#girl i hate at work... first time shes even acknowledged it at all | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

aleskie · 2 months ago

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EIGHTEEN | Oscar Piastri x Fem!Reader

SUMMARY: Oscar Piastri has loved you since he was eighteen. It just takes him a while to get to that point. Or so he thinks. This is Oscar's journey to realizing that maybe the girl he's always hated isn't so bad at all. In fact, she's actually...pretty loveable.

Warnings: None just Enemies to Lovers?? Or is it more Rivals to Lovers?? Also, the timeline is wonky with the irl events, so just pretend it makes sense. And also i had to look up the british school systems SO THEY MAY BE WRONG BUT PLEASE JUST PRETEND

♫ Listen: 18 by One Direction ♫

2016: Year 10 [15 years old]

He didn’t know why, but from the moment you two met at the headmaster’s office, Oscar Piastri knew he hated you.

Maybe it was your posture—back straight, legs crossed at the ankles, hands resting politely on your lap—or maybe it was your voice, too polished, too proper, like you were reciting lines off a script. Or maybe it was everything else.

The way you barely acknowledged him as you both waited in the stuffy office, but flashed a smile so perfectly pleasant it had to be fake the second the teachers and headmaster walked in. The way your eyes flickered over him when he introduced himself, assessing, calculating, like he was a pawn to be placed, a connection to be measured. Or maybe—definitely—it was when you called motorsport, his life’s mission and passion, a hobby.

He tried not to let it get to him. He really did. But even he had to admit he could be a little petty.

“At least I have a hobby,” he muttered in your direction as soon as the faculty members were out of earshot.

For a split second, he thought you looked hurt—something in the way your lips parted, the slightest flicker of hesitation in your expression. But then it was gone, replaced by a scoff and a perfectly arched brow.

“At least I know my dreams have a higher chance of succeeding than yours do.”

Low blow.

His grip tightened on the strap of his bag. “You’ve got dreams?” He sneered. “Must be hard for a princess like you to have to be here and work for them then.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was something sharp in the way you did it, like you were daring him to say more. “Don’t act like you know me, Piastri.”

He huffed out a dry laugh. “I could say the same for you.”

You turn your head away from him at the sound of light footsteps—faculty returning, this time accompanied by older students meant to be your guides. And just like that, the stupidly perfect, fake smile was back on your face, as if the last few minutes of exchanged barbs had never happened.

“I see you two have been conversing,” says the headmaster, smiling warmly. If only she knew about the jabs you’d taken at each other. Would she still be smiling?

“He’s been lovely company, Mrs. Berkshire,” you lie with effortless charm, your voice smooth as silk. “It’s been comforting to know I’m not the only transfer student.”

Then, as if to twist the knife a little deeper, you turn to him with a look so deceptively sweet it could almost pass as genuine—almost. “I’m glad Oscar feels the same.”

There’s a glint in your eyes, something smug and self-satisfied, and he wonders if anyone else in the room can see just how full of it you are. Probably not. Mrs. Berkshire certainly doesn’t. She beams, clearly pleased at the thought of her two new students becoming fast friends.

Oscar clenches his jaw. He could call you out, make it clear that you’re full of it—but what’s the point? Instead, he forces himself to nod, his voice tight as he grits out, “Yeah. She’s been great.”

He sees it then—that flicker of amusement, the way your lips almost twitch like you’re holding back a laugh. Almost. Couldn’t let your facade slip, not even for a second.

And it pissed him off.

You spend most of your first year at boarding school in different circles.

Oscar lays low, slipping easily into a group of laid-back boys who are effortlessly easy to be around. They play video games in dorm rooms until lights out, kick a ball around after class, and never demand much from each other beyond good company. They cheer him on when he leaves to compete and catch him up on everything he’s missed when he comes back. They’re great. Better than he could have ever imagined.

You, on the other hand, carve out your place at the top of the food chain. Academically untouchable, always two steps ahead. First in your class, a key member of the Debate Team and MUN Club, and well on your way to securing a prefect badge. Your uniform is always pristine, your headband perfectly in place, not a single strand of hair out of order. You have a small group of friends who he assumes are just as intelligent, uptight, and snooty as you are.

And yet—when he sees you laughing with them, head thrown back, completely unguarded—something about you seems softer. You don’t look like the girl who calculated every move, who smiled just enough to be polite but never enough to be real. In those moments, with that rare, genuine laugh, he thinks—begrudgingly—that you actually look quite…pretty.

Not that he’d ever say it out loud.

In all honesty, he doesn’t know why he even notices. It’s not like he cares.

But sometimes, in the middle of a dull afternoon or while walking past the library, he catches glimpses of you—not the polished, picture-perfect version of you that you show everyone else, but something different. Unpolished. Real.

Like when you’re sprawled across a bench outside with your friends, books and papers in a chaotic mess around you, groaning about an impossible assignment—right up until someone cracks a joke that sends you into a fit of laughter. The kind of laugh that makes you cover your mouth, eyes crinkling at the corners, completely unguarded.

Or when, on those rare occasions, he catches you slipping up in class, head bobbing forward as you fight off sleep, fingers twitching as you try—and fail—to take notes.

Or when he walks past the debate team’s practice room and sees you in your element, arguing fiercely, hands moving with conviction, voice steady and sure. Confidence radiating off you in a way that has nothing to do with arrogance and everything to do with certainty.

And for a second, just a second, he forgets to be annoyed by you.

But then you glance up, catch him staring, and arch a perfectly shaped brow in challenge—like you know something he doesn’t.

Right. He still hates you. Definitely.

He shoves his hands into his pockets and keeps walking.

2017: Year 11 [16 years old]

Oscar was back at school regularly after the summer holidays and the season ending. He was pretty pleased with himself—2nd place wasn’t anything to scoff at. Sure, first would’ve been better, but it was fairly won. Besides, it had been a fun season, his best yet. More importantly, he hadn’t thought about you for months. Too busy with his Formula 4 campaign, too focused on climbing the motorsport ladder, too—

Well. That’s what he told himself.

He stepped through the iron gates of the academy, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, his phone buzzing with check-up texts from his mom. The familiar scent of freshly cut grass and old stone filled his lungs, a quiet signal that summer was officially over. Students crowded the courtyard, reuniting after the break, voices overlapping in a chorus of excitement. His friends spotted him almost immediately, calling his name, pulling him into easy conversation—asking about his races, his wins, his losses, his plans.

And then—there you were.

Standing by the main building, perfect posture as always, chatting with one of your equally polished friends. Your hair was different, slightly shorter, but the headband remained, a signature piece of armor. Your uniform was just as crisp as it had been last year, not a wrinkle in sight, now complete with a new prefect’s badge that you wore with unmistakable pride. And when you laughed at something your friend said, it was that same light, practiced sound he recognized all too well.

It took exactly eight seconds for you to notice him.

Your gaze flicked toward him, assessing, calculating—just like it had in the headmaster’s office when you first met. Then—because you were you—your lips curled into a polite, almost saccharine smile, the kind reserved for faculty members and people you didn’t actually care about.

He scoffed. Typical.

“Piastri,” you greeted, voice smooth, just a little too pleasant.

“Princess,” he shot back, just to see if he could get a reaction.

And for a split second, he did—your brow twitched, barely noticeable, but he caught it. Then, just as quickly, you smoothed your expression, tilting your head ever so slightly in mock amusement.

“We’re in Year 11 now, and you’re still calling me that?”

“You’re still acting like one.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. But then, after a beat, you said, “I saw that you got second in the championship. Congratulations.”

Oscar blinked. He hadn’t expected that. Compliments from you were rare, practically unheard of. He studied your face, searching for sarcasm, but found none. Just a simple, matter-of-fact acknowledgment.

“…Thanks,” he said, accepting it before you could take it back. “Bet it was a little more interesting than your summer,” he added, smirking.

You raised a brow. “What, don’t tell me you’re…curious about my summer, Piastri.”

His smirk vanished. His brain short-circuited.

And just like that, you had him cornered.

His mouth opened, but nothing came out. He shut it. His brain scrambled for a way to recover, but all it did was replay the way you’d said his name just now—not in the usual clipped, disapproving way. No, this time it had been lighter, teasing. Maybe even…amused.

Suddenly, the two of you were locked in a silent standoff, neither willing to look away first.

Your friend cleared her throat, shifting uncomfortably. Oscar barely noticed. Because in that moment—standing there, the summer heat giving way to the crispness of early autumn, your eyes locked onto his with that same sharp, knowing look—he realized something.

He hadn’t actually stopped thinking about you at all.

The mere thought made his stomach twist, and before he could process it any further, he turned on his heel, raising a hasty hand in goodbye as he strode back to his friends. Fast. Like putting distance between you would somehow fix whatever the hell had just happened in his head.

“Okay, that was a little weird,” he heard your friend murmur behind him. “Is he alright?”

“Maybe the gasoline finally got to his brain,” you quipped. “A pity. He was a little smart, too.”

Oscar nearly tripped.

He wanted to say the comment about his "off attitude" annoyed him. He wanted to say that the gasoline remark made him dislike you more. He wanted to say that he had a cutting comeback ready to fire back at you.

But all he could think about was how you called him smart.

God, what was happening to him?

He knew something was going to go wrong last week when their teacher announced he’d be the one pairing up students for the project, taking matters into his own hands with a kind of cruel indifference that made Oscar’s stomach twist.

He knew something was going to go wrong when, at the start of class, the teacher gave both you and him a pointed look—sharp, knowing—before moving on like nothing had happened. You had shot him a confused glance then, your brow furrowing ever so slightly in a rare moment of shared uncertainty. He had stared back, just as lost. Neither of you had any idea what was coming, but for once, you were both on the same side of the battlefield.

And then the teacher started listing off partners.

It started harmless enough—his friends were getting paired with each other, easy matches. So were yours. Names fell into place like puzzle pieces, creating perfectly balanced, cooperative duos that wouldn’t cause trouble. And then—

“And finally, Oscar and...Y/N.”

Silence.

For a moment, he swore he misheard. But then he turned, and there you were, staring at the teacher like you were considering staging a full-scale academic rebellion. The slight tightening of your jaw, the way your fingers curled subtly against your sleeves—he could practically hear the calculations running through your head, weighing the pros and cons of outright protesting.

A second ticked by. Then another.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” you muttered under your breath, but the teacher either didn’t hear or didn’t care.

“I expect full collaboration,” they continued, already moving on. “This project is a significant portion of your grade, so I suggest you all put any personal differences aside and focus on the work.”

Oscar barely heard the rest. He was too busy glaring at his desk, resisting the urge to run a hand down his face. Of course, this just had to happen. Most teachers kept the two of you apart, aware of the silent war you had waged since the day you met. But not this one. No, this one was smarter—or crueler—ready and waiting to watch the fire combust.

Great. Just great. Out of everyone in this class, he was stuck with you.

By the time class ended, he had barely processed anything. He was about to make his escape when he felt a presence beside him.

“You.”

He sighed before even turning around.

You had stopped him just outside the door, arms crossed, expression unreadable except for the slight, irritated furrow of your brow. The usual superiority was absent—no smug glint in your eyes, no perfectly poised smirk. Just frustration, quiet but simmering.

“This doesn’t mean we’re friends,” you said flatly.

Oscar let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “Trust me, Princess, I’d rather fail.”

And then—you smiled.

Not the polite, school-perfect kind you used on teachers. Not the barely-there one reserved for acquaintances. No, this one was slow, sharp, and just smug enough to make his blood boil.

“Then I guess we have very different priorities.”

He hated that he had no comeback.

God, this was going to be a disaster.

“We should take a break,” Oscar says, hunching over the library table, rubbing his temples like the weight of academia is physically crushing him. “We’ve been at this for hours.”

You barely spare him a glance. “It’s been two hours and seven minutes.”

“See? It’s been so long,” he complains, dragging a hand down his face. “Let’s take a break. You’re done with your part anyway.”

You turn to him, assessing. “Are you finished with your part?”

He hesitates. Then, with a slow shake of his head, he sighs. “Give me like an hour, and I’ll be finished.”

You straighten, your posture sharpening into something unreadable, something that makes him feel like a student being reprimanded. “Piastri, this is due tomorrow. We need to get it done today.”

“And we will,” he argues, matching your intensity. “Just let me nap for a bit.”

You inhale sharply, clenching your jaw, and he already knows what’s coming. That calm facade. That practiced composure. That same tone you use when talking to teachers, the one that makes him want to throw his pen at the wall.

“The library closes in three hours,” you say evenly. “This is just the first draft, so we still need to revise. And not to mention we have to properly format our sources—thirteen of them, by the way. Do you know how long that’s going to take?”

Oscar groans, letting his head fall dramatically onto the open textbook in front of him. “Princess, we can afford not to revise this. It��s literally a first draft for comments. We can just start formatting the citations.”

You don’t budge. Instead, you tilt your head slightly, eyes narrowing. “What page of the document are you working on?”

He blinks, suspicious. “…Why?”

“I’ll finish it.”

His head snaps up. “What?”

“We need to finish on time, and I refuse to let my grade be pulled down because we don’t submit a good output.”

“You’re not doing my work.” His voice comes out sharper than he expects, but the idea of you just taking over, of you thinking you have to—he hates it. “It’s literally my work for a reason.”

“And you aren’t getting it done, so let me do it.” You nearly exclaim, only to catch yourself, voice lowering when you remember where you are. The library is quiet, save for the occasional rustling of pages and distant whispers. You press your lips together like you’re trying to hold the rest of the argument inside.

It’s silent between you for a long moment.

And then—

“…Do you always end up doing the work?”

You freeze. Just for a second. Then your gaze flickers away, shifting toward the window. Anywhere but him.

Oscar watches you carefully, something tightening in his chest. “Y/N, what the hell? People have just been riding on your work?”

“It doesn’t matter,” you say, voice even. Practiced. “We get it done. And we get it done well.”

His brows furrow. He doesn’t know why he’s so upset. He shouldn’t care. It’s not his problem, right? It was your choice to take on the workload, to let people walk over you.

But still…knowing that people just expect you to pick up the slack, that they let you do it without even thinking—

It pisses him off.

And what pisses him off more is the way you look right now. Not angry. Not frustrated. Just resigned.

Like this is just the way things are. Like you’re used to it. And he hates that more than anything.

“Give me like forty-five minutes,” Oscar says after a beat, exhaling through his nose. “We’ll start revising after, and then we can split the citations.”

You blink, eyes flickering with something unreadable—surprise, maybe. He can’t tell. But then, just for a second, he swears he sees the corners of your lips twitch upward, like you’re trying not to smile.

“Just…” You hesitate, fingers tracing absent patterns against the edge of your notebook. “Tell me if you need help. Or…y’know. If you have questions.”

Your voice is quieter this time, less clipped, lacking the usual sharp edge you use when you’re exasperated with him.

Oscar doesn’t respond right away. The library is quieter now, the golden hues of the sunset stretching across the wooden tables and casting long shadows over your open books. The light catches on your face—soft, warm—and for the first time, he gets a proper look at you up close.

You look tired. Not just from today, but in the way that lingers—faint bags under your eyes, a kind of weariness that no amount of perfect posture or crisp uniforms can fully hide. And yet, right now, there’s something peaceful about you. The way you rest your head against your palm, watching him work—not impatient, not irritated. Just…watching.

You must notice, because your brows furrow slightly. “Do I have something on my face?”

“What?” He blinks, snapping out of whatever trance he had fallen into.

“You were staring.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were.”

“It was nothing,” he says quickly, looking back at his laptop. “Just zoning out.”

You hum, unconvinced. But instead of arguing, you simply go back to flipping through your notes, like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t matter.

“…Okay,” you say.

He exhales, forcing himself to focus. “Okay.”

Somehow, he feels like forty-five minutes is going to take much longer.

Three weeks into the project, Oscar realizes something: you’re actually kind of well-known on campus.

Or, at the very least, you know a lot of people.

It’s not like he was completely unaware of it before. Your perfect reputation precedes you—your name carries weight in every class. Teachers mention you as an example of excellence, throwing your name around as if it alone should inspire the rest of them to do better. But working with you forces him to see it firsthand.

It seems like every five seconds, someone is coming up to greet you.

It doesn’t matter where you are—library, hallways, common areas. Someone always stops by.

Underclassmen ask for help on assignments—apparently, you tutor them sometimes, though Oscar doesn’t know how you find the time. Classmates ask about group projects. A girl from the debate team once yelled and waved from across the quad while you were in the middle of explaining a research point. Even the Year 13s, the ones Oscar barely interacts with, acknowledge you with nods and casual greetings.

And the weirdest part? You handle it all effortlessly.

He expected you to treat them the way you treat him—polite but cold, maybe even dismissive. But you don’t.

Instead, you smile. The fake one. The one he recognizes now, warm but not inviting. Like a wall disguised as a door, keeping people at a carefully measured distance. You don’t brush them off, but you don’t encourage them either. Your reactions are controlled, calculated. Just like everything else about you.

It’s impressive.

It’s annoying.

And it shouldn’t bother him. Not really.

But after three weeks of constantly being in your presence, after working side by side for hours on end, after getting into at least five arguments over formatting and research sources and the exact tone an introduction should have—he feels a little close to you. Not enough to like you, obviously. But enough that his respect for you has grown, just a little.

And with that, he’s started to notice things.

Like how you always twirl your pen when you’re deep in thought, but you never drop it. How you tap your fingers against your notebook in the exact rhythm of whatever song is stuck in your head. How you drink tea instead of coffee and always wince at the first sip, like it’s too hot but you drink it anyway. How you use hair ties instead of your signature headband when you’re frustrated, tying and untying your hair over and over again only to fall back to your tried and tested headband after a while. How you let out a tiny sigh whenever you finish an assignment, as if mentally crossing it off a never-ending list.

He notices these things, and he tells himself it’s just because you’re working together. Because you’re spending time together. Because of course he’s going to pick up on small details when you’re stuck in the same space for hours.

That’s all it is.

Right?

Definitely.

And then, one afternoon, as you sit across from him at the library, books and notes spread between you, someone approaches.

"Y/N, hey."

Oscar looks up. It’s some guy—one of the Year 12s from the student council. He’s polished and confident, wearing the kind of casual smirk Oscar immediately finds irritating.

You blink in mild surprise before offering a smile—thankfully, the fake one. The one that’s polite, effortless, and just distant enough.

"Hello, Eric."

Eric leans against the table, his entire focus on you. He doesn’t even acknowledge Oscar.

"Haven’t seen you at any events lately. You’ve been busy?"

You glance at the open laptop in front of you, gesturing vaguely to your notes. "Yeah, the project’s been taking up a lot of time."

"Oh, right. This is for—" He finally gives Oscar a glance, his brows lifting slightly, like he’s only just realizing he’s there. "This is your partner?"

Oscar doesn’t like the way he says that.

You nod. "Yeah. We’ve been working on it together for a while now."

Eric hums, then—too casually—grins. "Well, don’t work too hard. Wouldn’t want you burning out before the weekend." His voice drops slightly, just enough to sound a little too suggestive for Oscar’s liking. "You should take a break. Come to the council’s seminar on Friday afternoon."

You hesitate, and for some reason, Oscar finds himself gripping his pen just a little tighter.

"It sounds fun," you admit, "But, with my schedule, I’m not sure—"

"You should go," Eric insists, tilting his head. "C’mon. You worked hard to help organize it—Thanks for the great speakers you found, by the way—I’ll even save you a seat next to me."

Something bristles in Oscar’s chest.

He doesn’t know why, but the entire interaction irks him. Maybe it’s the way Eric acts like he already knows you’ll say yes. Maybe it’s the casual confidence, the assumption that you’d drop everything just because he asked. Or maybe it’s the way you’re actually considering it.

Before he can stop himself, Oscar lets out a scoff.

Both you and Eric turn toward him.

"You good, man?" Eric asks, clearly amused.

Oscar leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Didn’t realize we were in the middle of a social hour, Y/N. Thought we were working."

Your eyes narrow slightly, but before you can say anything, Eric just laughs, pushing off the table. "Relax, Piastri. Didn’t mean to interrupt." He turns back to you, giving you an easy grin. "Think about it, yeah? It’d be nice to see you there."

You give a noncommittal nod, and just like that, he walks off.

The moment he’s gone, you exhale, turning to Oscar with a raised brow. "Was that necessary?"

He shrugs. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

You stare at him for a moment before shaking your head, muttering, "You’re so weird."

Oscar clenches his jaw, tapping his fingers against the table, suddenly annoyed.

Not at you. Not even at Eric.

Just at the fact that, for some stupid reason, the thought of you actually going to that seminar is really bothering him.

And he has no idea why.

He sneaks out of the dorms on Friday night, hands in his pockets, head low as he moves through the dimly lit pathways of the school. The night air is crisp, the kind that clears his mind if he lets it, but tonight, it does nothing to untangle the thoughts looping through his head.

It’s stupid. The fact that he even cares. That the idea of you and Eric sitting together, side by side, laughing at some dull student council joke, is bothering him.

It doesn’t.

It shouldn’t.

Because he doesn’t like you.

He still thinks you’re stuck-up, overly competitive, and have a way of looking at him like you know exactly how to get under his skin. The faces you make, the way you roll your eyes when he so much as breathes the wrong way—it’s all infuriating.

But you’re smart. Intelligent. And your work ethic is something he respects, even if he won’t admit it.

And, yeah, you’re pretty. Even he has to acknowledge that much. But not the obvious kind of pretty. It’s the kind that sneaks up on you. The kind that feels like a place you recognize, a feeling that lingers in the quiet spaces between conversations. It’s the kind that makes you feel at home.

The kind that—if he were the type to believe in this kind of thing—you’d find when you’re in love.

Not that he is. Obviously.

He shakes the thought away, sighing as he rounds the corner of the old courtyard. And then—

"It’s lights out, Piastri."

Your voice cuts through the silence, and he stops dead in his tracks.

You’re standing a few feet away, arms crossed, the dim glow of the campus lamps casting soft shadows across your face. You look unimpressed but not surprised, like you already expected to catch someone out of bed tonight.

He exhales, shoulders dropping. Of course.

"Then what are you doing here?" he mutters.

You raise an eyebrow. "I’m a prefect, remember? Tonight’s my shift to make rounds before security does."

"Oh."

A beat.

"So," you say, tilting your head slightly. "What made you break curfew? You don’t seem like the type."

"Just needed to walk. Clear my head."

You hum in response, your gaze flicking over him, assessing. Then, after a moment:

"Well, the classrooms in the east wing don't get much attention. You can stay there and then sneak back out when the prefects and security switch shifts."

Oscar blinks. Of all the responses he expected from you, that wasn’t one of them.

He raises a brow, smirking. "And you know this…how?"

Your expression doesn’t change, but he catches the way your lips twitch slightly, like you’re holding back a smile. "I can be a little disobedient too. Sometimes."

That surprises him.

"You?" he says, skeptical.

You shrug. "It doesn’t happen often. Just when I need to clear my head." A pause, then, voice quieter, "Those classrooms are my spot, so don’t go there too often. I don’t need to see you when I’m stressed."

Oscar snorts. "Wow. What an honor."

"Exactly."

For a moment, neither of you move. There’s something odd about standing here, talking like this—like you’re two people who aren’t constantly at each other’s throats. Like, in this sliver of time, there’s something unspoken but mutual between you.

It doesn’t last long.

You straighten your posture, clearing your throat. "Now, get going before I change my mind and actually report you."

"Noted, Princess."

You roll your eyes and turn away, disappearing down the corridor.

And for some stupid reason, as Oscar watches you leave, he wonders if you ever feel as restless as he does.

2018: Year 12 [17 years old]

He’s been using the classrooms in the east wing as a secret place to clear his head since the night you told him about it. So far, he’s never run into you.

Maybe you use a different classroom. Maybe you come on different days. Or maybe—like everything else in your life—you have a system, a strict schedule he’s unknowingly managed to avoid.

Either way, he’s always had the classrooms to himself.

Until tonight.

The air is heavier than usual as he makes his way through the dimly lit hallways, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie. He’s restless. Frustrated. He tells himself it’s because of the season he’s just had. The Eurocup was brutal and he definitely wasn’t at his best. Every race felt like a battle he couldn’t ever win and every misstep made the weight in his chest grow heavier.

All he wants is to be home. Back in Australia, where everything is familiar—the streets, the skies, the people who don’t expect anything from him except to just be. But instead, he’s here. At fucking boarding school.

He exhales sharply as he pushes the classroom door open, stepping into the quiet. He doesn’t bother turning on the lights—he knows this space well enough now. The desks are still arranged the way they always are, the faint scent of old paper and dry-erase markers lingering in the air. It’s not much, but it’s his for the night.

At least, that’s what he thinks.

Not even five minutes later, the door swings open behind him, and he barely has time to turn his head before—

You.

You freeze in the doorway, hand still on the handle. There’s a flicker of something across your face—surprise, maybe even slight irritation. You definitely thought you were going to be alone.

He should’ve figured this would happen eventually.

Your lips part slightly before you collect yourself. “I’ll use a different—”

“You can stay.”

It’s out of his mouth before he can stop himself.

You hesitate, eyebrows drawing together slightly, like you’re trying to figure out if this is some kind of trap. He doesn’t blame you.

But then, after a beat, you nod, stepping inside and shutting the door behind you, switching on one of the lights and dimly lighting up the room. Neither of you say anything as you move to opposite sides of the room, like unspoken rules are being established in real time.

Oscar exhales, rolling his shoulders back as he leans against one of the desks. He tells himself it doesn’t matter. That you being here changes nothing.

So why does the room suddenly feel smaller?

He looks over at you. You’re scrolling through your phone, eyes scanning over messages he can’t see—but whatever’s on the screen has your jaw clenched tight. His gaze flickers down to your hands, the way your fingers tremble slightly over the glass. And then, in the dim light, he sees it. Faint but undeniable—tear stains trailing down your flushed cheeks.

His stomach twists.

“Are you okay?” he asks, voice careful.

“Fine.” You don’t even look up.

He doesn’t buy it. Not for a second. “You sure?”

“Why do you care, Piastri?” You finally glance at him, but your expression is unreadable. “You don’t even like me.”

He stills. He wasn’t expecting you to be that blunt about your whole dynamic.

“Any decent person would care about someone who looks like they’ve just bawled their eyes out,” he says, crossing his arms.

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Well, I’m fine.” Your posture shifts, back straightening as your expression smooths out into something eerily familiar. And then it’s there—the mask. The same sweet, practiced smile you wear around everyone else, the one he’s hated since the moment he first saw it in the headmaster’s office years ago. The one that hides everything.

“You don’t have to worry,” you say smoothly. “I have everything under control.” You turn to leave. “I’ll be off now—”

“Cut the bullshit, Y/N.”

The sharpness in his voice makes you freeze, hand hovering over the door handle.

“We both know you’re not fine.” His voice is lower now, steadier, but just as firm. “I know that face. I think I’m the only one who knows that face and how it’s not real. It’s never been real.” He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “For once in your life, just be fucking honest.”

You don’t turn around immediately. When you do, your face is unreadable. Then—so quietly he almost doesn’t hear it—you whisper,

“I’m not at the top of our class anymore.”

His breath catches.

“My grades are dropping—fast,” you continue, voice shaking despite how hard you try to control it. “My A-levels are harder than I expected. I thought I could handle it, but I—” You swallow. “I’m failing. And I’m letting everyone down.” Your voice cracks on the last word.

His chest tightens.

“My parents are pissed. My siblings are pissed because now my parents are pissed at them too. If I were just smarter, if I were better, none of this would be happening. Everything would be fine. Everyone would be happy.” You suck in a sharp breath, but it doesn’t stop the fresh tears from spilling down your cheeks. You don’t wipe them away. You just stand there, breathing unevenly, shoulders tense like you’re bracing for something.

“I’m just tired,” you whisper.

Silence.

It hangs thick between you, pressing against the walls, settling into the space between your feet.

Before he can think twice about it, Oscar moves. Slowly. Carefully. Until he’s standing in front of you. Not too close, but close enough that he can see the way your lashes clump together from the tears, the way your breathing is still uneven, the way you’re still trying to keep yourself from breaking completely.

“I…didn’t think you could cry,” he mutters, before realizing how weird that sounds.

You blink at him, and for once, there’s no condescension in your expression—just something flat, unimpressed.

“You’re weird,” you say, voice hitching slightly from crying, “But you’re pretty good.”

His brows furrow. “Like, as a person?”

“Take it however you want.” You chuckle, a small, tired sound. You wipe your tears away, then, tilting your head, you ask, “So, why’d you come here?”

He hesitates. Looks down at his hands. Then, finally, exhales.

“I got ninth at the Eurocup this season.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” His jaw tightens. “I let everyone down. The team. The sponsors. My family.” His fists clench. “I did everything right. I trained harder than ever, I did my best, I gave everything—and it still wasn’t enough. I failed and I don’t know what I did wrong.”

The room is quiet again. Until—

You move.

Soft footsteps against the tiled floor, slow and deliberate, until you’re standing even closer to him. And then, hesitantly, you lift a hand and rest it on his shoulder. The warmth of your touch is unexpected, but grounding.

“Well,” you say, your voice quieter now, “I guess that makes us both failures.”

He lets out a breathless laugh, half in disbelief at the words that just left your mouth, half at the sheer irony of it all.

The girl he’s spent years hating is somehow the only person who understands exactly how he feels.

And when you laugh along with him—soft and real, no mask in sight—he thinks it might be the prettiest sound he’s ever heard.

But just in an objective way.

Obviously.

Something shifts after that night.

The jabs between you are still there, but they’ve lost their edge—less snark and spite, more playful banter. The kind that lingers just long enough to be amusing but never actually stings.

You smile at him when you pass each other in the hallway now. Not the polite, distant one you give everyone else, but a real one—small, barely-there, but real. You don’t avoid sitting with him anymore when the study hall is packed, and somehow, he swears people have started reserving a seat next to him for you.

He finds that he doesn’t mind at all.

It was weird at first—falling into this easy rhythm with you. He doesn’t quite know when it happened, only that it did.

Now, you help each other out when you can, despite having different A-levels.

You teach him how to organize his notes properly, finally getting him to admit that his system of stuffing everything into his bag “where I can find it later” is inefficient. In return, you steal scratch paper from him when you need to jot things down quickly, muttering a half-hearted “thanks” while he snorts and tells you to bring your own next time.

You ask him to explain things you don’t have the patience to reread, and he—after weeks of resisting—finally accepts your request to have a shared study playlist, since, for some reason, you two find yourselves next to each other so often.

It’s fun. Organic. Comfortable.

And then one day, in the middle of study hall, as he’s flipping through notes and barely paying attention, you look up from your work and—completely unprompted—ask:

“So, tell me about racing.”

He freezes, caught completely off guard.

“…Finally interested in my hobby?” He smirks, leaning back in his chair, twirling his pen between his fingers just like you’d taught him.

You roll your eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at your lips. “Ugh. Let it go, we were like fifteen.”

He laughs, shaking his head. Yeah, something’s definitely changed.

“So…” He watches you intently, trying to gauge if you actually want to know. “You really wanna hear about it?”

“Well, you won’t shut up about it,” you say, propping your chin on your hand. “Might as well figure out what’s so cool about it.”

He snorts. “Then sure, princess, let’s introduce you to motorsport, yeah?”

You roll your eyes at the nickname, but he catches the way you shift slightly in your seat, just a little closer, just a little more engaged.

“There’s a few types of it,” he starts, leaning back against the desk. “You’ve got the motorcycles and there’s even stuff where there’s two people in one car. But I’m in single-seater racing, so it’s just me.” His voice gains a certain ease as he speaks, his usual sharp edges softening. “I’m aiming for Formula One, which is like… the top of it all.”

You tilt your head, studying him. He always seemed most alive when he was annoyed at something—eyes sharp, jaw tight, voice lined with exasperation. But this? This is different. His posture is looser, his words flowing without the usual bite. There’s no frustration here, just passion.

You nod, and—true to form—pull out your notebook, flipping to a fresh page. The sharp click of your pen echoes in the room.

He stops. Stares.

“…Are you seriously taking notes?”

"Duh,” you reply, completely serious. “I need to keep up.”

For a moment, he just blinks at you. Then he huffs out a disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head. But he doesn’t tell you to stop.

“Alright then,” he says, smirking slightly. “Most of us start in karting as kids. Like, literally kids. I was ten when I started—a little late, actually—but that’s where you learn the basics. Overtaking, defending, racing lines, racecraft—the whole lot.”

You hum thoughtfully, jotting something down. Then you glance up at him, the corner of your lips lifting. “Were you fast?”

“In karting?” His mouth twitches in amusement. “Obviously.”

You snicker. “I’ll take your word for it.”

He shoots you a look, rolling his eyes before continuing. “Well, after that, you move up into junior divisions. It’s harder, more competitive, and way more expensive.” His fingers drum against the desk absently. “Talent alone isn’t enough there. There’s sponsors, funding, getting with a good team—and even with all that, nothing’s guaranteed.”

You watch him carefully, catching the way his jaw clenches at that last part.

It’s subtle, but there. The briefest flicker of frustration—of something deeper—before he forces it back down.

You don’t comment on it.

Instead, you tap your pen against your notebook, tilting your head. “So, let me get this straight,” you say, holding back a smile, pretending to examine your notes. “You’re telling me that you just drive in circles really fast, and you need rich people to like you?”

His head snaps toward you, eyes narrowing. “It is not just driving in circles.”

"Of course." You grin. “You drive in different squiggles really fast."

“Oh my god—”

You both burst out laughing, your voices filling the mostly quiet study hall, and the tension lifts.

He finds that you've been doing that lately—smoothing out the tightness in his chest until there's nothing but left but peace.

The kind he realizes he only really finds with you.

The annual retreat was supposed to be a break—a chance for students to step away from deadlines and exams, breathe in fresh air, and pretend they weren’t slowly losing their minds under the weight of classes.

Traditionally, it was some wilderness training program, the kind where they’d be forced to build shelters out of sticks and start fires with nothing but sheer willpower. But this year, the school had gone easy on them.

Instead of roughing it in the wild, they were headed to a quiet camping site tucked away in the countryside. Cabins instead of tents, a scenic lake, and just enough planned activities to call it "team-building" without making it actual suffering. Oscar didn't mind. A few days away from campus, where he didn’t have to think about exams or sponsors or whatever the hell he was supposed to be doing with his life? Yeah, he’d take it.

By the time they arrived, the sun was already slipping lower in the sky, casting warm gold over the treetops. The air was crisp, cooler than the city, carrying the distant scent of pine and lake water. As he stepped off the bus, stretching out his limbs, he could hear his friends already making plans—who was bunking with who, what they were sneaking into the cabins, whether or not they could get away with "accidentally" skipping the reflection sessions.

And then, of course, he spotted you.

Standing near the second bus, arms crossed, listening to one of your friends ramble about something—probably the itinerary. Your uniform blazer was gone, replaced by a jacket, and for once, your hair wasn’t held back by your usual headband. Something about it made you seem different. Less put together, less perfect. More like a person, less like the image of one.

His gaze lingered longer than it should have.

Not that it mattered.

Because when you finally noticed him watching, you raised a brow, expression unreadable for all of two seconds before you smirked—just slightly, just enough to mouth: Stop staring, you weirdo.

Oscar exhaled, shaking his head with a small smile as he shouldered his duffel bag.

Just his luck—two days in the outdoors with you.

Or so he thought.

He didn’t see you at all that first night, too caught up in settling into the cabin with his friends, planning out their excursions for the next day. The schedule was packed but perfect: kayaking in the morning, followed by a swim in the lake. Archery in the afternoon, right after lunch. Then they’d spend the evening holed up in their cabin, pretending to nap so they could conveniently "miss" the reflection exercises. After dinner, they'd break out the snacks and board games they’d smuggled in, playing well past curfew.

Between all that, he was sure he’d run into you at some point. The camp wasn’t that big.

And yet, as the new day unfolded, you were nowhere to be found.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He did see you. But only in passing—too focused on organizing the next day’s team-building activities, pouring over notes with the other prefects to even notice him.

Which was fine. Totally fine.

You were busy, after all.

Not that it mattered.

Not that it should have mattered.

And yet, for some reason, it did.

If the first day at camp was a relaxed free period with a required meditation session, the second was the complete opposite. Designed as a full-day competition, the campgrounds buzzed with energy as different challenges ran simultaneously—relay races, strategy games, problem-solving tasks. Every student was assigned to a random team and a random event. When they said team-building, they meant it.

Oscar got assigned to the obstacle course.

Which would’ve been fine—great, even—if it weren’t for the immediate complaints from the other teams the second they saw his name on the roster.

“Oh, come on,” someone groaned. “How’s that fair? He’s literally a professional athlete!”

“We’re going against a guy who has an actual training regimen,” another muttered, crossing their arms.

Oscar rubbed the back of his neck, feeling an unfamiliar prickle of embarrassment as all eyes turned to him. Great. He didn’t even want an unfair advantage, but now he was public enemy number one.

And then, of course, you stepped in.

“Alright, alright, settle down,” you said, somehow managing to corral the complaints into grumbling silence. Then, after a pause, you turned to him, a slow smirk pulling at your lips. “How about we give him a handicap, then?”

Oscar narrowed his eyes immediately. He knew that tone. That was your I’m about to mess with you tone.

“What do you think, Piastri?” you continued, crossing your arms. “Up for the challenge?”

He wasn’t, actually. Not at all. But some part of him—some deeply irrational, definitely stupid part—thought you might be a little impressed if he pulled it off.

“Sure,” he said, tilting his head at you. “What’s the handicap?”

You grinned. Too pleased. “We’re adding some weight on you.”

His brows furrowed. “What?”

Another facilitator stepped forward, handing you a backpack that looked harmless enough. That is, until you struggled just a little to lift it, adjusting your stance to keep from stumbling.

Oscar stared. Oh, hell no.

“You…” He sighed heavily, reaching for the bag. The second he strapped it on, he felt the weight drag at his shoulders, and he let out a quiet grunt. Okay. Yeah. That’s ridiculous.

“You,” he muttered, adjusting the straps, “Are so lucky I tolerate you.”

You just flashed him a teasing smile and—because you were the actual worst—blew him a mocking kiss before turning back to the rest of the group.

“Alright!” you clapped your hands together. “Now that we’re all happy with the arrangements, let’s go over the rules!”

Oscar exhaled through his nose, shifting the weight on his back as you explained the mechanics. A team-based obstacle course where every challenge had to be completed by every member. Fastest team wins.

His team shot him a look, somewhere between amusement and pity.

Oscar just rolled his shoulders and took a deep breath.

Fine. He could do this.

And maybe—just maybe—he’d make sure to throw you in the lake after.

“Are we all ready?” you call out over the crowd.

“Yeah!” they cheer back, voices full of energy.

“On your marks!”

Oscar positions himself at the back of his team, muscles tensed, ready. He could’ve started at the front—probably should have, considering he was technically the athlete—but he stayed behind instead, ready to help if anyone needed it. Team-building and all that.

“Get set!”

You scan the group, making sure everyone is in place. Then, for the briefest moment, your eyes lock with his.

His fingers twitch. Yours drum against your clipboard.

And because he’s him and you’re you, he casually flips you off.

You grin, wide and smug, like you’ve already won.

“Go!”

Oscar takes off.

The weight of the bag is brutal, but he barely registers it. All he knows is that he is not going to let you have the satisfaction of messing with him too much.

He was so going to win this.

Okay, so he was a little disappointed that you weren’t at the awarding ceremony when they handed out medals to his team for winning—even with the practically evil handicap you gave him.

But you were probably just busy cleaning up after the competitions.

No big deal.

And, yes, he did get a little annoyed when he spotted you later—freshened up and back in your usual composed state—smiling and giggling with another prefect.

But you were probably just planning the bonfire for tonight.

Totally valid.

He was fine.

At least, he was.

And then…

“So, you wanna sit with me at the bonfire tonight?”

Oscar stops in his tracks.

He doesn’t see your reaction, but he hears it. That soft hum of consideration, the one he’s learned you make when you’re actually thinking about something.

You were actually considering it.

Before he can hear your answer, he turns and walks away, jaw tight, steps a little heavier than necessary.

He doesn’t know what pisses him off more—the fact that you might say yes, or the fact that he cares if you do.

As suspected, you’re nowhere to be seen the entire bonfire.

Not that it mattered.

Oscar spent the night exactly how he should—hanging out with his friends, caught up in the whirlwind of music, laughter, and an excessive, probably unhealthy amount of s’mores. Someone had smuggled in a speaker, blasting everything from classic rock to obnoxious pop songs that made everyone yell along. They danced, they joked, they reveled in the rare freedom of being away from school.

He had a blast.

Seriously. A fucking great time.

So why the hell couldn’t he shake the thought of you?

The question stuck to the back of his mind, clinging like sap, stubborn and impossible to ignore. It wasn’t like you had to be here. Maybe you weren’t a bonfire person. Maybe you were holed up in your cabin, exhausted from running the competitions all day. Maybe you were off somewhere with that prefect—

Oscar scowled, shaking the thought away as he stretched out on the wooden bench outside his cabin. The night air was cool, the distant crackle of the bonfire still audible from the main clearing.

It was supposed to be two days in the outdoors with you.

With you.

Late into the night, long after most of the camp had settled down, the thought hadn’t left him.

Annoyed—at himself, at you, at whatever this was—he exhaled sharply, pushing off the bench and shoving his hands in his hoodie pockets. Without thinking, his feet carried him toward the bonfire.

The flames had burned lower, flickering embers casting soft orange glows across the empty clearing. Most of the students had already turned in for the night, only a few stragglers left chatting quietly at the edges of the fire.

And then—finally—he saw you.

Sitting alone on the other side of the fire, half-hidden by the flickering glow, arms wrapped around your knees as you stared into the flames.

His steps faltered.

Where the hell had you been all night?

More importantly—why did you look so…lost?

Oscar takes a deep breath before stepping forward, his footsteps quiet against the dirt. You don’t notice him at first, too lost in whatever thoughts have anchored you to this spot. He sinks down beside you on the makeshift seat—a sturdy log warmed by the fire—resting his arms on his knees.

The bonfire crackles, embers drifting up into the night, casting flickering light across your face. The voices of other students murmur in the background, distant and indistinct. Crickets chirp in the trees.

You don’t look at him.

Oscar watches you instead, studying the way your shoulders curve inward as you sit cross-legged, the way your fingers fidget absently in your lap. You look…small, in a way he isn’t used to seeing. Like you’re carrying something heavy and don’t know where to set it down.

It’s silent, but strangely enough, he doesn’t feel alone.

Then, after a moment, you break the quiet.

“Why do you hate me?”

It’s a sudden question, one that hits sharper than he expects. A question about feelings he decided he had when he was fifteen, feelings he had held onto tightly—until a few months ago, when you had sat in that quiet classroom and shared your struggles with each other.

Feelings he honestly forgot he had.

“I don’t,” he says. “I don’t hate you.”

You let out a dry laugh. “Not anymore, at least. But you did. Once.”

Finally, you turn to him, firelight reflected in your eyes. “Why did you?”

“I…” He pauses, considering his words. “I thought you were kind of stuck-up when we first met. And fake. And…and you called racing a hobby.”

Your lips twitch, amused. “Well, at least one of those things is actually something I did wrong.” Then, softer, “I’m sorry I said that. About racing.”

You lift a hand, smoothing down his hair in a gesture so natural, so easy, that it catches him completely off guard. “It’s your passion, your life. You worked really hard for it.”

A small chuckle escapes you. “I was a little stuck-up though, wasn’t I?”

“You wouldn’t even look at me.” Oscar smirks. “Though you were great at returning the attitude I gave you,” he admits, tilting his head.

You roll your eyes. “And yet you think I’m the fake one? I was very honest about how much I didn’t appreciate you disliking me.”

“I just think—”

“Not thought?” you interrupt. “Present tense?”

Oscar hesitates, then nods. “You don’t show what’s in your head…What’s in your heart. You have all these smiles and scripts practiced. And you always look put together—even now that we’re literally out in nature. And you’re never seen with bad posture. Your grades are perfect and so is your conduct, and you’re actually kinda nice to be with. By all accounts, you’re…perfect.” He pauses, voice softer now. “But no one’s perfect, Y/N. Not even you. No matter how much distance you put between yourself and everyone else so they can think that you are.”

At that, you finally look away, gaze dropping to the ground.

“You can say that because you’re all set, Oscar,” you murmur. “You don’t need to be perfect because you already know what you want. You have a path, and you work hard for it. You can take your mistakes and turn them into lessons because you have something you want to be great for. You can try again and again when things don’t work out because you actually have a dream.”

Your breath catches slightly, and you swallow hard before continuing.

“I don’t have that.”

The words are quiet but heavy, settling in the space between you.

“So, I need to be perfect, Oscar.” Your fingers tighten over your knee. “Because I don’t know where I’ll end up if I’m not.”

The fire crackles. The night feels impossibly still.

And for the first time since he met you, Oscar doesn’t know what to say.

He just sits next to you for a while, keeping you company as the fire crackles and burns lower. The murmured conversations of the last few stragglers fade one by one, until eventually, it’s just the two of you left.

The night air is cool, carrying the distant sounds of the forest—rustling leaves, the faint chirping of crickets. The firelight flickers, casting shifting shadows across your face, across the way your shoulders remain tense, like you’re still bracing for something unseen.

Oscar exhales, shifting slightly closer. “I don’t think you need to have everything sorted out yet,” he says, voice quiet but certain. “We still have next year. And there’s the year after that. And the year after.”

You don’t respond. Not immediately.

“Y/N,” he calls, softer this time. “We have a lot left to live. You’ll find your place. You’ll figure everything out.”

You finally turn to him, eyes uncertain, on the verge of overflowing.

“Do you mean it?” Your voice is shaky, fragile in a way he’s not used to hearing.

“I do.”

You look away, but before you can retreat entirely, Oscar moves without thinking—cupping your face gently with one hand, tilting your chin just enough to meet his gaze.

It’s foreign. Surprising.

But not…unwelcome.

Your breath catches, and for a split second, everything feels suspended. The air between you shifts, something unspoken stretching thin and taut, the space closing inch by inch.

“Y/N?”

“Yes?”

His thumb brushes against your cheek, just barely.

“Everything will be fine.”

And then the dam breaks.

A sharp inhale, then a quiet sob. The first tear slips down your cheek, then another, and before you can stop it, you’re crying—really crying, shoulders shaking as you press your face into his chest.

Oscar doesn’t hesitate.

He pulls you in without a second thought, wrapping his arms around you, shielding you from the weight of whatever’s been crushing you for so long. His hand rests at the back of your head, fingers threading lightly through your hair as you let yourself fall apart against him.

And all he can do—all he wants to do—is hold you.

It’s strange.

He doesn’t ever see you like this. Just once before. You’re so composed, always controlled, always held together by perfectly measured smiles.

But right now, you’re none of those things.

You’re just you.

You're real.

You're in his arms and you're real.

And it hits him, in the stillness of the moment, in the way the firelight dances across tear-streaked skin—You’re beautiful.

Not in the way he used to think, not just in the way everyone already knew.

But in the way that matters.

The kind of beautiful that settles in the quiet spaces, that lingers, that takes you home. The kind that isn’t just seen but felt—woven into the way you carry yourself, the way you fight so hard to hold everything together, the way you’re allowing yourself to not be perfect, just for a moment.

Even in your worst state, you're the most beautiful thing he's ever laid eyes on.

And suddenly—too fast—he wonders if maybe, just maybe, there’s something more there. If there’s a chance he likes you. In that way.

If, deep down, he’s been falling this whole time.

2019: Year 13 [18 years old]

When autumn rolls around and he’s back at school again, Oscar Piastri is a Eurocup champion. Testing for Formula 3 is lined up, doors are opening, and for the first time, the dream that once felt impossibly distant is now right in front of him. He’s buzzing, electric with the thrill of it all.

And you’re the person he most wants to tell everything to.

Not much has changed between you two after the bonfire. You still bicker, still trade sharp remarks, but there’s a warmth underneath it now—something softer, something unspoken. Something that makes his stomach twist in a way he’s beginning to understand.

Because, yes, he’s finally realized it.

He likes you. In that way.

And maybe, just maybe, there’s a chance you feel the same.

He runs into you in the hallway, where your hair is still neatly styled, your uniform still crisp, but there’s something new. The prefect’s badge you once wore with careful pride is gone, replaced by a Head Girl badge gleaming against your blazer.

“You’ve come a long way, princess,” he says, stopping in front of you, hands casually shoved in his pockets. “Congrats on being Head Girl.”

Your smile is wide, genuine—the kind he doesn’t see you give to just anyone. “Congratulations to you too, Piastri—Eurocup champion.”

The way you say it, like you mean it, like you’re proud of him, makes something tighten in his chest.

“Wanna walk to class together?” he asks, like it’s easy. Like it’s normal. Like the idea of just existing next to you isn’t becoming something he needs.

You tilt your head, a flicker of disappointment crossing your face. “I have study hall for most of the day, actually.” Then, as if to soften the blow, you brighten. “I’ll send you my schedule, though, so we can coordinate!”

Something about that—coordinating, making time for each other—sits so naturally between you.

“Sure,” he says, nodding. “See you later?”

“See you later, Piastri.”

You turn and walk away, and just the thought of syncing your schedules is enough motivation for him to get through the day.

Except…when he finally gets your message, his stomach drops.

Because there, glaring back at him, is one unavoidable fact:

Nothing aligns.

Oscar had always been good at adjusting. Racing taught him that—how to adapt, how to move forward, how to deal with losing things and making peace with it.

But this? This was different.

He wasn’t used to missing someone. Not like this.

Sure, he missed his mom and dad. He missed his sisters. He missed the Australian heat and slang. He missed his racing friends when he went back to school. He missed the tracks and his car. But never in his life did he think he’d miss you.

And maybe that’s why the switch was so jarring. He’d spent years wishing he was away from you, wishing for different classes, wishing to never see your face.

Now that he has that, he wants nothing more than to bring back the simpler days—when you were always classmates, always orbiting each other, always trying to avoid the other but never quite succeeding at staying away.

Ever since he’d gotten your schedule and realized that nothing aligned, it was like there was an empty space in his day where you were supposed to be.

It wasn’t like you’d disappeared. He still saw you, sometimes—passing glimpses in hallways, quick nods across the library, an occasional “Hey, Piastri” when your paths crossed. But it wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t like before.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Because before, he didn’t think he’d need more.

Now, though? It was all he could think about.

Oscar had wanted a lot of things in his life, but rarely did he ever want something back.

He wants back the way you twirl your pen in between your fingers at a speed he still can’t match, no matter how many times you try to teach him. He wants the ever-changing rearrangement of your hair when you get stressed, never sticking to one style within the hour. He wants your study sessions and your stealing of his scratch papers. He wants your smiles and your quips and your banter.

He wants you back.

So, like in racing, he strategizes.

He figures out which routes you take so he can walk by at just the right moment, just to get a minute of conversation before you scurry off to class. He starts showing up at the library earlier, knowing you’ll pass by on your way to study hall. He “accidentally” bumps into you at the cafeteria, acting surprised even though he knows exactly when you go.

He even texts you more, something he never used to do before. Just small things at first—jokes, complaints about assignments, links to articles about topics he knows will spark an argument. Anything to keep the conversation going.

And yet, it isn’t the same.

No matter what he does, it’s not enough of you.

At some point, it’s wasn't just missing you anymore—it’s something heavier, something that sits in his chest and refuses to leave. Because no matter how many stolen moments he squeezes into his day, no matter how often he “accidentally” finds himself in your orbit, it never lasts long enough.

And the worst part?

You don’t even notice.

Not in the way he wants you to.

You’re busy—busier than ever. Between Head Girl responsibilities, exams, and whatever future you’re silently trying to carve out for yourself, it feels like you’re slipping further and further away. And Oscar, for the first time in his life, hates the idea of being left behind.

He tries not to let it bother him. You’re just focused, that’s all. It’s not like you’re avoiding him.

Except maybe you are.

Not in an obvious way. Not in a mean way.

But in the way that means he’s no longer a priority.

And that realization hits harder than he expects.

Because before, if he wanted to see you, he could. If he wanted to talk to you, he’d find a way, and you’d let him.

But now?

Now, you’re harder to reach. Harder to catch. Harder to keep.

And the closer graduation gets, the more he starts to wonder—If he doesn’t do something soon, will you slip away completely?

It’s right as the holiday break approaches that he finally gets a moment alone with you again—on a random night, past curfew, when you both somehow end up sneaking into the same empty classroom.

It’s similar, but different.

The lights are still dimmed, casting familiar shadows against the walls. The air is still heavy, thick with exhaustion from exams and the looming uncertainty of the future. But this time, you’re standing closer together. This time, the silence between you isn’t uncomfortable—it’s something known, something safe.

Because this time, no matter how much is changing, you both know one thing for sure—You’ve got each other.

How’s life been for you, Oscar?” you ask, leaning against the wall, a warm smile on your face. “It��s been a while, so tell me everything.”

“I don’t think it’s been any different from yours,” he says, mirroring your smile. “Tests, papers…” He hesitates. “Graduation. The future.”

You exhale, the weight of that word hanging between you. “Well, those are definitely in my head.” A small chuckle escapes your lips. “Is it weird that I miss those early days here at the academy?”

“What, the ones where we hated each other?” He smirks.

You roll your eyes. “Yes and no.” Turning toward the window, you watch the campus lights flicker in the distance, the glow casting soft light across your features. Oscar should look away, but he doesn’t. He can’t.

“I mean, things were simpler then,” you continue. “We had all the time in the world.”

He hums in response, watching the way your fingers trace absent patterns against the windowsill.

“I wish we could go back to then,” you say softly. “I’d be nicer to you. We could have been friends faster.”

You both giggle at this, the sound light and easy, but something in his chest pulls.

“What about you, Oscar? Would you change anything?”

He thinks for a moment. He thinks about the previous year—the late-night study sessions, the bickering that turned into something softer, the night by the bonfire when you let your walls down. He thinks about being paired with you for that stupid project in your second year, about meeting you in this exact room right around this time last year. He thinks about the very first time he saw you, sitting so perfectly poised in the headmaster’s office, completely unaware of the way you’d wedge yourself into his life, piece by stubborn piece.

He thinks.

Then—

“Nothing.”

You blink, turning back to face him. “Nothing?”

“I think…” He exhales, searching for the right words. “I think we’re where we’re at because it took a while to get to know each other. If we had been friends from the start, maybe things would’ve been easier—but I don’t think they would’ve been right.”

You tilt your head, curious. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs, shifting his weight slightly. “If we had been friends back then, I think I would’ve liked you the way everyone else does. The way people admire you from a distance.” His voice is quieter now. “But…I got to see you. Not just the perfect grades or the Head Girl badge. I got to see the way you actually think, the way you talk when you’re not putting on a front. The way you try so hard even when you don’t have to.”

You don’t say anything. You just look at him, eyes flickering with something unreadable.

And then, finally, you smile. Not the polite kind. Not the practiced one.

The real one.

“Well,” you say, voice softer than before. “I’m glad you got to know me.”

He’s glad too. More than you’ll ever know.

You just bask in the silence for a while, letting the quiet settle between you like something warm, something known. The window glass is cool beneath your fingertips as you both watch the lights flicker outside, the campus stretched out before you, vast and unchanging.

Your fingers brush against each other.

It’s light—barely even there, just a whisper of a touch. But it burns.

Something inside him ignites, sharp and immediate, like the flick of a match against dry kindling.

“Y/N?”

“Yes?”

He doesn’t move his hand away. Neither do you.

“You should call me by my name more.”

You tilt your head slightly, raising a brow. “Tired of hearing your last name?” The corner of your lips lilts in amusement.

Well, you might have it one day, he thinks.

But instead, he just shrugs. “I like hearing you say it.”

The teasing look in your eyes falters for just a second—your lips parting slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing your face before your cheeks flush.

You blink at him, the weight of his words lingering between you.

And then—

“Okay, then,” you say softly, watching him just as intently.

“…Oscar.”

You still don’t see much of each other throughout the rest of the year.

Between exams, responsibilities, and the looming pressure of the future, time slips through your fingers faster than either of you can catch it. Even texting becomes rare—just the occasional Good luck on your exam or a late-night complaint about an assignment. Nothing deep. Nothing real.

But Oscar takes what he can get.

His comfort comes in brief meetings in the hallways—your rushed conversations between classes, cramming a day’s worth of thoughts into a handful of stolen seconds.

“Got a physics test after lunch,” you’d say, adjusting the strap of your bag. “If I fail, I’m blaming you.”

He’d smirk. “What did I do?”

“The playlist you gave me last time distracted me.”

“Hey, I have great taste.”

“You can keep telling yourself that.”

And then the bell would ring, and just like that, you’d be gone—your presence slipping through his fingers before he could even think about holding on.

Hearing you call out his name in the busy hallway became the highlight of his day. A moment of certainty in a year that felt anything but steady.

But the times your knuckles brushed, the moments your shoulders bumped in passing, those felt like something more. Like maybe, if things had been different, there would’ve been time for more.

Except there wasn’t.

And maybe that’s why the thought of you leaving hits harder than it should.

He isn’t expecting to hear it—not like this, not by accident. But as he’s passing the debate room on his way to class, your voice stops him in his tracks.

“The university there offered me a great scholarship,” you tell a friend, your tone measured, practical. “It would be stupid not to take it.”

There’s a beat of silence before your friend speaks, quieter, hesitant. “So, that’s it then? You’re just…leaving?”

Oscar freezes mid-step.

A heartbeat passes.

Then another.

And then—

“Yeah,” you say, and it’s so final. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Just a quiet certainty that settles deep in his chest, heavier than it should be. “I’m leaving.”

And suddenly, the ground beneath him doesn’t feel so steady anymore.

“What do you mean you’re leaving?” The words slip out before he can stop them, raw and too loud, cutting through the quiet corridor.

You blink, taken aback by the sharpness in his tone, by the urgency in his voice.

“Y/N, what are you even talking about?”

The hurt is there, unmistakable, woven between the syllables. And maybe if he hadn’t spent so long trying to deny it, he’d understand it better.

No. He does understand.

Because there was so much he wanted to tell you.

Because you were supposed to have time.

You were supposed to figure this out together.

“Oscar,” you say cautiously, as if approaching something fragile, something breakable. You glance at your friend, giving them a small nod, a silent request for space. They hesitate before excusing themselves, leaving just the two of you.

You inhale deeply, as if preparing yourself.

“I got an offer from a university outside the country,” you say, voice steady, like you’ve rehearsed this before, like you’ve already convinced yourself that this is good. That this is right. “Full-ride scholarship with room and board and a possible slot in a master’s program after I get my undergraduate.”

It’s a perfect opportunity.

It’s everything you’ve worked for.

You should be thrilled. You are thrilled.

So why does your heart ache at the way he’s looking at you?

Oscar doesn’t speak right away, just stares, his lips parting slightly like he’s still trying to process what you just said.

And then, finally, he breathes, “It’s a great opportunity.”

You nod, stepping closer, reaching for his hand before you can stop yourself. You don’t know why you do it—maybe to reassure him, maybe to reassure yourself. His palm is warm, his fingers rough but familiar, grounding.

“I’m going to take it,” you say. And you mean it.

But when his grip tightens around yours, when his thumb brushes absently against your skin like he’s memorizing the feeling, something inside you wavers.

Oscar swallows, staring at your joined hands like they hold all the answers he’s been looking for. He doesn’t know what he expected—that you’d stay? That you’d change your mind? That he’d still have more time to figure out what you mean to him before you slip away completely?

He thought he had more time.

He thought—

“I love you.”

It comes out before he can second-guess it, before he can tell himself that this isn’t the right time, that this isn’t how he was supposed to say it. But none of that matters now.

His grip on your hand tightens. His voice is softer the second time, but truer, like the words are settling into something real.

“I love you.”

The world tilts slightly.

Your breath catches.

Because of course he does. Of course this is what it’s been building up to—every argument, every stolen glance, every almost-moment that neither of you dared to name.

But now that it’s here, now that he’s standing in front of you with his heart in his hands, you don’t know what to do with it.

Because you’re leaving.

Because you’ve already decided.

And because some part of you wonders if maybe, maybe, you were waiting for him to say it sooner.

You look down, your eyes fixed on the floor because it’s easier than looking at him. Easier than facing the way his voice cracks, the way his words hang heavy between you.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” you whisper, and even that feels like too much.

“Do you feel the same?” he asks, his voice quiet but firm.

You close your eyes. “I’m leaving, Oscar.”

“That’s not what I asked.” His voice softens, but the urgency stays. “Do you feel the same?”

“It’s not going to work,” you say, your breath hitching. You hate how your voice shakes, hate the way your heart is pounding so fast it hurts. “We’re going in very different directions and—”

“Do you feel the same, Y/N?” he asks again, his voice breaking just slightly.

And that—that’s what makes you falter. Because you can hear it. The way he’s holding on so tight, the way he’s afraid of your answer.

“Just let me go,” you whisper, even though it’s the last thing you want.

“I can’t,” he says after a beat, and his voice is so soft when he says it, but there’s no mistaking the weight of those words. “I can’t because I know you. Because I know I’m not the only one who feels this.”

Your throat tightens. “I’m trying to be practical—”

“I’m trying to tell you I love you!” His voice rises, frustration and desperation bleeding into every word.

And then—

“So do I!” The words burst out of you before you can stop them, loud and broken and everything you’ve been trying to bury.

The silence after is deafening.

You look up at him, your eyes brimming with tears. “I love you too,” you whisper, like it’s a secret you’re only brave enough to say now. And when you step forward and press your forehead to his chest, his arms come around you without hesitation, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

“I love you,” you say again, softer this time. “But it’s too late, Oscar. I’m leaving.”

“It’s not too late.”

He pulls back just enough to cup your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing against your cheeks—wiping away tears you hadn’t even realized were falling. His touch is so gentle it breaks you a little more.

“We’re right here,” he says, his voice quiet and steady. “So, it’s not too late.”

And then—slowly, carefully, like he’s giving you every chance to pull away—he leans in.

Your breath catches.

And when his lips finally meet yours, the world falls away.

It’s soft at first—tentative and slow, like both of you are afraid of pushing too far, afraid of what this means. But then your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, and his hand slips into your hair, and the kiss deepens. It becomes something warmer, desperate—like making up for every second you wasted, every word you never said.

And for a while, there’s no leaving. No future pulling you in different directions. No goodbye waiting on the horizon.

It’s just you.

It’s just him.

The warmth of his hands on your skin, the way he holds you like you’re something precious. The way your fingers curl into his shirt like you’re afraid to let go. The quiet, shared ache in every kiss—like you’re both trying to memorize this, to keep this, even when you know you can’t.

And maybe this is all you get—this moment, this kiss, this fragile space where neither of you has to think about what comes next.

But maybe…maybe it’s just the beginning.

Because when you finally pull apart, breathless and trembling, your foreheads still pressed together, his breath still tangled with yours—you both know the truth.

This moment? It’s fleeting.

But his eyes—warm and steady—hold you there.

“We’ll figure it out,” he whispers, and somehow, you believe him.

You nod, your voice barely more than a breath. “Yeah. We will.”

And even if the future is uncertain, even if the next steps take you miles apart—right now, this?

This is yours.

And for the first time, even with your heart breaking in the most beautiful way, it feels like enough.

2022: Epilogue 1

“I can’t believe you just did that!” you exclaim over the phone, your voice half-outraged, half-incredulous. “Oscar, you’re giving me a heart attack from like fifty thousand miles away!”

“Everything’s under control,” he says, grinning as he leans back against the wall of his hotel room, the adrenaline still buzzing through his veins. “Trust me. It’s all in motion—you’ll see.”

“Honey,” you huff, and he can hear the dramatic eye roll in your voice, “I’ll believe you when you’re in that fucking Formula One seat, driving around squiggles for two hours.”

He chuckles, the sound low and easy, and God, he misses you. “You worry too much.”

“I have to worry,” you snap, but there’s no real heat behind it. “Because my idiot boyfriend decided to end his partnership with the team that made him their reserve driver by tweeting about it!” You huff. “I mean, listen to this: I understand that without my consent—”

“Okay, yeah, I typed that out,” he groans, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t need to relive it, thanks.”

“I’m just saying,” you tease, your voice softening just enough to make him smile.

Then there’s the unmistakable sound of your keyboard clacking in the background. “Anyway, experts are absolutely shitting on you online,” you inform him. “But don’t worry—I’m your biggest defender.”

“Please don’t fight with analysts on the internet,” he laughs, though the image of you going to battle for him is both hilarious and weirdly endearing. “They’re going to eat you alive.”

“Oscar, I had to deal with your attitude for years before we got together,” you shoot back, your tone sweet as sugar. “Trust me— some slimy little reporters are nothing to me.”

He laughs, the sound full and warm—the kind of laugh only you ever seem to pull out of him.

And as the miles stretch between you, the distance feels just a little smaller.

2023: Epilogue 2

The roar of the crowd was deafening — a steady pulse of noise that vibrated through the air, through the track, through Oscar’s bones. He could feel it, even from the garage, where the final checks were being made on his car. The smell of fuel and rubber mixed with the electric tension of the starting grid, and the weight of what was about to happen settled heavily on his chest.

Bahrain 2023.

His first Formula One race.

Everything he had worked for, fought for—the years of training, the endless sacrifices, the victories and the failures—had led him here. To this moment. To this seat. To this dream.

And still, when his eyes flicked to the edge of the garage, searching through the sea of engineers and team personnel, it wasn’t the car or the track or even the starting lights that grounded him.

It was her.

Y/N stood just beyond the bustle of the team, arms crossed and wearing his team’s colors, her ever-pristine hair now tucked beneath a cap. But the calm, poised version of her he’d fallen for wasn’t here today. Today, her excitement cracked through the surface—eyes bright, smile wide, nerves barely contained.

Three years, and she were still his greatest victory.

As if sensing his gaze, she turned—and when she smiled at him, everything else faded away. The crowd, the noise, the pressure.

It was just her. It was always her.

He lifted his hand in a small wave, and she grinned, mouthing words he didn’t need to hear to understand.

You’ve got this.

And just like that, the weight in his chest eased.

Because no matter what happened on the track today—win or lose, first place or last—she’d still be there.

And that? That was enough to make him feel unstoppable.

#oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri fic #oscar piastri #op81 #f1 fanfiction #f1 imagine #formula one #f1 x reader #✩ allie's writing ✩

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nmakii · 5 months ago

Text

must be love

— you find sae’s phone opened, and you decide to snoop.

or; sae gets exposed for being a fake idgafer. this is too sappy. 2.7k words, this is my longest fic in my whole life… what life feels like as a girl who loves too much core

tags: @narcjsistx

— for @itoshiluvbot. love ya, partner.

‘she seems really eager to please,

but she has quite the backbone.’

you huff out in frustration. “ah!! ugh…” you scowl. sae raises his eyebrow. “my groupmate never started on her share of the work… ugh, now i have to cram it..!” you explain your sudden outburst. sae scoffs. “then tell your teacher or something. it’s not like i can do anything about it, im not your teacher.” he, quite obviously, points out. “wh… ugh, i’m gonna… i just— needed to let out my anger.” you groan, face planting and screaming into your textbook. and he hums in response. although he didn’t show it on his face, your outburst was quite out of character for the person he had grown to know. it was… weird, to say the least. and it had caused him to make a mental note not to anger you.

‘her generosity knows no bounds.’

“sae, this is for you. merry christmas!” you hand him a wrapped box. “hm..? i don’t take christmas gifts.” he bluntly states. “i haven’t gotten any gifts since i was 10 years old.” you scoff to yourself. “maybe that’s why you’ve always got that stick in your ass.” you tease. “excuse me?” he glares daggers at you. “aaaanyway! open it!” you shove the box into his hands. he looks at the box, and then at you, and he decides to open it. “new cleats.” he acknowledges. yes, mhm. these were indeed cleats..! “i didn’t need these, i was going to buy them myself.” he states.

“i know, you could probably buy them yourself. but, i thought i’d save you the hassle, y’know?” how thoughtful of you. he eyes the cleats up and down; it’s an expensive brand, but it’s worth the price for the quality. “…thanks.” he says, at last. he didn’t expect a gift from you, he doesn’t have one prepared for you. he’ll make sure to buy you something you’ll love later. “oh! hold on, i wanted to give you some other things ♪~” you fish a keychain and envelope out of your bag and hand it to him.

“…cinnamoroll..?” he questions. “it’s cute right? i thought you’d like it.” what an odd way of thinking… never once has he mentioned anything about cinnamoroll. but then again, it is pretty cute. “…well, i won’t say i hate it. thank you.” he thanks you as he eyes the envelope. “ah, don’t read it in front of me..! i got a bit sappy, it’s pretty. embarrassing…” you awkwardly laugh. “ah, got it.”

later that day, he opened the envelope. there was a letter; it had cute doodles all over. and, he’d be lying if he said that he didn’t feel your affection radiating off the letter. it was… really sweet.

‘what a beautiful human being she is.’

itoshi sae is what you like to call a shy lover, if you were to put it kindly.

you know for a fact that he loves you, he just isn’t good at verbally expressing it. words of affection are too sappy for him. he prefers to show it through the thoughtfulness of his gifts, and the longing touches of his hands, which seem to never leave your’s.

you know he loves you. but, you can’t help but wish for him to say it more often.

it wasn’t many nights lately that the two of you would have a date night. with sae’s rigorous training schedule and endless interviews, the only thing he wants to do at night is to fall asleep beside you.

however, today was the end of the season. meaning, sae would have much more free-time for you.

with sae’s last game for the year completed in 0-4, the first thing he had to do was call you. even though you weren’t far away at all, sitting in the VIP lounge with the relatives and girlfriends of sae’s teammates.

“s/o?” he calls your attention. “mhm? congratulations on your win, babe! i knew you’d win.” you congratulate him. “they could barely keep the ball when they had it. is it really an achievement for me to have won this match?” he says, almost sassily. “pssh— alright. i get it, mr. ‘tepid.’.” you tease.

“don’t call me that.” he huffs. “stay where you are. i’ll go to you.” he commands. you hum in acknowledgment, and he hangs up.

he doesn’t keep you waiting too long before showing up. “there you are…” he sighs in relief, kissing you as his hands automatically find themselves on your body— one tangled in your hair, and the other resting on the curve of your spine.

once he finds the will in himself to finally pull away, he’s breathless.

he looks like he wants to say something, but he holds himself back, his fingers flowing through your hair. “…get ready for our date later tonight, yeah? formal wear.”

you nod, and his lips curl upward. “i’ll see you later.”

you decided to go all out, pull all the brakes. and when sae picks you up in his car, he can’t help thinking that you look like a dream. ‘are you sure you aren’t a model?’ he muses to himself. his heart twists, and the fat of his cheeks redden with affection. your hair flows like silk, and that glimmer in your eyes was once a star, handpicked from the skies, he’s sure of it.

everything about you encourages him to keep staring, but he manages to get ahold of himself. “…you…look beautiful.” is the only thing he can get himself to say. but, beautiful doesn’t seem to encapsulate it, not at all. it’s not even close. beautiful is only a fraction of what he thinks. “heh, you think so?” you ask. “yeah; beautiful.” he assures. “let’s go.” he says, barely turning his attention away from you as he turns to the road.

the drive to the restaurant is quiet, but sae’s mind is screaming at him. his eyes can’t stop moving back to take sneaky glances of you. he drinks up your beauty like a serpent, and he still hasn’t had his fill.

“…we’re here.” he pulls the shift into its’ brake. he gets out, and hands his keys to the valet boy— his words are inaudible through the car door, but he quickly finishes his conversation and moves to open your car door.

you take your first step out, and his hand immediately moves to help you out. god, you might be even prettier under the gleam of moonlight, shining like the pearl of the planet.

his arm moves and snakes around your waist, guiding you into the restaurant under the flash of paparazzi cameras. he grimaces at the loud, pitchy voices of news interviewers, begging for a comment; anything for a headline quote.

the gentle touch of his fingers tighten, as he silently encourages you to walk faster, and lose the crowd. the two of you hurry up, and dash into the restaurant, where you’re greeted with a dim candlelight, mahogany walls, and the rhythmic trumpet of jazz.

“welcome, mr. itoshi.” the receptionist greets. “your table for two is right this way.” she quickly guides the two of you into a secluded part of the restaurant, just like he’s always done as to make sure neither of you are spotted and harassed in public.

lamps hang on the walls, creating a romantic atmosphere. and the curved dark-brown leather booth couch perfectly complements the dark oak roundtable.

the date isn’t too different from the others. the two of you chat about anything that comes to mind. but, it’s actually more like it’s just you chattering on, and sae listening as he admires that excited grin on your face.

on the outside looking in, it’s obvious how he has heart eyes when he stares at you. he’s in a trance as he listens to the rich honeying sweetness of your voice; his finger traces the lines on the roundtable, wishing that it’d be the crinkles of your smile he’s tracing when he blinks and opens his eyes again.

his trance is broken though, when his phone rings. damn it, he forgot to put his phone on do not disturb… “something wrong?” you ask sae, and he takes his phone out of his pocket. “not sure. there shouldn’t be a problem, i cancelled everything for tonight. ugh… just a second, amor…” he remorsefully takes your hand in his as a silent gesture of apology. he took too long to pick up the phone, it already went out…

he opened his call app, and saw that it was from his publicist, dabadie. he groaned before picking up.

“sae! you didn’t mention that you’d be going out on a date today, your paparazzi shot is already all over social medias..!” he worriedly stammers. “i didn’t? well, whatever… it’s just a date photo anyway.” sae shrugs, speaking quietly to ensure that you don’t hear. “right— but… you know the internet… they might criticize you, and say that she’s distracting you from soccer…”

sae is about to correct him— he’s about to say that you aren’t distracting him from his career, but he holds back once he remembers that you’re right beside him, eagerly waiting for his attention to be back on you.

“i… have to speak to you for a second, im already outside the restaurant… the paparazzi didn’t censor out the location well enough either… so, the agency’s security car will follow you two home…” he adds on. sae sighs. “i have to speak to you too. i’ll meet you outside.” he hangs up. he huffs in exasperation and shallowly drops his phone, making it clatter on the table; the screen is left open on his call record. “im sorry, amor… i have to quickly take care of something, i’ll be back soon, i promise.” he kisses your hand.

“hmph, don’t worry. it’s dabadie, right? he’s always worried about something…” you laugh. of course you’d be understanding about it. you always understood. ��heh, that he is.” he sasses before leaving the table.

…and you can’t help but notice that his phone is still open.

his phone is practically yelling at you, “check out what’s on me, s/o! check it out right now!”, and you simply can’t resist the temptation to!

first, you simply scroll around at his call record; nothing too interesting, it’s filled with calls from dabadie, and you. as well as occasional calls from his mom. how tepid, as sae would put it. you exit the app, and find his home screen wallpaper to be a picture he took of you; you’re looking out into the distance, the large castle of sleeping beauty in the background.

you smile to yourself at that cute photo, and move to his photos; it’s filled with photos of you, and almost none of him— not unless you were beside him. you scroll down to check out his older photos; they’re childhood pictures, only a few of them are with rin included.

…

…anyways, ‘what is in sae itoshi’s notes app?’, you ponder. you open his notes app.

‘things i want to eat: 1. omelette, 2. paella, 3. pesto pasta’

‘onitsuka tiger mexico - kill bill/grey, new balance 2002r - grey, asics gel NYC - oyster grey’

‘laundry’

‘i love you’

you laugh at the randomness of his notes, quickly scrolling through them. it’s true when they say that a boy’s notes is truly random.

but that last note catches your eye. it’s a pretty odd note that just says ‘i love you’ with no additional text. and, it makes you wonder.

sae’s an organized person, more or less. so, his notes must be filed too. and, you’re correct. there are three files; ‘lists’, ‘important documents’, and a file with your initial as its’ name.

the other two don’t seem as interesting, nor seem as mysterious. so, you click on the mysterious file.

and, the file is filled with everything about you; he’s written down your birthday (including the time…), your family members’ names, foods you like to eat when you aren’t feeling well, shows that you like to watch… everything.

and, there’s a note that catches your eye. it’s a cut-off sentence, since it was too long. you decide to feed your curiosity and click on the note.

‘she talks to everyone, even the people she doesn’t like.

it takes a lot to piss her off.

she’s always kind to me, after all.

she seems really eager to please, but she has quite the backbone.

she works really hard, but i don’t think many see it.

her generosity knows no bounds, and she always knows what kind of joke to make.

i didn’t think it was possible for a soul to be so beautiful.

nor, that someone like i would meet a soul like her’s.

but, im grateful to the stars above that i met her.

someone as kind as her deserves to receive all the love she gives.

i don’t think she knows how loved she really is though.

what a beautiful human being she is.

there simply isn’t enough words to describe the way her dimples crinkle when she’s happy.

the day she was conceived, the gods must’ve tenderly sculpted her heart out of ivory and gold.

the way she enamors everyone in the room simply by walking inside, and the way her personality shines in her rushed, yet sweet handwriting.

one day, i hope she’ll finally be perpetually happy.

so, that she can always shine that enchanting smile of her’s.

she deserves all of it.’

was this a poem..? it didn’t seem like it, it didn’t rhyme, and the stanzas didn’t have equal amounts of lines… but, the way he worded it out almost made it seem like he was a poet.

you don’t… even know what to think at such a romantic confession. it’s certainly much more than sae has ever verbally said to you. but, the fact that he had written this with you in mind makes your heart pound like crazy.

you’ve always known that sae loves you, but seeing his private thoughts all written out for you to read was… overwhelming.

“going through my texts, amor? i’m not texting any other woman besides you.” sae nonchalantly jokes. shit— time went quicker than you’d thought. “ah, nn… just got a bit curious, babe…” you hum. “what were you looking at..?” he asks, and his eyes widen the moment he sees what you were reading. out of all the things on his phone, that was the last thing he wanted you reading.

he embarrassedly closes his phone. “so… what was all that writing about..? were you trying to be a poet?” you jokingly ask; you knew that sae wasn’t mad, per say… he was probably just embarrassed. “n..no… it was, ah…” he clears his throat. “it was just… something i typed out when i realized i had many observations about you that i needed to write down. i just got sidetracked while i was typing.” he explains.

you smile, your entire body feeling like you’re on fire. the love you feel for sae itoshi feels like too much to contain in your heart. “it was really sweet, sae…” you assure him. for some reason, you have the odd incentive to just… cry right now. you love him so much.

“i know. but, it’s also too sappy.” he huffs. “aw, don’t be so shy… i know you’re just a huge softie under that tough surface…” you tease, moving closer to cuddle up to his side. “im not soft. i just love you, okay?” he groans. “don’t make me say embarrassing things.”

your smile widens, making him look at you with that lovesick look in his eyes. “aww… well, i guess i know how much you love me now anyway, so that’s good enough..!” you mentally fist pump at this small victory.

the atmosphere suddenly feels light again as you start to chatter again, teasing him slightly before going back to what you were speaking about before he had left. and still, sae’s looking at you like you’re the world cup trophy, like you’re all he’s dreamed of.

and sae thinks…

‘…you’ll know how sappy i can get when it’s our wedding day.’

but he should save that for another 5 years, or so.

#blue lock #blue lock x reader #bllk #bllk fluff #blue lock sae #bllk x you #bllk x reader #bllk sae #sae itoshi x y/n #sae itoshi x you #sae itoshi #sae itoshi x reader #itoshi sae #blue lock sae itoshi #sae itoshi imagines #itoshi sae imagines

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nebulaafterdark · 9 months ago

Text

The Blacks & The Greens

Summary: A marriage of convenience is not enough to bridge the gap between their warring houses. Y/N and Aegon pay the price for his crown. Based off this request.

Aegon Targaryen x Velaryon(Strong)!Reader

18+ ONLY MDNI

Roughish sex, Targcest, angst, depictions of stillbirth.

Y/N and Aegon marry out of convenience. To keep peace, to mend a house broken long before they were born.

Aegon does not mind bedding her, she is pretty enough. He does not mind watching her swell with his heir, he enjoys it even, paying special attention to Y/N as she grows.

“Does it hurt?” He wonders, tracing a little hand or foot across the skin of her abdomen.

“No,” Y/N smiles, passing a hand over his hair.

Aegon kisses her bump, bidding her and his child a good night before making his way down to the pleasure house.

Their first child, a son named Laenor, is Aegon’s pride and joy. His heart swells with something close to love for his wife, the first time he sees bits of her in their son’s features.

Y/N loves Laenor, carrying him about, showing him the Red Keep and all her favorite places in it. Aegon joins them, on occasion, sharing quiet moments with his little family.

Outside of Laenor, they exchange few words. Refusing to share apartments, but Aegon sneaks into her room more often than not, after nights spent in the company of other women.

“I could never fuck you like that.” He tells his wife, words slurred from his cups.

“I would let you.” Y/N assures him.

“You make my heart ache.” Aegon admits, “I hate when you do that.”

“I do not mean to,” Y/N sighs.

Aegon rests a hand over her beating heart. “I know.”

————————————————————————

When asked for another heir, they are more than happy to provide. Exchanging sloppy kisses and sweet words, but never love, it couldn’t be love. Not with the twisted, possessive way of it.

“Beg,” Aegon demands, fucking her roughly enough that air is punched from her lungs with each snap of his hips.

“Please,” Y/N wails, clinging to him desperately.

“Please what?”

“Fill me with your heir, I wish to bear you a hundred children.”

Aegon grins, brushing sweat damp hair from her forehead. “I adore you, you know?”

Her eyes shoot open, meeting his.

“My pretty, bastard wife.”

The princess’s breath hitches, her cunt clenching around him.

“Enjoyed that, did you?”

There is no point in denying it, she likes the way he says it. The way he acknowledges it without insulting her. “Yes.”

“I do not care who sired you. You are mine now, bastard. Mine to fuck and breed. Mine to love, until we are both cold in our graves.”

Love? “Aegon?”

“You heard me well and clear.”

“I love-”

Aegon seals his mouth over hers, swallowing the words. “Don’t you dare say it.”

“Why?” Y/N asks, with big fat tears welling up in her eyes.

“You hold it inside until you burst or pour it over my cock as you milk me, but you do not say it.” Aegon sneers. He couldn’t be loved, he wouldn’t be, by her least of all.

The princess nods, allowing him to cradle her head against his shoulder. Whispering those forbidden words over and over, while she is never allowed to speak them. Her heart aches.

Like every other aspect of their marriage, this too is complicated.

————————————————————————-

Y/N’s term is nearing its end when her grandsire passes and Aegon is forced to usurp her mother’s throne. With blood running down her legs before Aegon is crowned in the dragon pit, she is rushed swiftly away to labor in her chambers.

Now that Aegon is king, he is allowed at her side without contest. Watching as their second child is brought into the world. The babe does not cry, something inside him knows….

The grand Maester is called to work on the child, a sweet little girl with silver hair.

Y/N begins pushing with the second, her tear stained face pleading for him.

Aegon goes to her, because that is all he knows how to do. He goes to her and holds her hand.

“Aegon,” she cries.

“Shhhh,” he hushes her.

“Will the babe live?”

He presses a kiss to her forehead, “I need you to calm yourself, dearest.”

“I can’t.”

“We must focus on this babe,” Aegon brushes a hand over her belly. “They need their mother to provide them safe passage into the world.”

“I want to see her.” Y/N cries, searching for her child.

“I am so sorry, sweetheart.” Aegon says, “so terribly sorry.”

Y/N bares down, sobbing as she does. The child is safe within her, the same cannot be said after it enters this cruel world. “I do not want to lose my child.”

“I will give you another,” Aegon promises, knowing that a thousand children can never make up for the one they’ve lost. “As many as you wish. Please, allow me to get you through this. You must live, our son needs you, I need you.”

“You must keep pushing my queen.”

Y/N brings her third child into the world, expecting the worst. But the little girl cries.

“Thank the gods,” Aegon lets his head fall against his wife’s chest. “Thank the gods.”

The child is laid against her.

“Healthy?”

“Kicking like a goat, my Queen.”

Aegon looks to his wife, their perfect babe in her arms. “I love you.”

Y/N nods, choking on her grief and joy and love for him.

“Say it, my heart.” Aegon feels it on the tip of her tongue, “it’s alright.”

“I love you,” Y/N laments, “I love you and I’m sorry.”

“You’ve nothing to apologize for.”

“Our babe-”

“None of this is your fault. Please know that.”

Y/N nods, not entirely convinced.

The King and Queen spend days in that bed, mourning their loss, unaware of Rhaenyra’s similar suffering across the sea.

There is no war so hateful as a war between kin, they will all pay the price for it; the Blacks and the Greens.

#house of the dragon #aegon targaryen x you #hotd smut #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon targaryen #hotd aegon #aegon targaryen smut #aegon smut #aegon ii #aegon imagine

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highvern · 5 months ago

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Nights Like These

Pairing: Kim Mingyu x f!reader

Genre: fluff, neighbor!au, Nightwing! mingyu based off this, bartender reader

warnings: very dumb people (mingyu x reader), suggestive but no explicit smut

Length: ~2k

Note: merry gyumas!!!!! this is revenge for spider woo from @gyuswhore if you hate it, it's bc i wrote it in like 3 hours. thank u @the-boy-meets-evil i will be enacting my revenge on you soon. MWAH!

summary: On nights when you close the bar late, a friendly hero always happens to be around to walk you home and share his woes about the crush on his neighbor.

m.list

This blog is intended for 18+ only! Minors/blank blogs will be blocked.

With the rain pounding down in thick sheets, you rush home. On nights like these, when you're the last one out of the bar, completely alone, are always the worst. The bus doesn’t run this late but at least you’re only a few blocks from your apartment. A ten minute run if you don’t stop.

The rain abruptly halts. Not that you’re lucky enough for the storm to pass but because someone falls into step beside you. “Need an umbrella?”

You don’t even need to look to know who it is. He always shows up when you have the closing shift. The man who runs around the city in a spandex suit and calls himself Nightwing.

The first time, some creep had been trailing you from a distance. Thankfully, most of the businesses on the way back to your apartment stayed open later, the nice apartments have doormen so you could run into one at a moment's notice. But as soon as you noticed the weight of a gaze on your back it vanished with a short scuffle. When you turned to find the source of noise, Nightwing stood guard as the creep spirited away.

From that night on, if you got off after midnight, he was there to escort you home.

The first few times he followed from a distance. A couple yards, then ten feet and then one night you waited for him to walk beside you like a normal person. Most nights you were too exhausted to make conversation but he kept you both entertained, asking easy questions or staying silent if you were particularly irritated. But usually, on those nights you felt his eyes on you from one of the alleys you passed, or from the rooftops. He gave you space but kept you safe. Even when you insisted there were far better things for him to do in a city that never sleeped. People who needed him more. But Nightwing shook you off each time.

“This storm came out of nowhere,” you say, huddling closer. He’s big, taking up most of the space by default. You try not to touch him but the heat of his body is pleasant considering your soaked clothes, chilled straight to the bone.

“Yeah, downtown is already flooded.”

“Already walked all the other girls home there?”

“Ha-ha,” he huffs. “I actually work in an office there.”

Oh. In all the nights he’s chaperoned you home, he’s been careful not to reveal too much about himself but some things naturally slip out. He wants a dog but is never home enough to take care of it. One of his friends burnt a fish in his apartment and wasn’t allowed to come back. He tried reading some of the books you talked about but wasn’t a big reader. This is the first time he’s offered information so personal.

“So even superheroes have day jobs?”

“Gotta pay rent somehow.”

“Maybe take up being a security guard. Or Uber but walking women home late at night.”

“Nah,” he smiles, a flash of white teeth between pink lips. “I do that for free. Part of the job.”

You hum in acknowledgement. Sometimes you think maybe he likes walking with you. But as he said, it’s a part of his job. His civic responsibilities to protect the street from creeps and weirdos. Besides, the only other personal information you know about him is the fat crush he has on the girl in the apartment next to him.

“How's your neighbor?” you ask.

“She’s okay. Still acts like I don’t exist.”

“I doubt that’s true.”

“You said she’d like it if I gave her something I cooked, I did.”

“And?”

“Nothing.”

“Damn.”

You think of your own neighbor and how grateful you are that he does something similar. Mingyu was overall, a great neighbor. Grabbed your packages from the mailroom and left them on your doormat when he could, shared food if he made too much which was frequently, and managed to keep his rowdy friends quiet when they were over. But you typically only spoke to him in passing. Strictly neighborly. How are you? They didn’t pick up the trash today? Can I borrow some salt? By the way, I made an entire pot of spaghetti and I cannot eat it alone. Want some?

Recently he offered more and more. A blessing really because by the time you got off work you were too exhausted to cook and too broke to justify paying for the fees for delivery. Everytime he offered you food though you weren’t sure what to do with the tupperware. He was rarely home when you were; conflicting schedules. Last time he brought you the extra brownies from his office party. The tote bag full of clean containers sat next to your door for whenever you saw him but lately he’d been MIA.

Maybe Nightwing’s neighbor felt the same way. If he had a job and ran around town at all hours it was unlikely there was a good time for them to talk.

“Have you tried asking her out?”

“Yes.”

“And?” Your shoulder brushes his arm but you ignore the contact. Not like you can feel much with the numbness from the freezing rain.

“No luck.”

“Maybe she’s shy.”

He levels you with a look meaning that clearly isn’t the problem. For a second you wonder what he looks like without the mask. The tiny scrap of blue, black, and white obscuring so much. Obviously, he’s handsome. Maybe she’s a little intimidated. You would be. Even if his neighbor didn’t know who he really was, he had an aura around him.

And even if he wore baggy clothes, they wouldn’t hide his physique or height.

But you can’t dwell on those thoughts because then you think of your neighbor who is also tall and muscular, and somehow reminds you of a golden retriever.

“Well, you seem normal enough. Even though you wear a weird amount of spandex for a grown man.”

He laughs, the edges of the umbrella shaking with him and exposing you back to the elements but you don’t mind. The sound is rich and warm, forcing the chill away. “What is a normal amount of spandex?”

“Probably zero,” you joke. “Maybe you should just ask her out. Honesty is the best policy or whatever.”

“Or whatever. I’ll remember that.”

“Well,” you sigh. The front of your apartment is in view. Nightwing will wait until you’re inside to leave, tucked safely behind the glass door and up the stairs out of sight. He hands you the umbrella for the last fifteen feet he always refuses to accompany you, and disappears out of sight.

You don’t tell anyone who walks you home at night. It’s a nice little secret between you and the city’s hero. But sometimes you wished you could. If only to explain how confusing it is that Nightwing reminds you of Mingyu. A bizarre thought. Mingyu is an architect and hardly has the time for a pet, let alone to save the city every night. You leave the thought at the threshold of the stairwell.

The trek upstairs takes longer than you’d like. Five flights of stairs down is a lot easier than five flights up and with your limbs just now warming up, it's a process to rally enough energy to climb even the first few. Good thing is with it being so late, you aren’t at risk of holding up a line to the top.

By the time you reach the third floor, the sensation returns to your extremities. By the fifth, the only thought in your head is a shower and the cozy warmth of your bed.

As you reach the final steps, shuffling like a zombie, the universe decides your night isn’t over yet.

Your neighbor, hair washed from a shower, white shirt and pajama pants wrapped around his figure, emerges from the opposite staircase, where the trash chute is. Maybe you have a crush on Mingyu but half the building does too. He’s a good neighbor, he’s nice, and he’s handsome.

Okay, maybe it’s a big crush and you can’t figure out if he’s just nice or if all the nice things he does mean a little bit more. You should probably ask Nightwing what he thinks the next time he walks you home. He’s a guy, he’d know.

But right now, Mingyu gets to see your best impression of a drowned rat.

Lovely.

“Hey,” he says. His door is at the top of the stairs you just climbed, and yours at the top of the stairs he just climbed. When you pass by, you can’t help but get a whiff of his body wash. Cedar, citrus, and soap mingling pleasantly.

You grunt in response. “Hey, Mingyu.”

“Late night?”

“Something like that.”

You both stand in the hallway, waiting for something else to say but nothing comes up. Somewhere below a door slams and the patter of feet echoes through the stairwell.

Mingyu turns away first. “Well, good night.”

“Wait!” you call, cringing at the harsh reverb of your voice.

He whips around, eyes wide, cheeks rosy. Like a little kid with their hand stuck in the cookie jar.

“I have your containers! I’ve been meaning to give them back.”

“Oh.” He deflates slightly but you pay no mind.

You shove the metal of your apartment door open and rummage through your kitchen for the tote full of plastic containers. When you exit, Mingyu is waiting on your doormat, hands in his pockets.

Racking your brain for something – anything – to say, you blurt. “Um, the brownies you made were great.”

That pleases him. Behind the thick rim of his glasses his eyes soften, cheeks lifting from a shy smile. “Thanks. It’s my mom’s recipe.”

“That’s nice.”

Neither of you move. Content rather than awkward. At your back, the rain pounds against the windows, thunder clapping, an occasional streak of lighting. A dull lullaby.

“Hey,” he starts. “Would you ever wanna hangout? Like a date?”

You couldn’t have heard that right.

“A date?” you parrot.

“Or not! It doesn’t have to be a date if you’re not interested or…”

“A date sounds nice,” you grin, cheeks bursting. “What are you doing in thirty minutes?”

“Watching Survivor.”

“I’ll bring the popcorn. I just need to shower really quick.”

Mingyu blinks like he can’t believe any of it. Like you agreeing to hangout with him was never an actual option or that this entire thing is a fever dream. It’s cute.

“Ugh—” he swallows. “Yeah! Okay. Just…knock wherever!”

Tucked away in the steam of the shower, you scrub and shave and scrub again. Feeling a little more human with each minute. You don’t bother with make up or anything fancy. Mingyu asked you out with mascara running down your cheeks in the hideous shirt the bar makes you wear. The bar is incredibly low.

Settling on some sweats and a hoodie, you make the trip down the hall to 6F and knock just like Mingyu said. You sit a safe distance away on the couch but like two magnets you and Mingyu draw closer and closer until his arm is over your shoulder with a pretend stretch and you’re nodding off against his chest.

At some point, you both move to his bed. Or Mingyu asks and carries you across his apartment when you nod. His bed sounds like a great idea. The storm clears by the time you wake up. The first thing you do when Mingyu blinks awake, arm curled around your back like you considered leaving, is leave a gentle kiss on his jaw.

You give him a better one as a thank you for coffee, and another when he makes pancakes. He lifts you onto the counter, taking place between your knees as thanks for the perfect whip cream smiley face decorating said pancakes.

Next time you see your spandex clad friend, you’ll have to let him know honesty really is the best policy.

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princessbrunette · 1 year ago

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CRUSH ♡

… based loosely on the song crush by ethel cain ⊹˚. ♡

pairing: linecook!jj maybank + sweetheart!reader

synopsis: you’re head over heels for your bad-boy coworker, jj— the linecook for the outerbanks beachside restaurant you waitress at. a customer spilling coffee over your uniform catalysts a chain of events.

cw: a gun but no violence, shitty customers, jj being jj, smut.

You didn’t really know about restaurant employee culture until you started your job as a waitress. Stereotypes, things that fate would just simply decide to come true in every single restaurant no matter what. Waitresses were either the sweetest people you’d ever met or the bitchiest, managers had favourites and if you weren’t one of them they treat you like shit, the kid who gets stuck on dishwasher duty was always younger than everyone and fell in love with all the waitresses— uber specific and odd stuff. Oh, and that linecooks were troubled, or whores.

JJ Maybank was more troubled than the latter. Well, you’d hoped so anyways. You’d had a crush on the blonde linecook from your very first day, a quieter morning at the beginning of spring when the beachside restaurant was criminally understaffed. Your manager had appointed him to show you around before either of you had even made it inside, the tough older woman calling him out as he arrived to work, climbing off his bike, chewing on a toothpick with headphones over his ears. Your heart had fluttered when he bantered with the older woman, pointing to the music-playing-muffs over his ears, mouthing an ‘I can’t hear you, sorry’ when she’d approached him.

You’d felt embarrassed almost, like you were taking up his time. He was clearly comfortable here, had a good relationship with everybody— even the manager who seemed to hate the world tenfold. She’d yanked off his headphones and jut her thumb towards you as he stared her down with a mischievous grin.

“Maybank, I need you to show around the newbie— uh, what’s your name again sweetheart?” She spins to you, and for the first time JJ’s eyes flicker towards you, brows jumping up just a hair, a micro-expression that only you could hold onto for hope. Hope that he might be a little interested. You speak your name, and he’s swerving around the manager in his white tshirt, apron tied lazily around his waist, hung down, not even wearing it over his shirt like he’s meant to, black backwards cap over blonde messy hair.

“Well it is very nice to meet you ma’am.” He juts out a hand with a stupidly large grin that makes you feel even more shy.

You remember that day so clearly, the blonde showing you the ropes, practically training you whilst your manager chain smoked out the back. You remembered how you hadn’t had a proper school-girl style crush like this since forever, and one day into working at the restaurant you were already head over heels for the loud and hyperactive Pogue.

A few months down the line, and your bond had blossomed. Well, somewhat — it was a busy restaurant, lots of waitresses and cooks and customers. There wasn’t always time for chit-chat and flirting. Which sometimes you were grateful for, plates clanking awkwardly in your hands as you spot a more confident waitress trying her luck with him, hair twirled around a long finger. You were delusional enough to believe JJ seemed politely disinterested at the least, choosing to busy himself with ruffling the top of your head with his knuckles as you pass by him, hiding your smile at his acknowledgment.

You wouldn’t say the two of you were friends. You’d hoped not anyway, dreading being stuck in the friendzone with the guy you’d spent months pining after. You couldn’t be friends because you’d never hung out with him outside of work, not that you’d deny him but he’d never asked. You’d seen him around, don’t get it twisted — that group of friends of his; the brunette one who always seemed to be the talk of the town, the darker skinned boy who seemed too smart to be slumming it on a boat smoking weed, and a girl — who laughed at all of JJ’s jokes and threw glares to anyone she deemed too ‘Kook-y’. That was some serious intel, but you swear up and down you weren’t a stalker— just paying attention when you’d see him outside of the workplace.

JJ made it clear you were his favourite waitress. Well, he’d said it himself, holding a plate just out of your reach when you’d come to collect an order, playful smirk on his face as he stares down at you. “Can I have my order?” you pretend to hate it, hiding your smile as you huff, reaching out.

“I dunno, I could almost swear there’s a magic word that you’re missing there, girlie. Y’wanna help me out with that? Orrrr…” He tilts his head, playing dumb and you let the smile free— cheeks pushing up as you gaze at his stupid expression.

“Please, JJ.” You offer sweetly instead of sassing him, which makes his heart clench a little because you were just an absolute sweetheart by nature. He lowers the plate, hovering it above your palm and giving you a more serious look.

“Plates hot, alright? Better be careful with those delicate mittens.” You roll your eyes bashfully and he presses it into your palm. The plate was warm at best, it seeming that JJ would say anything just to keep the conversation going longer than it needed to.

“Thank you.” You smile once it was in your hand and he nods, faux solemnly as he backs off back to his work station, ignoring the knowing stare from his partner linecook.

“So polite, s’why you’re my favourite, princess.” He points with a wink and you turn away before he can see how flustered it made you. Princess, are you kidding me? It’s like he wanted to make you drop the plate. He watches the door swing as you head back out into the bustling restaurant, and jumps a little in surprise when he turns back to come face to face with another linecooks smirk.

“Playin’ favourites, huh Maybank?”

The blonde itches his cheek, bashful with a shrug— going back to chopping a carrot like he was before.

“Yeah well— doesn’t everyone do that here?” He tries to brush it off, head swivelling to glance back at the door, just incase you overheard.

“Yeah… yeah, chose a pretty one though, I’ll give you that. Lemme know when you’re done with it, I wanna play.” He speaks with a stomach-turning smile, and certainly doesn’t miss the way JJ’s jaw clenches, knife nearly going not only through the carrot but the chopping board too. Dont cause a scene now, Jayj.

JJ was troubled, like you’d said. You’d heard whispers from waitresses or friends of a friend outside of work — things about his father always being in jail, the blonde himself ending up in overnight cells a series of times. You’d heard about fights, his name always ringing close to the scene, even car chases and rumours about his run ins with big time criminals— but you wasn’t sure how verifiable any of these were.

It didn’t seem totally far fetched though, the Pogue occasionally showing up to his shift with his head down, a new bruise splattered on his cheek bone or a gnarly gash. He had one the day things changed, a cut through his lip, gone almost black from blood constantly drying after he’d assumably lick it open. From a glance, it almost looked like a lip-ring, and he sported it well with a large greenish yellow bruise beside his eye over his temple. You wish you felt close enough to ask where they came from, but knew that would be prying. You didn’t even wanna listen in when you’d see the manager nod him into her office to give him ‘the talk’ and ask about it presumably, which you’d also guessed she’d gained no information from as he’d leave her office looking casual whilst she still wore that slightly frustrated and worried look on her face.

Everyone seemed to be in a weird mood that day, even the customers. It wasn’t really his fault, the man somehow backing into you abruptly enough for you to spill an old container of coffee all down yourself. Well, to rephrase — it was an accident, which was actually the best case scenario considering you’d had drinks poured down you on purpose for making them wrong before.

You get that awful coil of embarrassment in your stomach when you walk into the kitchen, beige staining right through your usual pristine uniform and falling in droplets off the ends of your hair. JJ sees the pout before the stains, and it comes as no surprise to the other linecooks when he rushes over like prince charming.

“You good? Someone do that to you?” He’s already trying to bound past you to go and ‘handle the situation’ (AKA, kick them out) but you shake your head— not really upset just tired, and now cold thanks to the old coffee soaking through to your skin.

“It was an accident. I don’t have anything to change into so I don’t know if I should just… go home, or something.” You hold your hands out in frustration, looking down at yourself.

“Oh, nah— don’t sweat it. Got a spare shirt in my locker you can wear. S’just a white t-shirt, should do the trick.” He steps backwards.

“But it’s not uniform?” You furrow your brows and he huffs out a chuckle at you always being such a stickler for following the rules. “Our manager will have my head, surely.”

“Think she’d rather that than you walkin’ round smellin’ like cold brew.” He fishes through his pockets and tosses you a small key with a red triangle keychain on the end, the key to his locker in the staff cloakroom. “Help yourself.”

“Thanks Jayj.” You smile, excusing yourself shyly at the use of the nickname you’ve heard others use on him but always chickened out on. He noticed, because he shows all his teeth when he smiles and nods, turning back around.

The cloakroom always smells weird— like mulch and rubber, a cold and windowless room with a bench and a wall of seafoam lockers. You flip the key in your hand, spotting the number on the back and match it to the lockers. Wearing JJ’s shirt, huh — you smile to yourself, feeling giddy and stupid at the butterflies that brush their wings against the inside of your stomach. He was just doing you a favour, sure — but you got to prance around wearing him all day, and that was enough to fuel your delusion. You off your stained shirt, leaving you in just a small and flimsy tank top that you usually wear beneath it incase of accidents like this.

You open the locker, and something black immediately drops out onto the floor, echoing loudly and bouncing once a tiny bit by your feet. The weird clinical lighting of the cloakroom casts a dark shadow below where your head searches down for it, so you move slightly— brows furrowing when you see the shape of it.

Your brain clearly hasn’t processed or caught up with just quite what you’re looking at as you bend down, lips parted as you pick the item up in your hand, standing back to full height once more. In your hand, you stared directly at a gun. A pistol, to be precise. You seem to be in shock, the weapon glued to your hand despite anyone being able to walk in and get you fired and or reported to the police within a matter of seconds. You turn the weapon in your hand in fascination, whispering a “What the…” to yourself.

JJ leans against the doorway with a forearm, just now remembering what resided in that very locker other than the shirt he so generously offered. He’s distracted for a moment by your skin, the skin on the back of your arms and your back as you stand with your uniform shirt bunched in your hand, until of course he spots what’s held in your other hand and physically winces.

“Shit, uh—” JJ vocalises and your head snaps around, sighing in relief once you see that it’s just him. You’re back to marvelling in shock at the item in an instant, ogling between him and the weapon. “So, that’s — that’s not what it looks like—”

“A gun?” You whisper the second word, looking up at him with wide eyes and he points the pistol downwards with his finger when you hold it accidentally facing him.

“Well, okay I mean yes — it’s a gun, but I had no choice. Had to momentarily keep it here, alright? I took it in for a friend and —”

“What are you, some kind of hitman?” You shake your head, earrings jangling a little with your stressed little gesture which would usually warm his heart if he wasn’t focused on deescalating.

“Okay, first of all— why don’t I take this from you missy,” He eases the gun out of your hands and accidentally fumbles it inside his locker, the weapon clattering against the echoey walls making him let out a quiet ‘whoops’ before placing a black gym bag on top of it. He turns to you. “Secondly, no okay I’m not a hitman— I haven’t ever shot a person with this thing.”

“Then… why do you have it?” You furrow your brows, seeming to have calmed down a little, which was relieving despite your reaction being totally valid.

“W—you know, gotta stay strapped. Protect my people.” He shrugs, attempting nonchalance and your eye twitches, realising how different the two of you are. JJ, bad boy with a gun in his locker— and you, straight arrow waitress. “Look all m’saying is if you told me someone was messing with you… I wouldn’t hesitate.”

You stare at him dumbfounded, wondering what on Earth he was going through to lead him to owning a gun, but you daren’t ask— even now. You eye him, brows knitting cutely.

“And you’re sure you’re not some serial killer?” You ask, folding your arms. Mostly joking. Mostly.

“Yeah nah I couldn’t do the whole choppin’ up dead bodies thing, m’pretty squeamish n’I got this thing with my gag reflex where y’know, I — I just—” He gestures to his throat, head bobbing with a preemptive gag but sees the way you’re staring at him like he’d just stepped off a space ship from Mars and decides against the bit, clearing his throat and glancing into his locker. “Enough of that uh— why don’t I go ahead and grab you that shirt you were after…” He reaches inside his locker, pulling out balled up white shirt, quickly turning it back from being inside out.

“There y’go…” He murmurs as he does so to no one in particular before shoving his arms inside and pulling the head hole wider before stuffing you inside it, tugging it until your head pops out, still staring at him a little dumbfounded. “Peekaboo.” He smiles nervously before leaving you to shove your own arm holes through, pulling it down over your tank top. He awkwardly watches before you hand him back his key and he locks his locker once more, glancing around at you.

“So about the—”

“Your secrets safe with me JJ. Thanks for the shirt.”

You swan around in the white fabric like it’s a ball gown for the rest of the day. Delusional didn’t feel like the right word, no— he gave you the shirt, which in your head is flirting— handing you the opportunity to daydream about being his girlfriend and wearing his clothes all the time. Each time you moved you could smell him on you, that faint smell of cigarettes and just him — reminding you of the times you’ve caught him on a rough shift fumbling for a pack of Marlboro Red’s and heading out the back door to be angsty for a while before returning with a plastered on smile. You bite your lip, staring into space as you rub the material between your fingers, waiting for a table to flag you down, excited for the next time you could go into the kitchen and see him… have him see you, wearing his shirt only hoping it hot-wires his brain with some sort of romantic association. Oh, JJ Maybank. He just made you so… so…

“Ugh, mmph JJ!” You cry out, later that night. Guilty, you ended up in nothing but the t-shirt and two fingers stuffed into your weeping cunt. You felt kind of perverse, despite the million promises to yourself to wash the shirt immediately after to return to him— but also there was just something painfully arousing about touching yourself wearing it— every layer beneath it removed to have your hardened nipples peak beneath the thin white fabric, tousled and jostled up where your ribcage was as you grind your digits inside of you.

You were home alone, like usual — which gave you the perfect opportunity to moan his name. Too horny to care about the 0.05% chance he’s strolling in your area and walking past the window, hearing. Even the idea of that aroused you further in the moment, wondering just what he’d think if he knew the sweet and harmless waitress was defiling her cunt in his name, in his shirt. You think about best case scenario, the blonde with his rough hand around his cock— and you knew it was rough from the way it felt when he’d touch your arm or brush against your fingers when handing you a dish. Rough from working on his bike and handling hot food and other Maybank shenanigans that still lead him to fist at his dick in his room at night thinking of you, you and only you.

You cum in your palm and feel disgraced. Poor JJ. You’re a total pervert and you must wash that shirt.

Except you don’t, and you fall asleep— returning to work in your spare uniform the next day. Empty handed. JJ doesn’t notice, hell — he doesn’t care. He’s stacked up with so many orders you almost feel bad even though it’s not your fault. Maybe you’re still riding off the guilt of masturbating in his shirt. There’s a sick sense of pride that twists in your gut when you look at him though. Boyish, sometimes thoughtless blonde with no idea that you came so hard moaning his name just a matter of hours before facing him again. You catch him in a quieter moment, leaning over to his station with a stressed expression to tell him that you forgot to bring his shirt back, to which he just responds with a shrug and a careless wave that read as ‘It’s cool.’ That was the JJ you knew. Cool, calm, didn’t give a shit. You got butterflies at the minute gesture. God, get a grip.

The next time it comes up, it’s because he brings it up. Catching you on your break, a cheekful of pasta he’d made for you to quickly cram down before your manager gets onto you for slacking off— JJ approaches your little table outside, blonde hair feathery and light in the sun. “Howdy there, shirt thief.” He grins lightheartedly, pulling out the other chair on the small circle table you sat at and straddling it backwards, leaning his arms on the backrest.

You nearly choke on your pasta at the speed you go to explain yourself— way to not make yourself seem guilty. “It’s in the washing machine, I literally just kept forgetting I’m sorry JJ.” You look all sweet and worried in the way that makes him wanna pinch your cheeks, so he fiddles with his lighter instead, flicking it on and off in his grasp.

“Nah you’re good.” He chuckles, staring out at the water the restaurant overlooked. It was a windier day, and even from where you sat you could hear the loud roaring of distant waves. “Hey uh— you want a ride home on the old bike? I can come in and grab it if like— if that’s cool.” He suggests, almost seeming a bit hesitant, nervous even.

“Oh! Yeah, I mean I’d have to stick it in the dryer first but you’re free to hang out whilst it dries… unless you really gotta go then, you can have your shirt back damp, I guess.” You mirror the nervous energy tenfold, practically stumbling over yourself to not sound as eager as you were. JJ, in your house.

“Yeah, sweet. Cool cool cool cool.” He bops his head, drumming on the table before suddenly his name was called from inside.

“Maybank! These fish aren’t gonna fry themselves, you know that right?” The tough, unmistakable chain smoker voice of your manager rings through the air and JJ winces theatrically for your entertainment, making you giggle the same way a child might after a party clown does something stupid. It was kind of pathetic, but atleast JJ found it endearing.

You weren’t lying about the shirt, thankfully. Honest — the JJ smell was gone so you’d tossed it in the washing machine before you’d head out onto your shift, planning on finally (reluctantly) returning it the next day.

He pushes himself up to leave, before pausing and leaning over the table towards you. You freeze, and he brings his thumb to your cheek — swiping away a speck of sauce from the pasta that has splattered into your skin from how greedily you wolfed down his food. “Lemme just… get that for you.” He mutters as he does so, turning his thumb around to show you the sauce stain that had transferred to his skin and ease your confusion.

If that wasn’t bad enough, he holds your gaze as he leans back, bringing his thumb to his mouth, cleaning off the sauce. Oh, you sick bastard. He doesn’t even try and hide his smirk— and you stare dumbly at the space he stood even after he’s long gone.

The shift dragged on, tip tapping your feet whenever you stood still for too long, excited bubbles in your stomach fizzing up like shaken pop everytime you thought about the linecook. It felt like hours longer than usual, but finally — the end of your shift came. JJ’s had ended twenty minutes earlier, being replaced by another chef whose plates were always too hot and spoke too loud, making the last stretch of your working hour even tougher. You thought JJ might have forgotten about your little arrangement, just taking off to head home or to go and smoke on the rickety little boat you’d seen him on— but lo and behold, you step out the doors to that wretched place and there he is, leaning on his bike like something out of an 80s movie.

“No helmet?” You’re grinning by the time you reach him, barely containing your excitement. You don’t think you’ve even been on the back of one of these bikes before, let alone with the boy you’re crushing on. JJ scrunches his nose, wincing.

“Wasn’t countin’ on having anyone else on board today, that’s my bad.” He helps you climb on, ensuring you’re sat securely. “I’m a good driver, you’ll be alright. Just uh— hold on tight and I’ll avoid any big potholes, yeah?” He reaches back, taking your arms and wrapping them around his middle, forcing you against his warm back. He’d probably done that for plenty of people, the way it came naturally to him— but in that moment you didn’t care, just nodding as you leant more against him. You tell him your address, and he recognises it, someone he knows living near by. With that, the two of you are off.

You’re truly in bliss, closing your eyes with your cheek pressed to his back, wind whipping past your face. He is a good driver, and you dare even let yourself believe he’s being extra careful with you on board, none of the harsh turns or skids you’ve seen him do on the streets alone. Your cheeks start to ache with how much you’re smiling.

“You all good back there my lil’ backpack?” He pats your leg in a friendly manner at a stop light and you giggle, embarrassed with how fast goosebumps break out.

“Yeah, this is fun!” You yell at an unnecessary volume to be heard over the running engine, making him chuckle and glance round at you.

“Good, that’s good.”

You’re almost sad when the ride is over, his wheels coming to a slow as he parks up haphazardly beside your front lawn. You’re quick to pat your head down, knowing that journey must have you looking dishevelled at best and hop off the bike, patting the pocket of your shorts for your keys.

“My humble abode awaits.” You chirp, cringing afterwards but he smirks and follows you regardless, pulling up his pants boyishly as he stalks behind you up to your front door. Inside your head is a chant, one that consists of hoping and praying your parents wouldn’t be home so you didn’t have to do the whole awkward explanation thing, not that you didn’t have a totally valid excuse — and you were grown, so interacting with boys shouldn’t be the awkward dilemma that it was — but to them you were still their sweet girl regardless of age, and you’d like to keep it that way, which wouldn’t be possible being spotted ushering Pogue King JJ Maybank into your bedroom.

You unlock the door, calling out a ‘hello’ to be met with miraculous silence. JJ shuffles in behind you, closing the door for you and whistling quietly. “This place is pretty fancy, yeah… bet you got like, an electric toothbrush n’shit.” He comments, neck craning to look around as he follows you slowly through the house.

You huff a laugh out your nose, cheeks pressing upwards as you stroll through toward the kitchen. “An electric toothbrush?” You question.

“Yeaaah man, kook shit.” He peers nosily at the calendar, eyeing the events your family have coming up.

You spot a note pinned to the fridge and head towards it, shaking your head. “If I was a kook I wouldn’t be working at a restaurant getting coffee poured down me. Are electric toothbrushes the pinnacle of wealth in your eyes?” You laugh quietly, pulling the note off the fridge.

“Dude in eighth grade I lost my toothbrush and for a year all I had was my finger, some toothpaste and a dream.” He chats, appearing directly behind you and plucking the note from your hand. “Out ‘til late, pizza in fridge.” He reads blankly out loud and you take it back from him, tossing it aside.

“How’d you lose a toothbrush?” You chuckle, leading him out the kitchen.

“I be in situations.” He shrugs, following you to the short flight of stairs. To his core, JJ was truly just a guy— and took very little pride in watching you climb a few steps before he joined you so that he could check out your ass.

“Bet your dentist loved you.” You comment, glancing behind you at him making his eyes snap upwards guilty. He scoffs, wiping his hands on his pants like he was worried about dirtying up your house before grasping onto the bannister, skipping a few steps to hop up.

“Yeah, like I could afford one of those.”

On the landing, you point him towards the hallway, stepping back once you realised you were practically standing on top of him. He didn’t seem to notice, or mind, staring down at you for direction. “My rooms the last door on the right. I’m gonna go toss your shirt in the dryer, ‘kay?”

He nods once, strolling in the direction you pointed him. “Yes ma’am.”

You head to the laundry room and take a moment to collect yourself, sniffing his shirt to make sure it was properly clean before stuffing it into the dryer to turn it on. You lean against its circular door as it starts up, taking a breath before realising you left JJ Maybank alone in your bedroom.

You arrive at the door to your girly haven, immediately yanking a pair of panties off the ground and throwing them into a corner as you spot the blonde by the window, curiously looking around.

“So this is where the magic happens, I assume.” He glances at you, swiping his hat off his head and placing it on your dresser. Something about his gaze and the way it continually flickered to you, waiting for an answer suggested it was a genuine question. He was asking if you were seeing anyone, perhaps. You giggle.

“And if by magic you mean napping after work and reading books, yeah. It gets so magical in here, you wouldn’t believe it.” You sit on your bed, watching him semi-awkwardly pace infront of you, running hands through his hair before stuffing them into his pockets.

“Ah yeah, ha— forgot you were a real good girl. Should stay that way, I like it— and I mean like, there’s hella weirdos round here. Y’know? Better to… steer clear.” He rambles as you watch him with a smile. At work, the blonde seemed more calm, in his element— but here, in your terrain— he seemed slightly more on edge. You tried not to read into it.

Your stomach warms at the ‘good girl’ comment, lashes fluttering only a little before he’s distracted once more. You see him gazing ahead at the shelf above your vanity, opposite the bed where all your baby photos were lined up. His smile grows, and you see the cogs turn in his head.

He strides towards it in an instant, taking the framed image off the shelf. You jump up, following him to try and save yourself the embarrassment of whatever he was looking at but it was too late. He grins, turning his head to look down at you. “Oh wow, now don’t tell me this is you?” He holds the photo up beside your head, glancing theatrically between the two to compare and you bat him away.

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re nosy?”

“Oh yeah, all the time. That, that is adorable though.” He’s immediately distracted by another photo, setting the one in his hand down to pick it up. “And who’s this?” He lifts the picture of your mother holding you as a baby.

“My mother.”

“Total fox. As expected.”

“Okay, no more for you.” You hide your amusement well, reaching out for the photo and grabbing it. He puts up little fight, letting you snatch the frame from his larger hand as he reaches for another, making a total mess of your embarrassing nostalgia display. This last picture is of you, around 5 years old— adorned in a pink princess dress and a plastic tiara, grinning at the camera.

“Aw.” He smirks, turning his body to face you. “Guess some things never change. Still a pretty princess.” You’re not sure if he’s mocking you now, because he’s tonguing at the cut on his lip which makes you gain a second heartbeat in your panties and you freeze up— which in itself is more embarrassing that this whole ordeal. He was a tease by nature he’ll admit, but this — this was fun. Seeing you get flustered was his new favourite thing.

You give him the exact reaction he’s after, failing to hide your smile as you lurch for the frame. He hides it behind his back and you stumble into him, stabilising yourself with both hands on his chest. He’s all… warm, and firm.

There’s a silence, but things are never quiet for too long with JJ. Thankfully.

“Damn, if you wanted to touch me up you could’a just asked. Pro’lly would’a said yes.” The smirk is yet to fade, infact you think it’s permanently stamped onto his mouth and your eyes widen just a smidge— scrambling for a witty comeback that didn’t make you look like a perverse idiot.

“I dunno, after you made fun of my baby pictures? Think I owe you two black eyes.” You tilt your head sweetly, proud of the response and his eyes flicker over your expression, eyes softening just a tad. Or maybe you imagined it.

“‘Think that’s a little extreme. How ‘bout a kiss instead?” You freeze, because it’s then you realise how close the two of you are still. Hes practically got you caged against your vanity, can probably hear how fast he’s got your heart beating— maybe smell the pathetic dribble of arousal seeping into your underwear just from being this close to him. You can’t tell if he’s kidding, and it seems he even caught himself a little off guard, blinking a few times during your stunned silence.

But then you look at his mouth, because asking a question like that is totally giving you permission to do so, and he takes that as an answer and leans in.

You’re so hypnotised when his mouth starts moving against yours that you nearly jump out of your skin when his large hands bracket your waist, pulling your body more flush against his. JJ was a good kisser, which lead you to indeed that he was infact— a whore. Well, maybe a former whore. Whatever, in that moment it didn’t matter— nothing mattered, just JJ and his tongue that was sliding against yours as the kiss heated up.

It feels like hours that your tongues are looping round eachother, snapped out the moment by the hungry blondes hands sliding down, your waist in his grip becomes suddenly your ass cheeks through your shorts, squeezing and pulling you against him practically lifting your entire body. It’s then you realise you having a working voice box, because you let out the most pathetic mewl you’ve ever heard yourself make. Even more pathetic than the noises you made only a few nights ago from your own hand.

He groans back almost as like a response, and with that — finally, he manoeuvres you to start walking backwards towards the very bed you fell apart on at the thought of what you were currently doing, or about to do. Your lips detach when the backs of your knees hit the bed, falling to sit down at the edge of it with a few bounces. He stares down at you for a couple of seconds, disorientated and sore-mouthed like even he can’t believe what’s happening— before he jumps into action. Jittery and clumsily like he always is.

“Should probably uh— if we’re gonna get on the bed I don’t wanna— poke you with somethin’” He stuffs his hands into his pockets, unloading them. His phone, his keys, earphones, cigarettes, wallet, other random knickknacks that would otherwise make you raise an eyebrow if you weren’t already so dazed by him. He’s about to return to you, before his mouth forms an ‘o’ shape, as if he just remembered something — and he reaches into the back of his pants, pulling up the shirt that hung over his waistband to there retrieve his gun. He holds it up with a smile that said ‘How silly of me!’

You gape. “JJ, why do you have that?”

He shuffles some things around on your vanity, scrambling to make space for the piece. “Uh, had to bring it home today… lemme just… set that down there.” He places it next to your jewellery stand, the contrast in the items almost making you laugh in disbelief. “The old problem solver.” He mutters, giving it a fond pat before turning back to you, happy to carry on.

“What if my parents were to come home and see that?” You challenge with a pout, not too keen about him bringing a weapon into your house. He huffs out a smirk, leaning back down to where you’re sat, hands on your shoulders as he slowly lays you down.

“Think they’d be a little more concerned about the dirty pogue on top of their little girl, but y’know…” His words get lower and lazier as he draws in before locking his lips onto yours again, this time wasting no time with introducing his tongue.

You’re back in the zone, gun long forgotten within seconds— running your hands through his hair, over his strong arms, touching everywhere you’ve wanted to touch since you started working at the restaurant. Well, not everywhere.

He’s not holding back on being handsy either, body slotted between your legs after he lifts you further up the bed, grappling at your thighs, hips, and eventually tits. You can’t blame him, there’s desperation behind both of your actions — the fact you’d both wanted this for a while now slowly becoming clear. Your heart thumps hard at this realisation, suddenly less able to breathe and you pull back panting, breath trembling.

His eyes flicker over your face, watching your wet mouth as you ramble. “Wanted— mmph— wanted this for a while.”

He drags his lips over your cheek, pressing his hips against yours and you can feel him hardening. It does little to help you calm down. “Yeah, same… Is it… uh, is it weird I kinda didn’t want you to wash the shirt before givin’ it back to me?” He smiles, dropping another toothy peck to your mouth as his hands continue feeling you up.

Your eyes flutter closed once more when he softly grinds his bulge against your cunt, your knees tightening against his hips as you let out a silent moan, lips parted.

“H-had to. I slept in it.” You admit before you think, brain focused on other things. He laughs quietly against your jaw, smoothing his tongue over the now bitten skin.

“Aw, you did?” He creates some space between the two of you, his hand very slowly starting to trail down your body, past your stomach. “You got it so bad for me, huh?” He teases and you whine, openly and pathetically— spoiled and childish even. JJ didn’t seem the type to talk about his feelings easily, but teasing you for yours was outright mean.

“Shutup.” Comes with the whine, your breath catching pathetically as you feel the rumble of him slowly unzipping your shorts zipper at your crotch, lips detaching from your jaw for a second to look at what he’s doing, still chuckling.

“Thats rude.” He grins, quiet and lighthearted, elated when you start helping him pull your shorts down and kicking them carelessly off. If he wasn’t so desperate to get his hands on you, he would have taken more time to appreciate your cute little cotton panties with the bow on top. They were so you, exactly the sort he pictured you wearing, moreso pictured you soaking through the way you were now.

His hand slides over the length of your covered cunt, all but cupping you and pushing his fingers over the embarrassing amount of wetness on the fabric. “What else did you do in the shirt, hm? Talk me through it babe.”

He’s teasing you, not truly expecting much of an answer as he genuinely believed a sweet girl like you wouldn’t have the gall to do anything but sleep in his shirt. His lips trail down the centre column of your neck, and it bobs with a harsh swallow. Now, his interest is piqued.

“Can’t say!” You whimper, eyes screwed up, legs spreading wider as he gently thumbs at your clit through the fabric, just enough to stimulate you. You feel him remove his mouth from you, lifting his head into your direct eyeline with an amused raise of the brow.

“Well now sweetheart, you’re just gonna have to tell me.” His fingers tuck into the leg hole of your panties, like he wants to pull it aside but won’t. You realise he’s still watching you, waiting for an answer and that he’s not gonna go further until you speak. “Don’t be shy, tell Papa J what you—”

“Touched myself. I touched myself.” You release all in one breath. Now it’s his turn to ogle you, completely off guard. If he wasn’t hard as a rock before, he certainly was now. Probably leaking in his boxers too from how things felt down there. This was poor performance from him, he thought at the back of his mind. This fucked so early on? Shit, he knew he liked you but c’mon.

He peels your panties to the side and you squeak, the boy making no effort to touch you still— just letting the cool air of your room grace your glossy folds.

“And why would you do something like that, baby?” He noses at your cheek, trying to get you to open your eyes. You squeeze them harder before fluttering them open, so hot in the face and embarrassed when you find his gaze you think you might just die.

“Because I like you.” You whisper. It’s sweet, just like he thought you’d be when the time comes. He smiles, dimple deepening as his free hand cups your cheek.

“Because you like me.” He repeats in affirmation. It’s a little smug, he’ll admit — but having his dream girl beneath him had his ego on ten, what can he say. He slides two fingers through your wetness, dragging what he collected up your clit and circling it making you arch your back. “Gotta say, the feelings definitely mutual.”

He kisses you again, and this time it feels like something else. Like a confession, a proposal of some sort. It’s passionate, overwhelming in the best way, intimate — as his fingers start to move, stroking your clit and making your legs tremble in adrenaline.

As you writhe and moan beneath him, his lips swallowing as many as he can, unable to stay away— his other hand starts to slide up your work shirt. You wished you’d been wearing something sexier the first time the two of you got it on, but clearly it sort of did something for him.

If the speed at which he located and stimulated your clit wasn’t enough to convince you that the boy definitely had experience, it would be the way his hand slides around to your back, unhooking your bra singlehandedly. You can’t help but giggle through your whimpers and you’re not sure why, but he smiles too— murmuring “Party trick.” against your mouth. The smile is wiped from your face when his digit glides around your hole, as if lapping up all the wetness and then pushing in— all the way to the knuckle.

You moan and tense up a little, it’s been a while and your own fingers were definitely smaller than his. At your reaction. he pulls back only slightly— a look of concern poorly masked on his face.

“Are you… have you uh, been with a guy before? Or is this…”

“One guy, a while back. Not good at all.” You sigh and he nods patiently, lips twitching up when he starts to move his finger and your eyes flutter involuntarily. “Think I can work with that.”

He twists his wrist a little, working you with just one finger as he paws at your free’d tit, sucking on your tongue. You moan, the sound of your own wetness having its own presence in the room and he hums, pulling back to look down at the way you’re sucking his middle finger in.

“So pretty, you’ve been holdin’ out on me baby. Should be a crime to hide this cute little pussy, damn.” He whispers and you whine in preemptive embarrassment to the way you clench around him, making him chuckle again. “Oh yeah? She liked that, huh?”

“More, please—” You nearly choke on your own swallow as you lift your head, looking down at the way he’s got you spread out. Reaching downwards you gently tug at his wrist, not quite sure of the aim. “N—‘nother one.” You pant. Jeez, already totally fucked dumb and he hasn’t even made you cum. You were going to give JJ Maybank an even bigger head.

He doesn’t say anything, just sinks two fingers into your cunt and you make a noise he’s only heard in amateur porn videos from Twitter, dick usually nestled in his fist. He presses his lips together in a quiet ‘Mhm’ and your hands are back on him, desperate once more to consume him wholly.

Your nails rake through his hair as he finds his rhythm, tonguing at the cut on his lip with wide observant eyes that flicker between your face and your cunt. “Look at you go.” He responds to a moan— but JJ being JJ knows he can do better, which is why he stops thumbing at your nipple and pushes his hand into the bed instead, using the weight on his arm to start sliding down your body.

The first kiss against your stomach catches you off guard, and if you weren’t so dizzy from pleasure you might wanna think about it more. He repositions his hand, stroking your inner thigh as he pushes them wider apart and shushes you, now face to face with your glistening pussy. His fingers slow their movements for a moment.

“She’s real pretty.” His fingers slide out so he can make messy doing of spreading your folds with his fingers, licking his already wet lips.

“Thank you.” You mewl happily, eyes watery as they gaze down at him like he hung the moon and stars for you.

“You’re so sweet.” He smiles genuinely and fairly innocently up at you as he strokes your thigh affectionately— before of course counteracting that by shooting out a thick bubbling glob of spit directly onto your clit, making your jaw drop. Lifting your thighs, he murmurs. “So sweet you get me hard. S’kinda unfair… at work.” Before he chases the spit with the flat of his tongue, bringing the muscle up to then wrap his lips around your clit and suck.

No noise can leave you for a few seconds, brows furrowed and jaw dropped in a silent moan until he forces the noise out of you by stuffing his fingers back inside your weeping hole.

“Oh— oh, JJ!” Your toes curl and in record time you feel your first orgasm approaching. It’s different from the ones you give yourself, it’s a ball of fire in your stomach and heat licking up your spine, eyes even watering at the exertion.

“Yeah say my name, c’mon.” He coaches you, moving his tongue faster like he’s competing with himself to make you cum.

“JJ, mmpph— feels— it feels—” You nearly sob.

“How’s it feel?”

“M’gonna—”

“Cum, babydoll. I got you.”

White noise. Like, almost the sounds of waves crashing. It doesn’t really feel like you’re a person anymore — but one thing is for certain. You have never cum like that in your life. You must of been on autopilot, moaning and whining pathetically, slurring out nonsense and maybe a twisted version of his name— but when you come back to Earth you’re near hyperventilating.

You slap at his shoulders with shaky hands because his lips are still latched onto your pulsing nub, fingers still squelching and working the release out of you. “Ok—okay, Jayj— please!” You let out a pathetic little cry and he eases up, pushing himself off you with a satisfied hum and grinning cheekily, letting you push out his fingers. You suck in shaky breaths, letting him soak in the moment by bringing his fingers to his mouth and cleaning them off.

“Better than anything I make, can tell you that.” He jokes. “Taste that shit, s’fuckin’ delicious.” He eases his fingers into your mouth, letting you suck off the remains with a humiliated mewl before removing them, leaning over you to kiss you. God, it’s embarrassing how much you soaked his face. Really, how it ended up on his forehead— you wasn’t sure. You were too focused on your own taste he was forcing into your mouth with his tongue, purposeful and cocky, making sure to roll his own wet muscle over your tastebuds so that you never forget who made you cum that hard.

It’s then, and only then he realises you’re freaking a little and lets you off for a break, cupping your cheek as he pulls back. “Are you good?” He chuckles and you inhale deeply, still trembling. You’re not sure what he does, because everything’s all hazy but he manhandles you a little until he’s cradling you in strong biceps, brow creased. “Did I go too hard? I may— may have gotten a lil’ carried away there. My apologies.” He holds up a hand that wasn’t cradling you.

“Was just— haven’t — it’s never felt like that before. Never felt that good.” You admit, which brings back his dimple and that sickeningly soft look in his eyes.

“What can I say, you deserve the best there is when it comes to receiving orgasms, and I,” He presses his mouth back on yours, kissing you between each word. “Am the best, there, is, at, giving them.” On the last kiss you lean into it, holding him there, as you’re ambushed by an unexpected feeling.

Some kind of surge in your stomach, like butterflies but bigger, your heart pounding. If you weren’t so dazed you’d be worried the L word was coming to doom you early. The feeling made you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him back ontop of you, jean clad bulge pressed back against your sensitive heat as you moan, high pitched and happy against him.

He pulls back to make some kind of joke, maybe a comment about your recovery time but you beat him to the chase, staring up into his dilated pupils with love hearts occupying your own. “Wanna make you feel good, Jayj.”

“You—how—”

You suckle on your bottom lip, hand bravely travelling down to cup the bulge that was calling to attention in his jeans. His breath catches in his throat, lips parting to let out a quiet and surprised groan.

“I’ve never—” Your face is hot again. “Never given a blow job before but—”

“Next time. Yeah? If you’ll let me I kinda just… wanna fuck you.” He smirks and hides it in your jawline, almost too shy in the moment to look you in the eye. Your brows furrow with a silent whimper at his words.

“Next time?” You mewl happily like you’re floating on air. At this he pulls back, a hopeful grin.

“If you’ll have me, that is. Figured I should take you out on a real date.”

You don’t have time to respond, he doesn’t let you— perhaps out of nerves. Instead, he’s working your panties that had been pushed to the side down your legs, followed by pulling your tshirt over your head. “Peekaboo, there she is.” He smiles quietly and you giggle, thinking back to the time at the locker where he pulled his shirt over your head. You toss your loose bra away from the bed, now laying bare beneath him.

He sits back on his knees, hands instinctually lifting to his head like he wanted to fix his hat, a habit you noticed of his that would occur when he’s overwhelmed or in awe. He settles on running his hands through the blonde tresses instead, big goofy smile on his face.

“Holy shit. I mean like — holy shit.” He breathes and you turn your head shyly, then reaching out to tug at his shirt.

“You too.” You gesture to his shirt and he offs it within a second, not wanting to look away from your naked body from a minute. Once his hands are free again, he’s sliding them up to your chest, greedily massaging your tits in both hands.

“Fuck, you are so fine. I mean like I think I nearly came in my pants.” He admits quietly and you tug at his belt, having to remind him of what you were actually doing.

“C’mon, Jayj— want you to fuck me!” You whine, all doe eyes and pouts, not even registering how pathetic and desperate the sentiment was — only making his cock throb harder. He buckles slightly, like it physically pains him and he nods quickly, fumbling with his belt until he could pull his jeans down just enough to release himself.

It’s long, pink and pretty like you expected — pearly precum gathering at his tip. He grasps it infront of you, eyes flickering between yours and his dick, suddenly looking hesitant. “So uh, this is what m’ working with.” He announces awkwardly, overthinking everything — but it doesn’t matter because you’re wrapping a delicate hand round it, guiding him to your entrance.

“Woah there missy, okay uh— hold your horses. This job don’t pay either of us enough for you to get knocked up.” He side rolls off the bed hobbling over to the dresser for his wallet, retrieving a condom and returning. You would have laughed, but you get all embarrassed and teary eyed about how overly eager you’d been.

“Sorry. I wasn’t thinkin’.” You pout and his eyes flutter up to yours, kneeling between your legs.

“Hey? You’re good.” He tears the packet open with his teeth and you clench around nothing. “You’re good.” He repeats, stroking your thigh as he eases the rubber onto his cock. “Still up for it, babe?”

You bite your lip with a sniffly giggle, nodding and he grins himself, laying on top of you to press a sloppy kiss to your mouth. He pulls away, and he lines himself up before slowly easing himself in.

Your legs around his waist hug him tighter and your toes curl at the stretch, wincing. “You got it.” He encourages, voice breathier like it teetered on a moan which only made you flutter around him.

“S’big, JJ.” You whimper and he huffs against your neck.

“I— thanks.”

Once he’s in, he’s in — and you can see how his fingers and tongue were only just the appetiser. He fucks like it’s the last time, like his life depends on it— rolling his hips, his hands somehow in ten places at once, his tongue — oh his tongue, it’s in your mouth, then down your neck, then looping around your nipple making you clench and whine and cry.

He starts to speed up, unable to control himself as his hands slide under your lower back to hold you, thumbing at your waist. “Shit, shit, shit.” He grits his teeth, having to contain himself there and then from cumming when he sees the way your tits bounce beneath him. “Takin’ that shit so good, huh? Jesus baby.” He wrinkles his nose in exertion, panting.

“S’just so good, JJ— mmph!”

“Yeah? Y’gonna think of this everytime I see you, shit, everytime I see you in the kitchen? Givin’ me those big sexy fuck me eyes everytime I hand you a plate? Shit baby, pretty little waitress, huh. N’ you’re all mine now. So freakin’ lucky.” Hes rambling, nonsensical— already pussy drunk.

You’re in ecstasy. Not only from how he felt, but from how you were making him feel. It occurred to you that no one seems to talk about the validation you receive from finally getting to fuck your crush, watching them come apart over you. You wanted more, wanted to impress him.

In a trance, you push at his stomach, shuffling upwards so he reluctantly pulls out, concern on his clammy face. You fumble, rolling onto your front, sticking your ass in the air, looking over your shoulder.

“Please.” You plead, and you’re not sure what for— but it works, the blonde puffing out his cheeks with a dramatic exhale, lining himself behind you and pushing in. “Gonna be the death of me, babydoll.”

You may have overestimated your abilities, crying pathetically when he bottoms out, his cock feeling ten times it’s size from this angle.

“Arch that back baby, there you go, just like that.” He whispers, pressing down on your lower back making you sob. You fuck back against him, pressing your cheek to your pillow, fingers curling into it for security. “Good girl, that’s right.” He drops a hand beneath you, finding your clit once more and as a surprise ambush, you cum— suddenly and embarrassingly, gushing around his cock leaving a ring of cream at his base.

He doesn’t stop this time, giving you a moment to catch your breath as you whine and mewl like a distressed kitten. No, if anything — he goes harder, his own release on the precipice. The bed is creaking now, wooden headboard smacking the wall as he leans his weight on the back of your arms, pelvis slapping against your ass. Little squeaks are punched out of you with each thrust, and when you think he’s reached a crescendo— he slows.

“Fuck, fuck turn around baby. Need to see that pretty face to cum, c’mon.” He pants in one breath, fighting you back onto your back and sliding back in with ease this time, pushing one knee up to your chest and rolling his hips, eyes squeezed shut.

He tries to keep them open, eyes everywhere— your tits, your big wet eyes, your lips. Like he can’t help himself, he sloppily cups your cheek, a thumb brushing your bottom lip. Wanting to help him along in your post orgasm brain-fog, your tongue peeks out, trying to catch the finger as he bounces you on his cock. Once you’ve got it, you wrap your lips around it, sucking with devotion and love hearts in your eyes.

“Oh my— god” He whimpers, finally dropping his cheek to your chest as he ruts into you, spilling his seed. You moan at the feeling, scratching at his back and fluttering around him. The butterflies return.

After ten minutes, you’re laying on his thick bicep— his blunt fingernails scratching your scalp at the bottom of your skull. The dryer beeps distantly, signifying that it’s completed its cycle.

Maybank is staring at you, like he’s trying to memorise your face, like it’s the last time he’ll ever see you. An amused smile breaks out onto your face, trying to hide it in his arm as you press a kiss there. At this, a grin spreads on his own face, questioning.

“You know… I do actually have an electric toothbrush.”

“I freaking knew it.”

#linecook!jj #jj maybank fic 🎀

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v-eee · 23 days ago

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── he's the host (jungkook x you)

You had never once stepped foot in a host club, let alone spoken casually with men in a setting like this. But your best friend handed you a free ticket, insisting it was the perfect opportunity to learn how to hold a conversation with men.

'The hosts there are insanely handsome and know exactly how to treat a lady,' she had said with a mischievous grin.

And so, here you were, standing in the dimly lit but luxurious lounge, gripping the little numbered card you had picked at random. Every number corresponded to a different host, and fate had assigned you… well, you weren’t sure yet.

When the curtain pulled back, you nearly choked.

Before you stood a man clad in a flashy leopard-print shirt confidence like it was the latest fashion trend, exuding confidence with his easy smile and twinkling eyes.

“Jungkook,” he introduced himself, sliding into the seat beside you. “First time here, aren’t you? I can tell.” His tone was playful, teasing in a way that made your nerves spike.

You were awkward at first, fumbling over your words, but Jungkook was quick to lighten the mood with jokes and exaggerated stories. You didn’t believe a word of it, but somehow, between his antics, you started to relax.

You found yourself sharing stories. Not that you had tons of exciting stories to share—you’re more of the introverted. But you did end up sharing your tale of the world’s worst ex-manager. Creepy, power-tripping weirdo who hated you because you always dodged him—and maybe also because you reported him a few times (okay, more than a few) to the upper management.

“Oh, and some of the girls totally used him to get raises,” you added, shaking your head.

Jungkook listened, then swirled his drink like some movie character. “You know,” Jungkook said, swirling his drink thoughtfully. “People like that shouldn’t be anywhere near power.”

You blinked. For a second, he looked different—not the cheeky host, but someone real.

But then he smirked.

“If I were your boss,” he teased, pointing to the snack plate, “I’d only call you in to give you snacks. Speaking of which… you basically finished the whole thing.”

You turned bright red. Busted. What could you say? Snacks are your weakness.

By the time the night ended, you felt lighter, buzzing with the realization that maybe, just maybe, holding a conversation with a man wasn’t so terrifying after all.

. . .

The next morning at the office, you were greeted with unexpected news.

“The new manager is already here!” your colleague announced cheerfully.

You barely had time to register the words before stepping into the conference room, where your breath hitched.

There, sitting at the head of the table like he belonged there, was none other than the host from last night.

Jeon Jungkook— Your new manager. Your flashy leopard-print host from last night was now sitting at the head of the table, cool and composed, dressed in a sharp suit, even his hairstyle changes like he was born for corporate life.

But seeing he act like he didn't know you, you sighed in relief.

He didn't glance your way. He didn't acknowledge you in the meeting. He didn't so much as breath in your direction.

Perfect. A silent agreement—whatever happened in the host club stayed in the host club.

You sat at the opposite end of the meeting room, buried yourself in your notes, and refused to meet his gaze, even when he was speaking directly to the group.

If Jungkook noticed, he didn’t show it.

Everything was going smoothly… until the meeting ended.

Just as you gathered your belongings, ready to make a swift escape, his voice cut through the air.

“Y/N, please stay.”

You froze.

Your colleagues’ heads snapped in your direction, eyes wide in shock.

You? He wanted you to stay?

Most of the staff in your department barely acknowledged your existence, always pushing you aside during after-work drinks. You had perfected the art of blending into the background—the quiet, introverted employee who kept to herself.

And yet here was the new manager, Jeon Jungkook specifically asking you to stay back.

It was so unexpected that even your colleague nudged you under the table, clearly waiting for gossip.

You forced a neutral expression, mentally screaming, before turning back to Jungkook, your new manager.

The man looked annoyingly calm, watching you with that unreadable look.

You swallowed hard. . . .

You stood stiffly in the now-empty meeting room, staring at Jeon Jungkook like he had just asked you to commit a crime.

He leaned back, arms crossed, looking way too relaxed for someone who had just turned your world upside down.

"You’re gonna keep quiet about the host club, right?" he asked casually.

You blinked. "Excuse me?"

Jungkook smirk teasingly "I mean, you don’t want people knowing you went there, and I don’t want people knowing I worked there."

Oh.

That... made sense.

There was no way you wanted to be the subject of office gossip, and if people found out their shiny new manager had double life? Well, that would send the company into chaos.

You nodded slowly. "Fine. We pretend it never happened."

Jungkook grinned. "Great! Looking forward to working with you."

That was the last normal moment you had. . . .

At first, you thought it was just coincidence.

But then, at every single meeting, Jungkook picked you to assist him.

Every time he needed help with reports, you were the one he called.

Every time he needed something double-checked, you were the first person he approached.

It wasn’t long before whispers started spreading.

Your colleagues exchanged glances whenever Jungkook asked for your input. The female employees, in particular, seemed to have an especially sharp interest in the situation.

Jeon Jungkook was handsome, confident, and effortlessly charming—the kind of man who commanded attention the moment he walked into a room.

The female employees had already taken a special interest in him, and now, seeing him always pick you for assistance?

It didn’t take long for rumors to start flying.

“She used to avoid the previous manager, but now she’s all fine with the new one? Maybe the previous boss wasn’t the problem, she just hates old men.”

“She always acts so quiet but look at her now...getting all this attention.”

“I bet she’s doing something to keep his eyes on her.”

You tried to ignore it, but the whispers followed you everywhere.

And one afternoon, you walked by the break room just in time to hear a particularly brutal conversation.

“Y/N is obviously a two-faced person. Before, she acted like a quiet introvert. Look at her now. Remember she used to file complaints about previous managers? Now that a handsome new manager shows up, she’s the one making moves on him. No way he picks her that often for no reason.”

You felt your stomach drop.

Before you could decide whether to walk away or step inside the break room to confront them, another voice cut through the air.

A very familiar, dangerously calm voice.

"Are you ladies enjoying your gossip session?"

Dead silence.

You peak inside the break room slowly—there stood Jungkook, arms crossed, clearly unimpressed.

The women scrambled, stammering out excuses, but he wasn’t having it.

"If I hear another rumor about my staff being spread, we’ll have a serious problem." His tone was calm but sharp, enough to send shivers down everyone's spine.

Wow. That was the guy who once wore a leopard-print shirt with amazing host skills—the same guy who teased you about hogging the snack plate. And now he was your manager. The same manager who kept calling your name to help with the printer or to make 100 copies of a report... sometimes you even wondered if he was bullying you.

But now he was defending you like some corporate knight in tailored armor?

For a moment, you looked at Jungkook not as an eccentric host or as your new manager… until you noticed he caught your eyes. He gave you a wink and a smile. The same smile he wore with that leopard-print shirt.

You sighed internally.

What had you gotten yourself into?

#jungkook #jeon jungkook #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #scenario #jungkook scenario

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keepingitformyself · 3 months ago

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good men die too (so i’d rather be with you)

A/N: first natalie fic. needed to get this off my chest. crush by ethel cain on repeat as i wrote this.

SYNOPSIS: natalie scatorccio isn’t the kind of girl you bring home to your parents. and she’s not the kind of girl you’d think to spend forever with. she’s reckless, dangerous, and rough. but that doesn’t stop you from wanting her all the same.

pairings: natalie scatorccio x reader

genre: no crash AU

warnings: suggestive themes, blood, bruises

MASTERLIST

please do not repost my work anywhere for any reason at all. if you do see this happen to any of my stories, please let me know. thank you x.

it’s no surprise to anyone when natalie scatorccio comes strolling into soccer practice twenty minutes late. long after coach martinez has just finished a speech on the importance of time management.

her leather jacket slung over her jersey clad body gives you just the faintest scent of marlboro reds clinging to her clothes. she wears a smirk as she approaches the rest of the girls on the field.

coach martinez merely rolls his eyes at her presence. he decides to barely batt an eye anymore. what was the point? natalie was good. maybe not the best, but good enough to get away with her shit.

you weren’t really close to her like the others were. not like misty, who hung on her every word, or shauna, who tried (and failed) to keep her in check. you weren’t even like lottie, who seemed to understand her in a way that made no sense. no, you and natalie were something different.

you didn’t talk much, but when you did, it was charged. every snarky comment or off-hand joke felt like it was said to imply something neither of you wanted to admit. like a game neither of you were willing to lose.

the first time you really noticed it was after a game. the team was celebrating a win at some rundown diner. cramming into booths that barely fit you all. natalie sat across from you, her fingers wrapped around a coke bottle, condensation dripping from the glass.

her eyes met yours, and she smirked like she knew something you didn’t.

“you’re staring.” she drawled, bringing the bottle to her lips.

“you wish.”

she laughed, low and throaty, before leaning in. “i know.”

that was how it always went. a flicker of something in a hallway, a touch too long passing water bottles at practice, her voice too close to your ear when she made some off-hand comment that sent heat pooling in your stomach. and every time, you refused to acknowledge it.

because natalie scatorccio was trouble. and you didn’t do trouble.

but damn if you weren’t drawn to her anyway.

it was easier to act like she didn’t get under your skin. to roll your eyes, to scoff, to push her buttons just to see if she’d push back. you’d rather drive her crazy, make her hate you, than admit what you actually wanted. becuase if you admitted it, it would be real. and real meant dangerous.

real meant natalie had the power to ruin you.

so you kept playing the game. kept up the act. and natalie…she played right into it.

even with the others around, you found ways to test the limits.

at parties, when she was sprawled on a couch with some guy draping an arm over her shoulder, you’d pass by and let your fingers brush against hers for half a second too long. just long enough to make her glance up at you through her lashes, lips quirking like she knew exactly what you were doing.

in the locker room, when the team was too busy talking about the next game, you’d let your knee knock into hers while tying your sneakers. she never moved away.

one night, the team had gathered at jackie’s house for a movie night, a tangled mess of limbs and blankets on the floor.

you ended up beside natalie, bodies pressed together in the dark. her hand rested on her stomach, dangerously close to yours.

you could feel the warmth radiating from her skin, but neither of you moved. not when she exhaled slowly, not when her pinky brushed yours so lightly it could’ve been an accident. you weren’t sure if you imagined it, but you swore you felt her shift just a little closer.

then there was the time in the school hallway. the team was heading to the cafeteria together, but natalie had stopped by her locker. you weren’t supposed to wait for her, weren’t supposed to lean against the metal beside her as she rummaged through her bag, weren’t supposed to mutter,

“hurry up, scatorccio,” in a tone only she would catch. she smirked at you then, slow and knowing, before tucking a pack of cigarettes into her jacket.

“gotta problem with me taking my time?” she murmured, just quiet enough that no one else heard.

you scoffed. “i’ve got a problem with you wasting mine.”

she grinned. “right.”

one friday night, after practice, you found her in the parking lot, perched on the hood of her dad’s beat-up mercury, cigarette balanced between her fingers. the night was cool, and the parking lot was empty save for the two of you.

“you need a ride?” she asked, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

“i’m good.”

“you sure? wouldn’t want you walking home all alone. bad things happen to good girls.”

“i never said i was good.”

her smirk widened, something dark flashing behind her eyes. “no, i guess you didn’t.”

you should’ve walked away. should’ve ignored the way her gaze lingered, how the glow of her cigarette lit up her face in a way that made your breath hitch. but instead, you stepped closer. just a fraction. just enough.

natalie tapped her cigarette, ashes scattering to the pavement. “you ever gonna admit you want me?”

you scoffed, crossing your arms. “your window’s already passed.”

she laughed, full and unbothered. “bullshit.”

you didn’t answer. you didn’t need to. she could read your mind just fine.

and that pissed you off.

because you hated it. the way she could see right through you. the way she knew you wanted her even when you wouldn’t admit it to yourself.

it made you want to punch her, just to get rid of the feeling clawing up your throat. you wanted to see her lip split open, watch her wipe the blood away with that smug little smirk because then at least you wouldn’t have to think about how badly you wanted to kiss her instead.

then, one night, she cornered you outside a party, the bass from inside thrumming through your ribs. her lip was split, a bruise already blooming high on her cheekbone, and she looked at you like she had all the answers.

“i owe you a black eye and two kisses,” she murmured, voice laced with amusement. “tell me when you wanna come get ‘em.”

your stomach tightened, heat crawling up your spine. natalie licked at the blood on her lip, watching you like she was waiting for you to call her bluff.

but this time, you didn’t want to call it.

you swallowed hard, fists clenching at your sides. “you don’t know what you’re asking for.”

natalie tilted her head, stepping into your space, forcing you to meet her gaze. “i know exactly what I’m asking for. and so do you.”

the words settled between you, heavy and inescapable. you wanted to fight her. you wanted to push her away. but more than that, you wanted her to keep going. to ruin you the way you knew only she could.

“say it,” she pressed, voice low, eyes dark. “say you want me.”

your breath hitched. “i—”

“i want you,” she said first, cutting you off. the game, finally over.

and just like that, the bottom dropped out from under you.

you would’ve walked away. but every inch of your body screamed for you to stay. you could feel the weight of her presence as if she was a magnet, pulling you closer, her eyes locked on you like she was reading your every thought.

“i’m not the type of girl who plays by the rules,” she said quietly, voice dripping with something between challenge and promise.

“and i'm not the type who gets caught up in trouble,” you shot back, but it sounded like a lie. you both knew it.

her lips curled into a knowing smile, eyes glinting with mischief. “yeah? that’s funny, because every time i look at you, you seem like you're trying to talk yourself out of something.”

you crossed your arms, shifting your weight to one foot, trying to steady your pulse, but her words hit you harder than you expected. you could feel her eyes on you, following every move, reading the way your body tightened when she came closer.

“trying to act all tough, but you’re standing here, aren't you?” she continued, her tone light but pointed. “guess that makes you just as bad as me.”

your heart skipped, the sting of her words digging into you. “don’t flatter yourself. i’m not playing your game.”

she took a step forward, and you couldn’t help but move back a fraction, but only because you didn’t want her to see how badly she was getting to you. “you’re already in it,” she said, voice dropping lower. "you think i don’t notice the way you look at me?"

your breath hitched, and you scoffed, doing everything you could to keep the distance. "i don't look at you."

natalie cocked her head, eyes narrowing in playful challenge. “really? ‘cause i could’ve sworn i saw you staring when i walked into practice today. or maybe it was when i grabbed that water bottle from you after the scrimage. funny how you can't keep your eyes off me, huh?”

you swallowed, fighting the flush rising in your chest. “you’re imagining things.”

“i’m not,” she said, voice dripping with confidence as she moved even closer. her scent, a mix of smoke and something sharp, intoxicating, wrapped around you. "i know you want to fight it. but you’re not fooling anyone. least of all me.”

“i’m not some fucking game,” you muttered, voice sharp, but shaky. you couldn’t keep the edge from your tone, couldn’t keep the uncertainty out of your voice.

“you’re already in it,” she repeated, her tone quiet but unwavering. “so why don’t you stop pretending? stop pretending you’re not already caught up in me. you don’t get to walk away anymore.”

her voice was so close now, you could feel the heat from her breath brushing against your skin, and every nerve in your body screamed for you to back away, but your feet stayed rooted. your heart thudded, each beat pulling you closer to her than you wanted to be.

“i’m not some... i’m not the type of girl who...” you started, but your words were getting tangled in the mess of thoughts she was creating in your head. you were losing control, and the worst part? you didn’t want it back.

“not the type of girl who what?” she murmured, leaning in just enough to make you feel every word. “who gets what she wants?”

you opened your mouth to say something, anything, but you couldn’t. the words were gone, smothered by the feeling of her closeness, the way she was looking at you, waiting for you to break.

“you’re just a little scared,” she whispered, a teasing lilt in her voice. “scared of what’s underneath all this. scared of what’ll happen if you let yourself want it.”

Your pulse spiked. “stop it.”

“no,” she said, her smile widening. “you start it.”

you could feel the air around you both thickening, charged, and the space between you two felt like it was closing in, getting tighter, until you could barely breathe.

you could taste the words you weren’t saying, hanging in the air, unbearable. and in that moment, you hated her, hated how she could do this to you—make you feel like this.

but you couldn’t pull away. you couldn’t fight it.

and she knew it.

“tell me,” she pressed, voice low, dangerous. “what do you want, huh?”

it wasn’t a question anymore. it was a command. and in the space between, you realized she wasn’t asking for an answer.

she already had the one she wanted.

#natalie scatorccio x reader #natalie scatorccio #yellowjackets #yellowjackets x reader

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ellswritings · 2 months ago

Text

Relinquish Control

Roman Reigns (Joe Anoa‘i) x Reader

TW: This is long afff, like 14.4k long. Anywho… foul language, mutual pining, sexual tension, use of real names, Roman and reader being control freaks. I think that’s it. Not my best work… but oh well.

Tags: @reebs-luvs-rhodes-and-wrestling

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

When Y/N was told she would be moving from NXT to the main roster on Friday Night SmackDown, she couldn’t believe it. It had been her dream since she was a kid to make it to the big leagues like this. So when Paul Levesque told her she would have to work with a mentor for the next few months to solidify her position, she couldn’t refuse. If it means getting to fight alongside some of her heroes, she wouldn’t turn anything down.

It all became even more surreal when she was told that Roman Reigns, The Tribal Chief himself would be the one to mentor her.

At first, she was shocked. She wasn’t expecting the man who has currently had the world championship for about two years now consecutively would be the one to train her. She wasn’t expecting such a big name. But she couldn’t complain. Well, at least not yet.

At first, working with him was like a dream, until it wasn’t. Y/N was stubborn and had a very hard time taking orders. Joe on the other hand demands respect, he values the control he has in every aspect of his life. He’s not as smug as he portrays himself on camera, but he and Roman do share some very similar personality traits that make Y/N’s blood boil. But the feeling is mutual. It annoys him to no end that Y/N refuses to acknowledge him as her Tribal Chief. Most people would kill to be an honorary member of the Bloodline, but not her. The moment he offered her a spot at the table, she laughed it off and said she didn’t need his help. That she didn’t take orders from anyone.

Training the next day was particularly brutal for the poor girl after that. But she didn’t give up. And that’s another thing he admired yet hated about her. Her perseverance and hard headedness never lets up. In the ring and in their interactions. At first, it’s truly just annoying. She doesn’t blindly follow his orders. She pushes him, makes him justify why he wants her to train in certain ways.

And what makes it even worse is that she’s good. Really good. Anytime he gives her a critique, she applies it, albeit with a bit of sass and backtalk, but she does it and makes it better. It especially grates his nerves when she proves him wrong sometimes, doing a move a different way than he instructed and it actually ends up being more effective. At first he thought it would make him mad, but it started to make him more… interested than anything.

Y/N huffs frustratedly as Roman dodges her enzuigiri. It’s currently six thirty in the morning and they have already been training for two hours. It’s the same routine pretty much everyday besides Sunday’s. Get up at four, go to the gym, spend three to four hours training, do an ice bath, then she can go on with the rest of her day. Sometimes he even forces her to do extra sparring at the end of the night if he feels she needs it. It’s rigorous and her body hurts eighty percent of the time, but she won’t deny she’s getting better.

Roman tries to clothesline her but she quickly ducks under his arm, using the ropes of the ring to speed herself up as she attempts, and successfully executes a hurricanrana. She feels herself begin to smirk, a witty quip about to leave her lips, but the wind is quickly knocked out of her as Roman counters quickly, taking her hesitation as a moment of opportunity. He spears her to the floor, making her groan in anguish as he pins her for the entire three count.

“Being cocky will get you pinned every time,” he tells her, standing up effortlessly like they hadn’t just had a full on match. He sticks his hand out to help her up, but Y/N being her usual self scoffs quietly before pushing herself up on her own. She winces slightly, already feeling the soreness in her side where his spear made its impact. One thing about Roman is that just because she’s his mentee does not mean he goes easy on her in the ring. He’s not above knocking her on her ass if it means it’ll help her get better.

“You’re just mad ‘cause I practically chucked you across the ring,” she grumbles, unwrapping the white tape from her hands as she goes to leave the ring.

He follows after her, his voice remaining patient even though she’s tested every nerve he has. “It doesn’t matter how far you throw an opponent. The moment you get arrogant or take your attention away from the match is the moment you lose,” he lectures. “You need to get out of that immature ‘I need to prove myself’ mindset and actually start being a wrestler.”

“You act like I’m not doing that already,” Y/N fires back, rolling her shoulders to ease the ache. “Last I checked, I’m the one waking up at four in the damn morning, training until I can’t feel my legs, and getting my ass handed to me by a six-foot-three Tarzan-looking-man on a daily basis. What part of that says I’m not taking this seriously?”

Roman exhales through his nose, leveling her with a look. “You’re putting in the work, yeah. I see that. But you still fight like you have something to prove.”

“Because I do.”

He shakes his head. “No, you don’t.” He steps closer, looming over her, arms crossed. “You’re already here, Y/N. You made it to the main roster. You don’t need to prove anything to anyone. But you keep fighting like some rookie trying to earn a contract. And that? That’s what’s gonna cost you when it actually matters.”

Y/N glares up at him, jaw set. She hates that he has a point. She hates even more that she can feel it sinking in. But she’s not about to admit that. She snatches up her water bottle and takes a long sip, buying herself time before responding. “Maybe that’s just how I fight,” she finally says, tilting her head at him. “Maybe I like fighting like I have something to prove.”

Roman scoffs. “Then you better get used to getting pinned.”

She rolls her eyes. “Not happening.”

“Then fix it.” His voice is firm, steady. It’s the same voice he uses in the ring, the one that commands the entire arena without needing to yell. “Learn to control yourself, or someone else is gonna do it for you.”

Y/N bristles at that. “Yeah? And you think you’re the one to do it?”

Roman doesn’t blink. “I know I am.”

There’s a tension in the air now, something heavy crackling between them. Y/N refuses to look away first. She can feel the heat of his stare, the weight of it pressing into her skin. After a moment of silence, she slings her gym bag over her shoulder, not wanting to continue the conversation. She still has an ice bath she has to sit through. “Whatever, Chief.” She spits the title with sarcasm, making Roman’s jaw flex just slightly. Then, just as she turns to leave, his hand wraps around her wrist, halting her in place. Her eyes flick down to where he holds her, then back up to his face. “Dude, I’m done for today.”

Roman doesn’t let go. “You don’t decide when we’re done.”

“My body does,” she argues, trying to yank free.

His grip remains firm but not forceful, his head tilting slightly. “You talk a big game, but the second things don’t go your way, you’re ready to walk?” He tuts. “That’s not how this works.”

Y/N glares at him. “I trained for three hours, got speared, and sat through one of your monologues about control. That’s a full shift as far as I’m concerned. I’m clocking out.”

Roman doesn’t even blink. “You still don’t get it, do you?”

She folds her arms. “Oh, please, enlighten me.”

“You think this is just training.” He steps closer, the weight of his presence suffocating. “You think I’m just here to make sure you don’t embarrass yourself in the ring.”

“That is what mentors do,” she shoots back.

Roman huffs a low, knowing laugh. “I’m not just your mentor, Y/N.”

She raises a brow. “Oh yeah? What else are you, then?”

His fingers trail from her wrist, up to her forearm, then to her shoulder before gripping it firmly. “Your leader.”

She actually laughs at that. “Hate to break it to you, but I haven’t exactly accepted your little ‘seat at the table’ offer, so I don’t have to answer to you. You’re my mentor, not my boss.”

Something flickers in his dark eyes. Amusement. Frustration. Maybe something else—something sharper. His fingers tighten slightly. “You think that matters?”

She scoffs, shoving at his chest, forcing distance between them. “Yes, actually.”

Roman doesn’t move an inch. He just watches her. Studies her. Feels the way her breath hitches for half a second before she squares her shoulders again. Then, with all the patience of a man who knows he’s already won, he tilts his head. “Get back in the ring.”

She lets out an exasperated breath. “Not happening.”

He doesn’t repeat himself. He doesn’t have to. His stare alone is a command, heavy and absolute. And damn it, it pisses her off that she’s even considering listening.

“You’re so full of yourself,” she mutters, crossing her arms.

“I have every right to be,” he counters smoothly. “Everything I say, everything I do—it works. That’s why you’re here, training under me.”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, so now you wanna acknowledge that I never asked for this?”

Roman steps forward again, forcing her to tilt her chin up to meet his gaze. “You might not have asked, but you need it.” His voice drops, low and steady. “You need me.”

She exhales sharply through her nose. “You really think I can’t do this on my own?”

He smirks, head tilting. “You’re good, Y/N. But good doesn’t cut it here. You wanna make it? Wanna win?” His grip on her shoulder tightens. “Then acknowledge me as your Tribal Chief.”

She scoffs, shaking her head. “Dude, I’m not part of your little Samoan mafia or whatever the hell you call it.”

His smirk fades. “That doesn’t change anything.”

She gestures between them. “Uh, pretty sure it does. I’m not in the Bloodline, which means I don’t have to acknowledge shit.”

Roman exhales slowly, tongue running along the inside of his cheek. He should let this go. Shouldn’t let her get under his skin. But Y/N’s stubbornness, her complete defiance of him, grates his nerves in a way he hasn’t felt in years. She should want this. Anyone in the pro-wrestling world would. And yet here she is, looking him in the eye, daring him to push harder. Roman lets out a slow breath before shaking his head. “You’re gonna learn.”

“Oh yeah?” She lifts a brow. “And how’s that?”

He steps even closer, close enough that she can feel the warmth radiating from him, close enough that the shift in the air between them is almost tangible. “Because I don’t lose,” he murmurs, voice dangerously low. “And I don’t let people walk away from me.” For the first time, Y/N’s expression flickers—just barely, but he sees it. That second of hesitation is all the confirmation he needs. His voice is calm, measured, unwavering. “You’ll acknowledge me. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. But it’s going to happen.”

Her fingers curl into fists at her sides. “Don’t hold your breath, Chief.”

Roman just smirks. “We’ll see.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Another thing about having Joe as a mentor is that Y/N can only train with him or another member of the Bloodline. She didn’t necessarily mind that part of it. While it would be nice to get in the ring with some other people, she didn’t mind being with the guys. Josh and Jon are fun to be around, always making sparring more entertaining. Solo is really good about giving her advice she’ll actually use in the ring. And truthfully, she just loves being around Sami. He’s talented and has an energy that no one else can bring. She actually prefers the days when it’s all of them in the ring rather than just her and Roman.

Not that she minded being alone with Joe. It was the exact opposite. She loves getting under his skin and making him grit his teeth extra hard when she does something that irritates him. It’s also easier to stare at him for a bit too long when no one is around to tease her for it. Not that she would ever admit that she stares. But what makes her prefer the others being around is the fact that Roman’s attention is a bit more divided so she has more time to do workouts she wants to do.

Unfortunately, today doesn’t seem to want to work in her favor. She and Roman circle each other in the ring, Josh, Jon, and Sami watching from the side while Solo does his own workout on the other side of the gym. But he won’t lie, he is watching out of the corner of his eye.

The ring is alive with movement as Y/N and Roman circle each other. She’s fast, her footwork sharp, slipping past his reach with ease. He’s patient, methodical, letting her expend energy while he remains firmly planted.

Josh lets out a low whistle. “Man, she’s really got you moving, Uce.”

Jon grins. “She’s makin’ you sweat, big dog.”

Sami, ever the instigator, clasps his hands together. “I don’t wanna be dramatic, but I think we might be witnessing the fall of the Tribal Chief.”

Roman’s glare cuts through all of them, and they immediately sober up. Y/N smirks. “Aw, don’t be mad just because they can see I’m winning.”

Roman doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he lunges forward, forcing her to duck. She’s quick—spinning behind him and catching his arm to set up a ripcord knee strike. But instead of executing it cleanly, she twists her body in a way he hadn’t taught her, adding an extra rotation before slamming her knee toward his jaw. He steps back just in time, narrowly avoiding the full impact. Josh and Jon exchange glances, clearly impressed.

“Damn,” Jon mutters. “That was smooth.”

“Yeah, it was. I mean, jeez ma, you been holdin’ out on us?” Josh adds.

Roman doesn’t give her a second to enjoy their praise. He moves fast—too fast—sweeping her legs out from under her before she can react. Y/N hits the mat with a grunt, and before she can roll away, he pins her.

One… Two… Three.

She breathes hard beneath him, blinking up at the bright lights of the gym. But her focus isn’t on the lights. It’s on the way he’s not moving. The way he’s still pressed against her, his hands braced on either side of her head. For a moment, neither of them say anything. Then, Roman’s gaze flickers downward—just for a second—before he abruptly pushes off her and stands. Y/N exhales sharply, rolling onto her side before pushing herself up.

The guys are still watching, but wisely choose not to comment on the moment. Instead, Sami clears his throat. “Uh, not to brag, but I totally called that pin like ten seconds before it happened.”

Josh scoffs. “Oh, please. We all knew it was coming.”

Jon nods. “Yeah, but she put up a hell of a fight.” He looks at Y/N. “Respect.”

She grins. “Appreciate it.”

Roman, however, isn’t smiling. “You changed the move.”

Y/N turns to him, lifting an eyebrow. “Yeah. And? It still worked, didn’t it?”

“I already showed you how to do it properly,” he says, arms crossing.

She shrugs. “And I put my own twist on it.”

“That’s not how it works,” he says, voice even. “You’re under my training.”

She folds her arms. “That doesn’t mean I can’t try new things.”

Sami leans toward Jon and mutters, “This is getting good.”

Jon smacks his chest. “Shut up, man.”

Roman ignores them, his attention solely on Y/N. “The way I showed you works. You don’t need to change it.”

She exhales, shaking her head. “Just because it works your way doesn’t mean it’s the only way.”

His nostrils flare. “It is when I’m the one in charge of training you.”

She huffs. “That’s not a good enough excuse anymore.”

Jon and Josh wince like they’ve just witnessed someone stepping on a landmine while Sami quietly hums the Jaws theme. Roman inhales deeply, his patience hanging by a thread. “You four. Out.”

Josh and Jon are up immediately.

“Yup.”

“Say less.”

Sami gives Y/N an exaggerated thumbs-up before following them out. Solo lingers for a beat, his sharp gaze flicking between them before he silently nods and exits. The second the door shuts, the tension in the room triples. Y/N stands firm, arms crossed. “No audience for this part?”

Roman exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You need to learn respect.”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, come on. You know that I respect you, Joe.”

His gaze darkens slightly at the sound of his real name. She steps closer. “But I also think someone should keep your ego in check. And I think that someone might be me.”

His fingers flex. She’s testing him. He knows she is. And the worst part? He likes it. Her eyes don’t waver. She’s challenging him—daring him to react. Roman takes a slow, deep breath, every muscle in his body tight with restraint. She steps closer. He stiffens, his pulse spikes. If she says one more thing, he might just—

No.

Roman exhales sharply and steps back. “Get changed,” he says, his voice rough. “Training’s done.”

Y/N watches him for a second longer, then nods, grabbing her bag. But before she leaves, she looks over her shoulder. “You know,” she muses, “if you really wanted me to stop pushing you, you’d stop reacting.” Then she’s gone.

Roman lets out a slow, controlled breath, running a hand down his face. She’s a fighter that’s for sure, he just doesn’t understand why it’s him she has to fight.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Y/N bounces up and down on her heels as she warms herself up for her match. It’s her first time going up against Bayley and she wanted to give the audience the best show that she could. A small smile graces her face when Jey and Sami walk up to her with bright smiles on their faces, hyping her up as she mentally preps herself. She relishes in their presence, hugging them tightly as they tell her how great she’s going to do. She had seen Jimmy a couple minutes prior but he wanted to go spend some time with Naomi as her match was today as well.

The only thing that makes her nervous is that she hasn’t seen or heard from Roman since being at the arena. He’s normally the first one to walk up to her. Whether it’s to tell her good luck or to remind her of correct form, he’s always the one to find her. But she hasn’t seen him at all and it’s making her nerves spike.

Even when she rolls her eyes at his comments or critiques, it still provides a sense of comfort knowing he’s there watching her match. In a way, she takes it as his way of telling her to go out there and kick some ass.

“You alright Uce?” Jey asks as he notices her looking around, anxiety seeping through her features.

“You’re not worried, right?” Sami folds his arms over his chest with an endearing grin. “ ‘Cause if you are, you shouldn’t be. You’ve been killing it in training. And your mic skills are phenomenal. Every city we’ve gone to loves you.”

Y/N shakes her head, “It’s not that…” she admits, chewing her bottom lip nervously. “It’s just– normally Joe comes to see me before I go out as my mentor or whatever and I haven’t seen him all day so it’s kinda throwing my routine off.”

Jey chuckles, “So now you want to talk to him?” He jokes, nudging her shoulder. “Thought you’d be happy you didn’t have to hear his incessant nagging.”

“Hey man, she’s gotta get her daily dose of pissing him off,” Sami chimes with his own laugh. “The day’s not complete if she doesn’t make him mad at least once.”

“Shut up,” Y/N rolls her eyes, smacking both of them. “I’m serious. It’s just weird he isn’t out here yet.” She glances around the corner one last time, “I don’t think I did anything out of the ordinary to make him not be here.”

“Sweetheart, just relax,” Jey grabs her shoulders softly, smiling gently at her. “He probably just lost track of time or got caught up with some business stuff. He’ll be here to see your match and to correct everything you did wrong once you win.” He slides in a small joke to try and ease her nerves, and it works. Like it always does.

“Yeah, don’t worry about him,” Sami adds. “You keep frowning like that and you’ll get wrinkles.”

“And you too pretty for that,” Jey winks.

Y/N laughs at their antics, but it still doesn’t calm the small storm swirling in her head. She would call or text him, but she’s had her phone in the locker room all day to keep her head in the right place. Avoid outside distractions. But it’s a good thing that she doesn’t know where Roman is or what he’s doing, because if she did, she would be beyond angry. At who? No one knows.

A scowl covers Roman’s lips as he walks through the guys locker room. He knows how late he’s running and he needs to make it out before Y/N’s match to give her some last minute advice. He keeps his face composed, not wanting to show how out of sorts he’s feeling. He’s never missed one of her matches and he doesn’t plan to start today. Especially since this fight against Bayley is opening up a perfect opportunity for Y/N to get her first title shot. Even though he can see her insufferable smirk now as she wins, he still wants to be there.

But as he moves through the space, his ears pick up on a conversation that immediately makes him stop in his tracks.

“She’s only getting this match because of Reigns,” a sneering voice mutters.

Roman’s stride slows. His head turns slightly, eyes narrowing as he spots a small group of guys near the benches. Mostly mid-card wrestlers—guys who like to run their mouths when they think no one important is listening. They blame their lack of success on everyone else but their own incompetence.

“She’s new as hell and already getting to work for a title shot?” another scoffs. “Come on, man. You know why she’s getting all these chances.”

A third voice, deeper and more smug, chimes in. “Yeah, she’s probably sucking Roman off behind the scenes. Ain’t no other reason for her to be moving up this fast.”

Laughter follows, low and conspiratorial. A fourth guy, younger but just as cocky, smirks. “I mean… she is pretty. If she wanted to use me to get to the top, I wouldn’t say no.”

The laughter grows louder. And then— Silence. Because he’s there… And no, not Roman Reigns.

Joe Anoa‘i.

He looms behind them, shoulders squared, his entire presence heavy with rage. His dark eyes bore into them like a warning shot before the kill, his face unreadable—calm in a way that’s so much worse. The guys freeze.

“Say that again.” The quiet command cuts through the locker room like a blade.

None of them move. None of them speak. Joe tilts his head, stepping forward just enough that the air shifts, thick and suffocating. “You think that shit’s funny?” His voice is low, slow—like a storm rolling in, inevitable and inescapable. “Think it’s real easy to talk about someone who ain’t here to defend themselves, huh?”

The guy who made the worst comment swallows hard. “Hey, man, it was just—”

Joe is in his face before he can finish, his presence alone making the guy shrink back. “I don’t give a damn what you think it was,” Joe growls. “What you’re not gonna do is disrespect her like that again. Not when every single one of you knows she can run circles around you.” No one breathes or even dares to make eye contact with the man. Joe’s jaw ticks as he takes another step forward, ensuring that every single one of them feels the weight of his anger. “I promise you—if I ever hear any of you say some shit like that about her again, I’ll make sure you don’t just walk out of here. I’ll make sure you’re carried out.” His voice drops even lower, dangerous. “On a stretcher.”

A tense, suffocating pause. Joe exhales sharply, nostrils flaring, eyes still burning with barely restrained fury. Then—he scoffs. A single, sharp sound. “That’s what I thought.”

Without another word, he turns and walks away, fists still clenched, mind still racing. He shouldn’t feel this protective over her. He knows that. But the thought of anyone talking about Y/N like that—disrespecting her, reducing her to something she damn sure isn’t—makes his blood boil. And if they ever did it again? He’d make sure they never forgot who they were dealing with.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Y/N was on an absolute high after her match. She just won against Bayley of all people. An absolute legend in the locker room and someone everyone loves. It made her feel like she was truly working her way up in the business. She was proud of herself, however, Roman’s absence in the beginning lingered in the back of her mind for the whole match. It made her angry that he wasn’t there. It’s part of his job to show up and be there for her. That’s what mentors do.

Or maybe she just… wanted him there. Wanted his presence.

She feels a wide array of arms and voices enveloping her in congratulations as Solo, Sami, Jimmy, Jey, and even Naomi come to celebrate her big win. It takes a minute or so but something begins to feel off for her. A sharp pain shoots down her leg and she groans. Bayley had targeted her left leg a bit more than she was expecting, but she felt fine. Until now at least.

“I think I need to sit down…” Y/N tells them, causing every one of them to share a concerned look.

Josh is the first one to notice the small wince in her eyebrows, “What’s going on?” He asks worriedly.

“My leg,” she says, nodding down to it as they guide her over to one of the many stray pieces of furniture backstage.

Sami lets out an audible gasp as he looks at her knee, “Oh my God,” he kneels down in front of her. “That’s definitely not normal.”

Her right knee is battered and bruised from the many times Bayley ran her into the posts and turnbuckles. There were only a few times where it hit harder than anticipated, but she wasn’t expecting it to look this bad. It’s swollen beyond belief, already starting to have a dark bruise surrounding it. It looks very different from her good leg.

“Holy shit,” Trinity places her hands on the site gently making Y/N bite the inside of her cheek with a quiet groan. “Yeah, my bet is that it’s dislocated.” She shoots the younger woman an empathetic look, having experienced a similar injury herself. “I’m sorry hun, but we’re gonna have to get a paramedic or someone over here to push it back in place.”

Y/N winces again but nods, “Okay, yeah, let’s do that,” she manages to grunt out as the adrenaline wears off more and more.

Trinity assigns everyone a job to do to make sure this is as quick and painless as possible. Y/N’s only instruction was to stay where she was, which only made her chuckle because it’s not like she could walk very far.

After a few moments sitting alone, she couldn’t help but grind her teeth together as her knee throbbed relentlessly. She ran a hand through her tangled hair, counting down the seconds until someone could fix her current problem. The only thing she can do until one of them comes back with the paramedics is mentally prepare herself for the pain that comes with putting her knee back in place.

She heard the footsteps before she saw him. A slow, steady stride that was distinctly him. And then, rounding the corner with his usual brooding expression, Roman appeared, his gaze immediately locking onto her injury.

“What the hell happened?” His voice was low, controlled, but the storm in his eyes betrayed his composure. His arms crossed tightly over his chest as he took in the state she was in—her bruised and swollen knee, the way she sat awkwardly to avoid aggravating it, and worst of all, the fact that she was alone.

Y/N exhaled sharply, looking down at her knee. “Bayley happened,” she muttered, flexing her fingers against the cushion beside her. “Guess I took more hits than I realized.”

Roman’s eyes swept over her injury before narrowing. “And why are you sitting here by yourself?” His tone wasn’t harsh, but there was an unmistakable layer of frustration beneath it.

She should be mad at him. And she was. Or at least, she had been. But now, as the anger simmered down, it left behind something softer—something she wasn’t prepared to feel.

So instead of snapping at him, she just looked up, eyes filled with something vulnerable as she asked quietly, “Where were you?”

Roman’s jaw ticked. He knew she wasn’t just asking about now. She meant before the match. Before she stepped into the ring with Bayley, looking for his usual last-minute pep talk or critique. And he had no good excuse—at least, not one he could give her.

Y/N watched as his lips parted slightly, as if he were about to answer, but nothing came.

She sighed, shaking her head before looking away. “Never mind. Forget it.” A humorless chuckle escaped her lips, but it lacked its usual spark. “I don’t know why I assumed you’d be there for everything.”

That stung.

Roman felt his temper flare at her words, not because they were unfair, but because she genuinely believed them. He crouched down in front of her, leaning in slightly, his presence commanding as always.

“I’ll always be there,” he said, voice firm. “Don’t ever doubt that.”

Something about the way he said it sent a shiver down her spine. It wasn’t just a promise—it was a vow.

Her chest ached, but it wasn’t from her knee. She quickly looked away, suddenly feeling too exposed under his gaze.

Roman cleared his throat and nodded toward her leg. “You need to take better care of yourself,” he muttered. “You should’ve tapped out if it was this bad.”

Y/N let out a scoff, shaking her head. “Of course, even when I’m sitting here crippled, you still find a way to lecture me.”

Roman smirked slightly. “Someone’s gotta knock some sense into you.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”

But then, his expression softened, just slightly. “For what it’s worth…” He tilted his head, eyes never leaving hers. “I still saw you kick ass out there.”

Y/N raised a brow at him, a teasing smirk playing on her lips. “Kick ass? So does that mean you don’t have a single critique for me this time?”

Roman gave a slow shrug. “It’d be mean to tell you while you’re injured.”

Y/N let out a genuine laugh at that, and for a second, the pain in her knee was completely forgotten. Then, without thinking, Roman reached forward, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. It was a simple gesture. Nothing he hadn’t done before. But this time… it felt different. The second his fingertips grazed her skin, something shifted in the air between them. It was like the world had tilted slightly off its axis, like everything had narrowed down to just this.

Her breath hitched. His hand lingered for a moment too long. And suddenly, she wasn’t thinking about her injury, or her frustration, or the match she had just won.

She was thinking about him.

Roman’s fingers curled into a loose fist as he pulled back, as if he was stopping himself from doing something reckless. His throat bobbed slightly, and Y/N could swear she saw the slightest flicker of uncertainty in his normally unreadable expression.

And then—

“Alright, we’re back!”

Jey’s voice sliced through the moment like a knife.

Roman was on his feet in an instant, stepping back just as Jimmy, Sami, and the others came rushing in with the paramedics.

Y/N exhaled slowly, blinking a few times as she tried to process whatever the hell had just happened. But judging by the way Roman was standing a little too stiffly beside her, arms crossed tightly over his chest, she wasn’t the only one feeling it.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

It had been a couple weeks since Y/N’s match with Bayley and she’s been on a winning streak ever since. Her knee healed up quite nicely, occasionally needing to wear a brace to keep the pressure off of it, but other than that, it’s been great.

The only thing that seems to have shifted slightly is her dynamic with Joe. Since that night, things have been a bit more… tense than usual. They still argue and challenge each other like they used to, but now instead of it ending with one of them rolling their eyes and leaving, it ends with one of them getting in the other’s face and staring at each other for way too long to be considered normal.

Even during training, Y/N finds herself shivering whenever he places his hands on her to help correct a move she messed up on. Anytime he’s around her, whispering in her ear how to use the correct form, her mind fogs and she can no longer focus on what they were doing. It frustrates him to no end because he perceives her as being off her game. And in a way she is, but it’s not her fault.

It’s his.

For being sculpted by the damn Greek gods. He’s intoxicating. She didn’t realize how genuinely attractive he was because she was always so focused on making him mad. But now she wants to make him mad for other reasons.

Now she wants to irritate him so he feels the need to get in her space. To invade her senses with everything that is Roman. She knows it’s more than wrong for her to feel this way about the man who is mentoring her, but she can’t help it. He’s managed to worm his way into her mind and she doesn’t mind his residency.

Her knuckles rap on the door to his private office three times. She bites the inside of her cheek until a small “come in” allows her access into the room. She slowly opens the door, her breath hitching when she sees what’s in front of her.

It’s nothing scandalous. Just Joe hunched over his desk, his hair pulled back in a manbun, a tight fitting t-shirt and sweats adorning his body as he fills out some paperwork. But the soft glow of the yellow light and the way his face isn’t pinched so tightly, it makes him look majestic.

“Jon said you wanted to see me,” she says, taking a step closer to his desk, arms folded over her chest.

“Yeah, I do,” he nods as he places his pen down, folding his hands together as he leans forward. Y/N can’t help the way her eyes travel to his biceps, the way they flex with just the smallest of movements makes her heart hammer against her ribcage.

There’s a long moment of silence until she realizes she’s been staring for a bit too long. “About…?” She asks with her usual level of sass.

Y/N watches as Joe leans back in his chair, a slow inhale filling his broad chest. He studies her, his dark eyes dragging over her face like he’s weighing something, considering his approach. She’s used to his intensity by now, but something about the way he’s looking at her tonight sets her nerves on edge.

“I think,” he finally says, voice smooth and deliberate, “we need to revisit your answer from a few months ago.”

She blinks. “My—what?”

His lips twitch, just barely. “Your answer. About the Bloodline.”

Y/N shifts her weight, arms tightening over her chest as she exhales sharply. “Seriously? That’s what this is about?”

Joe tilts his head, unfazed by her exasperation. “Yeah. It is.”

Y/N lets out a humorless laugh, shaking her head. “I thought we already settled this.”

“I didn’t.”

Her eyes snap to his, but he’s already rising from his chair, moving with that quiet, lethal confidence that always makes her feel like she’s on the verge of being devoured.

“Y/N,” he says, stepping closer, voice dropping just slightly. “You’ve been running with us for months now. Winning matches. Representing us. Whether you want to admit it or not, you’re already part of this family.”

She clenches her jaw, heart thudding. “I told you—I don’t do hierarchies.”

Joe hums, as if he expected that answer. He reaches for something on his desk, lifting it into view.

The Bloodline jacket.

The sight of it sends an odd rush through her—one she really doesn’t want to analyze.

“This belongs to you,” Joe murmurs, stepping even closer.

Y/N swallows, forcing herself to hold his gaze. “You don’t get to decide that.”

Joe lets out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “You’re the only one who hasn’t accepted it yet. Everybody else already knows where you stand.”

Y/N narrows her eyes. “And where exactly is that?”

Joe just watches her, the answer in his silence.

It’s in the way Solo always has her back. In the way the Usos claim her as one of their own. In the way Paul Heyman talks about her like she’s already sworn her allegiance.

She is part of this. She just hasn’t said it yet.

Y/N exhales slowly, shaking her head. “I don’t need a jacket to prove I’m good enough to run with you.”

Joe’s smirk is slow, dangerous. “No. But it’d be nice to hear you say it.”

Her breath catches slightly. She can feel the shift now. The sudden weight in the air between them. The way his voice has dipped just enough to make her stomach tighten.

“Put it on,” Joe says, softer this time, stepping around her. The move is so smooth, so fluid, that she doesn’t even realize what’s happening until he’s right behind her.

Her pulse hammers.

Because now he’s close. So close she can feel the heat radiating from his body, the soft tickle of his breath against the side of her neck. Y/N’s whole body locks up, her fingers twitching slightly at her sides. She should step away. She should shake her head and make some smart-ass comment and put space between them before this tension swallows her whole.

But she doesn’t. Because for some godforsaken reason, she loves it. She likes the way his presence wraps around her like something tangible. Likes the way he makes it impossible to think straight.

His fingers brush over her shoulder, guiding the jacket into place like a crown being placed on royalty.

“Say it,” he murmurs, voice a low, steady hum against her skin. “Acknowledge me.”

Y/N exhales, eyes fluttering shut for half a second before she forces them back open. She doesn’t do this. She doesn’t submit. And no matter how badly her body is betraying her right now, she won’t start with him.

So with every ounce of control she has left, she steps forward, letting the jacket slip from her shoulders before turning to face him. Joe watches her, his expression unreadable. “I don’t take orders,” she says, voice steady despite the rapid beating of her heart.

A slow smirk curves his lips. “I know.”

There’s something about the way he says it—like he isn’t mad. Like he likes this push and pull just as much as she does. Y/N clenches her jaw, forcing herself to ignore the way her stomach flips at the sight of that goddamn smirk. “So that’s it?” she asks, tilting her chin. “You’re just gonna let it go?”

Joe exhales through his nose, looking almost amused. “You think I’m gonna stop just because you’re being stubborn?”

Y/N scoffs. “I think you’re gonna try.”

Joe’s eyes darken slightly, his tongue running over the inside of his cheek. She should really stop provoking him. But God, it’s fun.

Before either of them can say another word, the door swings open.

“Hey, Uce, we got—”

Josh stops short, his eyes flicking between them.

Joe takes a step back, his posture shifting, expression smoothing back into something unreadable. Y/N clenches her jaw, pulse still thundering in her ears as Josh gives them both a slow, knowing look.

“Uh-huh,” he mutters under his breath before shaking his head. “We’ll talk later, big dog.”

Joe doesn’t look at her as Jey exits, but Y/N feels his attention shift back to her. The air between them is different now. Electric. Dangerous. And as much as she wants to put off her decision—she knows she won’t be able to. One way or the other, Roman’s going to get an answer. Y/N just doesn’t know how long she’ll be able to stand her ground with him.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The roar of the crowd is deafening as Y/N saunters her way to the ring. It’s a buzzing Friday night in Atlanta Georgia as her theme music echoes around the large stadium. Y/N stops dead center of the walkway, dropping it low which causes whistles to emerge from the audience. She laughs, stopping to say hi to fans and sign posters on her way.

Roman, Jey, Jimmy, Sami, Solo, and Paul Heyman watch with a mix of curiosity, irritation, amusement, and anger as she had just interrupted their segment. None of them knew this was planned beside her which is what made their reactions even better.

It was all Paul Levesque’s idea. To have her go out and interrupt an important moment to cause some tension. The crowd loves her attitude so it was good for business to do something like this.

Y/N moves toward the steps, taking her time, soaking in the moment before slipping into the ring. She doesn’t acknowledge the tension immediately, instead adjusting the leather jacket over her shoulders before finally turning to face Roman.

The Tribal Chief.

She lifts the mic, tapping it twice before speaking, her voice carrying over the noise. “So this is what a Bloodline family meeting looks like,” she muses, glancing around. “I gotta say, it’s a little culty.”

Roman stares at her blankly as the room buzzes with anticipation and tension. Everyone’s eyes flicker between Roman and Y/N, the Tribal Chief staring her down like she just committed a war crime. Y/N can’t help but chuckle. She tilts her head, running her tongue over her teeth before lifting her mic again. “You don’t look happy to see me, Chief.”

Roman exhales through his nose, jaw tight. “You got a habit of interrupting things that don’t concern you.”

She scoffs, pacing a slow circle around them. “See, that’s where you’re wrong.” She gestures around the arena, the thousands of screaming fans. “This? This concerns me. Everything concerns me.” She shrugs. “Guess that’s the price of being a free agent. No orders. No one to answer to.” Her smirk sharpens as she turns back to him. “Unlike you.”

Jey lets out a sharp laugh before he schools his face, coughing into his fist. Jimmy’s grin widens, clearly entertained, while Sami presses his lips together like he’s trying to become invisible.

Roman, however, remains still. Controlled. Watching.

Y/N clicks her tongue. “You like to call yourself the Head of the Table, right?” She steps forward, deliberately closing the space between them. “But from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re just another guy scared to eat alone.”

The tension in the ring spikes. Jey’s brows shoot up. Even Solo shifts slightly, his gaze flickering to Roman.

Y/N takes another step, lifting a hand to count off on her fingers. “You need your cousins to fight your battles. You need your Wise Man to do your talking. Hell, you even needed Sami here to boost morale. But you?” She gestures to him with her mic. “Take all that away, and what are you?”

The crowd lets out an “OHHHHH!” in response, feeding off her confidence, her defiance.

Roman doesn’t react immediately. He just tilts his head slightly, as if considering her words. Then he finally lifts his mic. “You don’t stand with us. We know that You’ve made that clear.”

“Damn right, I don’t.” Y/N folds her arms, her eyes burning with challenge. “I don’t fall in line. I lead.”

Roman hums low in his throat, nodding as he steps closer, his presence suffocating. “That why you’re out here? You trying to prove something?”

“Nah.” Y/N tilts her chin up, her smirk unwavering. “Just thought someone should finally tell you the truth.”

Roman watches her, dark eyes unwavering, before he slowly shakes his head. “Nah.” His voice is calm, controlled. “Nah, you know what I think? You’re out here because you want my attention.”

Y/N raises a brow. “Oh, you think so?”

Roman exhales slowly, stepping even closer, his voice dropping to something almost intimate despite the thousands watching. “You want to stand across from me. Test me. Push me.” His head tilts slightly. “You want to be noticed. But sweetheart, the only person here who deserves to be noticed… who deserves acknowledgment is me,” his voice drops an octave making the crowd erupt. “I am your Tribal Chief.”

The crowd screams, chanting, urging her to do as he asks, “Acknowledge him! Acknowledge him!”

Y/N’s smirk falters for half a second before she lets out a scoff. “That’s cute, really. The whole cult leader act.” She leans in slightly, voice dripping with mock sympathy. “You need my validation that bad?”

Roman just watches her, waiting. The crowd chants louder, the entire stadium shaking.

Y/N exhales, shaking her head. “Yeah, sorry, big guy. Not happening.” She shifts her stance, glancing at his cousins before looking back at him. “If anything, maybe this table needs a new head. Maybe… you should acknowledge me.”

There’s a flicker in his expression—something dangerous, something unreadable. “You better watch your mouth.”

And that’s when she makes her mistake. She clicks her tongue, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Or what, Roman? You gonna have your lapdogs do your dirty work for you again?”

The air shifts instantly. Jey’s grin vanishes. Jimmy stops smirking. Even Sami looks alarmed. Roman doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Then, he exhales slowly, hands on his hips, before he turns slightly—to no one in particular. “Solo. Jimmy.”

That’s it. No further instruction. No elaboration.

And before Y/N can fully process what’s happening, hands grab her arms, yanking her back.

“What the hell?” she snaps, struggling against them. The crowd erupts in a chaotic mix of cheers and shouts, but she barely hears them over the sudden shock of the moment.

This wasn’t part of the plan.

Jimmy has a firm grip on one arm, but it’s Solo who truly locks her down, his strength damn near unshakable. Y/N thrashes, planting her feet, but they don’t stop, dragging her out of the ring as she shouts, “You seriously this pressed, Roman?!”

Roman doesn’t react. Doesn’t stop them. Just watches.

And as she’s hauled up the ramp, the last thing she sees before disappearing behind the curtain is him standing there, unmoved, unreadable.

But still watching.

She kicks and yells at Solo and Jimmy as they drag her to Roman’s office. Some of the other wrestlers watch as she’s taken. She sends them all pleading looks, silently begging for someone to save her but no one does. A part of her is genuinely fearful that she crossed a line, but he knew it was all acting, right? He had to. It’s part of their job, their characters. The world knows he’s offered her a spot at the table and she’s been very vocal about where she stands. It aligned with their story, so why is he doing this? Could it be to add to it and she’s worried for nothing?

Jimmy and Solo open the door to the room, allowing her to walk inside. Both men look like they want to say something, to apologize, wish her luck, save her, but they decide against it. Y/N sends them a reassuring smile before they walk off. She looks over her shoulder for a split second and suddenly the door closes with a small click, indicating the door has been locked.

She turns back around and sees a seething Roman Reigns standing in front of her. His chest rises and falls with every breath, his jaw clenched tightly as he stares at the mouthy woman in front of him. He’s been slowly losing it since the day he met her and today might be the day where he disregards the importance of professional boundaries.

Today might be the day where he snaps.

The silence between them stretches tight, humming with something thick and electric.

Y/N stands her ground, her breath even despite the wildfire running through her veins. But Roman—he’s not still. His fists flex at his sides, his chest rising and falling with slow, measured breaths. Like he’s trying to steady himself. Like he’s fighting the urge to do something neither of them can take back.

Good.

She wants to push him.

Because he’s been pushing her for weeks, forcing her into this—into whatever this is. The way he looks at her like he sees everything. The way he steps too close, speaks too low, lingers too long. She’s not stupid. She’s noticed. But he won’t admit it. Not outright.

So she’ll make him.

She tilts her head slightly, keeping her voice cool. “If you have something to say, Chief, say it.”

Roman exhales slowly through his nose, his jaw flexing. “You think this is a joke?”

Y/N smirks. “I think you like being in charge of everyone in your life, and it gives you an insatiable itch that you can’t scratch knowing you can’t break me. That you can’t get me to beg for your validation.”

His fists clench. There it is. A crack in the armor. A flicker of something darker in his eyes.

Y/N steps closer, feeling reckless, feeling emboldened by the way his breathing changes, the way his shoulders tense, the way his eyes track every single movement she makes like he can’t help himself.

She lifts a brow. “Or am I wrong?”

Roman doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But the air shifts. Tightens.

And that’s when she knows she’s right. She lets out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “That’s what this is, isn’t it? You don’t like that I don’t fall in line. That I can read you like a damn book. That I can see through all those stoic walls you put up. I see what you hide from the world.”

Roman’s jaw ticks. She takes another step forward. “What is it, huh?” she pushes. “You bark orders at everyone else, and they listen, but me? I don’t make it easy for you, do I?”

Roman exhales, slow, measured. “You need to watch yourself, Y/N.”

She ignores the warning. “No, I think you do.” She sees it again—the flicker of something barely restrained. So she keeps going. “Because you can pretend all you want, but I see it,” she murmurs. “The way you look at me.”

Roman’s gaze darkens. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

She tilts her head. “Am I?”

His fists flex again, and she doesn’t miss the way his breath catches, just slightly, at the challenge in her tone.

“Tell me, Chief,” she continues, voice smooth, sharp. “Did you like it?”

His brow furrows slightly, just barely. “Like what?”

“The jacket.”

His entire body tenses.

Bingo.

Y/N smirks, stepping even closer, forcing him to either back away or stand his ground. He doesn’t move. Of course he doesn’t.

“I saw the way you looked at me when I wore it,” she says, voice quieter now, more pointed. “I saw the way your grip tightened, the way your jaw clenched. You couldn’t stop staring.”

Roman exhales sharply, his eyes locked onto hers with a fire that wasn’t there before. Y/N tilts her head. “Why is that?” Roman doesn’t answer so she presses further. “Was it because I didn’t belong in it?” she muses, watching him closely. “Or was it because I did? That the simple thought of me walking around in your colors did something to you?”

That’s when it happens. The shift. The moment his restraint snaps. Roman moves before she can blink. One second, he’s standing in front of her, barely keeping himself in check—

The next, he’s shoving her back, forcing her down into the chair behind her.

The movement is fast, precise, effortless. His hands grip the arms of the chair, caging her in, his face inches from hers, his body looming over hers like a storm about to break.

Y/N’s breath catches, her pulse hammering. Roman stares at her, breathing heavy, his chest rising and falling in sharp, deliberate movements.

And then—

“You have no idea what you’ve been doing to me,” he murmurs, voice low, rough, dangerous.

Y/N swallows, her skin burning where he hovers, where his presence presses down on her like gravity. She wants to speak. Wants to throw something back at him. But she can’t. Because she feels it now. The weight of it. Of every single one of their battles, their challenges, their little wars. They weren’t just about dominance.

She suddenly finds it hard to maintain eye contact, but Roman can see her trying to mentally escape. He quickly takes her jaw into his hand, holding it in place so she can’t look away from him. She got to talk, so now it’s his turn.

“Don’t look away from me.”

Y/N can feel the chills surge through her body at the command. His hand is warm on her icy skin, causing her cheeks to flush from the actual heat and the situation. She blinks slowly, her eyelashes fluttering which makes Roman suck in a sharp breath. The innocence in her face is more than misleading. Looking at her, anyone would think she’s nice, well-mannered, and behaved.

How wrong they would be.

Roman exhales slowly, his gaze dropping to her lips for half a second before flicking back up. “I shouldn’t be looking at you the way that I do,” he says, voice quieter now, but no less intense.

Y/N’s throat tightens. She breathes, steady despite the fire running through her veins. “Then stop.”

His lips twitch, just barely. “You think it’s that simple?” he asks, tilting his head.

Y/N narrows her eyes. “I think you’re scared of what happens if you give in.”

Roman hums, his grip tightening slightly on the chair. “I think you look at me the same way I look at you.”

Her stomach flips. She doesn’t answer. Because if she does—she might just crack.

“You look at me like you want me to do something about it,” he murmurs.

Y/N’s heart continues to hammer at a rate that can’t be considered healthy. His face is so close to hers. If she simply leaned forward, she could satisfy the craving of wanting his lips on hers.

Roman exhales slowly, his thumb grazing the underside of her jaw. “Say it,” he murmurs.

Y/N swallows. “Say what?”

“That you don’t feel it.” His voice is almost a whisper now, but it’s rough, heavy with something dangerous. “That you don’t feel this.”

Y/N’s throat tightens. She should lie. She should laugh. She should roll her eyes, shake her head, tell him he’s imagining things. But she doesn’t.

Instead, she exhales slowly, forcing herself to keep her voice steady. “Now look who’s playing dangerous.”

Roman’s grip on the chair tightens. “And you don’t mind playing high risk, do you?”

Y/N lets the smallest smirk touch her lips. “No,” she murmurs. “I don’t.”

And just like that— Roman lets her go.

The absence of his touch is immediate, almost jarring, but Y/N refuses to back down. She holds his gaze for a long moment, neither of them speaking, neither of them breaking.

Then, finally, Roman exhales, voice quieter now. “This isn’t over.”

Y/N’s pulse is still racing, but she smirks. “I would despair if it was.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Y/N sits in the locker room, her head tilted back against the cool metal of the lockers, eyes shut as she tries to steady the storm in her head. But it’s useless. Roman’s voice is still there. The feeling of his fingers on her jaw, the weight of his stare—every moment of their last confrontation is still there. And it’s driving her insane.

The worst part? It’s not just the tension, the fights, the way they keep pushing each other to the edge. It’s the fact that deep down, something in her craves it. Craves him. And that? That’s unacceptable.

A sharp sigh leaves her lips, frustration simmering beneath her skin as she rubs her hands over her face. “Fucking hell,” she mutters under her breath.

“That bad, huh?”

She jerks her head up at the sound of Seth’s voice. He’s leaning against the lockers, arms crossed over his chest, his expression somewhere between amused and knowing.

Y/N groans, dropping her head back. “Please don’t start.”

Seth chuckles, pushing off the lockers and dropping onto the bench beside her. “I haven’t even said anything yet.”

She shoots him a look. “You’re thinking it.”

“Well, yeah,” Seth admits, smirking. “You’re sitting here, looking like you wanna put your head through a wall. And considering your favorite hobby lately has been trying to start a war with Roman, I’m gonna go ahead and assume he’s the reason you look like you’re about to lose your damn mind.”

Y/N scoffs. “I am not starting a war with him.”

Seth raises an eyebrow.

She rolls her eyes. “Okay, fine. Maybe I am. But it’s not like he doesn’t deserve it.”

Seth hums. “Mm. Sure.”

She glares at him. “Don’t ‘mm, sure’ me.”

Seth just smirks again, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Alright, so tell me—what’d he say after he had his goonies drag you to his office?”

Y/N exhales sharply. “It’s not even—ugh. It’s not just one thing. It’s everything. The way he looks at me, the way he gets in my face, the way he acts like I belong to him or something.” She throws her hands up. “It’s like he’s always there, always pushing, always—watching me.”

Seth tilts his head, studying her. “And that bothers you?”

She blinks. “Obviously.”

Seth shrugs. “You sure about that?”

Y/N narrows her eyes. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Seth sighs, resting his elbows on his knees. “Look, I know you like to fight. It’s what you do. But if this was just about him trying to control you, you’d have walked away by now.”

Y/N tenses. “I have walked away.”

Seth snorts. “Yeah? How’s that working out for you?”

She falls silent.

Seth gives her a knowing look. “Y/N, you’re not fighting him because you hate what he represents. You’re fighting him because you feel it too, and you don’t know what the hell to do with that.”

Her breath catches. “No,” she says automatically. “That’s not—”

“Then why do you care so much?” Seth challenges.

Y/N clenches her jaw.

Seth exhales, shaking his head. “You wanna know why he gets under your skin? Why you can’t get him out of your head?”

She doesn’t answer. But she doesn’t stop him, either.

Seth leans back, his expression shifting, no longer teasing but thoughtful. “Because you don’t trust it,” he says simply.

Y/N stiffens.

“You don’t trust that someone like him—someone as powerful as he is—can want you without trying to own you,” Seth continues. “And maybe, yeah, maybe a part of him does want to own you. But not in the way you think.”

Her throat feels tight.

“You think he wants control?” Seth shakes his head. “No. He wants you. And that scares the hell out of you.”

Y/N swallows hard, looking away. “You’re wrong.”

Seth smirks. “Then why are you still sitting here like you’re trying to solve the world’s hardest riddle?”

She says nothing.

And Seth? Seth just pats her shoulder before standing up, his voice lighter now as he walks away. “Think about it, princess.”

Later that night, Y/N finds herself wandering around aimlessly as she waits for Jey and Jimmy to finish their match. The backstage halls are quieter than usual, but Y/N barely notices. Her boots echo against the concrete floor as she walks aimlessly, lost in thought, Seth’s words playing over and over in her head.

"You don’t trust that someone like him—someone as powerful as he is—can want you without trying to own you."

"He wants you. And that scares the hell out of you."

Her jaw clenches as she swipes a hand down her face. He’s wrong. He has to be wrong. Because if he’s right—

No. She won’t let herself finish that thought.

Y/N exhales sharply, trying to shake the feeling, but it clings to her like a second skin. Her body is restless, like an itch she can’t scratch, an answer she can’t find. She needs to move, to do something—anything to distract herself.

Then she hears it. Roman’s voice. She stops in her tracks.

It’s low, rough with something she can’t quite place, but there’s a weight to it that makes her breath catch in her throat. The door to his locker room is cracked open just enough to let the sound slip through, an unguarded moment not meant for anyone else to hear. She shouldn’t listen, but she does.

Inside, Roman runs a hand over his face, his fingers dragging down his beard as he exhales heavily. “I don’t know what else to do,” he mutters, voice strained.

Paul, standing beside him, folds his hands in front of him. “She’s stubborn.”

A short, humorless chuckle leaves Roman’s lips. “Yeah. Tell me something I don’t know.”

Paul tilts his head. “She fights you at every turn. That doesn’t surprise me. But what does concern me…” He hesitates.

Roman looks up at him, already knowing where this is going. “Go ahead, Wise Man. Say it.”

Paul sighs, carefully choosing his words. “I think you’re making this personal.”

Roman scoffs, shaking his head. “It is personal.”

Paul studies him for a moment. “More than it should be?”

Roman tenses. That’s the problem, isn’t it? It is more personal than it should be. At first, it was just about bringing her in, keeping her close, making sure she understood who she belonged to. It was about loyalty, about keeping her safe in the way he deemed necessary. But somewhere along the way—he stopped thinking about it as just a responsibility. Somewhere along the way—it became about her. Roman exhales sharply. “You don’t get it, Paul.”

Paul raises a brow. “Then help me understand.”

Roman leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his fingers laced together as he stares at the floor. “I’ve tried everything. I’ve given her space. I’ve given her time. I’ve tried forcing her hand. None of it works.” He lifts his gaze, eyes dark with frustration. “She’s still fighting me.”

Paul hums thoughtfully. “She’s also scared.”

Roman’s eyes flicker. “Of me?”

Paul shakes his head. “No. Of what you mean to her.”

Roman stills and Paul steps forward slightly, his voice careful. “She’s never had someone like you before. Someone who watches over her. Someone who sees her.” He tilts his head. “And I don’t think she knows what to do with that.”

Silence stretches between them.

“I’m not trying to control her,” Roman says quietly. “I just…” He trails off, voice rough around the edges. His fingers tighten together. “I don’t want her to be alone in this.”

Paul watches him for a long moment. Then he exhales, nodding slowly. “You care for her.”

Roman’s jaw tightens. “She’s one of mine.”

Paul doesn’t look convinced. “It’s more than that. I can see it. She’s more than just numbers to you.”

Roman exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face again. He doesn’t answer. Because what is there to say?

Outside the door, Y/N can barely breathe. Her pulse pounds in her ears, her hands clenched at her sides as she tries to process what she just heard. She wasn’t expecting this. Wasn’t expecting him to be struggling just as much as she was. Because he is struggling. She hears it in his voice, the weight behind his words. She feels it. It isn’t just about dominance or control for him. It’s about her.

It’s about them.

The realization makes something shift inside her, something she can’t ignore any longer. Because if she’s been fighting this— So has he. If she’s been pushing him away— He’s been holding himself back. Her breath catches.

Seth was right.

The reason Roman gets under her skin isn’t because she hates him. It’s because she’s terrified of what it means to want him. To trust him. To let herself be his. And for the first time, she wonders… What if she stopped fighting? What if she acknowledged him?

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Looking at herself in the mirror, Y/N couldn’t believe what she was doing. She shrugs on the familiar black and red colors, a small smirk on her face as she admires how she looks in the mirror. Roman has his own segment in the next few minutes and she intends to make it one he’ll never forget.

After everything that’s happened between them, she’s finally come to realize that fighting him is only a way of trying to deny how she really felt about Joe and what he meant to her. She was trying hard to fight his control because truthfully, she wouldn’t mind belonging to him.

Her eyes dance over the Bloodline jacket that fits her far too well, her fingers dancing over the fabric. She runs her fingers over the stitching, the weight of it heavier than she expected. He’s been waiting for her to wear it. To claim her place.

And for the first time— She thinks she might actually want to.

This time It’s not about defiance. It’s about choice. It’s about him. And this time… She’s finally ready to choose.

The arena is electric. The crowd is still buzzing from the match that just ended, the energy thick with excitement, with awe, with dominance. Roman Reigns stands in the center of the ring, championship slung over his shoulder, sweat glistening against his skin as he takes in the sea of fans, the deafening chants of his name.

Another victory. Another opponent put down.

Whoever stood across from him tonight had already become an afterthought. It didn’t matter who it was—Cody, Seth, AJ—because the result was always the same.

Roman Reigns. On top. As always.

He lifts the mic to his lips, smirking as he lets the audience’s reaction settle.

But then— The music hits. Her music. And Roman’s entire demeanor shifts.

The crowd erupts at the familiar sound, voices rising in a chaotic mixture of cheers and gasps. The camera pans back to the entrance, but Roman doesn’t turn. He doesn’t need to. His grip tightens around the mic, his fingers flexing, his jaw clenching. He already knows what this is. Another interruption. Another challenge. Another night where she tries to test him.

He exhales through his nose, fighting the instinct to roll his eyes. She’s been doing this for weeks now, throwing herself into his moments, standing against him with that fire in her eyes, acting like she has any kind of control in this game.

And tonight, she’s trying it again. At least—that’s what he thinks.

Then he sees her. And for the first time in a long time—Roman Reigns is shocked, the breath feeling like it’s been knocked out of his lungs. Because Y/N isn’t strutting out in her usual gear, not in the colors she’s worn every time she’s stepped onto this stage before.

No.

She’s wearing his colors. Black and red. The Bloodline colors. And not just that. The Bloodline jacket. His jacket. The one she’s refused to put on, the one she’s ignored, rejected—until now.

Roman’s body goes still, his expression unreadable, but inside, his pulse is pounding. She steps onto the stage slowly, deliberately, her smirk unmistakable as she scans the crowd, soaking in their reaction. She knows what she’s doing. The way she walks, the way her fingers play with the edges of the jacket, the way she makes a show of it. Roman’s eyes darken. She’s teasing him. Pushing him. But this time—it’s different. Because for the first time, she’s not pushing him away. She’s coming closer.

Y/N starts her slow descent down the ramp, taking her time, milking the moment. Roman doesn’t move, doesn’t take his eyes off her, his championship hanging loosely from his grip. The closer she gets, the more the tension builds. By the time she reaches the steps, the anticipation in the air is thick. She climbs into the ring smoothly, sliding between the ropes with ease, and then—finally—she stands before him.

Roman stares down at her, his breath slow, controlled, his face still a mask of dominance. But inside, he feels the fight in his veins, the war between wanting to push her back or pull her in. Then she smiles. That smile. The one that tells him she knows what she’s doing to him. She lifts the mic, tilting her head slightly, her voice laced with amusement. "You like what you see, Chief?"

A muscle in Roman’s jaw ticks. The crowd erupts. A slow smirk plays on her lips as she takes another step forward, intentionally making him feel the heat of her presence, making sure he sees every inch of her in that jacket. She turns in a slow circle, dragging her fingers along the hem of the fabric, as if showing off. Roman’s fingers twitch. She stops in front of him again, the playful tilt of her head only fueling the tension stretching between them. "You look surprised," she muses, eyes flickering over his face, watching his every reaction.

Roman exhales sharply through his nose. “Should I be?”

She hums, trailing her fingers along the sleeve of the jacket now. “I don’t know, Tribal Chief. Should you be?”

Roman clenches his jaw. She’s testing him. Again. But it’s different this time. Because now, she’s his. Even if she doesn’t fully realize it yet. His voice is lower when he speaks, edged with something darker, something controlled. “Why are you wearing that?”

Y/N runs a hand down the front of the jacket, smoothing the fabric over her frame, and then—without warning—she reaches out, her fingers ghosting over his bicep. Roman’s muscles tighten instinctively beneath her touch. She doesn’t move away. "I just figured it was about time," she murmurs, her tone laced with something dangerously close to sweet.

Roman’s nostrils flare. “Figured what was about time?”

She smiles again—soft, slow, knowing. "For me to look this good in your colors."

Roman clenches his fists once again. The crowd is losing their minds, but Roman barely hears them over the sound of his own thoughts. Over the heat building in his chest, in his veins. She’s pushing him to the edge of his own restraint. And she knows it. He watches her, silent, his dark eyes burning into hers. “You think this is a game?”

Y/N bites her lip, amusement flickering in her gaze. “No. But I do think this is fun.”

Roman fights the urge to exhale too hard. Fights the urge to reach for her, to do something. He tilts his head, stepping closer, his voice dropping. “And you think wearing that makes you one of us now?”

She smirks. “Maybe.”

Roman watches her for another long second, studying her face, trying to find anything in her expression that might tell him what she’s really thinking.

And then she turns to the crowd. Her gaze sweeps over them before she lifts the microphone again. "I think it’s time to accept my rightful place at the table, no?"

The arena explodes. Roman feels something shift in the air—something real. She turns back to face him, standing tall. And then she lifts her hand, raising her finger in the air. The acknowledgment. The submission. The choice. Then, locking eyes with him, steady and unshaken. "I acknowledge you."

Roman doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t breathe. Because for weeks, for months, she has fought him. Denied him. And now— Now she’s standing in his ring, wearing his jacket, looking him in the eyes and giving in. By choice.

Roman clenches his jaw, his chest rising and falling with every controlled breath, forcing himself to stay composed. Because every instinct in his body is screaming at him to grab her. To claim her. To remind her who she just gave herself to. But he doesn’t. Because he is the Tribal Chief. He is in control. He forces a slow, measured smirk to tug at his lips, his voice dropping to something only she can hear.

"Took you long enough."

The crowd erupts. Y/N just grins. And for the first time— She feels like she belongs.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Walking backstage, Y/N could feel her heart hammering in her chest. Roman has his hand placed gently on her lower back, no words being exchanged as he guides her back to his private office. Her nerves are on fire. She could see in his eyes how satisfied he was seeing her representing him and his family. She just hopes it sent the message she wanted it to.

She doesn’t want to just belong to the Bloodline. She wants to belong to him. Because for once in her life, she isn’t afraid to let someone help her. To give someone else a say in her life. As they walk, Y/N notices Colby staring at her from his spot against the wall with a knowing smirk on his face. She rolls her eyes at him, mouthing for him to “shut up” as they finally round the corner and walk into his office.

There’s a comfortable tension between the two of them as the door smoothly shuts. Y/N fiddles with the fabric of her new jacket, still trying to decipher what’s going on in Roman’s head. His expression hadn’t changed since they left the ring. He stays silent, walking past her to set his championship down on his chair. He’s deliberate, taking his time, making her squirm before he finally leans back on his desk to face her.

His arms are outstretched behind him as he leans comfortably on the wood. He can see the gears turning in her head and part of him wants to make her wait before saying anything. It would serve as a form of punishment for all the back talk she’s been giving him since he took her under his wing.

But seeing her there, rocking his colors better than he ever could, glancing around the room all nervous. It made his heart clench. He couldn’t let her sit there and think he was mad. “Well, you were right about one thing,” his voice comes out low and gruff, making Y/N’s eyes widen slightly. She wasn’t expecting him to be the one to break the silence, let alone say something like that.

“What?” Y/N asks. She almost cringes at how small her voice sounds in comparison to his. She normally matches his energy, his dominance, but right now her anxiety is too high. She doesn’t know if what she did was the right move.

Suddenly he’s standing from his spot, slowly walking over to her. Y/N can feel the heat rising to her cheeks as he cups her chin the same way he did the other night, but this time it’s much more gentle, soft even. Her heart flutters at the way he’s looking down at her. Normally his eyes are filled with some sort of irritation whenever he looks at her, but now they’re just filled with what she can only call adoration, longing maybe. “Seeing you in these colors does do something to me,” he admits quietly, the corner of his lip quirking up into an almost smile.

Y/N feels a small weight lift off her chest. He likes it. She finds herself leaning into his touch, allowing her head to rest on his hand. “Does it now?” She says, her teasing edge returning to her voice.

She raises her hand up to his arms, her fingers lightly facing the tribal tattoo that covers it. Joe sucks in a breath, fighting off the chills that threaten to explode over his skin. He loves how her touch feels. It’s almost like sliding into a freshly warmed hoodie on a cold day. “You look beautiful.”

Every brick Y/N had put in place to keep herself guarded crumbles. Any ounce of professionalism she had left disappeared at that moment. The way he said that was different than anything he had ever said to her before. He said it like it was the only truth he had ever known. Nobody has ever looked at her the way Joe is right now. There’s that same small voice that’s haunted her, telling her to run away, that he doesn’t mean it. But when she sees the unwavering expression on his face, it silences any doubts she could have. She tilts her head, “You really think so?”

“I’ve always thought so,” he confirms. “Just fought really hard to not admit it… but I don’t think I want to fight it anymore.”

Y/N chuckles softly, “I actually kinda like it,” she says, messing with the jacket once more. “I don’t know why it took me so long to just put it on. It’s pretty cute.”

Roman shakes his head, his smile growing, “Cause you’re a stubborn ass who does the exact opposite of what she’s told.”

Y/N slaps his chest with a playful glare, “Well, maybe if you weren’t so bossy I wouldn’t feel the need to defy you all the time.”

“Nah, you just did it ‘cause you like pissin’ me off,” he says, his hands finding their way to her hips. He squeezes the soft flesh there, finally feeling like the world isn’t going to crash down around him by admitting how he feels.

“You liked it too,” she counters with a grin. “But I came around eventually didn’t I?” She raises her eyebrows.

Roman studies her for a moment, his dark eyes flickering over her face as if trying to commit every little detail to memory. The teasing, the playfulness—it’s always been their dynamic. But tonight, there’s something different. Something heavier in the air between them. He feels it in the way she’s looking up at him, waiting, holding her breath like she’s expecting him to finally say what’s been left unspoken for so long.His hands tighten slightly on her hips, grounding himself in the reality that she’s here, in his colors, letting him hold her like this. Letting him see the parts of her she doesn’t just give to anyone.

“You did come around,” he repeats, his voice softer now. “Took your sweet ass time, though.”

Y/N tilts her head, lips twitching. “Yeah, well, I had to be sure it was worth it.”

Roman smirks, cocking a brow. “And?”

Her fingers trace lazy patterns over his chest, her touch barely there, but enough to make his skin burn. “I think it is.”

A satisfied hum rumbles in his chest. “Damn right, it is.”

Y/N rolls her eyes, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. She shifts a little closer, her hands sliding up his biceps, fingers pressing against the firm muscle beneath them. “You know, I think it’s funny” she muses, “even the Wise Man picked up on it.”

Roman quirks a brow. “Picked up on what?”

She gives him a knowing look. “How different you are with me. How I mean more to you than just numbers.”

His expression doesn’t change, but she feels his fingers twitch slightly against her hips. He knows exactly what she’s talking about.

“Oh,” he drawls, smirking. “So you were spying on me?”

Y/N giggles, her eyes dancing with mischief. “Maybe...”

Before she can say anything else, he moves. Swift and effortless, like it takes no effort at all to lift her up. A surprised squeal leaves her lips as he hoists her into his arms, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. “Joe!” she exclaims, laughing breathlessly as her arms loop around his neck.

He just chuckles, the sound deep and rich in her ear. “You know, you got a real bad habit of eavesdropping.”

Y/N grins. “It’s not eavesdropping if you’re talking about me.”

Roman shakes his head, his smirk never faltering. His hands slide along her thighs, securing her against him as he presses her back against the nearest wall. His gaze drops to her lips, his grip tightening just a little.

“You drive me insane, you know that?”

Y/N hums in amusement, her fingers threading into his hair. “I do.”

Then, finally, after what feels like forever, he kisses her. It’s not hesitant or uncertain. It’s not careful or slow. It’s deep, firm, and claiming—like he’s been holding back for too damn long and he’s finally allowing himself to take what he’s wanted. Y/N melts into him instantly, her body molding against his as her hands tug at his hair, pulling him impossibly closer.

He groans into her mouth, one hand sliding up her back, pressing her tighter against him as he deepens the kiss. She tastes like victory, like home, like every damn thing he’s been too stubborn to admit he needed.

When they finally break apart, Y/N’s eyes are bright with mischief, her lips swollen from his kiss. “Took you long enough,” she teases, mocking his words from the ring.

Roman lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head before his hand drops to her ass, delivering a playful smack.

Y/N gasps, eyes widening slightly before a delighted giggle escapes her.

“Gonna have to teach you some manners,” he murmurs, his voice dark with promise.

Y/N bites her lip, eyes gleaming with challenge. “Oh yeah? Think you’re up for that?”

Roman grins. “Oh, I know I am.”

And as he kisses her again, she knows she wouldn’t have it any other way.

#female reader #roman reigns #roman reigns x reader #world wrestling entertainment #wwe imagine #love story #jey uso #jimmy uso #sami zayn #solo sikoa #joshua fatu #jonathan fatu #naomi wwe #trinity fatu #roman reigns imagine

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222col · 1 month ago

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hello lovely <3 if it interests you, how about maneater! x rafe 🤭 if you wanted to put a spin on it she could have gotten with people he knows in the past (like jj or topper) but it just makes him want her more! whatever your heart desires! love all your content!

maneater!reader x rafe cameron

summary: rafe can't stand to hear how all the other boys have had you anymore, he needs a taste for himself

cw .ᐟ hints at nsfw

꒰ notes ꒱ ty bby!!! <333 would be open to a part two of this if ppl wanted <3

it wasn't a secret how badly rafe wanted you, half of figure eight had seen the way he lusted after you. every rager his eyes were glued on you, borderline stalking you around the country club on the rare occasion you showed up there. he'd never had to work so hard to get a girl in his life, probably half the reason he wanted you so fucking bad.

what didn't help? how many fucking stories he'd had to hear about you. look, rafe knew that you'd been with your fair amount of people on the island. he couldn't give two shits about that. what he did care about though was topper rubbing it in his face how he'd had you. fuckin' topper. you'd slept with topper, but denied him? drove him crazy.

every weekend rafe had to listen to topper remind him of how you felt, the way you kissed him, the filthy stories echo in his brain constantly. rafe hated it. hated how jealous he got, it was ridiculous— he hadn't even had you. hadn't even touched your skin, yet he was jealous that his best friend had.

he knew that you wanted him, you just loved the game of cat and mouse more. you loved the way he craved you, how he was working so hard to win you over. nothing brought you more joy than putting rafe through the ringer, god knows he deserved it. he had been served everything on a silver platter, he deserved to work for something for once in his life.

"no." you mutter, not even meeting rafe's eyes as his mouth opens.

"i didn't even fucking say anything." he grumbles, rolling his eyes as his hands ball into his fists by his sides. he's trying so hard to not just reach out and pull you against his body. "i knew what you were gonna say," you shrug, sipping whatever liquor you found in topper's kitchen from your red solo cup.

your eyes meet his through your lashes, looking to him as though his conversation alone was a waste of your time. you always gave him that look, as though he wasn't worth your energy. rafe hated how much he loved it. "you were just gonna tell me some more bullshit, don't need to hear it to know it."

gulping down more of the liquid in your cup, before setting it down on the counter, hands on your hips as you look around the party. "huh, he's kinda hot for a pogue." you smirk, as your eyes cast over jj maybank. rafe's neck snaps around to follow your vision, jaw clenched as he spots the blonde.

"fucks he even doing here— sorry, wait—" he sneers, head turning back around to look at you. "you're not going anywhere near maybank." rafe spits, his hand gripping your upper arm. desperately trying not to acknowledge this is the first time he's touched you. no, he's too fucking angry at the idea of jj fucking maybank having you before he did.

"oh, aren't i?" you smirk, jj wasn't even the highest on your hit list tonight, but anything to piss rafe off. "watch me."

no way was rafe letting that happen, his grip tightens around your arm as you attempt to walk away from him. pulling you straight back to him, closer now, once you'd taken a step away. your body now fully pressed up against his, rafe's free hand moving to wrap around your waist, making sure there was no chance you could free yourself from his grip.

rolling your eyes as he does, but you can't help the smirk that threatens your features. "why can't you just admit you want me?" he mumbles, lips by your ear before they start to trail open mouthed kisses down your neck. "where's the fun in that?" you whisper, tilting your neck to expose more skin to him— rafe smirking as you do, feeling you start to finally give in to him.

the music playing starts to become background noise, your focus on the way rafe's lips feel against your skin, how his hands have snaked up under your tank. sprawled out against your back, keeping your chest firmly pressed up against his. humming against your skin as he feels your arms move to drape around his neck.

"you drive me crazy," his words are muffled against your skin, lips trailing up your jaw before he captures your lips with his own. immediately pushing his tongue into your mouth, groaning against your lips. tongues slide over each other, fighting for dominance while rafe pushes your body back against the kitchen counter.

your hands hold the back of his neck, angling your head to kiss him deeper, gasping into his mouth as rafe's hands hook under your thighs, hitching you up onto the kitchen counter. he slots himself between your thighs, hands gripping your hips tightly, lips never leaving yours. he couldn't care less about the onlookers eyes on the two of you, he wanted people to see you with him. needed the entire fucking party to see that he'd finally gotten what he wanted.

your lips tasted like vodka and cherry cola, and rafe never wanted to stop tasting it. one hand tangles through your hair, tugging gently as his lips slip from your mouth back down your neck. rafe nips at the base of your throat, sucking a mark into your skin. he wanted to make sure everyone in this house knew he'd put it there, that rafe had marked your skin. "come upstairs." he mumbles, pulling back to look at your face.

his eyes darkened, the hint of your red lipstick smudged around his mouth. an evil smirk across your face, leaning back on your palms as you shake your head no. you couldn't give him all the satisfaction in one night. "you're fucking killing me." he groans, head falling against your shoulder.

"i'm sure you'll live." you smirk, patting him on the shoulder before pushing past him to jump down from the counter. smoothing down your outfit as you start to walk away.

"bye top— oops, bye rafe!" you were fucking evil, he couldn't get enough.

#maneater!reader ✮#zoe tag .ᐟ ⭒★#maneater!reader x rafe cameron #rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe outer banks #rafe x reader #rafe obx #obx #outer banks #drew starkey

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hiiikiko · 4 months ago

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𝕒𝕔𝕒𝕕𝕖𝕞𝕚𝕔 𝕣𝕚𝕧𝕒𝕝!𝕖𝕝𝕝𝕚𝕖

rival!ellie x reader | tlou m.list

────୨ৎ────

rival!ellie met you on the first day of the winter quarter, she didn’t think much of you but bit back a chuckle at your dorky scarf and beanie

rival!ellie who gradually realizes what a nuisance you’ll be to her spotless academic record.. she’s never actually had to study before but now she’s hitting the books to make sure that you don’t surpass her

rival!ellie who kinda hates your guts.. she can’t stand the way you effortlessly answer the professors questions, especially since you’re the reason she’s been missing out on parties by being in the library so much

rival!ellie who has to admit, she admires your hard work and dedication… even if it makes her lose her mind that you know how to perfectly sketch an HR diagram for a typical global cluster and identify the various observed populations and interpret them on the basis of stellar evolution theory

rival!ellie who grows closer with you… not because she likes you, of course! more so because the professor keeps grouping you together, saying stupid bullshit like “it must be lonely at the top and now you have a friend, ellie!” or “great minds think alike, therefore, you’ll be great friends”

rival!ellie who declines all your offers to hangout

rival!ellie who refuses to acknowledge the shared interests the two of you have… like there’s no way in hell that you’re as big of a Savage Starlight fan as she is, fuckin poser lol

rival!ellie who rants about you to anyone that listens… it’s getting to be a big problem in her circle, so much so that Jesse and Dina are beginning to think that she actually has a crush on you….. hmm

rival!ellie who’s a little more than hurt when you deny over and over that you two have potential as a couple

rival!ellie who decides to take ‘revenge’ out on you by making out with random girls in the hallway, all the while making eye contact with you and smirking when you mouth the words ‘you’re such a pig’ to her

rival!ellie who smirks when she realizes that you’ve heard about how amazing she is in bed, the way you avoid making eye contact with her in the middle of a heated argument is enough to let on that you know

rival!ellie who loves loves loves seeing you sad about the fact that she exceeds you in every subject that is until…

rival!ellie who’s wold comes crashing down around her when you get one point above her on a test.. she literally crashes out like think bella in new moon type crashing out.. she finally picks herself back up, trudges to the library to hit the books and get back into it.. she will not be second to you again.

rival!ellie who kinda becomes a stalker… she can’t help it, she needs to know how you got that one point above her score! like, it’s never been heard of in Blackwell…. she must know

rival!ellie who when you finally confront her about her stalking, scoffs and shakes her head n says “you wish, dumbass” you roll your eyes and invite her to study with you, since she’s so curious… which she takes up.. not because she wants to spend time with you! it’s just keep your enemies close, right??

rival!ellie who can hardly focus on your study date hangout (??), like you’re so close… how can someone be this smart and pretty, i mean annoying.. you also smell really good… what is that? vanilla?

rival!ellie who makes these study ‘hangouts’ a regular thing… whether you know it or not, she hangs around the table where you study and acts like it’s a coincidence and says ‘i was here first, stupid’

rival!ellie who tucks a strand of hair behind you on one of these ‘hangouts’ and when you look up at her with those pretty doe eyes she smacks the side of your head and mutters something about a fly being on you and that you should probably take a shower or something

rival!ellie who kinda starts to grow fond of you… you’re the only person who actually gets her witty astrophysics puns and jokes, it feels nice not having to explain herself all the time

rival!ellie who’s jaw drops like a 42lb block of tungsten when she finds out that you of all people have a girlfriend… like come on! who would date you?! you’re stupid, annoying… okay, so you’re also kinda smart, pretty, hot… ahem! not that she’s noticed!

rival!ellie who then trash talks your girlfriend to her friends: ‘she obviously had shit taste in girls like come on, that nerd is the best she could do? ha!”

rival!ellie who overhears your girlfriend talking rather grossly about you in the locker room and shoves her into the locker but it’s not like she’s defending your honour or whatever. she’s a feminist! talking that way about any woman makes her blood boil!

rival!ellie who grumbles when you lecture her about how she’s taken your little rivalry too far by giving your now ex girlfriend a bloody nose… as you press a bag of peas against ellie’s black eye

rival!ellie who now likes frozen peas

rival!ellie who kinda likes the way you take care of her after the fight, smiling slightly and wearing her blackened eye like a badge of honour, like she’s your white knight.. or whatever, she doesn’t care

rival!ellie who scares off any guy/girl that looks at you because she feels weirdly possessive of you, like… you’re her rival, not theirs!

rival!ellie who FINALLY accepts her crush on you after countless lectures from Dina and Jesse…

rival!ellie who trash talks any romantic interest of yours “oh come on, they’re not even that hot… i’m way hotter than them, right Dina?” “whaaaat the totally flunked last semesters exam, pfft”

rival!ellie who’s still very, very competitive with you but now finds it kinda cute and sexy when you gloat about how you bested her in another quiz

rival!ellie who begins to make advances on you… starting off with a simple bet like loser buys the other a soda then working up to loser does whatever the other wants and you being the overly confident academic that you are agree

rival!ellie who pours herself into studying, even putting down her comics in preparation for the next quiz… she’d rather be damned than lose to you, she needs to win this

rival!ellie who wins! but that means… you have to do whatever she wants….

“i want a kiss,” ellie sneers, her finger under your chin

“excuse me?”

“you heard me” she leans back against the desk, “i want a kiss”

you cross your arms, what the hell was she thinking? is she high? has she gone mad? i mean, you often hear about geniuses going mad— but before you can finish that thought, ellie is pulling you in for a kiss, in the middle of the classroom… it’s sweet and her kiss is almost hungry, like she’s been waiting for this

she finally pulls away and with a chuckle says “huh, guess you come in second for kissing too”

what an asshole but you’re not one too pass up a challenge…. so… you invite her back to your dorm room

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scribblesofagoonerr · 2 months ago

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found family | buddy & monkey: double the trouble

summary: how it came to be.

word count: 6597

double the trouble masterlist

Yes, again, this one has been re-wrote for the third time to fit in with monkey's background, and I honestly didn't like the way I wrote the older version.

let me know what you think!

You never really understood the importance of family, after all, you had grown up with an alcoholic and drug addict of a father who made it very well known he didn’t care about you from the very day you were born, but meeting Leah and Jordan changed everything for you.

They became your found family.

You had been part of the Arsenal Girls’ Centre of Excellence since you were younger. If you asked Leah, she would tell you that she’s practically watched you grow up right in front of her eyes.

It was somewhat true at least.

You guess that you can say that Leah and Jordan have always been there, watching out for you even when you weren’t aware of it. Leah had met you when you were just nine years old, a small and scrawny kid with a magical touch on the ball.

You had wormed your way into her heart from the very first day.

Back then when everything was simple and you were a happy kid. You lived with your Grandma, who was the only real family member that gave a damn about you. She was your dad’s mum, but that lady adored you, fussed over you and made sure that you never went without so when she died, you were completely heartbroken.

And that’s when everything started to crumble.

You were sent to live with your arsehole of a father, Mark. A cruel, neglectful man who barely acknowledged your existence–except when his fists did the talking.

You never properly realised the promise that Leah made to your Grandma before she passed away. A promise to keep you safe from Mark, the man that you called your father. However, social services deemed him “good enough” to have you back in his care.

They missed the alarm bells. They messed up.

Mark was a master manipulator, convincing them that everything was fine. They didn’t see the numerous beer cans strewn around the room, the stale smell of cigarettes that lingered through the house, or the bruises that you hid beneath oversized hoodies.

He put on an act for so long, an act so convincing enough for people to believe him for that long–nobody ever realised that everything wasn’t as perfect as it seemed to be behind closed doors.

Leah, of course, knew. She had always known there was something that wasn’t right, and she never gave up ever fighting for you–she has always been in your corner.

Mark hated that. He did everything he could to cut her out. First, the visits stopped. Then, the phone calls. At first, you were confused–hurt. You didn’t understand why Leah stopped showing up. You didn’t know that Mark had been behind it all along.

Leah never broke her promise to show up. Mark just made it impossible for her to keep.

At the age of twelve, you were temporarily removed from Mark’s home after you called out to Leah and Jordan for help.

However, even with social services getting involved and removing you from Marks’ home, it was never good enough–even with the court ordering an emergency placement to live with Leah and Jordan. For the first time in years, you felt safe.

But safety was temporary.

For a while, things were okay. Life with Leah and Jordan was… good. You were quiet, reserved, but you were safe. And that was enough. Even on the bad days, when you tested boundaries and pushed back, they never gave up on you. They never stopped trying.

The judge gave Mark a second chance to change his ways. Looking back, it was a bad call on his part. He was careful at first. Kept his temper in check. Played the role of a changed man. And it worked, Mark’s manipulation swayed the judge to rule for joint custody.

Social services were there waiting for him to put one wrong foot out of place, but Mark never did.

Then came the talk of supervised visits with Mark. The very thought made your stomach twist. But you were twelve. What could you do? The court made its decision. Your voice didn’t matter.

Leah and Jordan fought the decision, but they were overruled. Slowly, Mark manipulated his way back into your life. A new social worker–one who didn’t know your history–signed off on unsupervised visits far too soon.

And just like that you had two homes.

But only one where you felt safe.

“Where the hell is Mark?” Leah’s voice was sharp with concern as she stood in the car park outside the training grounds, “He’s meant to pick her up. It’s his day.”

Your dad’s car was nowhere to be seen.

“Calm down, Le, I’m sure there’s a reasonable excuse for him not being here,” Jordan, ever the voice of reason, tried to soothe her, “Maybe he got held up at work.”

Leah arched an eyebrow, unimpressed, “I don’t like it.”

There was a small glimmer of hope through these times, there was small-talk between your coach at the academy and Leah, an opportunity under special circumstances for you to begin to be integrated into the Arsenal Women’s senior team, training with them and it was there that you always felt your happiest with the ball at your feet.

“I know you don’t, but there’s not much we can do. The courts have made their rules,” Jordan admitted, placing a gentle hand on her girlfriend’s shoulder, “Just relax, it’s not good to be stressed right now, is it?”

Leah let out a frustrated breath, running a hand through her hair, but ultimately knew her girlfriend was right–her pregnancy was early days, and it wouldn’t be good to get stressed right now at all, “We could offer her a lift.”

“You know she won’t accept it,” Jordan reminded her softly, “She never does. Not on the days she goes to his house.”

“I hate this arrangement. And I hate that there’s nothing we can do about it,” Leah muttered, voicing her opinion, “I don’t like the idea of her walking back on her own. It’s almost dark.”

“I know, babe. I hate it just as much,” Jordan squeezed Leah’s arm, “But we have to play by the rules. We’re not stooping to his level.”

Leah’s jaw tightened, “How on earth he managed to persuade the judge I will never know.”

Jordan sighed, “He’s good at lying. But it’s just a few days, Le. She’ll be back home with us soon. Monkey is sensible–if something’s wrong, she’ll text us.”

Leah’s eyes didn’t leave you as you walked toward the street, your small figure disappearing into the evening light, “If I find out he’s hurt her…” Her voice was low, dangerous.

Jordan smirked, nudging her playfully, “Calm down, Mama Bear.”

Leah rolled her eyes, tossing her bag into the car, “I thought we agreed when this baby is born–I’ll be Mummy and you’ll be Mama, huh?”

Jordan laughed, but Leah wasn’t smiling. Not really. She still couldn’t shake the bad feeling twisting in her gut.

Something wasn’t right.

And she knew it.

Leah’s worry only grew–your behaviour when you would return to their home was… challenging.

You would lash out at every chance you got.

You weren’t the happy-go-lucky kid they once knew. Something had changed.

No matter what they tried, neither of them could reach you.

On one particular miserable day when the rain was pouring down–the kind of relentless downpour that would soak you to the bone within seconds of being outside, Leah was driving back home from a quick check up with the physios when she spotted you trudging down the road.

You were completely drenched and shivering in the thin jacket that you wore, your kit bag slung over your shoulder as you tried to shield yourself from the rain with the attempt of a flimsy hood.

“What the actual fuck?” Leah’s jaw dropped in utter disbelief, her eyes widened in shock as if she couldn’t believe the sight she was seeing in front of her.

You were there, walking alongside the road in the freezing rain with not a single adult in sight. It was your dad’s approved day, and of course, once again, he was nowhere in sight.

Without hesitation, Leah slowed her car and pulled up beside you, “Monkey,” She rolled down the window, calling your usual familiar nickname to get your attention, “What on earth are you doing out here in this weather? Get in, I’m taking you home. It’s hammering it down and you’re going to get ill in this weather.”

“No, no, it’s alright–” You weren’t given a single chance to protest, shaking your head as your teeth chattered from the freezing weather.

“Monkey, come on. Stop being stubborn and get in the car,” Leah insisted, leaning over to open the passenger door.

You continued to stand there, frozen, while your teeth chattered.

“I’m not arguing with you about this,” Leah told you firmly, not in the mood for your objection, “I know you don’t like me giving you lifts to Mark’s house, but I’m not letting you get ill under these circumstances. Your grandma would be swearing at me if she saw what was happening, wouldn’t she?”

You frowned at the mention of your grandma, even if you knew how true that was. Your grandma would definitely have something to say about that if she could see you now.

“That’s a low blow mentioning her,” You huffed, slumping your shoulders as it continued to hammer it down, “Fine,” You reluctantly gave in, sliding into the passenger seat, avoiding her look as you stared down at your sodden trainers.

“But it worked, didn’t it?” Leah changed her voice to a softer tone, cranking up the heat in the car to help keep you warm, before she started to pull off from the curb and head in the direction of Marks’ house, “So, is there any particular reason you’re out walking alone in this weather?” She questioned, treading carefully to not spook you with that question.

“Da… Dads’ working late tonight, so I… I had to make my own way back,” You were quick to make up the excuse, knowing full well if you even attempted to ask Mark for a lift home then he’d have most likely laughed in your face.

Leah clicked her tongue, unimpressed, “Right, I see,” She murmured, strumming her fingers on the steering wheel. Of course, she didn’t believe you.

You barely believed them yourself.

“If Mark’s working late tonight, do you want to come home and have dinner with us?” Leah put the question out there, hoping that you might say yes.

Home.

The place you felt safe. With Leah and Jordan.

You say badly want to say yes, but the fear of Mark finding out makes you think twice about it, “U… Uh, no, I’d better not,” You quickly disagreed, shaking your head, “Dad and I are gon’ go out for dinner tonight when he’s home.”

“That’s alright,” Leah responded, keeping an eye on you out the corner of her eye as she continued to make the drive to Mark’s house.

Trust didn’t come easily these days. Your walls were so high up even Leah and Jordan–two people who had been in your life for the better part of the last several years–struggled to get through.

It was the only way to protect yourself.

The next time you came to the Arsenal training grounds, you ended up being late. This time though, you’re not just dragging your feet, but also looking pale, and feeling shaky.

You’re barely even able to stand up properly.

Your stomach churned, hollow and aching. You had left Marks’ house without anything to eat. You never have the chance to eat when you are there–there’s never any food in.

You tried to shake it off, pushing yourself through the warm-ups, but everything felt… off. Your legs were sluggish, like they weren’t quite listening to you. Your head was heavy, your vision swimming every time you turned too fast. You rubbed at your stomach absentmindedly, trying to ignore the gnawing emptiness twisting inside you.

Leah’s voice cut through the noise of training, “Monkey, are you alright?”

“Mhm,” You nodded quickly, forcing yourself to keep moving.

Leah didn’t look convinced. You could feel her eyes on you as you lined up for the next drill. Your movements were slower than usual, and when you turned with the ball, your foot dragged awkwardly against the turf.

The dizziness hit you in waves, stronger now, harder to ignore. You rubbed at your stomach again, trying to focus, trying to push through.

It’s not long before your vision blurs, your steps falter, and just as you start to go down, Leah’s there in an instant–catching you before you hit the ground.

“Whoa,” Leah held you steady in her arms, guiding you back towards the bench in the changing room, “It’s okay. You’re alright. Come on, let’s just take a seat for a minute, yeah?”

“M’ fine,” You murmured, feeling yourself being pushed down onto the hard bench, “M’ good.”

Leah, however, wasn’t so easily convinced, “Absolutely not, Monkey. You can barely even stand up,” She stated, rooting through her bag to pull out a protein bar, “Right, here. Eat this, please.”

You didn’t hesitate to tear into it. The gnawing hunger finally eased up a little bit, but the shaking still hadn’t stopped.

Leah crouched down in front of you, “Monkey,” She began, her voice gentler now, “I want to ask you a question and I want you to tell me the truth, please… alright?”

You nodded in agreement, having a feeling you knew where this was going.

“When was the last time you had a proper meal at Mark’s house?” Leah asked in a gentle tone of voice.

Your mind scrambled to attempt to remember the last time that you sat down to eat something that wasn’t a hastily grabbed snack when you were at Marks’ house, “Uhm…” You stammered, the pause in your response telling Leah everything that she needed to know.

Leah sighed softly, shifting closer until she was level with you, “How about you come home with me after training, huh? We can even order pizza,” She suggested, still in that gentle tone of voice.

“But… the courts, and the agreement,” You murmured, eyeing her warily.

“It won’t matter for one night. I want to make sure you’ve eaten properly,” Leah told you, squeezing your knee gently, “I’m thinking we can watch a movie and eat pizza. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”

“I… I don’t know,” You were sceptical to agree, fumbling with the hem of your training top that was miles too big on you, “What if… Dad is at work, but he will still want to see me.”

“You leave Mark to me, yeah? All you need to think about is what pizza you want to eat,” Leah reassured you, her tone firm but kind.

The thought of Mark finding out made your stomach twist, but the hunger, the exhaustion–it was all too much.

“A… Alright, deal,” You mumbled, the relief washing over Leah’s face once you had agreed to it.

“Home sweet home, eh?” Leah said, opening the front door with a beaming wide smile as she gently rested her other hand on your shoulder, “Why don’t you go and get changed out of your training kit, and I’ll make you a snack for when you come down, yeah?”

You loved your bedroom at Leah and Jordan’s house. It was full of everything that you loved–Shrek, Lego, Marvel and an ever-growing collection of teddies–most of them being jellycats.

It was a completely different contrast to the cold, bleak and mould-infested house that Mark lived in.

“Can… Can we watch Shrek?” You peered up to look at Leah, eager to watch the film, regardless of the countless times you had watched it.

Leah playfully groaned, tilting her head back as she dropped her bag by the front door, “Again? We watched it the other week,” She teased, but seeing the grin appear on your face made her soon change her mind, “Alright, fine, but it has to be the second this time, yeah?”

“Deal!” You bounced on your toes, ready to run upstairs into your bedroom as Jordan appeared round the corner, “Hi, Jordy!”

“Hey, little one!” Jordan’s cheerful smile greeted you before she shared a quick confused glance with Leah after you ran upstairs, “What’s going on? I thought Monkey wasn’t back at our house until tomorrow…”

“There’s been a change of plans,” Leah admitted, exhaling a sigh and running a hand through her hair, “She almost collapsed at training today. I don’t think she’s been eating when she’s at Marks’ house.”

Jordan looked at her girlfriend in disbelief, “What?”

“The way she looked so pale and shaky, I just… I know it’s his night, but I’m letting her go hungry and at least this way, we can make sure she’s actually eaten, right?”

“Right, but what about the court?” Jordan was sceptical, they had to be careful to not put a foot out of line with social services and the court still involved.

Leah clenched her hands, shaking her head, “I’m not doing the wrong thing by making sure our kid eats.”

Jordan went to reply, but before she could, you dashed back into the living room, now dressed in comfier clothes, “Right then, what pizza are we going to order? I’m thinking cheese because of Miss Picky over there,” She teased, pointing her index finger in the direction of Leah, “What do you think, little one?”

“Oi!” Leah protested, making you giggle.

“What do you think, little one?” Jordan asked, turning her attention back to you.

“I like cheese!” You told her, settling into your usual spot on the sofa. But as you glanced around, your smile wavered. There were new things in the living room–baby things. A tiny bouncer sat in the corner, a folded-up prame near the door, and on the coffee table, a small pile of newborn clothes, still with tags on them.

Your stomach twisted.

“Is that stuff for the baby when they’re born?” You asked, your voice quieter now.

Leah followed your gaze and nodded, “It is. My mum brought some clothes when she went shopping the other day. Do you want to have a look at them?”

“No,” The answer came out quickly, your fingers tugging at the hem of your hoodie. A lump formed in your throat.

Leah’s smile faltered for a split second before she covered it up, “That’s okay. They’re there if you change your mind.”

You didn’t reply. You just curled in on yourself slightly, hugging your knees to your chest. The excitement from earlier had faded, replaced by something heavy, something that made your chest ache.

They were having a baby.

A real baby.

Not a too-old, too-messy, too-loud kid who wasn’t even theirs for real.

Leah and Jordan shared a glance over your head. It was Leah who shifted closer, gently rubbing your back, “Hey,” She murmured, “You know that nothing’s going to change for you, right?”

You shrugged.

Jordan sat down on the other side of you, “We love you, little one. Just as much as always. The baby isn’t going to change that.”

You stayed quiet, staring at the fabric of your hoodie as your fingers twisted it.

Leah sighed softly, then leaned in and kissed the top of your head, “You’re ours too, Monkey.”

The words made something deep inside you squeeze tight. You blinked rapidly and buried your face in your knees, hiding the way your eyes burned.

“D’you still want to watch Shrek?” Leah asked after a moment, keeping her voice light.

You hesitated, then gave the smallest nod.

Leah didn’t push. She just reached for the remote, Jordan pulled a blanket over you, and soon enough, the familiar opening notes of Shrek 2 filled the room.

You just weren’t sure if you believed them.

“Is she asleep already?” Jordan wondered, glancing up from her phone as Leah pulled back the duvet and climbed in beside her, “That was quick tonight. No hissy fits?” She joked.

Leah exhaled, “Yeah. It didn’t take long.”

“Poor thing must’ve been shattered,” Jordan murmured, frowning, “I thought she’d have had you up half the night.”

“I thought so too, but something tells me that she hasn’t been sleeping well,” Leah admitted, “We didn’t even get through the first chapter of Chamber of Secrets before she dozed off.”

Jordan arched an eyebrow, “I’m not surprised. At least she feels safe here.”

Leah hesitated, then spoke again, “Something is still going on… more than we already know. I’m worried about her, Jord. Tell me you’re not worried too?”

“Of course I am. You’re not imagining things, Le,” Jordan replied, her voice soft but serious, “There’s definitely something happening behind closed doors again–something we don’t know about. She seems so… different. Like she’s on edge. Constantly scared whenever she comes back from Mark’s.”

Leah exhaled sharply, “Then what do we do about it? We can’t just ignore it. And social services don’t seem bothered again. We finally had it good with Hannah–I mean, I can’t blame her for going on maternity leave, but the man they’ve put in her place? He’s useless.”

“I know, Le,” Jordan agreed with her girlfriend.

“We both know there’s something wrong, we can’t just sit here and do nothing about it,” Leah turned to face Jordan, her brow furrowed with frustration and helplessness, “We’ve stood by and let it happen for way too long–I’m not letting her get hurt again because of their mistakes.”

“I know. And I get it, babe, I do,” Jordan mumbled, wrapping her arm around Leah and resting her hand on her bump protectively, “I’m just as worried as you are, but we can’t do anything without proof.”

Leah’s voice dropped to a whisper, “If anything happens to her… I’ll never forgive myself. He should never have been given joint custody.”

Jordan shifted closer, exhaling a sigh, “I know. But all we can do for now is be there for the little one. Make sure she’s okay when she’s with us. Make sure nothing serious happens. I know it’s hard, playing by the rules of social services and the court, but we will be there for her. Even if she tries to push us away.”

“I… I don’t like this,” Leah swallowed, jaw tight, her mind still restless with the thoughts as she lay there staring up at the ceiling with the weight of the spoken promise heavy on her shoulders, “I made that promise to Jean that I would take care of her, and I’ll do whatever I can to protect our girl. I’ve never broken that promise, and I don’t intend to do so now,” She vowed, ready to act when the time came.

Over the next several weeks, Leah and Jordan made a more conscious effort to keep an eye on you during the time you were training with them. You tried to push them away, but they were relentless, not backing down.

Leah would often slip extra protein bars into your bag when she noticed you hadn’t eaten much, and Jordan would offer you a ride back to Mark’s house on the days you were there, even when you tried to refuse it.

As much as they both hated to admit it, there was nothing they could do anymore right now without proof of anything going on.

That was until one day when something serious happened, and both Leah and Jordan were immediately alert of the situation when you didn’t show up to training at your usual time.

If anyone else had been late, they wouldn’t have batted an eye. But their gut instinct that something was wrong couldn’t have been further from the truth.

“Maybe she’s just running late?” Jordan suggested, but even she could hear the unease in her voice.

Leah’s brow furrowed as she tried to call you, only for it to go straight to voicemail again, “This is not like her,” She muttered, her frustration building as she tried again, “She’s usually glued to her phone… this is different. And she’s not answering her texts either.”

Jordan crossed her arms, pacing with agitation, “I’m not getting any response either, Le. I’m starting to get worried.”

The rest of the team was brushing it off, though, as they always did.

“Calm down, you two. She’s almost a teenager and you know what they’re like,” Alex Scott, one of Leah and Jordan’s teammates chipped in, offering a distracted explanation.

“You two are the definition of helicopter mums,” Katie McCabe shot them a teasing look, as if they were overreacting.

“Al is right, kids will be kids,” Kelly added, waving her hand off, “She’ll show up soon enough.”

But Leah wasn’t backing down, “No, this isn’t just any kid, this is our kid,” She snapped, her voice low but fierce, “Something’s wrong. I know it.”

She hit redial on her phone. And once more, it went straight to voicemail.

“Any luck?” Jordan asked, worriedly.

“No,” Something in Leah’s gut twisted. She could feel it. Something was wrong.

Just as she was about to grab her car keys, a voice–yours–cut through the tension.

“L… Le?” Your voice was barely above a whisper, fragile, filled with fear.

Leah turned, and her blood ran cold.

There you were–bruises littered on your arms, a cut along your eyebrow, eyes red and swollen from crying. The disheveled state was a clear sign of something far worse than just a rough night.

Emma Byrne let out a horrified gasp, “Oh my God.”

“Shit,” Rachel Yankey swore, upon seeing the sight of you.

The changing room fell silent, the atmosphere instantly shifting as your new teammates took in your condition.

“What the hell happened to you, kid?” Fara Williams asked, her voice a mixture of confusion and concern.

Danielle Carter’s voice trailed off, “Oh my God…”

Alex’s eyes widened in horror, “I was wrong… I didn’t know…”

“Bloody hell,” Kelly murmured.

“Someone get a medic!” Jodie Taylor shouted, alarmed.

But it was Leah who rushed to you first. Her voice steady, but her eyes betrayed her, “Monkey… What happened? Did he do this to you?”

You broke. You broke in front of her.

“I… I didn’t mean it,” You stammered, “It… It was my fault. I spilled juice… on a work report… It made him… so mad…”

You couldn’t bring yourself to meet her gaze. Your hands were shaking, your entire body trembling with a fear that ran deeper than the bruises on your skin.

“No,” Leah whispered, her voice cracking, crouching down to your level as she carefully brings her hand out to remove a fly-away hair out of your eyes, “No, no, none of this is your fault. It’s never your fault.”

Leah didn’t miss the way you flinched.

Tears streamed down your face, the dam breaking as you sobbed, “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I… I didn’t mean to make him angry.”

“Hey, hey,” Jordan cut in, crouching on the other side of you, “There’s nothing to apologise for, little one. You hear me? Nothing.”

“Hey there, kid,” Alex approached with caution, “Why don’t you and I go take a seat over there, and leave Le and Jord to talk about things, yeah?”

You tensed, shaking your head. You didn’t like the idea of that, “N… No. I… I don’t want to!”

Most of the team had seen you have a few tantrums through the last several months, but this wasn’t the same. This was true, raw fear.

Leah herself didn’t want you out of her sight, but she knew you needed to be looked over by a medic. She needed to take a moment to breathe, “It’ll be alright, my girl,” She said softly, crouching to your level again, “I’m right here, you can still see me. I just need to talk to Jordy, and I’ll be right there with you once I have.”

“Nooo,” You whined, clinging to her as you wanted to stay by her side.

“Hey,�� Leah said softly, “I know you’re scared, but I need you to be a big brave girl for me and get checked out by the medical team, alright? I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere. You can sit with Alex, and you’ll still be able to see me, right here.”

You reluctantly agreed, still sulking, as you sat on the sofa beside Alex. A member of the medical team approached, and though you tensed, Alex’s presence helped keep you steady as they checked for broken bones or injury.

Meanwhile, Leah didn’t waste time before rushing into Jordan’s arms, her tears falling freely as everything hit her all at once.

“It’s okay, let it all out, Le,” Jordan murmured, pulling her in closer.

“He… He… I can’t believe he did this. Again,” Leah sobbed into her girlfriend’s shoulder.

Jordan swallowed the lump that formed in her throat, “I know, Le. I know. Just let it all out, let it out. I’ve got you.”

“She’s not going back there. Not ever again!” Leah stated, anger in her voice as she pulled back, locking her eyes with Jordan with a mix of fear and frustration, “Now do you believe me? I knew it. I knew something was going on! Nobody else believed me, but I knew I was right!”

“I do… I do believe you, Le,” Jordan nodded in agreement, “But what do we do now?”

Leah’s eyes burned with determination, “I’m not standing back and letting it happen again any longer, regardless of what social services think! Enough is enough now, I’m going to sit back anymore and let this happen.”

“I know, I know you’re right, Le. And I’m with you. I’m backing you on this one,” Jordan stated, determined, she wouldn’t let you go back to Mark either. Not this time, “I know it’s going to be a lot taking care of a newborn and a pre-teen, but we’ll make this work, right?”

“We’ll manage it,” Leah said, her voice firm, “We will find a way to handle it! I know it’ll be a lot, but I refuse to just sit back and do nothing about it, Jord–look at her, just look what he’s done to our little girl! Over my dead body will he ever lay his hands on her again!”

“I know, Le,” Jordan said softly.

Leah’s voice trembled as she continued, “I made a promise to Jean, I promised her that I wouldn’t let him hurt her. I… I’ve failed that! I stood back and let it happen, I… I broke my promise!”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. You didn’t know, “Jordan said, her voice soothing, “You haven’t, you weren’t to know–he’s manipulative, he’s always been that way. We’ll make it work, Le. I’m on board with it. We can do this.”

“We have… We have to help her, Jord,” Leah said, her voice raw with emotion, “We can’t let her fall through the cracks. this is our kid, our little girl! Biologically or not, she’s ours. And we’ll fight for her!”

Jordan reached out to hold Leah’s hand in reassurance, “I know, Le. I know, and we’ll make it work, I promise–whatever it takes. We’ll figure it out together. As a team.”

“As a team,” Leah repeated, giving her girlfriend a genuine smile, “Just get ready for the chaos,” She joked, steering to move to a lighter topic.

“Oh, with a newborn and pre-teen under one roof? I couldn’t think of anything more chaotic,” Jordan replied playfully, pulling her girlfriend in closer again, “But it could also be kind of fun, right?”

“You and I have different versions of fun,” Leah teased, a glimmer of amusement dancing in her eyes, “But yeah, it might just be the best sort of crazy we’ve ever signed up for.”

Before they could share another moment, the sound of distress broke through the conversation–your voice, high-pitched and full of panic. Leah’s hand snapped toward the sound, her heart skipping a beat as she heard you start to whine, your protest rising in volume.

“I’ve got to go,” Leah said urgently, pulling away from Jordan as she rushed toward you.

Alex, who had been sitting with you, quickly turned to Leah, her voice full of concern, “Leah, she–she needs you. I think it’s getting too much for her.”

Leah’s breath caught in her throat as she saw you struggling, trembling on the sofa. You kicked out suddenly, your foot striking the medic who had been attempting to check you over, and the medic stumbled back, surprised by the outburst, but you didn’t seem to notice. Your eyes were wide, full of panic, and your lip trembled as you stared at the ground, your body still wound up with tension.

Leah’s eyes widened, “Monkey!” She called, rushing over to you as you pulled your leg back, preparing to kick again–this time aiming for Alex, “No, Monkey. You don’t kick people,” She said firmly, dropping to her knees beside you.

You froze at the sound of Leah’s voice, your lip trembling as your body was still full of tension. You hiccuped, looking at her with wide, teary eyes, “I… I didn’t mean to,” You whispered.

Leah sighed softly, her tone gentler but firm, “I know, my girl, but we don’t kick, do we? I need you to be brave for me, alright? This nice medic here needs to make sure you have no significant injuries. I’m right here with you.”

The medic, still recovering from your kick, took a step back, clearly giving Leah the space she needed to step in.

Leah gently lifted you off the sofa, placing you down on her lap and wrapping her arms around you protectively, “You’re safe now, alright? Nobody’s going to hurt you. We won’t let anyone hurt again. Never.”

You sniffled, nodding hesitantly, “Okay, Le…”

Leah held you in her arms, her expression softening as she tried to reassure you everything was fine, “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. You don’t need to be afraid anymore.”

“N… No more,” You whimpered.

“I think she’s had enough for now,” Leah glanced up at the medic, “Just check over the basics, please. I don’t want her to be stressed out anymore.”

The medic nodded, acknowledging Leah’s leadership in the situation, “Understood, we’ll keep it light.”

Leah turned her focus on you, “I’m right here, my girl. There’s no need to be frightened. You won’t ever be going back to Mark’s. Never again. We’ll keep you safe.”

“No… No more,” You clung to her, still a little shaken.

Leah nodded, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “That’s right, Monkey. No more. You’re safe with us.”

“You’ve gone too far this time!” Leah shouted, barging through the front door of Mark’s home, her fury barely contained.

She wasn’t alone. Jordan was right behind her, gripping her hand tightly, a silent promise that she wasn’t letting go. Amanda and David had followed, both of them standing togther as unwavering support. And then there were the others–some of Leah and Jordan’s older teammates, women had heard enough and seen enough to know this moment was long overdue.

Leah had to be careful because she was pregnant, but that didn’t stop the fire in her voice, the sheer rage that burned through her words.

Mark barely reacted, slouching against the doorway with an irritated scowl, “What the hell? You can’t just barge your way into my house–what have you said, you little shit? Spreading lies again, are you?” His eyes flicked toward you with a sneer, and your stomach twisted.

Leah’s eyes were blazing with anger, “You’re unbelievable, Mark!” She spat, her voice sharp and furious.

Mark scoffed, crossing his arms, “If you’re so concerned about her then why don’t you have her, full time, huh? You can see how much a handful she can really be. She’s your problem now.”

The dismissiveness in his voice sent a fresh wave of anger through Leah, “You’ve got a kid right in front of you–a kid who’s done nothing but try and survive despite you, and all you can do is shrug her off like she’s nothing? And now, you don’t even have the decency to pretend to care about her!”

Jordan just held Leah’s hand tighter, a wordless reminder to keep her temper in check, “Let it go, Le,” She urged softly, though her gaze was cold and unforgiving as it lingered on Mark, “We’ll leave it to the court to decide.”

Leah’s anger didn’t fade, if anything, it deepened as she looked at the man who had treated you like a burden instead of his flesh and blood, “No–she’s not just a problem that can be handed off. She’s a child–she’s your child, and the way you’ve been treating her is damn right appaulling!”

David, usually the quieter one, took a step forward, “This ends today, Mark. We’re not standing by and letting this continue.”

Mark rolled his eyes as if he was barely affected by the words, “Yeah? Well, I guess the brat is your problem now, so good luck,” His words were cold, final.

Amanda let out a sharp breath, her face twisted with something between disgust and pity, “You don’t even realise what you’ve lost.”

Leah’s jaw tightened, her hands instinctively cradling her small bump as if shielding her unborn child from the poison dripping from Mark’s words. She wanted to scream at him, to make him see what he was throwing away, but Jordan tugged at her again–a reminder that nothing else could be said that would change the man in front of them.

Turning away from Mark, Leah relented as her expression softened when she looked at yu, but the fire in her eyes never dimmed, “Let’s just go.”

“Come on, little one,” Jordan protectively wrapped her arm around you as she began to guide you out of the house, “Let’s get you out of here, let’s get you back home.”

As they gathered your remaining belongings, Amanda’s voice cut through the tension one last time, “Don’t think for a second you’ve gotten away with this. Social services will know everything. You’ll regret laying a hand on my granddaughter.”

Mark had the nerve to roll his eyes, waving them off like they were nothing but an inconvenience, “Yeah, yeah. Just get out, will you?”

“We’ll see you in court!” Leah’s eyes flashed with anger, but they disappeared the moment she turned to look at you, “I know this won’t be easy for you to adjust to, Monkey, but you’re not alone now, okay. We’re here, and we’re not going anywhere. You’re safe. I promise. You’re safe here with us now.”

Jordan nodded in agreement, giving you a small encouraging smile, “Le’s right, little one. We’ve got you,” She told you gently, “Whatever you need. Whenever you need us. We’re here.”

And from there on, you were about to gain the family that you’d always deserved. Two homes became one again. Your real home–with Leah and Jordan, and everyone who cared enough to stand up and fight for you, even when the world had given up.

Because this time, they weren’t going anywhere.

#monkey #double the trouble fic #leah williamson x reader #jordan nobbs x reader #woso x reader #woso one shot #scribblesofagoonerr #woso fanfics #woso imagine #alex scott x reader #kelly smith x reader #awfc x reader

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iwaasfairy · 2 years ago

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┌─ “ ! „ CADAVER

tw. wound fucking, blood, gore, don’t read this if you’re squeamish!!, somnophilia, oral, noncon, megumi is delusional in this, yandere, belly bulge but gross! , cannibalistic thoughts wordcount. 6.4k

a/n. this one,,, was me pushing myself to just go buck wild, and channel my inner junji, and i think i got somewhere with it... a select few of you will understand me when i say that ,, this is like my love letter to megumi fr ♡ like i said though, this one might be the one that has people a little yucked out but! it's basically my halloween fic, for the spooky month

fushiguro megumi x fem!reader

When the rattling of the stretcher finally quiets in the halls and the rising rate of adrenaline starts to flatten out, Megumi’s lost on what to do. Any of the other sorcerers can’t decide what the next step is either, it seems. Yuji with his back pressed against the glass and staring off into the empty part of the hall they just came from, and principal Yaga a stern quietness and arms crossed. Ieiri-san will do her best work today of any days if there’s anything to be done about it, but Megumi can tell. That uncertainty hangs over all of them as the faint breathing of a collapsed body grows more pitched and panicked.

Megumi always sort of hated you. He didn’t like you from the second he first met you, and it just grew and grew and grew from there. He hates your stupid demeanor with your higher-than-thou morals and your sky-high milestones and that grin that could make even the coldest heart split in two. It doesn’t escape him that this is the same reason he always did enjoy Maki, but you were — more recognizable to him, and yet somehow much further away.

He always hated the way he’d catch himself watching the soft motion of your lashes, or how your mouth would form words, the heat that would carry color to your face. He always hated the quiet moments you’d sit by his side, rattling his heart out of his chest and laughing at him for his hot cheeks; and he always hated how you’d be the thought on his mind right after he’d made sure his own limbs hadn’t yet been blown to bits. But standing with his hands covered in a coating of blood that isn’t his, dripping onto the panes of the old flooring, he wonders what that hatred ever really got him. It never helped him understand you better, that for someone so alike himself, you were so much better at everything.

His chest is rising and falling too fast.

Gojo’s too late, always is when it comes down to the wire, Megumi thinks as the lankier man rushes through and stops a few feet away from them. Yaga’s brow pinches, before he lifts his head the slightest bit to acknowledge the white blond. “What’s the status,” Gojo has to ask, and before he has another conscious thought, Megumi’s furiously rubbing his hands over his sweater in an attempt to get the blood off while his teeth clack with how hard he’s clenching them. There’s a thickness between his ears that makes everything sound far off. The blood stains his fingers the more he rubs, and his face gets hotter and hotter as it lasts.

But he thinks he hears the principal explain.

How you had been pinned down and knocked clean out, head bashed against the concrete pillars. How Megumi had been too busy trying and failing to keep the uglier curse from blasting you both to shit, to notice. How the other special grade had picked you up by the neck and unceremoniously shoved something into your mouth and pushed until it went down your throat - until you started convulsing, spitting out blood and bile before he could reach you. Megumi hadn’t taken the time to look then, but he knows now what it was, slimy, decaying contents of a little vial that had gone missing a few months ago.

“The girl must’ve been a real good match.” Yaga pushes his fingers to his brow, as if forcibly trying to push the frown down. “Ieiri’s doing what she can.” It doesn’t make any of them feel better when Gojo clicks his tongue and aims his eyes at the door, before casting a quick glance at Megumi under thick, blond lashes. He wants to puke. He’d shoved his fingers down your throat for what felt like hours, trying desperately to get you to throw up the curse. Had carried you all the way back while you were sobbing and wailing in pain. Nothing.

If even the worst case repeats itself, they’ll have another incarnation on their hands, and the noose will be tightened around your throat. Yuji must have already realized this, because he’s yet to say anything since you’d been tied onto the stretcher with blood pouring out of your nose and ears and coughing up grime. Megumi’s not even sure if Ieiri would hesitate to put you down without a second warning before it gets to the same turning point. And he is pissed. At the situation, his friends, himself, you. He’s so angry his hands shake, and so angry tears start stinging behind his eyes, feeling like any motion might cause him to throw up. He hates you.

Your chest’s rising with big motions up and down, up and down, as you drum your feet on his bedsheets like an excited rabbit. Megumi grunts, snatches the book from your hands and tosses it back down with the others that were not-so-neatly stacked on his desk. Your shape on his bed makes a dent in his mind that he’ll have to keep replaying over and over when he closes his eyes, and it has a frown pulling his eyebrows down automatically. “So grumpy,” you yawn, and also roll over onto your stomach to tuck your legs to your core, lifting one hand to rest your face into it.

“This isn’t your room.”

“Might as well be,” you giggle back, and he watches for a moment as your hair falls along your shoulders in a gentle brush, making you look even more enchanting. You’re soft and parts of you are shiny like silk, seemingly oozing your rosy, peachy aura all over his stuff. You catch his eyes for just a few breaths, still rising your chest too distractingly, before you push yourself up and slide off the bed to walk up to him. He pivots to thumb through the notes on his desk again, to be farther away from your face probably, and his shoulders rise into an uncomfortable pinch when you approach, feet patting on his floor. “Megumi.” You say his name with a clear pout.

Then heat covers his skin at the base of his throat and he freezes, letting the way you drag your soft lips over his pulse fill him up entirely. His hands shake too hard to keep a grip on the paper, so he spins you around and shoves you back against the desk as you hiss at the sudden painful grip, his fist wrapped into the collar of your shirt. “I already told you to stop doing that.” He hisses, and your eyes are wide and glittering like diamonds, beautiful color peering up at him.

“But you like it when I do that,” you whisper back ever so softly, and his head feels like it’s splitting at the seams, cracking his skull under a non-escapable pressure. He can’t think, can’t even eat normally without the ghost of you hanging over him and shaking him up. It’s unbearable even when you’re not around. His fist unclenches from the flimsy fabric to instead grip your chin with his thumb, and his heart bangs against his ribcage harder than can be normal. Harder than is healthy. A little thought in the back of his skull begs to push. Just once, deny you from digging your claws deeper into him— but he’s already melted to your shape before he can blink.

His face drops like you’re magnetic, thighs pushing you further into the desk and also into him; and it’s truly embarrassing that his hands are still shaking like they do. You lean in when he does, and let your lips meet his hungry, treacherous mouth, other hand sliding to your waist to pull you closer. Your tongue brushes his and he implodes inside, and he swears it hurts to be this close to you.

Not that you care. Your arms wind around his neck to pull him even closer, and his blood feels like it’s boiling under his skin.

He finds himself wandering back to the quieter wing of the school when the sun’s already dipped far past the horizon, and the cold starts picking up. He’s dragging his feet, so he won’t fucking rush back to the room he finds himself thinking about so fast he stumbles. He’s glaring at the patterns in the floorboards so he doesn’t cry. You’re stable- quiet puffs of air escaping your nose every few seconds, but you’re still under surveillance. As far as the clans are concerned, they’ll put something sharp between your eyes sooner rather than later, before whatever’s slumbering inside you wakes up. But Gojo’s fighting for you. It makes him grimace to think about.

Knocking his knuckles onto the doorframe, he enters the dimly lit room. Nanami doesn’t stand when he spots him, but does uncross his legs as he takes a deep breath. Neither of them speak for a while, and the dark haired man takes that time to run his eyes over you. You’re not as dirty as you were when you first got back, shivering and shaking. You’re no longer dripping with blood, though he’s sure if he were to look close enough, he’d still be able to see flecks of it between your cracked lips. As he walks up, he finds himself thinking that you look strangely peaceful, and that doesn’t seem entirely right.

Save for the bloody mark that seems branded into your forehead, you look like you’re quietly sleeping on the metal slab that supports your body. After all the pain and agony you’ve caused in him, sleepless nights and long days of wondering, hoping you’d be okay. Why is it that he’s the one affected by you? Why is it that he’s the one who’s going to have to say goodbye again? He stares at your unmoving form as if that’ll give him an answer, but it doesn’t. And the pit in his stomach swells again. He’s just so angry all the time. Megumi breathes out. “It’s my turn to take watch for a while.”

“You’re early,” Nanami’s deep baritone chastises, but he gets up from the seat anyway. He smooths out the wrinkles in his suit, before slowly placing a hand on the other’s shoulder. The weight is heavy, and somehow doesn’t soothe him at all. But there’s an attempt, he guesses. He’s still not entirely sure why everyone is looking at him like he’s the one who needs it most, broken and disheveled and mourning. He’s been able to finish his tasks like everyone else has, and he can banish the thought of you when he’s supposed to focus on work— at least, mostly. He doesn’t need the fucking pity. “Want some coffee? Or green tea?” Nanami asks, letting his hand slide off when Megumi shrugs.

“No. I’m okay.”

The older man seems to hesitate, simply nodding when he walks past. Before closing the door behind him, he once again clears his voice, and Megumi turns over his shoulder. The blond has this look in his eyes, of pity, as he talks. “Megumi, there’s a chance she pulls through.” Why again - that fucking pity? “Don’t give up.” Though it makes him tingle with an unbearable sort of itch deep under the skin, he grits his teeth, and his brain’s hot and irritated when he responds.

“I wasn’t going to.” Nanami doesn’t seem to believe him, but still softly slides the door closed behind him, and when the footsteps grow softer and softer, Megumi allows for a second to collect himself. He braces his hands onto the metal as he leans in, close enough to feel just the slightest bit of your warmth on his fingers, and see the way you’re still breathing, though shallow, too faint for his liking. His brows pinch when he finds himself with his forehead pressed to your stomach, hunched over like he’s praying at your shrine or something. But he can’t help it.

As much time as he spent beside you with a frown on his face, it never feels enough. He can’t stay away, like it’s an involuntary thing— you leave him no choice in the matter. Even here in the darkness, whining softly into your wheezed breaths, it isn’t enough to be beside you. He can’t do anything from here at your bedside; and that uselessness makes him feel even more uneasy. He needs to be closer to you. Wants to be so close you two get stuck together and melt together like an inseparable entity, would want to crawl inside you if he could.

His nose presses into the clean shirt that smells like your laundry, as he clenches his fists so hard along the table edge they start to ache. His eyes are pressed closed tight when he allows him just a second to nose below your sternum, and that uncomfortable stinging sensation comes back to his eyes. “Fucking idiot,” his lips brush against your covered skin, taking in the lack of heat, of your smell and the way you sounded with his face buried there, “I didn’t mean it.”

“Aw, ow, ow, Megumi~” You pout with a pitched whine as his hand stays screwed around your knee for a little longer, keeping you trapped under his heavier, taller body so that you start wiggling. Your head falls back against his arm, and you lean to press a few kisses to his wrist that’s holding your own to the floor. “Be more gentle.” You pout when you pull back and flash him that fucking look that sends icy shivers down his spine, and exactly nothing else. “You can be gentle, can’t you?” Every other part of him flushes with heat under your doe-eyed, pitiful look, definitely when you start wiggling out of his grasp like you’re suddenly over the game.

You started it. He wouldn’t put himself in your range on purpose. When you’re about halfway out from under his crouched form, you sit up to be face to face; and you brush your hand past his ear, down his jaw and neck and trail his collarbones, all places he’s convinced are now stained a bright, obnoxious pink from his flush. You let your fingers linger when you tilt your head aside a bit so you can slot your lips over his into a sweet, little kiss, and you pull your lips into another pout. “Swear you’re doing it to hurt me sometimes. I’m never trying to hurt you, you know.” A few strands of hair fall over your eye when you sit below him, and he has to fight every single muscle in his body not to push it back for you.

He wants to see your eyes. He wants you to see him like this, pinned under you like the attraction you render him as— his body collapses on top of you as you start giggling all fucking cutely, and his heart races more than it ever has. Your heartbeat drums into his face when he buries it into your softness, chest against his cheek, too long for his own sanity before he drags himself off you. And it is a drag. His entire body starts feeling sluggish when you’re this close to him, close enough to drown himself in your scent. He won’t ever say it, but that scent gets him hard and awfully mellow all at once, his cock coming to life in his pants before he’s moving.

You look happy. Your eyes are those bright, gentle colors that rain down on him, and your lips are quirked into a soft smile, you must know what you’re doing to him. Setting him up for failure again. He huffs and pushes himself onto his back instead, knocking his head to the floor while you’re moving from the rug - splaying your knees either side of him before you nuzzle right back on top of his chest and make it even harder to get a breath, let alone catch it. He’s sure he’s panting a little when you leave your warmth draped all over him, and you don’t do anything other than be there.

His arms are still on the floor, his body rigid under you, but you’re softly giggling into his peck before he frowns down at you again when you catch his eyes. “What?”

“Your heart is beating super fast,” you admit, not proud, not gloating - just stating the fact, and heat overtakes his neck now too. Instead of letting you wind him up any further, he bucks you off and switches positions again, now with your two wrists caught in his hands as you squeak with the ache that probably lodges in your back.

“Can you get off of me?” He sits back on his feet, not letting go of your hands yet, before your eyes flutter and you grab him back. Well, brush your fingers over the skin you can reach, pawing at him just enough to tickle. “What’s with you today?” he bites back, and also snatches his hands back to escape the onslaught of feelings that wash over him. You don’t sit up this time, and from the tilt of your head, you’re considering your answer for a while before you speak out.

“Do you like me, Megumi?” Fuck. His room seems to collapse in on itself. Or, maybe it’s his body— because he gets a little more short of breath, and his thoughts short circuit as his mouth stupidly drops open. He’s choked up for long enough that he has to clear his voice to try an answer, and even then, he gets stuck. You’re studying him so closely it must show. The blaring warmth that fills him up and makes his ears bright red. After another second, your eyes seem to dim slightly, as you push your cheek to your shoulder, opening yourself up to even more attacks. “Love y’, ‘gumi.”

He straightens up with enough tightness in his chest to choke him, makes his eyes sting and his head blare cold, painful warnings— he grabs some of the glasses from the small table beside him, launches it straight into the wall until it shatters into a million pieces upon impact. The loud clang doesn’t do anything to settle his anger, where he fists his hands into his hair and pulls, in hopes the worry will somehow vanish.

“Why do you always have to be such a hero?” he hisses, even though you can’t answer now, “wouldn’t it have been enough to just stay here with me?!” He tilts your face to his and drops his lips to yours, and that familiar softness is enough to have him clenching his eyes shut again against the tears. He kisses you until your mouth opens a bit, then slides his tongue up against yours and grips your shoulders, pulling your limp body towards him more. “I’ll be better to you.” He pleads. You don’t move, and the breaths going over his cheeks are so shallow.

But he can’t stop himself from tangling your tongue with his, licking into your mouth and chasing the warmth until he runs out of breath. You’re so fucking pretty still. He kisses you again, bumping teeth, and grips your hip hard as he lays over you a little more, chest to chest and feeling it brush against him with each soft pant he lets out, each gravelly moan. It doesn’t hurt so much to brush his tongue against yours, to swallow your taste on his tongue until his lips numb — but while it doesn’t ache, it’s also not enough. Before he’s able to think about the morality of his actions, his thumbs are hooking under your shirt and pushing it up, over your soft belly and ribcage all the way up until it’s over your tits, where his lips travel to as soon as the skin’s exposed. You’re so soft still, too.

He’s not sure what he’s doing other than leaving messy, open mouth kisses onto you, kneading your skin between his hands as all the warmth in his body pools into his groin. Your tits are sucked into his mouth, one then the other, as he rubs his face into the doughy skin, then he’s pulling and pinching at your tits like he knows makes you whimper. The sound’s burned into his working memory, and it drives him on to run his face down your soft body to the part where your thighs meet. The skin just above your skirt of the softest, warmest, and he full on moans when his cock twitches hard in his pants and he reaches down to grab himself.

Normally you’d be blinking up at him now, sending him that little look with grabby hands, ready to wrap your puffy lips around him— it’s different when it’s his hand screwed around himself and not even moving yet. he can’t, or he’ll cum in his pants, and he’s not going to waste his cum like that when your warm pussy’s right before him. He’s shaky when he pushes the fabric up, flipping it over your tummy; and groans again when he licks down your panties and mouths at the seat of it. It tastes so much like you his eyes roll back, and his knees give a little, while more precum leaks out of him and into his pants.

He frees his hands momentarily to slide you to the edge of the metallic table, two hands gripping your butt and squeezing, then hooking his finger in your panties to just pull them aside. He doesn’t care about the chaffing he’ll have. Not even a second thought when your little pussy is in front of him, and he pushes his mouth to you for some open mouthed kisses, down to your pussy and back up. Wrapping his mouth around your clit, he sucks hard, and rubs the bud a few times with his tongue. He swears your breathing goes more pitched and heavier when he does, when his fingers trail down your puffier lips to rub the bit of wetness around.

His cock’s painfully hard in his pants, and after a few more times licking you up and down so that your slick covers the entire bottom half of his face, he pushes the zipper down and then takes himself out to watch how red and sore the head of his cock already is, oozing pre and coating both his boxers and his shaft. He spits into his hand to give himself a few tight-wrung pumps, tighter than he likes normally- if he doesn’t, he’ll spill all over your cute, little pussy. He pushes his fingertips inside your now wetter cunt, watching it wink and beg for something to fill, and groans when one finger slides in with ease.

Your soft walls are still soft and hot around him, giving mean licks over your clit again and again in a way that would normally overstimulate you too easily. You don’t whimper or whine now, take his finger nice and sweet inside your squelching, gooey walls, only making a little noise when he slides in a second and he can feel the slight bit of stretching you need. He’s dripping onto the table now, balls tight and heavy - imagines how you moan and look when you’re sucking on them and you smack your lips with each open mouthed kiss or lick. You between his legs is always enough to have his knees giving, and it’s no different now, he has to hold himself up against you before he thinks better of it.

You’re slid back on the table too easily, making room for him when he pushes one of your legs aside— and let out a slight gasp when he hoists himself over your body. He just wants you. So bad. It’s not so embarrassing when you’re not awake to see how fucking crazy he looks, flushed, cock twitching between his legs as he strains to kiss you again, lick over your tongue for more of your taste, and breathes your name. “Baby, fuck- I need to be inside you.” He wants to hide away in your safety forever. A crystalline, fucked up thought springs up in his mind for just a second, but he banishes that with a few blinks.

Instead he lines himself up over your hot, needy pussy and pushes inside just the head at first, grunting tightly at the softness that envelops him. His whole body shudders as he pushes in deeper, feeling that pit in his stomach expand with each inch that he goes deeper, tangles his fingers with yours when he bottoms out and fills you up so well. You’re curled into his touch, and he kisses you, his thoughts blanking as he pulls back, and snaps his hips back inside you. You’re hot and wet and it feels so fucking good, clenching your hand inside his larger one. It’s not fair. He’s losing his mind, and you’re always the end of him.

His cock rubs against your swollen insides with rough, imprecise strokes — he doesn’t mean to, it’s just that trying to focus on anything other than the heat as he slides in and out of your tight pussy is too much. You’re too much; you’re haunting him even now. He kisses down your face to your neck, sucks on your skin and bites down hard enough to make a serious mark, wanting to hear you cry. Normally, you’d cry out his name so pretty, dig your nails into his back until he’s letting you go and grinding back on his cock, but you can’t do that now. His cockhead bumps your spot each time he fucks himself into you further, but it’s not enough.

It’s never been enough. He wants to be closer to you, and that horrible image that was launched into his head creeps back up before his eyes, bloody and horrible. Maybe he always told himself that he hated you because - no matter how much he fought, he would never be able to stomach actually hurting you as much as it hurts him. But now, withering on top of you as his cock thumps with how much blood rushes south, everything else falls away. He wants to claw and bite and carve his way to your insides and make you pay just a little for his sins. His body is coated in a thin sheen of sweat, thighs pumping blood through his body to his lungs, his gut, his cock.

He pulls out of you to kiss down your tits and over your covered ribs, thumbing over the head of his cock and gliding it over your puffy clit, your wet pussy lips and flicking it just in and out of your drooling cunt— before he puts a sloppy few kisses there too, tongue coated in slick. The blood pumps through his head so hard he feels dizzy, pounding behind his eyes as the heat of your cunt overwhelms him entirely. It’s too hard to stay sane -he’s never felt less sane than now- when you’re laying below him like this, ready to leave him all alone. You wormed your way into his heart when he didn’t want it, and now, now that’s all about to end.

His mouth is dry, but he’s drooling as he grips your thigh and kneads the doughy skin of your tummy— looking so soft and warm and perfectly shaped for him. He wants -needs, needs it, to feel you swallow him, ruin him- to cut you open and eat your insides out with the sick force of what he’s feeling right now— he groans your name again, desperately trying and failing to get it out of his head— the more he tries the better it feels to think it. Despite having his fist around the base of his cock, stings of white shoot over your body as he crumples in on himself and paints you with his cum. He’s still hard though, painfully so, and as soon as he’s done cumming he can already feel the building urge to do it again, trailing his shaking fingers down to your clenching pussy and rubbing your clit until your body starts wiggling back just a little too.

Megumi wants to go, bury this urge down and never think of it again. He really does— but it’s like he’s possessed, drooling over your body and flicking his cock in and out of your pussy without sliding back in. He might’ve had it wrong this whole time, but if this is love - God, he loves you, he loves, loves, loves you so much he’s not ever going to have enough. Can’t ever say goodbye, not when his entire soul’s been bound to yours, has been rotted away into nothing like this. There’s only you, and him; and he can’t get close enough to make this fucking feeling go away.

With black spots swimming over his vision, he’s not sure what he’s doing until he’s knelt on the floor and shards of glass cut his knees open through his pants; he doesn’t feel it - just trembles as he gets one of the larger shards and crawls back to you, right between your plush thighs as he kisses your face over and over until he feels like he’ll be sick. “Forgive me when you wake up, baby.” It doesn’t really sound like him anymore, faint and messy as he ruts his cock against the inside of your thigh and stares at your face for a little longer. He paws at your tummy again, maybe it’s the lack of oxygen - he feels like he hasn’t taken a breath in ages - or the fact that all his blood is cleary in his swollen cock, hot and heavy.

He kisses you again, pants against your chest as he watches between your two bodies as one arm keeps him up, and the other drags the shard of glass below your belly button just hard enough to create a little cut. He just- just wants to be a little closer, you’ll let him, you’ll let him- he’s been so fucking mean to you and if he can just do this, he’ll make it up to you. Specks of blood well up that he swipes his thumb through to slide it into his mouth, get used to the taste of copper on his tongue. Sometimes he bites your lip hard enough to split it, and you tear up and whine, tangle your fingers in his hair.

He could cum on the spot when you yank like that, but the taste now isn’t enough. As he pushes the shard of glass into your skin harder, watching one layer make way for another, tougher tissue that still gives when he grids down a little- he waits for the moment where he feels bad, regrets and walks it all back- but the feeling doesn’t come. Your body looks so pretty like this, robbed of your innocence by his hands; and he doesn’t wanna cum yet, fuck. The adrenaline swimming in his head is pounding too hard to feel anything other than love for you, and the pulling, almost unbearable sensation of wanting to slide back into you. The blood pools around the hole as he slides along, hearing the skin squelch and snap, building a sweat along his neck and collar. Maybe you’d lick it up if you were awake.

The blood runs, covers his entire fist that’s wrapped tight around the glass, it creates little rivers that you’ll both be laying in soon. He coughs, before kissing you below your jaw, feeling the weak pulse beneath his lips— and righting himself to look at his work with a better angle, groaning. There’s both more blood and less than he expected, pooling in your belly button, all over your pretty pussy, his thighs and hands- his cock not yet. He drops the glass aside as he thumbs over the wound and sure enough- he’s cut through fat and muscle and sinew without too much struggle, because you’re soft all over.

He pushes the fleshy gash open more, thumbs over the clean cut he made with a strange sort of fascination before the hot, hot blood gets to be too much for his curiosity and he leans in to lick from your clit up, up, up until his tongue reaches the raised, tight skin— what has he done, what’s he doing, this, this isn’t — he can’t stand the heat that’s coming out of you for long, and it smells, but that isn’t what sticks with him right now. He’s never wanted to be closer. The gaping pouch of your belly’s drooling red for him. The head of his cock twitches when he feels the hot of your stomach coating him in blood, and coating you in turn. The cum from before’s all but washed away, but he’s sure he can give you another couple orgasms before he tuckers out.

He’s strung so high all of this feels like a dream, like his head is about to roll off of his neck; he pushes in with a garbled sort of sound that comes from deep, deep inside him. The skin doesn’t wanna give way at first, but he manages to push back hard enough before suddenly he’s inside, and it’s like nothing else. The pressure of a slab of skin taking him where it’s not meant to go— bleeding and whining out like this, it’s euphoric. He’s able to see his cock’s outline glide into you until it’s bulging your stomach, squelching and sucking him back in; feels like you’re taking him deeper than ever, letting him fuck his cock so deep he’ll hit your ribs soon. You’re so fucking beautiful, even like this, getting coated and letting him fuck it.

He doesn’t know what it’s like to feel like you’re dying, but the peace that washes him entirely clean might be close; he grinds his hips into you hard enough to rock your body under him as he laces your hands again. Both, this time, just chasing after an end that seems like it’ll never come.

He feels infinite. Your blood’s so hot it’s almost painful, and the tightness of the hole he carved into you is entirely different from your pussy, pushing back against him like you’re begging him to get out. He imagines you’d beg so pretty- but he’s inside you, finally inside and deeper than anyone’s ever been. He’s able to watch his cock blow up your belly and make it hollow when he pulls back, and God- he should feel worse than he does. He could swallow you whole if you’d let him. The feeling has him shuddering over you as he pants your name, makes your tits brush over his chest- and his balls smack against the smooth stretch of skin until he can’t feel his feet any longer.

Now he’s got you dirtied, he wants to ruin you too, leave you a mangled mess of flesh and swallow every last bit of you until he never forgets the taste. But that would require he’d stop fucking his hot cock into your bloody, little pouch, and that won’t happen. He’s panting, sweat running down his back from the effort, and his groin starts to feel a little raw too. He might’ve been going for hours by now, licking your mouth clean from his drool only to dirty you again. The head of his cock feels fucked raw inside you, and his thighs shake before his shoulders square over you.

Megumi speeds up his pace fucking into your guts -actually- until he clenches every muscle, is overcome again and reaches heaven inside you, spurting creamy white into the pouch he’s created for himself; “Fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuckfuck,” his hand has to twist into an uncomfortable position to reach for your clit, but he wildly does it anyway— cramping up, until he’s collapsing on top of you and stilling inside. The stench of blood makes the entire room smell, as he thumbs over the side of your blood-coated thigh with one hand, and feels the shaking all the way up and down his spine. He pulls out so slowly, pumping the last bits of cum out with a throaty moan, before he slides off the table onto awfully shaky legs.

If he was any more lucid, he’d think twice before leaning by your side to kiss your eyes, your nose, your pouty lips as the tears that must’ve been building for a while run down your temple— and suppresses the need to actually eat you- for now, he rubs a softer hand over your exposed tummy, before folding the now blood-drenched fabric of your skirt back down to hide your puffy pussy, lest he be tempted again. He whispers his love into your ears, nuzzles at your hairline until the feeling comes back to his hands and feet and he tucks his spent cock back into his boxers, and goes about cleaning the mess he made of the floor.

It’s only when an uncomfortable scratchy sound comes that he notices the burning heat on his neck, the dried sweat painfully sticky— and straightens up beside you when you start to shake again. Immediately his worry is sky high. Even in the gross air of mixed blood and cum and the scent of sex soaking everything, his mind is just clear enough to hold your head when you thrash around a few times, and your chest rises wildly up and down. Then before his very eyes, the damage he’d done upon you slowly starts to stitch itself together, like weaving threads. Lacing you up until every bit of muscle, fat, and skin restores to it’s pristine glory before he ever touched you, with a little puff of cursed energy.

He bites his lip hard when the shaking stops, and your back lands back onto the metal with a soft clang. The noise is louder now it’s quiet in the room. Megumi waits for a bit longer before he brushes the hair from your face, and doesn't mind it that he’s leaving tracks. The darkness is filled with his tense breathing, and then — every sound at once. Your eyes shoot open with a cry, sobbing out like a baby for a few painful seconds. But then spot him thumbing your tears away devoted like he is -though he won’t admit it to you, and you let out a noise of pure relief.

It’s almost poetic, when you crash back into his arms and this time, he lets your arms wind around his waist.

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