this speech a hundred times before. Then comes the boasting.

Your agency’s success rate. The numbers, the percentages. How many second and third dates attendees report back. How you’ve helped introduce hundreds of couples. There’s pride in it. Your eyes brighten. But it’s a veneer. Thin as lace.

He sees it. The beads of sweat gathering at your hairline, the faint sheen behind your ear, the subtle tremor in your voice when you get too caught up in your own enthusiasm. A broken-off giggle. The occasional tap of your fingers against the edge of that clipboard, a tic, a tell. You’ve got the confidence, but it’s over-rehearsed. As much of an accessory as the ornament wrapped around your neck.

And he can’t help but wonder.

What would you do if someone called your bluff? If he found you after? Stepped in close, trapped you against one of those god awful stiff-backed chairs, close enough that you felt the weight of him hovering? What would you do if he gave you his honest opinion about your ‘work’, face-to-face?

His mind spins on it for half a second before you say something that derails him completely.

Babies.

It lands like a stone dropped in a pond. Ripples outward in nervous laughter, uncertain shuffling. The younger attendees shift on their feet, casting shy, uncertain glances at each other. You fumble through it, quick and awkward, as if you’ve only realized the present demographics aren’t quite ready for the stork.

He hopes it’s an exaggeration. An offhand comment, a bone tossed out for the older guests in the room.

(Him, because who else fits the bill?)

His blood runs hot at that.

Something stirs in his gut, rising insistent and uncoiling in his chest. A want he thought he’d discounted out years ago, snuffed like a match between his fingers. Delayed by his climb through the ranks and waylaid by fizzling romance.

Children. 

Can one ever really bury an instinct like that deep enough?

His own father soured him on the notion—spiteful, unforgiving, malignant tumor of a man. Impossible standards, an intolerance to match. A rage John inherited, honed, funneled into the one bloody release he found in service. An ugliness that made him swear off continuing the line. 

Still, something funny holds him back. That itch.

He’s canceled every vasectomy he’s ever scheduled in the last decade. Reversible or not, it’s intoxicating to know what he’s capable of.

With you wandering into the crosshairs, it clicks into place. He understands.

He swallows, jaw clenching, and forces himself to look at your face instead of the hollow of your throat, where that ridiculous necklace rests. Forces himself to focus on what you’re saying instead of the shape of your mouth as you say it.

A-ffirmed. He’s out of his fucking mind for coming here.

He tells himself he won’t hunt you down afterward.

No. You’re insulated. Shielded by a flock of hens who swarm the second you return the microphone back to its stand, all clucking approval, dishing out compliments, asking their inane questions about your services. You nod, smile, say your thanks, gracious and warm, and it’s exactly the excuse he needs to leave.

He should leave.

Instead, he declines to give your colleague his scorecard, stuffing the useless sheet into his pocket without so much as a second look-over. He chews the inside of his cheek, locked on you. Takes what he tells himself will be his last look. Prints you on the inside of his eyelids.

Then he sees your hand.

A short stack of business cards, matching the damned poster that started this whole ridiculous mess. He moves before he can think better of it.

Crosses the hall in a handful of long strides. The younger women scatter in his wake, parted by his low, muttered pardon me’s.

And you, you—

Eyes wide, lips parting around a breath, half a sentence, “Here, sir,” before he plucks a card from your fingers.

Then he’s gone.

Straight out the door. Across the car park. Sliding into the driver’s seat, his pulse thundering in his ears, his hand already reaching for the glove compartment. Lighter. Cigarette. Routine to steady himself. Busy his hands so he doesn’t barge right back inside and drag you out behind him. Fire to distract the caveman clawing at his brain.

He doesn’t look at your card right away, not until the first drag burns through his lungs.

It’s just as garish as the poster. Wine-red lettering. Your name. The dating agency you work for. Your number.

And if that isn’t convenient. 

That’s half the battle won.

He should call. Go through the proper channels, hire you for your services like any decent man would. But there’d be no way to lie about what he’s really looking for and what he really wants.

He can’t be too direct, can’t risk scaring you off, but he also can’t leave it up to chance. Experience—and two spousal payments—have taught him better than that.

He won’t make the same mistake a third time.

John does his research.

Your online presence is threadbare, limited to a short bio on the agency website and a sparsely populated profile on a corporate network. Matchmaker, professional hostess. He scrolls, picks apart the scraps. Posts you’ve written and shared, abbreviated comments you embellish with hearts.

Little as he has to study with, it adds up.

You’re all work, no play. Polite, sweet, and a real go-getter, as a former colleague describes you. All butterflies and whiskers on kittens. Sugar-coated professionalism. Your accomplishments and certifications laid out like medals, ambitions clear. Ruthless, in your own way, but the kind with puppy teeth, growing into your bite, he’d bet.

He saw you struggle and the nerves you tried to hide. Maybe others bought it, but he didn’t. If that’s where you are after years on the job, he imagines what you were like in the beginning. Easily rattled, unsteady on your feet.

Still. You’re trying. Look where you are now. Go-getter.

The effort and determination, however clumsy, fascinates. It keeps him searching for a glimpse beneath the polished exterior, but there’s nothing. Not a single mention of friends, family, or, notably, a boyfriend.

It makes his teeth ache.

He needs more.

A hideous, modern building. The very opposite of you—cold, plain, and impersonal. Expensive, not without amenities. His favorite?

The floor-to-ceiling windows.

Blessedly, you are a creature of routine.

Home to work, and work to home. A seamless loop, unbroken save for brief, reasonable deviations. Trips to the shops, a walk through the park near your flat, a community gym. Even then, there’s no idle wandering or wasted time.

Sometimes, when you duck into the market, you emerge with a bouquet of flowers, petals and leaves wrapped in crinkled brown paper, or a bottle of wine, its slender neck peeking out. Small indulgences you buy yourself.

Because there’s no one else to do it for you.

He’s all but confirmed it, watching you ferry yourself between the same points, alone every time. No one welcomes you home. No one goes home to you. Big, lofty place like yours and no one to share it with.

It doesn’t sit right with him, on two fronts.

The first—you pride yourself on your expertise. The training, the certificates, the metrics. It’s all laid out online, your badges of honor, but you’re missing the biggest one, aren’t you? Lacking firsthand knowledge. Quite the albatross hanging around your neck.

The second—it’s self-flagellation, needless and punishing. Pretty, smart thing like you, locking yourself away. A princess banishing herself to a tower. The persistent, cynical part of him wonders if it’s simple snobbery. That you think you’re too good for men like him. 

Yet that’s not quite it either, is it? 

You shut yourself off from everyone.

Twice in one week, from his spot in the mouth of the alley outside your office, he hears you decline invitations for drinks from your colleagues. The same excuse, too much to do, and a pat to the stuffed tote slung over your shoulder.

You work hard, pour yourself into the gig, and when you manage to unwind, it’s always in isolation. A quiet dinner, a solo glass of wine, a book balanced on the arm of your couch. Those big yoga stretches in the morning and at bed time.

The thought solidifies into certainty: You need someone to step in. Someone who sees you.

Luckily for you, John does.

(You never pull those shades down all the way. A fancy place like yours? It’d be a shame to keep them covered, lose the view.)

Satisfied he’s learned all he can from a distance, John decides to meet you properly, on familiar ground. A lonely, overworked girl deserves at least that much. He isn’t cruel.

Buying another ticket to another fucking night of pointless dating doesn’t taste so bad when he has you to look forward to.

This time, it’s in the back room of a restaurant. Smaller, intimate.

Perfect.

John glides through the song and dance. Sign in, take the name tag, acknowledge your coworker, let them believe he’s another hopeful looking for love.

He is, in a way. Different from the last time. He strides with purpose now, heat-seeking. He sidesteps the idle chatter and growing crowd.

Eyes on the prize, and there you are.

As primped and polished as the first night, dressed in soft colors that contrast the tension strung tight in your shoulders pulled up to your ears. Just as on edge, if not more.

That damn clipboard is back on your hip, clutched like a lifeline, and it takes less than a second for his mind to replace it. A warm weight settled against you. Small hands grasping at fabric. A dark-haired child perched, fingers curled in your blouse.

His throat tightens.

You really shouldn’t have mentioned babies.

You move through the space in a current, pulled in every direction at once. Checking in with your coworker, refusing to delegate. Pointing guests toward the toilets, fielding messages on your phone, juggling it all with a thin smile.

It’s admirable.

Nevertheless, hairline cracks form. The light dulls in your eyes, the stress shakes your hands. You’re tired, and not the kind he wants to see on you.

Not the delicious, drowsy fatigue of a body thoroughly spent, melted into the mattress after he’s wrung you dry. Not the half-hearted whimper of a protest as you nuzzle into his chest, mumbling about your ruined makeup staining pillowcases and how it’s his fault. Not the slow, syrupy exhaustion of pleasure that makes you pliant and warm in his arms. The kind of fatigue that leaves you soft, content. His.

Nor the bone-deep weariness of a woman woken in the middle of the night, cradling—

He blinks, biting down on the thought, and suddenly, you’re within reach.

“Oh, hi again,” you chirp, passing a scorecard into his hand. “You came a couple of weeks ago, right?”

That ugly impulse rises within him again, the desire to drag you away outside and make your problems disappear. “I did.”

“Thought so. Well, good luck,” you check his name tag with a smile. “John. Hope you find someone tonight.”

If only you knew.

“One question, if you don’t mind,” he says, barely keeping his face neutral. “Ever find your own match at one of these?”

Your eyes widen with an almost comical look of confusion. “Excuse me?”

John doesn’t lower his head but instead stares right down his nose. “No ring on your finger,” he muses. “Boyfriend too scared to step up?”

“I–I’m not–”

“Don’t tell me,” he chuckles under his breath, “Miss Matchmaker is single?”

John tucks his chin to his chest and watches your pulse jump under your necklace. “Now that,” he murmurs, tilting his head, “is interesting.”

You freeze like you’ve been caught in a lie. Here you are, a professional playing cupid to the lovesick masses, and yet you’re fumbling. Single.

To your credit, you recover quickly, wetting your lips and pasting on a smile. “I don’t see how my personal life is relevant.”

“Oh, but it is,” he insists. “Handin’ out happy endings left and right, and you don’t have your own? How am I s’posed to believe your expertise?”

A line creases your brows. “My job isn’t about me.”

“Isn’t it? You sell love for a living, but you don’t believe in it enough to keep it for yourself?”

“That’s not—I do not sell love…” You stop yourself, sucking in a breath. “I’m focusing on my career.”

“Right. Too busy pairing up strangers to find someone of your own.”

You bristle, shifting your weight, trying to hold your ground.

He likes that. Likes knowing he’s getting to you, pressing into a tender spot. Chipping away at the outer, painted shell.

Before you muster a response, he breaks into a warm laugh to play up the angle. “Only teasin’.” More like testing, sussing out how much give there is until you crack open and spill. “Well,” he pockets his hands, “guess that means you’re up for grabs, huh?” He winks. “Talk to you later, sweetheart.”

He leaves you stuttering, clipboard clutched to your chest.

The night is a blur. He couldn’t name a single woman he spoke to. Unlike last time, his sheet is empty. No scores. If any woman sees it as a loss, he wouldn’t know. Wouldn’t care.

John steps out for air until more bodies trickle out, and then returns inside. He skirts the edges, poking around the tables at the far end where you’re collecting placards, setting the scene.

In his periphery, he sees the moment you realize you’re on a collision course.

“Lose something?”

Fuck, your voice. Your normal voice, not the chirpy affect you slap on for work. Even if there’s a new wariness to it.

“Think I managed to misplace my card.”

Your eyes widen, darting over the tables you cleared. A good and helpful girl, ignoring that little voice in your head.

“Oh no, I’ll help you look. Do you remember what table you ended on?”

He grins. “That’s kind of you, darl.”

He peeks as you check beneath tables, bending and huffing in frustration when you come up empty-handed. The apologetic smile when you finally admit defeat.

“I guess it’s long gone,” you say reluctantly.

John lays it on thick. Shakes his head with exaggerated disappointment, crumpling the sheet hidden in his jacket into a tight ball. “That’s too bad. What a wash.” A wistful sigh. “And you put on such a lovely event, too.”

The conflicted delight on your face is delicious.

“I’m so sorry.” you murmur. “Let me comp you a ticket to another event. I can’t let you go home empty-handed.”

What a turn of phrase.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I insist. You took time out of your schedule–”

“Grab a drink with me instead.” He interrupts smoothly. “Lift my spirits.”

You hesitate, before shaking your head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“A friendly drink?” he teases. “Where’s the harm in that?” 

Not like you have a boyfriend to make jealous.

“It’s just, I ought to get this stuff back.” You nod toward the neat stack of placards, the tote overflowing with the event’s paraphernalia. “Calculate the scores, check compatibility…”

“Can’t your colleague do that for you?” he presses. “Think you deserve a drink for a job well done,” he adds, watching the way you react to the compliment, soaking it in like it’s the first kind word you’ve heard all day. “I saw you working hard all night. Busy girl, eh?”

Indecision shines behind your curled lashes. The gears turn in real-time, weighing the consequences of saying yes.

His nails puncture the paper in his pocket when you flash yet another sorry smile. 

“I’m flattered,” you say, ever so gracious, “but I really can’t. I’ll send that free ticket to your email.”

The dismissal lands like a slap. Indignation sprints across his mind with disbelief snapping at its heels. You don’t give him a chance to tell you where to send that email instead, just the brush-off, slipping away before he can get a word in edgewise. Choler floods the chambers of his heart, draws a bit of blood.

Well, there’s that bit of fight he wanted.

You don’t look back, and he doesn’t blame you. You must feel the weight of his stare between your shoulder blades, on the curve of your ass. You whisper to your coworker, gesturing for their help with you.

His jaw flexes, fingers uncurling from the shredded card in his pocket.

That’s alright.

What kind of man would he be if he didn’t have a backup plan?

The moment unfolds as if coincidence.

John times his approach as you exit the florist, fingers idly stroking the petals of the bouquet in your arms, the same tulips you buy every week. He pictures doing the same to you.

He moves as you step onto the pavement. The collision is gentle, considering, but hard enough that his shoulder clips yours to knock your balance. Enough that you let out a startled gasp, grip faltering, sending the bouquet tumbling from your hands and bag jerking down your arm.

“Shit,” he mutters, crouching before you can. He gathers the flowers, offering them back with a small, sheepish smile. “Didn’t see you there, love. My fault—Wait.” 

He tilts his head, narrows his eyes like he’s only just putting it together. Like he didn’t spend the morning in your shadow to ensure this exact moment. 

Your attention jumps up to him in pure surprise.

“I know you. Miss Matchmaker.”

Recognition washes over your face, and in the span of a breath, confusion gives way to composure. It’s impressive how quickly you smooth it over, tucking away irritation.

“John?”

“You remember me.”

How could she not?

“Of course,” You take the flowers, clutching them tight. Never without a shield. “What a, um, small world.”

John huffs a short laugh, rocking back on his heels. “‘Fraid so.” He lets the silence stretch, drinking you in. You’re too poised to flinch outright, but he’s trained to catch it anyway. Fingers crinkling the paper, chin tipping a fraction higher.

You’re dressed for errands, wrapped in a trench that frustrates more than it should. He knows what’s beneath—having committed the curve of your waist to memory, the shape of your hips. It’s irritating, really.

Still, he likes the look of you like this. Definitely the type to never step outside without making yourself presentable. The type to live by the mantra you never know who you might run into. Collar turned up against the chill, hair styled meticulously away from your face, not hiding that guarded expression. You’re assessing him the same. 

Good.

No catching you on the back foot today, not without a push.

“Draw up any matches since last we met?”

You exhale a short, amused breath. “I’m afraid that’s confidential.”

He grins. “Ah, right. Can’t have the matchmaker giving away her secrets.”

“Yep. Sorry again about your missing card and, um…” You trail off, and John fills in the blank. The rejection. Your insult is forgotten. Water under the bridge, as far as he’s concerned. “I hope you come next time. We’ll get you sorted.”

“Don’t think you’ll see me there again.”

“No?”

“Don’t think speed dating’s for me.”

You nod knowingly, and hike your bag higher onto your shoulder. “It isn’t for everyone. Some people prefer or have better luck meeting the old-fashioned way.” You lift your wrist and check your watch, the impatient thing that you are. Eager to get home to the hour or two of work you needlessly do every Sunday evening. You start to pull away, already checking out. “Well, I better–”

He steps forward, boxing you in toward the wall.

“Like this?”

Your brow knits, mouth pressing into an unsure smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. Polite and strained. You glance at the busy walk, weighing whether it’s worth stepping around or if that would be too rude.

“Like ‘this’? I don’t–”

“Two people, running into each other by chance.”

The corner of your mouth twitches. Smile lapsing, dropping in and out. Curiosity buried beneath skepticism. 

“John…”

He likes how his name sounds on your lips. He wonders how it’d sound under other circumstances.

“Have dinner with me.”

You blink and shrink back, though there’s nowhere to go. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” He doesn’t let your words land. He leans into them. No retreat. Not when the unseen thread fixing the two of you together tugs on the knuckle of his ring finger.

You adjust your grip on the bouquet. “I don’t date clients.”

“Haven’t hired you for anything, have I?” He tilts his head, innocent. 

“A technicality.”

“But not untrue.” He cocks a brow. “One dinner. No strings. If you decide halfway through you’d rather be anywhere else, I won’t stop you.”

Another beat of hesitation. He’s patient. He knows how this works.

Then, finally, you sigh. “Fine. One dinner.”

John smiles. “That’s all I ask.”

For now.

In the days leading to dinner, there’s not enough work to fill his hands.

Certainly not enough to fill his mind.

His thoughts, however, are consumed by you. Maddening how much of his attention you command, how the brief moments shared echo in his mind long after. A constant reverberation, shaping his thoughts, making him imagine another life. Branches reality in two—one without you, unthinkable, and the other? 

A home. A two-storey house with a garden. Kids. Maybe a dog. A do-over. His childhood, but through the looking glass and done right.

A life he’s determined to see the latter into fruition.

There’s very little he’s set his mind to that he hasn’t achieved.

He assembles an outdoor playset for a young family. Decent-sized house and lot. Not unlike the one he sees behind his eyelids. The little ones badger him with questions, tug at his sleeves, chatter away as he carefully fits the wooden frame together and hangs the swings. It’s good practice, what with his plans.

When their mother pops outside to offer water, she compliments his aptitude with children. His patience. Assumes he must have a brood of his own, and he doesn’t correct her. It’s in the works.

Her nails are red, like yours, but perfectly maintained. Despite the slight bags under her eyes, there’s a lightness to her smile that tells him she’s exactly where she wants to be.

And when she steps away to take a call, he imagines you in her stead. Having it all—a home, a family. He’ll give it to you. 

She disappears inside. Her children shriek with laughter, and he wipes the sweat from his brow.

Yes. You, standing in the threshold, tea mug warming your hands. Watching a runt or two running wild, belly low with another. Your nails painted that same cherry tint. Chipped, but perfect.

The restaurant’s host recognizes him, he’s sure of it, but he doesn’t recognize you. How would he?

You’re younger than your predecessors, for one. Smiling, for another. Not on John’s arm as a captive for one of his fruitless, belated apologies. Nor are you clearly hostage to obligation, for a tired anniversary ritual, a repetition of mistakes. No. You’re here as someone new, a departure. John’s future.

He erases the other man’s disapproval with a banknote slipped into his palm. The coward keeps his lips sealed, ushering you to the table you deserve.

Price, party of two.

Maybe this time next year you’ll be celebrating a party of three.

If you’re upset over the server’s harmless assumptions about the two of you celebrating a special occasion, you hide it behind the menu. After ordering, you’re forced to relinquish it. Nothing left to hide behind.

The scrape of your finger over your thumbnail betrays agitation. A nervous habit he’ll break after the engagement. Can’t wear his ring without a flawless set.

He doesn’t want to change you. Not much. Not beyond what warrants influence.

As the conversation unfolds—your preferred wine, the rhythm of your day, the idle pleasantries—he studies. His first unobstructed view. No more staring across a crowded room or through your window from his car. Up close and personal.

You are everything he wants. Intelligent, pretty, industrious, and amenable. A woman made to be adored. 

A wonder you deprive yourself of it.

John’s old hand at extracting information. There’s little difference between threats, praise, and encouragement. The right pressure and tone—all surface some truth. He’s practiced on plenty of folks with everything to lose.

But this? Far more delicate. High stakes.

And for all your sugar-spun sweetness and girlish, heart-strewn wardrobe, you are no easy conquest. You play coy. Meet his questions with half-answers, sidestep when you can, parry when you can’t. You know you’re being led, but not quite where.

Puppy teeth, but the same sensibility—you don’t know when to give up and roll over.

All the more proof you need him around.

It’s cute when you try to go dutch on the bill, flustering all over again when the server informs you John’s already paid. Damn near insulting, isn’t it? To be taken care of. That insistence on covering yourself, as if you can’t afford even the notion of dependency. A lifetime of self-sufficiency turned reflex.

You don’t know what to do when someone else takes the reins, and does a good job.

It shouldn’t surprise you. Not after he’s played the perfect gentleman. Holding the door. Pulling out your chair. Helping you in and out of your coat. Adamant on following through with escorting you home.

You made him meet at the restaurant. A necessary concession at the time, but a bruise nonetheless.

He acts surprised when he parks outside your building. Compliments the structure, neighborhood, all that. He leans against the driver’s side door, hands tucked into his pockets. Casual, as if he hasn’t plotted out how he’d get you inside.

You tiptoe around a goodbye. Promising.

The nerve comes, eventually.

“Were you…?”

He tilts his head, feigning mild curiosity. “Was I what?”

You square your shoulders in that trumped-up confidence. “Coming up?”

He lets the question hang for a beat longer than necessary to let you hear yourself. 

This is a surprise. You pushed back on the date, but here you are asking him up. Lonely, needy creature. You’re probably wet.

Briefly, he reconsiders crowding you into the lift and watching that wide-eyed surprise melt. Years of stratagem hold him in place. The long con is always the smarter play.

“Oh, darl,” he murmurs, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I am flattered.”

He injects enough warmth seep into his voice to make the rejection sting without cutting deep. “I was only teasing earlier,” he adds, a playful glint in his eyes, the perfect balance between charm and rebuke. “Think we ought to get to know each other better before that, don’t you?”

The shift is immediate. Your face falls. A flicker of surprise, a flash of embarrassment that you rush to mask with a nervous laugh, waving your hand as if physically brushing it off. That confidence of yours really is paper-thin. Fragile. So easy to poke and prod. Moldable.

“Ah, of course. I didn’t mean—”

No, but you did, and that’s the beauty of it. You want to mean it. You don’t know how to ask for what you want yet. Another lesson to teach.

“Don’t fret,” he soothes, taking a step closer, fingers finding your chin, featherlight, guiding it back. “How about a kiss goodnight instead, hm?” He taps the divot of your chin. “Tide you over until next time?”

He tastes your perfume first, having caught hints of it all night. Now it’s stronger, heady as you lift your chin. He waits until your eyelids flutter shut before leaning in, smelling burnt sugar before he samples it.

John knows indulgence best through cigars and smoke rolling over his tongue. But you? You cut through what that’s dulled, brighter. Red wine, velvet and ripe, staining the sweetness like crushed cherries. It’s Herculean, the effort to not change his mind and hustle you indoors. His mouth presses more firmly, and for one dizzying moment, he imagines the taste of your skin—licking sugar out of the bowl.

You try to get closer, but he cuts it off.

Your lips are wet, trembling when he pulls back, and you wear shame—white-hot and burning. In disbelief that you asked, aren’t you? What has gotten into you?

“Oh, I got lipstick on your mouth, let me–”

“Leave it.”

He pulls over once on the drive home, rummaging through the glove compartment to wipe the smear of your lipstick from his mouth. The sight of the red stain sends a pulse of heat straight down. You’d lose your head if you saw him now, he thinks, flicking open his belt in the dark. What you do to him. 

He barely gets a good tug in before he ruins that stain, tasting sugar in the back of his throat.

Home in bed, he pulls up the headshot from your agency’s website and dips a hand under his waistband again.

Just something to tide him over.

You wait a standard three days to text. He calls instead.

You sound breathless, which makes sense. Now’s about the time you leave the gym.

“I’m scoping out a potential venue,” you explain, rushed, coming down from whatever routine you finished. He pictures it. Tight leggings, top clinging to sweaty skin, earbuds half-pulled out because you’re walking home alone. “I was thinking you could help?”

“Help? What do you need me for?”

“The atmosphere’s different when I’m alone. I don’t get a good sense if a space is conducive to dates.”

You’re asking him to play along. To be part of your world. Giving him another opening.

He smiles, unseen but satisfied. “Right. What am I getting out of this?”

There’s a short laugh on the other end, meant to cover your nerves. “Dinner,” you offer. “And the opportunity to let me know how you really felt about our services.”

Clever girl. Keeping it professional and leaving yourself an out.

“How could I refuse?”

The restaurant is a hole in the wall. He’d’ve never found it on his own. A perfect setting, but not for what you said. Testing the atmosphere. John knows better.

You’re staring through the menu, picking your thumb.

“Would it help if I set a timer and moved to the next table in five minutes?”

Your head snaps up. “Excuse me?”

“You’re fidgeting, sweetheart.”

You pull your hand away like you’ve been caught, setting it flat on the table.

“Nervous?”

A quiet admission. “Maybe.”

“Don’t date much, do you?”

Your spine straightens. “I told you, I’m focused on my career.”

“Mm.” John hums, leaning back. “Not a judgment, sweetheart. Just an observation. I merely find it interesting. You run speed dating. Introduce people. Help them make connections…”

“I’m good at it,” you murmur, a shield being drawn up.

“Never said you weren’t. Simply curious why someone so good at helping others find their person hasn’t found one of her own. Especially when she’s a catch.”

You don’t answer, not right away. But you don’t look away, either.

Good girl. Let him in.

The silence goes taut. Then, a sigh, and you lift your eyes again. There’s something different in them now. A crack in that carefully maintained composure. Vulnerability.

“I used to date a lot, actually. I had bad luck with men, though.”

John’s thighs flex under the table, hot and hungry pulse running through him. Finally. Finally, some answers. 

“Tell me about them.”

It’s not a question. An invitation. One you’re teetering on the edge of accepting. Curiosity wins out in the end. You bite.

“There were…a few. Nothing serious. Not for lack of trying.” You confess, embarrassed. “I attract the wrong kinds of men.”

Funny. “What kind of wrong?”

“A flake,” you start, bitter. “Canceled more dates than he showed up for. I stopped bothering after a while.”

One.

“A man-child. Wanted a girlfriend who was more like his mother. Expected me to cook, clean, take care of everything while he played video games.”

Two.

“A cheapskate.” A hollow laugh escapes. “Took me out on a ‘fancy’ date and made me pay after he ‘forgot’ his wallet. On my birthday.”

Three.

“And…” Your throat works around the last one. The worst one. “A cheater. Slept with one of my friends. I walked in on them.”

Four.

Your four horsemen of the dating apocalypse.

John’s jaw clenches, though he schools his features. He can’t have you seeing what that information really does to him. Can’t let you know how badly it makes him want to hunt them down and fix it.

On top of it all, you tack on how they made you swear off dating for a year. Which turned into two, then three.

“Three years?”

You bite your lip, insecurity crossing your face. “Is that…bad?”

Three years. Three years of no one waiting on you, no one to spoil you. An empty flat, and, he assumes, a cold bed.

“Not at all. Only been on a few dates in the last year, myself.” ‘Date’ is a strong term for tossing part of his pay at pretty girls on screen for a chat. “Is that what this is, then? A date? Could’ve sworn I was here to help scope out the space.”

“No, I–I did ask you here to help with the venue, John. That’s all. Really.” A lie that twists you into knots, wrings your hands, fiddles with your necklace. It’s short-lived. “I suppose, if you want, it can be a date.” The words come out shy, testing the waters. “But so we’re clear, I’m not looking for anything serious, alright? I don’t know if I’m ready.”

Another lie. A thousand nights alone? You’re ready.

He smirks. “Well. Regardless, y’know how to make a man feel wanted, sweetheart.”

And if that doesn’t make you preen.

The conversation shifts when dinner arrives, treading into gentler waters. John alludes to his job, a morsel, and you, sweet girl that you are, don’t press for more. Content to gnaw on the bones he offers, easy details meant to keep those puppy teeth of yours busy. His parents. Where he’s from. How he wasn’t much of a student. How he worked under the table as a kitchen porter at a golf club until he joined up.

It works better than the wine, softening you bit by bit. The prick who poked at your insecurities earlier? He’s dissolving into someone else entirely. Someone you’re trying to figure out. Someone you might even like.

Your eyes linger longer when he speaks now. Your smile turns natural, less forced. You lean in when he talks, hanging on his words.

John knows exactly what he’s doing, feeding you enough to keep you intrigued, to have you looking at him through softer eyes. Because if you’re trying to piece him together, trying to understand him—you’re already invested. That’s how he’ll get you.

One crumb at a time.

It’s necessary groundwork. Sooner or later, details’ll come out. After all, you’re going to marry him. Certain things will have to be—

“Any, um…notable girlfriends? Since I told you about my four awful exes.”

Innocent. Fair. It still puts him on edge.

A big test for both of you. He told himself he’d lie weeks back. A fabrication to allow him to censor the truth and leave his past behind. See if he couldn’t get out of his payments and wash his hands completely of his ex-wives, call in a couple favors, push papers.

Yet now, now that you’ve bared your heart to him like a good and honest girl, he suppose it’s only right to tell the truth.

That’s not the plan, though.

He’ll phone a few names tomorrow. Get started on the paperwork.

“No one worth mentioning.”

The rest of the evening is easygoing from there. You remain relaxed, the earlier stiffness gone, but you’re still holding back. You let him toy with one of your rings for a few seconds before pulling away. Your feet bump under the table, and you tuck yours beneath your chair. Your eye contact’s better, but you find reasons to look away.

You’re resisting what’s building between you. He can see it clear as day. For one simple reason, John bets.

You don’t believe in love. Don’t trust it, at least.

Not anymore. Maybe you did once, back when it was uncomplicated, hadn’t soured in your mouth, and burned you down into the frazzled woman he’s observed. Before it became studied instead of felt. A series of points and calculated risks, a numbers game that you understand better than most. An expert on what works for everyone else but never quite trusting enough to let it work for you.

It’s why you throw yourself into your work. Why you obsess over climbing a ladder built on the successful couplings of others, measuring fulfillment in repeat dates and engagement announcements. If you can’t have it for yourself, at least you can manufacture it for someone else.

The problem is, he does believe in love.

He’s just never been any good at it.

It’s one of the few things he’s never let go of, even if he’s never known how to hold it properly. He’s always been better at destruction than construction—an arsonist, never an architect. He sets the foundation only to strike the match and burn it to the ground. That’s why his ex-wives only speak of him through intermediaries. That’s why his relationships have been more like wrecking balls than anything resembling stability.

It’s why he throws himself into his work.

It’s why you’re perfect for him, even if you fuss about it and tell yourself otherwise. Insist you want nothing serious to do with men again.

He knows better. Knows that under all that steel and sugar, there’s a heart that wants and aches, no matter how stubbornly you try to deny it.

This time, you surprise him. The dinner is pre-expensed on a company card. The grief that stirs with his ego ends smothered by the victorious look on your face when he pockets his wallet.

It makes you bold.

You suggest a pub a street over for afters, and he lets you lead. Men shrink away on the walk with him beside you, a hand on the small of your back. 

The tables are smaller here, giving your legs nowhere to go when he spreads his underneath and cages them in.

Another round comes. Time slips by. The noise of the pub hums in the background, but his focus never wavers. With every sip, the distance narrows.

Inevitably, the conversation returns to speed dating and its apparent science. You try to stick to your principles. Too bad he has years of experience in bending those. It doesn’t take much more prodding.

“I can’t tell you what your dates said, word for word.”

“Then summarize.”

“You were…” You vacillate, searching. “Largely described as, um, curt, reserved, and distracted.”

Not inaccurate. He’s had worse appraisals and assessments.

He chuckles. “Must’ve had my eye on someone already.”

“Oh?” you say, trying for nonchalance, but it falls flat, hovering awkwardly in the air.

John shifts, stretching his legs out and closing them back into your space like he owns it—owns you. 

God, you are so close. Skirting his reach. 

You’ve reached a critical juncture. Make or break. Two dates, that’s all it takes, isn’t it? Two dates, and life itself stretches out with endless possibilities. Weeks of wanting have led to this. All the work he’s put in to get you here, to this goddamn table, where he can almost taste what could be.

His ring on your finger. His baby on your hip. Your own success story.

No one’s ever gotten anywhere worth going without a push. Without a nudge to take that last step and get over that line they’ve drawn for themselves.

John licks his lip. “Think you know who, sweetheart.”

It will take time, he realizes on the way to yours, to fully tear down the walls you’ve built around yourself. He feels it in the tentative kiss you place on the corner of his mouth at your building’s door, and again in the lift. 

He’s no stranger to controlled demolition. This time, he won’t half-ass it. No more mistakes or half-hearted efforts. Third time’s the charm, and he’s ready to make sure of it.

Whatever backsliding occurs between the pub and your front door, he erases mouth-first. For a split second, he catches that flicker of uncertainty in your eyes, the subtle hesitation that says you’re not sure whether you should give in, but he doesn’t give you the luxury of doubt. You’re here. He’s here. It’s inevitable.

With both of you starved for something—anything—there’s no room for second-guessing. The barren years of your dry spells? Tinder, piled high.

Between fervent kisses, he steals glances at your place, cataloging details. Every corner of your world is his to explore now, but the bedroom is the prize. The view is better here, inside. No longer looking up at some unreachable, untouchable version of you from the outside. He has access now. Control. It’s a quiet triumph that settles in his chest, a thrill he can’t quite suppress. It seeps into his touch, his hands finding the hem of your dress, claiming inch after inch as if he’s laying claim to the territory he’s finally breached.

All it took was a little patience—and a hell of a lot of persistence.

John pushes you until your legs hit the bed, hands dimpling into your hips, half-tucked under your dress. He tugs at the fabric. “Want to take this off f’me, baby?”

“Yeah, okay…”

While your view is obscured by the dress, his eyes roam your bedroom. It’s exactly as he imagined—sophisticated and cozy with shades of rose, peach, and marigold. A collection of framed photos on the bureau he’ll study tomorrow. On your nightstand, a tray with jewelry and lipstick tubes. Dog-eared books—romance, unsurprisingly.

The dress pools at your feet. John takes in the sight of you, his smirk widening. Rubs circles with his thumbs on the skin exposed by the high arches of your deep plum panties.

“You wear this for me?” He abandons the bottoms, touch drifting up to cup your breasts through the matching brassiere. “All dolled up, planning on getting lucky?”

His thumbs roll over your hard nipples, coaxing a gasp from your lips, and your hands fly to his wrists. Not to stop him, but to steady yourself. Your legs tremble, barely holding you up. 

“No, it’s not–I didn’t want to assume–“

“Mm.” He hums, eyes half-lidded. “But you hoped.”

Your weak denial dies on your lips when he guides you down, gently but insistently. He maneuvers you like he owns you already, coaxing you to sit, then easing you back until your spine meets the mattress. His hands work their way down your legs, kneading the goose-pimpled skin of your thighs and calves. Each press of his thumbs is purposeful, a silent reminder of who’s in charge now.

And then he sinks lower.

John shoulders between your legs, prostrating himself on the floor, knees hitting the carpet as if this—you—are worth worship. His head dips, lips grazing along the inside of your thigh.

“Easy, love.” His hands are steady as they hook behind your knee, lifting and folding one of your legs over his broad shoulder. The angle opens you up to him and reveals the damp staining the cotton. He sets your other foot on the edge of the bed. “Let me take care of you.”

Your breath hitches, and that’s when he sees it. The moment you let the reins slip.

“Good girl,” he praises. His grin, hidden between your thighs, stretches with a kiss.

Candyfloss sweet, with a pinch of salt.

He called it like he saw it then. He’s smug that it’s true.

Even filtered through the thin barrier of the gusset sopping up its share, you are a wonder on the palate. A delight on the senses. He noses over the slight springiness of the curls trapped underneath, tongue laving over every dip where the fabric clings. Everywhere but where you want him.

“John, John, please,” You’re gasping on the bed, bright whines spilling out. Hands strangling the duvet. 

“Need somethin’?” He puffs over your drenched panties, rubbing his rough, bearded cheek on your thigh deliberately. “Gotta ask.”

It’s another minute of torture for you to work it out. It comes out in a whisper. “Take them off, please.”

“There’s a girl. Lift up.” 

The panties come away and promptly disappear. In the low light, your cunt’s a mess, shiny with a mix of soaked-in spit and arousal. Perfect like the rest of you.

“Oh,” the single word you manage when John gets his mouth on you unimpeded.

Victory tastes like burnt sugar melting on his tongue, slow and rich, heating into syrup. He groans into your cunt, digging one hand into your thigh to keep it hooked over his shoulder. His other hand wraps around your ankle, anchoring your other foot in place.

You twitch, moans pitching higher and higher, trying to press yourself closer into his mouth. He doesn’t let you. He keeps you right where he wants you—pinned open with every tremor and gasp fueling that molten heat rolling down his spine and thickening his cock.

“Easy, love,” he murmurs, lips brushing skin. His thumb strokes soothing circles over your ankle, a mockery of tenderness compared to the ruthless way he’s devouring you. His tongue works with intent, coaxing you to the edge.

His grip deserts your thigh, and you clench around the finger he slips in while you’re nice and distracted. Lets off your clit with a pop, pulling back to admire your face scrunched in pleasure.

John kisses the crease of your thigh. “This what you’ve been doing all by yourself, baby?” His taunts, dripping with satisfaction as he works you open. “Bet they weren’t enough, were they?”

His smirk deepens when he adds a second, savoring the way your pussy almost sucks them in. When you don’t answer, he stills. “Were they?”

You’re a quick learner. “No, no, they weren’t.”

“Thought so. Gonna give you one more before I fuck you, gonna need it.” 

You take the third with a quiet thread of praise. His cock’s pulsing hard against the zipper of his trousers, aching to switch places with his hand. It’s magnetic. The whole world centers on your weeping cunt, squeezing three of his fingers to death with how badly you want to come. It’s a miracle you still haven’t yet, given how you circle the edge. He’s an inkling of what you need, but he won’t let you backpedal.

You speak in front of rooms of lovelorn strangers. You will speak to your man.

He gingerly pumps his fingers into you as deep as they’ll go, curling and petting in all the right places. Your clit twitches, abandoned. 

“John–” Yes. “–will you–mouth, please.”

“Hm?”

“My clit, please, need your mouth–”

He’ll work on articulation another time. He dips his head and licks a broad stripe over your neglected bud, then molds his mouth to it. Grunts around it when your fingers thread into hair and tug down.

That’s when the floodgates open, and you finally give into everything you’ve held at arm’s length for too long. Toes curling, muscles tensing, a heel digging into one of his vertebrae. Must be a relief.

John rises to his feet as you come down, knees popping in the silence. He licks his lips, wiping them off on the back of his hand. He towers, intentionally overwhelming and blocking out the room as he looms. Casts a shadow he hopes you feel on every inch of your skin.

He works his belt open while you piece yourself back together, though there’s no point in that. It’s a bright spot when you awkwardly reach behind your back and free your tits without being asked. 

A wild look in your eye. Smudged makeup, hair coming unstyled. The loss of composure he’s waited for. Naked hunger in your gaze, eating him up as his clothes hit the floor. You’ve been with boys, sure, but John knows what he looks like. And he looks like a man.

He doesn’t ask about a condom. Gentleman enough he has one in a pocket, but not enough that he’ll do the decent thing and remind you about it.

You squeak in his neck when the steel wool above his cock scrapes your inner thighs. He grinds against you lazily, holding you in the band of his arms to kiss and share your taste. 

“It’s a lot, baby,” John warns, rutting himself through the mess between your legs. He swallows hard when he prods your hole with the tip, squeezing the base to warn himself. It notches, your body yielding despite your squirming. Skittish even now. From there it’s a smooth, slow glide.

Still knocks the breath out of the both of you.

“Oh god, John, f-fuck, it’s so–”

Your cunt’s hot as an oven. Wet and fitted for him. Gives in easily now that the right man’s filling it. Knows he’s it for you, meaning it’s only a matter of time for your head and heart to catch up. 

His chest and belly meld to yours as he keeps you pinned, hips pushing until they’re flush, and he’s sunken to the hilt, grinding in to claim whatever space is left.�� “Good girl. Let me in.”

“S’good, big,” you sound delirious, slurring as nonsense tumbles out in a breathless rush. 

He barely lifts his hips those first minutes. Warming you up for what’s coming, what he’s been starving for this whole time. Getting an eyeful of your sweet, dumbfounded expression, coming to terms with it. Figuring it all out while your pussy stretches around his cock and greedily swallows it whole.

John readjusts, peeling his sweaty skin from yours, keeping himself pressed deep into the spot that’s got you strangling his cock. His hands wedge under your knees and push, allowing himself to finally build up to his desired pace. An urgency that speaks to his need to usher in the future and slip a ring on you.

“Feel like a dream,” he pants, staring down at the bounce of your tits through half-shut eyes. The smell of sweat and sex and your cunt under his nose. “You’re so pretty like this, sweetheart. Yeah, look good under me.”

You struggle to breathe around his thrusts.

“Knew the moment I saw you, y’know. Took one look and knew. Knew that not a single girl I’d speak to would measure up to you.” His rhythm never faltering. “But you made me work for it, didn’t you?”

You pant, fingers clawing the pillow above your head. “You–You made me work, too–you didn’t come up–ah, that night.”

John laughs, the sound rough as sandpaper, deep and throaty, and it rattles through you. It drives him to push a little harder, to coax more of those desperate sounds out of you. “And look where we are now, baby.”

Tears slip out of your eyes, painting black streams of mascara on your cheeks. You’re wrecked and he’s barely scratched the surface.

You shouldn’t have ever mentioned babies if this isn’t where you wanted to end up.

Your second orgasm builds similarly to the first. Shaking legs, head sinking into the mattress, spine arching. Stars appear in your pupils, shiny under the glass of tears, and lock onto him, transfixed. A whole mess of big feelings. Uncertainty, confusion, disbelief. Fury, ardor. He can tell, despite everything, a part of you does not want to want this. But gravity doesn’t ask permission before it pulls.

He fishes spit out of his cheek and drops it under a thumb on your clit to bring it home.

“Gonna come on my cock, pretty girl? Squeeze me tight?” 

“John, I’m gonna–I’m gonna–”

“You can do it, too good of a girl not to–Christ.”

Whatever plea you utter gets lost in a feverish rush and a full-throated moan. You go tight as a vise, clamping down on him as you come. Liquid heat rolls down his spine and his pace turns choppy. Fingers slipping from your knee and clit, taking bruising handfuls of your hips he’ll kiss better later. 

He plugs himself deep, coming to a sudden halt to spill. Every muscle in his body goes rigid as he plants himself at the root, filling you in hot, desperate spurts. It goes on longer than he thought it would. You milk it out of him, and it leaves a stringy, sticky mess, tagging over your folds when he reluctantly withdraws.

A whimper sputters from your bitten lips when he lets his drooling tip spew its last over your winking, fucked hole.

The two of you catch your breath in silence.

You said—I don’t know if I’m ready.

He wonders what you’ll say in the morning.

John coaxes a third and final orgasm out of you as he massages his cum back into you, shushing when you cry a little more on his shoulder about it. Whining about it being too much. Same as when he wipes you clean and you go shy on him. Only cracking your legs open again when he reminds you how proud he is of you for taking him so well. For everything.

He waits until you’re deeply asleep, mouth slightly open, completely immovable, to climb out of bed.

He pads through your flat bare like he owns the place. A glass of water to keep him company as he leisurely tours.

Your work bag sits, still packed, next to your desk at the window. He kicks it under. This will be the first weekend you don’t lift a finger if he has his way. 

At least. Not in the service of others.

John stares at the pill case on your bathroom vanity as he empties his bladder. His next hurdle.

He’ll let you keep your job. It makes you happy, and he’s not so cruel to take that from you. But if you ever change your mind, if your investment in it wavers, he won’t stop you. Between his pay and benefits, the handyman business—he’s more than capable of providing for the two of you. And when the time comes for more, when you need to feed, clothe, and house his whelps, he’ll take care of that too.

After all, there’s very little he’s set his mind to that he hasn’t achieved.

[moyazaika]

morning glory; tw yandere, gn reader, mdni 18+

the sun is shining, and the morning sky is a promising, pale blue; you are staring down at the stack of hot pancakes on your plate, to avoid looking at him.

completely unperturbed by your close proximity, he’s standing behind your seat at the table, leaning over; warm arms caging you in on either side as he drizzles sweet, chocolate syrup onto the golden face of the topmost pancake, so that it forms the shape of—

“a heart,” he smiles, “for the love of my life.”

“thank you.”

“don’t mention it.” he presses a chaste kiss to your cheek. “dig in, darling.”

this fork in your hands, you consider silently, turning it over; should you jab it into his neck?

after he’s made your plate, he sits down in front of his own, across from you. after all of his extensive doting and fussing over you, his own food’s gone cold, but he either doesn’t seem to notice, or he simply doesn’t mind.

you don’t care enough to ask.

he takes slow, thoughtful bites of his own breakfast. you observe, with a bemused sort of awe, the care with which he breaks off the pancake in measured portions, before ensuring each spoonful carries a blueberry, and is dipped in the chocolate syrup.

fork in his mouth, he meets your gaze; takes his sweet time savouring the taste of his food, swallows, smiles at you expectantly. “something on my face, love?”

you turn back to your own plate, completely untouched. “no.”

“alright.” the sound of his fingers, drumming against the dining table. “be a darling and fetch me the milk, will you?”

he’s never allowed you to leave the table until you’ve finished all your food. he’s never even allowed you into the kitchen before. you look up at him warily, voice hushed, “..why?”

“i’d like something to drink, is all.”

you stand very carefully, the grating sound of your chair scraping against the floor making you wince. he says nothing, and so you take that as your cue to take a few hesitant steps into the kitchen.

when you step over the boundary where the wooden floorboards give way to checkered tiles, you turn over your shoulder, suddenly very unsure of what to do next.

“the milk…?”

he’s watching you still, chin resting on interlaced fingers, elbows on the table; even though he was the one who first instructed you that doing so was bad manners.

“yes, love.” he smiles patiently. “should just be in the fridge.”

“okay.”

you’ve never been alone in the kitchen before. never really had any reason to when he insists on making all of your meals. you know you’re technically being supervised even now, but it still feels strange to reach for the fridge handles and just—

“open it.”

you oblige.

you’ve gotten used to it, perhaps.

the cold air hits you in the face as soon as the doors swing open. it takes a moment for your gaze to flitter over all of the different compartments and containers before you catch sight of the milk, and—

why…?

the hair on your skin stands on end.

you read the words once, in a quiet shock.

then another time, as if you simply must’ve read them wrong the first time. you’re in disbelief, going back to the first letter—

your heart drops.

this can’t be happening to you.

—again

—again.

this can’t be happening to you.

your legs give out beneath you.

—and the very moment they do, warm hands, smelling faintly of pancake batter, are there to collect you; keep holding you up, as strong arms wrap themselves right around your body. his kind voice cuts straight through your thoughts. “what’s wrong, my love?”

“that’s…” you raise a shaking finger, point into the fridge. it’s more of a question, the second time around. “that’s…?”

he follows the direction in which you’re pointing, and then he lets out a sigh you can only describe as polite; a dismissive acknowledgement of your distress with no attempt, nor interest, in providing an explanation.

both of you stare at the milk carton where it sits in the fridge, right next to the fruit juice you like so much—beneath the logo, which you’ve traced over a thousand times, bored out of your mind at the breakfast table—is a picture.

an old image of you. younger. smiling.

free.

one word printed beneath the picture, in blocky black letters that take up half of the carton’s packaging, completely impossible to miss—

MISSING

there’s fine print beneath that, even. a smaller string of letters you can’t even begin to read, seeing as it feels like your own world’s tilted sideways; knocked right out of balance. completely off-kilter.

he understands this.

that is why, then, he decides to do it for you.

“town left devastated,” he reads evenly, “over sudden, unexplained disappearance of beloved, active member of community, who vanished without a trace last fall. family members plead with those who may have any information to call the national missing person’s hotline for handsome reward.”

the silence stretches on for a moment, so that the soft, low hum of the refrigerator is the only sound in the house.

“how unfortunate,” he murmurs, tone an imitation of empathy. “the world is only growing unsafer by the day, my love, and this is why,” he brushes your hair out of your face. “i need to keep you so close.”

he closes the refrigerator doors, and carries you out of the kitchen. so completely absorbed in your own shock, you’d neglected to even realise that at some point, he must’ve picked you right up; swept you off your two, very own feet.

“i can’t imagine losing you like that,” he shudders. “i can’t imagine if something like that happened to you, my love.”

he sets you down, very gently, into your seat at the breakfast table. your arms hang limp by your sides, limbs having completely given up on you; so he carefully folds your hands in your lap. pulls out a chair right besides you, and reaches for your cutlery.

“don’t fret over it, darling. as long as you’re with me,” he smiles, cutting into your cold food. “i promise i’ll always keep you safe, and take very good care of you.”

you observe the deliberation with which he breaks off the pancake in measured portions, before ensuring each spoonful carries a soft blueberry, and is dipped in the runny chocolate syrup.

“now open wide, darling.”

you oblige.

what else is there to do?

“try not to think about it too much, my love,” he hums, watching the way your lips fall around the fork, “there is, after all, no use crying over spoilt milk.”

you chew very slowly, taking your time to break the pancake down into something smaller. his eyes, which had been trained on the movement of your throat, now rise to meet yours—

and even though across the table, his plate sits empty: there is, you note, a faint hunger in them.

“wouldn’t you agree, darling?”

the food in your mouth tastes rotten; you don’t answer.

he only smiles patiently in response, as if he has all the time in the world.

the worst part of it all is that outside, you know that the sun is still shining, and the morning sky remains, even now, the same shade of a promising, pale blue.

[fadedtoneverland]

[2:37am] yes, chef | j.wy

cw: some smutty headcanons, chef bf!woo, gn!reader, food play, cum eating, woo is a bit of a freak near the end but we all knew he was, mostly fluff to make up for filth

✿ — chef!wooyoung who insists to cook you breakfast so you don’t have to start your day with cereal

✿ — chef!wooyoung who brings you soft, warm brownies as a housewarming gift for your family to show his love for you and your loved ones

✿ — chef!wooyoung who makes you miyeok guk for your birthday and when you’re sick, knowing the exact flavors you like

✿ — chef!wooyoung who makes you all of your coffee and matcha so you don’t have to buy overpriced lattes at cafes

✿ — chef!wooyoung who loves picnic dates and brings homemade bread and finely selected cheeses, while you bring the red checkered blanket and wine

✿ — chef!wooyoung who learns to cook you food from your culture, because he’s just so enamored by the endless possibilities of culinary arts through you

✿ — chef!wooyoung who gushes about the artistic genius of ratatouille and is his comfort movie

✿ — chef!wooyoung who back hugs you and rocks you gently while you’re stirring tomato soup in the kitchen, humming a simple tune

✿ — chef!wooyoung who loves cooking with you, because it’s his strongest love language and loves to see you smile from the pure joy you get from his food.

❤︎ — chef!wooyoung who bends you over the counter watching you stir the cake batter for him, getting turned on just from your backside

❤︎ — chef!wooyoung who wants to fuck you on the spot after you make him his favorite meal

❤︎ — chef!wooyoung who makes you lick whipped cream from the tip

❤︎ — chef!wooyoung who likes to do sloppy and filthy make out sessions with you after having some of the finest red wine he provided

❤︎ — chef!wooyoung who finishes on your lattes to top them off specially (you know, and down it every time)

❤︎ — chef!wooyoung who slings on sweatpants after rearranging your guts to whip you up some congee with egg and bacon

fadedtoneverland © 2025 | do not steal, modify or repost ANY of my work.

[dreamersparacosm]

under the checkered flag - epilogue blurb 2!

prompt ; in which sunday’s are your favorite day.

warnings ; tooth aching fluff. that’s all. watch out for cavities yall xoxo

request ; linked here

part of under the checkered flag universe

There’s some song written about days like these with your boyfriend. Something about Sunday mornings, something about them being all you need.

It’s like it always is with you and Jungkook—a soft, slow Sunday morning where he isn’t subject to interviews, training, or anything that requires him to take his time away from you. You savor these moments, them being far and few between. You’ve adjusted to it in the long time you two have been together, and now find solace in the peace of your home, in the moments away from the races and Excel sheets.

And it would be all beautiful and dandy and sunshine and rainbows on this particular morning, however, when your hands outstretch, shaking the sleep from your body, feel the sheets next to you, you realize it’s empty. Jungkook’s warmth is gone.

Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you shuffle into your slippers, wrap the wool blanket around you that his mother had gotten for you, and make your way to the living area of your home.

The smell of buttered toast and sizzling sausage wafts into your nostrils as you shuffle through the house. It’s warm, inviting, a scent wrapped in comfort.

And to no one’s surprise, you find the origin of the scent standing in the kitchen.

Jeon Jungkook, in all his sleepy, early-morning glory. Hair still a little messy, a loose t-shirt hanging from his frame, his silver chain glinting under the soft kitchen lights as he stands by the stove, spatula in hand.

You blink slowly, dreamily, adjusting your eyes to the light as you lean against the doorway.

“You’re up early,” You yawn, voice still thick with sleep.

Jungkook turns at the sound, a grin immediately spreading across his face at the sight of you.

“Morning, baby,” He hums, reaching for you instantly, tugging you toward him with ease. You let him, stepping into his warmth, arms looping lazily around his waist as you press your cheek against his back.

“You’re making breakfast?” You mumble, peeking at the pan of perfectly cooked eggs, golden and fluffy.

Jungkook chuckles, one hand still flipping the eggs while the other sneaks down to squeeze your fingers. “Your favorite,” he confirms.

Your heart swells, the simple gesture so unbearably sweet, so him. He has yet to fail you in the sweetest boyfriend competition.

But then, as another yawn escapes you, a thought hits.

“It’s too early for this,” You whine softly, nuzzling into his back.

Jungkook laughs again, light and warm, but before he can reply, you’re already fighting him. “Come back to bed,” You sigh, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to his shoulder.

“Tempting,” He drawls, reaching for some seasonings in the cupboard. You grin against his skin, fingers tracing lazy shapes against his waist.

“I just wanna cuddle,” You say, not quite a lie, but also not the whole truth. You also want to drift back off to sleep, something you do best when you hear his heartbeat pounding away underneath your ear.

Jungkook hums, turning the stove off before spinning to face you. “That’s all you want, huh?”

You blink up at him, playing innocent. “Mhmm.”

His grin deepens, and he leans in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. “Eat first,” he says, lips still grazing your skin. “Then I’m all yours.”

There is a warmth pooling through the windows as you and Jungkook settle onto the living room couch, plates in hand, breakfast steaming between you. There’s something so domestic about it, something you never thought you would have with someone like him. Maybe it’s the way he sits beside you, thigh pressed against yours, comfortably close as he digs into the food he made for you both. Or, the way he occasionally reaches over, stealing bites from your plate despite having the exact same meal on his own. It’s these small moments that make your heart ache in the best way, the kind of love that settles in, familiar and steady.

“So,” Jungkook starts, nudging your knee with his. There’s a quiet hum of the TV in the background, playing some weekend morning show neither of you are really watching. “What’s the plan for today?”

You chew thoughtfully, taking a sip of your coffee before answering.

“Well,” you begin, shifting slightly to face him. “We need to pick out a gift for my coworker’s baby shower next weekend.”

Jungkook’s brows lift instantly, eyes flickering with sudden interest. “Oh, right. When is that again?”

“Sunday afternoon,” you reply, setting your plate down on the coffee table. “We should probably get something soon. We’ve gotta outdo Jisoo, she said her budget for this was her whole paycheck.”

“What do we get her?” He muses, shoveling another bite of eggs into his mouth before glancing at you. There’s excitement creeping into his features like he’s a kid in a candy store. “Like, a stroller? Cute baby clothes? Oh! What about one of those little stuffed animal things? You know, the ones with the big heads and tiny bodies? Jellycats?”

“I think she’d love that,” you say, unable to hide your smile. “You’re really into this, huh?”

Jungkook shrugs, grinning through a mouthful of food. “Babies are cool.”

It’s subtle, but undeniable. You had never really thought of it, never let yourself dream. It wasn’t because you couldn’t have it, you knew that much. In fact, there was a small part of your brain, tucked deep within your subconscious, that hoped and prayed it would be Jungkook at the end of all this.

Of course he’s like this. Of course he’d be good with kids, thoughtful and compassionate.

You picture it before you can stop yourself: the way he’d probably be the most hands-on dad, the way he’d play with his kids, spoil them rotten, make them laugh until their little bellies hurt.

Deep down, you picture them with him. With his eyes that resemble boba pearls, his ridiculous bunny-toothed smile, his heart.

You don’t hate it. You actually want it so bad it scares you to death when you think of the possibility that it could not happen. But you shake that thought away before it can fully settle.

“Earth to [Y/N]?” Jungkook’s voice pulls you back, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Where’d you just go?”

“Nowhere,” You lie, reaching for your coffee again.

Jungkook narrows his eyes, clearly not buying it, but to your luck, he lets it go, smirking as he nudges your thigh again.

“Okay, space cadet,” he teases. “Then we need to make a choice. I’m all in on the Jellycat.”

You’re laughing again, warmth spreading through your chest as the conversation fills the room, the sunlight peeking through the blinds and illuminating his features.

He doesn’t dare bring up how his heart aches for the same thing that you do.

Jungkook is still focused on his breakfast, chewing thoughtfully as he leans back into the couch. You’re sipping your coffee, still trying to shake the ridiculous warmth still lingering in your chest from the idea of a mini Jungkook running around.

You don’t get to finish the end of your daydream, however, because Jungkook drops a bomb of epic proportions on you, enough to shatter your world and explode into smithereens.

“I kinda want a baby.”

You choke on impact. The sip of coffee you had just taken goes down the wrong way, and then, to make matters worse, the bite of eggs you were mid-chewing follows suit. Enter stage left: a dramatic fit of coughing.

Jungkook’s head snaps toward you immediately, eyes widening in alarm as he quickly sets his plate down, patting your back with firm, steady hands.

“Shit, babe, breathe,” he says, brows knitted in concern. “You okay?”

You nod between coughs, waving him off as you struggle to swallow properly. The man must be out to kill you if he’s going to say things like that, in your shared home, that you pay half the rent for (he believes in chivalry.) After what feels like an eternity, you finally manage to clear your throat, wheezing slightly as you blink up at him.

Jungkook is just staring at you now, mouth parted slightly, as if he’s unsure whether to laugh or keep worrying. “What the hell was that?” He asks, clearly holding back amusement.

“I—” you pause, pressing a hand to your chest. “Sorry, I just— what did you just say?”

Jungkook blinks. Deadpans. Realizes his words may have carried more weight than he thought. “I said I kinda want a baby?”

His hardened exterior fades and his expression tips, a little nervous. “Wait,” he says, tilting his head. “Is that… weird?”

Thoughts buffering..

“I just—” you stammer, still slightly breathless from your near-death experience. “I didn’t know you wanted all that… with me.”

Jungkook’s expression softens immediately. He didn’t even realize it was something you might question. He thought it was a done-deal, cross his heart and hope to die. Jungkook was never really sure of many things in his life besides racing and gold medals, but this.. this, he was so sure of.

He exhales, reaching for your hand instinctively, threading his fingers through yours.

“Baby,” he murmurs, voice warm, steady, grounding you. “We’ve been dating for a little over a year.”

One year. One year of knowing him, loving him, building a life together. One year of late nights tangled in sheets and early mornings, such as this one, where his sleepy voice is the first thing you hear. Of laughter echoing in spaces that once felt too big for you, of shared glances across crowded rooms that say more than words ever could. You didn’t even realize it was all coming together until you looked around one day and saw a life that was so intricately woven with his, it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

“Yeah,” you swallow, eyes flickering down to where his thumb is slowly tracing circles against your skin. “I guess we have.”

“You know..,” he begins, his excitement bubbling up before you can even process your own., “I think you’d be the best mom.”

You suddenly feel dizzy, like your breath has been punched out of you.

“You really think that?” You ask, voice barely above a whisper.

Jungkook nods immediately, shifting closer on the couch, eyes flickering over your face; the man is already picturing it.

“Are you kidding?” he scoffs, grinning so wide it makes your stomach turn over. “I can already see it. You, holding our baby, doing that cute little humming thing you always do when you’re focused, like when you’re crunching numbers for clients. Probably making tiny little meals, cutting everything into heart shapes because you do that for me already.”

You laugh, but it’s shaky. “Jungkook—”

“And I’d be the fun dad, obviously,” he continues, unstoppable now. “Teaching them how to ride a bike, letting them get away with stuff when you say no. Probably buying them toy racecars too early because I get too excited.”

You see it so clearly it almost hurts. Jungkook, holding a tiny hand in his, a child with his nose and your eyes, running ahead while he watches with that soft, lovesick smile. Jungkook, pressing a kiss to your forehead while you rock a baby to sleep in your arms.

You want that so badly. Now, it’s within arms reach, and you want to reach out and clutch it to your chest so tight it can’t run away. You swallow hard, eyes burning, blinking rapidly to fight off the sudden rush of emotion.

“Baby,” Jungkook notices immediately, voice dropping as his smile falters slightly. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” You whisper, and it’s true. It’s not sadness weighing you down. It’s everything else. Hope. Love. The terrifying, overwhelming realization that you could have everything you ever wanted, and it’s sitting right in front of you, ready for you to take it.

“Just…” you pause, voice trembling slightly. “I guess I didn’t know I could have that with you.”

“[Y/N],” he breathes out, bringing a hand to cup your face, his thumb tracing delicately along your cheek. “I want nothing more.”

You don’t want to overthink it, don’t want to let it linger too long in fear of it disappearing.

“I want that too,” You whisper.

You feel it, the way his whole body tenses, the way his fingers freeze against your cheek. His eyes, wide and searching, lock onto yours, scanning your face for any sign that you might not mean it.

“You do?” His voice is quieter than before, hardly recognizable.

You nod, swallowing around the lump in your throat. “I do.”

There is a slow, breathtaking smile that lights up his whole face, makes his dimples appear, makes something inside you feel like it’s unraveling in the best way.

“Well then,” he muses, shifting even closer, his hand sliding down to rest over your thigh. “We should probably start with marriage, hmm?”

You choke. Again. This time, on your saliva.

Of course, Jeon Jungkook would just casually drop that into the conversation like he’s talking about the weather, like he’s asking if you want almond or oat milk at the grocery store.

“I—” you splutter, wheezing slightly as your brain short-circuits for the billionth time this morning. “I—what?”

“Okay, that’s enough,” he laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners as he squeezes your thigh. “I need you alive long enough to actually get a ring on your finger. At this rate, Im nervous that if I actually propose, you’ll pass out.”

“Well, you can’t just say stuff like that!,” You half cry out, half mumble.

“Why not?” Jungkook teases, “It’s true. You’re already stuck with me forever, might as well make it official.”

The thought of forever with him doesn’t scare you like it probably should, like it would’ve a year and some months ago.

As Jungkook continues rambling excitedly about your future—about rings and wedding colors, about how he’s definitely going to cry when you walk down the aisle, about how your first dance has to be something ridiculous like a choreographed number—you just watch him.

It’s somehow overwhelming in the best way.

Because if someone had told you back when you first met, back when he was just a racecar driver with a gaggle of fan girls, at the apex of the NASCAR world, that this is where you’d end up, you wouldn’t have believed it.

Now, you can’t imagine wanting anything else. Not when he’s right here, grinning at you like you’re his whole world, planning forever like it’s the easiest thing in the universe. Or, maybe it is that easy.

Oh, how you love Sunday mornings. They’re kinda like that song you listen to.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

masterlist + request

[stansangel]

Stan Imagine (to tie you over)

Pairings: Stan Pines x Reader Warnings: none! pure fluff! Word Count: 335

Stanley decides to take you on a spontaneous road trip in his old, beat-up El Diablo. He doesn’t tell you where you’re going, just grins that mischievous grin of his and says, “Trust me, you’ll love it.”

After driving for a few hours, you pull up to a tiny, hidden diner off the beaten path. It’s one of those old-school places with neon signs and checkered floors. It's kitschy but you love it immediately. He tells you it’s where he used to go when he needed to clear his head.

Stan orders your favorite meal without even asking—he’s memorized it—and as you’re eating, he suddenly pulls out a small, handmade scrapbook from under the table.

“I ain’t good with words,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “but I figured this might do the trick.”

Inside the scrapbook are mementos from all the little adventures and moments you’ve shared together—ticket stubs, silly photos, notes he’s scribbled down. It’s clear he’s put a lot of effort into it, even if some of the pages are a bit crooked or hastily glued.

Stan watches your reaction nervously, but you can see the pride in his eyes as you flip through the pages. “I wanted you to know that you matter to me,” he says, his voice gruff but sincere. “More than anything...Mabel helped me put it together.”

He coughs a bit and adjusts his collar. It's clear that Mabel helped him put it together with puppy stickers and glitter glue put on many of the pages along with small drawings of you and Stan together that she clearly drew. (She thought it needed her artistic flare to really 'woo' you.)

You smile at him, and for a moment, you see his tough exterior slip away, revealing the loving man you knew was there underneath. It’s in that moment, surrounded by the warmth of the diner and the memories you’ve made, that you realize just how deeply he cares for you. (He's stupid in love with you)

A/N: I'll start on a longer fic-type writing when the poll finishes, but in the meantime, feel free to send asks if you want something specific!

[yourladyofmercy]

𝐁𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐬𝐨𝐧 ˙♡

author's note: hi hi ! it's my birthday tomorrow so heres a little best friends to mutual crush birthday drabble , hope you enjoy xoxo

word count: 1.2 k ︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

Throughout the buzzing noise of soda machines, random top 100 pop songs, and the chit-chatter seeping out from the booths around you, the singular noise that pierced through haze was the ticking of your watch. 

4:30. 

4:31. 

4:32. 

Every minute, another blow to the heart. A minute later he was supposed to be there.  You tried to understand, you had to. You were his best friend. The highs and the lows came onto you, the nights of patching up gaping wounds as his body slumped down on the subway tile covering your bathroom walls. He was Invincible. The Mark Grayson that slept in your bed during sleepovers was the man saving lives from alien invasions every Thursday. 

If you wanted him in your life, you would have to deal with it. Isn’t that how love works?

You finished the red plaster basket of fries, the only item left being the red checkered paper lining it. Your wrist flicked over, the sound of metal clinking followed as the charms on your bracelet collided into each other.  

4:40. 

An hour and 40 minutes. 

Your body slid off of the vinyl covered seats of the booth, leaving enough cash to cover the meal on the table as you walked out. Your car’s lock beeped as you felt your body spinning from a grip on your arm. It was light, not one aggressive enough to make you feel as if you were getting kidnapped, but a familiar feeling. 

Mark. 

Hours late and (against your better principles) you would still make time for him. You felt a slight buzz going up your arm, as if electricity was being sent through your spine as he touched you. 

“I hope i’m not too late” His left hand was holding up a cake box, dangling from four chords of pink ribbon tied into a now stretched out bow. He let go of your grip, his hand quickly grazing yours as it fell. “I was sitting in a booth alone for almost two hours, do you know how sad I looked-“ His index finger shot up in front of your mouth, quickly untying the box that he carried. “I brought a cake to compensate. And we can do something else, anything. I promise.”

As both of your eyes shifted downward to the open box, the frosting was completely squished against the paper packaging, and the wording was almost completely unintelligible other than the outline of an H and B in white letters.  “It’s.. still edible.” “Mark.” Your hand rose to hold his arm, giving it a small pat “You know I support this whole.. almost killing yourself on a Tuesday ordeal,” a sigh escaped your mouth, your shoulders dropping as you averted your gaze from the cake to his eyes. Staring at the face that seemed to be pleading for forgiveness once again. You scanned him again, “I know the world can’t wait for my birthday, but my parents are expecting me to be home soon.” The arm you were holding rose to your face, your watch striking five o’clock. “Shit.” His eyes flickered from your watch, to you again. “Just come over tonight. Please.” His arms outstretched towards you, “Let me make it up to you.”

—------------------------------------

8:00 PM  …

When you tapped at the door, the knocks rang through the first floor. Banging could be heard from the inside, and a voice yelling could be heard through the door. 

“The doors open, just close your eyes for a second when you come in” 

You right hand turned the doorknob, stepping over the threshold with your eyes shut. Your hands shuffled over the door, pushing it to slam shut. “The last time you told me to come in with my eyes closed the house was in shambles-” your leg cocked under you, metal pans clanging and the microwave being slammed shut were the only sounds coming from Mark. “I’m not being an accomplice again” Your hands shifted to cover your eyes 

A thud cut through the air, with a stream of curse words following in a whisper. “I feel like I should open my eyes”

“No” Mark yelped, sudden footsteps making their way up the stairway. “and don’t worry, my parents are out all night”

“That’s… not what i’m worried about” You mumbled under your breath, hoping that whatever powers he had gained didn’t include super hearing.  

You could hear him let out a low laugh, “You can open your eyes now, just don’t come up yet” Your arms crossed in front of you, the house was a mess. Debbie usually kept it in pristine condition, but with her absence the dining table had everything from their backyard shed dumped on top of it. 

You spent half of your life in this house. 

—------------------------------------

8:15 PM …

“Come on slowpoke” 

Mark reached his hand out of his window, standing on the flat roof that covered most of the backyard patio. 

“Okay now that’s not fair, Grayson.” A slight shove of the shoulder and the reevaluation of what you just said. You never meant to sound like this with him, like you were something more than two childhood best friends. That was it. At least, to the two of you. With every possible girlfriend Mark has had the chance of dating, they always seem to stop you in the halls to make sure that they weren’t imposing on something more. 

The best friends who called every day and stay up hours on weekends in the same bed just to talk to each other. 

Highschool changed the two of you. Jealousy boiled up every time someone ask either of you if you could give them their number. The hair on the back of your neck rising if someone asked if you two were something more. Mark would purposely go around the school to find you, having way too much to tell you from just one hour and a half chemistry period. 

As you clinged onto him to not fall off of the roof, your head turned to catch a glimpse of what he had been working on. 

A picnic blanket was set out, miss matched candles with microwaved popcorn, assorted fruit, chocolates,  and burgers from Burger Mart. Oh, and the cake too. 

“I promise the roof won’t cave in when we sit,” He led your hand over to the blanket to sit down, taking a seat next to you afterwards. His legs were propped up in front of him, staring at you as your gaze wandered over the meal. “I can’t believe you did all of this.” Your hand rose to cover your mouth for a moment, not sure if you should laugh or shed a tear.  “Well, not counting the meal. I’ll give you some props on the microwaved popcorn though.” 

“You know I would do anything for you.. right?”

It felt as if the temperature rose a few hundred degrees when he spoke to you, looking you in the eyes as if he needed your approval to be satisfied. Your bodies felt closer than ever, the few inches between your faces as his eyes flickered between your eyes and your lips for a single second. 

You rested your head on his shoulder, placing your hand on his arm as you gazed up at him.

 “Yeah, I know.”

‘I love you’ wasn’t a phrase that was needed to describe the two of you. It was a devotion that was incapable of being described. Without each other it’s as if the world wouldn’t spin. 

Maybe knowing he felt the same way was the best birthday gift you could’ve gotten. 

[motorsportbarbie13]

Hurricane - Part Four

{“I’ve uh…” Emma knows she should lie. Knows it’s in everyones best interest for her to lie but somewhere between Jimmy settling in her lap and the third insult on her intelligence, Emma has completely lost her ability to control her mouth. “I’ve been staying with Max while I get back on my feet.” “You’re sleeping with your boss?” Her mother screeches so loudly that Sassy goes skidding across the living room floor, tail puffed and terrified. “Jesus Christ! Mom! Are you for real right now?”}

warnings/notes: emma's mom is a *raging* bitch in this. alcohol consumption (poor coping skills ig) shoutout to my writing therapist @lestapiastrisgirl for always having my back <3 pairing: max verstappen x emma meyer (fem oc) word count: 6.6 k (jfc i can't shut UP about these two)

read hurricane on ao3 hurricane master list main master list ask me anything

Late afternoon sunlight spilled in through the floor to ceiling windows as Emma moved through the kitchen. They’d returned from Jeddah just last night, the brutal triple header having stolen so much from both Emma and Max, they had retreated to their bedrooms right after getting home. It had been nearly noon before either of them emerged the next day, with Max coming out first to make breakfast for the both of them. 

Breakfast between the Max and Emma on mornings when they were home had become somewhat of a tradition, a tradition that Emma was quickly becoming attached to. She didn’t allow that thought to full form in her head though. It was too dangerous. Too familiar to admit that she was getting attached to Max on more than a professional level. She didn’t want to admit the way she looked for him whenever she walked into a room. She didn’t want to admit how her heart pounded the entire time Max was in the car on the track and that she couldn’t fully settle until saw the checkered flag after a race and knew he’d be safely in the garage soon. 

Admitting any of that didn’t appeal to Emma at all, so she buried it all so deep down in her chest that there was no way it could ever surface. 

She tried to tell herself it was just kindness and convenience, this little breakfast tradition of theirs. Whoever woke up first would be the one to start the meal and Emma always made sure the fridge was stocked with bacon, eggs, and whatever fruit she thought Max might like that week. They hadn’t been doing it long but it was something that both of them looked forward to, even if neither put words to their feelings. Emma wasn’t willing to examine the fact that maybe Max did it because he wanted to take care of her and that she did it for the same exact reason. 

Shortly after the meal was cleaned up the morning after returning from Jeddah, Max had left in a flurry of athletic gear and gatorade, talking about playing Lando, Carlos, and Charles in a game of padel but that he’d be back in time for dinner and to text him what she wanted him to pick up from the market. 

Emma had drifted about the apartment for an hour or so after Max left, the exhaustion of being away from the only soft place she had to land had seeped deep in her bones somewhere between Bahrain and Jeddah. Everything she considered doing sounded like it required too much effort but guilt sat heavy in her chest in response to her desire to just relax. She knew Max wouldn’t mind, her not helping around the house. It wasn’t like the place was a disaster either but her idle hands felt wrong, like if she didn’t do something to productive she was ungrateful for everything Max had already done for her. 

Emma wanted to sit at the piano and play something but even that seemed to be too strenuous that day, her attention span for anything longer than a 15 second TikTok video was completely nonexistent. Emma was never sure how to handle days like this, the days where she was too tired to do much more than get up off the couch or do anything productive. These kinds of days had never been allowed in her home growing up. If you weren’t doing something productive or useful with your downtime, you were lazy. It was a mantra that was hammered into her consciousness so hard that even now, when she hadn’t lived at home for years, the words still haunted her. 

In the end, she had settled down on the couch before flipping through one of the dozens of streaming services Max had access to and settled on an old favorite: West Wing. Emma was half way through the episode where Mrs. Landingham was killed by a drunk driver in her brand new car, the anticipatory tears having started during the opening credits, when her phone buzzed to life. She half expected it to be Max telling her he’d decided to go out to dinner with the boys instead of coming home and that she was on her own for dinner but when she looked at the caller ID, her heart stuttered to a stop. 

MOM

“Of all the days for you to call…” Emma whispered, blowing out a breath. She spent several moments trying to decide if she had the strength to deal with her mother that afternoon. She knew the answer was ‘no’ but she’d been dodging her mom’s calls since before Japan so Emma knew it was time to face the music. 

As if he could sense her distress, Jimmy jumped up on the couch right as she answered, curling himself up into a ball in her lap and bumping her free hand with his head. Emma grinned down at the spotted cat. Max had insisted that Jimmy hated strangers and to not be surprised if he was quite standoffish but Jimmy had been nothing but sweet as sugar to Emma since day one. 

Much like his owner. 

Sliding the button on the screen of her phone, Emma lifted the device to her ear. “Hi Mom!” She tried to sound as happy as possible despite the aching exhaustion pulling at her extremities. 

“Emma, darling, how are you my dear?” The sickly sweet voice of her mother filled her ears, sending anxiety shooting down her spine. 

“I’m good, just trying to relax a bit.” 

“Ah, yes, I’m sure those girls you’re looking after run you quite ragged.” Something in her mother’s tone had Emma sitting up a bit straighter. She hadn’t lived through years of baiting and passive aggressive taunts to not recognize the beginnings of a fight brewing. 

“Well, about that…” Emma started, figuring there was no time like the present to fill her in on what had happened. Maybe her mother would surprise her and be on her side for once. 

“I had the most interesting discussion with Greta down the street this morning!” Her mother interrupts. 

Emma closes her eyes, dragging in a ragged breath. Clearly there was a reason for this call other than a friendly check in. These kinds of calls always came with an agenda set forth by Emma’s mother and Emma’s mother alone. She was helpless against it. The quicker she accepted that Gloria was in control of the call and she ws just alone for the ride, the quicker the call would be over and the sooner she could get back to crying over Mrs. Landingham. 

“Oh?” She asked reluctantly, knowing that this conversation has already been planned in advance and needed no help from Emma to move it along. 

“Yes! She said her and Frans were watching the Formula One race on Sunday evening and she said the funniest thing to me!” 

Emma’s heart stopped. Oh, here we go. 

Without waiting for a response, her mother continues. “She said that she swears she saw you at the race in one of the garages! I told her she must be mistaken because you were supposed to be in Monaco working the nanny job you insisted taking instead of returning to the school like your father and I had advised.” Her tone is light, innocent almost but Emma knows better. 

“Ah…well, Greta wasn’t wrong.” Emma’s stomach churns with anxiety as she fights to find the words. “I was in Jeddah for the race on Sunday.” 

Emma’s mother makes a small noise of surprise, even though Emma is fairly certain the surprise is feigned. “How nice of the family to give you the time off so quickly after starting a job!” She observes. 

Emma knows this is a trap but there’s nothing she can do about it but continue on. “Actually, I don’t work for the Dubois anymore, mom.” 

“Emma Jane Meyer, what are you talking about?” She asks sharply. 

There it was. The facts that her mother had been fishing for plainly stated and out in the open. Emma manages to stifle the heaving sigh she wants to let loose but she knows that’s a dangerous move, especially when her mother is out hunting for reasons to be angry.

 “It just didn’t work out mom, the family weren’t who they presented themselves to be.” 

On the other end of the phone, Emma’s mother makes a disapproving tutting sound that almost certainly was accompanied by a roll of her eyes. “Well then, why aren’t you back home? How are you living in Monaco of all places without a job?” 

“I do have a job, mom.” Emma learned long ago that short answers were the best way to deal with Gloria. 

“Oh!” The genuine surprise at the exclamation has a heavy weight settling itself directly on Emma’s chest, making it difficult for her to breathe. “Well, that’s certainly an improvement on where my mind was going!” God, Gloria was always so supportive. “Well, go on then, what are you doing? Did you find another teaching job that quickly? I’m surprised the family didn’t reach out to the school to let them know of your…record.” 

White hot searing pain slices at Emma’s heart as she sits there, listening to the surprise and backhanded compliments she had always been so intimately acquainted with. Emma can’t let her mom see that she’s gotten to her. She can never show that kind of weakness or she gets eaten alive. 

“Do you remember Victoria’s brother Max? I’m working as his personal assistant.” 

“All those years spent in university and you’re an assistant?” The way her mother says ‘assistant’ makes it sound like Emma was selling her body on the streets for drugs.

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Emma closes her eyes. “It’s a good job mom. Max is busy and he needed the help. I’ve been to Japan, Bahrain, Cyprus and Saudi Arabia in the last three weeks alone. It’s actually a really good opportunity for me.” 

Gloria is silent for a beat, as if she’s struggling to find a chink in Emma’s existence. “He’s that racing car driver, yes?” 

“Yes, mom.” Emma fights the exhaustion that’s begging for her to be impatient and short with her mother because deep down, she knows it wouldn’t change anything anyway. “He drives Formula 1 cars for a living. That’s why Greta and Frans saw me on tv. I attend all the races with him and was watching him from the garage on Sunday.” 

“Well, what do you know about racing cars, Emma Jane?” The question is accusatory, as if she had somehow tricked Max into hiring her too. 

“Nothing, mother.” 

But she knew Max, and that was enough for her to care about something so foreign to her. 

“Then why in the world did he hire you?” 

Emma has to hold the phone away from her face for a moment, staring at the device like it was going to sting her. Why was she even entertaining this?

“I don’t know mother. Max is patient and the work I do is really racing adjacent. I don’t have to know about tire deg and sector times when all I do is manage his inbox and book his travel.” 

“Have you managed to find an apartment then? I’d imagine the Dubois didn’t allow you to stay. Max is certainly able to pay you well.” The speed at which Gloria changes the subject when she runs out of ammunition makes Emma’s head swim. 

“I’ve uh…” Emma knows she should lie. Knows it’s in everyones best interest for her to lie but somewhere between Jimmy settling in her lap and the third insult on her intelligence, Emma has completely lost her ability to control her mouth. “I’ve been staying with Max while I get back on my feet.” 

“You’re sleeping with your boss?” Her mother screeches so loudly that Sassy goes skidding across the living room floor, tail puffed and terrified. 

“Jesus Christ! Mom! Are you for real right now?” 

“Well, you quit your teaching job with no notice to take a nannying job, which you promptly got fired from and are now shacking up with the man who signs your paychecks! I don’t know if I’d recognize you if I passed you on the street, Emma Jane!” 

“Oh for the love…” Emma whispers more to herself than to Gloria. “I can’t do this anymore.” She continues, louder now so her mother can hear. “When you want to have a clam, adult conversation you know where to find me.” Emma finally snaps, stabbing at the red End button without waiting for a reply. 

The silence that floods the room should feel soothing after the barbed words being exchanged moments before but as Emma leans back into the overstuffed couch, Jimmy managing to be brave enough to climb into her lap again, Emma feels anything but soothed. She had tried so hard to be neutral, to not give into the baiting that she knew was the goal the entire time but once again, she had failed. 

As Emma scratched between Jimmy’s ears, she couldn’t help but wonder if she had finally reaching the breaking point with her mother. 

***

Emma was angry.

Max could hear it. 

It wasn’t sobs or shouting that he heard as he returned from padel later that evening though. No, that wasn’t how Max knew Emma was angry. He knew she was angry because the sound floating out of the apartment was loud and angry, the epitome of heat and anguish in musical form. 

The piece Emma poured over while he quietly set his things down in the kitchen was sharp, short, and exasperated. It’s rough, ragged, and raw, the way Emma was sorting her way though whatever had happened while he’d been gone. As he settled into the living room, he made enough noise so Emma knew that he was back but not enough to distract. 

This had become sort of a routine in the short time she’d been staying with him. In the evenings when they were both relaxing, Emma would sit down at the piano and work through whatever she was feeling that day and Max would quietly sit on the couch or slip into his sim rig on the opposite side of the living room, volume down, so he could race and listen to her music. 

Tonight was different though. He’d never heard her play like this before and the moment he settled on the couch, Jimmy instantly bounding over to him to curl up in his lap, he knew she was working through something that he wanted to be around for. 

While Emma hadn’t been working for him long, and living with him for just a bit longer, the nature of their jobs forced them together for long hours in stressful situations over and over again for weeks on end so Max felt like he’d had a good enough chance to get to know Emma, to be able to read her well. It was sometime in between Japan and Bahrain that Max noticed how she avoided any talk of her parents or her past. If the subject of home came up, she deftly dodged any questions asked of her and even when they were alone, Emma remained quiet and careful. It was almost as if she was walking around afraid to get into trouble despite being incredibly competent at her job and a fully capable adult. 

Max got glimpses of her though, the Emma that tucked herself away behind heavily fortified walls that no one was allowed to breech. On nights like these, nights like the quiet ones they’d had in Cyprus between the races in Bahrain and Jeddah, Max got to know Emma better through how she played the piano. He knew how precious those moments were because in those little glimpses when she let her walls tumble down around her, Max saw her. Saw the hurt, the anger, the rejection but he also saw the hope, the commitment, the passion she had. Emma revealed so much of herself while her fingers danced over the keys when she played while he listened, more than she probably realized. 

It was easy to pick up on the anger radiating off of her body that evening not only because Max knew her but because Max understood the anger. He’d heard it, felt it in his own body time and time again. Knew the hurt of disappointing parents with high expectations. Knew what the anger felt like because he’d dealt with that last week in Jeddah after his penalty on Oscar which had cost him the race. 

He knew she was angry because he recognized the same demons in Emma that he was fighting with on a daily basis. 

The piece ended a few minutes after Max had settled into the couch, the silence blanketing the dimly lit Monaco apartment. Warm yellow lights cast a golden glow over the two of them as Emma sat at the bench for a few moments, flexing her fingers and staring at the sheet music in front of her. 

“You okay over there, Sunshine?” 

Emma’s heart fluttered at the nickname Max had started using in the last few weeks. The nickname she was desperately trying not to like. The breath she filled her lungs with was ragged but getting everything out of her body was so cathartic Emma almost felt steadied. “I think so.” She replied softly. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

Emma turned to face Max for the first time since she’d sensed him in the living room with her. She appreciated the way he was just loud enough to ensure he didn’t startle her anymore but was never so overtly there that she was distracted. Max is still dressed for padle, although his dark blond hair is still a touch damp, so Emma assumes he had showered at the club. The way his icy blue eyes watch her with a quiet confidence has Emma nodding despite the way she wants to shut down. Vulnerability was never rewarded in her house growing up so opening up to someone like Max was a terrifying prospect. 

Max pats the couch cushion next to him as a grin stretches across his face, rewarding her for her bravery. When she settles down beside him, Emma brings her knees up to her chest before circling her arms around them so she’s tucked into a protected ball.

It takes an amazing feat of strength for Max not to reach out and pull her into his lap. 

“What happened?” He asks quietly when she doesn’t offer up an explanation to the distress still rolling off of her in waves. 

“My mother happened.” She replies lightly, almost as if it’s a joke and it all clicks into place for Max with just those three words. 

Max sits and listens as Emma recounts the entire nightmare story from beginning to end. With each sentence, each quote from her mother, Max’s chest tightens and his blood pressure risees. As Emma tells her story though, she finds herself feeling lighter with each word that passes her lips. She’s never spoken to anyone other than Victoria about her upbringing, about how her parents treated her as an afterthought and a burden. It was never something she liked talking about because talking about it meant making it real. And making it real meant admitting that she was so unlovable that even her own parents didn’t want her. 

With each bit of story she releases, Emma sinks a little bit deeper into Max’s side. He doesn’t notice it at first, neither of them do, but when she tells him how she ended up hanging up on Gloria after she accused her of sleeping with Max, he looks over to see her head nestled gently on his shoulder. His arm goes around her shoulders instinctively, only seeking to comfort her and offer a silent word of thanks for entrusting him with what Max knows is a difficult story to tell. 

After a few moments of silence, Emma rises again and approaches the piano. Max watches curiously as she sits back down on the bench, fingers stretching out for the keys once again. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask you, does the piano sound better than it did that first day?” He asks, trying to distract from the heavy feeling that hangs in the air still. 

Emma looks at him, head tilted like she’s surprised at the question. “You know what, it is.” She says after a beat. 

Max nods, satisfied grin hitching up at the corner of his mouth. “Good. I asked Charles to send over his piano guy to tune it while we were gone. I’ll let him know you approve.”  

Emma’s mouth drops open a bit at bit of information Max drops on her. “You…what?” 

Max looks at her and shrugs. “You said it was out of tune and so I wanted to fix it for you.” 

“You really are one of a kind, Verstappen.” She says with a shake of her head before turning back to the piano to play Clair de lune, something she knows is one of Max’s favorites. 

***

Max wasn’t sure how he’d done it but after an hour or two of cajoling, he’d gotten Emma to agree to go out with him, and the crew he’d played padle with that afternoon. He knew she needed it, could read it in the way her eyes went stormy and unfocused when she had been attempting to make dinner, the phone call from her mom still digging their cruel talons into her memory. 

Usually Emma fluttered around the kitchen while she was cooking, a quiet confidence radiating off of her while she deftly prepped whatever meal she’d been inspired to make that day. Max found himself sitting at the counter more often than not whenever she was in the kitchen, mesmerized by the way she moved around in the space that usually sat empty and silent, even when he was home. The way she seemed to know exactly what to start prepping, when to put something in the oven or in the pan, what seasonings to use without consulting a recipe most of the time. It was all fascinating to Max, who probably would’ve messed up boiling a pot of water. 

Tonight was different though. 

The pots clattered against each other just a bit louder than normal as she searched for the right one to sear the salmon Max had picked up at the market on his way home. Her movements as she chopped up the lemons for the sauce were stiffer than usual, more forced and stilted, compared to the smooth confidence he was used to from her. 

There weren’t big, body wracking sobs or tears, just quiet tight shoulders and less chatter as she worked to get dinner ready.

 He knew that she needed to get out of her head to escape the constant press of anger and anxiety because he’d been there and knew he’d go there again before the season was finished. Figuring out how to help Emma gave him hope that maybe he’d be able to pull himself out of his own spiral the next time it happened.

So when Max saw that familiar, long distance look in her eye he had called for a night out. She hadn’t been out in weeks, he reasoned, needed a chance to blow off some steam, didn’t she? There had been a quiet flicker of something on her face as Max stood in the kitchen telling her how she’d love Jimmy’z, how Charles and Lando and Carlos had been asking after her earlier that afternoon. She’d tried to argue that she didn’t have anything to wear that would be appropriate for a night out in Monaco but Max hadn’t bought that, insisting that anything she had in her closet would look perfect. 

“I’m not above begging, Sunshine.” Max had crooned as he put the last pan away after washing it by hand.

He didn’t miss the way she blushed at the nickname he’d become accustomed to calling lately.   

“Okay! Fine! You win.” She had laughed eventually, rolling her eyes but Max saw that smile creeping slowly across her face, bright and genuine. “It would be embarrassing to have to tell the boys how you got on your knees in front of me.” 

Max had gone pink at the image Emma’s words conjured in his mind. 

The image of him down on his knees for her was nothing compared to the images that popped into his mind the moment Emma stepped out of her bedroom an hour after agreeing to a night out. Her platinum blonde hair was twisted up in some sort of complicated braid situation creating a crown around of her head. Emma rarely wore her hair completely up but Max considered threatening another begging session to get her to wear it pulled back like that more often. The way it was swept up and out of her face showed off the long lines of her neck in such a dangerous way, Max’s grip on the marble countertop in front of him tightened painfully just looking at her and he hadn’t even gotten past her neck. 

The dangerously short lace dress that hugged curves Max hadn’t been aware she possessed fit her so sinfully well, his mouth ran dry. 

He must have been starting at the Ferrari red dress a little too hard because when Emma got closer, her face clouded with anxiety. “What?” She asked, awkwardly tugging at the spot where the fabric tightened around her hip. “Is it too much?” Emma huffed before dropping the sky high black heels in her hands down on the floor, the shoes clattering noisy against the tiled floor. “I knew it was too much. I’ll go change.” 

Emma made an attempt to turn around and retreat back to her bedroom but was stopped when Max surged forward, hands reaching for her without even thinking. He swore his fingers burned when they found the bare skin of her elbow. “You look good, Em! Perfect for Jimmy’z, I swear.” 

Emma flushed so deeply her cheeks nearly matched the red in her dress. “Yeah?” She murmured, slipping her feet into the heels in front of her. 

Max nods, “Yes, Sunshine. I promise.” 

She doesn’t look totally convinced but enough so that she continues back towards her bedroom. “Okay.” 

“You ready then?” 

He tries not to groan when Emma catches her bottom lip between her teeth, brows pinching together as if she’s already having second thoughts. 

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” She says, nerves evident in the way she shrugs as if she’s not the most gorgeous person Max has ever seen in his entire life. 

“Perfect. Let’s go then.” 

***

Max regretted agreeing to this, he decided shortly after they arrived at Jimmy’z. The moment Lando had spotted Emma across the dance floor, his grin had gotten much too wolfish for Max’s liking. It got even worse as Emma weaved her way across the crowded club with him right behind her, his hand low on her back as he guided her through the crush of bodies. It felt like every single head in the darkened room swiveled in her direction, following her every move as if she were the sun and they were plants reaching towards her warmth. 

“Gentlemen!” Emma greeted, seemingly totally unaware of the effect she was having on every male in the room, including his friends. 

Lando stood first, opening his arms for a hug that Emma freely gave. “You look…” Lando’s gaze raked over Emma’s body and Max had to physically restrain himself from punching the McLaren driver. “Stunning tonight.” 

Emma went pink, ducking her head against the compliment Max knows she’s going to struggle to accept. “Thanks, Lan.” She murmurs and Max’s pulse stutters at the nickname. 

Carlos is Max’s next victim, taking Emma into his arms in a friendly hug but it sits all wrong in Max’s chest just the same. “So glad you agreed to come out with us tonight, Emma.” 

The casual kiss on the cheek Emma gives Carlos has Max seeing red. He clenches his jaw, forcing a tight smile onto his face as Emma’s passed to Charles. 

“You look good in Ferrari red, love. Maybe you should watch the next race from my garage.” Charles says, kissing her on both cheeks before he smirks over at Max’s murderous face. 

“Never going to happen, Charles.” Max grits out as Emma slips into the booth next to Lando. He slides into the booth on her other side, shooting Charles a glare that is meant to be intimidating. 

Charles just grins over his glass as he takes the seat across from the trio, beside Carlos. 

Max ignores it and dips his head towards Emma, the scent of her vanilla and spice perfume wrapping itself around his senses. “Do you want me to get you a drink?” 

Emma shakes her head before pointing towards Lando’s retreating frame, already making a beeline across the room towards the bar. “Lando’s got it, but thanks Max.” She chirps before leaning back into the plush leather booth. 

Max desperately shoves down the white hot sear of jealous that flashes in his chest. He listens quietly as Charles pulls Emma into a conversation he refuses to be a part of, focusing instead on the way her knee keeps touching his ever so casually. Every time he feels the press of her leg against his, he swears his heart stutters to a stop. 

Lando returns quickly, two glasses clutched tightly in his hands. “One double cran for the prettiest girl in Monaco.” He flirts, grinning like a schoolboy when he sees the muscle flutter in Max’s jaw. 

Max knows Lando’s MO. He’s seen it time and time again. He’s all charm and pretty words, designed to get his target to tumble into bed with him. Usually Max just rolls his eyes at his friends antics but with Emma it’s different. He feels…needlessly possessive and for someone who’s always gone out of his way to remain emotionally unavailable and unattached, it’s an unsettling feeling. 

Emma doesn’t belong to you, Max gently reminds himself. She’s his assistant, nothing more. She’s a grown woman who can choose who she wants to spend time with freely. Max just wished it was with him and not his on-track rival.  It was none of his business, truly and as he sat listening to Lando make Emma laugh he repeated that mantra over and over in his head. 

The conversations flows just as easily as the drinks do with the bottle service girls making several visits to the table, refilling the glasses as quickly as they’re drained. Emma is definitely tipsy by the time she finishes her third drink, the light dinner they’d shared a few hours earlier doing nothing to help slow the grip the alcohol has on her mood. Her laughter comes easier, a little louder than usual and she’s leaning into the Lando’s side with every sip that she takes. The way she’s returning Lando’s flirty banter, teasing him with the same energy he’s giving her, has Max’s jaw clenching. 

Suddenly, the DJ starts spinning a more sensual song, one that has Emma swaying back and forth before she downs her latest drink. Lando turns to Emma, a charming grin spreading across his face. “I’ve had enough chatting to last me the rest of the season. Dance with me?” 

He doesn’t even wait for a response before he’s standing and grabbing Emma’s hand. “It doesn’t sound like I have much of a choice!” She quips but gets up regardless, following Lando out of the VIP area and onto the dance floor. 

Max watches Emma go, hips swinging back and forth with her hand captured tightly in Lando’s as they disappear into the crowd. His knuckles go white around his gin and tonic watching the McLaren driver turn Emma around on the dance floor, his hands landing low on her hips as he pulls her into him. Her body is loose from the alcohol and she wraps her arms around Lando’s neck as easy as breathing. 

He watched, stony glare on his face, as Emma stepped even closer into Lando’s grasp. Her hips swayed in time to the music that thrummed through Max’s chest. The bass thumping in time to the beat of Lando’s hands exploring all the parts of Emma Max wished were his alone. 

“You’re going to give yourself lockjaw if you keep clenching that hard.” Charles remarks, amused smily kicking up at the corner of his mouth. 

“What?” Max’s eyes dart back towards Charles, mouth thinning into a straight line. 

“You’re trying to kill Lando with those daggers you’re shooting from your eyes.” Carlos observes, taking another sip of his drink, eyes bright with mischief. 

“I don’t know what you two are talking about. They’re just dancing.” 

“Uh huh.” Charles murmurs, though he sounds unconvinced. 

“It’s not like I own her, she’s just my assistant.” 

Charles snorts softly, rolling his eyes. “You haven’t stopped staring at her since you both walked through the door.” 

Max flicks his gaze back to where Lando and Emma still connected in every place that mattered on the dance floor. “She had a rough day, I’m just concerned.” 

“So that’s what we’re calling it these days? Concer? Because it reads more like obsession.” Carlos teases as he turns to watch the couple on the dance floor.  

Max shoots Carlos a look that has him grinning over the rim of his drink, brows rising into his hairline. The three men continue to drink in silence, Max not so subtly watching Lando paw at Emma opening, Charles and Carlos watching their the steam practically pour from their friends ears. 

As the song ends, Lando takes Emma’s hand and leads her back towards the booth. He slides in first, then, with a playful tug on her hand, pulls Emma down onto his lap. Emma laughs, bright and slightly breathless. It’s a sound that Max is used to only hearing when it’s aimed at him. Her eyes flick almost imperceptibly towards Max, a subtle fleeting glance to gauge his reaction. 

Max, jaw still tight, offers no reaction. He can’t. Refuses to give Lando the satisfaction and Emma a clue as to the storm roiling inside him. She’s vulnerable, drunk, and reeling from a difficult fight with her mother, now is not the time nor the place to get into a possessive pissing match with one of his best friends. So instead, he stares ahead, his expression carefully neutral, focusing on the flashing lights across the room as if they held the secrets of the universe. 

Seeing his response, a mischievous glint sparkles in Emma’s eye. She leans in close to Lando, her hand resting lightly on his arm to whisper in his ear, “I wore such a pretty dress just for Max and he’s barely looked at me all night” 

Lando doesn’t have to see her face to know Emma’s practically pouting. 

Normally, she wouldn’t share such a confession with anyone but the alcohol Emma’s consumed that night has her lips loose and her desire for Max ratcheted up a notch. Lando throws his head back, chuckling, his arm tightening around her waist. He didn’t mind being a means to an end for a night, especially if it meant cuddling up with a woman like Emma. 

Max doesn’t hear a single word she says but the sight of her whispering so intimately in Lando’s ear, the easy familiarity of their closeness, sends a primal wave of jealousy surging through his veins. His vision narrowed, the edges blurring a bit as his mind goes wild with speculation on what she could have been whispering in his ear. There was a feral growl building in his chest, a possessive rage that threatened to erupt. Max wanted to yank Emma away from Lando, right up off his lap, throw her over his shoulder and take her home where he fucked her so good she never wanted to look at another man ever again. He wanted to stake his claim. Wipe that sums grin off of his friends face. The causal touch, the shared secret, the blatant disregard for his presence. It was all too much. 

Max was on the verge of losing it and all he could do was sit there and take it.

The night continued on, the music pounding, the conversation blurring into a general hum that resembled a hive of hornets. Emma, despite her earlier energy from earlier, was starting to feel the effects of the alcohol and the emotional rollercoaster of the day. The vibrant energy of the club was beginning to feel like an overwhelmingly heavy warm woolen blanker: too warm and too heavy all over, all at once. 

Max watched from his place in the booth as she disentangled herself from Lando’s comfortable hold, a soft smile on her face. “Thanks for the seat, Lan.” 

Lando grinned up at her, boyish dimples winking up at her from the corner of his mouth. “Anytime, Emmy. Anytime.” 

Emma rolled her eyes at the nickname as her gaze drifted towards Max. He was sitting in the same spot he’d been in all night, still nursing the same drink from earlier. He watched as she took a few wobbly, tired steps to the other side of the table before slipping into the booth beside him. Her perfume, thick with the sweet scent of vanilla and cinnamon mixed with the smell of the vodka she’d been drinking that night, flooded Max’s nose. 

“Hi.” She breathed, head coming to rest into the crook of Max’s neck. 

He straightened, surprised by this sudden closeness after a night spent watching Lando paw at her. Max looked down, chin brushing the smooth silk of her hair as he battled the urge to bury his nose in the locks. 

“Everything okay, Sunshine?” He asked, voice gruff. 

Emma scooted closer, so that her thigh was pressed into his and their shoulders were overlapping. “Yeah, I’m just getting a little tired, I think. Everything just kind of hit me all at once.” She gave a small, whiny sigh, burrowing her head even deeper into his neck. 

Max stiffened, knowing that Charles, Carlos and Lando were watching them with curious stares but also realizing Emma was overly uninhibited at the moment. He didn’t want to push her away but he also didn’t want to cause a scene, knowing that both would certainly lead to Emma feeling embarrassed. 

“Can you take me home now?” She asked sleepily. 

Max blinked, his breath catching in the back of his throat. “Home?” 

Emma nodded, eyes fluttering shut despite the loud chaos of the club pulling just beyond their bubble. “Yeah. It’s just…my bed sounds really good right now and I kind of want to cuddle with Jimmy and Sassy before I fall asleep.” 

Max’s heart clenched painfully. 

“Yeah, of course.” He stood slowly, guiding Emma along with him. Her body sagged into his grasp as Emma stumbled a bit. 

“Oops!” She giggled before reaching back to snatch her clutch from the table. “I’m going to pilates at 9am tomorrow, do either of you want to come with me?” She asked Lando and Charles while leaning heavily into Max’s side. 

All three men exchanged glances before nodding, smirks on their faces. “Sure, Emmy.” Lando chuckled, knowing that there was no way Emma would be out of bed anywhere close to 9am. 

“See you guys later.” Max said before slipping his arm around Emma’s waist and turning her towards the door. She was sober enough to make it to the door herself but unsteady on her feet enough that she leaned into Max’s side the entire walk to his car. 

Tag List: @shelbyteller, @martygraciesversion381, @samantha-chicago, @stelena-klayley @dark-night-sky-99 @luckylampzonkland, @aykxz98 @forensicheart @cheer-bear-go-vroom @lieutenantchaos @willowsnook @linnygirl09 @meglouise00 @mixedstyles @secret-agents-stole-my-bunnies @mrosales16 @charlesgirl16 @leclercdream @daemyratwst @dramaticpiratellamas @mochimommy2002 @llando4norris @iamaunknownsecret @maxivstappen @a1leexxa @littlegrapejuice @sunflowervol18 @freyathehuntress @finn-dot-com @swiftie-4-lifes-stuff @chirasama @lauralarsen @dr3wstarkey @saskiaalonso @rbv3rstappen @ilovechickenwings @guaaafiiburg @mcmuppet @mindless-rock @piastri-fvx @mel164 @schumi-angel @myescapefromthislife @supertrashbread @sunny44 @tinystudentblaze-stuff @sarx164 @xoxomansee

[agentstarkid]

A TABLE FOR TWO ✦ DR3

✦ DEBRIEF: No cameras, no obligations, just the lazy rhythm of conversation and the comfort of familiar hands intertwined. The world can wait, just for a little longer. After all, some moments deserve to stretch on forever.

✦ CHECKERED FLAG: 3.7K words

✦ TRACK LIMITS: just lots of fluff and cute banter. no use of y/n. english is not my first language x

✦ MAY'S RADIO: yesterday i saw this video on tiktok and i had to write it for danielito 💘 it was supposed to be just a drabble but...*sighs*

< back to general masterlist

The golden Monaco sun cast a warm glow over the pastel buildings, the scent of salt and freshly baked bread drifting through the air as you and Daniel strolled through the narrow, winding streets. His hand brushed against yours absentmindedly, the easy intimacy of two people who had carved out a quiet life together away from the chaos of the world. 

The city, alive with its usual summer hum, felt slower today—or maybe that was just him. Daniel walked beside you, hands tucked into the pockets of his shorts, sunglasses perched on his nose, and a light scruff dusting his jaw. He looked at ease, like he belonged here, like the world of racing had never claimed him in the first place. 

Laughter bubbled from his lips as he recounted some ridiculous story, his sunglasses sliding down his nose as he glanced at you with that signature grin—the one that made your heart trip over itself no matter how many times you’d seen it. 

“Alright, mon amour,” he teased with an exaggerated accent, nudging you gently with his elbow. “We’re in the mood for something fancy, or are we going full tourist and getting pizza by the port?” The sun kissed his tanned skin, his carefree demeanor a stark contrast to the adrenaline-fueled world he usually thrived in. But here, with you, in the lull of summer, Daniel was just Daniel—the man who made you laugh, who pulled you closer when the breeze picked up, and who, at that moment, looked at you like he had all the time in the world.

You rolled your eyes at his question, adjusting your sunglasses as you glanced at him with feigned exasperation. “Daniel, we live here. We are not tourists.”

He let out an exaggerated gasp, placing a hand over his chest as if you had wounded him. “Excuse me, but pizza by the port is a classic experience, no matter how long you've lived here.” His voice took on a faux-serious tone, but the playful glint in his eyes gave him away.

You smirked, shaking your head. “Mmm, sounds like someone just doesn’t want to sit through a proper meal.”

“Okay, first of all,” he held up a finger, “a proper meal is subjective.” He gestured toward the lively cafés lining the streets, their terraces filled with people sipping wine and sharing plates of seafood. “Second, I was thinking of you, my love. You always say you don’t like eating heavy meals in this heat.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, skeptical. “That’s true… but you’re also conveniently leaving out the fact that you have the patience of a toddler when you’re hungry.”

Daniel gasped again, more dramatic this time, stopping in the middle of the cobbled street. “Uh excuse me?! I have the patience of a saint, thank you very much.”

You arched a brow, crossing your arms. “Oh, really? So, you didn’t nearly lose your mind waiting for our order last week at that fancy place?”

“That was different!” He threw his hands up. “They made us wait forty minutes just to bring out the bread, and you know how I feel about bread service!”

You burst out laughing, grabbing his wrist to pull him forward as he stubbornly stood there, reliving his past suffering. “Okay, okay, let’s compromise. We get something light but not just pizza, deal?”

Daniel hummed, pretending to think it over as you turned a corner, the sound of waves crashing against the marina in the distance. “Fine, but only if I get to pick dessert.”

You squinted at him. “So, this was about your sweet tooth all along?”

A guilty smirk spread across his face. “Listen, baby, I can’t help that gelato is my one true weakness.”

You shook your head, laughing. “You are so lucky I love you.”

“Oh, I know I am,” he said smoothly, leaning down to press a quick kiss to your lips. “And I plan to keep reminding you with every bite of gelato I feed you later.”

The narrow street opened up into a sun-drenched plaza, the scent of espresso and fresh seafood hanging thick in the warm August air. You and Daniel meandered toward a café with a shaded terrace, but he kept bumping into you lightly with his hip, a mischievous grin plastered across his sun-kissed face.

“Oi, you keep shoving me, I’m gonna have to start charging you rent for walking in my personal space,” you teased, giving him a playful nudge back.

Daniel clutched his chest like you’d mortally wounded him. “Your personal space? Babe, please. This whole city should be paying me rent just for blessing it with my presence.”

You scoffed, stepping up onto the curb while he remained on the street, making you just slightly taller than him. “Oh, you think you’re some kind of gift to Monte Carlo?”

He wiggled his brows. “I mean, yeah. Have you seen me? Local legend. National treasure. The pride of Perth.”

You deadpanned. “You’re in Monaco, Daniel.”

“Exactly. I’m international, baby.” He struck a ridiculous pose, hands on his hips like a superhero.

You covered your face, laughing into your palm. “God, why am I dating you?”

He gasped, dramatically taking a step back like you had just rocked his world. “You don’t know?! Babe, this is alarming. What happened to ‘oh Daniel, I love you so much, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me’?” His voice pitched higher as he mimicked you.

You burst into laughter, nearly tripping over the cobblestone as you smacked his arm. “I have never said that in my life!”

Daniel waggled a finger. “Nah, nah, you said it. Maybe not in words, but with your eyes.”

“Oh, so you’re an expert in my eyes now?”

“Mate, I could write a whole bloody thesis on ‘em.” He tilted his head, squinting dramatically. “Chapter One: ‘The Death Stare—How One Exotic Woman Strikes Fear into a Grown Australian Man.’”

You crossed your arms, feigning seriousness. “Uh-huh. And Chapter Two?”

“‘Heart Eyes—A Study in How Quickly She Melts When I Do This.’” Without warning, he reached over and pinched your cheek, pulling lightly before quickly dodging out of your reach when you swatted at him.

You groaned, but you were grinning. “Daniel! You are so annoying!”

“And yet,” he sang, slinging an arm over your shoulders and tugging you close as he steered you toward the café, “here you are, still stuck with me, schricchiolina.”

You sighed dramatically, shaking your head. “Unbelievable.”

Daniel grinned, pressing a noisy, exaggerated kiss to your temple before whispering, “You love it, though.”

You did. And he knew it.

The café was tucked into the curve of the quay in Fontvieille, shaded by striped awnings with little potted citrus trees lining the terrace. The warm hum of conversation mixed with the occasional clatter of cutlery, the scent of espresso and grilled seafood weaving through the air.

Daniel, ever the gentleman, pulled out your chair before plopping down across from you, one arm draped lazily over the back of his seat.

A waiter appeared, all polite efficiency, handing over the menus. You glanced over at Daniel, who was already scanning the options like it was a life-or-death decision.

“You’re just going to order the same thing you always do,” you teased, not even looking at your own menu.

“Excuse me, I am a man of taste and variety,” he argued, though his eyes flickered over to the pasta he always ordered.

You snorted. “Taste, yes. Variety? Absolutely not.”

Daniel rolled his eyes but couldn't suppress the grin tugging at his lips. “Alright, what are you getting, then, Miss Culinary Adventure?”

You pretended to ponder. “Mmm, maybe I should just order for the both of us. Make sure we get something exciting. Maybe some... snails?”

Daniel’s nose scrunched immediately. “Alright, first of all, escargot is just a fancy way of saying ‘garden slugs on a plate,’ and I refuse.”

“Ah, so you do lack variety.”

“I do not lack variety. I just have standards,” he declared, setting his menu down with finality. “And my standards say no to chewy bugs drenched in butter.” 

The waiter returned before you could tease him further, and Daniel ordered his usual (as expected), and shot you a cheeky look. “–and a side of bread. You know, for the trauma.” You snorted, shaking your head as you placed your own order, picking something different just to prove a point.

As the waiter left, your eyes flickered over his outfit—the mint green bucket hat, the Enchanté tote bag resting beside him, the Gator Tours trunks that somehow made the man look like one of those dads on tourist-mode. You smirked.

“You know,” you mused, resting your chin on your hand, “for someone who gives me a hard time about my shopping habits, you sure do love wearing your own merch.”

Daniel smirked, leaning back in his chair. “What can I say? I have impeccable taste.”

“Oh, sure, sure,” you nodded mock-seriously. “But let’s be real, do you actually like the designs, or do you just love seeing your own name on your clothes?”

Daniel gasped, placing a hand over his heart. “I am offended at this blatant attack on my fashion sense.”

You bit back a grin. “I just think it’s funny how you act all cool about it when I know you get all smug when someone recognizes your stuff.”

He huffed a laugh, then narrowed his eyes at you playfully. “Alright, Miss Observant, if we’re pointing out habits, let’s talk about how you love my merch.”

You tilted your head, amused. “Yeah, I wear your hoodies sometimes. So what?”

He wiggled his brows. “Not just hoodies.”

Your stomach dipped slightly at the knowing glint in his eye. “What are you talking about?”

Daniel leaned forward, voice dropping just enough to send a shiver down your spine. “I’m talking about how you love wearing my shirts. And only my shirts.” His grin turned downright devilish. “Just a t-shirt and a cute little pair of panties—or not—, walking around the apartment as if it is your own runway.”

Heat rushed to your face. “Daniel.”

“What?” he teased, sipping his drink like he hadn't just flustered you in broad daylight. “It’s a great look. Huge fan, really.”

You shook your head, exhaling a laugh. “You are insufferable.”

“And yet, you still give me a show every day.” He winked. 

A beat passed and then—

“Are you okay?” he leaned a little over the table, amusement dancing in his eyes at the crimson tide that surged into your cheeks, a hint of mischief colored his tone, “You look a little–” 

“I’m fine! Shut up.” a gentle pout formed on your lips, but you couldn't help the smile that threatened to lift the edges of your mouth. A lighthearted smirk pinched at his cheeks, his gaze drifting toward the marina, you could tell he’d gotten lost in thought. The sun highlighted the light scruff on his jaw, the easy way he carried himself here, like these last few months had softened all his edges.

A TikTok trend you’d seen that morning flickered in your mind, sparking a mischievous idea that you couldn’t resist. You leaned forward, lowering your voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Hey, Daniel.”

He blinked, startled out of his daze, his wide brown eyes meeting yours with the cutest little look—eyebrows raised, lips parted slightly, like you’d just pulled him out of another world. “Yeah?” His voice was softer, curious.

You leaned in even closer, as if you were about to reveal something truly life-altering, and whispered, “I have a crush on you.”

You said it like it was the first time, like it wasn’t something he had heard countless times before, like it wasn’t already carved into the foundation of your relationship.

And oh, the way it hit him.

His shoulders bunched slightly, his hands coming together on his lap like he didn’t know what to do with them. His head tilted just a bit, cheek brushing against his shoulder, a shy, boyish smile creeping onto his lips. 

So fucking cute. You could eat him with a spoon.

He pointed at himself with wide eyes, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. You simply nodded, your chin resting on your fist, watching the disbelief flicker across his face.

“You… you do?” His voice was small, teasing yet unmistakably earnest, like you had just knocked the air right out of him and sent him spiraling back to the nerves of a schoolboy with a crush.

A slow smile tugged at your lips as you tilted your head. “Yeah. I think you’re pretty cool.”

Daniel let out a breathy laugh, running a hand through his hair like he needed a second to process. “Wow. That’s—uh, that’s pretty huge, actually.”

You nodded seriously. “Massive.”

His lips twitched, cheeks tinged pink, before he did a little victorious shimmy in his chair, pumping his fist in the air like he’d just won something monumental. Your laughter spilled out, light and unrestrained, and then—just loud enough for only you to hear—he leaned in and whispered,

“I have a crush on you, too.”

And just like that, you had the privilege of watching a grown man—a man who had faced death-defying speeds, podium finishes, and championship pressure—turn into the most bashful, love-struck thing in the middle of a sunlit café in the Principality.

Your heart clenched at the sight of him—all coy and ridiculously endearing—like this was all still new, like he still couldn’t believe you were his.

God, you were so in love with him.

The waiter returned with your drinks, setting them down before disappearing again. You picked up your smoothie, taking a sip as Daniel tapped a beat against the table with his fingers. His eyes softened as he watched you, a content smile tugging at his lips.

“Y’know,” he mused, tilting his head slightly, “I think this might be my favorite version of us.”

You set your glass down, curiosity flickering in your gaze. “What do you mean?”

Daniel shrugged, looking out at the sun-drenched plaza before meeting your eyes again. “Just… this. Us. Waking around the city, sitting in some café, arguing over yucky foods and bread. No rush, no cameras, no pressure. Just us.”

Your heart melted just a little, the sincerity in his voice catching you off guard. You reached across the table, lacing your fingers with his. “Yeah,” you said softly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “Me too.”

Daniel grinned, squeezing your hand in return before leaning in conspiratorially. “But just so we’re clear,” he murmured, voice dropping like he was about to tell you a grand secret, “if you do try to order snails next time, I will cause a scene.”

You snorted, trying to pull your hand away, but he held onto it, laughter dancing in his eyes. “Oh, so you’d embarrass yourself and me just to avoid a plate of escargot?”

“Absolutely,” he said without hesitation. “I have my dignity to protect.”

“Dignity?” You raised an eyebrow. “Big word for someone who once tripped over his own shoelaces while trying to bow after karaoke night.”

Daniel groaned, tossing his head back dramatically. “Why must you always bring that up?”

“Because it was hilarious.”

“Alright, well, for your information, I meant to do that,” he declared, sitting up straighter, looking smug despite the lie.

You hummed, unconvinced. “Sure you did.”

He let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head, but his fingers absentmindedly traced slow, lazy circles over your ring finger, grounding the moment in something softer.

A comfortable silence settled between you, the chatter of the café filling the space. The sunlight caught in Daniel’s curls, turning them into lazy golden waves, his eyes flickering between you and the street beyond. His free hand reached for his drink, but before he could take a sip, he hesitated, then set it down again.

“I don’t want to move,” he admitted suddenly, as if the thought had just hit him.

You blinked. “Move where?”

“Anywhere.” He gestured vaguely around. “Like… I don’t want you to go back to the other side of the world, or us to get dragged into some event, or—” He paused, rubbing his thumb against your knuckles, voice quieter when he continued. “I just want to sit here with you. All day, if we can.”

Your chest tightened, a warmth spreading through you at his words.

You squeezed his hand, your thumb brushing over the back of his as you leaned in slightly, your voice just as soft. “We can.”

Daniel’s eyes flicked up to yours, something tender and almost boyish in the way he searched your face. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “We’ve got nowhere to be. No flights, no schedules, no cameras. Just you and me, sitting in a café in Monaco, eating not pizza and people-watching until we get bored.”

His lips twitched into a small, lopsided smile. “And then what?”

“Then,” you shrugged playfully, “we walk back to our place, take a nap with the AC blasting because it’s too damn hot, and probably end up ordering takeout for dinner.”

Daniel exhaled a laugh, shaking his head. “God, that sounds perfect.”

“It is,” you agreed. “And it’s all ours for the whole month.”

He looked at you like he was committing this moment to memory—the way the sun painted your skin golden, the relaxed ease in your posture, the sheer rightness of having you across from him, promising time.

For the rest of our lives, was what he didn’t say.

“Guess I should start charging you rent now,” he teased, squeezing your fingers.

You rolled your eyes. “Please. If anything, you should be paying me to grace that fancy apartment with my presence.”

Daniel snorted. “Oh yeah? And what exactly do I get in return?”

You smirked, sipping your drink before answering, “Entertainment, obviously.”

“Ah, yes. Watching you dramatically sigh every time I leave my socks on the floor is top-tier entertainment,” he said dryly.

You gasped, feigning offense. “Excuse me, I do not dramatically sigh.”

“You do,” he countered. “It’s like a mix of disappointment and deep suffering. Very moving, honestly.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it.”

You huffed but didn’t deny it, instead narrowing your eyes at him. 

The waiter returned with your meals, setting down a plate of cacio e pepe in front of Daniel. His eyes lit up as he inhaled the comforting aroma of the simple yet perfect dish—cheese, black pepper, and pasta.

“Now this is real food,” he said proudly, grabbing his fork like he was about to paint a masterpiece.

Then, the waiter placed your dish in front of you—a beautifully plated bouillabaisse, the classic French seafood stew. Steam curled into the air, carrying the scent of saffron, garlic, and fresh shellfish.

Daniel took one look at your bowl and immediately wrinkled his nose. “I still don’t get how you can eat that.”

You raised an eyebrow. “It’s literally just seafood.”

“It’s seafood in soup,” he corrected, staring at it like it might bite him first. “Why would you ruin perfectly good fish by dunking it in a bowl of sadness?”

You scoffed. “It’s not sadness, it’s flavor.”

“It’s wet,” he countered flatly, making you snort.

Rolling your eyes, you picked up a mussel, dipping it into the fragrant broth. “For a guy who’s mom is Italian and lived in Italy, you’re weirdly dramatic about food.”

“I’m right about food,” he corrected, taking a victorious bite of his pasta. “You could’ve had literally any pasta dish, and you went for—” He waved his fork at your bowl. “That.”

“It’s French cuisine!” you defended. “We’re in Monaco! It felt appropriate.”

Daniel shook his head, exasperated but clearly amused. “You know what? Enjoy your soggy seafood. I’ll be over here eating like a king.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide your smile, and he grinned, twirling more pasta onto his fork.

You smirked, cutting into one of the scallops and lifting it toward him. “Try it.”

Daniel leaned back like you’d just offered him poison. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on. You love seafood!”

“I love seafood that’s not drowning,” he countered.

Rolling your eyes, you took the bite yourself, humming in satisfaction. “Mmm. Too bad, ‘cause this is incredible.” 

Daniel huffed but couldn’t stop smiling. “Fine. But when you inevitably regret it and start eyeing my food, don’t expect me to share.”

You nudged his foot under the table. “Noted. Now, eat your boring pasta before I change my mind and steal it.”

The two of you fell into easy conversation as you ate, the sun casting a warm glow over the café. At one point, Daniel reached for your hand again, absentmindedly tracing circles against your palm while you talked about the most random things—how you should redecorate the apartment, whether or not a croissant counted as a sandwich, if pigeons had secret meetings when humans weren’t looking.

And then, just as you were finishing your meal, Daniel suddenly said, “I wanna take you somewhere after this.”

You blinked. “Oh? Where?”

He smirked. “Secret.”

You raised a brow. “Do I at least get a hint?”

Daniel pretended to think. “Mmm… It’s somewhere I know you’ll love. And it’s a little bit of a walk, but I promise it’s worth it.”

Your curiosity piqued, but you didn’t push. “Alright, mystery man. But if you’re leading me into some weird alley, I’m fighting you, Ricciardo.”

He laughed, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Fair deal. But I promise, you’ll love it.”

And with that, he squeezed your hand one more time, finishing the last bite of his meal with a content smile, looking at you like you were his favorite view in the whole city.

Little did you know, he had been carrying a certain ring in his pocket for months now, waiting for the perfect moment. He could feel the box burning a hole in his pocket, the weight of it heavier than it had ever been. So he took your hand again and kissed your knuckles, right where the ring would soon sit. And as he watched you laugh, looking effortlessly happy, he knew—this was it.

< back to general masterlist

[elysianightsss]

First dates always end bad.

Summary: You stress about your first date with John only to realise there was nothing to worry about.

You were ready. Almost. Make up? Done. Hair? Done. Clothes? On. Anxiety? Through the roof.

You were going out to lunch with John, fuck your heart was pounding so hard it was starting to hurt. What if you said the wrong thing? You thought as you grabbed your keys and stuffed them in your little side bag.

What if you trip over? You worry as you pulled on a cute pair of wedges. What if he rejects you? You breathe harshly as you shift through your sundresses trying to decide which one he would like the best.

Breathing harshly became hyperventilating. Your eyes fluttering shut as you tried to control yourself. How were you this panicked over a fucking meal with him? Had he given you any reason to panic? Any reason to worry?

“No, so chill the fuck out.” You scolded yourself and grabbed your phone.

You: What’s your favourite colour? 10:49am. delivered.

Your leg shook as you waited for his reply, palms sweaty, body temperature rising. You moved off the bed to open the window, letting the cool breeze into your bedroom. Turning to the left you notice your mirror and particularly how you look in the reflection. Nothing but bra, underwear and wedges on.

You stood up straight, breathing in and relishing in the confidence that slowly began to seep into your body. You looked good, now you’ve gotta feel good too. Your phone pinged pulling your attention away from yourself and onto John’s text.

John: Blue. 10:51am. read.

You almost stumbled with how fast you moved to grab your light blue sundress, pulling it over your hips and slipping your arms into straps. Hands grabbing at the strings at the back and pulling so the waist becomes corset like. You tied a bow and slimmed your hands over the material, admiring the little light yellow sunflowers that sat at the bottom when the dress became flowy ending at your knees.

Another texts pings on your phone.

John: I’m outside when you’re ready sweetheart. 10:55am. read.

“Okay deep breaths.” You told yourself, making sure you had everything before heading outside.

And there he was.

A black t-shirt with a blue checkered button down shirt worn as a jacket graced his muscular torso. Loose fitted dark blue jeans and black hiking boots. He was like your own personal cowboy, all that was missing was the hat.

The sight of him nearly made your knees buckle and he could definitely say the same about you. You were stunning in your sundress that just so happened to be his favourite colour. The way you drifted down the steps of your porch to meet him at your gate, the cute little wobble of your legs as you walked.

“Fuck me darlin, so fuckin’ pretty.” He wanted to apologise for his bad language but what can he say, he was stunned and you certainly bring out the more rambunctious side of him.

You smile wide, feeling your cheeks flush with heat. The air fluttered with anticipation, the way his heated gaze stared down at you. He leaned forward, getting closer, blue eyes flickering to your lips. So close. But then you hear the latch on your gate lift with a creak before he opens the gate for you to step out.

You do so with a pout that has John grinning like a Cheshire Cat. Look at you, pouting all cute just because I didn’t kiss you, he wants to say but all he can choke out is a grumbly, “Look at you”.

“So where are we going?” You nibble on your lip, anxiousness threatening to take over but you will it not to let it affect you or this moment with him.

“I have a little place in mind, c’mon.” He holds out his hand looking at you to take it. But suddenly you’re frozen, time standing still while your tired and frazzled brain takes a minute to process the situation.

John studies you and almost immediately understands that this is a big decision for you. How much must you have suffered to consider taking someone’s hand as a big decision. He waits patiently, no foot tapping, no sighing. Just pure patients while he watches you work out the issue in that brain of yours.

How he’d love to know what you’re thinking, your eyes glazed over with a similar look to what Simon had when he first met him. Before he got comfortable. He doesn’t have to wait long until you’re reaching to grab his hand. He smiles like a little triumph had just occurred before escorting you into his truck.

The drive was short which you were grateful for due to the hot weather. Only a few more weeks and the days would be shorter and the weather colder. You couldn’t wait.

John helped you out of the truck keeping hold of your hand as he walked you towards what looked like a cafe. It was cute and quiet. You spotted a salted caramel frappe on the menu that made your eyes light up, it was the first thing John ordered.

You waited for the food to be cooked and drinks to be made, the nervous jittery feelings you had bubbling in your system this morning was nowhere to be found now. Not when John looked every bit of a man you’d ever dreamed of, not when he picked up the tray after swatting your hand away from it gently, not when he chose to sit next to you instead of opposite just so he could continue to hold your hand under the table.

First dates always end bad, but maybe this one’s an exception.

[wol-fica]

-Bliss PT 11-

summary - reader would do anything, anything, to protect wednesday…

warnings - punching, blood, nose broken, SAPPY

an - missed wednesday and r, (mostly wednesday), so i thought id get back into bliss before season 2 comes !!

—————————

It was a beautiful Monday afternoon in New Jersey, golden rays of sunlight bathing the mansion floor in a beautiful blanket of bronze. The windows were open to the outside world, a warm breeze flowing through the house and invading the walls with the scent of pine and apple pie.

You were in the kitchen, humming along to one of your favorite songs while you stirred ingredients together to make a sugar glaze. Your pie was in the oven, almost ready to be taken out and admired for how damn talented you were at baking, but it needed a few more minutes to reach perfection. It’s crust was a delicious looking light brown, dusted with a bit of salt for flavor, that covered the mouth watering apple filling that was crafted from your great grandmothers secret recipe.

Your cooking and baking skills were a great blessing, especially since your wife has a bit of a sour tooth when it comes to entrees. You always made sure to craft each dish to the exact perfect condition of what she was craving in that moment, and every time, without fail, she would praise you in her gothic ways about how delicious each meal was.

Speaking of your wife, she was currently typing away on her typewriter in the office, working on a new book series since finishing her last collection. Becoming such a well respected writer had boosted her confidence a lot, which in turn helped open more doors to new plot lines and perspectives of storytelling and imagery for her to explore. You had been her biggest supporter throughout her journey and definitely earned the title of “#1 Wednesday Addams Fan” after showing up to every conference and book signing wearing her face on your shirt.

She scolded you for it every single time.

“Doing okay, babe?” You called out, whisking the icing gently.

The ‘tap tap tap’ of the typewriter abruptly stopped, and the sound of footsteps ranges out softly in the house as your partner approached the kitchen. You turned your head just in time to see her round the corner, your breath catching in the back of your throat from the sight of her.

Wednesday Addams was a glorious view, and just so easy to look at for you even after all these years. Her skin was supple and pale, almost ghostly white from lack of melanin in her cells. Her eyes, black as ever, were filled with a sense of warmth that to others, would be discomforting; to you, it was home. She was dressed in a knee-length black skirt that held her checkered sweater tucked in at her waist, with a thin silver chain hanging loosely from the front of her hip to the back. She had white, shin-length socks on that hugged her calves in such a way that it was almost hypnotic to stare at her. Her hair was in her usual duel braids paired with her beautiful bangs that you loved oh so much, and she wore an expression of admiration on her face when she spotted you.

“Hey you.” You said, setting your whisk down to fully turn to her, “Finished the third chapter yet?”

“Not yet.” Wednesday replied, stepping into your personal space and tilting her face up to you, “I am stuck in the torturous prison of what the people call ‘writers block’.”

You chuckled, taking her chin in your hand and leaning down to kiss her. She stood up on her toes to meet you, her hands resting on your hips while you cupped her jaw. She tasted divine, her lipgloss flavor consisting of black cherries and dark chocolate with a hint of eucalyptus to complement the sweetness.

“Hi.” You murmured to her after pulling away, staring into her dark eyes.

“Hello.” She whispered back, her hands slithering around your waist, “I missed you.”

“We live together.” You teased, smiling when she undid the tie of your apron.

“You have been baking all morning.”

“Could’ve joined me.”

“And suffer with the nauseating effect of home life and domestication? I’d rather be nailed to a post.”

You giggled, moving around her to hang your apron on the pantry door hook before coming back over to the oven to peak at your pie. It seemed to be done, so you grabbed your black mittens and carefully took the hot dish out and placed it on the stove. The aroma of apple hit you like a warm pillow to the face, and you felt your whole body physically relax from the touching smell.

“I hope to get a slice later.” Wednesday said, sliding her hand into yours once you took the mittens off, “It looks divine.”

“I thought Wednesday Addams didn’t like sweet things?” You asked, scrunching your nose at her.

“I like you, isn’t that enough proof?”

You hummed, pressing your lips to her forehead as a loving gesture. The radio sounded light static before Foolish Girl by Marjorie filled the room. Your unoccupied hand slide to rest on your wife’s waist, gently beginning to sway to the music with her. She let her head rest against your chest, her eyes falling shut at the sound of your heartbeat.

“Twenty-five years old and you still dance like you’re fifteen.” You mumbled, smoothing the wrinkles out of her sweater.

“I need to perfect my skills, I just haven’t had the time.” She replied softly, burying her nose into your hoodie, “Fifteen year old me would be devastated.”

“No.” You said, lifting her head and reaching to cup her face, “She would be so proud to see what you have achieved; you’re incredible, baby”

Wednesday blushed, shamelessly letting her eyes run over your features with pure admiration. You both stayed like that for a while, content in swaying in each other’s embrace whilst occasionally sharing little kisses here and there. The moment was perfect, until a sharp knock at the front door startled you.

“Who could that be?” You wondered aloud, knowing you weren’t expecting anyone today.

“A spokesperson maybe.” Wednesday grumbled, turning and heading towards the front door, “I’ll tell them to leave.”

“It’s not like we get solicitors.” You said, knowing it’s a pretty long walk from the road to your front door, “Be nice, please!”

She waved you off, rounding the corner out of sight but not of earshot. You heard the front door open, and a male voice respond to your wife’s question of his presence.

“I’m here for you, actually.” The person said, his words slightly slurred.

“Sorry, not available, please leave.”

“Seem pretty available to me; pretty cute too.”

“Use the word ‘cute’ to describe me again and i’ll remove your finger nails with my pliers.”

“No need to get attitude with me, gorgeous. How about I come inside and we chat a little?”

You tensed up, dropping the plate you were drying onto the counter and briskly walking to the front door. There was a tall man in the entrance, holding the door open with his hand so Wednesday couldn’t shut it on him. He was scruffier looking, his greasy hair long and his wiry beard unkept on his bumpy skin. He had a smirk on his face that was unsettling and gross looking, like something that came out of a shitty thriller from the 60’s or something of the sort.

“Who the fuck are you?” The man drawled out, seeming to size you up when you approached.

“Her wife.” You deadpanned, standing to slightly in front of Wednesday to block him from entering your home, “And I’m pretty sure she asked you to leave.”

He laughed, his breath reeking of scotch and beer when it hit your nose. You recoiled slightly, mistakingly taking a step back in disgust. The man saw that as an opportunity to strike, and shot his hand out to grab Wednesdays arm.

It felt like everything happened in a millisecond; one minute you were pinching your nose to block the smell, the next you were swinging your fist into his face, his nose breaking with a satisfying ‘crack’. He fell backwards onto your concrete front porch, his hand immediately covering his injury. You breathed heavily, your chest heaving up and down from the adrenaline pumping through your veins. Not many things angered you, but if someone ever put their hands on Wednesday, you would see red.

Call it your wifey instinct.

“OW! What the fuck?!” He screamed, cradling his face, “Son of a bitch!”

“Never, ever, touch her again.” You growled, squaring your shoulders to make yourself appear bigger, “Now get the hell off of my property before I call the cops.”

With that you slammed the door once he retreated down your steps and to the street, locking the deadbolt with a grunt of annoyance. Blood coated your knuckles from the impact of the man’s nose breaking, but you could honestly care less as your focus was on the women standing in front of you.

“Are you okay?” You asked, reaching for her arm to make sure she wasn’t scratched or bruised.

“I am fine.” Wednesday reassured, a glint of love in her eyes as she stared at you, “That was the most attractive thing I have ever seen.”

“Wednesday, I just punched a man in the face.”

“And it was divine.” She replied, biting her lip in a teasing way, “The way you spoke to him; impressive.”

You sighed with a smile, wrapping your arms around her and kissing her softly. She responded with leaning into you, titling her head to the side to welcome you in as much as she could.

“I’m glad to have you.” You whispered against her lips, “Truly.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” She whispered back, tugging you forwards with her as she walked backwards.

“The pie is still on the stove.” You reminded her as she began to run her hands down your chest, “Didn’t you want a slice?”

She pulled back from your embrace, nodding in the direction of your shared bedroom. There was a mischievous glint in her eyes, a small smirk coming to her face.

“I can think of something sweeter to eat.”

—————————

🫦

taglist: @cartierdreamx @tundra1029 @red1culous @vorsdany @andsoigotabutterfly @theafterofnevermore @yomomisgay @house-of-lovin @dunohilly @somekindofpoet @alexkolax @cinffy23 @pedrosprincess0 @amberfreemansburntface @myfturn

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Code of Conduct 6

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as cheating, noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: your boss has a difficult time keeping his personal life from bleeding into his work. 

Characters: Steve Rogers, this reader is known as Rosie.

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜

💼Part of the Bad Bosses AU💼

You put Steve’s bag on the couch. It’s a backup he keeps in his trunk since he spilled coffee on himself during the merger meeting. It was your idea and you’re happy you suggested, though you never expected any of this.

Just like you didn’t expect him to ever see your apartment. Especially not today. You quickly swipe up the used mug from the table and take it into the kitchen. You call through the open doorway as you rinse it out.

“Make yourself at home, sir,” you set the cup on the counter and cut the flow of the tap. “I’ll find you a blanket and a pillow.” You dry your hands then flit back into the front room. “I’m sorry, I can only offer up the couch--”

He’s stood before the bookcase in the corner, squeezed into the narrow space. The couch is against one wall, opposite is a shorter shelf with the television and a few bunny figurines below. You’re overly conscious of the cutesy decor as he stands out of place among the pink checkered rug and fluff couch throws.

That reminds you.

On cue, Mitzy emerges, yowling for her evening meal. It’s not quite time yet but she’s an opportunist at heart. The tortoiseshell curls around your ankles and you bend to pick her up. She’s a comfort amid the intrusion of your space. You may have invited him here but it isn’t entirely by choice.

“Cozy,” remarks as he turns to you. “Oh, hi, kitty.”

He nears and Mitzy tries to crawl around your neck. She’s not a fan of strangers. You catch her before she can claw you too much and set her down. She scurries off.

“Oh, sorry,” he frowns.

“It’s not you. She’s fussy. She comes out for food and that’s about it.” You shrug.

“Ah, right,” he sniffs. “I like the bunnies.”

“Um, yeah, those... I just thought they’re cute,” you bounce nervously, “I’ll go get that blanket.”

“Sure,” he rubs his neck and look aways bashfully. “I’m sorry I’m falling apart like this, Rosie.”

“Mr. Rogers, it’s okay. We all have moments.” You assure him. If only he knew how many you had.

“You are so nice. Too nice,” he hangs his head and turns away. His shoulders slant as if he’s trying to make himself small. He’s too big for that.

You leave him and go down to find your single spare quilt and pillow. The blanket you made at a crafting class with Missie and the pillow, you think Dizzie left it here. You’re not entirely sure. 

Thinking of the girls, you wish you could ask them for a bit of advice right then. Elfie would know what to do. Billie would tell you to send your boss to a hotel, you know it. She’s probably right. Izzie would surely know what to do.

You come back as Steve stands by the window. The outline of his figure almost startles you. You’ve never had a man in your space. Not this one. You had one long-term relationship and when he decided he liked the girls on Instagram better, he booted you to the curb. Young and stupid. Still got a bit of both of those.

“Are you hungry?” You ask. “I could make some pasta or something.” You put the blanket and pillow on the couch. “Or, I could leave you alone.”

He’s quiet as he stares out at the brick wall across from your apartment. “I’m not very hungry, sweetheart.” He sniffs and reaches to wipe his face. “Do you mind if I shower?”

“Oh, sure, yeah, go ahead. I’ll get a towel.”

You grab a fresh towel and leave it in the bathroom. You busy yourself with dinner before Steve finally takes the invitation. You're a bit relieved to have a bit of time to yourself. You feel like you're still at work.

You're just about done the alfredo by the time he reappears. He's only in a pair of gym shorts, a bit bashful as he keeps the towel around his neck. You peek up and quickly go back to grating parmesan.

"Smells good. I feel fresher," he sighs.

"Mmhm," you squeak.

"Sorry, I only had gym shorts to sleep in. Gonna save the suit for tomorrow."

"That's fine. Did you want a plate?" You offer and turn away.

You never really thought about Steve like that. Never wondered about the man behind the title or the tie. He's just your boss. Still, the vision of his thickly muscled arms and stomach cloys in your head.

You plate him up linguine with sauce and sprinkle over the parmesan. It's a simple meal for a simple budget. He thanks you and sits at the small round table you don't often use without company.

Your phone vibes. You're thankful for the distraction. It's a meme in the group chat. You can't wait for the night out.

You sit with Steve to eat. You try not to look at him.

"So, who were you texting? Not to be nosy."

"Oh, it's... my friends. We're going out this week. Haven't seen them in a while."

"Sounds fun," he tries to smile. You feel bad for him.

"Maybe Bucky will be free," you suggest. "Probably a good time to catch up."

"Yeah, if he wasn't so busy at work. New partner, I guess. They don't get along."

"No? That's too bad. He always nice to me," you twirl the thick noodles around your fork.

"You like him?" Steve asks.

"Well, he's friendly. Can't say that about everyone."

"Right," he nods and takes a bite. He lowers his lashes and wiggles his nose.

"And he's your friend so... he must be as nice as you."

He swallows and looks at you with a sigh, "you're too good to me, Rosie. I'm such a mess and--" he pauses, "and you're a great cook. This is delicious."

"Oh thanks. It's pretty easy to make," you assure him.

"Yeah? Maybe you can show me. I'll have to learn since..." he leans forward suddenly and catches his head in his hands. He shoulders heave and he sobs. "I'm sorry, Rosie. I'm just going through it-- It keeps sneaking up on me."

Your heart wrenches. You feel so bad. You're not sure what to do but then you think of your friends. What would you do if they were heartbroken?

You stand and gently touch his shoulder, "it's gonna take some time."

He sniffles then suddenly, he opens his arms and snags you in and embrace. He buries his face in your stomach and weeps. You stand, frozen, and look down at his golden hair. You cautiously bring your hand up to caress his head.

"It's okay, sir, shhhh," you coax him gently. Maybe if he cries it out, he'll get some good sleep.

[bibittybopittybadbxtch]

Chess Not Checkers

Pairing: Jeong Yunho x Reader

Summary: You and Yunho have been sleeping together in secret for months. Both of you want more, who’s going to make the first move?

Warnings: 18+, Mature Content, Oral Sex (F receiving),

Word Count: 1.3k

A/N: Hi hoes and hoochies (affectionately.) I once stole a yunho photocard right from under my best friend’s nose at an ateez concert. This is one of my favorite things I’ve written. Hope you enjoy!

XOXO, Bibi 🩷

P.S.

I do NOT consent to have my work posted, translated or published to any third party site or app. ALL WORK IS PURELY FICTIONAL. NOT MY GIF

P.P.S

Likes and reblogs welcome

Thanks For Reading ❤️

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You walked into the KQ Entertainment building, heels clicking down the halls as you made your way to your brother’s studio. Hongjoong was sitting at his computer when you arrived.

“Hey, what are you doing here?” he swiveled is his chair to look at his as you plopped down on the couch.

“I have about an hour before my lunch date, I came to kill time.” Which is true. You did have some spare time before meeting your best friend for lunch down the street, but the main reason for your visit had just walked into the room.

“Hi. Hi.” Yunho greets as he walks into the room. His gaze lingers on you for a second longer than it should before he turns to Hongjoong asking what the plan for the day was.

You can feel Yunho’s eyes on you the entire time he is recording. His eyes are burning a hole straight through you. You know he wants to ask why you’re dressed up and waiting in the studio. He is just waiting for the opportunity to present itself. After about 45 minutes of recording, Hongjoong gets a call and excuses himself to take it outside. Leaving you alone in the room with Yunho.

“So…what are you all dressed up for? We don’t have plans do we? I wouldn’t have forgotten that.” Yunho’s voice floods from the booth, pulling your attention from our phone. You look at him, a flicker of mischief in your eyes.

You walk over and press the talkback button.

“No we don’t. I have a lunch date in a few minutes.” It’s like you watched a switch flip in Yunho. His eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed as he stared at you.

“I’m sorry. What?” Before you get a chance to respond your brother comes back in the room.

“Hey, that was my manager. There was an error in my schedule. I’m actually supposed to be filming a radio show in an hour. I have to go.” He rushes around the room gathering his things before he stops.

“Shit. Yunho, you need to finish today.”

You can see the vein start to pop in his forehead, which only happens when he’s overly stressed. Being the good sister you are you jump in.

“I can finish helping him record. I remember everything.” You’ve been Hongjoong’s shadow since he was still putting together songs in his childhood bedroom. He leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead, “Thanks Sis! I owe you one.” Then he’s out the door, once again leaving you with Yunho.

You shift your gaze from the door to Yunho, who’s looking at you expectantly.

“What?” You say as you move to sit in your brother’s seat.

“You were explaining to me, how you think you’re going on a date.” Yunho moves to lean against the wall, never taking his eyes off of you.

“No..I know i’m going on a date. In about 15 minutes actually. We need to move this along.” You meet Yunho’s gaze and the jealousy on his face surprises you.

Yunho rests his head against the wall behind him, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he laughs. (author’s note: *insert gif*)

“If you think that I’m gonna let you walk out of this room to go entertain another man with a meal, you’ve lost your mind.”

Yunho pushes himself off the wall and takes off his headphones, before making his way out of the booth. He makes his way over to your chair before trapping you in the chair with his arms.

You look up at him and voice your confusion. “What are you talking about?”.

Yunho leans closer to your ear before he begins speaking again. “You’ve been mine since the moment I met you and you know it. I don’t just fuck anyone into the mattress like I do you.” Shocked by his brazenness you reach out and shove at his chest with flushed cheeks. It doesn’t sway him, but it did make you feel better.

“Yunho.” You lean back in the chair, trying to create space between the two of you.

“Are you being serious right now? You want to be together? Seriously?”

Yunho signs before moving to kneel in front of you. “Princess. I never say anything I don’t mean. But you seem to be a hands on learner. Let me try and change your mind about that date.”

Yunho places his hands on your knees and spreads your legs. He slides his hands up your skirt, long fingers brushing tenderly against your thighs as he reaches to pull down your underwear. Once he has them off, he brings them to his nose and inhales your scent deeply. He proceeds to tuck your favorite lace thong is his pocket. Winking at you when he catches you staring at him hungrily. Yunho spreads your legs further and takes a moment to admire the glistening mound between your legs. He leans in, pressing soft kisses along your thighs. He must’ve neglected to shave this morning because the slight stubble on his face is causing a delicious friction against your inner thighs. Yunho’s large hand reaches out and he hooks his index finger to swipe through your folds. He exposes your clit before diving in. He laps at your pussy like a man starved. Loud slurping noises bouncing off the room of your older brother’s studio. Yunho suckles your clit as he inserts two fingers into your eager hole. Yunho pumps his fingers in and out of you and he continues his assault on your sensitive bundle of nerves.

Above him you have your hands woven into his dark hair. Your hips are slowly grinding into his face, head tilted back in pure bliss. You’re trying to be quiet but the man at your feet is trying twice as hard to make sure you aren’t.

“Come on Baby, let me hear you.” His ego had taken a blow. Yunho needed to hear you cry out for him. His girl? On a date with someone else? Over his dead body.

“Yunho” You moan as he replaces his long slender fingers, with his tongue. The tip of his tongue brushes the soft spongy spot inside of you. He feels your body stiffen above him, and he knows he has you. An orgasm crashes over your body, and Yunho keeps his pace. Slurping at your juices until he’s satisfied. Yunho picks his heads up, eyes twinkling and your juices dripping from his chin. Once you catch your breath, he moves to stand up.

“So Princess..What do you say? Still wanna go on your little date” He stands back and watches as you adjust your clothes.

You chuckle as you shimmy your skirt back into place. “Yes, I will still be meeting Y/f/n for lunch. Even though you’ve put

me behind schedule.” Yunho looks at you puzzled.

“As in your best friend? Your female, best friend…” You can see the wheels in his head turning. Slowly you grab your purse and start making your way to the door. “Did you trick me into thinking you were going on a date to make me jealous?” Yunho laughs, he should’ve known. When you wanted something. You got it.

“You little minx” Yunho chuckles as he reaches to grab you. You quickly turn the door handle and run out of the room. As you get further down the hall you turn to see Yunho standing outside your brother’s studio smiling at you. “I’ll see you tonight.” You call as you continue to make you way down the hall. Yunho shakes his head as he makes his way back into Hongjoong’s studio. You sure will see him tonight, and maybe a glimpse of his wooden spoon for your sneaky scheming. He begins packing his things thinking he is done for the day since both you and your brother have now left, when he gets a text:

From: Shorty in Blue 💙

My studio better not smell like sex. I’ll kill you if you fucked my sister on my couch. I’ll be back up in 10 minutes so we can finish recording.

Of course Hongjoong knew. He should’ve known. His sneaky girl. You were definitely getting the spoon tonight.

THE END.

[stellar-constellations]

Heart on the Market (ONGOING SERIES) Chapter 1

WARNING: This series will include; NSFW, dead dove, reader is a serial killer, black market possible inaccurate historical slang and fashion, gore, alcohol, toxic relationships that should NOT be replicated in real life, murder, yanderes, cursing, implications of misandry (male misogyny), perversive thoughts, possibly more to add.

Inaccurate canon-timeline and setting (Ashley doesn't exist).

Incest is not Wincest.

Andrew Graves x Old school! Serial killer! Fem! Reader

Wordcount: 3,000+ words

Chapters: Current chapter, chapter 2, chapter 3, chapter 4, chapter 5 (in the works)

        It’s 12 in the morning at the 24 hour diner. Despite it being midnight, the diner was bustling with people eating pancakes and drinking spiked milkshakes; a classic 50’s diner. 

        The floor had black and white checkered tiles had fallen pieces of bacon. One of the tables had spilled milk after a baby knocked their bottle of milk over (why the family is here at this time, she doesn’t know nor does she care). The chairs had chewed gum under them matching the table bottoms too. The red and white counter had drunk men watching an episode of I Love Lucy.

        “Do you need anymore coffee?” (Y/N) smiled, holding a piping hot coffee pitcher, steam escaping from the top of the lid.

        “Thank you, dear.” A little old lady smiled, probably thinking it was 5 AM in winter when the sun wasn’t up instead of it being 12 o’ clock in the summer.

        “Need anymore hash browns?” (Y/N) smiled, grabbing her notepad and pen from her white apron tied around her waist, the tight strings accentuating her figure.

        “No, but I’ll take a cookie for the road.” The lady smiled.

        “Coming right up, ma’am.” (Y/N) smiled, her black flats walking against the sticky tiled floor as her light blue skirt twirled around her knees.

        She walked behind the counter to the display of cookies resting there since yesterday, grabbing a cookie and throwing it in a small, white paper bag. She stapled the bag closed and walked back to her customer, handing her the cookie.

        “There you go, ma’am. Is that all for you tonight?” (Y/N) smiled.

        “Yes, that’ll be it.” The lady smiled, her sunken cheeks turning up to show her dentures.

        “I’ll get the check.” (Y/N) hummed, walking back to the counter and printing out the check for table 26. 

        She walked back to the old lady, grabbing the printed receipt and handing it to the lady.

        “Careful, the ink’s fresh.” (Y/N) smiled. 

        “Thank you.” The lady smiled, placing 30 bucks on the counter.

        “Oh, ma’am. You dropped a few bucks.” (Y/N) spoke, counting the cash. “Your meal was 13 bucks.”

        “Keep the change as a tip.” The lady smiled, before leaving the diner.

        “Fool…” (Y/N) snickered to herself, placing the tip in her tip pouch on her hip as she took the meal’s money to the cash register. 

        Old people are so easy to butter up. She thought, smiling. All it takes is a few nice words to make them smile a million bucks. Not to mention their retirement money.

        If she keeps it up earning these tips, maybe she can buy a new dress. She’s been meaning to get another poodle skirt anyways.

        (Y/N) sorted out the money in the cash register before closing it, walking into the back. There were tablets there on the walls for her to clock out of.

        Unnecessary screens in unnecessary places… (Y/N) thought, annoyed. These new generations and their technology!

        (Y/N) clocked herself out on time, heading to her work locker and inserting her combination. She grabbed her work bag and took it with her into the bathroom, changing into her regular clothes. 

        She put on a black and red fit-and-flare dress with her nude stockings and black gloves. She grabbed her black hand-purse, throwing her work clothes into her work bag. She undid her hair’s bun and brushed her hair out, letting it hang off her shoulders as she put on a black headband with a bow on top in her hair. 

        She exited the bathroom, putting her work bag back into her locker and shutting it, then exiting the diner out back, walking down the streets.

        The streets had an occasional stranger walking down, giving her a weird look at her old 1950’s outfits, but others have seen her enough to know it was her style by now. 

        She held her purse and walked down the streets, before taking a turn down a dark alley. 

        It stunk of trash and the air was humid, but that was normal in every overpopulated city. Thank god this city wasn’t a night-life one at least, how troublesome it would be for her work.

        A stumbling man appeared in view, leaning on the brick walls of a building, taking a few wary steps before stopping again. He looked absolutely shit-faced, with a fire red face and dilated pupils; drunk and lethargic. 

        “Do you need any help, sir?” (Y/N) questioned, her transatlantic accent she gained from growing up watching too many movies of the 1930’s shined through.

        “I-I need… "urgh…” the male groaned, tipsy before collapsing to his feet, trying to hold his stomach in.

        “Oh, pardon me.” (Y/N) smiled, walking closer without fear as her black Mary Jane’s hit the ground.

        He probably thought he traveled back in time as he looked at her, confused at the blurry figure approaching.

        “Now, sir. Public intoxication is very bad, you know? You can be charged!” (Y/N) scolded, a playful tone in her voice as she crept closer, before coming up behind him.

        She fished a black lipstick container out of her purse, popping open the lid to show a black tube with a small green and red button.

        “Allow me to help you.” She smiled, pressing the tube to the back of his neck, before holding down the red button, allowing blue sparks to buzz through the air, shocking him.

        He convulsed, drool flooding out of his mouth as he yelped, before a flood of vomit followed.

        “There you go!” (Y/N) cheered supportingly as he kept the stun gun to his neck.

        She removed the tube, watching him fall to the ground, disoriented and confused.

        “See, sir. The problem there is your stomach was empty. You don’t ever drink on a empty stomach, no wonder you’re ill!” (Y/N) smiled. “A proper man could hold their liquor at the very least.”  

        Then again, this modern day and age doesn't know a thing about chivalry unless it's to get under a woman's dress... (Y/N) thought, frowning.

        "Now, let's see." (Y/N) hummed, crouching down beside the drunken male lying in his own vomit. 

        She picked his head up by his hair, yanking it back roughly. "A 4 o' clock shadow that's stubbly. Dilated pupils. Nauseating scent. You must not take good care of your liver considering your performance of drinking tonight..." She frowned, sighing. "It must not hold much value, but something is better than nothing..."

        She threw his head back into his bile, reaching into her gloved hand into purse and putting away her lipstick stun gun, replacing it with a 1930's Remington Rh36 hunting knife. She picked the disoriented man's head up, placing the knife under his throat, before making a jagged line around his neck.

        "It's a good thing I wore my black pair today!" (Y/N) chirped, referring to her gloves as she dropped the man's head, sitting down on his back so he couldn't get up and fight.

        She watched him squirm under her, warm crimson puddling under her as she counted, "99 bottles of beer on the wall, 99 bottles of beer! Take one down, pass it around, 98 bottles of beer on the wall." She smiled, looking down at him. "Oh, good sir. Where is your spirit? Sing with me!"

        She grabbed his chin, pressing her thumb on his bottom lip and pressing down as blood spurted out of his mouth. "98 bottles of beer on the wall, 98 bottles of beer. Take one down, pass it around——how many do we have?" (Y/N) smiled, pressing down on the now dead man's lips. "97!" she chirped, putting on a high-pitched voice. "Good job! 97!" she smiled, letting go of his chin. 

        She stood up, smoothing down her dress and stepping off the man's back. She grabbed her dirty knife, wiping the blade on the man's clothes. 

        She placed the knife down into her purse, pulling out a neatly folded black trash bag. She unfolded the bag and opened it, shoving the man's head in first (careful to avoid the pile of vomit), before bending his body awkwardly, a crack playing out somewhere in his legs as she forced him into the bag, tying it up.

        "Citizen's trash duty: completed." She smiled, picking up the trash bag handles and pulling it down the alley with her. 

        (Y/N) dragged it with her, taking a shortcut down the alleyway and walking a few blocks until she got to the back of her apartment complex.

        (Y/N) dragged the body bag up the fire escape stairs, careful not to tip backwards as the dead man’s head ‘thunked’ against the metal stairs over and over. 

        Upon reaching the top of the stairwell, she grabbed a spare key she copied stealing the owner’s once, grabbing the copy from her purse and unlocked the door. 

        She dragged the body inside the halls, taking the body up the stairs since every lazy piece of modern trash around here used the elevators.

        She took the body with her down her hallway, fishing for her front door’s key inside of her purse, before pausing as the neighbor’s door next to her opened.

        A man stepped out, pale skin akin to snow and eyes fresh like the Iceland hills. There were bags under his eyes, tired as he yawned, wearing a red shirt as his uniform for his job as a gas station attendant. 

        Andrew Graves; a recluse of a man, if even a person. Andrew doesn’t talk with (Y/N), not unless she corners him by the mailboxes and blabbers with him. 

        For some reason, the boy couldn’t fall for her charisma or even her appearance. She didn’t understand it; everyone likes her, why doesn’t he?

        Perhaps he was just one of those people with a good sixth sense, but whatever it was, it infuriated (Y/N). How was she supposed to maintain a good social image if her next door neighbor didn’t have any good words to say about her?

        How could he have any good words to say now that his eyes were widened with surprise and fear, looking down at her feet, where she looked and saw a leg hanging out of the bag, a trail of blood down the hallways.

        The bag must’ve ripped upon climbing the stairs somewhere.

        (Y/N) stared at the leg, both of them frozen in place as the complex’s AC kicked in. 

        (Y/N) quickly lunged at Andrew, shoving him back into his apartment. She drug the bag with her, entering his apartment and closing the door behind her.

        Andrew’s apartment was completely dark, an unfamiliar terrain as she felt the walls for a light switch before switching it on, illuminating the room. 

        Andrew was on the ground, silently crawling backwards, making sure to look in her direction before he froze as the light came on. 

        “Ah!” (Y/N) sighed, happy as she quickly dropped onto her knees, crawling after him like a child.

        She caught up to him quickly, especially since he hit the back of his couch, her hands pressing down on his chest as she leaned in, pushing her nose against his.

        “I found you~” she smirked.

        “What the fuck was that?” Andrew questioned, his eyes shooting behind her at the body bag.

        “A Halloween prop.” (Y/N) responded quickly.

        “It’s December.” Andrew retorted.

        “A prop for Krampus, dummy! He’s a Halloween-Christmas guy!” she smiled.

        “It’s an apartment complex! We don’t do decorations!” Andrew spoke, still scared but a bit annoyed that she took him as dumb enough to believe that.

        “Well we do now.” (Y/N) smiled.

        “I’m not dumb!” Andrew snapped. “So you’re the Manson Murderer, huh?” 

        Ah, the Manson Murderer, what a name she’s built for herself! "Manson Murderer Multilates Again!" and "Who is the Man of Manson?"

        How funny they even think it’s a man. The only reason why so many men are trialed for murder, is because nobody believes a dainty flower of a woman could stabbed a man 41 times in his chest.

        “Oh, my! What an accusation!” (Y/N) giggled, staring into his eyes as their faces were mere centimeters apart.

        “Don’t you even try lying to me…” Andrew growled, his eyes hardened as he toughened himself up in front of her.

        “Oh, have no fear, darling! I would never lie to you, you’re much too smart!” (Y/N) giggles, although she knew it was true.

        Could it be possible he never liked her because he knew something was up with her? Is this his proof to having a reason to dislike her, not just because he was an introverted loser?

        “Andrew, Andrew, Andrew…” (Y/N) muttered, clicking her tongue as her hand came up to his cheek, caressing it as he flinched at the sudden affection. “My love, why are you so scared? Don’t you know I would never hurt you? Not a man as handsome as yourself at least.” She purred.

        “See, Andrew. There are certain duties people like I must fulfill. Someone has to clean the streets up after all.” She hummed.

        “Why’d you do it?” Andrew questioned.

        “Why didn’t I?” she smiled.

        “That isn’t an answer—“ Andrew muttered, but was cut off by her.

        “Now, Andrew. You’ll keep your mouth shut, yes?” she smiled. “I would certainly hate… for you to become scum at the bottom of a dumpster after all…

        Andrew knew was she was implying. Trash for her to take out like it was a normal Monday.

        “Yes…” Andrew seethed through his teeth, not too happy about it.

        “Good!” (Y/N) smiled, taking her purse and flipping out her pocket knife.

        “W-woah, hey! Hey! I said I won’t tell!” Andrew panicked, squirming but had nowhere to run as he was still pressed against the couch. 

        “Don’t worry, darling. I’m only sealing our promise.” (Y/N) smiled, pulling up his shirt.

        Andrew froze as she placed the knife onto his right side, before a hiss escaped his lips as she impaled the skin, carving into it like leather.

        “Pardon my handwriting; mother always said I was messy.” (Y/N) smirked, smiling as the pretty blood ran down his side, matching his red shirt.

        “F-fuck!” Andrew gasped, biting down onto his lips.

        “When this mark heals, you can tell people it’s me who is the Manson Murderer.” (Y/N) smiled. “But for now, you’re mine to keep, so be a good boy and be quiet.”

        (Y/N) smiled, admiring her craftsmanship before wiping the excess blood from the knife off on Andrew’s shirt. 

        She placed her pocketknife back into her purse, before looking at her words. She stuck out a gloved finger, scooping up some of the red liquid and wiping it on her bottom lip, closing her lips and smearing it like lipstick.

        “Mwah! Red looks good on me, don’t you think?” (Y/N) smiled, looking at Andrew as his head was thrown back against the couch’s back, panting as he endured the pain.

        “F-fuck… fucking bitch.” He hissed, his eyes sharp as he looked down at her. “Gonna fucking kill you…”

        “Mm… keep talking like that…” (Y/N) purred, sitting down on her knees in between his legs, resting both her hands on his cheeks. “I like it.”

        She leaned in, kissing his lips with her bloodied ones.

        Andrew froze, shocked and helpless on what to do as he bled from his side. His neighbor, his neighbor who was a murderer, was kissing him right now.

        One of her hands traveled down to his jaw, before guiding down to his chest sensually, reaching his stomach. Her lips moved against his closed ones, enjoying the power she had over him.

        Her hand went to his side, her thumb pressing down onto his wound, causing him to yelp and open his mouth. She quickly dove her tongue into Andrew’s mouth, his cheeks puffing out as her tongue hit them, exploring the taste of his mouth and blood.

        “Ah, you taste good…” (Y/N) muttered against his lips. “It’s too bad your heart isn’t on the market, I’d love to own it…” (Y/N) smiled.

        Andrew couldn’t look further into her words as she kissed him again. He couldn’t taste anything except rust, and was that a hint of strawberry? Strawberry lipgloss perhaps? She did wear red lipgloss just like every other 1950’s girl did, just like her preferred timeline. Lipgloss so it wasn’t too showy, but still shined and was appropriate for every outfit.

        Her tongue parted from his mouth, leaving him breathless (from her lips or from his wound, he wasn’t sure) as a string of saliva connected the two.

        “I’ll teach you how to reciprocate later on. It makes it far more enjoyable, you know?” (Y/N) giggles, watching as Andrew’s face went pink.

        It felt hot in here even though the AC was on, signaling to (Y/N) that she had to go and take care of this body before it started decomposing faster due to this heat.

        “I’ll see you real soon, Andrew… You’ll keep our promise, right?” (Y/N) spoke, tilting her head and purposely puffing out her lips in a show of innocence and seduction.

        “Mm… y-yeah. Yeah, I will…” Andrew muttered, laser-focused on her lips.

        “Be good for me now.” (Y/N) smiled, getting up off the floor. 

        Andrew watched from the floor as she walked to his front door, dragging the body bag with her as she shut the door behind her, going back to her apartment.

        He couldn’t believe this. His cute neighbor was a murderer, and he kissed her. And he liked it.

        His face was burning up, along with his body, but he didn’t know if that was his pain receptors responding to the pain or not. He was hot and sweaty, it suddenly felt too hot for his shirt and everything else, especially under his belt.

        Why the fuck did her lips have an impact on him like that? Why was it just her lips? Why did she kiss him in the first place? 

        Andrew groaned, looking down at the marking she made on him, carving him like a piece of property.

        “Mine.” The carving read.

        Fuck. He can’t go to work like this. He needs to go to the bathroom, clean up this wound and jerk one (or maybe a few) off.

        Oh, he’ll get her back for doing this to him.

Chapters: Current chapter, chapter 2, chapter 3, chapter 4, chapter 5 (in the works)

I'm sorry for the short chapter, the first chapters are always short to get the reader's attention. I don't want to add too much information that'll draw you guys away! This story is gonna be a spicy one featuring NSFW, so beware.

Want more Andrew Graves content? Check out the Andrew Graves masterlist!

Inbox is OPEN for questions about the story and new plotlines/ideas, not for requests!

[quill-vy]

MARGIN OF ERROR — one

a/n: my first work: a lando norris fanfiction! i feel really really proud of this one, honestly, and i hope you guys enjoy it. i worked quite hard on this, but i did enjoy writing it! love you alls.

warnings: swearing, and nothing else (i think) let me know if there’s more :)

IN WHICH

lando norris is your childhood best friend and you guys maybe, just maybe, fall for each other. Margin of error: a tiny gap between friendship and something else.

he was the love of your life, but you weren’t quite sure he knew that just yet. hell, you weren’t even sure you loved that boy.

lando norris was your best friend. you went way back. at five, your parents had introduced you to each other, and somehow, he was the only boy you could get along with.

now you were 24, and you’d watched him grow into the man he’d always dreamed of being—a formula one driver. he never neglected you, and he never would. you were his top priority.

lately, though, something had shifted. the way he looked at you lingered a second too long, his hugs tightened just a little more. it had only started after his first win two months ago.

flashback: miami ‘24

you lay in bed, eyes glued to the tv as the checkered flag waved. your best friend had just won. holy shit. the excitement bubbled in your chest, followed by a pang of regret—you should’ve been there.

you made yourself a quick meal, waiting patiently for his call. you never texted right after a race, not wanting to distract him.

when lando finally got back to his hotel, he took his time—showering, sprawling across the bed, mindlessly scrolling. then, he called you. you weren’t on each other’s minds every second, but if anyone asked? yeah, you were obsessed.

the familiar facetime ringtone buzzed in your quiet room. you answered, voice thick with sleep.

"hey, lan."

"y/n! shit, did i wake you? my bad, forgot you were in london. soz." his grin filled half the screen, that same stupid, adorable smile.

"yeah, you fucker," you mumbled, rubbing your eyes. "saw your race today. congrats."

something flickered in his chest—that same weird flutter he got when your hands brushed, when your eyes held his a beat too long. his grin softened.

"thanks," he whispered, leaning back against the headboard. "can you believe it? my dream come true." he sighed, gaze drifting away from the camera.

you watched him, studying the curve of his lips, the way his damp curls stuck to his forehead. god, he’s pretty.

snap out of it.

"i regret not being there. i was free—should’ve flown out," you joked, forcing a laugh.

"oh, don’t worry," he said, fingers threading through his hair. "i’ll fly you out one day. trust."

singapore ‘24

and he did.

you’d always wanted to visit singapore. lando knew. so he made it happen—for you, and maybe, just maybe, for himself too.

you stood with the team, heart pounding as the cars screeched past. when lando jumped out of his car, victorious again, you screamed with the crowd. he disappeared into the sea of papaya, but when he finally emerged, helmet off, his eyes found you instantly.

his expression softened. he walked over, pulling you into a crushing hug.

"i’m so proud of you," you whispered into his ear.

he didn’t reply. he didn’t need to. his arms tightened around you, saying everything words couldn’t—until the team pulled him away for interviews.

hotel, 1AM

you knocked on his door, restless. when he opened it, hair damp from the shower, he didn’t even question it. just stepped aside.

"hey," he murmured.

"hey," you replied, flopping onto his bed like it was yours.

he swallowed hard, trying not to stare. not the time, norris.

"what’s up?" he asked, voice low.

you hesitated, picking at the sheets. "just… wanted to see you."

lando sat beside you, close enough that his knee brushed yours. "you saw me like, five hours ago."

"yeah, well." you shrugged and chuckled, avoiding his eyes. "it’s different when you’re not covered in champagne."

he laughed, nudging you. "missed me that much?"

"shut up." but you were smiling.

a beat of silence. then, softer: "...yeah. i did."

his breath hitched. the air between you thickened, charged with something unspoken.

lando’s fingers twitched, like he wanted to reach for you. just do it, you willed silently.

but then his phone buzzed—a teammate’s text, probably—and the moment shattered.

he sighed, running a hand through his hair. "you staying over?"

you nodded, already pulling the blanket over yourself. "if that’s okay."

"always."

as he climbed into bed beside you, careful to keep space between your bodies, you wondered how much longer you could both pretend this was just friendship.

TO BE CONTINUED…

a/n: sorry guys, this is a lil short. starting to regret i didn’t it as a oneshot 😞

how’d you like this one?

MARGIN OF ERROR — two

[buckyssoldat]

Quiet moments (Bucky Barnes x Reader)

Summary: After witnessing her former lover with a teammate, she distances herself from the Avengers. She finds unexpected support in Bucky Barnes, and as their friendship deepens, they discover a profound connection that leads to healing and love.

Word count: 2.4k

Requested: No

Warnings: emotional themes, slowburn, mature content

A/N: Here’s part 2 to ‘She used to be mine’ (Sharon Carter x Reader). Also, please check my series ‘Forsaken - The Fallen Soldier’. Feedback is always appreciated, don’t be shy to share your thoughts on this :)

After painfully watching Steve and Sharon fall in love, she kept her distance from them and the Avengers. The betrayal still stung, and it was hard to forget how everything fell apart, especially when her feelings were as raw as the day it happened. However, it wasn’t just Sharon’s kiss with Steve that haunted her – it was the realization that she had lost more than just a lover, she had lost her sense of belonging.

But Bucky, who had quietly witnessed her heartbreak, was more attentive than she realized. It started with small things. He’d check in on her when they had missions, asking how she was holding up, offering a reassuring smile when the weight of her feelings threatened to overwhelm her. He didn’t push her to talk about it – he just made himself present, a quiet but steady support.

In the months that followed, as the worked together on missions, they naturally began to spend more time together. Their shared silence spoke louder than words. They both understood loss, pain, and betrayal. Bucky, with his checkered past and constant search for redemption, seemed to understand her in ways that no one else could.

One evening, after a particularly exhausting mission, they found themselves alone in a safehouse in Eastern Europe. The others had gone to bed, but neither of them could sleep. She sat by the window, watching the soft rain fall against the glass. It had been a long day, her emotions worn thin from the stress of the mission, and memories of Sharon floated to the surface once again. She clenched her jaw, willing the feelings away.

Bucky entered the room, silently making his way to the kitchen. He poured two mugs of tea and approached her, sitting beside her without a word. He handed her one of the mugs, and they sat in comfortable silence for a while, listening to the rain.

“Do you ever feel like you’re drowning in memories?” she finally asked, her voice soft, almost a whisper.

Bucky sighed, his eyes fixed on the rain outside. “Every day.”

She glanced at him, searching his face. His expression was calm, but she could see the tension in his jaw, the quiet storm he constantly battled inside. Bucky had been through so much, yet here he was – still fighting, still standing. It gave her a strange sense of comfort.

“You’re not alone in that,” he added, turning to meet her gaze. His blue eyes, so often shadowed by his past, were filled with understanding. “But you don’t have to carry it all by yourself.”

For the first time in a long while, she felt the weight on her chest loosen. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make her breathe a little easier.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. Their partnership on missions grew stronger, but so did their friendship. She found herself confiding in him more often, sharing pieces of her life and her past that she hadn’t told anyone. In return, Bucky shared his own stories – stories of his time as the Winter Soldier, of the guilt he carried, and the nightmares that still plagued him.

They became inseparable, always sitting together during briefings, sharing meals, and often finding themselves in quiet conversations late into the night. It was as though the two of them had formed an unspoken pact to help each other heal.

The shift between friendship and something deeper didn’t happen overnight. It was gradual, subtle, hidden in small moments that didn’t seem to mean much at the time, but eventually built into something unbreakable.

It started in little gestures.

When they returned from missions, Bucky always made sure she had everything she needed, whether it was a cup of coffee waiting for her in the morning or an extra pillow on the plane for those long, uncomfortable flights. At first, she thought nothing of it. Bucky was a kind man, even if he tried to hide it behind his often stoic exterior. But it wasn’t just the small kindnesses that caught her attention – it was the way his presence seemed to quiet her mind, to calm the chaos in her heart. He didn’t need to say much, just being there was enough.

The first time she noticed her feeling for Bucky shift, it was on a cold evening in Bucharest. They had just returned from a particularly tough mission, and Bucky, who had grown up in New York’s winters, seemed unaffected by the dropping temperature. She, on the other hand, was freezing. They walked side by side, their breath coming out in clouds, and she tried to rub warmth into her arms.

Without a word, Bucky stopped, shrugged off his leather jacket, and draped it over her shoulders. She looked up at him, surprised, and found him giving her a small, lopsided smile. “You look like you’re freezing,” he said, his voice soft. “Can’t have you turning into a popsicle.”

His jacket was warm, carrying the lingering scent of him – clean, with a hint of leather. She felt a strange flutter in her chest, something she hadn’t felt in years. Her breath caught as she realized how close he was standing, how his fingers lingered on her shoulders as he adjusted the jacket. Her heart raced, but she didn’t pull away.

“Thanks, Bucky,” she murmured, and he just gave her another one of those small smiles that made her knees feel a little weak.

They continued walking, but something had changed. That jacket felt like more than just a simple act of kindness. It felt like Bucky saw her, really saw her, and cared enough to make sure she was comfortable, even when he didn’t need to.

The next moment happened a few weeks later, when they were both back at the compound, taking some well-deserved downtime. They were sitting in the lounge, watching a movie neither of them was particularly interested in. She sat on one end of the couch, and Bucky sat on the other. Despite the space between them, she could feel his presence like a magnet, pulling her attention toward him.

About halfway through the movie, she glanced over and found him already looking at her. It wasn’t awkward – it was like he had been waiting for her to notice. He smiled, a little embarrassed to be caught staring, and she couldn’t help but smile back. There was something so gentle about the way he looked at her, like she was something precious.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice quiet in the dim light of the room.

“Yeah,” she nodded. “I’m good.”

He didn’t press, but she could see the concern in his eyes. Bucky was always careful with her, always mindful of how she was feeling. It was one of the things she admired about him, one of the things that made her realize how different he was from anyone she’d ever known.

That night, as they sat together in comfortable silence, she realized that Bucky made her feel safe in a way she hadn’t felt in years. It wasn’t just that he was physically strong – though that helped – it was the way he listened, the way he cared, the way he made her feel like she wasn’t alone in her struggles. And maybe that was when it hit her: she was falling for him.

But the moment that solidified it came one rainy afternoon. They were on another mission, this time in Paris. It was supposed to be a routine recon, but things had gone sideways, and they ended up having to hole up in a small, plain safehouse on the outskirts of the city. The rain was coming down in sheets, and they were soaked to the bone by the time they got inside.

Bucky had grabbed a towel from the bathroom and handed it to her without a word, his eyes scanning her to make sure she wasn’t hurt. She took it gratefully, drying her hair as she sat down on the edge of the bed. Bucky leaned against the wall, watching her with the same quiet intensity he always had. It made her feel exposed, like he could see straight through the heart of her.

“I’m fine, Bucky,” she said with a smile, trying to lighten the mood. “You don’t have to worry so much.”

“I’m not worried,” he replied, his lips quirking into a small smile. But his eyes said otherwise.

He came over and sat down beside her on the bed, close enough that their shoulders were almost touching. They were both tired, both drained from the mission, but sitting there, together, it didn’t feel so bad. It felt… right.

“Do you ever think about what life would be like if we weren’t doing this?” she asked suddenly, not really sure why the question popped into her head.

Bucky looked at her, his brow furrowing slightly. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “But I don’t think I’d be good at anything else.”

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “I don’t believe that. You’re good at a lot of things, Bucky. You just don’t give yourself enough credit.”

He didn’t respond right away, but when he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. “I guess I just feel like this… all of this, it’s all I know.”

She turned to face him, her heart aching for him. She understood that feeling, the way the past could weigh on you, make you feel like you didn’t deserve anything more than the life you had. But Bucky… he deserved so much more.

“I think you’re a lot more than you think you are,” she said softly, reaching out to place her hand on his. His metal arm was cool beneath her touch, but his flesh hand was warm, grounding her.

Bucky looked at her, his eyes searching hers, and for a moment, the world outside the rain-filled windows disappeared. It was just them, sitting together on that bed, the weight of everything they’d been through heavy in the air between them. But it wasn’t the bad kind of weight – it was the kind that comes from shared experiences, from understanding each other in ways that no one else could.

“I think you’re more than what you think you are, too,” he said, his voice low and sincere.

She swallowed hard, feeling her heart race as she realized how close they were sitting, how easily their hands fit together. She didn’t want to pull away. She didn’t want to pretend like there wasn’t something happening between them. But it was scary, falling for someone again, after everything she’d been through. After Sharon.

“I don’t know if I’m ready,” she whispered, more to herself than to him.

Bucky’s eyes softened, and he gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “You don’t have to be. I’m not going anywhere.”

That was it. The moment. The promise he made her, that he wasn’t going anywhere, that he’d wait for her, that he understood. It wasn’t grand or dramatic. It was simple, quiet, but it meant the world to her. Because Bucky wasn’t just offering her love – he was offering her time, patience, and understanding. And that was something she hadn’t had in a long time.

The days that followed were filled with more of those little moments. The way he’d smile at her when he thought she wasn’t looking, the way he’d always make sure she had her favourite coffee in the morning, the way his hand would brush against hers when they walked together, sending sparks through her.

There was the time they were stuck in a tiny village in Sokovia, waiting for extraction after a mission. The power had gone out, and they sat together by candlelight, playing cards and laughing over nothing in particular. Bucky had leaned back in his chair, watching her as she giggled over winning yet another hand.

“You’re cheating,” he teased, his grin widening as she playfully protested.

“I’m not!” she laughed, trying to hold back the smile on her face. “You’re just bad at this game!”

“Yeah, sure,” he replied, his voice filled with warmth.

And then there was the time they were on a mission in the mountains, and a snowstorm forced them to take shelter in a tiny cabin. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting a soft glow over the room as they sat side by side on the floor. She rested her head on his shoulder, exhausted from the day’s events, and Bucky gently wrapped his arm around her, holding her close.

They didn’t speak much, but they didn’t need to. The silence between them was comfortable, filled with unspoken words and shared feeling that neither of them were quite ready to say out loud yet. But it was there. They both felt it.

And then, one evening, back at the compound, after months of stolen glances, lingering touches, and quiet confessions, they found themselves standing in the kitchen late at night. The rest of the team was asleep, the compound eerily quiet. She was making tea, and Bucky stood beside her, his eyes fixed on her every movement.

She turned to him, holding out a cup, and their hands brushed. The touch was electric, sending a jolt of warmth through her. She looked up at him, her breath catching in her throat as she saw the way he was looking at her – like she was the only person in the world.

And that was when she knew. She didn’t just care for Bucky – she was in love with him.

The realization hit her like a wave, and before she could stop herself, she leaned in, pressing her lips to his in a soft, tentative kiss.

For a moment, Bucky was still, as if he couldn’t believe it was happening. But then, his hands came up to cup her face, and he kissed her back, deeply, passionately, like he had been waiting for this moment just as long as she had.

When they finally pulled way, both were breathless, their foreheads pressed together as they tried to catch their breath.

“I love you,” she whispered, the words spilling out before she could stop them.

Bucky smiled, his eyes filled with so much warmth, so much love, that it took her breath away all over again. “I love you, too.”

And just like that, everything changed. They weren’t just friends anymore – they were something more. Something real. Something that had been building for months, in all those small moments that seemed insignificant at the time but had led them there, to that. To love.

From that moment on, they were inseparable. In Bucky’s arms, she felt safe, loved, and whole. And that was more than she had even dared to hope for.  

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