#everything that just popped up in the tag predicts

[xeniums]

genuinely no matter how many times I see this clip it will never not have me rewatching it for every little detail multiple times

Has this been done yet

[frostimochi]

resolutions

(logan howlett x reader)

summary: You and Logan attend a New Years party hosted by Wade. With the countdown to midnight, you both get caught up in the moment and share an intimate moment with each other.

word count: 2.4k

author's note: i unironically had a dream about this the other night, so of course i had to share with the class, days earlier than planned. this takes place a year after deadpool & wolverine. enjoy! :>

find it on ao3 here

. . .

New Years was awfully unpredictable for you. Every year seemed to bring a different mix of highs and lows, leaving you wondering whether the holiday was even worth celebrating. This year, you didn’t even plan to—until Wade showed up with an invitation to his apartment against your will, promising the "social event of the decade." Against your better judgment, you agreed, dragging Logan along as your buffer for whatever insanity awaited. After all, how bad could it be?

It turned out, predictably, to be very bad.

The party was chaotic, as expected when Wade was involved. Streamers hung haphazardly from the ceiling, balloons were scattered across the floor, and someone had already popped open a bottle of champagne—two hours early. The stereo blasted a mix of '80s rock and whatever Wade had decided was "party music," which helped to create an unforgettable experience. And not in a good way.

Surrounding the room, couples were unable to keep their hands to themselves, unflatteringly in your direction. One group of friends were drunkenly laughing as they took selfies under a sagging strand of broken lights, while others swayed together to the mismatched beat of Wade’s horrendous playlist. You watched everything unfold, while Dogpool sat on your lap, constantly begging you for more cuddles.

Logan sat on the couch beside you, opening a bottle of beer, his expression a mix of irritation and mild amusement. He never wanted to come, but you’d convinced him. And of course, how could he say no? The promise of decent company and free booze was enough to get him to tag along. And though he wouldn't say it out loud, he also secretly loved spending time with you.

As Wade danced dramatically in the corner among the rest, Logan shot you a look that said, "This is your fault."

You laughed at his expression, your hands still on Dogpool as you nudged his arm. 

"Come on, admit it. You’re having a little fun."

Logan raised an eyebrow. "Watching Wade do... whatever the hell that is? Sure, a riot."

"It’s interpretive dance," Wade called out, spinning in a circle before collapsing dramatically onto the floor. "I’m expressing the tragedy of running out of nachos."

Logan rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched in a barely there smile. You caught it and grinned.

“Come here, Mary Puppins! Daddy has a surprise for you!” Wade shouted, diving toward you and grabbing Dogpool out of your lap before you could protest.

You blinked, hands still frozen in mid-air. "What the hell, Wade? She’s comfortable!"

Wade cradled Dogpool dramatically, making kissy faces at her. "Oh, but I have something better," he said in a sing-song voice. "A little treat she’ll never forget."

Logan raised an eyebrow from where he sat, grasping onto his beer bottle while watching the scene unfold. "Oh boy.”

You sighed, already knowing this wouldn’t end well. "I swear, if you try to feed her something weird—"

"Don’t worry," Wade interrupted with a grin. “I made her something special, to dedicate my first year with Puppins here, of course.”

"Let me guess," you said, crossing your arms. "You’re feeding her leftover pizza crusts and ranch dressing?"

Wade’s face lit up. "Are you shitting me? I’ve got something way better than that!" With that, he dug into the pocket of his absurdly tight pants and pulled out a tiny, half-melted sandwich. You swore that you could see a tiny bit of mold in it.

 "Behold, a hot dog sandwich! You know, for dogs, because they deserve the best."

Logan stared at the sad creation in disbelief. "That’s just a hot dog in a bun. For you."

"Fuck no!" Wade grinned, holding the sandwich up like it was the Holy Grail. "This is an exclusive Dogpool meal—made with delicate care!"

Logan let out a low chuckle as Dogpool tried to squirm free from Wade’s arms, clearly more interested in anything but what her own owner had in store for her. 

You grinned at Logan. "It’s a shame. This could have been a bonding moment for the two of them.”

Wade, completely unfazed by Dogpool's lack of enthusiasm, tried to coax her into taking a bite, which ended up with him chasing her around the apartment.

 "Come on, sweetie! You can’t say no to this!”

"Guess Dogpool's smarter than all of us," Logan muttered, taking a swig of his beer as Wade continued his one-dog food fight.

You chuckled to yourself as you watched Wade flailing around the place, bumping into others without a care in the world. Logan’s lips curled into a small, satisfied smile, something that only appeared when he knew you were genuinely amused.

"Well, looks like I haven’t completely ruined your night," Logan remarked dryly, leaning back into the couch and taking another sip of his beer. His eyes stayed on you, still holding the faint smile on his face.

You nudged him gently with your elbow. "You’re enjoying this more than you thought you would."

His gaze flickered away for a moment before he gave a small nod, the corner of his mouth twitching again. "Maybe a little," he muttered, clearly not wanting to give you the satisfaction of admitting it outright.

. . . 

As the night rolled on, a few more guests trickled in, and the energy of the room continued ebbing and flowing. Wade was missing for a bit, which kept things steady for a while. Logan stayed close to you, content to observe rather than participate. You didn’t mind; his dry commentary on the festivities kept you entertained.

You checked your watch for a moment. It was 11:48 pm. Leaning back in your seat, your eyes drifted back to Logan, wanting to start a conversation amidst the awkward silence.

"So, what’s your resolution?" you asked him as the clock neared midnight.

Logan’s gaze flicked to you. "Don’t do resolutions."

"Why not?"

"What’s the point? People make ‘em and break ‘em in the same week."

"Not everyone," you said. "Some people actually stick to them."

"You?" he asked, tilting his head. "What’s yours?"

You went into thought for a moment. You? A new year's resolution? Every time you’ve attempted to stick with one, it always ended up blowing up in your face. If there was anything you wanted more than anything to succeed in, it would probably be to get with Logan. Of course, the concept of it was foreign, but you fell for him the minute you met him. You knew that under the circumstances of what the two of you have been through, there was no chance you could tell him how you felt, or know if he reciprocated the same way.

But maybe it was time to put that all behind. A new year was approaching after all.

There was a long pause before you responded.

 "To... take more risks, I guess."

Logan’s lips quirked. "Risks, huh? Like coming to a party with this crowd?"

"Sure," you said with a laugh. "Your turn."

He shook his head jokingly. “Same as you.”

Before you could press him further, Wade appeared, clapping his hands loudly. "Alright, people! Ten minutes to midnight! Time to get your New Year’s smooch plans in order. No shame in making deals, folks."

Everyone around the room had somebody close to them for the big countdown. It made you glance back at Logan. "You got a lucky someone?"

He gave you a look that made your stomach flip, but he said nothing. Instead, he took another sip of his beer, shaking his head.

A heavy sigh escaped you as you stood up, glancing around one last time. It seemed like nothing was going to change tonight. You made your way towards the kitchen, grabbing a drink to settle the quiet disappointment that had settled in your chest.

. . .

As the countdown began, the room filled with excitement. People paired off, others grabbed sparklers from a box Wade had inexplicably found, and you felt a small pang of awkwardness as you realized you didn’t have a plan for the midnight kiss. You hadn’t thought much of it; you’d figured it wasn’t a big deal.

"Ten!" Wade’s voice boomed over the music, causing the entire room to erupt into excitement. 

People cheered and clinked glasses as the countdown began in full force. You could hear the muffled echo of it coming from every direction, but your focus remained on the drink in your hand, the sudden unease gnawing at you.

"Nine!" Wade continued, getting even louder. You shifted uncomfortably, your eyes darting to the couples already pairing up, lips ready for the tradition. It was just a kiss, right? A simple tradition, nothing more. But why did it pang your heart this much?

"Eight!" 

The countdown sped on, the crowd growing louder, more energized. Your heart rate picked up in a way you couldn’t explain.

"Seven!"

 You turned your head, glancing over your shoulder to the bar, then to the group by the windows, still holding your drink. But your mind was far from the surroundings. You hadn’t planned for this, hadn’t thought much about it until now. The idea of a midnight kiss had always felt trivial before, but tonight it seemed to matter for some reason you couldn’t grasp.

"Six!" 

You looked around for something to distract you, anything to break the tension building in your chest. But as your gaze shifted around the room, you realized that Logan had somehow made his way closer to you, inching his way through the crowd, his quiet presence unnoticed by you as you remained lost in your own swirling thoughts.

"Five!" 

The countdown ticked on, but your awareness narrowed to just the space between you and Logan. You felt a presence beside you, and for a moment, you didn’t even realize it was him until you looked up—his steady, unreadable eyes meeting yours. The air felt different, and you couldn’t tell if it was just the alcohol or something else entirely.

"Four!" 

Logan’s gaze didn’t waver. You felt a flutter of nerves in your stomach, but there was a softness in his eyes that made everything else fade. The crowd continued to cheer, to count down, but all you could hear was the steady beat of your own heart, drowning out the noise.

"Three!" 

Logan's hand brushed against yours. Deliberate, yet gentle, and the contact sent a small spark racing up your arm. You couldn’t help but look at him, a question in your eyes. Was this... real? 

"Two!" 

Logan’s face was in front of you, his hand reaching up to your face, his touch warm and steady against your skin. You couldn’t breathe for a moment, your heart racing at a pace you hadn’t expected. His thumb gently brushed over your cheekbone, a tender gesture that only made everything feel more overwhelming.

The countdown faded into the background as his face inched closer. Your thoughts scrambled, but there was only one certainty you understood. The way Logan was looking at you, the way everything seemed to quiet around you. 

You didn’t pull away. You didn’t need to. For the first time that night, you felt grounded.

“One!”

The room erupted in cheers, but all you felt was Logan’s lips on yours. Warm, firm, and completely unexpected. The kiss was brief, but it lingered, a moment suspended in time.

 When you pulled back, his eyes searched yours, an expression of quiet uncertainty mingled with something more. His lips were slightly parted, as if he was trying to process the same rush of emotions you were. Neither of you spoke. You simply stood there, close enough to feel each other’s breath, the world around you seeming to slow down even further. His gaze softened, a faint, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of his lips. But he didn’t say anything—not yet.

The noise of the room swirled back into focus, but it felt distant, like a muffled backdrop to what you both were experiencing in that exact moment. Logan’s hand was still resting against your cheek. Warm, like it had always belonged there.

"Didn’t think I’d be here, doing this," Logan muttered under his breath, his eyes still locked onto yours. There was something vulnerable in his voice, and it made your heart beat faster.

Before you could respond, he let out a soft laugh, shaking his head as though trying to dismiss the weight of the moment. "Wade’s probably gonna never let us live this down," he added, the ghost of a grin curling his lips.

You couldn’t help but smile at his attempt to lighten the mood. "You don’t have to worry about him. I’ll take the blame," you said, the tension between you easing slightly.

Logan looked at you, his gaze more serious now, though there was still a glimmer of playfulness in his eyes. "I’m not so sure I mind…”

There was a pause of silence, but neither of you moved.

“Guess this is what happens when I let you talk me into things,” he said, his voice teasing but warm.

You chuckled softly, shaking your head. “I’m not complaining.”

He gave you a half-shrug, a small, hesitant smile pulling at the corner of his lips. " I’ve been thinking about this. Longer than I should’ve."

A mixture of surprise and warmth flooded through you. You could feel your cheeks flush, but the sudden honesty in his words was enough to settle the fluttering nerves in your chest.

"I’ve been thinking about it too," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper, the truth coming out more easily than you'd expected. "Longer than I realized.”

His thumb gently traced the edge of your jaw, a gesture both comforting and intimate, as he let out a smirk.

"Guess we’ve been a little slow on the uptake, huh?"

“Let’s leave that for last year.”

You smiled, a soft, genuine thing, and his gaze softened in return. Neither of you needed to say more. You were here now, standing close, hearts open in a way they hadn’t been before. And maybe that was enough.

As the noise from the crowd picked up again, people shouting and celebrating the turn of the new year, Logan leaned in a little closer, his voice just for you.

 “Happy New Year,” he murmured.

"Happy New Year," you replied softly, a small smile tugging at your lips. The rest of the world seemed to fade away again, the cheers and music just background noise.

 And you were right where you needed to be.

[fairyysoup]

the devil i know

chapter four: can't turn water into wine, never asked you to

(repost)

fic tag | fic playlist | fic masterlist

pairing(s): crossroads demon!eddie munson x fem!reader

summary: Eddie tries giving you space, but then your fucking ex shows up.

cw: animal death, trauma, depictions of physical and emotional abuse, attempted physical assault, bullying/harassment, violence, deal with a demon, inspired by american and european folklore, sacrilegious themes, dead dove: do not eat

please check masterlist and individual parts for content warnings before reading. this fic contains dark themes. this entire work is explicit. your media consumption is your own responsibility.

ALL OF MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI

You don’t see Eddie for days. And you don’t know how, you don’t know when, but he got you the promotion.

Colin mysteriously quit. Out of nowhere, he left a message with his resignation for the owner to deal with. You remember that Eddie said he visited Colin, and all the tip money he gave back to you sits in your bedside table like an omen. But you don’t know how he could have influenced you getting Colin’s promotion.

All the while, the mark on your wrist makes itself known each time you think about it. Eddie. You find yourself running your thumb over the raised scar, tracing the letters as the image of a fiery volcano sweeps through your mind. 

There’s a certain comfort to having it. Sometimes it throbs with your pulse, almost as if to let you know that he’s there, his infernal heart beating in time with yours. He’s still around, watching over you in some way, even if he isn’t lingering in your doorway or popping into your dreams. 

When you’re getting into your car for your shift, and a warm breeze rattles the leaves in the trees with the slightest scent of smoke on it. When you’re clocking in, and your name tag says manager, and the mirror over the sink in the back flashes a pair of glowing eyes back at you in your reflection. You can still sense him with a quivering in your gut that urges you to run for him, like it always does when he’s around, doing the devil’s work, wreaking havoc on your already compromised moral compass.

It’s him. He’s there. He’s looking after you, but he’s holding back. He’s waiting for you to ask for him.

You start to miss him. It hits you most when you’re at home alone, sleeping on your couch rather than your bed because you want to be there if he appears in your doorway again. Anxiety and desire flip flop in your body. It ignites something in you, makes you shiver even when your body goes hot with want. 

And of course, you’re attracted to him. Stupidly. Predictably, you guess– you’ve always liked power. You think you developed some idiotic crush on him the night you made that deal. His eyes like two glowing beacons, seeking you out in the darkness. You never felt scared of looking back into them, because he went out of his way to make you feel like you held as much power as he did. 

Of course, everything you’ve been through since the deal, and the prospect that you’re going to fuck him– because it’s not a matter of if, it’s a matter of when– makes your desire for him even worse. You feel like a new bride two days from her wedding night. The virginal maiden on her way to bed the horned god. 

Well, you’re not a virgin, but you sure fucking feel like one when you think about the prospect. And he’s not a god, but he sure feels like one to you. You’re full of raw power that he’s given you, pulsing in your veins. And now you have to lay here with it, with his presence even when you can’t see him, and it feels good.

To be completely honest, you start to look for him– peering around corners in your house, glancing at doorways and hoping that he’ll show up in one of your dreams. You don’t know how to summon him. Do you have to go out to the crossroads and cast a circle and make a petition again? Do you have to break down in tears? Or is it just as simple as saying his name?

For some reason, you don’t attempt it. You don’t want to be disappointed if you do it wrong.

Then, during one of your shifts at the diner, the mark burns hot under your skin. Just for a second. Just enough to make you jump and drop a cup you were wiping dry, shattering the mug across the kitchen floor. 

“Whoops,” you laugh, trying to play it off as just a silly little butterfingered moment. It’s a slow day, and nobody is moving particularly fast or looks like they care, but you glare down at the tile floor as you sweep up the mess. The mark hasn’t burned that hot before, not since it was given to you. Granted, you’ve only had the mark for a week, but this is the first time it’s really made you flinch.

A bell jingles over the front door. You wipe your hands on your apron and duck out of the kitchen doors to greet whoever it is– but, of course, you stop.

“Andy,” you say, your voice flat. The mark throbs obnoxiously against your wrist, bringing your awareness to it rather than the man in front of you.

A cold chuckle greets you, along with the foul stench of the fucking cologne he always douses himself in. You take one whiff, and then start breathing through your mouth before you gag; one part of you hoping he doesn’t notice and take offense, the other wishing that he would. He steps up to the bar counter, his blue eyes going beady and sharp. His brown hair, which had always had a certain unattractive chalkiness to it, is tinted almost blue in the light coming through the windows.

Andy wasn’t terrible in the beginning. Actually, he’d been really likable. Sweet, even, and charming. He had been kind, and he was smart and funny, and he laughed at your stupid jokes and he went out of his way to make you feel special. You would stay up late into the night talking for hours, seemingly never running out of things to say to each other. He told you to your face that he didn’t like bigots, and he stuck up for you when other people in town called you a ‘freak,’ or a ‘Satan worshipper,’ or what have you. You felt safe with him. Until you didn’t. 

Andy’s really good at intimidating you. It started a little too late in your relationship for you to notice the warning signs; the passive aggression, refusing to talk to or even look at you if he was mad about anything, whether it involved you or not. The denial, blaming you if you brought up how unfair he was being. Controlling your interests by getting angry and taking it as a personal affront if they didn’t line up with his own. You were just so happy that someone was willing to get close to you in this town, was willing to love you, that you overlooked all the red flags.

By the time you noticed your own behavior towards him– instinctively avoiding eye contact, being afraid to set boundaries for fear of retaliation, waiting for him to say his opinion before you shared your own so that you didn’t inadvertently disagree with him– you were convinced you were making it up. Or that it was your anxiety talking. He didn’t mean you any harm. How could he? He said he loved you.

Until he kicked you out of the apartment. Until he hit your dog with his car. It still rips your heart out when you think about it too hard– your stomach flips and you feel like vomiting. The wound is still too fresh, even six months later. Things like that don’t heal quickly, they fester and they burn and they ache until they poison you, or worse.

He left you to bury Lacey, your five year old Dachshund, in the woods on your own, sobbing and swearing you’d never forget her. And you haven’t. 

You tried. You went into the woods, under a waning moon. You bought a pig’s heart from the butcher shop, you drove three rusty nails through it. You bound it in black twine. You buried it with a picture of Andy and when you covered it with dirt, you spit on his “grave.” 

It didn’t work.

It only seemed to backfire, actually. Now, he refuses to leave you alone when you just want him gone. He comes around the diner to sit and nurse a cup of coffee for three hours, while berating you for not paying enough attention to him. You can’t imagine the thought process going through his head, if there is one at all. Maybe he thinks he’ll win you back this way, or maybe he finds it entertaining to watch you squirm. 

Ultimately, all it does is remind you of what he did to you. What he took from you. You have wrath welling up inside you, the likes of which could level cities. If only you could set it loose.

“Why haven’t you been answering my calls?” he asks you bluntly as he takes his usual seat at the bar, right by the door. He flashes you a smile that may be an attempt at charm, but it only strikes you as menacing.

“Because,” you say through your teeth, “I’ve been busy. I got promoted.” You don’t mention that you changed your number because you were sick of his long winded, drunken phone calls filling your inbox with filth.

“Good for you,” Andy says, eyeing the word manager on your name tag. Staring you down is his favorite intimidation tactic. It makes your heart lurch up into your throat. “You’re really moving up in the world, aren’t you?”

You don’t say anything. You don’t have to fucking justify yourself to him anymore. At least, that’s what you try to tell yourself when you feel yourself about to, averting your eyes. Your mind screams, ‘Look at him! Look at him!’ as though it would make any kind of a difference. It’s all rendered completely redundant with one look at his face. It won’t change how much he scares you.

Andy readjusts the cuffs of his brown leather jacket. With his tight blue jeans and motorcycle jacket, and his pin straight All-American haircut, he resembles something out of Happy Days. It’s almost as if he’s suddenly concerned with his looks. He never has been before– he’s minorly handsome and always rather plain looking, unassuming, unfussy. You counted it as a blessing, once, but now it just doesn’t lend anything good to his appearance. Andy’s just plain, and his ugliness shows on his face now, especially in his eyes. There’s nothing warm or pretty about him.

Not like Eddie .

“You know my order.” 

So, you’ve been dismissed. You turn away and disappear into the kitchen, and let out a long breath. Eastwick is a tiny town, boasting only a couple thousand people at the most. Your diner is on the main drag, and people around here don’t like to linger when you’re on shift. Of course, Andy would be the only customer you get at this time on a Monday, but that’s because he supposedly knows you better than most.

If only he knew.

Your wrist throbs. Your head is whirling a mile a minute, There’s a migraine coming on, you can feel it at the base of your skull. 

While your shaking hand holds his cup of coffee, your vision blurs, and you accept that you must be having a panic attack. The lights are too bright, the smells are too strong, everything is too loud and you can feel yourself vibrating from your fight or flight response, all your adrenaline pumping into your limbs. Your fingers clutch at the burning cup of coffee in your hands and zero in on that sensation rather than anything else. 

Oddly, you find some comfort in it. It reminds you of Eddie. His touch. The fire in his eyes.

You’re so strong. Just look at what you can do.

You jump at the sound of Eddie’s voice in your ears, almost as if he’s standing right behind you, whispering to you. Your eyes refocus on the ceramic cup in your hands. The liquid inside it is boiling. It bubbles over onto your fingers, but somehow, you don’t feel it.

“Holy shit,” you whisper, setting the cup down onto the coffee station. The bubbles recede. The coffee steams, but settles into the cup. 

Fingers twitching, you glance around to make sure nobody else in the kitchen noticed what just happened. Satisfied that no one is looking, you reach forward and wrap your hand around the cup again.

The bubbles start again as the coffee rapidly begins to boil. 

“Shit, shit, shit–” You hold your hands out, examining your palms. There’s nothing that seems wrong, no hellfire emitting from your fingers. Nothing to suggest that you’re making things inexplicably boil with your touch, just a semi-warm feeling beneath your skin.

You stand in place, trying to decide the best thing to do. If you touch the door, is it going to go up in flames? Or are you only able to make things boil? Are you going to burn the entire place down? You’ll be collecting your final paycheck written in ash, because all the pencils have been scorched to a crisp. And everyone in town will continue to talk about the witch who burned down the Eastwick diner, just like everything else they’ve accused you of for years. 

“Can it, um–” You frown, trying to figure out how exactly to make your hands stop being weapons of mass destruction. “Can we just not do that, right now?” 

Fine.

You tentatively reach out and touch the cup. Nothing happens. 

You sigh in relief and feel like a massive weight has been lifted from your shoulders. You aren’t nearly as nervous as you were before. Apparently, having your hands magically turn into bunsen burners will kill a panic attack in five seconds flat. 

You collect the cup of now burnt coffee and the dish of creamer and sugar packets. Best to just move on, behave like normal, right? Your hands definitely didn’t just boil something on their own. You’re definitely a normal person with normal connections to the great beyond. You definitely don’t have a demon telepathically communicating with you, somehow.

You slide the dish and coffee in front of Andy, still refusing to look at him. “Careful, it’s very hot.”

“Yeah, it’s coffee.” There’s a sour note to his voice to let you know that he’s annoyed. He’s always annoyed with you.

You turn to leave, but a hand grabs your arm roughly. You breathe in the sour stench of his vinegary cologne, and you really do gag this time. It reminds you of toxic waste and rot. “Andy, what–?”

“What the fuck is this?” Andy yanks your arm across the counter, staring down at your wrist. Fuck. “You seeing someone? You got a new boyfriend?”

Yes. “No, I–” It’s complicated.

“Who the fuck is Eddie?” Andy spits, squeezing your arm a little harder. You whimper, your heart hammering in your chest. His voice is cold, growling at you with anger and disgust. “You let him carve his fuckin’ name into your skin?”

“It’s–” None of your fucking business. “That’s not what it is.”

“Yeah?” Andy snarls, his rough hand pulling you closer. “You just let any random guy carve his name into you like that? You fuckin’ freak?”

Does that look like it was carved, dipshit?

You try to yank your wrist out of Andy’s hold, but it’s too strong. You try to keep your voice down so that you don’t attract any undue attention from the back. “Andy, stop–”

“What if I do that, huh?” Andy’s other hand comes up over the counter, and he flicks open a pocket knife. The blade is tarnished and old, but no less sharp. You remember watching him throw it at a dart board more than once. His smile mocks you. “Think it won’t mean shit if I do that?” 

Burn him.

Your heart pounds so hard you can hear it in your ears, your hands shaking. Andy presses his knife into your wrist, over Eddie’s mark, until blood wells on the surface of your skin.

BURN HIM.

You wrap your hand around Andy’s forearm, trying to pry him away from your own wrist. There’s a sizzling noise, a smell of burnt hair and skin– and then, Andy screams. 

He flies back off of the bar stool, clutching his wounded arm, while you try to scramble away from him. Leaning back against a wine cabinet, you pull your aching wrist protectively toward your chest. 

Good girl.

Andy’s arm has your handprint burned into it. He whirls on you with wild eyes. “What did you do to me, you– you witch?”  

Two of your coworkers burst through the door to the kitchen. So much for not attracting attention. Raoul, one of the line cooks, looks at you for direction of some kind.

“Raoul, please show Andy out of the diner,” you say with as much confidence and authority as you can muster, even though your voice still trembles. “He isn’t allowed back.”

“Oh, fuck you.” 

Raoul starts ushering him out, a large hand clapped onto Andy’s shoulder as he gruffly announces, “If I see you back here, I’ll have you arrested for trespassing.”

“This isn’t over! I should have known they were right about you. They were all right about you,” Andy spits. “Stupid fucking bitch.”

Seething, you look down at your wrist. There’s a horizontal line cut across Eddie’s name. It makes you angry. Positively fucking livid. The most possessive part of your soul rears up, making your heart ache to see his mark defaced in any way. 

He’s yours as much as you’re his. The contract said so. 

You raise your eyes, and you look at Andy through the front window of the diner. Directly at him. He’s glaring back at you, and this time, you don’t avert your eyes. You don’t look away. Not when the glass on the windows starts to shake, almost imperceptibly. Not even when Andy flips you off, and throws open his car door.

And the car explodes. Flames erupt from the undercarriage, throwing the entire thing into the air for a second. Shrapnel flies, glass bursts from the windows of the car. You don’t see where Andy goes. There’s nothing but a great plume of fire in the air, a loud KABOOM that rocks the ground.

A few of your coworkers scream. Raoul instinctively guides you to duck under the counter, but the car is too far away from the building for that to make any kind of a difference.

You lift your head to look over the counter, at the blazing remains of Andy’s car exhaling smoke into the air. Your thumb runs protectively across Eddie’s name on your wrist.

When you look down at it, the cut that Andy made across it is gone.

[omgthatdress]

What would you consider really creative bdsm fashion as opposed to just phoning it in with elements that a normie like me would recognize, like collars and whips and stuff? Would those elements still be there? And is there a designer who you predict would really nail the concept?

oh god, I don't know! that's just it, I'm not a designer! If you want to see what the latest in fetish wear is, for real, just google "fetish wear" and a lot of indie brands will pop up.

But that's also the fun thing about fetishes: everything is a fetish! You can wear a plain black tux and your bare feet on the red carpet and it'd 100% be on theme. Actually that would be fucking cunt.

A while ago, I did a long, educational kink in fashion spam, and I have it all tagged so you can go look at it.

and honestly at this point it's what major brand HASN'T dabbled in fetish? Like I said, it's not for lack of it on the runway!

[iamquiantrelle]

PLAYING FOR KEEPS (chapter 3)──────iamquaintrelle

⌗ pairing : jules koundé x black oc

⌗ tags : @irishmanwhore @lettersofgold @deonn-jaelle @sucredreamer @greedyjudge2 @f1-football-fiend @2serenity0 @peyiswriting @coffeevacation @sunfairyy @muglermami @bbgkoo @127hydrangeas @enretrogue @cranberryjulce @julescpu @kj77 @hopefulromantic1

⌗ summary : jules is focused on himself — no girlfriend, no drama — but now he seems to have both after pictures of him having fun at a friend's house party shows up in tabloids, and now fashion houses are calling for him? and his agent wants him to keep up this charade? ♡ masterlist. (✨💕)

The Louis Vuitton store at Galeries Lafayette felt different after Barcelona. Mila adjusted her outfit - a reconstructed piece from the latest collection that she'd modified into something actually wearable, turning the denim monogram print jacket into a crop with strategic cutouts and pairing it with the matching denim pants. Let the brand try to complain now that she was trending.

The weekend had been surreal. Jules was different behind closed doors - quieter, funnier, weirdly good at card games. They'd fallen into an easy rhythm of morning workouts and late-night conversations. Their "couple content" had been effortless - coffee runs, lunches, and one particularly viral video of them arguing about his sneaker collection that had their comments flooded with heart eyes.

Less than a day back in Paris and the gossip blogs were wild. The "blind items" about her were getting ridiculous - she was a secret heiress, an undercover model, a plant from a rival team to distract Jules before his big match this weekend. Everyone was speculating if she'd show up to support him. His ex was still watching every single story despite unfollowing her, which was giving obsessed ex-girlfriend energy. Even Jules had noticed.

The ex situation was getting weirder by the hour, however. Not only was she watching stories, but her friends were now popping up in Mila's DMs trying to be subtle about fishing for information. Some fashion blogs had done a whole comparison post of their styles, trying to find similarities in what Jules was "attracted" to. The internet really had too much time on their hands.

"they're saying you're an heiress now?" his text lit up her phone.

"apparently I'm rich and mysterious," she replied. "try to keep up with your fake girlfriend's backstory."

Jules (Da Boo): guess that explains the expensive taste.

LV’s Meanest Stylist: please, you like that I'm high maintenance.

"Mila, your one o'clock is here," her coworker called out.

She looked up to find Levi Colwill already reaching for the monogram duffle that every footballer seemed to own. Even Jules had one, though she'd bullied him into the limited edition version. Levi was exactly what you'd expect from a young defender - tall, built like a Greek god, designer sweatsuit. His style was still in that new-money footballer phase, like he was buying everything with a visible logo just because he could.

"Is it true you're dating Koundé?"

"That's what the internet says." She moved to help him, already pulling better options. These boys were too predictable.

"Jules' girl, huh?" He was examining a wallet now. "Man's been different lately. Actually smiling at training."

"Are you here to shop or gossip?" She texted Jules while Levi glanced at various pieces: "your boy Colwill is fishing for tea."

"Both, actually," he said, his hands landing back to that Godforsaken duffle.

Jules replied instantly: "tell him to focus on his own love life."

"Not falling for it," she told Levi, who was definitely trying to get more details. "But you are falling for that basic duffle, which is honestly worse."

Her phone buzzed again. Jules: "he's probably gonna pull game on you 😂"

LV’s Meanest Stylist: oh? interesting. and look who’s texting me a lot. missing me already?

Jules (Da Boo): whatever. 🙄 i’m just making sure you hadn't exposed my skincare routine to your followers.

Levi pulled on a jacket that actually worked. "So about Jules..."

"So about this jacket," she countered, adjusting the sleeve. "Much better than that duffle you were eyeing. Unless you want to twin with every other footballer in Paris?"

"Including Jules?"

"You're really committed to this gossip mission, huh?" She pulled out a few more pieces for him to try on. "Did your teammates send you to investigate?"

"Maybe." Levi grinned, caught out. "They've got a betting pool going about whether you'll show up to his match this weekend."

Another text from Jules: "please tell me you didn't let him buy that basic duffle."

"give me some credit," she typed back. "already got him into the new collection. Chelsea boys are nosy af btw."

"What's the betting pool up to?" she asked Levi, who was now actually paying attention to the pieces she'd selected.

"Enough to make it worth telling me if you're coming to the match."

"Nice try." She started ringing up his purchases - none of which included that tragic duffle. "But I don't leak information to the opposition."

Her phone lit up again.

Jules (Da Boo): "they're really out here trying to spy on my love life through luxury shopping."

LV’s Meanest Stylist: don't worry babe, your secrets are safe with your fake girlfriend 😘

*******************************************

Lunch had been a sad salad affair while catching up on a week's worth of client emails. Her coworkers kept "casually" dropping by her station, fishing for details about Barcelona. The store's security had to turn away three different paparazzi trying to get shots of "Jules Koundé's girlfriend at work."

"Mila. Office. Now."

Her manager, Philippe, was wearing his serious face - the one he usually saved for customers who tried to return obviously fake bags. She followed him in, already counting the sales numbers in her head from the past week.

He stared at her reconstructed jacket first, mouth twitching like he wanted to start there. But apparently bigger issues were on his mind.

"Corporate called about your situation with Koundé."

"Is there a problem?"

"They're thrilled actually." He sounded like this physically pained him. "Sales are up. Social media engagement is through the roof."

"That's good, right?"

"It's..." he shuffled some papers on his desk, "unexpected. But I need you to remember this is still Louis Vuitton. We have standards to maintain."

Mila bit back a smile. "Of course."

"Just because corporate is excited about your... personal life going viral—"

"Our numbers have doubled since last week."

"Still." He straightened his tie. "Try to keep some separation between work and your... relationship."

She thought about the five influencers yesterday who'd bought everything she'd worn in stories with Jules. About the waitlist growing for pieces she'd reconstructed. "Absolutely. Totally separate."

The Metro was packed on her way home to the 11th. Her head stylist salary meant she could afford a decent spot near Bastille, even if it came with a third-floor walk-up. Two people definitely recognized her - she caught them trying to sneak photos.

Another buzz of her phone - a text from Jules: "eaten yet?"

LV’s Meanest Stylist: had a little something, but i had a fun meeting with philippe today.

Jules (Da Boo): your manager still mad about the sales boost?

LV’s Meanest Stylist: more like mad that corporate loves it. he had to pretend to be happy while telling me to keep things professional.

Jules (Da Boo): he’s a big hater 😆

She started the climb up to her apartment, cursing Paris's hatred of elevators. At least her place was still normal. Small, full of fabric scraps and design sketches, absolutely nothing like Jules' minimalist palace in Barcelona. The couch was covered in reconstructed pieces she'd been working on before this whole fake dating circus started.

Now, sprawled on her couch in leggings and an oversized t-shirt, Mila scrolled through an endless stream of notifications. Her tiny apartment was her sanctuary - the view wasn't much, just a typical Parisian courtyard, but it was still decent.

Her phone rung with a FaceTime request from Jules.

He was stretched out on his couch too, locs falling perfectly around his face like he was in some kind of high fashion editorial. The golden hour light in Barcelona hitting all his facial features just right.

"You look comfortable," he said, taking in her current state.

"You look like you're posing for Vogue." She propped her phone against a pile of sketches. "Bruno's influence?"

"Please. This is natural talent." He shifted, and she caught glimpse of his own off-duty fit - simple white tank that showed off exactly why footballers could charge so much for sponsored posts. "Bruno's been blowing up my phone about the Young Boys match."

"Here we go."

"The whole internet's speculating if you'll be there."

"The whole internet still needs to mind their business."

"It's an easy game," he pressed. "Perfect timing too, right after the gala."

"Watching you play against Swiss teams wasn't part of the deal."

"No, but making our fake relationship look real was." His smile was unfair through the phone screen. "What's more real than supporting your man at work?"

"My man?" She raised an eyebrow. "Getting extremely comfortable with the role, aren't you?"

"Method acting. Very serious about my craft." He sat up slightly, tank shifting in ways she refused to notice. "Come on. I'll even let you roast my warm-up kit."

"Let me? Like you could stop me." But she was smiling now. "I'll think about it."

"That's not a no."

"It's not a yes either." Mila shifted through her sketches. "Some of us have actual work to do, unlike certain footballers who just kick balls for a living."

"Says the girl who spends her day telling rich people their bags are fake."

"Someone has to maintain standards." She held up a sketch to the camera. "Like these gala fits I'm working on. Your usual style choices can't be trusted for our first official appearance."

"My style choices brought you into my life, didn't they?"

"Your tragic style choices gave me content for my blog." But she was grinning. "Now they're giving me gray hairs."

Jules adjusted his position. "The internet thinks you're my personal stylist now."

"The internet thinks I'm everything from an heiress to a spy." She started pinning fabric samples to her sketches. "Your ex's friends are still in my DMs by the way."

"Still?"

"Mhmm. Very interested in our weekend activities." She glanced at him through the screen. "Your ex must be devastated that you upgraded."

"Upgraded to someone who bullies me about my shoes?"

"Upgraded to someone who saves you from yourself." She paused. "Also your ex's style is basic. All Gucci everything? In 2024?"

Jules laughed, the sound doing things to her stomach. "You really have opinions about everyone's fashion choices."

"Only the bad ones." She switched cameras to show him her work table. "These are coming together though. The gala won't know what hit them."

"Bruno's going to have opinions."

"Bruno's going to deal with it. I'm not showing up in straight-off-the-rack anything." She flipped the camera back. "Plus, you like when I reconstruct pieces."

"I like when you're not roasting me."

"Lies. You live for my commentary." She caught his smile through the screen. "Your teammates confirmed it."

"My teammates need to mind their business too." He ran a hand through his locs. "Though if you came to the match, you could tell them yourself."

"Smooth transition back to that topic."

"I'm persistent." His eyes caught hers through the screen. "Come watch me play. I'll score for you."

"Bold promise for someone who plays defense."

"You've been studying football?"

"I've been studying you." The words slipped out before she could catch them.

The silence held for a beat too long, charged with something neither of them was ready to name.

"More market research for your role?" His voice was lower now.

"Method acting. Very serious about my craft." She threw his words back at him.

Another silence, heavy with possibilities they weren't supposed to be considering.

"Your ex is really getting on my nerves though," she said finally, breaking whatever moment was building.

"You're obsessed with my ex."

"Your ex is obsessed with me. I'm just taking notes." She shifted some fabric around. "Did she always watch this many stories?"

"Never dated anyone who posted enough to find out."

"So I'm special?"

"You're something." His smile was soft now. Different from his Instagram version.

Mila's phone buzzed with another notification. Probably Bruno with more gala details. Or another gossip blog with theories about their relationship. Or Philippe with more concerns about professionalism.

"You should sleep," she said, noting the darkening sky in Barcelona. "Early training tomorrow."

"You should say yes to the match."

"You should stop pushing your luck."

"Never." He adjusted his position again, all casual grace. "Think about it though? For real?"

"Go to sleep, Jules."

"That's still not a no."

She ended the call before he could see her smile. Her phone immediately lit up with a text from him: "sweet dreams, fake girlfriend 😘"

"don't make me block you," she sent back.

"you'd miss my tragic style choices."

She looked at her sketches for their gala outfits, then at the pile of notifications about the upcoming match. This fake relationship was getting dangerously comfortable.

Her phone buzzed one more time: "also I'm wearing those Balenciagas you hate tomorrow just to spite you"

Maybe comfortable wasn't the right word.

Mila ignored how her cheeks hurt from smiling too much. Her phone kept lighting up with his texts, each one more deliberately annoying than the last. She'd created a monster with all this fashion commentary.

The Barcelona charity gala proved exactly why she was right about their outfits. Her reconstructed LV pieces turned heads the moment they walked in - Jules in a sleek black suit with monogram details that only showed when he moved, her in a dress that made Vogue write a whole article about "the future of luxury reconstruction." The venue was stunning, all high ceilings and modern art, filled with football royalty trying their best at black tie fashion.

Bruno nearly had an aneurysm when they first arrived, but even he had to admit they'd stolen the show. Jules kept his hand on her lower back all night, leaning in to whisper commentary about his teammates' attempts at formal wear. They played their roles perfectly - the fashion-forward power couple, the defender and his brutally honest stylist. Every fashion house in attendance had someone slip her a business card. By the end of the night, no one remembered it was supposed to be fake.

Which is probably how she ended up here the very next day, at the Camp Nou, wearing a vintage Barcelona jersey Jules had "casually" sent her along with a limited edition LV bag she definitely wasn't supposed to have access to yet. She'd paired it with an LV skort and burgundy leather trench, because if she had to do team colors, she'd do them her way. The bag was just gilding the lily, but it worked. Of course it worked.

The stadium was massive, nothing like watching matches on TV. Her seat was in the VIP section, surrounded by other WAGs who definitely hadn't expected Louis Vuitton's meanest stylist to show up in team merch and thigh-high boots. But Jules had texted her that morning: "wear the jersey. it'll drive everyone crazy."

He wasn't wrong.

The WAG section was full of whispers and not-so-subtle photos of her outfit. Jules hadn't seen her yet - they were warming up on the pitch, all focus and match-day energy.

The match kicked off and suddenly Mila understood why people lost their minds over this sport. On TV, she could barely track Jules. Here, she couldn't take her eyes off him. The way he read the game, anticipated plays, and moved with precision reminded her of the careful way she arranged his closet after reorganizing it.

Young Boys scored first - some lucky break that had the crowd holding its breath. But then Barcelona's attack kicked in, and suddenly it was raining goals. 5-2 didn't even tell the whole story. Jules had been everywhere, breaking up plays, starting counterattacks.

"Your boy's having a game," some WAG next to her said after Jules made a particularly clean tackle. Mila just smiled, and then noticed that his socks were slightly different lengths.

The final whistle brought chaos - good chaos, victory chaos. The kind that had everyone in the VIP section heading for the family area, designer bags swinging. Mila followed the crowd, her new LV bag probably the only one that wasn't actually out yet.

She spotted him before he saw her. Fresh from the showers, locs still damp, wearing the team's post-match tracksuit that somehow didn't look tragic on him. He was talking to someone with a camera - probably post-match interviews.

Then he caught sight of her.

The way his face lit up wasn't for the cameras. Neither was the way he broke off mid-sentence to walk toward her, but the way he pulled her close, pressing a kiss to her cheek? That was definitely for show.

Except his lips lingered a beat too long, and his hand on her waist felt a little too natural, and maybe some of this wasn't entirely for the cameras anymore.

"You came," he murmured against her ear.

"You bribed me with unreleased merchandise." She kept her smile camera-ready. "Very unethical of you."

"Says the girl wearing my jersey."

"Your vintage jersey. There's a difference."

His laugh was genuine, even if their pose was practiced. Cameras clicked around them, probably catching what looked like an intimate moment between Barcelona's star defender and his fashion-forward girlfriend.

"The socks were uneven," she told him, just to maintain their dynamic.

"You actually watched my feet?"

"Of course I did."

He pulled back just enough to look at her, that smile that wasn't for Instagram making her stomach do things it definitely shouldn't. "Dinner? Team's celebrating but we could—"

"Go with your team." She adjusted his hoodie, knowing the cameras would eat it up. "I have an early flight anyway."

"Stay." His voice was low, just for her. "I'll make it worth your while."

"Another bag?"

"Better." His grin was dangerous. "I'll let you plan my outfits for the week."

She laughed despite herself. "Tempting, but I have a job to get back to."

More players were filing into the family area now, some with kids, others with WAGs who definitely noticed Mila's not-yet-released bag. Jules kept his hand on her waist, thumb tracing small circles that the cameras couldn't see.

"You're coming to the next one, right?" he asked as they posed for another photo.

"Don't push your luck."

But they both knew she would. Just like they both knew this was slowly starting to feel less and less fake with every camera flash, every casual touch, every smile that wasn't quite acting anymore.

"Your car's here," he said, checking his phone. "I had Bruno arrange it."

"Always taking care of your fake girlfriend."

"Only the best for Louis Vuitton's meanest stylist."

She reached up to fix his hair, a gesture that looked intimate to observers but was really just her being annoyed at how it was falling. "Go celebrate with your team. Try not to let them dress you for the club."

"You could come make sure they don't."

"Goodnight, Jules."

His kiss on her cheek this time wasn't for the cameras at all. "Text me when you land?"

She waved him off, already planning what she'd say about his uneven socks in their next FaceTime call. The cameras followed her exit, catching what probably looked like a perfect football couple moment.

Her phone buzzed before she even reached the car: "the socks were uneven on purpose. knew you'd notice."

She smiled despite herself. This fake relationship was slowly getting dangerous.

****************************

Mila's post from the match had over 100K likes by the time she got to work the next morning. The comments were a mess: "THE WAY HE LOOKS AT HER 😭" "notice how she styled the jersey tho? queen behavior" "that bag isn't even out yet omg the power" "they're actually perfect???"

Jules hadn't helped, reposting her story at the stadium with "merci d'être venue, chérie 🖤❤️" Like he hadn't basically bribed her with that unreleased bag. His teammates had jumped in too, commenting about how he couldn't stop smiling at training.

"Your match photos are trending," Philippe said instead of good morning. "Corporate wants to discuss your social media strategy."

"Corporate loves my social media strategy." She hung her trench on her office door. "The waiting list for my section is three months long now."

Her phone buzzed - Jules had posted a picture from the gala. She looked good, obviously, but it was the way he was looking at her in the photo that had her mentions exploding. The internet was having a field day analyzing their "couple style."

Another text from Jules: "bruno says we're doing too well. wants us to have a public fight to seem more realistic."

LV's Meanest Stylist: your sock choices are horrible.

Jules (Da Boo): that's not the kind of fight he meant

She bit back a smile. Her coworkers were already too invested in their "relationship" - no need to feed the gossip by grinning at her phone all day.

The store was chaos. After her appearance at the Barcelona match, suddenly everyone wanted Mila's opinion on everything. Three influencers tried to book private shopping sessions. Two footballers' wives came in specifically asking for "something like what Jules' girlfriend wears."

"Miss Lawrence, your two o'clock is here," her assistant called out. She'd never had an assistant before the McDonald's photo and now apparently she was hired a couple days ago.

Jules texted between her appointments: "training done. thinking about that kiss" LV's Meanest Stylist: it was on the cheek Jules (Da Boo): still thinking about it

She didn't have time to analyze that. A Saudi princess wanted her entire collection reconstructed. Two fashion houses had left messages about collaboration opportunities. Her phone wouldn't stop buzzing with notifications about her latest photos with Jules.

"hungry? we can facetime..." his text came through around four.

LV's Meanest Stylist: too busy. some of us work for a living. Jules (Da Boo): kicking balls is work 😤 LV's Meanest Stylist: sure it is, babe.

By closing, she was dead on her feet. The rain had started, turning Paris into a blur of lights and wet streets. She dug her umbrella out of her bag, checking her notifications one last time before heading towards the Metro.

That's when she saw it. A DM notification from Siobhan. Jules' ex.

What the fuck is this?

The Metro was packed with the usual post-work crowd, everyone dripping from the rain. Mila tapped her card at the turnstile, eyes fixed on her screen. After two weeks of watching her stories, viewing her posts, having her friends fish for information, Siobhan had finally made a direct move.

The message sat there, deceptively casual: "We should talk. Girl to girl."

Mila's thumb hovered over it as she descended to the platform. She'd seen enough photos of Siobhan to get why people made the comparisons - they had similar features, both brown-skinned beauties with good style, though Siobhan's aesthetic leaned more luxury influencer than fashion critic. The kind of girl who watched her ex's new girlfriend's every move.

Like the fucking weirdo she was...

Her phone buzzed with a text from Jules: "you've gone quiet. tired from all that actual work? 😏"

The unread DM from Siobhan sat there like a challenge. There were a hundred ways this could go wrong. A hundred reasons to ignore it. But Mila hadn't gotten where she was by playing it safe.

She clicked on the message, marking it as read. Time to see what Jules' ex really wanted.

Mila leaned against a pillar on the platform, watching her train's arrival time tick down. No point rushing to respond. Let Jules' ex sit with that read receipt for a minute.

Three dots appeared. Another message: "I know you saw this."

"did you need something?" Mila typed back, channeling her best 'dealing with difficult customers' energy.

@/siobhan_rchm: Just wanted to chat about Jules. Girl to girl.

"Mm." Mila grumbled, watching the dots appear and disappear for a beat before responding. "about what specifically? his uneven socks at the match? the way he organizes his sneakers? his skincare routine?"

A pause. Then: "You think you're cute."

"i know i am. was there something else?"

The train rumbled into the station. Mila stepped on, finding a spot to stand near the door. Her phone buzzed again.

@/siobhan_rchm: Just wanted to warn you about him.

"warn me that he has terrible taste in exes? already figured that out."

More angry dots. Mila smiled to herself. She could do this all day.

@/siobhan_rchm: You don't know him like I do."

"you're right. I actually let him dress himself occasionally."

The train lurched between stations. Siobhan was typing again.

@/siobhan_rchm: He's not as perfect as you think.

"never said he was perfect. his sock choices prove that."

@/siobhan_rchm: I'm trying to be serious.

"and I'm trying to commute. is there a point to this?"

Three dots. Delete. Three dots again. Mila switched to her chat with Jules: "your ex is sliding into my DMs"

His response was instant: "siobhan??"

"unless you have another ex I should know about?"

Back to Siobhan's message: "You think this is all a game but he'll do the same thing to you. Get bored. Move on."

"like posting thirst traps and watching my stories obsessively? that kind of bored?"

@/siobhan_rchm: You don't know what you're talking about.

"and you don't know when to move on. sad either way."

@/siobhan_rchm: Just remember I warned you. When he—"

Mila hit the block button before reading the rest. Some entertainment wasn't worth the effort.

Jules (Da Boo): what's she saying?

LV's Meanest Stylist: nothing worth repeating. your taste before me was questionable.

Jules (Da Boo): says the girl who dragged my sock choices at the match 😒

LV's Meanest Stylist: someone had to. even siobhan agreed about the socks

Jules (Da Boo): you did NOT talk about my socks with my ex

LV's Meanest Stylist: what can I say? it's the only thing we have in common.

The train ride felt longer than usual, Mila's mind stuck on Siobhan's messages. The night crowd was starting to fill the Metro - tourists heading to dinner, students with their backpacks, the usual mix of Paris after dark. She got off at her stop, umbrella ready for the rain that was still coming down.

The walk from the station to her building was quick but just long enough to get properly soaked despite the umbrella. Water dripped from the edges of her trench as she dug out her keys. At least her new LV bag was water resistant - perks of having the unreleased collection.

"I'm sorry about her," Jules texted as Mila climbed the stairs to her apartment. "Let me make it up to you?"

LV's Meanest Stylist: with another unreleased bag?

Jules (Da Boo): better. dinner in barcelona this weekend?

Mila paused on the second floor landing. "you want me to fly out for dinner?"

Jules (Da Boo): i know this place you'd love. very exclusive, very—

LV's Meanest Stylist: very in Barcelona when you could just come to Paris.

Jules (Da Boo): I have training...

LV's Meanest Stylist: and I have a job. a real one. none of that kick the ball bs.

Jules (Da Boo): next weekend then? I'll book Le Jules Verne.

LV's Meanest Stylist: now you're just showing off.

Jules (Da Boo): is it working?

She pushed open her apartment door, dropping her umbrella in the stand. "maybe. but you're still coming to Paris."

Jules (Da Boo): high maintenance.

LV's Meanest Stylist: you knew that when you fake chose me.

A pause, then: "about that..."

Her phone lit up with Jules' incoming call. Not a text this time. That was different.

"Calling to apologize properly?" she answered, kicking off her shoes.

"About what Siobhan said—"

"Already forgotten. Like I just did with her on Instagram."

"You blocked her?"

"Should've done it two weeks ago when she first started creeping." Mila dropped onto her couch. "Why? Want me to unblock your ex?"

"No," he said quickly. "No, it's just... look, about this whole fake thing—"

"Don't tell me you're catching feelings," she kept her voice light, teasing. "All it took was one match attendance?"

But Jules was quiet for a moment too long. The kind of quiet that made her stomach do things it shouldn't.

"Nah..." He scoffed, but something in his voice wasn't quite right. "Never that."

"Good. Wouldn't want this arrangement getting messy."

"Please. I have standards."

"You have those ugly ass Balenciaga crocs."

"We agreed never to speak of those again." The weird tension dissipated, back to their usual rhythm. "So about Paris next weekend..."

"You're really trying to get out of coming here, huh?"

"I just think Barcelona has better restaurants."

"Barcelona has you wrapped around Bruno's PR finger."

His laugh echoed through the phone. "You're actually impossible."

"Part of my charm."

"Besides," Jules said after a moment, "if I come to Paris, you'll make me carry your shopping bags again."

"That's literally what fake boyfriends are for."

"Thought it was for the Instagram engagement."

"That too." She kicked off her heels, settling deeper into her couch. "Though your ex might have opinions about that."

"Can we not talk about Siobhan?"

"Why? Worried she'll tell me all your secrets?"

"You already know all my secrets. You reorganized my closet."

"True. The real skeleton was that sneaker collection and those goddamn socks."

He made a noise of protest. "You're really never going to let that go?"

"Never."

"The socks were a choice."

"A bad one." She paused, then: "Like dating Siobhan?"

"Low blow."

"Someone had to say it."

Another silence, but different this time. She could almost see him running his hand through his locs, the way he did when he was thinking too hard.

"You really blocked her?" he asked finally.

"Should I not have?"

"No, it's... good. It's good."

More weight in those words than there should have been. This conversation was veering too close to something neither of them was ready to name.

"You really have these girls losing their minds," Mila said. "Between Siobhan and your fan pages..."

"Too much BDE. They can't handle it."

She rolled her eyes so hard it probably translated through the phone. "It's not that big," she muttered, mostly to herself.

But of course he caught it. "You can always find out."

"Never."

"Never say never." His voice was all smugness and suggestion.

Mila ignored the way her stomach flipped at his tone. This was exactly the kind of territory they didn't need to explore. Even if his voice was doing things to her that it absolutely shouldn't.

"I'll make a reservation for our dinner next weekend." Back to that practiced confidence.

"Whatever. Bye." She hung up before he could say anything else dangerous.

Her phone lit up immediately with his text: "bonne nuit, chérie ❤️"

She stared at that heart emoji longer than she'd ever admit to anyone.

A week later, Mila's Uber pulled up to the Eiffel Tower. She'd gone with a Dior slip dress because why not, paired with Aquazzura white slingbacks and a beige trench. The kind of outfit that said 'yes, I'm dating a footballer, but I dressed like this before him.'

Le Jules Verne was exactly what you'd expect from a Michelin-starred restaurant in the Eiffel Tower - all understated luxury and views that made even Paris locals pause. The kind of place where no one cared who you were because everyone was someone.

Jules was already at their table, standing as she approached. The bouquet in his hands was ridiculous - white roses and peonies, probably cost more than the dinner would.

"Ah, you shouldn't have," she said, accepting his hug.

"What kind of fake boyfriend would I be?" he murmured against her ear.

"But you really shouldn't have." She pulled back, taking off her trench coat. "They're gonna die in like two days. I have a brown thumb."

Jules pulled out her chair - unnecessarily gallant for a fake date. "You look nice."

"Just nice?" Mila arranged her dress. "You flew to Paris for 'nice'?"

"Beautiful. Stunning. Better?"

"Now you're trying too hard." But she was smiling. "Speaking of trying too hard, that fit is actually decent. Did you dress yourself?"

"Funny." He settled across from her. "But no. Someone reorganized my closet with very specific instructions."

The sommelier appeared with champagne they hadn't ordered. "Compliments of the house."

"The perks of dating a footballer." Mila raised her glass. "Even if it's fake."

"About that…" Jules started, but their server arrived with menus and a long explanation about the night's specials.

"The chef has prepared something special," the server finished.

"Of course he has." Mila caught Jules' eye over her glass. "More perks?"

"Bruno's influence, actually. He has opinions about our first Paris date."

"Opinions about everything except your sock choices."

"Are you ever going to let that go?"

"Never." She studied the menu. "Like I'll never let go of those Balenciaga crocs."

"I told Siobhan to leave us alone," Jules said between sips of champagne. "Well, technically I told her to leave you alone."

Mila shook her head, more intrigued than annoyed. "Your dick must cure diseases."

Jules choked on his champagne, actually coughed.

"You keep talking about my dick like you want to try it." He settled back in his chair, legs spreading, all casual like he'd practiced this move. "Just say the word and we can—"

"I'm gonna stop you there, buddy." She held up her hand. "I'm just saying these girls are acting like your dick cures diseases, is all. No one is thinking about taking a ride on that thing." She said 'thing' like it personally offended her.

Jules just watched her, that smile that said he saw right through her act. "Mmhm."

Their waiter appeared once more, ready to take their order, saving them both from whatever was about to happen next.

"The lamb," Jules told the waiter. "And she'll have—"

"I can order for myself," Mila cut in. "The fish, please."

The waiter disappeared with their menus and Jules' amused smirk. The restaurant buzzed around them, that particular energy of expensive meals and important conversations.

"So," Mila swirled her champagne. "How's training?"

"How's telling rich people how to dress?"

"Deflecting already? Did Siobhan shake you that bad?"

Jules leaned back in his chair. "Just looking out for my fake girlfriend."

"By making your ex block me on everything?" She raised an eyebrow. "I saw her Instagram's gone private too."

"Had to maintain our image."

"Our image needs that much maintenance?"

"Bruno's words, not mine." He took another sip of champagne. "Though the flowers were my idea."

"Ah yes, the dying flowers. Very thoughtful."

The first course arrived - something fancy with foam. Jules watched her taste it, that same look he had when she'd criticized his sneaker collection.

"You're staring."

"You have…" He gestured to her lip.

She wiped at nothing, knowing he was just messing with her. "Very mature." Mila sampled more of whatever was on her plate. "This is actually good."

"Better than McDonald's at two in the morning?"

"Nothing's better than that." She caught his smile. "Though this view comes close."

"Paris showing off for us."

"For you, maybe. I live here."

"And yet you've never been to Jules Verne before."

"Some of us don't make footballer money." She set down her fork. "Speaking of money, how much did you have to pay Siobhan to back off?"

"Just my eternal soul and first-born child."

"Reasonable price."

The main course appeared - her fish arranged like art, his lamb perfectly cooked. The waiter poured wine that definitely wasn't on the regular menu.

"Bruno's going to love the bill from this," Mila noted.

"Worth it for the content." Jules cut into his lamb. "Though we could give him better content."

"If you're about to suggest something inappropriate—"

"Just saying, the whole 'will they, won't they' thing is working for our engagement numbers."

Mila pointed her fork at him. "No one is engaging with your numbers."

"That's not what you said about my BDE earlier."

"I take it back. All of it." But she was fighting a smile. "Your ego needs no encouragement."

"Too late." He was doing that thing with his eyes again, the one that probably worked on everyone else. "You're already on record about my—"

"If you say dick energy one more time at this nice establishment, I'm leaving."

"You wouldn't."

"Try me."

Their eyes locked across the table. A challenge, maybe. Or something else neither of them was ready to name.

The waiter appeared with dessert menus, breaking whatever moment was building. Jules took his with a smile that was almost too casual.

"Should we share?" he asked.

"In your dreams."

"Often."

Mila kicked him under the table, right as the waiter returned. "He'll have the chocolate thing. I want the one with strawberries."

"Separate desserts?" The waiter looked between them. "Most couples share—"

"We're not most couples." Mila's smile was sweet but final.

Jules watched the waiter leave, that smirk back on his face. "No, we're definitely not."

The desserts arrived looking more like art installations than food. Mila caught Jules' eyes drifting to her neckline again - the third time since their main course.

"Stare harder why don't you?"

"I'm trying." He didn't even pretend to look away.

"Horndog." But she adjusted the strap of her dress anyway, watching his eyes track the movement.

"Can't help it. The dress is…"

"Expensive? Designer?"

"Both." He sampled his chocolate dessert, still watching her. "Though I was going to say dangerous."

"Please. This is modest for me." She tasted her strawberry creation. "You should see what I wear when I'm actually trying."

"Is that an invitation?"

"It's a warning." She pointed her spoon at him. "Your game's weak if you think this neckline is dangerous."

"My game's never weak."

"But you needed a McDonald's photo to go viral before making a move."

"I didn't make a move." He leaned back, all casual confidence again. "Bruno did."

"Tragic." She stole a bite of his dessert just to prove she could. "Using your agent as an excuse."

"Using my agent for business." His eyes dropped to her lips as she licked chocolate from her spoon. "This is pleasure."

"This is a fake date."

"With real dessert." He pushed his plate closer to her. "Want more?"

"Trying to sweeten me up?"

"Is it working?"

She took another bite of his dessert, maintaining eye contact just to watch him squirm. "You wish."

The waiter appeared with their bill - or rather, with no bill at all because apparently Jules had handled that hours ago. Of course he had.

"Very presumptuous," Mila noted as they stood. "What if I hated dinner?"

"You loved it." He helped her with her coat, fingers brushing her bare shoulders. "Even if you won't admit it."

"I admit nothing."

"Your empty plates admit plenty."

Outside, Paris was still showing off - all lights and early autumn beauty. Jules' hand found her lower back as they waited for their cars.

"This was nice," he said, too close to her ear.

"Just nice?"

"Beautiful. Stunning. Better?"

"Now you're recycling lines." But she didn't move away.

His car arrived first - some sleek thing that probably cost more than her annual salary. He opened the door but paused before getting in.

"Next time dinner's in Barcelona."

"Next time?"

"Can't let my fake girlfriend think I'm cheap."

"Too late for that. Your sock choices gave you away."

His laugh echoed even after his car pulled away. Her phone lit up immediately with his text:

Jules (Da Boo): already planning your outfit for barcelona?

LV's Meanest Stylist: planning how to roast whatever you wear.

Jules (Da Boo): worth it

********************************************

"The cheek kisses aren't cutting it anymore," Bruno's voice crackled through Mila's phone. "We need to up the ante."

"Up the ante?" Mila was packing for Barcelona, phone balanced between ear and shoulder. "What exactly do you want us to do, stick our tongues down each other's throats?"

"If that's what it takes—"

"The audacity." She dropped a reconstructed LV piece into her suitcase. "Who are you, our relationship choreographer?"

"The internet's getting restless. They want more."

"The internet needs therapy." But she knew what he meant. The comments were getting wild - theories about their relationship, demands for more content, the kind of attention that made her DMs look like a thirst trap comment section.

Three days later, she was walking through Barcelona's airport arrivals, spotting Jules before he saw her. He was trying to be incognito in a baseball cap and sunglasses, looking exactly like every footballer trying not to be recognized.

"Subtle," she said, reaching him.

"Says the girl in that dress." His eyes tracked over her travel fit - another slip dress because why not torture him a little.

"This old thing?" She let him take her bag. "Just something I threw on."

The Urus was parked illegally because of course it was. Jules loaded her suitcase while she settled into the passenger seat, already plotting how to reorganize his closet again.

"How was the flight?"

"Better than this car choice."

"Still judging my Urus?"

"Always." She pulled out her phone. "Though apparently I need new material. Bruno's orders."

"Heard about that call." He navigated through Barcelona traffic with one hand on the wheel. "No more roasting my fashion choices?"

"Or your ex."

"Tragic. Those were your best bits."

"Please. Everything I do is a best bit."

His laugh filled the car. Match 100 was tomorrow, and here they were, playing house again. At least this time she knew what she was getting into.

"So about Bruno's demands," Jules said, turning onto his street. "Think we should practice?"

"Practice what? Swapping spit for the cameras?" Mila fake gagged, but her heart wasn't in it.

"Could be worse assignments."

"Could be better ones too."

"You wound me." He pulled into his driveway. "Little birdie told me that Chanel's trying to steal you."

She rolled her eyes. "Sure is, and LV can suck my dick and jiggle my left testicle."

Jules let out a chuckle. "Damn, remind me to never get on your bad side. What happened at work?" She just stared at him blankly. "Philippe again?" His jaw tightened. "Should I give him a visit?"

"And do what exactly?"

Jules shrugged, but his grip on the steering wheel said otherwise. "I don't know. Tell him to leave my woman alone. Threaten him?"

"Whatever, Jules."

"I'm serious."

"Be so fucking for real right now."

"I'm so serious, Mila. He got the wrong one." His knuckles went white on the wheel.

Mila caught herself watching those hands, that tension in his jaw. Something about his willingness to protect her - fake relationship or not - was doing things to her pussy she refused to acknowledge.

The opportunities were piling up lately. Fashion houses sliding into her DMs. Offers to branch out on her own. She could do it - build her own brand, be an independent designer like she'd dreamed. Or worse… become an influencer. The thought alone made her want to gag. Though being a freelance stylist had potential.

"Mila." Jules was watching her, that look that saw too much. "You good?"

"Just plotting my escape from corporate hell."

"To Chanel?"

"Maybe." She stretched, knowing exactly what that did to her dress. "Or maybe I'll just become your full-time fake girlfriend. Seems less stressful."

*************************

"Your closet better be exactly how I left it," Mila said as they entered his house. "I'm not doing another intervention with your sneakers."

"Haven't touched anything." Jules carried her bag upstairs. "Too scared of your wrath."

"Smart man." She followed him to the guest room - her room now, basically. Her reconstructed pieces from last time still hung in the closet. "Though we need to talk about that jacket you wore to training yesterday."

"Thought you needed new material?"

"Some crimes can't be ignored."

He dropped her bag by the bed, lingering in the doorway. "Hungry?"

"Depends. Are you cooking?"

"God no. Ordered from that place you liked last time."

"The one with the pasta?"

"The one where you stole half my dinner, yes."

She kicked off her shoes, making herself at home. "It's not stealing if you let me."

"Is that what we're calling it?"

"That's what I'm calling it." She started unpacking, aware of him watching. "Don't you have a big match to rest for?"

"Don't you have a closet to reorganize?"

"Your closet can wait until tomorrow." She pulled out her outfit for the match. "This, however, needs steaming."

"Another reconstruction?"

"What else would I wear to your hundredth match?" She held up the piece - another LV remix that would probably give Philippe an aneurysm. "Think Bruno will approve?"

"Bruno would approve if you wore a trash bag at this point." Jules pushed off the doorframe. "He's desperate for content."

"Hence the kissing demands?"

"Hence everything." He watched her hang up the outfit. "Though the kissing thing…"

"Don't."

"Just saying, might need practice."

"In your dreams."

"Often." He ducked the shoe she threw at him. "Dinner's in twenty."

She waited until his footsteps faded before pulling out her phone. Three texts from Siobhan's friends, still trying to get intel. Two emails from Chanel about possible collaborations.

A new text from Jules: "brought you wine from that vineyard you pretended not to like"

Interesting...

Mila came downstairs to H.E.R. playing softly in the background. Jules was at the kitchen island, uncorking wine like this was totally normal.

"Are you trying to get at something?" She took in the dim lighting, the music, the actual fucking candles. What was this man up to?

"Just trying to relax," he said simply, holding out a glass of wine.

"Mmhm." She accepted the glass, watching him plate their food with way too much care before sliding it in front of her.

"Bonne appétit." He settled next to her at the island.

They ate in silence for a few beats before Mila couldn't take it anymore. "Seriously, what're you doing Jules?"

He had the nerve to shrug. "I told you I'm just trying to relax. Big match tomorrow, remember?"

"You're giving out too much game right now. You think I'm dumb?"

"No, Mila, you're far from dumb."

"So what's the play?" She set her napkin down, fixing him with that look she usually reserved for customers trying to play in her face. "What's going on because since when do we have this setup if we're fake—"

Her words cut off as Jules leaned over, pressing his lips to hers. He tasted like eggplant parmesan and wine, and despite herself, she sighed into it. His hands came up to cup her face, lips moving against hers with a precision that shouldn't have surprised her but did. Boy knew what he was doing with that mouth - the same confidence he had on the pitch but softer, more deliberate.

When he pulled back, Mila's brain took a second to come back online.

"What the hell?" she mumbled.

"Practice, right?" His voice was too casual for someone who just kissed her like that.

She blinked, tilting her head. "Bruno wanted us to have more PDA…"

"Oh, yeah." His thumb brushed her cheek where his hand still lingered.

"Was it good?"

Was it? Her mind screamed. But what came out was: "It was alright."

"Alright? Shit, Mila maybe I have to convince you again."

"Please don't." But her eyes dropped to his lips.

"Just a quick one." He leaned closer. "For research."

"No." She didn't move away.

"It's quick…" His mouth was already brushing hers. "For research."

This kiss wasn't quick at all. His hand slid into her hair, angling her head just right. She might have made a sound - something embarrassing she'd deny later - when his tongue traced her bottom lip. This wasn't practice anymore. This wasn't fake anything.

When they finally broke apart, the food was definitely cold.

******************************************

The absolute audacity of this man.

Mila spent the entire match trying not to think about that kiss. Those kisses. Multiple kisses that definitely weren't just "practice." She'd even texted Leon - her most reliable situation-handler - but he was "busy." All her usual distractions were unavailable, leaving her stuck with the memory of Jules' mouth and what his hands had felt like in her hair.

Barcelona was destroying Sevilla, which wasn't helping. Every time Jules made a play, the crowd lost it. Five goals, and he'd been involved in three of them. Show-off.

Then came the post-match ceremony. His hundredth game plaque, the crowd chanting his name, cameras everywhere. And this man - this absolute menace - had the nerve to call her down to the pitch.

"Come here, chérie," he said into the mic, and what was she supposed to do? Say no in front of 90,000 people?

She made her way down, reconstructed LV dress definitely not made for stadium stairs. The cameras were already going crazy, probably catching her "supportive girlfriend" moment.

Then this fucker kissed her. Not a peck, not a casual press of lips. A proper kiss, right there on the pitch, his plaque in one hand while the other pulled her close. The crowd absolutely lost it.

When he finally let her go, she was too disoriented to even pretend to be mad. The cameras caught everything - her slightly dazed expression, his satisfied smirk, the way she had to steady herself on his arm.

"For the cameras," he murmured in her ear as they posed with his plaque.

"I hate you," she whispered back, perfect smile in place.

"No you don't."

The worst part? He was right.

Her phone was already blowing up. The notifications would be insane - fashion blogs, football accounts, probably Bruno having a meltdown about their "organic PDA moment." But all she could think about was how she needed to call every single one of her rotation guys because this tension? Unacceptable.

"Dinner?" Jules asked as they left the pitch, still riding his match high.

"I have plans."

"No you don't."

"I could have plans."

His smile was dangerous. "But you don't."

The cameras were still catching everything - her pretend annoyance, his hand on her lower back, the way they moved together like this wasn't all for show.

"One dinner," he said.

"You already got your kiss for the cameras."

"Maybe I want another one."

She really needed to call Leon. Or Jean. Or both.

The family area was chaos. Mila scrolled through Twitter while waiting for Jules, watching their kiss go viral in real time.

"THE WAY SHE HAD TO STEADY HERSELF 😭" "that man must kiss like he plays football - elite" "did y'all see her face after??? HELLO???" "mila lawrence found SHOOK" "the way he just grabbed her like that i'm—"

Someone had already made an edit set to "Kiss Me More" - her dazed expression on loop, Jules looking too pleased with himself. The engagement numbers were insane. Bruno was probably having heart palpitations of joy.

More tweets kept coming: "jules koundé said watch me score off the pitch too" "miss mila really won" "the grip he has on her waist i'm studying it respectfully"

Her phone buzzed with texts from every single one of her situationship guys.

"You're trending," Jules' voice came from behind her. Fresh from the shower, hair still damp, wearing that post-match designer fit that actually worked for once. "Something about being 'dicked down by Barcelona's finest defender'?"

"That's disgusting." She kept scrolling. "Also inaccurate."

"Could be accurate."

"In your dreams."

"Maybe it can be reality?" He leaned over her shoulder, reading more tweets. "They're really analyzing your face in 4K."

"Your fans are unhinged."

"Our fans now."

Their eyes met in the reflection of her phone screen. That tension from last night was still there, crackling between them like static electricity.

"Dinner?" he asked again.

"I really do have plans."

"With who? Leon?" His smile was knowing. "Already saw his stories. He's in London."

"I have other options." Like Jean, like Gabriel, like Muhammad...

"But you're here with me and you're gonna stay."

The worst part was he was right. Again. Motherfucker.

"Fine." She locked her phone, ignoring another wave of notifications. "But no more surprise kisses."

"No promises."

Bruno was going to lose his mind over their engagement numbers. Their fake relationship was trending worldwide. The internet was already writing their love story.

But watching Jules guide her through the stadium with that hand on her lower back, Mila had to wonder how much of this was still fake.

............tbd

[mlqueen89]

Six | Stakes

I want to know  Everything about you that I've had to dream about  Every single almost that we've been dancing around  I want to know  Who we are when we can stop pretending we're just friends  Let's go to those places that we've never been 

The Way I Wanna by Max McNown 

pairing: jake “hangman” seresin / ofc (top gun: maverick) 

rating: 18+ (minors dni) 

warnings/triggers: 🔥smut in overall series, p in v sex, fingering (lmk if i missed any!)    

word count: 8,518

summary: ellie realizes that she needs to swallow her pride as the stakes are upped in a significant way. 

A/N: i think i have some of the best readers on all of tumblr, if not all of the internet. so, since you’ve been so patient with me and i've been torturing you with all the sexual tension... 

my biggest apologies for leaving you guys hanging! lots of illness and #toughlifeshit going on, but all is looking up.

for those of you looking forward to the glen powell/f!writer oc fic "i can do it with a broken heart," my lovely betas and i are cooking up the launch.

there are a few tag requests that don’t have tumblr usernames attached in the tag form. If you requested a tag and you don’t see yourself tagged, let me know and I'll tag you right away and add you to the tag doc! 

allons-y! 

❥ playlist ♡ masterlist ♡ taglist ♡ glossary of terms ♡ previous chapter ♡ next chapter ❥ 

The data was in the red again.  

Angry, relentless, it seeped across Ellie’s screen in jagged lines and pulsing errors. When she closed her eyes, to sleep, to blink, under the spray of a hot shower, she could see it still, just behind the quiet in her mind, burned into her retinas. 

Error. 

Failure. 

Danger Ellie Rigby, danger. 

Was it irrational to think that numbers could taunt her? Because it sure felt like they were. 

She’d been at this for hours—no, days. It was days, now. Days that bled together with routine and numbers that didn’t act the way they were supposed to. 

A symphony of chaos orchestrated by Jake fucking Seresin. 

Pulling flight data, filtering telemetry, layering Jake’s flight logs over top of every other pilot’s log in the system, from testing and from mission training (because why stop with just Rooster and Teak) always resulted in the same findings.  

Jake’s data showed the same maneuvers. 

Same wind shear. 

Same altitude drops. 

Same variables, same route, same conditions. 

But his data didn’t bend like Rooster’s or dip like Teak’s. It broke. Every. Damn. Time. 

She muttered fuck and I'm going to murder him under her breath, dragging the cursor through the heatmaps, watching his flight path curve and zip, carve through her projections and predicted variables like a scalpel through paper. A hot knife through butter. 

It didn’t make sense. Nothing she wrote could predict him. Nothing she coded could contain him. 

No matter how often she adjusted the parameters, no matter how often she read his data and shifted her tech to catch him where he’d dodged, the same red numbers filled her screen. 

It was as if he studied her data sets during pre-flight briefings and quickly noted how they could be shattered until they were unrecognizable. She was almost certain he did, she could practically see it, his eyes, mischievous and fucking twinkling, catching hers as he strode past her toward the tarmac.  

Not even the Anti-Seresin protocol she coded after that first test flight disaster made her feel better when it popped up on her screen. Instead, it made her something that teetered between frustrated and livid.  

If the time constraints weren’t impossibly tight to present something functional, stable and reliable, she might have been impressed. Might have been. 

If it’s not ready... Mav had mentioned, again, just the other day as he dragged her out of the office to get some fresh air and a coffee, almost prying her rigid fingers from the edge of her desk ...we can defer to next quarter.  

It took every ounce of patience she had left to keep her hand from crushing the disposable cup in her grip, to keep her gait even as they walked. She responded as she had before: No, it’s ready.  

Deferring now felt like admitting that she wasn’t cut out for this, and by birth, she knew in her goddamned bones, she was. Even if she didn’t like acknowledging it, she was Rick Neven’s daughter, a top class, damn good Top Gun pilot. Raised on the shoulders of quasi-uncles like Iceman and Mav, Wolfman and Slider. That meant something. 

It had to. 

She leaned in closer to the screen, as if proximity might change what she was seeing before she leaned back in a huff, combing a hand through her hair. 

Nothing held him. 

Not her algorithms.  

Not the predictive modeling.  

Not even the black box diagnostics that she’d demanded access to from the higher ups.  

He was effectively a ghost in the system. Untouchable. Untraceable. Un-fucking-reasonable. 

And yet, all of it would have been easier to deal with if he wasn’t also (unfortunately) the last person she wanted to or should have been thinking about late at night. 

It would have been so much simpler if she didn’t remember the sound he made as he finally gave her what she was begging for and pushed inside her, a low groan against the shell of her ear. It would have been less complicated if she didn’t still dream about his fingers in her hair and the scrape of his teeth against the hard edge of her collarbone. 

She couldn’t fucking think straight anymore.  

It was as if when he was undoing her, with his mouth, with his hands, with the way he moved inside of her like he knew what would set her alight, he’d quietly rewired her brain. Remapped neural pathways until they all led back to him. His smell, his taste, the sound of his voice and the way it hit deep parts of her, so her mind thrummed like a tuning fork. 

Sometimes, more so now after the night she left him at the Hard Deck a week ago, there was very little between her and the overwhelming need to satisfy herself. In a bathroom stall, in the quiet of her office, after hours with the door locked, biting hard into her bottom lip as she came with the thought of him on her mind. 

Nothing ever quite satisfied that need for him though. The pinch of desire still lingering just out of reach, building until she next had to ease the pressure of it. 

Every time, on the come down, she pushed away the suffocating thought that she’d never remembered a time when she’d felt like this. Simultaneously smoldering and yet, burning. 

“You wanted me?” 

Her spine straightened sharply, his voice hitting her like heat. It was something she felt in her stomach. A flop. A flush of liquid warmth that pooled a little lower than her bellybutton. 

She didn’t hear the knock if there had been one. Just that familiar drawl curling through the air, low and casual, laced with something just beneath the surface.  

Ellie looked up fast, heart kicking against her ribs. Across the room, Jake stood in the doorway, tall, golden, and infuriating—his flight suit still on, the zipper tugged halfway down like if was nothing, like he didn’t know what that did to her.  

Except he did—he had to. The night they’d met, when he’d looked at her over the rim of his beer, the same easy confidence in the way he presented himself, the same suit clinging to his body like a second skin. 

She gave a curt little nod toward the chair opposite her desk. Her mouth was dry, and she swallowed hard, hoping the thick, hardwood between them would be enough of a buffer. Enough distance so he couldn’t hear the erratic beating of her traitorous heart as loudly as she could. 

When he stepped into the room, he shut the door softly behind him and moved toward the chair. He didn’t sit, instead choosing to hover near it, hands planted on his hips, a trademark smirk exposing dimples. 

“You still chasing my numbers?” he asked, eyes flickering to the screen in front of her. 

“Depends, are you still screwing mine up?” She shot back easily, second nature, but her voice didn’t quite carry the edge that she’d meant it to. 

“Told you I don’t play by the rules, Ace.” 

Admittedly, it was to be expected. Rules and Jake Seresin never did play nicely.  

If she ever had to determine who amongst them had been body snatched, the first sign she’d look for was a version of Jake that toed the line and didn’t fall back into his usual penchant for getting under her skin. No pun intended. 

He smirked, but there was something else in his eyes. Something darker. Pupils blown wide, eclipsing his beautiful green eyes with something hungry. And when his gaze dropped to her mouth, lingered, she felt her stomach flip. 

“Maybe your system just can’t keep up with me.” He continued, his voice dipping lower still. 

Her pulse stuttered. She looked away—only to find herself looking down. Below the waist, his flight suit clung to the shape of him, already hard and her mind betrayed her.  

Flashes. The way he took her apart without hesitation. The filthy things he’d whispered in her ear like promises of what was to come as she writhed beneath him.  

Hands dragging her hips to the edge of the bed. His mouth tasting her like he was starving.  

The way he looked up at her as she looked down, gripping the headboard and rocking against his mouth, greedy for the next crushing, shuddering wave of orgasm he pulled from her.  

The hot weight of him stretching her open, filling her when she’d begged, desperate, for the kind of release only his cock could provide. 

It was the memory of a night she’d tried to bury in mountains of logic and equation. Tried to shrink into boxes with labels and cautions. Yet, it managed to crawl back up every day when she saw him, every moment he smirked at her with that shared knowledge. It brought back with it the feelings and the swift, intense ache of needing him, a body no grave could hold down. 

She wanted him again. God, she fucking wanted him.  

“You’ve been thinking about it too,” she said then, breaking the silence. It had meant to be a question, but it came out as a fact, low and raw. 

“Every damn night.” The gravelly sound of his voice was all she needed to hear. He never lied to her. 

Then, between them, it was as if something snapped. 

Ellie stood and stepped around the desk, and he stepped forward to meet her there, hands sliding to her hips. She didn’t stop him. Couldn’t anymore. His touch burned through the thin slip of her shirt, and he kissed her, tongue already in her mouth, like they picked up where they had left off. 

Yet, it wasn’t clumsy or rushed. It was a rhythm—one she remembered just as she knew to breathe. Without instruction, he knew where she wanted him to touch her, how to make her gasp into him without guidance. Responding to her thoughts as they passed through her mind. 

His mouth moved to her neck, his hand under her shirt, deftly undoing her bra before he palmed her breast, pinched her nipple sharply until a muted moan parted her lips and her knees threatened to give way. She could feel his smirk against her skin as she clutched his shoulders, holding herself upright.  

He didn’t even need to be inside of her, she thought, she’d come just like this, gripping him as the world melted away while he nipped and sucked where the hickey he’d left that first night had been. If he wanted to mark her, reclaim her as his, she’d let him. 

She stumbled slightly as he pressed her backward until she hit the edge of the desk, breath ragged as he lifted her up onto it like she weighed nothing. She hit the desk with a soft gasp, papers fluttering to the floor, test results and calibration logs scattering like leaves as her hands swept back to brace herself. 

She wasn’t in complete control of her words when they started to come out, unedited, spilling, “You remember—” she began, already breathless, her chest heaving as she tried to find the next word. 

Jake’s voice came out rough, hazy. “I remember every sound you made. Every time you said my name, like you couldn’t help yourself. Begging me to—” 

He was working the button on her jeans now, one handed, as he reached up around the back of her neck and pulled her toward him, his lips crashing to hers like a diver surfacing for air. The button released and he dragged her pants off sharply, pulling her closer to him with the motion. 

Ellie broke the seal of their lips first, tipping her head back a gasp moving through her as his fingers dipped beneath the waistband of her panties and found her clit, swollen, pulsing. She instinctively clenched around nothing as his thumb brushed her, slick. She watched, entranced as he swallowed thickly, she’d come for him, as many times as he let her. 

“Jesus,” he said it like he had to hold himself back, like the part of him that wanted this to last and the part of him that wanted to fuck her, warred. “You’re still so fucking wet for me...” it came out as a growl, primal. 

“Don’t stop,” she begged, rocking against his hand as he slipped two fingers inside of her, his thumb still moving in lazy circles, just behind the first orgasm waiting to fall out of her. 

Where Jake didn’t like to follow rules, he followed instruction well.  

He didn’t stop.  

Fingers working her just right, like he knew her body better than she did. Like he owned it.  

She was already so close, and he knew it, so when she arched against his hand, the papers still beneath her crinkling and stuck to her skin, he slowed, moving up her body dragging her shirt up to pinch her hard nipple between his teeth. 

“Jake—” she breathed, her brow scrunched. 

Ellie whined as he pulled his fingers out with an obscene, slick sound. When she propped herself up on her elbows, her hand trailing down to fill to void of pleasure, Ellie watched as he pulled the flight suit down, leaving only a white undershirt and his dark blue tented boxers.  

In the light of her office, taking him in, she could see the patch of material dampened with pre-cum. Something in her spiked, her fingers picking up speed as she chased the edge of her ending. 

“Not yet,” he huffed out a breath, his eyes glazed and wild all at once, grabbing her wrist, prying it away. He bent to kiss her clit carefully, reverently, the slightest flick of his tongue and the smallest bit of suction when he came away almost sending her off the cliff face into a freefall. 

Her legs roped around his waist in response as he straightened, holding him to her.  

She was wet and needy and already so close she was shaking from the anticipation of it. It was like muscle memory—he knew her. Knew exactly how to unravel her. 

His eyes caught hers, his hand carefully pulling himself out, the tip already slick with his want. His eyes didn’t leave hers as he stepped closer and dragged the tip of his cock through the mess between her legs. The bump of him on her clit had her hips moving forward, chasing it as a moan escaped her lips. In her ears, she could hear the wetness of herself, could feel her empty cunt clenching around nothing. 

“Jake—” his name was breathy on her lips, a whispered prayer, “—please.” 

Her legs tightened around his lower back, trying to pull him forward closer as he slid himself down toward her opening and he hissed something that sounded at once close and far away. 

“Fuck, Ellie—” He breathed out her name and once it fell from his lips, she wanted to hear him say it again. He spoke her name like he was trying to center himself, trying to regain control of a situation he himself definitely didn’t have control over. 

Ash in the wind. 

“I’m never going to get enough of you,” he groaned, resting his tip just at her entrance. When he pressed forward, pushed into her, the gasp that tore from her was involuntary. She swore she saw fucking stars as her eyes rolled up into the back of her head and she closed them into darkness. 

Then—nothing. 

She jolted upright. 

Ellie's skin was slick with sweat, sheets twisted around her thighs, skin flushed and pulsing with the echo of a climax that hadn’t really happened. 

Dark room. Her bed. Alone. No Jake. No desk. No hands. No mouth. Not one inch of his cock inside of her. 

She withdrew the hand between her legs, the wet heat pulsing, aching and unsatisfied. The glow of her phone on her nightstand a beacon in the still darkness: 3:41 AM. 

Her head fell back against her pillow with a loud groan. 

Fuck. 

Fuck. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

Ellie threw off the headset, the clatter as it hit her laptop and then the floor almost inaudible over the loud groan that fell from her lips. 

Today’s test flights had been a disaster.  

Just like the test flights from Monday and Tuesday. 

Just like every test flight since the first when Hangman had dismantled her tech without a care in the world. 

When she screwed her eyes shut a headache thrummed steady, just out of the reach of the Tylenol she’d popped an hour ago. Mashing the heels of her palms into her eyelids, she pressed until starbursts of white erupted in the blackness. 

Maybe she had a tumor. 

It was the only logical explanation, right? 

Maybe her dreams about Jake in the night and the way they clung to the very corners of her thoughts in the day was her body telling her there was a foreign mass lodged in a cortex. She made a mental note to do some spotty research on where she could get a CAT scan in a half-assed attempt to troubleshoot, likely ending with one Google search before being forgotten. 

Until her brain reminded her during the night by way of a (reoccurring) fantasy where Jake, hands placed firmly on her hips, bent her over a pool table and fucked her, wet panties pushed aside haphazardly because he couldn’t waste another second not being inside of her. 

Wash, rinse, repeat. 

She was in the middle of typing “sex dreams and constant headaches correlation to brain tumors” into a new tab when a gradient of blue and white filled her phone screen and Mav’s name flashed, bold and white. 

When she answered, she was flushed, embarrassed as though he had the faintest idea of what she’d just searched, raw dogging it in a non-incognito browser. 

“Mav?” 

On the other end of the line, there was a bluster of air, a scream of a jet ripping down a runway, the unmistakable sound of it taking to the sky. “We’ve got a problem.” 

The problem, as Mav delicately explained, was “monumental”—the Mount Everest of hurdles. It was to their project what the iceberg was to the Titanic: catastrophic and unavoidable. Not enough lifeboats. Women and children first. 

Ellie only half appreciated the candor as she watched Mav pace the length of the P-51 Mustang, a WWII era relic he always seemed to be fixing up, sitting in a hangar he’d somehow managed to hijack for personal use.  

She was sure there was a metaphor mixed in there, for how it looked perfect to her but whenever she asked Mav, it always seemed to need one difficult to find piece or another. Always a work in progress. Never complete. 

“Stark is demanding answers.” He huffed, paused. Paced some more. Kicked a loose nut he came across in his path. Ellie listened to it ting and clatter off something else metallic, lost. “Didn’t say why, but it can’t be a coincidence that some of the Admirals are sitting down with the Office of Naval Research end of next week.” 

Fuck. 

How many 'fuck' moments could she have in one day? 

Her count was already up to three, before 11 AM. 

“Okay.” Ellie stepped up to the table of blueprints, drummed her fingers on top of Mav’s flight helmet sitting on a side table, absently. 

The Office of Naval Research meeting was next week. Stark sitting down with her now meant, she hoped, that the Rear Admiral hadn’t completely given up on the tech’s potential. 

The single word response earned Ellie a hands-on-hip eyebrow raised look from Mav as he stopped pacing. “Oh, you have those answers then?” 

“Depends on the questions she asks.” Ellie could feel her pulse pounding in her ears, magnifying the headache exponentially. “When?” 

When was the hour of their greatest need? When was the march to the gallows? Prayers, prayers, sorrows, sorrows. 

Mav huffed a laugh before he glanced down at his watch. “Now.” 

The conference room was colder than Ellie expected, the air conditioning hummed softly in the background, the shades drawn across the large picture window at her back.  

The ominous feel of doom did not escape her, creeping up the back of her neck as she fought back a shiver. The walls were bare except for the Navy insignia hanging behind Rear Admiral Stark, who sat at the head of the table, expression unreadable. The small, beige timer she’d wound and set on the table, front and centre, ticked away: seven minutes. 

Ellie sat across from her, back straight, hands folded in her lap to keep from fidgeting. Mav was beside her, silent—for now, his posture a bit more relaxed than Ellie’s rigid one, but she could see the seriousness in the straight line of his mouth, the hard furrow of his brow. 

When Ellie had appeared, Mav at her side, RADM Stark had granted him a seat at the table, despite the way her lips pursed as if she’d sucked on a lemon. He’d been granted permission to sit in on the firm condition he “kept his mouth shut”, a fact Ellie could tell he clearly wasn’t happy about.  

Rear Admiral Stark exhaled, fingers drumming against the table for only a moment before she broke the silence. “Let’s not waste time, Ms. Rigby.” She nodded at the ticking timer before she leaned forward, her hand waving over the spread of papers Ellie had provided. Her eyes didn’t shift down to the reports, the meticulously gathered documentation, charts and data. “With the meeting coming with Navel Research and the Secretary of Navy, the test results your tech are putting up aren’t where they need to be.” 

Ellie nodded, forcing herself to hold the woman’s gaze. “I’m aware, ma’am. But I can assure you, they are improving. We’ve been within two percent of the projected margin for the last three simulations. If we then adjust for environmental factors, the success rate is—” 

“I don’t want excuses,” Stark interrupted smoothly, her gaze sharp and unrelenting. “You’ve had weeks. You have some of the best pilots in the world at your disposal. And yet, somehow, we’re looking at numbers that still don’t meet expectations.” 

Ellie swallowed, pulse drumming at the base of her throat. “I understand, ma’am. We’re working on recalibrating the—” 

Stark cut her off with a sharp look, her long finger tapping the paper closest to her. “Ms. Rigby, woman to woman—” her gaze didn’t slip to Maverick once, “—don’t bullshit me and I won’t bullshit you. I’m not interested in projections; I’m interested in results. The results aren’t good enough. Does sixty percent truly look like progress to you? You want me to sit in front of that stuffy old bastard Quigley and tell him as much?” 

Ellie’s mouth pressed into a thin line. She could feel Mav shift beside her. She didn’t need to look at him to feel the energy rolling off him. As agreed, he hadn’t spoken outside of professional pleasantries, but she could feel the barely restrained tension pooling in his aura as he silently fought for his life to hold back the words surely backing up in his mind, just on the tip of his tongue, like a jammed printer. 

Part of her wanted to reach under the table to grip his arm, tell him to relax, that she had this under control, but she wasn’t sure she believed that herself. 

“Moreover, do you think pilots are going to be okay flying with tech that gives them a forty percent chance of being scattered over the ocean or enemy territory?” 

“No, ma’am. But—” 

Stark held up a hand again. She leaned back in her chair, assessing Ellie for a long, drawn-out moment, the silence only filled in by the ticking of the air conditioning and the timer. Ellie didn’t shift, didn’t shrink under the weight of it.  

“Do you have any idea what this project is to me, Ms. Rigby?” she sighed, voice even but tinged with the weight of her position as she glanced at the timer ticking away. “It’s my last vote for funding approval. My final act on paper before I turn in my stars in the spring. I have given the Navy everything, sacrificed and borne the weight that comes with my rank. I won’t go out on a sour note. I won’t attach my name to a failure.” 

Stark let it breathe, let it sink in, watching Ellie with a measured look. Then, as if on an afterthought, she exhaled deeply, shifting slightly in her seat. 

Of all things Ellie had expected, it was a dressing-down. But it wasn’t until the Rear Admiral’s lips curled into something resembling a smile, nostalgic, that Ellie realized she may have underestimated just how hard this meeting was going to hit. 

“I know you know what the Navy takes from a person.” Stark’s voice was even, neutral. “Your father was one hell of a pilot. Not one person can question that. But make no mistake, that doesn’t mean I’ll cut you any slack. If this doesn’t work, I back the pulling of the plug. And when I walk away, I walk away clean.” 

Ellie stiffened. Her hands slipping off the table and clenching into fists in her lap before she forced them flat again, her fingers still trembling, clammy. Of course. She should have seen it coming. 

Stark’s gaze flickered over her reaction, assessing, as if she were waiting for Ellie to break—waiting for some sign she’d struck a nerve. 

Ellie made sure to give her nothing. 

“I wouldn’t expect you to, ma’am,” Ellie said, tone steady, even if her stomach was twisting itself into knots. 

Mav shifted beside her, the first movement he’d made in minutes. Ellie didn’t look at him. She didn’t need to. She knew the expression he’d be wearing. The barely restrained frustration on her behalf as his mouth opened and snapped shut again just as quickly.  

Mav had always let her fight her own battles; she was sure he knew better than to step in now. 

“Then tell me, ten words or less, why I shouldn’t recommend Research pull funding and scrap this right now.” 

Ellie inhaled sharply, Stark’s words a kick to her stomach. “Because it’s not going to fail.” 

Stark sat back, skeptical. “I wanted to back a woman in the field. Thought it was time for a shift, time to show that women could lead the future of aviation tech, plant the seed for after I’m gone.” She exhaled slowly. “Maybe that was a mistake.” 

Ellie stiffened. “No, ma’am. It wasn’t.” 

“Good,” Stark said simply, then leaned forward again, folding her hands atop Ellie’s reports. “The Secretary is meeting end of next week to go over our funding. If you can’t prove to me that this program is worth the resources the Navy is putting into it, I will recommend we pull the plug. And I don’t care whose daughter you are.” 

Ellie nodded once, firm. “Understood.” 

Stark studied her for another beat, as if trying to decide whether she believed in Ellie’s resolve. 

Finally, she gave a curt nod, seemingly decided. “You have one week. If I don’t see substantial improvement by the time the Secretary marches his short ass onto this base, it’s done.” 

Ellie inhaled slowly, measured. One week wasn’t much time. Frankly, it wasn’t nearly enough. But it was better than nothing. One week was better than having her funding pulled today, here and now. 

“Thank you, ma’am.” 

Stark glanced at Maverick then, just for a second. “Captain Mitchell,” she acknowledged before rising from her seat, straightening out her uniform. “You’re both dismissed.” 

Ellie stood, reflecting Mav’s formality at her side, but she didn’t relax until Stark left the room, the door clicking shut behind her. 

Only then did she exhale, her shoulders sagging. 

Mav allowed a hand to scrub his face before he let out a long breath, a single word evacuating him on it. “Jesus.” 

Ellie forced her hands to stay still on the table, even though every nerve in her body was screaming at her to move. To act. To do something. Plan. 

Instead, she turned her eyes to Mav, “well, I think that went super well, don’t you?” The dry smile that pushed up the corners of her lips didn’t reach her eyes. 

Mav just shook his head. “You okay?” 

Ellie nodded, because what else was there to say? She didn’t need Stark to cut her any slack, in fact, she preferred it that way. As it was, she’d be picking the thorn of Hollywood’s legacy out of her side until the week was over. 

“What’s our next move?” Mav was already starting for the door, motioning for Ellie to follow. 

Ellie swallowed, squaring her shoulders. “We prove her wrong.” 

“Sounds like you have a plan.” 

Ellie chewed her lip for only a moment. “I might have one.” 

Ellie hadn’t told Mav exactly what her plan was, only that she had one.  

The fact that this was her only plan at the moment wasn’t something she had wanted to divulge, because this plan in particular may just come back to bite her. 

Ellie leaned against the concrete wall outside the locker rooms, hugging her tablet to her chest. When she’d reached the end of the hall, she waited, timing it just right—most of the pilots had already filtered out after mission training, and she just needed a few minutes to firmly swallow her pride and get a moment alone with Jake. 

Coyote strolled past her, chatting animatedly with Fanboy, giving her a tight nod. 

Fanboy, however, slowed as he took her in, assessing—his eyes flicking quickly to the tablet she hugged and then to the way she shifted from one foot to the other. His head tilted slightly, the beginnings of a smile curling the edges of his mouth. 

“Rigby!” Fanboy held out his fist. 

Ellie hesitated, then tapped her knuckles against his. It was enough to make him grin while Coyote rolled his eyes. “Garcia.” 

“You coming out tonight?” Fanboy shifted the flight gear bag on his shoulder, lifting it higher. 

The look of confusion on Ellie’s face must have been enough, he didn’t miss a beat. “Hard Deck. A bunch of us are going.”  

“Oh.” It took her a moment to force a nonchalant shrug. “Maybe.” 

Fanboy nodded, but the look of mischief that crossed his face told her he could see past her attempt at indifference. “You should. You always look like you could use a drink.” 

Coyote scoffed. “Jesus, Fanboy. Drag her, why don’t you. Just say she looks stressed and get it over with.” 

“C’mon man,” Fanboy groaned. “What I’m saying is kick back. Relax a bit.” 

Ellie shifted her weight, her eyes flickering to the locker room door as it swung open and a few more pilots–Harvard and Fritz–slipped out.  

It would have been fair to say she wasn’t entirely focused.  

“Yeah. I mean, maybe?” 

Fanboy looked triumphant, providing a quick, almost reflexive double thumbs up as Coyote grabbed the strap of the bag slung over the Wizzo’s shoulder and tugged. 

As they walked away, Ellie could have sworn Coyote murmured something to Fanboy that sounded a lot like ‘why are you so goddamn weird, dude?’ 

Her face was already in her phone, pulling up her browser where her last search stared back at her, the results mocking her: 

Reddit – r/AmITheAsshole - Thinking about fucking my co-worker – AITA? 

Can Frequent headaches and vivid dreams be a sign of a brain tumor? - WebMD 

Tumors & Sleep Disturbances: When Should You See a Doctor? – Mayo Clinic 

Headaches and Sex: Could It Be a Neurological Disorder? – VeryWell Health 

Urban Dictionary: “Brain Tumor Horny” 

Ellie’s scoffed, but her thumb hovered over the first result. 

Thinking about fucking my co-worker – AITA? – Posted in r/AmITheAsshole 

The absurdity of it almost made her laugh. Almost. 

If it weren’t for the pounding in her skull and the realization that this was, in fact, her reality, she would have. Laughed, that is. 

Instead, she found herself very seriously debating on whether or not to tap into the rabbit hole and ask Alice. 

The sound of the locker room door swinging open and slamming shut barely registered in the background. She heard the boots on the floor moving in the opposite direction, followed by a laugh that sounded like Yale or Payback. When she glanced up, she saw them disappear around the corner at the far end of the hall. 

She returned to the glow of the phone for only the briefest of moments when a voice, too close for comfort, cut through her focus. 

“Didn’t take you for a Reddit girl.” 

Ellie jolted. The phone nearly slipped from her grip as she jammed the lock button and dragged her eyes up, stuffing the device into her pocket. 

Teak. 

Of course it was fucking Teak. 

He, like the presence of a rash of questionable origin, always showed up at the worst possible times. 

“Didn’t take you for a Reddit girl,” He repeated as if Ellie hadn’t heard him. She hated the way his eyes traveled from her hip where she tucked her phone away, back up to her eyes, slowly, measured. 

“And I didn’t take you for someone who sneaks up to read over shoulders.” 

Teak clicked his tongue, shrugged. “Didn’t have to sneak. You were pretty distracted.” 

The breath that left Ellie was sharp, fighting against the urge to let him know how annoying and pretentious and pig-headed she thought he was. 

Instead, she watched as he shifted, a hand combing through his short, still damp hair before he used it to brace against the wall beside her, head tilted like he was about to deliver the sagest of wisdom. If a tree falls in the forest. 

“You know, it must feel fucking terrible,” he mused, and Ellie didn’t miss that his tone dripped with mock sympathy. “Being just... bad at the one thing you’re telling everyone you’re good at.” 

Her grip on the tablet tightened. She didn’t blink.  

If being a prick was an Olympic event, Nathan Hughes would take the podium. Medal in every event. 10 out of a possible 10 asshole points across the board. 

It took her a half second to recover.  

“It’s funny you should mention that.” Her voice was smooth, schooled. “I was about to say the same thing to you. I’m glad you brought it up.” 

Teak’s expression, shit-eating, faltered for the briefest of moments, before he recovered. But Ellie had seen it. 

“If you want to talk about failures, we can,” she continued, her voice level. She barely restrained the sing-song lilt hanging just off stage as she tapped on the screen in her arms. “I have your individual test results right here. Won’t be able to cover it all, of course. But I’d be happy to give you the abridged version.” 

Teak’s jaw ticked. Tightened. Relaxed. When his grin returned, it was razor sharp instead of easygoing, fun. “You’re awful cute when you’re defensive, Rigby.” 

If looks could kill, Teak would have spontaneously combusted. Reduced to a cancerous ash. 

“So, what’s the deal?”  

He glanced over his shoulder at the locker room door before his gaze was back on her.  

“You lookin’ to corner Seresin? Plan to share some of those search results with him?” His blue eyes flicked toward her hip again, the shape of her phone in her pocket. She wondered if the way his tongue swiped his bottom lip was intentional, his gaze lingering longer than she would have liked. “Or were you hoping to find another pilot?” 

He let the insinuation hang between them, watching her, waiting. She felt like a fish in a tank. Teak tapping a finger against the thick walls beside a sign that told him not to. No flash photography. No tapping. 

I’d rather eat broken glass. 

I’d rather listen to Fanboy explain the plot of every single Fast & Furious movie in excruciating detail, complete with Vin Diesel impressions. 

I’d rather spend the next five years in a sensory deprivation tank. 

I’d rather let Rooster give a masterclass, step-by-step breakdown of his skincare routine, including optimal moustache grooming techniques and his thoughts on the benefits of double cleansing while properly incorporating retinol. 

She’d have to workshop her comebacks. 

“Careful, Hughes. Sounds like you’re dangerously close to the neighbourhood of jealousy.” 

Teak didn’t waver, but she saw the moment his eyes sharpened.  

“Nah,” he drawled, lazy, assured. “I think I’ll let Hangman take the ‘L’ on this one. I like my women a little more—” 

Stupid. 

Compliant. 

Broken. 

When he moved, his fingers reaching out to brush the strand of hair that had fallen across her vision, Ellie had already reflexively taken a step back. Oil to his water. If her reaction bothered him, he didn’t show it, instead, his fingers curled back before his hand dropped. 

When the locker room door squealed open, it shook Ellie out of survival mode for just long enough. When she tilted her head past Teak’s shoulder, a pilot, bag slung over his shoulder, glasses held in his grip, stepped into the hallway. 

Bob. 

Relief flooded her, flushing out the cold pit in her stomach. 

Thank fuck for Bob. She’d owe him a beer. Or twenty. She’d never been happier to see him. 

When he placed the glasses on his face, lenses wiped clean on the hem of his tan uniform shirt, Ellie watched his expression shift from easy to something more guarded when he saw her and then Teak, still braced on the wall, too close. 

The door snapped shut before he spoke. 

“Hey Rigby.” His tone was cautious, his gaze cutting to her, his eyes locked on hers as if to say, blink twice if you need help.  

He pushed the glasses up on his nose. “Everything... good?” 

Ellie didn’t hesitate. Didn’t allow Teak, who had already turned and opened his mouth, to speak for her. She imagined he’d tell Bob everything was great. Nothing for him to be concerned about. 

The scorpion ferrying across the river on a frog’s back. If Teak spoke first, he’d smooth this over. Shoo Bob away. 

“Where’s Seresin?” 

Bob blinked as her abrupt tone settled between them. If he picked up on it, he responded anyway. “Still in there. He’s always the last one out.” Bob motioned to his hair with an eyeroll. 

Perfect. 

Great. 

Private conversation. Away from Teak. 

Ellie pushed off the wall, ignoring the knowing look Teak shot her as she brushed past him and smiled at Bob. 

Right now, Teak and whatever it was that he thought of her was a backburner item. 

The heat of the locker room, thick with steam and the scent of soap hanging in the air, hit her hard as the heavy door swung shut behind her. 

The staccato rhythm of her heels clicking on the damp tiled floor was punctuated by the slam of a locker. 

When she rounded the corner, her fingers a white-knuckled grip on her tablet, it didn’t take long to spot Jake.  

Standing near his open locker, towel slung low on his hips, droplets of water still clinging to his skin.  

He was rubbing another towel through his hair, oblivious to her presence, the deep cut of his muscles on full display, the ‘v’ of his abs disappearing behind the hem of the cotton at his waist. The dog tags on his bare chest caught the dim light overhead as he dried his hair, and Ellie felt the weight of her shifting thoughts before she could stop them. 

Jake, behind her.  

One hand gripped tight on her hip, fingers digging into her soft curve, bitingly painful and firm in a way that sent pulses of pleasure rippling straight to her core. 

Dog tags dragging across her bare back as he leaned forward to sink his teeth into her side, nipping and teasing as he guided himself to her aching, waiting— 

No. Nope. 

Clearing her throat, Ellie knocked on the locker closest to her.  

The last thing she needed to do was watch him take off the only thing wrapped around his waist with her standing there.  

She repeated it to herself until she was convinced it was the last thing she wanted. 

Jake turned, one brow arching as he took her in, his eyes sweeping her from head to toe. His smirk was slow, knowing. “Rigby.” 

She ignored the way her pulse kicked up at the sound of her name in his mouth. The way it rolled off his tongue, light, airy. 

“I need you,” she started, quickly adding an addendum when she noticed how his eyebrow quirked, “your... help.” 

The word weighed a metric ton. The vowels and consonants tasted bitter and acrid on the way out. 

This was her reality now: asking Jake Seresin for help. Her Hail Mary in the dying seconds of the half. Or was it quarter? 

“Well,” he paused for a moment, tossing the towel he’d been drying his hair with to the bench, “this wasn’t on my bingo card for the month.” 

“Don’t start.” She warned, her eyes reflexively rolling. 

“Start what?” Jake’s hands were in the air now, submissive, nonthreatening, but his lips were already curved into the beginnings of a smirk. “Just... I think I might be hearing things. Sometimes the Gs, they mess with your head...” 

She tried to ignore the way his muscles moved beneath his skin as he shrugged, tugging at his ear as if it were waterlogged. 

Ellie huffed out a sigh, pulled from deep in the core of her being.  

Why had she thought this was going to be easy? Why had she thought Jake would have let her get away with asking him for help without a mild ribbing?  

Working past the pride lodged in her throat, actively fighting the part of her brain urging her to turn right around and walk out of here, Ellie forced herself to stay. “I need your help.” 

Nope, saying it didn’t get easier the second time around. 

Jake blinked, hands finding his hips as he assessed her, his tongue pushing against the inside of his cheek. 

Was he—? Did he just flex? Ellie’s eyes flicked to his chest for a fraction of a second and she knew he’d seen it. 

“Are you going to say something, or—?” Ellie’s hands flew up before they fell again. 

“Just really didn’t see this coming...” he feigned shock, sucking his lip in, biting down. 

Ellie let out a strangled groan.  

She was going to leave here and tell Mav that her plan had backfired and then she’d take it to the grave of her career as RADM Stark threw a handful of dirt onto the casket. 

Here Lies Eleanor Amelia Rigby Neven’s potential.  

Foolish enough to ask Jake “Hangman” Seresin for help in her hour of greatest need. 

The obituary would request hope and prayer for the career of other women in aviation technology in lieu of flowers. 

“Don’t make me regret this, Seresin.” 

He grinned but, to her surprise, didn’t push. Instead, he stepped in beside her in a fluid motion, his shoulder nearly brushing hers as he tilted his head to get a better look at the screen.  

From the corner of her eye, heart beating erratically at the base of her throat, Ellie watched as his expression shifted, the teasing edge in his eyes giving way to something sharper, more focused. 

“Alright,” Jake nodded once toward the tablet in her hand, “show me what you’ve got.” 

Ellie hesitated for a moment before swiping, pulling up the parameters she’d been tweaking earlier.  

She paused to flex her fingers mid-swipe, the clean, masculine scent of his soap clinging to his skin enveloping her. The awareness of him, his shoulder brushing hers, jarred her concentration, a kite whipping in the wind of a tornado. 

He smelled like that stupid candle she’d been conned into buying years ago at the Irvine Spectrum Center Yankee Candle.  

Mountain Cabin? Or maybe it was Mountain Lodge?  

Tumblr says it’s what the perfect boyfriend smells like! Like, remember that scene in the Avengers movie where Captain America just like, rips apart the log— the sales associate had slipped into a tangent as Ellie carefully placed an overpriced glass jar full of scented wax into her basket. 

Now, she wondered whether or not she still had it, packed away somewhere. 

By the time she found her way back to her winding train of thought, remembered what her voice was again, Ellie had to clear her throat. 

“The system’s good,” she admitted, nudging the data sets around on the screen. “But it’s rigid. It doesn’t account for pilot instinct, for the way you—” she stopped herself for a half beat, “—for the way some pilots push beyond textbook expectations.” 

Jake’s gaze shifted, glanced at her, lips twitching. She heard the teasing edge in his voice and didn’t need to look up to know the twinkle was back in his green eyes. “See, was that so hard to say?” 

He was enjoying this far too much. Smug jerk. 

And yet, Ellie couldn’t help but shake her head, trying to hide a smirk of her own. 

“Excruciating.” 

And yet, she didn’t want to crush up broken pieces of lightbulb and add it to her morning smoothie instead of sharing space with him.  

She didn’t want to listen to Rooster talk about niacinamide as the alternative to being in Jake’s orbit. 

The laugh that rumbled in his chest, a genuine, almost surprised sound, made Ellie’s stomach flutter. Caused her skin to prickle as she fought the shiver edging up her spine. 

She’d have to add another symptom to her ongoing research (Google search) on tumors, because she definitely didn’t want to unpack that right now. 

“Alright, let’s start here,” Jake reached across her, his finger hovering over a spike in the telemetry readings just before a telltale stream of data indicated a system overload redline. “You’re focusing too much on the failsafes—they’re throttling responsiveness.” 

He swiped up, his fingers brushing hers as he manipulated the screen and pointed out another less-than-ideal reading. “See, it’s here too.” 

Ellie frowned, but as he pointed out another, third data spike, explaining where she needed more flexibility, she saw it—saw the gaps she hadn’t considered, the places where the tech needed to adapt instead of restrict, open up instead of close down. 

How had she missed that? 

If it had been difficult for her before, to insinuate that Jake’s flying skills were above average, stellar, if she were being completely honest, her next words weren’t any easier.  

“Fine. Can you show me how you’d fix it, if you were me?” 

When she looked up from the data streams on the screen, Ellie swore she saw Jake’s focus flick up from her lips to her eyes. 

“Yeah, I could.” 

He shifted beside her and Ellie’s thoughts drifted back to the stupid candle, which she’d (embarrassingly) bought three of. Perfect boyfriend, Mountain Lodge. She hadn’t even burned the thing, just opened the lid and huffed it before squirreling it away again. 

“Hard Deck, then? Tonight?” 

At least then she could disguise meeting with him as coincidence. They’d both been invited by Fanboy, part of the “bunch of us” collective, she’d say. 

Jake was already shaking his head, even before she’d finished. 

“Nah. Got a better place in mind.” 

“Where?” She was frowning, her brow scrunched together. 

“I’ll text you the address.” 

Ellie was about to remind him that she hadn’t given him her number, but he was already moving. She felt the coolness of the air in the space he created between them and Ellie stepped forward almost reflexively, chasing the warmth of his presence. 

She watched the bands of muscle in his arms, a magpie distracted by a shiny coin, as he reached into his locker and pulled out his phone. In a moment, it was in her hand, the screen opened to a blank contact card. She punched in her contact information and handed it back. 

“See you later, Rigby.” 

As she turned to leave, Jake grabbed the hem of his towel, tugging it until it fell away, everywhere except for where his hand hovered, just over.... 

Ellie caught the movement in her periphery, but she kept her eyes forward. 

“I’m still here,” she pointed out, pausing near the corner of the bank of lockers. 

Jake hummed in acknowledgment but didn’t stop, moving behind the open door of his locker and depositing the phone on the upper shelf.  

Ellie swallowed tightly. She was certain—certain—that he could have waited until she left, but he hadn’t. He wasn’t in a rush to cover up or dismiss her. If anything, it felt deliberate. An almost wordless invitation: you can stay if you want to. 

She clenched her jaw and forced herself to look away.  

“Text me,” she waved her hand dismissive, and without waiting for a response, she strode out the door, her pulse hammering in her throat, the small, steamy room suddenly short of oxygen and far too hot. 

Behind her, as the locker room door swung shut, Ellie swore she could hear Jake chuckle. 

Hours later, back in her office, Ellie was pouring over the data sets Jake had been pointing out, making quick notes on the data spikes when her phone buzzed against the desk. A new message from an unknown number stared back at her when she flipped it over.  

Hope you’re hungry. 

Below the text was an address. She frowned as she pulled up the map app and punched it in. When the location popped up, she groaned, scrubbing a hand over her face.  

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” 

a/n: i am pumped for the next chapter. the tides are changing for ellie/jake. anyone want to take any guesses as to where jake suggests he and ellie meet?

also, the mountain lodge candle theory is real. no, as a canadian, i have not been able to find one. 😫

if you love this series, reblog, comment, like!

tags:  @hookslove1592 @mrsevans90 @avengersfan25 @jbennsquared @dempy

@obsessed-fan-alert @djs8891 @lunatygerqueen @khouse712 @alipap3

@yuckosworld @marvelouslyme96 @luckyladycreator2 @lovelylndskies @cardi-bre91

@whatislovevavy @qutequeersstuff @tgmreader @writergirl28 @literal-tv-menace

@queenslandlover-93 @fantasyfootballchampion @marrianena @dizzybee03 @justjess2025

@malindacath @b8211na

taglist if you want to be added/removed!

[biblical-chronicles]

T-shirt

_______________________________________

where some scribbles on your t-shirt cause quite the commotion.

_______________________________________

The gig had gone off without a hitch, you poured everything into it, and by the time you stepped offstage, a pleasant buzz of adrenaline—and the couple of drinks you’d knocked back after—had settled over you. All you wanted now was a cigarette and a bit of quiet before you headed home.

You slipped out the back door of the venue, thinking you’d find peace in the cool night air. Instead, you were greeted by the harsh glare of flashbulbs.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” you muttered under your breath, realizing too late that sneaking off was no longer an option. The reporters had spotted you.

You plastered on a faint smile, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it as they started hurling questions your way.

“What did you think of the crowd tonight?”

“Any plans for an album release?”

And then, predictably: “Tell us about your shirt!”

You glanced down at your tee, forgetting for a moment what you’d thrown on before the show. Then you read the scrawled sharpie letters across your chest: “I am tired of pretending Liam Gallagher isn’t fit.”

You laughed, exhaling a plume of smoke as you leaned casually against the wall. “Oh, yeah. This one’s good, isn’t it?”

The reporters immediately livened up. “But is it true? Do you really think Liam Gallagher is fit?”

“Of course I do,” you said without hesitation, a grin tugging at your lips. “He’s amazing, no?”

There was a murmur of excitement, the press sensing they’d struck gold. Cameras clicked, and a few notepads appeared as they pressed further. “Can you elaborate on that?”

Whether it was the booze, the post-show high, or just your general cheeky nature, you decided to lean into it.

“Well,” you started, taking another drag from your cigarette, “first off, he’s funny as hell. I mean, have you seen his Twitter? Absolute goldmine.”

The reporters chuckled, encouraging you to continue.

“And his hair,” you said, gesturing vaguely around your own head. “Looks good messy, looks good done up—bloke can’t lose.”

They scribbled furiously, and you felt the alcohol loosening your tongue even more. “Oh, and his nose—have you noticed? It’s got that little curve to it, just perfect. And those eyes! You know, how they droop just a bit? Makes him look like a sad puppy sometimes, but in a good way. Dead adorable.”

You couldn’t help laughing at yourself, waving your cigarette around as you spoke. “I mean, come on, he’s Liam bloody Gallagher. You’re lying to yourself if you say you don’t get it.”

The press ate it up, cameras snapping as they prodded for more. “So, is this shirt part of your usual marketing? Do you think it’ll get his attention?”

You shrugged, still laughing. “Who knows? I just thought it was funny, alright? People like a bit of a laugh. Keeps things interesting.”

Deep down, you didn’t think much would come of it. You were still a small-time artist playing modest gigs, and while your shirts had started getting a bit of buzz, it wasn’t like you were front-page news material. This was just another silly moment, a way to keep yourself entertained as much as anyone else.

“Alright, that’s enough.” you finally said, stubbing out your cigarette and flashing them a playful grin. “You lot are vultures, you know that? Don’t be twisting me words too much, yeah?”

They laughed as you turned and headed back inside, not quite realizing the small storm you’d just set in motion.

You weren’t entirely sure when the interview clips started popping up all over the internet—your phone buzzed incessantly with notifications, and every time you dared to open an app, there it was. Your little drunken ode to Liam Gallagher’s undeniable charm had gone quite viral.

People were having a laugh about it, of course. Some were amused by your chaotic energy, others were calling for you to release the shirt as merch, and a few had started tagging Liam's account under the posts.

“Why the fuck did I do that?” you groaned to yourself, flopping onto the couch and burying your face in a cushion. “I need to lay off the bloody marching powder. Christ.”

You peeked at your phone again, scrolling through the endless messages. Friends sending cheeky messages, journalists requesting follow-ups, and fans tagging you in memes, which you had to admit were quite funny.

You chucked your phone across the couch, groaning again. “What’s done is done.” you thought. “Any publicity is good publicity, right?”

You decided to let the internet have its fun and try your best to ignore it. You weren’t going to respond, explain, or elaborate. It was out of your hands now, and honestly, it wasn’t like you’d been lying, anyway. Liam was fit.

“Alright, enough of this,” you said, forcing yourself off the couch. “Pub tonight. Focus on real life.”

You got yourself ready, throwing on something casual, nothing that screamed Look at me! I’m the girl who called Liam Gallagher a fit and adorable puppy!

When you arrived at the pub, your friends were already waiting at a booth near the back, pints in hand.

“There she is!” one of your mates said with a grin. “The internet’s newest sensation.”

You groaned, dropping your head onto the table. “Don’t. Please.”

“Oh, come on, it’s brilliant!” another chimed in. “You’ve gone and made yourself unforgettable. Do you know how hard that is?”

“Unforgettable for what, though?” you said, lifting your head. “Ranting about Liam Gallagher’s bloody nose? Jesus, they’re going to carve that on me gravestone.”

They all burst out laughing, and despite yourself, you couldn’t help but crack a smile.

“At least it’s getting people talking,” one of them said, raising their pint. “Here’s to accidental genius.”

You clinked your glass with theirs, trying to shake off the lingering embarrassment. After all, they were right in a way—people were talking.

Soon, all of you settled and moved on from the topic, discussing anything and everything.

Then one of your friends suddenly froze mid-laugh, her eyes going wide as she stared over your shoulder. “No fucking way,” she whispered, slack-jawed.

“What?” you asked, alarmed.

She didn’t answer, just started pointing dramatically toward the bar. A chorus of gasps erupted from the rest of the table as they followed suit, all of them gesturing and whispering excitedly.

“Alright, what the hell’s going on?” you said, whipping your head around to follow their line of sight. At first, you couldn’t tell what they were pointing at—just a sea of people with pints in hand. Then you spotted him.

It wasn’t immediately obvious in the dim light, but the silhouette was unmistakable. It looked just like Liam Gallagher.

You froze for half a second, then whipped back around, smacking everyone's hands down. “Shut it!” you hissed, your voice an urgent whisper. “What is wrong with you lot?”

They burst into laughter, completely ignoring your attempts to calm them down.

“It’s him, isn’t it?” one of them managed to say between cackles. “It’s actually him!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you shot back, trying to keep your voice steady. “I can’t even properly see from here! It might not even be him. Why would Liam Gallagher be here? Of all places?”

“This is a popular pub,” one of them pointed out with a grin. “Why wouldn’t he be here?”

You rolled your eyes. “Even if it is him, why would he recognize me? He probably hasn’t even seen the stupid interview.”

“Are you joking? It’s everywhere!” another friend chimed in. “If he hasn’t seen it, someone’s definitely shown him. And now he’s here. Coincidence? I think not.”

“Stop it,” you groaned, sinking lower into your seat. “Seriously, let it go. It’s probably not even him. Just leave it, yeah?”

But one of your mates just grinned mischievously, stood up, and smoothed out her shirt. “Right, I’m gonna go check.”

“Don’t you fucking dare!” you hissed, reaching out to grab her hand, but she was too quick, slipping out of your grasp.

The rest of the table absolutely lost it, howling with laughter as your heart raced. “What do I do?” you muttered, looking at the remaining friends. “Do I go and try to stop her, or do I just peg it out of here before this gets worse?”

“You’re not running anywhere,” one of them said through tears of laughter. “This is gold. Just sit tight and enjoy this.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands, but it didn’t stop you from sneaking glances toward the bar. Your friend was chatting animatedly with the Liam-like figure, gesturing wildly in your direction. You wished the ground would swallow you whole.

Eventually, she returned to the table, plopping into her seat and taking a triumphant swig of her drink.

“Well?” one of the others asked eagerly.

She leaned in, her grin somehow widening. “Guess what? He did see it. And he appreciates it.” She looked directly at you, practically vibrating with happiness. “And, get this—he’d love to hear you elaborate on it.”

Your face turned so red you felt like a human traffic light. “You’re joking.” you muttered, voice barely audible.

“Nope,” she said. “Said it himself. Very keen, apparently.”

The table erupted into a mix of cheers and laughter, and you sat there, mortified, wishing for nothing more than to evaporate into thin air.

As the night wore on, you did your best to laugh it off, throwing yourself into the drinks and chatter. But every time you thought you’d escaped it, someone would bring it up again, and the heat in your cheeks would return tenfold.

At one point, you excused yourself to the toilet, needing a moment to breathe. Standing in line, you stared at the floor, not paying attention to much of anything, when a voice pulled you out of your thoughts.

“Alright, love?”

You blinked, looking up—and nearly choked on your own breath. It was him. Liam bloody Gallagher, standing there like he hadn’t just thrown your entire night into chaos.

“Oh,” you stammered, heart pounding. “Uh, hi. I’m so sorry, me mate was mithering ya earlier. She’s a nightmare.”

He smirked, leaning casually against the wall. “Don’t mind that. Not every day someone calls me an adorable puppy, is it?”

Your face went beet red. “Oh God, you heard that bit too?”

“Course I did. Hard to miss when it’s all over the place, innit?” His grin was equal parts amused and mischievous. “So, what’s the verdict then? You mean it or what?”

You let out a nervous laugh, your brain scrambling for a response. “Please don’t make me say it. Haven’t I suffered enough?”

He chuckled, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Aye, you’re funny, you are.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the tension easing ever so slightly. “Well, thanks, I think?”

He tilted his head, still smirking. “But seriously though, did you mean it? Or was it just a bit of a laugh?”

You sighed, shaking your head. “Do I have to answer that? Feels like a trap.”

He grinned even wider. “Nah, no trap. Just curious.”

After a moment of hesitation, you met his gaze. “Alright, fine. Yeah, I meant it. Happy now?”

“Over the moon.” he said, his tone teasing but warm.

You groaned, covering your face with your hands again, and he laughed, like he was having the time of his life.

“Come on then,” he said, nudging you gently. “You’ll be alright. But if you’re gonna call someone a cute puppy, be ready to back it up, yeah?”

You shook your head, laughing despite yourself. “Noted.”

Liam leaned back slightly, studying you with that same amused smirk. “Tell you what, love. How about we forget the queue and step outside for a bit? Bit of fresh air, away from all this noise.”

You nodded, your heart pounding. “Alright, yeah. Let’s do that.”

He gestured for you to lead the way, and you navigated through the crowd toward the back exit. The chilly night air hit you as you stepped out, a welcome change from the stuffy warmth inside. Liam followed close behind, lighting a cigarette and offering you one.

You took it, your hands trembling slightly, though you weren’t sure if it was the cold or his presence.

The two of you talked, the conversation flowing naturally. He was funny and surprisingly easy to talk to. You two actually seemed to click quite well, the awkwardness melting away as he shared ridiculous stories and threw in the occasional cheeky remark.

At some point, the laughter softened, replaced by a comfortable silence. Liam tilted his head, his gaze lingering on you. “You know,” he said, his voice low, “you’re somethin’ else. Never thought I’d end up out here like this tonight, but I’m not complainin’.”

You felt your cheeks heat up again, but before you could respond, he leaned in. The kiss was sudden but soft, his hand resting gently on your waist as he pulled you closer. You froze for half a second, then melted into it, your hands finding their way to his jacket.

When he pulled back, he didn’t go far, his forehead resting against yours. “Alright,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “How about you give this adorable puppy with the good nose or whatever you said a proper chance then?”

You stared at him, your mind racing. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” he said, his smirk returning. “I don’t go around kissin’ just anyone, you know. Even if they do write mad things about me on their shirts.”

A laugh bubbled out of you, light and giddy. “Okay, fine. Yeah, I’ll give you a chance. But only if you let me make a T-shirt for you, too.”

His grin widened. “Oh yeah? What’s it gonna say then?”

You pretended to think for a moment, then leaned in to kiss him again, smiling against his lips. “I’ll think of summat good.”

_______________________________________

this time summat that I wanted to scribble down, so hope you lot like it!!

and no worries, I will be back on requests xx

[gingacat]

Omg it's done!!!

More info about her under the cut 🗣

Name: Yuurei Shinkai (深海幽霊 - Shinkai Yūrei)

Birthday: March 6 (Pisces)

Age: 17-18

Height: 163 cm

Dominant hand: Right

Homeland: Japan

Family: Mother, father and younger sister

Voice: Kubota Miyu as Karin Asaka

Grade: Freshman

Class: A

Club: Science Club

Best subject: History of Magic

Hobbies: Stacking objects to build towers

Pet peeves: Uncomfortable clothes

Favorite food: Spinach and Ricotta Ravioli

Least favorite food: Anko (Sweet Red Bean Paste)

Talent: Predicting

A serious girl who carries herself with an air of distance from everything, but who happens to hide a silly and quite childish interior.

Personality

On the surface, Yuurei is not the most positive or joyous person ever; she's cynical and actively dislikes socializing. Despite seeming like an unpleasant person, though, Yuurei is polite and values elegance and common sense when expressing herself, always opening a smile when talking to people. When she's able to fight against procrastination, Yuurei is dedicated and hardworking, and she'll always put her soul on everything she does.

The biggest issue for her, as an MC, is that she's used to being a background character or a character who's not even present at what's going on. Yuurei lives inside of her own mind and completely disregards everything that is outside of her bubble, presenting a self-centered way of living and perceiving things.

So now, after getting teleported to Twisted Wonderland and suddenly becoming the main character, who's not only involved in everything, but responsible for fighting to get back home, she's constantly being pushed and forced to get out of her shell, finally becoming able to present more of her personality outside of the surface.

In the end, Yuurei's just a person. She's incredibly stingy, picky and easy to anger, but also very silly and playful. She's dramatic, loves singing and dancing, loves ranting about her special interests and about herself, and despite complaining about having to help the others, she'll never fail to do it.

Background

Until now, Yuurei had an uneventful life. Despite not being a person of many friends, she was very considerate and close to the few ones she had. Yuurei used to get along very well with her younger sister and was attached to her family.

As her father was a musician, it was only natural that Yuurei's main interests were related to music: she loved j-pop idol groups, musicals and rhythm games. At her school, she was a member of the dancing club.

The thing she struggled with the most in life was relating to people and she always ended up feeling like a stranger anywhere she went. This is a problem she didn't face that much as a kid, but that only got bigger and bigger the older Yuurei got.

School was tough, but her life was starting to get better when Yuurei graduated from high school, yet it all ended when she got hit by a bus when she tried to cross the street but was too overwhelmed by the crowd to notice her surroundings. When Yuurei woke up, she was inside of a black coffin at NRC.

Trivia

Her name, Yuurei, is the name of a ghost yokai.

Her last name, Shinkai, means deep sea.

Yuurei took about 6 months to memorize the faces and names of her NRC classmates, and there's still some people in her class that she has no idea of what their names are.

Cater forced her to create a MagiCam account, but even then, she has the lowest profile ever and never logins, even if he tags her a thousand times. (Her notifications are always off.)

She still doesn't know if Grim is spelled "Grim" or "Grimm" and has to ask him every time when writing his name on tests. He is so done...

Yuurei has the biggest crush on Vil, being it superficial or not, but gets too shy when he's around to the point that she can't even look at him in the face. She might have a heart attack.

Funniest thing was that she didn't even know Vil was a world famous actor and model. She just thought he was an incredibly beautiful-looking and elegant ordinary guy.

Yuurei wanted to join the Science Club to nerd out and do crazy experiments. Whenever she's next to Rook during club activities, Crewel knows he'll have a new headache by the end of the day.

AAAAAA THERE SHE IS... my self-insert 😪😪 I hope she's not too hateable, LMAO... and yeah, she'll become my main Yuu bc using other Yuus that have little to do with me was being complicated (and I confess that until now I was too embarrassed of making a self-insert 😮‍💨👎👎👎 I WAS SLEEPING SO HARD ON THIS)

Taglist: @moonyasnow @jadelover69 @day-dr3aming @bunniehunn (pls lmk if you wanna be added or removed!)

[warcats-cat]

Sacred Animal

Summary: Hermes takes you on a "mystery date" that becomes very cute and silly, very quickly.

A/N: I'm doing it, I'm being brave and posting one of the drabbles I wrote like over a month ago but felt kinda shy about. Biggest, most fluffy Thank-You to @lickoutyourbrains for reading and rereading and encouraging me through everything. If you guys enjoy this one I'll consider posting the others. Please let me know what you think, and as always let me know if I missed any tags!

Read on Ao3 here!

-------

Hermes' domains were a wide net that covered a lot. Travelers, Messages, Thieves, Trickery and Cunning, Athletes, Merchants, Speed, Language; the list went on for a while. And in keeping with the diversity of his domains, his moods and interests tended to whirl and swing around with the days. 

It made for some chaotic date nights. 

But really, you enjoyed the chaos; the thrill of his surprises, not really being able to guess but being able to follow where his mind was going. You could keep up with him, and he loved you for that. Therefore, date nights like tonight were surprising, but not completely out of left field. 

You were bundled up in a thick coat with ear muffs on your head; it wasn't snowing yet, but it was cold enough that the snow predicted for the following days would stick, and probably make a thick blanket on the ground. 

You faintly wondered if Hermes had ever made snow angels…

“Ready?” he asked at the front door of your apartment building; he was wearing a wide-brimmed hat instead of his usual helmet, and it cast a shadow over his eyes in lieu of his sunglasses. He also had a warm-looking red cloak, apparently lined with fur or some other fluff over a thin shirt that you couldn't quite see. He probably didn't need the cloak, he never seemed to feel cold, but it was important to keep up appearances when visiting public places. 

So you were going somewhere that would have other people. 

You huffed, checking the strap of the bag you carried to make sure it was close to your chest - he could still easily steal your wallet and phone, but it was a little harder when he couldn't just reach into your pockets. One of these days, you might just cave and buy the weird chest-strap bag that kept all your valuables up high and theoretically safe from nefarious hands. See if he could break into that…

Belongings secure, coat and muffs adjusted, you nodded and his face lit with a grin as he effortlessly lifted you into his arms. You could barely see the glow of his eyes under the shadow of the hat - the longer you dated Hermes, the more you learned to look closer for the little things. Right now, he was excited; more childlike joy than gleeful mischief, which was even more exciting for you. As much as you enjoyed his pranks and silliness, it was rare that he had this much anticipation for something. 

He was usually all soft smiles and warmth, but this was bright like a star. 

You tucked your face into Hermes' chest, knowing he was going to fly directly to wherever he was taking you. There would be no sight-seeing on this trip; another mystery to confuse you about potential locations. He pressed a gentle kiss into your hair before taking off, the wind quickly whipping around the pair of you as he sped towards your destination. 

It was still bright out - the sun wouldn't set for another hour or two, and the light and wind surrounded you for a few moments before you felt Hermes slow and finally land. At least this time he hadn't gone high enough to make your ears pop. 

You waited for his arms to loosen, looking up at him after a few moments. 

“Put me down?” You asked, teasingly. He shrugged. 

“Nah. It's pretty cold, it's nice to have a personal heater.” He replied. He only laughed when you lightly slapped his chest with the back of your hand, and finally released you. 

“How does your hat not fly off?” You asked, noticing the tips of his hair under the brim were ruffled, but the hat itself remained secure. He shrugged again. 

“God magic?” he theorized, jokingly. That was his answer to a lot of questions about his anomalies, and you knew better than to press. You rolled your eyes and huffed, crossing your arms. 

“Ok, fine,” you gestured for him to lead, “where exactly are we?” He took your hand and began to walk across a rather large expanse of grass, passing a little gravel parking lot full of cars, and you could see some farm buildings in the distance. 

“We’re gonna meet some friends!” the wide smile returned, as if his statement wouldn't raise more questions, but you just chuckled and followed. You were definitely on some kind of farm-store property; a place that probably did apple picking or a pumpkin patch in the fall. Right now, though, all of the trees were bare, the grassy field yellowish from winter frost, and the rows of dirt in the distance empty as the plants that grew there waited for spring. 

The pair of you walked up to a little gate, where an older man was sitting with a little cash box. The man smiled as you approached. 

“Well, how can I help you two?” he asked, a bit of a ‘country lilt’ to his words. You expected Hermes to wave a hand and work his ‘god magic’ on the man so he allowed you to pass, but instead your godly boyfriend handed over a real, American ten-dollar bill and responded “Two please.” 

You tried not to look at Hermes in shock and confusion; he ‘paid’ for a lot of your dates, but not usually with actual money. You faintly wondered if he was starting to understand the difference between stealing from corporations and small businesses; a subject of many debates and discussions throughout your time together. You were impressed. 

The man took the bill and traded it into his cash box for two bright green silicone bracelets, and began to fish out some change before Hermes held up a hand and told the man to keep the change. 

The god handed you a bracelet and led you around the gate as the man wished you both to have fun. After it appeared Hermes was not going to say anything about it, you tugged on his hand, causing him to stop. 

“Who are you and where is my boyfriend?” You asked, only half-jokingly. Maybe even less than half. 

He bounced on the balls of his feet; damn he was really excited. “I learn things when we talk! I'm supporting some local farmers!” He defended with a grin. “I’m not only a Patron of thieves, you know.” 

With that response apparently being all he planned to say, he began to walk again, taking your hand, and by extension, you, with him. The pair of you were walking around the main building which you were now certain was some kind of store, and as you turned the corner you could hear the excited jabbering of children. 

What the heck.

‘Meeting friends,’ he said. You were on a farm. There were little kids. You looked at the bracelet now on your wrist which read ‘Friendly Fields Local Craftworks and Petting Zoo’ in thin yellow letters. 

Well, this was certainly the most unique date he'd ever taken you on. 

In the rapidly diminishing distance, you saw a series of low fences housing several animals, and about a dozen children with parents in varying stages of exasperation. Most of the little ones were crowded around a hutch of extremely fluffy rabbits, but there was also a pen with mini ponies, one with two alpacas, one with a cow, one filled with chickens, and one with a small handful of sheep. You were pleased to notice that all of the pens had little heaters for the animals, and were sheltered in case it rained. 

You had to admit, this was kinda cute. 

Hermes continued to lead, heading straight for the sheep who ‘baah’d at him as you both came near. This one was the farthest off, and it seemed none of the children were very interested in visiting the sheep. 

“Hello, lovely ladies,” Hermes said as he leaned down and began to scratch one under its chin. You were a bit surprised; normally petting zoo animals were pretty apathetic towards their visitors, unless there was food involved. But all four of the wooly sheep had wandered over and were waiting for Hermes' attention. 

“So you're the god of sheep.” You said, a wry smile on your face as you watched him pet one animal with each hand. 

“Ha! You're close,” he replied, “I’m the god of shepherds. But sheep are one of my animals.” He paused, realizing you hadn't joined in, and stood back up to look at you. “Is this ok? You like petting things…” he asked, and now his face was hesitant.

You did like petting things. You constantly tried to pet the stray cats around your apartment complex, and the second someone offered for you to pet their dog you were all over those good boys and girls. You had even been to petting zoos before! Sheep were one of your favorite animals (although now you were absolutely not going to tell Hermes that). You felt your cheeks get hot, and it wasn't from wind burn. 

“Well, you looked like you were pretty excited to see them, and I didn't want to get in your way…” you said lamely. In truth, you just thought watching Hermes talk to a small herd of sheep was adorable, and had forgotten you were also supposed to be interacting with the animals. 

Hermes smirked, and pulled you a little closer, holding out a hand to the sheep closest to him, “here, just let her sniff you first. They'll probably feel a lot safer than normally because I'm here.” 

You followed his lead, surprised when the sheep forewent sniffing your hand and plopped her little chin in your palm. You could almost believe she was smiling at you. A surprised giggle bubbled out of you; no animal had ever done that. 

Seeing that there were now enough hands for all four to get pets at the same time, the whole little herd came up to the fence to vie for attention. It was strange and a little wonderful; their wool was thick and dense and incredibly warm, once you pushed your fingertips into the fleece. Hermes was saying something to the two in front of him, but you were only barely aware of that as you watched the little sheeps’ tiny, nubby tails wagging and twitching. 

He was probably giving them a blessing, the big softie; to be warm and live long and always have the tastiest grass. 

You had no idea how long the two of you had stood there, spoiling the little sheep with your scritches; thankfully the sun hadn't set yet, but it was a little darker. Hermes led you around to the other pens, now significantly quieter as several of the families and children left for the evening. There were still a good number of people around, but not so rowdy. One of the alpacas was interested in the pair of you, though not nearly as much as the sheep. The horses looked at you like you were some kind of aliens; as if you were the ones in the pens for their entertainment. Hermes avoided the cow, saying she was giving him a dirty look. 

You knew he had a history with cows but you didn't think it went that deep…

The chickens were also quick to look for Hermes' attention, running over to the fence posts to investigate. They formed a wide clump of feathers, and would have been centered around him if there hadn't been a barrier in the way. As it were, several chickens were reaching their heads through the fencing, clucking and (apparently) trying to peck at the god. You giggled. Hermes looked around a moment, that mischievous smile on his face, and you saw him pull his hat down in the back just far enough to free the wings behind his ears, which flapped a few times at the chickens in return. 

The chickens went wild, some of them darting away, some of them flapping their wings back, some almost screeching; to the point that one of the farmhands came over to make sure they weren't fighting, and Hermes had to quickly slip his hat back in place. 

You'd never pet a chicken before; and the farm hand was kind enough to let you and Hermes each hold one. They were warm, surprisingly heavy, and you were taken aback when you realized the bird was purring. Not as deep and consistent as a cat’s purr, but still noticeable; the vibrations just barely palpable in your hands. Hermes' face was practically glowing in the low light, looking at you holding the chicken. After a little more cuddling of the soft feathers, and watching Hermes (probably) whispering a blessing to the other birds as well, the farmhand helped you place the chicken back in her coop, and Hermes led you to the last pen; the bunnies.

Angora rabbits, to be specific, with their carefully brushed fur and softly padded pen. A visitor could see clearly that these were the prized animals for the farm. And they certainly were cute; well-socialized and hopping over to see the newcomers, hoping for treats, clearly relaxed while being handled by the humans. 

You opted not to hold a rabbit, but you did get to pet a few of them as they wandered from person to person - their fur was as silky-soft as you imagined; always hearing about angora wool being special and extra soft (and probably extra expensive) but never going out of your way to find clothes made with it. 

The sun was finally setting in earnest, and the farmhands were beginning to pack up the petting area and move the animals back into their warm barns and hutches; the little country store was still open though, and it only took a little bit of begging to convince Hermes to go inside and look around. 

He’d already been planning on going in, but you were cute when you made your sad-eyes and exaggerated pout. 

Inside, the shop was warm and smelled like fresh cinnamon and vanilla. There were a few people milling around, looking at the different products - lots of fresh baked goods, homemade preserves, craft items, and even a cubby of milled goat milk soap. There was also a large sign on the counter that read “Chelly is OUT” in large red letters, and you assumed the tile that read OUT could be flipped to say something like IN as well. 

You wondered if you'd get a peek at Chelly. You did love shops that had kitties wandering around. 

Hermes unpinned his cloak so it hung at his shoulders instead of clipped at his throat, and you loosened your coat as well; the shop was nice and warm, and you were getting a little too warm under so many layers. 

Hermes was definitely just showing off his shirt - a meme shirt, because of course he'd been collecting those recently... 

You took your time looking at different things, eventually Hermes handed you a little shopping basket with a knowing grin, and you blushed again as you carefully placed a bottle of lavender oil for baking and a pack of flaky, delicious looking chocolate pastries into the basket. You were a bit surprised when Hermes actually added some things to the basket - namely two little crochet sheep that had a tag reading [80% angora, 20% wool] and a crochet chicken that apparently had a squeaker in its body. 

Oh gods. That was going to drive his siblings insane. 

And then suddenly, Hermes yelped and jumped, floating just a second too long before landing and looking down at the floor. 

Looking at a little tortoise riding around on a skateboard-like contraption.

The yelp had attracted the attention of the woman running the counter, but Hermes was unbothered; consumed with the sheer delight upon seeing the little reptile appear from under the shelves. 

“Oh, I'm so sorry!” the woman said frantically, “she's perfectly healthy, I promise, she just gets a little feisty when it's close to closing time, because she knows once the customers leave she gets a strawberry. She didn't bite you, did she?”

Meanwhile, Hermes had become a metaphorical kid in a candy store, sitting down right on the floor and cooing at the tortoise. He waved the woman off, saying, “She's so cute! So fast!” And then addressing the turtle, a mess of babbling that included “Look at your little wheels!” 

You'd seen many moods from your godly boyfriend. You'd seen him happy, frustrated, confused, annoyed (usually by your car and your coworkers). You'd seen him drunk and giggly, when he had twirled you around until you both threw up. You'd seen him cry, though rarely; he rarely felt safe to do so. You'd even seen him divinely angry once when a nymph at one of Dio's parties asked why a mortal like you were allowed to attend. 

You had not seen him like this. This was newborn-baby-cute-aggression levels of babbling. He gently scratched around the tortoise’s shell, watching the reptile wiggle when he apparently hit a good spot. (It was admittedly adorable.) You were pretty sure you could see his wings ruffling under his hat. 

Thankfully, the woman was pleased with Hermes' excitement. “Oh, yes. Poor Chelly was hatched without her back legs working. My son made the little wheel board for her. She has one that only has wheels on the back, but she seems to prefer the ability to race around.” 

Ah. Chelly was the tortoise.

“It's brilliant!” Hermes' replied, and then after a moment of hesitation, he surprised you again. “Can I pick her up?” He asked, almost bashful. 

The woman only laughed. “Sure, if she'll let you! Just be careful, she likes to give love bites.” She patted the reptile’s shell gently and asked if you needed any help before returning to the counter to attend another customer. 

Your boyfriend was still sitting on the floor. 

Not knowing what else to do, you joined him on the floor. 

He gently wiggled his fingers in front of Chelly, and when she didn't reach out and bite, he carefully scooped her off of her skateboard and held her right up to his face. 

“Helloooo, Darling! You like to go fast, huh? Go Zoomies? You're such a pretty girl!” He was almost blushing, and for the second time you wondered what clone had spontaneously replaced the man you were dating. Meanwhile, the tortoise was content to extend her neck and brush his nose with her face. Her front legs wiggled as if she was still walking or possibly swimming, and he continued to talk to her. 

The longer you sat there, the more you wondered if they could understand each other. 

With a sigh, you gave Hermes a kiss on his cheek, told him you were going to look some more, and left to explore the other shelves. (You may or may not have snapped several dozen photos of him cooing at Chelly in the meantime.)

He sat there with the tortoise a full ten minutes; meanwhile you found your own mischievous gift. You had paid quietly and hidden the item at the bottom of your purse, under the ‘valuables’ and wrapped in a brown paper bag. That was for later. 

When he finally rejoined you, you playfully bumped him with your elbow as he took some offered hand sanitizer from the counter to clean his hands.  He paid for the rest of the items in your basket, once again with real money, and you knew better than to question it at this point. The pair of you rebuttoned your extra layers and prepared to go out into the night. 

“So, are you replacing me?” you asked. He smiled, nuzzling your cheek with a little huff. 

“Nobody could replace you.” He replied softly, and your face suddenly felt a little warmer. He easily picked you up once more, having put your purchases into his trusty messenger bag, and with little warning he took off. 

This time, he did fly a little higher, just so you could see the stars on the way home. The cold wind bit your nose and you would probably have chapped cheeks in the morning, but it was worth it. 

He landed easily outside your apartment building, fishing the brown paper bag out of his pack. He would have to be back on Olympus tomorrow morning, and was leaving tonight to have time to leave a trap for Apollo. You barely had a moment before he pulled you into a kiss, then twirling you around and dipping you backwards, throwing off your balance. At least he kept you from falling, even if it was an almost cartoonish dip. He was probably floating to have you so far back. 

“So,” he panted lightly, his breath making little bursts of fog in the night air, “did you have fun?” You laughed, patting his shoulders as a request to stand back up. His face was positively glowing as he helped you right yourself. 

Yes, he had been floating, damn god powers…

You laughed anyway; “Yes. More fun than I have in a while.” You said, and it was the truth. Hermes' silly side was your favorite thing about him, and you had gotten to see so much of it tonight. His smile was brilliant once more, and under the shadow of his hat you saw his eyes start to glow silvery. 

“I love you.” he said, and kissed you again. “I'll be back in two days. I'll pick you up from work.” 

“Okay. Don't be too mean to Apollo, okay?” You teased. He rolled his eyes, and began to break away, before you grabbed the strap of his messenger bag and stuffed your own small gift inside, feeling it disappear into the organized clutter of the bottomless bag. He quirked an eyebrow in question. 

“Don't open it until you get back to Olympus. Promise?” You asked, and held up your pinky finger. 

He snorted. “Sure. Promise.” He linked his pinky with yours, and you shook. Truly a sacred oath. One last stolen kiss, and then he was gone, zipping away into the night sky. You hugged the bag from the store to your chest, and went inside to your (thankfully warm) apartment. 

The treats went into the kitchen, to be enjoyed for breakfast tomorrow. You were already scrolling your phone for that lavender shortbread cookie recipe you'd seen a week ago and thinking you would have to go to the store tomorrow after work anyway. The little sheep plushies (you now noticed one was a ram and one was an ewe. Dork.) went onto your shelf of ‘Hermes Trinkets’ for now, though you knew you would probably move them to your bed for cuddling soon. Damn those things were soft. There was also a pair of thick purple socks that you hadn't seen him grab, equally soft, and you already planned to change into them with your pajamas. 

Not even an hour later, as you were settling in for bed, you received a text message with a photo attached. 

Hermes, his hair wild and hat off, with a gigantic grin on his face. Proudly wearing the crochet headband with a carefully curled pair of stuffed ram horns. Captioned: ‘Better than my laurels.’

You suddenly really hoped he wouldn't wear that to council meetings. You'd created a monster. 

(If you enjoyed, please reblog!)

[stars-and-the-min]

☆ the wrong way to hard launch (5) | OP81

summary : oscar's girlfriend is a walking pr problem for literally everyone (including herself) social media au

pairing : oscar piastri x zhou!fem!singer!oc

a/n formula 1's 'newest' WAG makes her race debut and gives her cousin a headache

i did actually screech like a parrot watching this race and then immediately adjusted some of my predictive writings

masterlist | last part | part 5 | next part

TWITTER

F1 WAGS @f1wagnews · 3h Selina Bui spotted around the paddock!

pookie piastri @op81ln4 · 2h the royal couple of australia (i don't make the rules 🤷‍♀️)

↳ kayla @luna_apocolypse · 2h why... did she wear blue...? she knows basic color theory... right??? ↳ pookie piastri @op81ln4 · 2h i completely missed that... SILENA??? ↳ kayla @luna_apocolypse · 2h HER ASS IS NOT ENDING UP IN THE PAPAYA GARAGE IN THAT DRESS 😭 SHE'S NOT THAT DUMB IS SHE???

MANIFESTED OSCALINA | LONDON N3 @12m0red4ys · 26m SCREECHING RN we used to dream of these days

↳ lina bui x2 grammy winner @urdaisea · 25m '2-time grammy award winner' HELL YEAH SHE IS ↳ MANIFESTED OSCALINA | LONDON N3 @12m0red4ys · 26m the most employed wag in formula 1 🫶 (lily is a close 2nd)

oscalina real ?! @ emptyginbottles · 13m HELP HAS ANYONE ELSE SEEN THAT CLIP OF LINA AND THE CHINESE INTERVIEWER 😭 ↳ oscalina real ?! @ emptyginbottles · 13m [translation] interviewer: this is your cousin's 3rd f1 season, how come you've never come support him? lina: he said he doesn't like my nagging interviewer: then will you be supporting zhou guanyu in shanghai? his home race could use some family support lina: even if he asked me to visit, there's nothing i can do, i'm in shenzhen performing a sold-out concert ↳ clovie @ luvyouvie · 7m she's so done lmao what can she do if zhou doesn't want her there ↳ emme @flowersforcami · 5m lina: i'm fucking busy too, have you considered that??

INSTAGRAM

selinabui just posted to their story

(translation: Brother Yu [Zhou Guanyu], come and save me)

TWITTER

rubyyy @piastriworld · 2h oh wait shit she's cute as fuck what ↳ rubyyy @piastriworld · 2h fyi this is abt lina bui ↳ rubyyy @piastriworld · 2h i was kinda expecting a full-on rockstar but she's super soft???

piaa⁸¹ @ papayaeightyone · 1h the same woman not even 12hrs later

clara @ zgy24 · 37m i do actually think it's insane we got an 'oscar piastri's partner' graphic before we got a 'zhou guanyu's cousin' graphic ↳ clara @ zgy24 · 37m selina dear, we know you can't stand him but we're sure he'd appreciate it if you popped by the kick garage on your way over 🫶 ↳ lina !!! @EB_selina · 17m you sound like my mother but i'll have you know he sent me this:

很油腻 directly translates to 'very greasy' but it basically means 'ew' or 'cringe'

↳ clara @ zgy24 · 15m LMAO OH MY BAD ↳ xixi²⁴ ⁴⁴ @grandegrid · 14m the sheer amount of info you get from these two ss 😭 like ofc they use wechat, zhou guanyu sounds like an annoying older brother, she calls him 鱼哥, she trolls the emperor nickname, THE PURE SIBLING DYNAMIC IS EVERYTHING ↳ ZG24 future WDC · @zhoupdates · 14m zhou cousins crumbs 💚

lina !!! @EB_selina · 29m mistakes were made, the blue dress and orange-- sorry, PAPAYA headphones are not a look 💀 ↳ lina !!! @EB_selina · 28m wonder if it's too late to sneak into the sauber garage... ↳ pookie piastri @op81ln4 · 12m i'm actually wheezing at this bc that's EXACTLY what my oomf said when ur pics first dropped ↳ lina !!! @EB_selina · 10m well i wish ur oomf gave me a heads-up before i left the hotel

INSTAGRAM

selinabui

liked by zhouguanyu24 and 112,385 others

selinabui went on a tour around the paddock (finally visited the man racing with my number 🫶) tagged: zhouguanyu24 and logansargeant

pi4str1 babygirl, i think you wandered the wrong way

pastry81 oscar's girlfriend meeting oscar's boyfriend

zhouguanyu24 我给了你一个愿望 trans: i gave you one job/i had one wish ↳ selinabui @ zhouguanyu24 你是不是我的亲表哥！ trans: are you even my cousin!

logansargeant This feels like an achievement ↳ selinabui @ logansargeant it is, stay slaying cap, so glad to see you race today 🫶

no2argeant logan getting a double feature over her cousin mhm those are mutuals via oscar frfr (loscar and oscalina and... lolina?) ↳ selinabui @no2argeant we use selogan but lolina is 100x cuter

TWITTER

piaa⁸¹ @papayaeightyone · 3h HELP SHE ACTUALLY SNUCK INTO THE SAUBER GARAGE

xixi²⁴ ⁴⁴ @grandegrid · 2h both cousins are equally unserious bc why did i remember the 'who's the most famous person in ur contacts' thing kick sauber did and why did zhou say jj lin when his very famous GRAMMY WINNING cousin seems to regularly bug him on the daily ↳ pookie piastri @op81ln4 · 2h he probably forgot lmao it's like she's not famous in his eyes "oh lina? u mean my annoying little cousin? oh right, she's a rockstar or smth"

oscalina real ?! @ emptyginbottles · 2h ok i'm convinced she's gonna stay in the williams garage now like it's almost guaranteed she's not headed back to mclaren ↳ oscalina real ?! @ emptyginbottles · 2h oscar, honey, come over and remove ur girlfriend from the williams garage, she's yapping with logan ↳ oscalina real ?! @ emptyginbottles · 8m I JUST SAW LINA'S POST 💀💀 y'know she's right, lolina is cuter than selogan but now i need to know how much logan's been 3rd wheeling

kayla @luna_apocolypse · 16m oscar checking his socials and it's his fans debating on the best ship name for his girlfriend and bestie

MESSAGES

from the phone of selina bui

TWITTER

oscalina real ?! @ emptyginbottles · 1h realising that lina being at the race means we're probably not gonna get her entertaining af f1 live-tweets

↳ oscalina real ?! @ emptyginbottles · 1h no joke, we missed out on aus gp live-tweets bc she was flying to jakarta but the saudi gp tweets gave me LIFE

INSTAGRAM/MESSAGES

from the phone of logan sargeant

TWITTER

oscalina real ?! @ emptyginbottles · 39m red flag??? already??? we just started??? ↳ oscalina real ?! @ emptyginbottles · 34m they cut to lina in the mclaren garage and i'm wheezing she looks so amused by the turn of events 😭

jess @OPIXSTRI · 3m oh they knew what they were doing cutting to selina bui after zhou guanyu retired ↳ jess @OPIXSTRI · 3m new f1 reaction pic just dropped guys, perfectly summarises the kick sauber saga

↳ kayla @luna_apocolypse · 2m obsessed with her refusal to wear the orange headphones genuinely think she would rather go deaf than have those pictures circulate the internet

xixi²⁴ ⁴⁴ @grandegrid · 5m we got the zhou guanyu's cousin graphic but at what cost

↳ Stake F1 Team KICK Sauber @stakef1team_ks · 18m We're sorry to let you down 😔 ↳ lina !!! @EB_selina · 17m i don't care which long-suffering intern this is. get out. ↳ oscalina real ?! @ emptyginbottles · 20m lmao lina's sauber pit stop tweets vs oscar's f3 drs tweets, fight 🤣

INSTAGRAM

selinabui Suzuka, Japan

liked by eb_jonno and 200,371 others

selinabui loved the experience, will not be going to another one bc i'm 94% sure i jinxed EVERYONE i hold dear in this sport - stay safe out there 👍 see y'all in seoul in 2-3 business days <3 tagged: mclaren and oscarpiastri

logansargeant You did *not* jinx anyone ↳ selinabui @ logansargeant logan, honey, i'm a bit depressed about you but sure man, whatever you say :'(

ninisf1diary how'd you find your first ever live race? ↳ selinabui @ninisf1diary very fun, loved the bit where oscar got to hop back into the garage after the first lap

mclaren Are we still gonna see you in Imola 🥺 ↳ selinabui @ mclaren i think oscar is gonna drag me over kicking and screaming but i guess i'll be there

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:

taglist @ririyulife @ashy-kit @fionaschicken @namgification

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @steddieholidaydrabbles.

Here Before Morning

Prompt Day 1: Snowfall | Word Count: 578 | Rating: T | CW: Language | Tags: Post S4, Eddie Munson Lives, Established Relationship, Fluff, The Magic of First Snow

Eddie can smell the snow. It's not here yet, but it'll be here before morning, he's absolutely positive. In fact, he's pretty sure the smell of snow is his first memory. He assumes he had to have been no more than four or five, but he remembers his mom taking him outside, all bundled up in the yard, waiting. Together. The two of them just standing there, looking at the sky, soaking up that cold smell that was brand new to his little self, but has since remained seared into his brain.

It's a good memory, and if he can sense it coming, he'll always come out to welcome it in.

He pulls his coat tighter across his back, shoving his hands deep into the pockets. It's cold. Really cold, and he tilts his head back and inhales deeply, closing his eyes.

"Brrr. What are you doing out here?" Steve asks, after cracking open the back sliding door. Eddie opens his eyes and looks over at him to see Steve shivering as the winter air hits his bare skin.

"I smelled snow," Eddie explains.

And Steve nods, hair sticking up all over the place, then he's tugging the sliding glass door back closed.

And Eddie closes his eyes again, waiting.

Fifteen minutes later, Steve turns up. Dressed, a mug of coffee cupped between his hands. 

Eddie turns and smiles at him, "You didn't have to come out. It's too cold."

Steve looks so tired. He's got his glasses on, and his biggest, warmest sweater. Eddie thinks he looks cozy like this, beautiful in a way that feels effortless, and real. But then again, to Eddie, Steve always does.

Eddie will never be sure how he got this lucky in life. It always seemed like he was destined to be fucked by life at every turn. And then Steve arrived, covered in blood and bat bites, determined to save him.

He did. In more ways than one.

But mainly just by loving him. Eddie's luck, the shitty, hard life he felt helplessly destined for, had finally turned tides.

And it had everything to do with Steve Harrington, white knight in a bloodied battle vest, Eddie is absolutely certain. 

"You got a timeline on this snow?" Steve asks, stifling a yawn, as he hands over his mug, sharing it with Eddie. They definitely don't take their coffee the same, but Steve's left this cup black, Eddie's preference, not his own.

Eddie looks at the sky, as if he's making predictions:

"Seventeen minutes, thirty-two seconds," Eddie answers.

"Really?" Steve asks, looking like he doesn't believe Eddie. Which he damn well shouldn't. Eddie's just talking out of his ass, as always.

"No, I'm not that good," Eddie laughs. 

And Steve looks his way, eyes all soft in a way that always gets Eddie, "I don't know, you seem that good to me. You've got that magic."

Eddie grins back at him, leaning over and pressing his lips to Steve's.

"It's early," Steve mumbles against his mouth, and Eddie starts to ask what's early.

But then he feels it.

The first brush of wetness, and then more and more damp kisses of snow land and melt on his skin.

Steve pulls back, and Eddie looks up, watching as the snowflakes fill the night sky, illuminated by the streetlamps.

"See?" Steve says, "Magic."

And Eddie laughs, spinning around, opening his mouth, trying to catch some of the falling snowflakes on his tongue.

Magic, indeed.

Notes: Definitely inspired by Lorelai Gilmore and her sixth sense for the first snow of the year.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddieholidaydrabbles and follow along with the fun! ❄️

[residentdeviant]

𝑺𝑶𝑭𝑻𝑾𝑨𝑹𝑬 𝑰𝑵𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑩𝑰𝑳𝑰𝑻𝒀

── .✦ summary

⟢ you‘ve devised a plan to help solve the case and catch the unsub, but what if you don’t live ‘til the end of it?

── .✦ story notes !

⟢ written with re2r/re4r leon in mind ! also, i did my best to have this be a gender neutral reader, but if there’s anything that suggests otherwise, please let me know.

── .✦ word count

⟢ 3.4k !

── .✦ tags ! (warnings included)

⟢ d:bh au, android!leon, second-person, no use of y/n, nickname “lee” is used for leon bc it’s cute and i will die on that hill, angst, minor mention of brian irons, gore, mentions of chris redfield and jill valentine as well as rebecca chambers, fluff kinda???, you get a cat btw, happy ending!

── .✦ a/n !

⟢ this part has definitely been on the longer side of construction lol but i was determined to finish it. it’s unbelievably hard for me to finish projects but i powered through this for me and you! even though it did take me like six months… whoopsies.

⟢ part one!

⟢ part two!

6:57am.

“Good morning, detective,” Leon greeted with a smile as he saw you walk in, seemingly in a better mood this morning. Regardless, it was good to see him feeling better after everything you two had encountered last night.

You smiled at him in return, keeping things light for now. “Morning, Leon,” you reply, waving slightly with one hand and holding your cup of coffee in the other. You made your way to the west office once more, opening the door and walking towards your desk. Getting a shower and some rest last night was definitely needed as well as deserved, and you were more than grateful for both of those.

You pulled out your chair and sat at your desk, ready to get the day started and prepare to catch the guy behind all of this mess. RC was lost in darkness and chaos, repeating the same old loop continuously without stopping for breath, and you wanted to be one of the ones to save this forsaken city. If not you, then who else?

Simple chatter and the click-clacking of keyboard keys were all that could be heard within the west office, the morning starting off rather quiet and slow. You just wanted to get your morning load of work done before doing further investigation on the unsub you had spent the past few days chasing. His attacks were on a regular basis, seemingly everyday, so you suspected that it wasn't long until he would strike again.

As you worked through the practically endless stack of paperwork and android cases popping up every millisecond, you could feel the presence of someone behind you. As you turn, you could see that familiar blond android waiting for you, with the utmost patience. He hadn’t even said anything to disturb you, or even make any noise for that matter, but it was easy to sense another person within your vicinity.

Once you looked at him, his baby blue eyes flickered over to you and he gave you a polite smile before speaking. “We should figure out a plan soon. The sooner we catch the unsub and free the others, the better,” Leon suggested, carefully moving a bit closer to you.

“No worries, Lee. I’ve got it figured out already,” you began. He didn’t seem to expect that, but he welcomed it. “I just need to finish this paperwork, go through a few case details and study our guy a little more before we make any moves. He’s dangerous. We have no room for error.” The android nodded softly, silently agreeing with you.

You had predicted the unsub’s schedule, putting everything together and praying that this was going to work. You were undoubtedly putting your life on the line, yes, but it would be worth it in the end… if you lived long enough to make it to the end of the mission.

The plan you had devised was simple: pose as an android, wander in the unsub’s frequented grounds, get captured by him and then wait for the right time to take him into custody. It didn’t seem easy, and it sure wouldn’t be either, but you had to try. Androids weren’t just robots, designed to do humanity’s bidding — they had minds and hearts. They deserved better than what they got, and you were determined to help them by solving this case and locking this guy up for good.

—

6:37pm.

Night had fallen and your plan had begun. When you had told Leon about it, he seemed nervous? His behavior was slightly off and his LED had been spinning yellow for quite some time. You could tell he was probably worried about the outcome, but you knew what you had to do.

You wandered around the streets in your android uniform and an LED on your temple, acting as if you were working through a task assigned to you before you were suddenly approached by a man who looked like he didn’t know what a shower was. He had green eyes, greasy brown hair and he absolutely reeked. (Like anime convention type of reeked.) Not only that, but he had some odd stains on his clothes. Oil and thirium? That’s gotta be it.

“Excuse me, I need help…” he said, although not coming off as very convincing. “My wife… she’s in trouble. I think she’s having a heart attack. Please! You need to help me!”

This guy needs acting classes. Stat.

“Of course,” you replied, mimicking the rather direct behavior of most androids before following the man — who appeared to be your unsub — into his house. This is him. You knew this place. Now you just had to be cautious and continue with your plan so you could catch him in the act.

You and the man had entered the house, and as soon as he shut the door behind you, he kicked you down, murmuring expletives. It’s like meeting a younger version of Irons. You tried to get up, but he kicked you down once more and made sure you were weak before he dragged you downstairs.

—

“Are you sure that we should wait for their signal? I mean… What if they’re in trouble?” Leon questioned, his LED flashing to yellow for a split second as he looked towards Lieutenant Branagh, the pair camping out within a nearby black sedan. The android knew he should follow the plan, he knew he needed to keep the end goal in mind, but he struggled to do so knowing that there was a slight possibility that you wouldn’t make it out. This job was dangerous, he knew that, but he couldn’t help but… worry?

No.

SOFTWARE INSTABILITY ^

He shouldn’t worry, he… he can’t worry. That’s a sign of deviancy. Androids don’t do that.

Stick to your code, get the job done.

“Are you doubting your partner, rookie?” Branagh questioned in return, turning the tables on the poor android. “They’re strong. They can handle themselves. Just trust us on this.”

The blond couldn’t really do anything but nod lightly and anxiously watch the establishment, worrying about you — even if you weren’t aware of it. A future without you was a future he didn’t want to be a part of. It’d kill him inside.

And that scared him.

He hadn’t even known you for that long, but you made him feel a type of way that he couldn’t understand. It was beyond his programming. He wasn’t supposed to feel this way. He wasn’t supposed to feel anything, point blank. As much as he wanted to deny it and pretend that it certainly wasn’t true, Leon may have been deviating, and the only person he could ever tell was you.

—

You could feel the fear all of those androids felt as you were dragged down the stairs by your legs, and any fighting you did was practically useless. This guy was freakishly strong, which would’ve been good to know before you threw yourself in harm’s way. The moment he looked in another direction, you sent the signal and waited for backup. Meanwhile, you begged for your life, as you assumed any android would, as he lifted you and strapped you down on a chair, keeping you in place. The caged androids from before watched in horror, keeping silent but feeling a strong sense of remorse for you. He couldn’t remove vital parts from you and keep you alive like he had done with them, so this felt like your funeral.

“I’ll help you get out of here very soon, I promise.”

They just hoped your promise to them wouldn’t be broken and you’d continue to live on. You showed them kindness, and they would never forgive themselves if they couldn’t do the same for you.

The man who was confirmed to be your unsub was at a workbench, stained with thirium, oil and human blood. It was disgusting. One part of you knew your team was mere moments from busting in and taking this guy in for good, but the other part of you was still petrified. You could so easily be killed if they weren’t fast enough, and you hoped and prayed that they were.

As the dark-haired man grabbed his tools, a familiar face came sprinting down the stairs — 9mm in hand.

“Drop your weapons and put your hands up where I can see them!” he commanded. Leon, thank God. Lieutenant Branagh as well as a few other officers followed, aiming their guns at the suspect. Knowing he was caught for good, he raised his hands, allowing his loose sleeves to slide down a bit and reveal his left arm that used to belong to an android. He’s harvesting them for parts. God, that’s gross.

As Branagh and the other officers detained the man that was soon to be identified as Brent Phillips, Leon came over and helped you out of your confines before giving you a hug to help calm you down. Not only that, but to reassure him that you were safe, and no harm could be done to you anymore. There wouldn’t be another story like Samuel and Martha’s. You got to live, and he got to see your smile again — which was worth more than gold to him.

—

While your team took Phillips in, Leon stayed at the crime scene, doing further investigation. You freed the poor droids left to rot within the cage, deciding to get them fixed up and sent back to their original families. “You kept your promise,” one said with a soft voice, sounding slightly surprised yet grateful nonetheless.

“Of course I did. I couldn’t leave you guys behind,” you replied with a small smile. Another officer escorted the androids out, leaving just you and your own android friend in the dark, lonely basement.

It was quiet for a bit as you looked through Brent’s personal items, looking for any sort of motive behind the whole thing other than just using androids for spare parts. Oddly enough, you couldn’t find anything. Lots of family photos hidden away, so maybe he wanted to keep his happy and comfortable family life hidden away from his dark and twisted deeds.

“He lost his arm in a car accident,” the blond stated after shuffling through Brent’s journals. “He couldn’t afford a medical bill, so he stole androids and used them instead… but he got addicted. He kept messing with them… tore them apart, left them for dead like it’s nothing… like we’re nothing.”

Your eyes flickered over to Leon, examining his sorrowful expression as his LED shifted to yellow. You walked over to him, gently rubbing his back to try to ease him. “I’m sorry, Lee. But at least now, it can’t happen again. Lives were lost, but there were many more saved. It’s gonna be okay.”

The blond android sniffled a bit, and his LED slowly returned to blue once more. He thanked you before making his way upstairs to step outside for a bit and get some air. You looked around for a few more minutes before returning to him.

And when you did, you definitely weren’t planning on telling him that you found Martha in the mini fridge.

—

A few days had gone by and the case was closed. Brent was detained, Martha’s body had been found and sent into the lab, the other androids were free and everything else fell into place. You and Leon had officially finished your first case together and things were going pretty well. You could tell that he still felt guilty, however, almost as if he could prevent that situation. As if he could prevent death and destruction.

But the poor rookie also knew that it was part of the job. He couldn’t get attached. Attachment was a human emotion, and he was terrified of what could happen if anyone knew of what was happening inside the confines of his android mind. He knew everyone would rat him out, except maybe Branagh, but he knew you certainly wouldn’t.

So he’d cling onto you.

Not just because you’re partners and you’re also his only friend, but because he feels safe with you. He feels safe enough to share all of this with you. You’re the only one who has ever made him feel a sense of humanity and encouraged that. Anyone else would tell him that he had an instability error within his software and he needed to get it fixed immediately, but you were different. You were kind.

SOFTWARE INSTABILITY ^

Leon wasn’t sure what this feeling inside his chest was. It was unfamiliar and certainly not in his programming. He needed to figure it out and fast.

–

Quite some time had flown by and androids have fought for equal rights, earning their freedom and the right to live just as humans do. Even so, Leon continues working for the police department, constantly having that desire to help those in need. Not only this, but he also has an apartment in the same building as you, which you helped him decorate after work for about four days. Although the finished result was quite lovely and you always wanted to help your friends, so there wasn’t a desire to complain.

Those aren’t the only changes, however. After the successes of your first three cases together, you and Leon are officially a team. Probably even one of the best that the RPD has to offer! You had taken on most of the android cases together and solved just about all of them. Branagh was pretty impressed and you two even received the opportunity to join S.T.A.R.S alongside Chris Redfield, Jill Valentine and Rebecca Chambers, but after some thought, the two of you politely declined. It just wasn’t in your interests at this time and you were happy with things as they are.

Except for one thing – you and Leon.

You were partners and now best friends, but now what? You wanted more than that. How could anyone be happy with just that? Maybe your coworkers would tease you about crushing on an android, and goodness knows what your relatives would say, but you knew that it didn’t matter what they thought. As long as you’re happy, then who cares?

But you weren't happy. Not like this. So you decided that you’d just have to tell him.

You just hoped he wouldn’t short circuit or something.

Your shift was coming to a close for the night and you couldn’t have been happier. Although you loved being able to help others through your job, you didn’t love the paperwork that came along with it. You powered through the last few pages and then began to grab your belongings, putting them in their rightful places before pushing your chair back towards your desk.

“Heading out for the night?” your blond partner asked, seemingly popping in out of practically nowhere.

You give him a nod and a small smile, “Yeah, I’m ready to go home and get dinner. Want a ride?”

“That’d be great, thanks.”

Mere moments later, you and Leon were heading back to your apartment building in your car. Gentle rain pitter-pattered along the expanse of the automobile, bringing you two a sense of warmth and comfort during the cold night. Well, the heat was also on, so that probably helped, too.

The car ride was full of chatter at first as you two talked about what you had been up to lately other than work. He had been watching Star Wars movies again and playing videogames, you had been watching your own favorite movies and tending to your hobbies. The conversation died off after a while, and you quickly noticed that Leon seemed a little off, like he was thinking about something rather deeply. You decided to let him come to you when he was ready, but your train of thought was interrupted as he softly spoke your name.

“I need to talk to you about something,” the blond suddenly spoke, his tone and body language giving you the feeling that he was quite anxious.

“Yeah, sure… shoot,” you replied simply, eyes focused on the road.

He thought about his choice of words for a moment, and you swore you could almost hear the whirring of the fans in his android head, like when you haven’t cleaned your PS4 in a while and it sounds like a fighter jet taking off.

“I have this feeling when I’m with you, and I don’t know what it is exactly but I know it’s good. It’s a positive one, but not one I feel when I successfully accomplish a mission with no casualties or when I hang out with my friends or something. It’s different. It’s deeper than that, it’s…”

Love. He loves you.

The entire time, he wouldn’t look at you. He couldn’t look at you, even if he tried. His bionic heart was racing at what felt like a million miles an hour, and he was struggling to even find the words for what he was feeling. But he knew you’d understand; you always did. That was one of the many things he loved about you. You always made him feel understood and safe around you. Even before androids gained equal rights, you treated him as if he was your equal with no questions asked. You gave him the freedom to act and do as he so pleased, and he was immensely grateful for that. You gave him everything he could ever want, and in return, he wanted to give you his heart.

You smoothly pulled up to the apartment complex, parking in your usual spot and then turning to face Leon. He didn’t finish what he was going to say, but he figured that you already knew. He especially thought so when you looked at him a little closer and saw a slight blue tinge on his cheeks (which he made a feeble attempt to hide). He softly cleared his throat, turning to face you, although still shy about the whole ordeal. “So… if you’ll have me…”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

–

In the following months, you and Leon had gone on several successful dates that served to secure the beginning of your future together. The two of you often went stargazing, browsing in record shops and had countless movie marathons when you just wanted to stay home. You eventually moved into a nice house together, which had a mailbox decorated with your names and handprints. Not only that, but you even adopted a cat! (And totally didn’t name them after a Transformer…)

One night in particular, you and Leon were lying on your shared bed, comfortable as ever as he snuggled up behind you with your adorable cat resting in front of you. You were fast asleep, dreaming of goodness knows what, but it must be nice since you were smiling to yourself even in REM. Leon, however, was wide awake, listening to your soft breathing and remaining lost in his thoughts. It had been a long time that he had been living with human rights, and living with human feelings for even longer, but he still wasn’t used to them. He still lived within awe of your kindness and he still felt a sense of curiosity when you showed him any semblance of affection.

He may never know if he’ll ever adjust as easily as other androids do when it comes to stuff like this, but he does know one thing: he will always cherish it. He’ll always feel a sense of relief when either one of you returns home from work. He’ll always be grateful for the meals you share together. He’ll always love it when you sit on the back porch with a glass of lemonade in hand, gazing at him longingly as he happily does yardwork “like normal people do.” But most of all, he’ll always love you in any and every form. There’s nothing he wouldn't do for you.

As he closes his eyes and allows himself to go into a dormant state, he takes in everything about you and recommits it to his memory – hoping to dream about you. And as he sleeps, he knows that anything and everything in the world couldn’t be better than this. No treasure is as precious as a future with you.

I want to thank three of my loved ones for helping me proofread the whole series, but I also want to simultaneously apologize because they waited about four to six months for me to finish part three lol. I also want to thank you for reading this mini series! I appreciate all of the love and support you guys have given me and I couldn’t be more grateful. I haven’t written and uploaded a fic online in a good few years, but all of you have given me the confidence I needed to return to it.

I have another project in progress, but goodness knows when I’ll finish it lol. Until then, I will try to keep you guys updated and fed whenever possible. I love you all.

[chaewberry]

complete guide; how to move on from your ex (failure guaranteed!).

pairing; uchiha shisui x reader word count; 3.8k tags; breaking up and getting back together, explicit sexual content, from lovers to exs back to lovers again, humor, civilian reader. chapters; 1/5 read chapter 2

read on ao3!

You were both sitting on your balcony, fourth floor up, with your backs against the wall and the clammy, summer night heat clinging to your skin. The tube of ice-cream sitting in between you had all but melted into soup an hour ago and neither one of you bothered to return it to the freezer.

“Let’s break up.”

It was well late at night, after midnight for sure, and the balcony tiles had grown warm and sticky against the naked skin of your thigh. It was a hateful summer - as all summer were in the Land of Fire - beating down on you with merciless heatwaves all throughout July, and so you had opted to shed your shorts in favor of parading around the house with a loose tank top and your panties. Shisui had undressed himself down to his training gear shorts he’d left lying around during one of the countless times he’d spend his days and nights here, along with an insurmountable amount of clothing crammed away inside your closet next to yours. Sometimes he’d flicker in and out within seconds, grabbing this shirt or those pants or the tanto strap he’d disregarded somewhere underneath your bed after coming home from a two month mission, all needy hands and impatience etched into tensed muscles. One time he had left his standard shinobi vest here — you had washed it and put it out to dry one night before bed only to find it gone the next morning you woke up, replaced with a scribbled note of a crudely drawn kissing face and a heart in its place.

He’d pop in one second, leave a messy bite on your jawline or a wet kiss on your nape and be gone the next, leaving behind the smell of his shampoo or the scent of the earth he carried wherever he went and you with a heart that throbbed with such salacious pleasure that the feeling spread from your sternum down to your navel.

It was the little things that left you chuffed. You never knew when he would pop up or when. You could be in the bathroom brushing your teeth and soaking in the bathtub, you could be cooking or just sleeping in during your lazy hours, lounging on the couch reading a comic or a book; you’d wait, every day, for that one, two seconds where you’d feel the familiar pull of space.

You expected him but you could never predict him — Shisui had a talent for catching you off guard and tonight was no different.

You wracked your brain, trying to find suitable words to respond with because you couldn’t stay quiet now, you had to say something, anything, everything but to stay silent. Your mouth opened and closed again, opened and closed, lips pulling into a smile too thin and dry to be anything truly genuine, but for some reason you also felt that you were smiling as ludicrous as it were. “Is this because I ate the left-over yakisoba from lunch? Shisui, really, you’re being dramatic.”

“What? No,” he said. “It’s not that — and anyway, I bought that for you.”

Because today was Friday and you had the next week off and Shisui always brought you food after you worked for two consecutive weeks with barely a day off when things got busy at the hospital and you had to be stretched thin and do jobs that weren’t in your jurisdiction and then some. As soon as you stepped foot inside your apartment earlier that day and found the man sitting next to you languish laying in the tatami floors in front of the open balcony door, letting the sun bathe his skin and scars, you had taken it for granted that this was going to be a normal week off — Shisui would try to stay off the mission roster and work more at the police force next to his cousins and uncle. He’d buy you breakfast in the mornings and you’d make him lunch to take into work, and then once he got off of work he would go to his house or come to yours, wash the troubles of the day away and you’d go on to do whatever it is you had planned for the night.

Normal couple shit you’ve been doing for the past eight months and two weeks you’ve been together, ever since you turned the occasional ‘sleeping-together-for-benefits’ arrangement turned into this when Shisui bought you strawberry seeds to plant on the empty ceramic pots sitting outside on your balcony for over two years along with a glass of expensive rose and a flower bouquet so large and with such variety that your apartment had been the epitome of a lofty spring day for the better part of a month. Even now, the dried, well preserved flowers hang upside down next to your bookshelf, a mixture of faded color and the first, brittle feelings of the first serious relationship you’ve had in your life.

“Hold on. I need to wear some pants if we’re going to have this conversation.” You got up, unsticking your skin from the warm tiles and grabbing the ice-cream soup to throw away. “You want a shirt?”

“Yes, please.”

“ Please. Well, now I know you’re being serious.”

“Shut up, can’t I be nice? Am I not nice?”

“Perish the thought, my love.”

You stepped inside the house, closing one of the balcony doors and leaving the other one open. You poured the melted gooey mess down the kitchen sink, threw the tube in the trash and made your way to your closet, relying only on the light coming from the bathroom to find your way, a habit you picked up from a mother who was always scared of the darkness, who would wake up panting and gasping for breath in the middle of the night if the light on the bathroom or the hallway hadn’t been left on, who would grasp around for the covers, for your little hands, for whatever it was she could grab on in order to ground herself.

Most nights you slept with the light in the bathroom on too — other nights however it seemed too strong against the shapeless darkness the night dunked your apartment in and so you closed it completely, leaving only the moonlight and the warm palm against your back, wide and warm, almost burning down the skin.

From the confinements of your closet you fished out a pair of shorts and one of Shisui’s shirts, black and stamped with his clan logo at the back. Briefly, looking down on the too large for your frame tank top, the strands slipping down your shoulders no matter how many times you pulled them up, threatening to expose one part or another, you entertained the idea about changing into one of your shirts, though you quickly waved the notion off.

Changing out of his shirt would require a level of chalantness you weren’t willing to convey out into the open, now, when the moment required vulnerability.

Strangely, you felt still, as if a time bubble had come down around your house and paused everything; the frail summer breeze against the leaves and the grass, the sound of cicadas you loved so much, even the quips between you and Shisui remained the same, even the calmness that had settled down on your own self was in and of itself some sort of an admittance, a recognition of this time bubble which would burst once the first peaks of the morning shuttered through the curtains in a handful of hours, long after Shisui would leave, because it was a fact that he was breaking up with you, that he wanted to break up with you, and thus it was so that he would leave once he did so. You’d have the summer warmed sheets all to yourself, the light of the bathroom still on, the balcony doors still open even as you went to sleep, and the clattered clothes, yours and his, around your apartment.

You threw the shirt over his head and sat back down on the cooling tiles, your back against the wall of your small balcony, facing forwards, at the once small strawberry plant which had, by now, sprouted two more roots.

“I need to replant those,” you said, not taking your eyes off the strawberries. “The pots are too small.” You turned to him, watched as he tugged the shirt down the hard cut muscles of his chest, his stomach, the tantalizing sliver of skin just above the seams of his shorts. Nothing better than ogling at your soon-to-be ex-boyfriend in a shattering moment of vulnerability.

“So,” you clicked your tongue against the back of your teeth. “Where were we?”

***

Hikari was awkwardly charming with a too wide smile and childlike rose coloured glasses.

He was a civilian, like you, and was working as a manga editor in the new literary building that sprouted up two years ago. It made sense, in a way, that he had stayed behind in those childlike pages and romanticized stories of ‘boy-meets-girl’, in between adventures shared between friends and comrades, wine mixed with honey and warm in your mouth, sweet on the tip of your tongue. He held your hand all the way to the restaurant, pulled the chair back for you, gave you a single rose underneath the flickering light bulb of your apartment complex at the end of the night. 

His fumbling self had charmed you to an extent, although his kisses left much to be desired — despite it, or perhaps because of it, he was eagerly awaiting to please. 

It wasn’t bad, it wasn’t good, and at the end of the night you were laying naked on sweat soaked sheets passing a cigarette between raw, bitten lips. The thrumming anxiety underneath Hikari’s skin had dialed down, the small blip of chakra he possessed smoothed out. You rugged a pillow to your naked chest and he was enthusiastic in lending you an arm to use to lay your head instead. He pulled closed to you that way, his chest on your back and his other arm thrown over your waist. You pressed back onto him and buried your face in the pillow. With closed eyes and a steady heart you focused on the sound of his breathing, on the way his body felt against yours. 

This went on for two more weeks before you cut Hikari loose.

Tsunade herself had said that the remedy to a broken heart was either booze or short term flings below your league, and both of those things at once, on occasions, but you still had shifts to cover, your job to do, bills to pay, and a reminder to act like a perfectly working societal cog in the grand scheme of things. 

You drank more than put out, despite Rin’s sudden interest in safe sex lectures that she had printed and taped out all throughout the brake room walls and her tenacious, subtle-as-shit glances from around the corner or over your shoulder.

It was fine, you thought, because she at least wasn’t whimpering sympathetically while holding onto your leg metaphorically. She put you to work, instead, intent on wringing out any sort of liquid substance of life you had within your veins between the smoke in your lungs and whatever else passed as an acceptable amount of water and food.

Your existence was pure disgust that past week, so busy with work and indulging in miserably pleasurable pity parties or whatever the fuck it was that you were doing in the bathroom with an old sex toy you hadn’t used in years and had taken to now abusing the fuck out of. Between that and sleeping you were barely venturing outside of your apartment.

When Rin started becoming overbearing in her attempts to feed you from her lunchbox and “mistakenly buying” one extra juice box from the vending machine you decided that your lifestyle wouldn’t do. Not if you wanted her busting down your door one of these days and finding you in the midst of debauchery in your bathtub.

You put more effort in the way you dressed, dabbed some concealer underneath your eyes to hide the bruised skin stitched with weariness and an exhaustion that ran too deep. You even bought a new and up and coming magazine talking about all things fashion and what-not. You took the time to study it, read it from cover to cover and then talk about it with the nurses and doctors at the hospital when Rin was within earshot, pitching your voice higher and dipping it in sweetness.

Tsunade had taken one look at your well constructed facade and laughed in your face — but that was fine, it was fine. Tsuande wasn’t some meddlesome wench who would fuss and blow a gasket over something so trivial as a few missed meals and an unhealthy amount of staying up to use getting off in order to deal.

You were pretty sure you were losing all sensation on your clit though.

You had that Friday and the whole weekend off, not expected at the hospital until Monday for the night shifts. Your civilian friends came over, bringing booze for the purpose of getting drunk as a skunk before even setting foot anywhere near close to a club and an opulent onslaught of opinions regarding your ‘slutty Friday outfit’.

After shoving you into clothes that were entirely and embarrassingly too tiny and short on your and after shredding your tights to hell and back and slapped on some hard core, punk themes makeup on you in between the gin laced with bitter lemon juice in between, you had reached the appropriate level of intoxication to leave the house and head towards one of the seediest bars in Konoha.

It was a mix between civilians and shinobi looking to let loose, the stickiness of spilled drinks clinging onto your shoes, the smoke filling the room inside and making its way down your throat and making you grow lightheaded within the span of a few minutes, the noise vibrating from the walls and onto your bones; it was a wonder such place was ever allowed to remain open. The health violations alone were enough to warrant the immediate execution of the owner. 

One of your friends, Lisa, had flirted her way towards a table half-way full. She sat her ass right on a guy’s dick and after a few minutes and whispering into his ear and laughing like a dumb bimbo she most certainly was not she turned to you and your two other friends, one of which was her girlfriend, and crooked a wicked finger into a ‘come hither’ motion.

“How do you do it?” Chiyo asked. She turned towards Fumiko while pulling you towards the direction of the table, her grasp strong and sure on your wrist, as if you were at risk of getting snatched at any moment now. “I wouldn’t like it.”

Fumiko only smiled around the blunt on her blood painted lips, teeth tearing at the paper and the plant. “It’s different when you’re in love.”

You stumbled through the crowd in high heels you hadn’t worn in years.

“Besides - Lisa doesn’t like cock.”

Chiyo argues back, “that’s so not the point,” but by the time anything could come of it they were already at the table. Shoved between a rock and a hard place -- Lisa abandoned the dick trying to bury itself in her through various levels of clothing in lieu of climbing over your lap and directly sitting in between Fumiko’s legs now before starting to make out on your left side, tacky heels digging into your calf. Meanwhile on your right was a dude who was halfway smoking his second pack of the day of one went by the raspy quality of his fried as fuck vocal cords and was definitely not just a civilian with the amount fo scar tissue around the visible skin of his arms and throat.

Shisui had the same scars littering his body — one in particular, from the top of his right eyebrow, down over the soft skin of his eyelid until it stopped right beneath his cheekbone.

Kenji, as it turned out, was furiously in love with a man thirteen years younger than him as well as a glutton for punishment. He offered to share his cigarettes with you nevertheless, pouring you drinks from the bottle he had bought for himself and made idle talk while running circles with his thumb on the inner side of your thigh the whole time. He was handsome, older, and the tension beneath well sculpted muscle screamed of someone who had seen a lot of mayhem and maybe even caused a lot of it. 

Nearing the end of the night, you asked, blunt and honest, “are you a shinobi?”

Kenji chuckled, white teeth flashing, and the sound was deep and throaty and absolutely fucking fake. “Does that scare you?”

You didn’t hesitate. “No, not really.”

He paused, blinking down at you lazily. He started squeezing your thigh like it was a fucking squeaky toy. “You’re one of those, huh?” Looking at the visible confusion on your face, he explained. “Someone who likes the life, wants to try and take a bite out of it.”

You would have laughed if you felt like it. Instead, you asked, “Does the boy not like the life?”

His silence was an answer in and of itself, even though his smile never left his face.

At the end of the night you leave. Lisa and Fumiko have a swaying Chiyo clasped in between them because if anyone truly knew Chiyo then that meant that they knew her drank urges to start fucking sprinting for whatever reason. Lisa blew you a kiss as Kenji threw his coat over your head and Fumiko loudly declared to her girlfriend that they were out of condoms.

You took Kenji back to your apartment, fumbled through three flights of stairs and felt for the key hole in the dark and poorly maintained hallway as Kenji latched his teeth at the back of your neck like he was trying to bite through the bone.

Kenji was an attentive lover; he peeled the clothes off your body with care, petted his way down your body, exploring all the while every nook and cranny. His hands were warm on your breast, squeezing as if the skin would split apart with force, so much so that you laughed at him. Coaxing you to lay down on your back on the bed he pushed your thighs open, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he put your ankles over his shoulder and sank to his knees.

After the tenth lazy kiss he left at the crease of your hip bone, sucking on the sensitive skin there, you couldn’t take it anymore. “Are you scared of pussy or something?” you asked, squirming to cram your cunt into his face already.

Kenji laughed, “is romance lost on you?” he sucked another bruise into the meat of your thigh, lapping at the bite as an afterthought.

“No, but patience is,” you answered, leaning forward to tag at his hair.

“Fine,” he mouthed at your cunt, short, puffy breaths warming your core as he spread your labias. “Be like that, brat.”

The first time, he made you come on his tongue, arms wrapped around your legs and hands splayed out on your stomach and hips to stop you from squirming away when the pleasure mounted. He kept lapping at you long after, like a man fucking starved, unashamed and ignoring your senseless babbling. After he was satisfied Kenji wrestled your boneless body until you were laying on your stomach, making a quip about your shit stamina.

“Shut the fuck up,” you retorted. Your mental capacity was preoccupied with gripping the sheets as Kenji fed his cock into you, little by little, pushing in an inch, sliding out and then pushing twice as much into you.

He fucked you until you were hiccuping into the sheets, hips bouncing back to meet his every thrust, until your cunt was puffy and there were bruises and bite marks littering your back. Afterwards, he turned you around and latched onto your breast as you made ribbons out of his back.

Kenji fucked you like you a were a two bit whore, tying the last condom and laying it flat on your stomach with a cackle that made him look younger than he was.

You grimaced. “Thanks.”

“Anything for my lover,” he wisecracked, rubbing your belly as if to soothe you. You almost asked if he did this to the young man he said he liked or whatever the fuck his situation with him was but you stopped yourself. That man had just blown your back out, you shouldn’t finger old wounds and pour salt into them.

“Help me into the bathroom,” you said, picking up the condom cooling on your stomach and throwing it in the small trash bin next to your bed. A wrapper from an old chocolate bar had you blinking down hard. How long ago was it that you cleaned the house? Tomorrow the house was due for a thorough cleaning.

Kenji carried you into the bathroom and cleaned you up with a wet towel before starting to fill up your bathtub, smiling like a fucking school kid as he dropped an infuriatingly pink bathbomb in the water and watched as it dissolved. The hotter was hot against you, borderline on cooking you like a fucking seefood boil, but it was just the right temperature you liked. Kenji didn’t get it -- after cleaning himself with a wet towel he wore his boxers and sat down right next to you outside of the bathtub. Silently, he started scrubbing shampoo on your hair, rubbing small circles into your scalp and untangling entanglements.

It was good, soothing, and something you absolutely didn’t do for your one-night stand.

“What the fuck,” you rasped out, half of your neurons fried from bliss and the other half struggling to keep up. “I’m not gonna pay you.”

Kenji laughed. “I didn't think you would.”

“Well good, because I’m not going to pay you,” you repeated. “Seriously, what the fuck.”

“What, is it bad to take care of your habitual lover?”

Habitual lover, you mouthed, your heavy eyelids fluttering. The acidic taste lingering in your mouth was a cause from the throw you managed to swallow down. “You are so romantic, really.”

“I seem to remember that romance has long since been drifting past you.”

“First of all,” you turned around to face him, wiping the shampoo buds that were threatening to blind you, “don’t start waxing poetics in my bathroom. Disgusting. Second of all,” you paused, mind spinning, “you’re old and probably a pervert. Third of all, you like someone else, isn’t that insulting to that person?”

Kenji took your barraging criticism and insults with a smile on his face. He turned out the shower head and started rinsing your hair. “Are those your only complaints?”

“We are never seeing each other again,” you said in lieu of answering, facing the wall in front of you.

Naturally, went on to see each other again.

[castleofclouds]

You do have quite the “Sweet Tooth.”

A mark lee × reader au

Genre : fluff, humor, slice of life, doctors

Disclaimer : everything are fiction, non-idol au, grammar and typo might happen, mark as doctors.

Story are by © castleofclouds, do not copy, or repost without any tags!

—✧—⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ˖—✧—⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ˖—✧— ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ˖—✧—⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⊹ ࣪

This is your third visit to the dentist, for the same reason of course cavity treatment, this is the third time in a year your teeth been nothing but aching, and if there is one thing about you, is that you hate dentist. Especially the one in front of you.

Any of them actually, even though the dentist that are treating you right now have a face like a porcelain sculpture, you still didn't like seeing him sighing, breathing heavily.

doctor Mark is what you would normally called is your dentist, and you are quite a loyal customer/patients for his clinic.

“Again? What did you do this time? Eat chocolate and don't brush your teeth after it? I told you too many times how important it is to brush your teeth two times a day?” Mark, your dentist look at you with another dissapointed gaze.

You don't understand why he is mad, isn't it his job to treat you as his patients? Besides if you keep coming to his dental clinic? Isn't that an advantages for him than yourself? He kept getting payed and you get to keep destroying your teeth. Case closed? Why is he so worked up about it?

“You know me..” you answer sheepishly, he rubbed his forehead, confused in what way any more can he told you? He keep explaining to you how mouth hygiene were everything, and you should stop with your bad habits of keep eating sweets like they are your meal for the day.

“What about the diet that I assigned you?” he asked again, you shakes your head to show your disagreement.

You don't like the diet, one thing about you, that doctor Mark keep reminding you off, are the facts you don't even eat fruits, you even once said you rather got starving in the middle of the desert than eating a fruit.

That's right, you hated fruit.

It's not a secret any more, well at first it is, Mark never see someone that hates fruits as much as you do, he keep assigning you to at least eat fruits a day, but you always ended up coming back to his clinic with your teeth aching, he shakes his head, not in disagreement, he is just predicted this. Disappointing but not much of a surprise.

“Why do you hate fruits that much?” he asked eagerly, you wondered why, you never really thought of it yourself, you just hate them, some fruits have weird textures, some fruits have odd smell, some fruits are just not up to your liking, you just hate them without ever trying to eat them.

“If I love them, I wouldn't be here wouldn't I?” your sarcastic remarks, causing him to chuckle in pity, not for you, but for him, to even think you had another reason why you don't like the thoughts of fruits.

Well Mark is a very diligent doctor, he takes pride in his job, it pained him to see a patient that couldn't be healed, well he seems to be a very honest person isn't it? Or he is just that kind to even let you, basically a stranger to have a healthier life, where your teeth are perfectly fine, and you ate fruits like its your breakfast, no one knows.

Then there's a thoughts, an idea, crossing through his head into his mind, like a sudden light show on top of his head, turn on by his idea, like a brilliant character you often see in an old movie, an idea that he will hate later, but Mark is Mark, and he is a dentist, he works as one, then he gonna be doing his jobs right.

“What about a bet?” hearing the sounds of bet, are too intriguing for you not to hear intensively, like if your minds had a favorite keywords, bet would be the first one to pop.

You like the thoughts of a game, and hearing it from Mark, your usual dentist is not something you often see, like what is it? And what kind of prizes you could asked for later? Your mind already running wild with thoughts when he snapped you out from your daydream.

“Sure! A bet is fun, what kind of bet?” you asked, he thinks for a while before words spilling out of his mouth, “A bet, if you could eat at least one fruits, any kind, doesn't matter if there is a repetition, as long you eat, a whole fruit within a day for a solid one month, I'll consider that as a win.” He declared waiting for your response.

Seems fun, but you hated fruits? Can you even do this? Hesitation clouded your mind like a rainy day, you tried to think how you are going to do this challenge?

“But what are the prizes if I do win?” you asked, he thinks for a while before flicking his fingers in instant, “Free treatment for a whole month?”

This is great idea, you are in need of some savings, you couldn't always relying on your salary that doesn't even cover most of your meals, this is like a gold that you found on a random dig hole on random mountain walk, you hit a jackpot!

You were almost agreeing, when a fun idea came back filling your mind, like a circus full of entertainment, “But how do you know that I'm not lying?” you grinned, he was dazed, he didn't think it through though? How can he make sure you do eat your fruits?

“I... I'm not sure..” he tried to found a way, that's when your fun ideas came to play, “How about we play fake dating?” you joked, how does that could run through that pretty head of yours? You don't know but you don't mind, it's fun to tease anyway.

So how does this make any sense? Well at first you know you just have to make sure that you win this bet, Mark would 100% change his mind and didn't agreed, but you would still win, why? You can just play pretend, like you somehow eat a fruit, nowadays it's not hard to manipulate a photo? This will be easy.

“Great idea, sure!” you smiled, completely didn't get the idea, “Of course just as I thought you wouldn't be.. Wait what?!” you were astounded, yelling a question that you would never understand why, “I said it's a great idea, let's do it, besides I feel like this would be fun!” Mark felt a rush of dopamine filling his mind into his heart, he loves this feeling, this is the first time in 5 years since he became a dentist.

Well.. Turns out dating or in your case, play dating with a dentist, isn't as fun as you thought it will be, it's been a week, and he had been nothing but a nagging mom.

Mark would make sure to call you every time his appointment ended on weekday, like some days ago, he were busy making sure to see you eat your grape that he send you himself this morning, sometimes when he isn't that busy, he would just barged in, like he owns the house (he is actually not, you just loved being dramatic) he often make sure to visit you, just to watch you swallowing down those orange juice that he makes.

It takes a whole dedication to do all of that, and two days after which is now you are having a date, at a very cute cottage vibe cave, with lots of natural plants, and sunlight, he prepared your food, it's a cute strawberry croffle with lots and lots of strawberries and some berries on the side.

“How is it? I know you probably bored eating and drinking just juice and fruits, so I tried something fun, I picked this one myself actually..” he blushed, you smiled shyly, never knew the dentist that always up right and uptight had this romantic side of him.

You kinda wanted to know, does he ever dated before? He looks so experienced in it, kinda make you feel sad, but then you shakes those thoughts away, why do you feel sad? This is Mark, the dentist that are always at your throat remind you how much fruits are important, nagging you about your mouth hygiene and much more.

“Why? You don't like it? do you want to try anything else? Or swapping with mine? It's blueberry croffle it's less sweet, oh you have sweet tooth do you perhaps wants chocolates one?” he asked softly, gosh he looks so attractive with his casual clothes, you imagine him smiling and spoon fed you the croffle, like actual boyfriend.

“Oh nothing, it's great too, strawberry is fine.” you answered, he worried, “Sorry, this is boring isn't it, I don't know much about dating, I only watch them on some movies, I saw this scene of taking your girlfriend to a cute cafe and enjoy a croffle, I should have asked you first..” as soon as you heard that, you chuckled, quite loudly people looks at your table as you tone it down.

“No, this is fun! More fun than most dates I've been, it's.. Sweet, thanks.” you smiled as soon as the laughter died down, he smiled genuinely, “As sweet as chocolates?” he teased, you laughed and nodded, “As sweet as chocolates.”

Few weeks passed, many things happen, Mark morning call had been nothing but your favorite part of the day, every dates is fun, he often takes you to a random cafe that served cute fruits dessert, he often brought you to the parks, eating ice cream, crepes, bagels, even though after that he will lecture you at evening, how it's important to always brush your teeth before go to bed, sometimes you would be so tired you just fell asleep while he lectures you about many things, he would always make sure to just spend a solid 10 minutes listening to your soft breathe as you sleep soundly on the phone.

Mark couldn't focus one bit, he always find himself to wonder how would it be, if you two were actually a thing, he couldn't help but putting so many aesthetic cafes around the city hoping one day you both would go there and have a talk, not like the usual patients and doctor, but as individual that enjoying each other company.

As soon as you came to your usual checkup appointments, he smiles brightly, like a kid that just see his favorite person came into the room.

“Do you have breakfast yet?” he asked, you smiled, “Yes doc.” he sighed in relief, “How is your teeth any sign of pain lately?” he continues, you shakes, lately your teeth have been nothing but being good, you don't feel any aching you often feel at night.

He smiles, when he were writing on his notes, you look around his office, you see a calendar next to his notes and clocks.

It's already been 28 days, it's almost times up, you feel sad, you didn't want this feeling to stop though, you want someone to keep remind you to eat apples once a day, prepare a healthy orange juice, cute dates, stroll around the park, sight seeing the scenery of the beautiful city you live in, a daily lecture before bed that Mark often do, so many things that he did somehow feels like a habit for you, you didn't want it to stop.

He found your eyes looking at the calendar, he didn't realize, he cough a bit to catch your attention, “Ah.. It's almost time isn't it?” he speak, you agreed.

How can you tell him that you wish the bet didnt have to end, you couldn't, Mark on the other way thinking of what he should say next, can he asked for this playing dating game to continue? What if you didn't want to play it anymore? At the end both of you just ended up taking a glance at each other no conclusion what so ever.

Even after the bet ended, you ended up winning but at what cost? You aren't this fake girlfriend of Mark as you used to, your morning today seems dull, nobody called you, even though you have been waiting, so many fruits on your fridge left untouched, you take a stroll, today is a weekend so you wish to enjoy your time alone, somehow so many couples walk past you, you wanted to curse yourself to even take stroll on this park, today park were crowded with people holding hands, kissing, talking, yet you alone.

You sighed, you wish Mark were here, as you sit at the park bench, you sat there wondering if you should just go on some random blind date to found someone to fill the emptiness inside your heart, when a breeze of winds blew your hair, flowers today were beautifully bloomed, on the corner of the crowd you see someone walk with his eyes focused on you, bouquet of flowers on his right hands, a smile that warms your heart, as he close the gap between the both of you standing in front of you.

“Sorry, am I late for our date?” you couldn't believe your ears, you didn't have to think twice as you throw yourself to his embrace, Mark holds you tightly as he whispered, “Let's stop playing pretend this time okay?” you laughed at that.

You guess you didn't have to worry about your sweet tooth anymore, because you found someone more sweets than all of the chocolates and candies in the whole world.

Masterlist.

A/N

Okay, I want y'all to know HOW MUCH I LOVE I HATE FRUITS gosh, at first I don't really understand why so many people fond of it, until I read the lyrics, gosh. IT'S SO SWEET WTH? and actually I got this ideas from this habit of mine tho, I don't like fruits, and I fear mark hear my thoughts and make the song? (I'm joking, about the song based on me, but I do doesn't really fond of fruits okay?) And I just got this idea somehow all of the sudden how do yall like it? Hope you like it tho, another one shot ig?

[selunesdreams]

WIP…Friday?

Thanks @serensama for the Wednesday tag. Posting a snippet in case I don’t finish editing this chapter by the weekend.

I bridged a Crow quest in Rivain with Taash’s hero quest. Naturally, I had to have Illario and Isabela come along because…why not?

─── ⊹⊱♤⊰⊹ ───

If he weren’t still so furious with him, Lucanis would have been grateful for his cousin’s assistance. Illario was right, it could have been like old times, if things weren’t so fractured.

Unfortunately, as Rook had predicted, Isabela and Illario got on much better than Taash had anticipated, the younger Dellamorte’s dirty fighting impressing the Lord of Fortune as he effortlessly cut through Antaam without breaking a sweat. He always did like to add a bit of flair to his kills. Lucanis thought of assassination as an art, a painting that required time and a delicate hand. For Illario, it was a dance — dynamic, melodramatic, and open for interpretation.

Show off, Lucanis thought to himself as he pulled his blade from an Antaam warrior and wiped it clean.

As they trekked across the beaches, Illario and Isabela spoke in low tones, hanging back from the rest of the group. Occasionally they would giggle or whisper, and Spite would launch into a new homicidal tirade about Illario betrayal.

Lucanis observed Rook as she crouched next to a charred portion of the beach, investigating a note on the ground. Everything from that morning now felt like a distant memory, but this wasn’t new for them. Whatever affection she had to spare in the evenings was always spent come sunrise. They might have been lovers behind closed doors, but professionally, she kept him at arm’s length. Was she embarrassed, or just indifferent? Did she view him as a weakness, best kept at a distance to avoid exploitation? It’s what he would have done, before, when he let no one in. But she’d been places no one had before — his bed, his home, his mind — and remained unphased by his fears, his shame. He needed her closer, and it had already caused him to slip not once, but twice. What would it cost him if happened again?

Taash elbowed Lucanis in the ribs, interrupting his thoughts.

“So…you and Rook are a thing?”

“Perhaps…” He replied warily, uncertain this was the distraction he wanted. “Why?”

“You should pop out the wings when you’re with her-”

“WINGS?” Spite’s fury towards Illario simmered, the demon’s interest now piqued by Taash’s suggestion. “WANT TO-”

“No.” Rook and Lucanis interrupted in unison. She turned around and narrowed her eyes at Taash before standing and brushing sand from her leathers. Sweat was slicked across her forehead and she lifted her hair from her neck to cool herself, closing her eyes and leaning into the breeze coming off the water. When they opened again, her gaze swept over Lucanis and she froze, quickly dropping her hair, as if showing even a shadow of skin in his presence was too much.

“And now you see why we’re so scantily clad around here.” Isabela said as she and Illario caught up. “Those tight leathers suit you, Rook, but you should give Rivaini fashion a chance in the heat.”

Spite rumbled with excitement at the prospect of a lesser-clothed Rook, fixating hungrily on her form.

“Was this morning not enough?” He inquired mentally.

“NEVER. ENOUGH. ROOK.”

Lucanis cleared his throat and turned towards the sea uncomfortably. Even if only audible to him, Spite’s words felt too loud.

“Armor is more functional,” Rook replied, shielding her eyes with one hand and scanning the perimeter for missing supplies.

“You see? This is why Rook and Lucanis are perfect for each other,” Illario sneered. “They love to spoil a good time.”

“And what do you call putting a hit on your own flesh and blood?” Isabela asked with a grin, “A party?”

“In Antiva?” Illario shrugged, “Thursday.”

Lucanis huffed in disbelief at his cousin’s lack of remorse. “When you lack the palle to kill them yourself, some might call it cowardice.”

Illario scowled, but under his contempt, Lucanis swore he saw a hint of shame. Wishful thinking, perhaps.

─── ⊹⊱♤⊰⊹ ───

Soft tagging: @kalmiaphlox, @tkwritesdumbassassins and anyone else who wants to play!

[glystenangel]

one kiss is all it takes😙✨

Simp! Satoru Gojo, Getou Suguru, Nanami Kento, & Toji Fushiguro x EmotionallyUnavail&Gn!Reader

tags/warning: slight angst but mostly fluff!, they r obsessed with youuu, reassurance and comfort, words of affirmation type beat, kinda corny but :)), v soft!!, also pretending getou is not evil here *coughs*, reader is a sorcerer also btw

summary: you're scared of getting heartbroken, but after an unplanned kiss you get all the reassurance you need from the jjk men

~less than 1k

thanks for reading and enjoy<3

________________

Why, of all people, did he have to kiss you? 

It was enough that you two flirted on an almost every day basis as you trained or ran into each other on random errands, but this? Unacceptable.

This wasn’t some vapid conversation or sparring session.

This was a kiss.

And worst of all it happened when you were at the end of what was supposed to be a casual, meaningless stop for drinks after a mission.

The man had to have been insane to even try.

Even if you had leaned into it.

Or, even if the kiss did have you melting into his arms as they encircled your figure.

Maybe because after so many seamless conversations and underneath that borrowed secrecy just outside of a random streetlight, it had felt a little too good to be true.

As if you could truly mean something to him.

Now you had no choice but to stave off any potential heartbreak by dashing in the opposite direction whenever you saw him.

Unfortunately yet predictably, this solution is short-lived.

Gojo-------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Where are you going?” 

Gojo has been popping up everywhere today.

It doesn’t matter if you’re teaching a class, overseeing spars, in the office area, or even eating lunch in your car. There he is, all pale hair and pretty grins, asking if he can talk to you.

“Bathroom.” You lie, briskly upping your pace as Gojo easily glides alongside you in the hallway.

“Liar. You’re avoiding me. It’s obvious, you know?” He clicks his tongue, tilting his head towards you as you continue walking.

“No, I’m not.” You lie again, and this seems to amuse him.

You roll your eyes, figuring the truth might get him off your tracks, “I’m going to the library…and then the bathroom after that.”

A smirk plays across his lips, and he holds out his hands.

“We should probably talk about that kiss before you get to the library then-”

You shove him into an empty classroom, and Gojo starts guffawing as you lock the door.

“Shut up for a second.” You hiss, shushing him with a glare.

He straightens, scratching at a spot above his blindfold with a tight smile.

“What’s the matter? Are you okay?”

His genuinely concerned cadence has butterflies swirling in your stomach. For someone normally so lackadaisical, he could become intensely serious in an instant.

Like he was now, with his jaw clicking shut and his stare piercing through his blindfold.

“Sorry. Everything’s fine. Really.”

He steps closer, and the hard wood of the classroom wall hits your back as you try to maintain your distance from the renowned sorcerer.

Gojo, ever observant with well, everything, furrows his brows at your lack of proximity.

“Did I… Am I doing something wrong?”

Guilt starts to set in, so you shake your head.

“I must’ve done something. Can you tell me?” His large hand hovers close to your cheek, and then he seems to think better of it as he drops his palm to his side.

You want to return it to its natural place on your skin. Maybe replicate the surreal manner he caressed your face prior to kissing you, with the pads of his fingers resting along the nape of your neck and his thumb finding precious home on your bottom lip before replacing it with the soft confidence of his own lips.

A brief grimace crosses his handsome face, wrinkling the black fabric across the bridge of his nose. It’s almost like he remembers that same, loving sweep of his fingers.

The dreamlike memory chips at your resolve, and eventually your emotions become caught in your throat.

“It’s not what you did, it’s what you might do. I don’t want my heart to break because of you.”

The admission comes out shakier than you anticipated.

A bite of your lip, and the corners of your watery vision threaten to spill out.

“I’m scared. That’s all.” You mumble quietly.

“How foolish.”

You’re about to protest until you register the tender, mournful tone of his voice.

“I would never do anything to hurt you. Okay?” Gojo leans down, tugging down his blindfold so he can look into your eyes properly.

In an instant, you’re mesmerized. 

His irises are flooded with light, and akin to nothing except adoration encapsulated.

Perfect mirrors.

You could tell he was thinking the same thing about the sight of your own eyes.

“I want to protect you…and I’m scared too. Trust me.”

He chuckles, patting your head and letting his fingertips cascade down to your cheek.

You close your eyes, kissing his knuckle when it ghosts the corner of your lip and his other hand cups the small of your back.

At that, the smile seems to return to his voice, “I care about protecting you more than my duty should allow. It’s dangerous, but I don’t mind it.”

“Why?” You tilt your head, tentatively crossing your arms behind his neck.

A sigh escapes him, but the wry smile never leaves his face.

“Because I know you’ll protect me too. I trust you as if I’ve never been betrayed before. Isn’t that stupid?”

Getou-----------------------------------------------------------------------

“Hey, I’m trying to talk to you. What are you doing?”

Getou paces behind you as you collect your things from around the sparring ring.

“Leaving.” You rifle through your gym bag on the floor, hellbent on wiping yourself down and then getting the fuck out of here.

You swore that you had brought a freshly washed one today.

The frustrated thought leaves you right as Getou waves your towel in front of your nose.

Of course, when you reach towards the square of fabric he swings it above your head, “You can’t leave.”

“I can’t?” You stand to glare at him, and he sighs as he palms a hand through his raven strands of hair.

“No,” He throws the cloth over his shoulder, “We have to talk about this. About us.”

You cross your arms in defeat, “Why? So you can pretend to care and then break my heart like nothing ever happened?”

As soon as the words leave your mouth, you feel shame sinking into the bottom of your stomach.

Getou’s entire demeanor seems to shift, and his face appears so crestfallen you can hardly look at him.

“Is that really what you think this is?” He asks, voice brimming with palpable hurt.

Saying anything seems wrong, so you remain silent, pressing your lips together and bowing your head.

“Come here.” Getou finally says, a more gentle tone lining the request.

Despite the way the request soothes you, you don’t move.

“Come on, c’mere.” He approaches you steadily, and in spite of yourself, you open your arms and allow him to hug you close.

Getou leans back with a sigh, pinching your cheek with a hand.

“I won’t let you think like that anymore. Don’t come to conclusions by yourself either, okay?”

“Okay.” You shyly accept, and he rolls his eyes with a scoff before carefully wiping at your face with the towel.

“Besides…you know you can’t get rid of me that easily, right?”

Nanami---------------------------------------------------------------------

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

Nanami has caught up to you, and he’s as straightforward and nonchalant as you expected he would be.

He probably wanted to get this situation out of the way, you infer, pressing random buttons on the water boiler to avoid eye contact. 

The blond is leaning against the counter space next to you, keenly watching your every move. His normally crisp, teal dress shirt has some missed lines, and you wonder if he had been too distracted by you to finish ironing his laundry these past few days.

It was probably best not to entertain that thought.

“No, I haven’t. Just…been busy.” You wince as your mug warms up a little too fast, splashing water on the break room counter as you quickly set it down.

Nanami jolts up and grabs your hand, wiping at it with some paper towels and the severe lines between his eyebrows deepening.

You feel your breath catch at his closeness, and you can’t help but swallow as his familiar cologne floods your senses and he frets over your accidental burn.

He seems to feel your stare, peering up at you with curiosity before you attempt to tug your hand away.

“Don’t.” Nanami breathes, covering your hand with his and effectively preventing you from moving, “Just tell me what’s wrong. I’ll fix it.”

The warmth of your hand simply being held in his seems to travel all the way up to your cheeks and the tips of your ears.

“I don’t know if you can.” You whisper truthfully.

“What is it?” He draws your hand closer, muttering softly under his breath as he examines your palm nested within his larger ones.

You chew on the side of your cheek for a moment, “I’m afraid we’re heading towards…”

Nanami lifts his chin up, meeting your eyes with a question in his gaze that makes you hesitate.

“Something.” You finish lamely, turning your face to the ground.

Nanami pulls both of your hands carefully together in his, encasing them in his firm grip.

“I want to.” He confesses, regarding your expression with quiet consideration, “Don’t you?”

The sentiment is so clear and honest that your heart squeezes.

You shake your head in an attempt to dissuade yourself, but can’t manage to bring yourself to release his hands.

“I can’t-I don’t know you completely yet. What if you break my heart?”

Nanami presses your hands to his heart, and you feel the helplessly erratic rhythm of it between your fingertips as he speaks.

“Then, I’ll give you mine.”

Toji--------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Gotcha.” 

Toji cuts off your escape route, and you let out a huff as you glare up at him.

He’s smoking a thin cigarette, the end of it jauntily balanced between his canines and poking out towards the corner of his mouth.

Your eyes flit to the floor as soon as you catch yourself outlining the scar notched over his lips.

You remember precisely how it feels.

“Leave me alone, Toji.” You mumble, and you hope it sounds more convincing out loud than in your head.

He lets out an exhale of smoke and flicks the cigarette butt onto the ground, “Look doll, I gotta apologize if I did somethin’ stupid the other night.”

You keep your eyes lowered.

“Ah, fuck. I’m sorry. Did I? I didn’t mean to, angel.”

The tone he speaks with isn’t accusatory, just gravelly with uncertainty and the smallest question of hope.

So earnest and kind it makes your heart ache.

His hand reaches towards you, and you immediately duck the pleading touch. 

“Get away from me, Toji.”

As soon as you back away though, the regret rears its head and fills your stomach.

He straightens, hand falling to his side and his broad shoulders heaving downwards. The normally rough and sarcastic man has a faint glisten in his eyes. 

You realize that you’re hurting him.

Finally, Toji rakes a hand through his dark locks as he peers through the strands that fall over his forehead, “You don’t mean that, do you?”

“Of course I don’t!”

You clap a hand over your mouth, and Toji’s widened eyes meet yours. 

That’s when you start running again.

“Hey! Hey!” You hear Toji right on your heels, and then he wraps his arms around you from behind.

The warmth of his chest on your back as you both heave in disjointed breaths forces you to stop.

The bounty hunter loosens his grip, and you stop resisting completely when he rests his cheek against yours.

“Don’t do this to me.”

You tentatively place a hand over one of his own, feeling your heartbeats syncing together, “I don’t want you to hurt me either. If you break my heart, I don’t know if I could take it.”

The dejected confession stills the air, and then to your surprise, Toji starts laughing.

The deep rumble of it tickles your ear, and when it dies down he gently turns you around.

He softly pinches your chin between his fingers, scanning your face with relaxed brows and a lazy grin, looking at you as if he had all the time in the world to do so.

“Darlin', you’re only breaking your own heart that way.”

As you absorb his words, Toji leans down to give your cheek a kiss before tucking a loose tendril of hair behind your ear.

“That should be my job.” He whispers, “Right?”

The tease has you worriedly clutching his hands, and Toji gives you a more tender, sweet kiss on the lips.

“I’m kidding, doll. I know I’m not a good guy, but I’ll take good care of your heart. And the rest of you if you’ll let me.”

Relief sinks into your chest, “Really?”

Toji nods, clusters of stars surrounding the reflection he has of you in his gaze, and this time there’s no doubt in your mind that he is telling the truth.

“I promise.”

________________

End Notes:

this is my welcome back present to u, lovely readers!! xoxo