#i always have one in my team when i play and i always name him cheetođ§Ą
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thereâs been an insane resurgence of headcannons in the marvel fandom thanks to thunderbolts, so heres my masterlist of headcannons i���ve seen from others that I will continue to add to :)
Yelena
her guinea pig is the group petânamed Nat
insists on doing karaoke every saturday night, she and Ava eat everyone up.
Cooks for EVERYONE. makes sure they all eat enough.
laughs at her own jokes, especially the bad ones. Ava canât help but laugh with her.
Bucky
leads group therapy seasion every tuesday.
tries* to use brainrot and slang terms, but it catches onto Alexei, so now nobody can convince him otherwise.
helps Bob with his nightmares. Sees pre-serum Steve in Bob so he feels like he needs to protect him
talks about Sam a lot, everyones tired of it.
argues with John constantly, but they always work well together on missions.
Itâs a competition to see who can sneak up on and scare bucky. Heâs expressionless every time and just says âwow that was so scaryâ
Insists on silence breaks, everyone starts speaking again after 3 minutes.
says he never cares, but makes sure thereâs water and first aid for every mission.
Bob
THE little brother.
has to have some amount of light on when he sleeps. He also loves to sleep in the living room on the couch when otherâs are there to listen to the soft of their voices.
May or may not be on Booktok, either way, he reads romance and mystery.
always in the corner drinking tea or a milkshake when the others are fighting.
hates cucumber, any way itâs prepared.
He always beats John in every card or board game. when itâs more than 2 people playing, it doesnât matter if Bob comes out on top, he always gets a higher score than John. Theyâre the two brothers who hate eachother.
watches cartoons to heal his inner child, doesnât let anyone know.
>800 hours on minecraft
hard for him to accept gifts from others, even if itâs a bag of chips, heâll say he doesnât deserve it.
actually has a great sense of humor, can make the entire team cry from laughter just by saying something small. Takes him a couple weeks to loosen up and start joking around
Ava
likes to jumpscare people by just appearing out of thin air. Steals everyones snacks because she can.
Ultimate gaslighter, especially towards Bob. shows him those ai videos of sad cat stories and obvious rage bate and he gets pissed about it.
loves halloween and horror movies (a menace on halloween night, especially to John who she would just stand in the hallway and stare menacingly at while in a clown costume or something)
has trouble sleeping. Bucky once found her on the floor of the training room at 3am
once passed out from overworking herself, woke up and found Bob sitting next to her watching over her like a big golden retriever.
Kendrick Lamar enthusiast
Red Guardian
runs a tiktok account where he posts videos of the team (bonus, he puts filters on them and doesnât tell)
will make the most heinous food combinations and swear theyâre good.
hugs a little too tightly.
always gives a big dramatic speech before they go out, even if itâs just for coffee.
tells stories that are 90% lies, but everyone listens anyway.
John
acts as if he doesnât care for the group, but gets worried if they donât all text him back.
thinks he has a niche movie collection but itâs not neiche at all. horrible taste in movies (this one is very popular)
resident chef, along with Yelena.
the only one who has an actual schedule.
Gets really quiet after missions, especially if things went bad. Extremely self-critical even if itâs not apparent.
#thunderbolts*#thunderbolts#yelena belova#bucky barnes#robert reynolds#red guardian#bob thunderbolts#Ava starr#john walker#marvel#headcannons#marvel headcannons#thunderbolts headcannons#the new avengers#avengers headcanons
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Book report time of the week!!!
Only book reports Iâve even willingly done fr
* Strong start when we thought we were past the avoid the conversation stage đŠ
* Awwww Dean yearning so bad for her is everything for me đ heâs gonna like buffer so bad when they finally are just together
* Chronic overthinker core
* âYouâre like the universe, and Iâm sorta like the stars, so how this should work is I fill you up-â Dean you horny man! Iâm in.
* The circumstances around their mutual existence is exhausting no wonder theyâre like yk what we donât need more on this plate
* Being included with sammys life of the line is SERIOUS for him (I like that you add these lil things cus if itâs the car or his brother your getting chosen with or above its big)
* Heâs so down bag heâs gotten one moment and heâs wearing the tape down on it
* I wonder if heâd ever just play dumb and pretend he didnât know a word just to see her smile and tell him (itâs very on brand)
* Lmao Sam being like no you donât get to ask him he agrees with everything you say!
* Sam getting teamed up on so he will go flirt is his version of getting a taste of his own medicine
* The banter in that scene is also chefs kiss
* Iâm always like crying over the sun/shadow sun/moon and the sun/plant thingy you have going itâs so cute
* âScary pretty face important people haveâ but like old money pretty or actress pretty?
* Iâm sobbing dean freaking out as soon as he woke up is heartbreaking
* I canât wait for the arc about what she changes cus like topping the ROMAN EMPIRE? Icon behaviour
* OH Dean experiencing the sky? I wonder if thatâs a result of her kinda melding into his soul
* Literally giggled when I read sheâs trying to figure out how to write deans name
* PLEASE âI raised you better than that!â âNo you didnâtâ âI tried not my fault it didnât takeâ GOLD ABSOLUTE COMEDY GOLD
* Holy shit, cas sayin she looks like god is INSANE (dean is gonna love this also connection to the earlier prayer thought? đ)
* Everyone just has ptsd by now ( is it ptsd if the stress is ongoing?)
* Damn sheâs really spiraling thinking about a hypothetical woman dean could fall in love with
* Oh little theory pause! So by little comments sheâs getting more powerful from just Dean being him, what if when they finally get together and sheâs like properly soaking up that love she gets to goddess status and then something big happens (leading from a previous thing I said) and then she has her moment and deans her like god equivalent Prince consort (god-consort?)
* Uh oh her trauma is bad and god sheâs gonna feel terrible for hurting Sam
* FINALLY Sam gets to say something
* Holy shit I did not expect the boto to be pretending to be dean! And sheâs a virgin who knew (not me but I did kinda think hey sheâs been a. Lonely b. In love with Dean c. Surrounded by overprotective males. )So yeah makes sense lmao
* YES MORE SMOOCHES
* End note: yeah there would have been some heavy foundation damage to whatever place it occurred before now lmao
* I loved this so much it was more fluffy than last chapters I think, and Iâm so happy girly got the balls to go just grab him and I love that he got hard too lmao
Chapter 19 - That's Nothing New
Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist
Author's Note: Welcome to my favorite part of any slow burn: horny
Chapter Title from Vertigo by Griff
Word Count: 18.4k
Chapter Summary/Warnings: A very special valentineâs episode. Usual Warnings.
Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, pining, action
Chapter 18 - Chapter 20
Read on A03!
They hadnât talked about it.Â
Dean wasnât sure he wanted to talk about it. He didnât know where that conversation led.Â
It could be simple. He could corner Her in Bobby kitchen, ask Her what it meant to Her, and theyâd have to have The Conversation. And Deanâfor once in his lifeâmight get pretty damn lucky, and Sheâd say it meant the same to Her that it had meant to him.
Everything.Â
The kiss had meant everything. It what most of what he was made of, now. The memory of it playing on a heavy loop in his head, the taste of Her lingered on his tongueâhe was starting to develop a small habit of licking his lips every single freaking second, trying to gather up whatever little bits of Her remained like some sort of creepâand his hands were itching to touch Her again.Â
He didnât have a goddamn clue how heâd managed to go so long without touching Her. Kissing Her. Trying to find out every single way She could possibly moan his name, because son of a bitch, that was the best thing heâd ever heard.
She was the best thing Dean had ever had.Â
And he didnât even know if it had meant anything to Her.
There were a lot of ways that conversation could go, and Dean had played out most of them in his head already. It was a like planning for a hunt. Heâd grab her in the kitchen, because that would give Her more of a warning than if he started The Conversation in Her bedroom, and a better place for him to escape than if he used to Impala.
In some versions, he started The Conversation, then pussied out and ran away. He was a fucking coward. Dean knew how to talk to ladies. He was good at talking to ladies. He was good at talking to Her.
But not about this.Â
âWhyâre you up, Princess?â
Dean had woken up a few days ago, and She hadnât been in bed. The only thing that kept him from freaking out was how he could still smell Her on the sheets. And She wouldnât have just left. Sheâd pinky promised him She wouldnât just leave.
Heâd found Her in the library. Of course he had. Absentmindedly scratching notes on a small piece of paper as she read, Her brow furrowed in the cuter, less painful version of Her little wrinkle, not even flinching or starting as Dean made himself known.
âCouldnât sleep.â Sheâd muttered, and Dean had shrugged.
âYouâre not gonna sleep, if youâre down here.â
âIâll be fine.â Sheâd written down another note thatâwhen Dean had craned his neckâwas obviously in Enochian. Sheâd been doing that more lately, and Dean didnât really want to think about why. âGo back to bed, De.â
He couldâve. But that would mean leaving Her, and Dean had promised not to do that. And this had been the perfect time. For The Conversation. No Bobby to try and shoot him, no Sammy to tease him, no Jo to make little jokes about it. Just Her and Dean, in the dead hours of the night.
In the moment, heâd really thought he could do this.Â
âSo, uh,â Heâd cleared his throat, and Sheâd glanced up from Her book. âAngels.â
Sheâd frowned. âWhat about them? I- Nothing has tried to break through the wards, right? Because a lot of those sigils are experimental, but they should start like, glowing, if something is coming-â
âNothingâs coming.â Dean had mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. âIâm just. You know. Lotta stuff happening.â
âLikeâŚâ She raised Her brows, and Dean wasnât sure how She always managed to look so perfectly put together. âAngels?â
âYeah.â
Sheâd hummed, scanning over Dean with an unreadable expression, and heâd felt like She was looking right into his soul-
Son of a bitch, She probably was. She could see Deanâs soul, and if Hell somehow hadnât made Her run, this was going to. He didnât know how it worked, but the want in his body for Her wasnât pure, and if She saw it and hated it, Dean would end up alone-
âAre you feeling okay?â Her voice had been soft as She cut off Deanâs thoughts, and heâd blinked. âDe, you- Youâre really red.â
ââM fine.â Heâd mumbled, and Sheâd shaken Her head.
âDid you get sunburned or something? I know itâs winter, but youâre outside all the time, and I have aloe if it hurts-â
âNothing hurts.â Heâd thrown Her his best, widest, most charming smile, and moved to drop at Her side. âWhat are we reading?â
Sheâd smiled slightly, pulling Her book away from Deanâs gaze. âWeâre not reading anything.â
âI can read-â
âNot this.â
âBut-â
âItâs a girl book, De.âÂ
He hadnât known what a girl book was. He still wasnât entirely sure.Â
Heâd stayed anyway.
âCâmon, I did those face masks with you and Jo. I can read your girl book.â Heâd reached out a hand, and Her eyes had widened.
âDean-â
âIâm not going back to bed.â
Sheâd stared at him, and Dean had known Sheâd heard the silent words.Â
Without you. Iâm not going back to bed if youâre not there.
âDo youâŚâ Sheâd swallowed, Her eyes never leaving Deanâs, and maybe he shouldâve damned it all and kissed Her again there. âIâm hungry. Are you-â
âIâm always hungry, Princess.â Dean had grinned, and offered Her his hand. âGas station?â
Sheâd given him a small smile and nod, The Conversation hadnât happened, and Dean had decided that bringing it up naturallyâwhich had, somehow, been the plan in the libraryâhad to be taken off the table as an option.
But he didnât know how to do it otherwise.Â
Hey, Princess, youâre the best thing that ever happened to me and if you want to kiss me again, I wonât stop you. Wrong. She was beautiful being that was above goddamn heaven, Dean couldnât ask Her out like it was a suggestion to get him more pie. Like this wasnât the most important thing heâd ever done.Â
Iâm a piece of shit, sweetheart, but I want you, so Iâm sorry about that, but could you please fucking kiss me again before I lose my mind. Wrong again. She shouldnât have to. It didnât mean anything if She kissed Dean to keep him from losing his mind. She had to want it.
I think youâre fucking awesome. She knew that. It had never gotten Her to kiss him before.
Every single time I dream, itâs about you-Â
He wasnât a teenage girl.
Do you have any idea how fucking hard I get whenever you smile at me? How many times Iâve imagined grabbing you and pinning you to the wall, or bending you over the table, or getting on my knees and-
Bobby would shoot him. Heâd deserve it.
Youâre like the universe, and Iâm sorta like the stars, so how this should work is I fill you up-
He was going to shoot himself.
And there were too many variables for what She might say. Maybe it really had meant nothing to Her, and Sheâd tell Dean that, and heâd just have to fucking live with that.Â
Worse, maybe it had meant everything to Her. Maybe Dean really, fully had Her if he wanted Her, and now he could lose Her. Break Her. Maybe Sheâd say Deano, of course Iâm the universe, but youâre somehow the best thing that happened to me too, and climb on his lap and kiss him again, and heâd get to hold Her, but know angels were hunting Her and Alistair might try to take Her away.
Even if that was the case, even if She didâagainst all odds and reasonâwant Dean, he had to have The Conversation about it, first.Â
He still didnât know how to do that. Because it was exactly like planning for a hunt. And the number one rule of making plans for hunts was that you were going to have to improvise. Move on instinct, and stay alive. Speak on instinct, and keep Her by his side.
Dean did not know how to speak on instinct. And if he stumbled or tripped in a huntâhe didnât, really, ever, as killing monsters was a whole lot easier than trying to tell Her that heâd kill and die to kiss Her just one more fucking timeâthe only thing it would cost Dean was himself. He never hesitated, when it was Her or Sammy on the line, so the only person that ever ended up hurt because of Dean fucking a hunt up was himself. And that was acceptable.
He didnât know how to do that for The Conversation. How to find his way with all the right words should he lose them. He could say something horrible, say something wrong, fuck it up and lose Her forever. There were no bullets or blades to jump in front of, if She started to get upset.
Son of a bitch, what if She started to get upset.
What if She started to cry, and Dean wasnât allowed to calm Her down because heâd fucked it all up. He couldnât live with himself, if that was how it played out. Dean could barely tolerate himself now, when heâd down and swear that there was blood on his hands once more. Sheâd stayed when She knew about the blood. If Dean lost Her now, because of his words, there would be no one else to blame but himself.
He was supposed to be Her shadow. And this was part of being Her shadow, but the most important part was keep Her safe and never let anything hurt Her.
Dean could have hurt Her.
But Sheâd kissed him back. Over the past few weeks, whenever Dean would roll over and look at Her in bed, heâd remind himself that Sheâd kissed him back. Sheâd wanted it. He was a piece of shit, but not that low and ugly in the mud. Heâd never do that to anyone.
But he was still fantasizing about Her. And it was wrong, so fucking wrong to look over Her in the night and brush hair from Her face because he was allowed to, only to turn around and shuffle into the shower in the morning, and replay the kiss over and over in his head until his cock was raw in his hand.
Even now, sitting in the dark of a parking lot with Her at his side, Dean was having too many fantasies.
Theyâd been doing it every other night, since the library. Going out to the gas station in the dead of night, just them, together, whenever one of them couldnât sleep. Tonight Sheâd even woken Dean up with big glossy eyes and a sad little furrow on Her brow.Â
âI- Iâm sorry.â Sheâd whispered, looking a little too much like the exact image that had been in Deanâs head only seconds before. Where She was hovering above him, but his hands were on Her hips, and his mouth was wrapped around one of Her nipples as She rode his cock and screamed his-
He'd been dangerously close to getting hard, and forced himself to focus on the soft nervousness of Her voiceâobviously distressed and, for reasons he'd never understand, seeking his comfortâto calm down.
"You can go back to bed, if you want, but-"
"No, 's alright." Dean had rubbed the sleep from his eyes, holding Her against him before she decided to run away. "I was up anyway."
That was a lie. They both knew that was a lie, but She smiled, and it was worth the consequence of another sin added to his roster.Â
"You need a ride?" He'd asked, and She'd flushed, giving him a small nod.
"I- Um, yes. Please."
It hadn't been until they were in the car that Dean caught his own wording. Or the fact that holding Her to make sure she stayed had meant grabbing Her by waist and pinning her to his body.
That would be a good way to start The Conversation.
Baby, if I had kissed you right there, would you have stabbed me for real this time, or let me take care of you.
Dean wasn't brave enough to say it. But he could think it, over and over until he drove himself insane. And he could stare at Her in the soft shadows and lights of the parking lot, and know that he'd never be able to have The Conversation.Â
He couldn't afford to push his luck. When he didn't dream about kissing Her, he dreamt about Hell. And She'd started to infect those dreams too, since Boston. Since Dean found out She'd been there, and still hadn't left him. He would've left him, if that was an option. Shit, Sammy and Bobby still didn't know, and he dreaded the day they looked at him and saw him. Saw that vast fucking pit that had been in Dean his whole life, ripped open into a chasm by his own hand, and knew what he was.
Worse than a monster. Lower than the mud.Â
Never fucking worthy of anything, let alone Her. The drop-dead gorgeous, ethereal, literally fucking magical woman made of stars, who could see him, and was staying.
Dean couldnât take more from Her than she was already offering, just by staying and letting him care for Her at least like this. He'd gotten to kiss Her once, and that was more than he deserved. He got to be the one She came to in the dead of night for comfort and company. She wasn't leaning against anyone else in the car. Wasn't holding their hand like it was a lifeline as they wandered through the gas station. Didn't stand on Her toes to whisper in anyone's ear but Dean's, because he was Her shadow. No one else.
She'd asked if they could get ice cream. Asked it like Dean wouldn't give Her the fucking Sun if he could figure out how to grab it.
And now She was curled up at his side, a little bit of it stuck on Her nose, and Dean would be fine never kissing Her again, as long as he got to be the one who wiped the splotch away with his thumb and licked it clean.Â
âDo you want some?â She held the tub out with raised brows, and Dean gave Her a small grin.Â
âNah, I got my pie.â
âBut you gave me some of yours-â
âCause you were staring, Princess, and Iâm a-â Dean paused, frowning at the air. âWhat do you call those guys who give people all their things?â
A small, soft smile covered Her features. Dean had never seen anything prettier. âSamaritans?â
âYeah, that. Iâm one of those.â
She giggled, leaning Her head back on the bench. âYou know, Sam told me you threatened to exorcise Ruby if she tried to take your ice last week.â
âWell, the bitch didnât fucking pay for it.â Dean grumbled. âAnd it is Ruby. Youâd have threatened worse.â
âTouchĂŠ.â She turned Her head to the side, watching Dean through the dark, and he knew She could see it. If She could see his soul, She had to see the chasm as well.
And She was still looking at him. Staying at his side. He didnât fucking understand why.
âDean?â
He grunted, fiddling with his jerky bag. Sheâd grabbed it before anything else. Theyâd barely been in the store for ten seconds before Sheâd shoved it into Deanâs hands, the same way heâd grabbed a root beer and passed it to Her without a thought. He didnât want to think about what that meant.Â
âIâm worried about Sam. Heâs- You know I donât trust Ruby, and theyâve been hanging out a lot-â
âI know.â Dean muttered. âI am too, but- I donât know, sweetheart. Heâs not listening to me about it anymore. Says Iâm blinded about-â
He cut himself off, because the end of that sentence was Her. That Dean was blinded in his worry about Her, and how because She and Ruby didnât like each other, they couldnât bring Her on the seal cases.Â
Theyâd gotten in a fight about it, last week. On the drive back, Dean had grumbled something about missing Her, wanting to bring Her on the next one because Sheâd fucking nail itâthese were Her exact types of cases, weird and impossible to understand until she gave it a once over and got it in ten secondsâand thinking it was unfair that Sam got to bring his untrustworthy demon everywhere, but Dean couldnât bring his awesome, brilliant, perfect Her.
Sam had sighed. âItâs not that I donât want her here, Dean, you know I do, but- Rubyâs worried sheâll kill her-â
âGood.â Dean had muttered. âShe will.â
âShe shouldnât! Rubyâs the only demon weâve got completely on our side-â
Dean had snorted. âJesus, Sammy, I really thought you were smarter than thinking a demon would ever be on our side-â
âRuby is, sheâs proved over and over that she is-â
âProved to you.â
âSheâs tried to prove to you as well, man, but youâre just never wrong about people, I guess-â
âI am wrong about people! I know Iâve been wrong about people, but you know whoâs never fucking wrong about people?â Dean had spat Her name, and Samâs mouth had snapped shut. âI donât need Ruby to prove herself to me, she needs to prove herself to-â
âThe woman who wants to kill her?â Sam had mumbled, watching Dean carefully, and heâd been damn near close to strangling the wheel.
âTo the woman who can see fucking souls. Sheâs not wrong. And I want her on the next seal.â
Sam had sighed. âDude, if you just want to stay with her, you can skip the next case. I- Itâs not just about Ruby.â Sam had said Her name gently, giving Dean a sympathetic look he didnât fucking want. âIf we put her on a seal case, the angels will notice. It wonât be safe for her-â
âIâd protect her.âÂ
âBut what if you canât, Dean.â Samâs voice had been too fucking soft. âItâs- The seals are a lot, but all the Magdalene stuff is⌠different. You told me Cas doesnât understand it, and Ruby-â
âDonât.â Dean had pushed the words through his teeth. He was done with the conversation, because he would protect Her. That was the whole point of being Her shadow. If he couldnât touch Her, at least he could protect Her. And if He couldnât do that, he might as well just be another asshole in the mud.Â
âDean-â
âNo. Donât tell me what Ruby thinks of my-â Dean had snapped Her name, and if Sam caught his slip, he didnât say anything. âRuby called her a bitch. You know that, Sam? Ruby called her a self-important bitch.â
Sam hadâwiselyâlooked down at his hands with a shameful expression. âI- Dean, Iâm not trying to-â
âI donât care. You know sheâs better than Ruby.â She was better than all of them. âAnd I want her. On the case. Got it?â
Sam had nodded, and that had been the end of it. If She wanted, theyâd bring Her on the next seal case.Â
If She wanted.
Dean hadnât asked yet. He hadnât found a time for it. She was already dealing with enough.Â
Yet was another reason they hadnât had The Conversation. Between the seals, his fights with Sam about Ruby, and the whole dangerous bringer of change thing Cas had dropped on them, this was simply not a good time to start begging Her to tell him what he meant to Her, like he was some kind of pathetic little yipping dog. Trying to get Her attention and affection, when she needed to be working.Â
They all needed to be working.Â
Dean still spent too much time staring at Her lips, and wondering if just licking them would let him taste the fruit again.Â
Heâd been staring at Her for too long now. Where She could see it. Sheâd asked him a genuine question, Dean had been a piece of shit and lost himself in thoughts of licking Her.Â
âI, uh- At least youâre coming with us. Instead of Ruby.â
She frowned at him. âWhat?â
âNext seal case. Youâre-â
âDean,â She sighed, and heâd done something wrong. She was pouting at him a little, and rubbing the scar on Her palmâSheâd never actually told him how She got it, but it would once again be far too greedy to take moreâso Dean had done something wrong.
âIf you want.â He added, trying to keep his voice perfectly even and natural. âTheyâre just a lot of weird, crazy shit, and you love that stuff-â
âItâs not that.â She whispers, giving him a sad smile. âYou remember what Cas said. I- Samâs right, keeping me away from the seals. Thatâs not what Iâm worried about.â
Dean had a lot of issues with that. To start, Sam was not right. She should not be kept away from anything. Second, and more importantly- âWhat are you worried about, then?â
âI- I think sheâs doing something to him.â
âRuby? To Sammy?â Dean frowned. Sam was the same. A little angrier, and more exhausted, but the same.Â
But She nodded, the movement nervous. âI- I donât know how. Or what. But Iâm really worried about him, Dean, I shouldnât have run when you-â She swallowed, and Dean hadnât missed how Sheâd been doing that. Aside from their fight in Texas, She never said dead, or died, or death. And Her lips were being chewed raw by her teeth, and Her eyes were a little glazed as she stared at Dean, and-Â
There was the wrinkle.
Dean pulled Her fully into his arms without thinking about it. If She wanted to shove him away, She could, and he wouldnât fight it. But she just dropped Her head into his chest with a long breath, shaking Her head against his body.
âWeâre past that, Princess.â He murmured, not sure what else to say. âYouâre not running anymore. Remember, Iâll catch you if you try.â
She sighed, the sound a little shaky. âYou still need to explain that, Winchester.â
âIâm good.â He shrugged, smiling a little into the air. âIâm not blaming you for what Sam did while I was gone, same as Iâm not blaming Sam for you.â
That was a little bit of a lie. But it made Her relax, and She didnât need to know that heâd shouted at Sam and Bobby for losing Her, so he let it go.Â
âSammyâll be fine. Heâs an idiot, but heâs the smartest little idiot on the planet-â
âHe is not little.â She mumbled, and Dean chuckled.
âHis soul is little.â
âNo, it isnât.â She buried Her face a little further in Deanâs body. He couldnât think about it. âItâs big and shiny.â
âHuh.â Dean frowned down at Her. âWhat about-â
âYouâre big and shiny too.â
Warmth inflated in his chest, and that shouldnât have made him as proud as it did. He was big and shiny. Even if She was obviously hitting the point of sleepy where Dean would think She was drunk if he didnât know better, Sheâd called him big and shiny.
And golden. Sheâd said Dean was golden, and no matter what She could see on his body after Hell, she hadnât taken it back.Â
âWhat are you?â He asked, running his fingers through Her hair and making his voice soft, and She shrugged.Â
ââM not anything.â
âYou-â
âBut I can feel it. Everything.âÂ
âOh. Of course.â Dean smiled down at Her. âYou ready to go home, b- Princess?â
She nodded, but didnât move. Her fingers curled into his shirt. âWhat about the next case?â
Dean sighed. He wanted Her there, so fucking much.Â
Almost as much as he wanted Her to get what She wanted.
âYou donât have to go-â
âI want to go!â Her voice was almost a whine, and Dean couldnât let himself think too hard about it as She leaned back, looking up at him with big eyes and shiny hair falling around Her face. âI wanna go Dean, but I- What if the angels donât want me there?â
âWho gives a shit what they think?â
âI do.â She whispered. âWhat if they put you back in Hell?â
Dean didnât know if they could do that. âThey wonât.â He hoped he sounded more confident in that than he felt. âThey need me for all the seal stuff, and youâre gonna be great at it, so they need you.â
She shook Her head. âThey donât need me. They donât want me interfering. Cas said theyâd take precautions.â
âI donât care.â
âDean, I care. I- Iâm not already pushing it just by staying with you at Bobbyâs, I donât want to-â She took a shaking breath, staring at Her hands on Deanâs chest. âWe still donât really know what I am. And if the Magdalene who brought the Roman Empire was barely even five percentâŚâ
âMagic?â Dean offered as She trailed off, and she nodded.
âWhat am I going to do?â
They hadnât really talked about this either. The Magdalene thing. Dean didnât really have anything to say about, because it really hadnât been an actual answer. They had a name, but no matter how many books She and Sammy read, how many contacts Bobby and Ellen reached out to, nobody had ever even damn heard of it. And angels and demons freaking out about Her wasnât anything new, and nothing had shifted where She was suddenly some sort of lamb to be sacrificed, or monster to be caged.
She was still just Her. As far as Dean cared, no matter how they framed it, She was Herself, and nothing else really fucking mattered. Heâd keep looking for answers because She wanted them, but for Dean, She was enough all on her own.Â
âYouâll do whatever you want.â He muttered, holding Her gaze. âAnd if you want to come on this next one, thatâs it.â
She sighed. âDean-â
He hummed Her name back, and grinned at Her glare.
âWhat if Iâm a seal?â She grumbled. âHave you thought of that?â
âNope.â Dean slid Her back into her place, pressing a greedy kiss to her brow at the last second. âAnd Iâll have you however, arfing or not.â
She giggled, shaking Her head.Â
It was resting back on his shoulder.
Heâs not allowed to think about it.
âThatâs not funny.â
âYou laughed.â
âIâm tired-â
âAnd Iâm trying to get you to bed.â Dean started Babyâs engine, and She let out a soft hum. âYouâve got a big day tomorrow, Princess. Letâs get you some rest.âÂ
She didnât fight it. When Dean pulled Her out of the car, she slumped into his side. He got to all but carry Her up the stairs, and help her back into bed, before crawling in right beside Her. And that was more than anyone else got.
It would have to be enough. For Her to let Dean touch Her at all, when sheâd seen what heâd done. For Her to listen to him at all, and agree to go on the case, when all Sheâd have to say was no, Dean, and heâd drop it. Heâd suck it up and deal with Ruby for another week, forcing himself not to grab his phone and call Her every ten minutes.Â
But Sheâd agree.Â
She was going on the case. Dean wouldnât have to deal with Ruby, andâmore importantlyâheâd get to see Her. All week. In the rearview mirror on the car ride and on the other side of his motel bed, across from him in the diner and next to him at the bar.Â
âItâs good we know this is a seal going in.â Sam said, watching Her draw on a paper napkin.Â
Sheâd been doing that a lot, lately. In Enochian, without bothering to tell Sam and Dean what she was doing.
Dean really wasnât sure how heâd ask. The best he could offer himself was pressing right into Her side and staring over Her shoulder, only half listening as Sam tried to talk about the case.
In his defense, none of them were really paying attention. Dean was staring at Her, She was focused on her napkin, and Sammy kept getting distracted by a redhead making fuck-me eyes at him. Then heâd make the eyes back, before coughing and trying to continue the conversation whenever Dean glanced over and caught him.
She paused, glancing up with a small frown. âDo you usually not know?â
âSometimes Cas drops in and gives us a heads up,â Dean leaned a little further forward. He didnât know what he was looking for. He wasnât magic, and he definitely couldnât speak angel. âTold us that heaven knows Lilithâs making moves in Florida, and whatever sheâs starting, we need to squash.â
She gave Dean an amused look. âCas did not say making moves.â
âYou canât prove that, sweetheart.â Dean winked at Her, and Sam cleared his throat.Â
âWe also know what sheâs doing-â
âWhat moves sheâs making-â
âShut up, Dean. A lot of couples have been murdered at the resort weâre headed to.â Sam wrinkled his nose. âLike, a lot. Too many to be normal.â
She hummed, looking back to Her paper. âHow many is a lot?â
âEight.â
âThatâs not a lot.â
Sam frowned at Her. âWhat number would be a lot?â
âI dunno. Fifteen?âÂ
âThat is not a-â
âYes, it is.â She looked up to Dean. âFifteenâs a lot, right Deano?â
Sam scoffed. âYou canât ask Dean, heâs just going to agree with you.â
Dean scowled. âNo, Iâm not.â
âYeah, you are, dude-â
âWell, youâre not giving him a chance to answer, Sam-â
âAnd I wasnât going to agree with her-â
She turned to give Dean a pretty, wide-eyed look, and son of a bitch, his cock twitched in his pants. âYou werenât?â
âI- Uh.â Dean coughed, rubbing the back of his neck. âI didnât really think about it! You and Sam started yelling and shit, I wasnât really paying attention-â
âWhy?â Sam raised his brows, suddenly looking a hell of a lot more smug than earlier. âWhat were you looking at instead, Dean?â
Dean narrowed his eyes. âShut up, Sammy. Go flirt with the redhead whoâs been making eyes at you and leave us alone.â
Sam sighed. âWeâre in the middle of a case, Dean-â
âTechnically the case hasnât started,â She hummed. âAnd we get it. Dying couple, resort, Lilith, figure out exactly what the seal is and stop it from being broken. Easy.â
âItâs not easy, and you havenât even heard the actual plan yet-â
âWeâll go undercover,â She refocused on Her napkin, voice smooth and bored. âWeâll need a patron, a bartender, and a staff member. Optimized access to the facility, a lot of good reasons to talk to people, none of us too out of place for talking to each other.â
Sam frowned. âHow would staff and patrons talking not be conspicuous-â
âStaff could be work friends. Patron could be just nosing their way into the conversation. As long as weâre careful, itâll be fine. The patron will have to stay in their room, to keep appearances, but I doubt Lilith is wire-tapping phones.â
Samâs mouth opened and closed, and he finally gave in with a sigh. It was a good plan. Of course it was. It was Her plan.
Dean let that show all over his face, as he shot Sammy a smug look. They hadnât even gotten to the seal yet, and his girl was already killing it. Ruby wouldâve talked about sneaking around and breaking in and other stupid shit. She was smarter than that.Â
âGo flirt with the redhead, Sam.â She didnât look up from Her napkin, and Sam sighed.
âIâm not- Itâs almost valentineâs day, guys, Iâm not trying to be. You know. The guy.â
She looked up. âThe guy? Whatâs the guy?â
âYou- Dean knows. Heâs been the guy-â
âSam.â Dean grunted. âShut it. Go flirt.â
She shook Her head, frowning between them. âI- Sam, whatâs the guy-â
âItâs a dude thing.â Dean snapped, and She scoffed.
âI thought we were breaking gender barriers, Winchester. You did me and Joâs girl things-â
Sam grinned. âWhat girl things?â
âNothing. Both of you, shut the fuck up. Sam,â Dean pointed firmly at the red-head with the fuck-me eyes. âFlirt. And you,â Dean turned his glower down to Her, and she covered his mouth with a hand.
That shouldnât have been as effective as it was. Dean was suddenly too consumed by Her handâwarm and soft and over his mouthâto keep protesting.
âSam, whatâs the guy.â
At least Dean got an apologetic look first. âItâs, uh- The valentineâs day bar guy. Who sleeps with lonely women, because he knows thatâs all they want. And,â Sam was still talking. Why the hell was Sam still talking. âDean hasnât been that guy in a long time, I promise, I was just making fun of him.â
âOh.â Dean couldnât read the expression on Her face. âOkay. Go.â
Sam frowned. âGo-â
âRedhead, Sam.â Her hand dropped from Deanâs mouth. He wanted it to come back. He could kiss Her knuckles, then pin her arms over her head and-
Dean could not get another boner in public, just from thinking about Her. He needed to pull it together.
âBut, uh-â Sam was still protesting, scratching the back of his neck. âIâm not-â
âMaybe sheâll be your soulmate or something.â She shrugged, looking back to the napkin. Dean couldnât read that tone either. âGo.â
âI, I havenât done that,â Sam rubbed the back of his neck, glancing down the bar. âIn a while. What if-â
âYouâve got this, Buddy.â She gave Sam a thumbs up, and Her voice was bubbly. Deanâs never heard Her be bubbly before. âGo.â
Sam nodded slowly, scooted out of his chair, and the moment Sam was out of earshot, she sighed and rolled Her eyes at Dean.
âThank god. I could like, fucking feel her.â
Dean frowned. âWhat?â
âThe redhead.â She nodded to where Sam had disappeared in the crowd, Her attention back on the napkin. âSheâs been staring at him all night, and god, sheâs horny, Dean. Itâs like, all over the table.â
She wasnât tired. Sheâd actually slept really well last night. And She still didnât drink, so Dean didnât need to be worried about that.
He still didnât have a clue what She was talking about.
âWhat.â
She sighed, looking up to Dean. He couldnât breathe. âHer soul. When someone want companionship, they put out like, pheromones. Kind of. Itâs hard to explain when you canât see them.â
âOh.â Dean paused, then tensed as it hit him. She could tell when people were horny.
Dean was horny all the fucking time.
âSon of a bitch.â
âAre you-â
âYeah, Princess Iâm-â He swallowed. âCan you just like, see it? When people are, uh. Lookinâ for action?â
âNo. Itâs, like- Itâs not a smell, but itâs not not a smell, and theyâre kinda like tentacles-âÂ
âTentacles-â
âNo, but yes, and-â She sighed, shaking Her head. âIâm sorry. I donât know how to explain it-â
âHey,â Dean grabbed Her hand before he could second think it, and Her lips parted. Hitched breath.Â
Shit.
âYouâre fine.â He muttered. âI was just wondering. Donât hurt yourself, Princess.â
She nodded slowly, still staring at him, and Dean could feel the heat on his face. This was getting too close to something that might cause The Conversation. Dean was not ready for The Conversation.
âUh, since when can you see that shit?â
She let out a long, slow breath. âI donât know. Being around people is doing⌠A lot.â She frowned at the napkin. âItâs kind of messy.â
âMessy-â
âColorful.â
Dean nodded slowly. He didnât really fucking understandâwith Her, he never didâbut he knew what mattered. âItâs it too much?â He tried to keep his voice soft, and he was rewarded with a small nod.Â
âToo much.â
âAlright.â Dean pushed off his stool, moving his hand to Her lower back. âLetâs go. Weâll pick up Sammy in the morning.â
She blinked at him in adorable confusion. âDean-â
âCâmon, weâre going back to the motel.â Dean smirked over at where the redhead was half in Sam lap. âThink weâre done here anyway.â
Dean was certainly done here. He was done anywhere that would make Her curl up into Herself, and there was nothing else for him to doâin this bar or anywhere in the worldâbut care for Her.Â
Sammy seemed happy with his fuck-me-eyes redhead, but Dean was going to have to punch him later for bringing up how Dean used to be one of those guys. It didnât matter that he had been. Dean hadâvery purposefully, for a long timeâbeen one of those guys, and heâd been pretty fucking good at it. He wasnât such a fucking asshole to deny that he had very much thrived on being one of those guys. It had kept him satiated in the dark, the brief touches and lies of permanence and possession. It may have been an artificial lightâleaving him hungrier and lonelier than before, once the effects wore offâbur it had worked. Heâd done it. And he wouldnât take it back, because the pit might have swallowed him otherwise.Â
But Dean wasnât one of those guys now.
He really hadnât been for a while. He hadnât been that guy on Valentineâs day, but he also hadnât been that guy at random bars, or the roadhouse, or on the cases. And he didnât know when it had stopped all together-
That was a fucking lie.Â
He knew exactly when it stopped.
It was sooner than heâd ever admit to anyone. It wasnât after he got back from hell, or he found out about Her magic stuff, or when she learned about the deal and stayed. It wasnât even when heâd started sharing Her bed.
Sheâd settled into the backseat of his car like She belonged there, decided to stay for the first time after those witches in Utahâwhen theyâd been looking for Jo and found Herâand Dean had been done with bars and fuck-me eyes. Done with artificial light to keep him from falling into the pit.
And Sheâd told him about photosynthesis, a while ago. He didnât know how the hell that had worked itself into a conversation, but She said itâs how plants eat, Deano. They absorb the sunlight and turn it into energy.Â
Dean might be a plant.Â
She might be the sun.Â
And he couldnât go back to artificial light if he tried.
He did still make fuck-me eyes, though. As he stood alone in the showerâHer long asleep in their bedâDean could admit he made fuck-me eyes a lot. At Her.
She never seemed to see them, though. Even when theyâd been obvious, and heâd been so fucking worried heâd been caught, nothing on Her features had ever shifted.Â
Other people made fuck-me eyes at Her, as well. They have to be insane and blind and stupid not to. Everyone should want Her. Dean just didnât want anyone else to have Her. Not like that. Not less than She deserved, without complete fucking devotion and a feral kind of feeling in their bodies Dean knew he had. And he wouldnât have any logical reason to stop Her if she took up their offersâhe could try no, Iâm yours, take me instead, but he didnât think it would workâand heâd gotten really good at not destroying himself about the idea, because She never did.
Dean had never seen Her fuck-me eyes, now that he thought about it. Not where he could see.Â
But he knew She did give him the fluttering, blinding wouldnât it be good to die for me eyes.Â
She might not know she does that.
She canât know the way that just picturing them is making him so hard itâs a little painful. Just like She canât know that, before he crawled into bed at Her side, heâd beat his cock into his hands until he came with a groan of Her name.
Dean shouldnât have kissed Her.Â
The knowledge of how She tasted, felt, soundedâgasping his name like She wanted himâwas making his decade long practice of best friend, donât think about Her like that in the daylight, because you donât deserve it and could never have it a little fucking impossible.
But he was hiding it well.
Dean was pretty fucking sure he was hiding it well.
âThereâs no fucking way sheâs being the patron, Sammy.âÂ
She glared at him in the rearview mirror, and Sam looked really fucking amused and pleased for a guy that had stumbled back twenty minture late without underpants.
Dean wouldâve ever been proud of himâif he had to be stuck in the orbit of some sort of fucking Goddess he couldnât touch, at least Sammy was getting someâif he hadnât just suggested something fucking insane.Â
âI can be the patron.â She snapped, Her eyes narrowing. âIâd be a great fucking patron. I can wear a swimsuit, and order stupid drinks, and- and I can act ditzy! And sit on the beach!â
Son of a bitch, She was adorable. Glaring at Dean, mumbling about how She could be ditzyâditzy people didnât use the word ditzyâand completely fucking missing the point. Dean knew Sheâd be a good patron. Between the three of them, Sheâd be the best patron. She already looked the better and fancier than everyone else part, all the time. She already carried Herself like an angel fallen to Earthâbetter, actually, because the angels tended to walk all stiff and angryâand She already spoke like if She told the ocean to stay at low tide forever, it would. Sheâd just need to lose all the softer light in Her eyes and blinding smile that told people She was crafted only from good things, to stop using Her manners, and be a whole lot less adorable and caring, and theyâd have their perfect patron.
But Dean was, once again, a selfish piece of shit.Â
The patron would have to sleep in the resort. Alone.
Away from the other two.
Sheâd have to sleep away from Dean.
âIâm not worried about your talents, Princess.â He muttered. âSammyâll be a good patron, I can tend bar, and you can be staff.â
Sam raised his hand. âIâm not going to be a good patron. There are like, different forks Iâll have to use, and I never learned those-â
âI did!â She leaned forward, almost propping Her chin on Deanâs should. It wasnât helping. âI took etiquette lessons until, um- Well, until I made all the cups explode because I needed to pee and no one would let me, but I remember all the forks!â
God fucking damnit. Of course She knew all the forks. âYouâre not going to a gala, Sammy. You donât need to know about the forks.â
Deanâs grip on Babyâs wheel was white, and his last plea for this to end in his favor failed.
He lost the argument. Sam wasnât comfortable trying to act all fancy, She had what Sam called a sort of scary pretty face that important people haveâSheâd flushed and mumbled a thanks, but Dean agreed with Samâs assessmentâand Dean wasnât allowed to just shout that he couldnât sleep without Her.Â
He fucking couldnât. He didnât know how anymore. At least not useful sleep, where he woke up alert and rested the next morning.
Sleep where he woke up panting and swinging at the air came just fine without Her.Â
It thrived on the lack of Her, actually. It festered and spread over Deanâs skull, when he didnât know She was across the mattress, safe and sound.
He somehow made it through the first night. The day had been filled with quick set-upâthis resort didnât seem to be run all that well, given how Sam and Dean didnât even have to lie that hard about why they needed jobs right nowâand recon, and it meant Dean collapsed on the bed barely a moment after he and Sammy returned to the motel.Â
But then the morning came. And Dean turned to look and check that She was there and peaceful, because he did that every morning, only to find Her missing.Â
He panicked.
Sam said he panicked.
Dean didnât really remember it at all. There was a blur of ripping up the motel room and grabbing his gun, Alistairâs voice muttering in his ear that heâd find her, Deanâs lovely little Princess, and make Her beg for death ringing in his ears. It didnât help that all he could really see was an image of Her from Texas, with ragged hair and hollow features and dark stain on Her stomach, red markings imprinted on Her wrists and a skeletal expression on Her face that made Dean want to dice and carve whoever the hell had done that to Her.Â
He couldnât scrape that image from behind his eyes. Sammy had brought him downâreminding him that She was fine, and at the resort, and had literally texted Dean twenty minutes before he woke up that she was going to try and sneak him some good coffeeâbut he couldnât fucking relax because all he could see was Her. In pain.
When Sheâd needed Dean, and he hadnât been there.
The day was long. Sam stopped by on his breaks, saying that heâd been looking for signs of demons everywhere but found nothing, and She gave by at random points through the day, giving Dean a bright smile from across the bar and making something to the right of his heart fucking howl.Â
âSam slipped me all the vics reservation records.â She said, eyes focused on Her little paper umbrella as Dean cleaned a glass. âAnd he says he canât find any demons.â
Dean sighed. âYeah, I heard. You seeing anything?â
âNothing.â
Dean risked a glance over. Her lip was between Her teeth.
He had to rip his gaze back away.
âWe looked at the files last night.â He muttered, trying to pretend he didnât want to grab Her over the bar and kiss Her until she moaned his name. âNone of them had the same last name. Not married couples.â
She paused. âThatâs- huh. I was eavesdropping-â
Dean couldnât stop himself from shooting Her a grin. âThatâs pretty freakinâ rude, Princess-â
âShut up. There were these two old ladies, and they were saying one of those poor girls had such a bright future, too. They mentioned finding the ring on the beach, and, you know, how big and shiny it was.âÂ
Dean frowned. âThe ring?â
âYep. So not married, but-â
âEngaged.â He muttered, glaring down at his well-polished glass. âShit, Iâll pass it to Sammy later.â
She nodded, and was gone before Dean could say anything else. .Â
Night fell, Dean left Her at the resort, and the nightmares were back in full fucking force.Â
This time She was sitting on the edge of the bed in Boston, Dean rose up to kiss Her, and she turned into ugly mold and dirty water, seeping into the bed, then down, down, down into the floor. Vanishing like Sheâd never been there at all.
That one was going to be reoccurring. Dean had been getting a lot of new nightmares lately, and heâd gotten really good at telling which ones were going to haunt him for a long, long time.Â
It kept going like that for a few days. Valentineâs Day itself was creeping up, and they hadnât found any evidence that it was itself important to the seal, but they hadnât really found any evidence at all.Â
Sammy still hadnât found any demons, but he had heard rumors from the other staff that some of the girls had been see cheating, hours before their deaths. And after She heard similar rumors, they decided to focus their energy there.
âMaybe itâs likeâŚâ Sam had trailed off at the motel table that night, frowning at his laptop. âThe seal opens if enough girls cheat on their partners.â
Dean scowled, turning his beer bottle between his hands. Sheâd smiled at him today, and Her lips had looked glossy, and he couldnât tell if his head was fuzzy from want or drinking. âThat doesnât make sense, Sammy.â
âNo.â Sam had sighed. âIt doesnât.â
Deanâs next nightmare was another frequent flyer. One where Azazel flayed Her and Bobby alive, and but it kept flicking between Azazel and Dad, then it ended with Her broken body in Deanâs hands and Azazel-Dad telling him that it was for his own good.
They still had fucking nothing.
Deanâs job sucked. They found another set of bodies, but he was stuck behind the bar. He had chicks making the fuck-me-eyes at him, but whenever Sheâd stop by for their briefings, She barely met his gaze.Â
It was for their cover. In case something was watching that even Her magic shit couldnât detect.Â
It still made his stupid heart whine.Â
And at least Dean got to see Her. Got to chance quick, assessing scans over Her body, just to make sure She was still okay. There was no dried blood on Her lips or caking her nails, and no scratch marks visible on Her arms. Her wrists looked a little odd, but that might be sunburn, or chafing. She was wearing Her jacket, which meant she had Her knife.
It also meant he needed to be worried about Her getting heatstroke.
âYou need some ice, sweetheart?â It was an acceptable thing to ask. Sometimes Shirley temples needed ice, and Dean was a bartender.
âNo, thank you. If I eat ice, my fingers will get cold. And I wonât be able to hold my pencil.â She gave him a small, pretty smile under Her fluttering lashes. âThank you, though.â
He couldnât help himself. âYou already thanked me, Princess.â
âEat my fucking balls.â
Dean had to cough to cover his snort.Â
At least he got to hear Her voice in something other than a fantasy or nightmare.Â
âI got confirmation about the cheating.â She continued like nothing had happened, although it felt a little more like she was telling Her napkin rather than Dean. âI talked to a woman who was friends with one of the vics, and apparently sheâd been talking about leaving her fiancĂŠe for some random new guy.â
Dean frowned. Heâd been doing that a lot this week. âAnd this lady is still on her vacation?â
She shrugged, a small smile tugging on Her lips. âGet your moneyâs worth, I guess.â
That was all he was getting, it seemed. Maybe all She had.
Dean cleared his throat. âSo, uh-â
âText me.â She gave Dean a soft, dark smile that made his knees weak, and slid Her napkin across the counter.Â
Those werenât Her fuck-me eyes. They were a cover, so She could tell him not now, call me later. The napkin didnât even have one of Her burner phone numbers. It was just a bunch of Enochian, with one specific word-thing repeated over and over.
That night, Dean had one of the older nightmares. A green demon grabbing Her, driving itâs knife right into Her stomach, and Dean unable to move or do anything as She bled out on the motel floor. Then Bobby would burst through the door shouting things that Dean couldnât hear, but still hurt, before pulling out his shotgun, aiming it at Deanâs head and never pulling the trigger.
The nightmare never ended with Bobby pulling the trigger. Usually theyâd just stare at each other for a long time, and Dean would see all his own pain and devastation from Her loss reflected on Bobbyâs face, and thenâafter an eternityâheâd wake up.Â
And heâd been right.
Dean made the mistake of falling back asleep after hour, and the kiss-death nightmare returned.
This day was the slowest yet. Dean hadnât seen Sam since they split up this morning, and he hadnât seen Her all day. Heâd been doing nothing but turning over the case in his head, and he didnât even have anyone to tell his ideas.
He missed Her. He didnât know how he was going to go another fucking night without Her, he didnât know how heâd ever gone a night without Her, no wonder Bobby had told him he looked like shit every single day Sheâd been gone, he wasnât fucking sleeping-
âHey.â She dropped onto the stool across from him, almost conjuredâmaybe they should revisit that angels thing, because what Dean had been doing did feel a little too close to prayerâand Her hair falling over her eyes. âAnything?â
Her voice was a little shaky, but the bar was loud, so Dean pressed on. âYeah, uh- I was thinking about how theyâve all been cheaters, right? But itâs only been the chicks.â
âThatâs⌠right.â She paused. She still wouldnât look Dean in the eyes. âShit.â
âYeah, and you know the girl that died second day we were here?â He picked up a new glass. Heâd gotten better at pretending to be busy. âAll her friends were gossiping about stuff, and one of them said that it was real sad she died a virgin.â
She sat up at that. He had Her attention. âWhat?â
Her voice was definitely shaky. And a little smaller.
Dean would ask Her about it after. âAnd you told Sam that those ladies said they couldnât believe the other mister and missus corpse waited so long, and we thought they were taking about like, engagement-â
âBut they were talking about sex.â She muttered. âFuck.â
âIs that, uh, thatâs a good fuck, right?â
âDean.â She whispered, and he wished She would fucking look at him. âI know what weâre hunting. Fuck, itâs, one shouldnât even be here but maybe thatâs the seal, maybe she gamed it and there arenât any demons or angels because- but Iâve been- Fuck-â
Dean grunted Her name, throwing cover out the window. âBreathe. Youâre fine, youâve got it, and weâll gank it and go home-â
âNo, Dean, itâs-â She had started to shake Her head, the movement almost frantic, and She was rubbing her wrists like she was trying to scrub something away. âFuck- Itâs a Pink Boto- I shouldâve known, they lure in young women and seduce them, then kill their- Fuck-â
This was getting away from them too fast. Dean damned it further, and grabbed Her face between his hands over the bar. She stopped shaking Her head. Her breathing didnât slow. âListen, youâre gonna be fine-â
âI canât remember, Dean, I- Fuck- I donât know what to do- I need to know what to do- Why canât I fucking-â
âCause youâre tired, Sweetheart, weâre all tired-â
âBut I- No-â
âHey.â Dean made his tone firm, and She froze. âLook at me, Princess. Please.â
She slowly glanced up, and Her eyes were a little glossy. Puffed. Red.
Sheâd been crying.Â
Dean moved faster than he thought.
He tangled his fingers in Herâs, abandoned the barâit was a shitty bar anyway, and all their whiskey that Dean wasnât supposed to be drinking tasted like pissâand pulled Her into a small backroom heâd found on one of his breaks.Â
âWhat happened.â He grabbed Her face between his hands, trying to gently angle it so he could find the damage. It was probably on Her body. âWhereâs- Shit, I didnât grab the rubbing alcohol- Stay here and keep it elevated-â
âNo- Dean-â She grabbed his arm before he could move out of the closet, Her eyes wide. âIâm not hurt. Itâs just-â She let out a long, slow breath, and Deanâs heart might have stilled in his chest. âItâs been a long day.â
He nodded slowly. âYou gonna tell me about it?â
âI- I canât.â She whispered. âItâs not that bad, Dean, itâs stupid- I shouldnât have even, and Sam-â
Deanâs jaw clenched. Sam wouldnât hurt Her. Even if they lived in a world where Sam didnât like Herâwhich he did, the kid fucking adored Herâhe cared about Dean too much to hurt Her. They might be fighting about Ruby and the seals, but Sammy was his brother and wouldnât fucking hurt the only person Dean-
âSam was trying to help.â She sniffed, and Deanâs fists relaxed. Of course he was. That was good. âBut I- Dean, Iâm so tired-â
âI know. â He muttered, letting his hands move back up to frame Her face. âWeâre almost done, sweetheart. Then weâll go home.â
And it was a lie. They both knew it was a lie. They werenât going to be done. Even if they stopped this seal, there were more. Lilith didnât seem like the type to roll over and go quietly, and Ruby was still a fucking problem, and She was still something the angels were hunting for insane and cryptic reasons.
Dean hadnât forgotten what Cas told them.Â
Her existence heralded danger. Change. Something big, that theyâd have to deal with after this.
But theyâd deal with it, and Sheâd still be here.
And Dean would stay at Her side, all the way down. Her shadow however She wanted it, running his thumb down the bridge of Her nose until She relaxed into his arms.Â
âItâll be okay, Princess.â Dean muttered, and for Her, heâd believe it.Â
Even though they had to pull apart, and separate once more. At least they had a name. A better idea of what they were dealing with, so this fight could be done.
But this nightmare was the worst one yet. It was another new one, and Dean didnât even know what was happening for most of it. There was just a lot of noise, a big crowd, and everything was so fucking colorful. It was like a hurricane, and he was screaming Her name but he couldnât find Her. She screamed back, but it always echoed around and Dean couldnât figure out where She was, where did She go, She needed him but he couldnât find Her-
He burst onto an invisible edge, and started to fall.
Everything was big. Too big. Dean could see a whole lot of the sky, and not much else, and son of a bitch it felt like something was watching him, but She still wasnât there-
Dean woke up in another cold sweat, and She wasnât there.Â
His phone found itâs away into his hand, and he couldnât stop staring at the little letters of Her name, a promise on his screen. She was just on the other side of a button.Â
It would be dangerous to call Her. Dean couldnât call Her. He couldnât risk it. Â
He couldnât take another night of this, and they were always safer together, but the case-
Dean nearly chucked his phone into the wall when it started to buzz.Â
It was a good thing he didnât.
Because Sheâd called him first.
Heâd have to have lost his mind to not answer
âDean?â Her voice was soft over the phone, and he muttered Her name in response.
âAre you-â
âIâm okay. I, um- Can youâŚâ She trailed off, and for a moment it was only static through the phone.Â
âSweetheart, I need you to talk for me-â
âI donât want to- This room is really big.â
Dean froze, shooting a quick look over to Sammy. Dead asleep and comfortable. âIt is, huh?â
âYes.â She whispered. âThereâs- I have a minibar. It has the chocolate you like. If youâre hungry.âÂ
âIâm always hungry, Princess.â Dean grinned into the dark. âParking lot?â
She hummed, Her voice still so soft. âThank you, De.âÂ
âI know.â
âSay youâre welcome.â
âBossy-â
âDean-â
Dean bit down his snort as he pulled on his shoes. âIâm not saying it. Iâm not doing this for the thanks,â He drawled Her name, and he could almost hear Her frown.
âThen what-â
âIâm doing it for you.â Dean didnât let Her respond. Heâd said it for himself, and so Sheâd know. All She needed to do for him was know. âSee you soon.â
They didnât talk about it, when She grabbed his hand in the parking lot and pulled him into the resort hotel. They didnât speak at all in the elevator, when She wrapped her arms around his body and pressed Her face to his chest. And when Dean moved Her into bed, dropped on the impossibly soft mattress at Her side, he let out a groan that made Her smile.
He could see it in the dark.Â
Same as he could see Her crawl slowly over to his side, drape Herself cautiously over his body, and settle down like the fanciest, smartest, hottest cat in the world.
Dean could be Her shadow like this. Holding Her through the night without a word, drowning in the smell of fruit, and sleeping easy because She was there. With him.Â
They never had to talk about it.Â
As long as She was with Dean, he could make it into enough.
ââââââ
Itâs been a weird week.
You might not have been fully yours for half of it. Youâve been the anxiety of all the guns in Bobbyâs house, and the exhaustion of all the roads and bridges you drove over, and the heaviness of the ocean right out your window. The Silver is growing and infecting everything, and you canât control when it decides to want to become the whole fucking universe, or when it slams back into your body. For almost every waking moment youâve been suffocating in it, the fear that it will hurt something and the terror thatâas you rub your wrists and try to just focus the Silver, even without painâsomething will hurt you.
You really havenât been yours at all. All the time.
Almost all the time.
Youâve been yours with Dean.
In the Impala at midnight, bumping his knee and shooting you small grins across diner tables, all but carrying you out of the bar when you get exhausted and your brain starts to get fuzzy. Whenever heâs slept next to you in bed, even if he wasnât touching you.
And you get that.
You wouldnât touch you either.
It doesnât matter how much you want Dean to touch you. How you canât stop thinking about his lips against yours, about how he tasted a little like coffee and the apple youâd made him eat that morning, but he mostly just tasted like Dean. Salt and spice, sort of earthy, and Dean.
Heâd been warm above you. You remember him being so fucking warm and safe above you, and he had touched you like he wanted youâwith a lot of rough hands on your skin and soft groans and all his weight pressed over youâbut he hasnât touched you since. Not like that. His hand still rests on your lower back when he guides you around, and sometimes youâll wake up with his fingers tracing over your stomach like heâs worried your long-gone stitches are going to rip, but he hasnât touched you.
But it really doesnât fucking matter how much you want to tackle him and kiss him until youâre both just sunken down to the floor, you canât.
Rule one is this isnât about you. Kissing Dean would be about you, not him. Rule two is you canât overindulge. He thought you were dying, and he kissed you, and you didnât break anything because Dean kissed you, but youâre not allowed to grab that and run with it. He hasnât kissed you since, and youâre not allowed to kiss him, so now youâre here.
Loving him. Silently.
And fucking hating this stupid fucking case thatâs going to make you fucking stab someone.
You shouldnât have let Dean talk you into this. But youâd missed him, whenever he and Sam went off on a case without you and you were stuck at home. And itâs not about you if Dean asked you to come.
Plus, you were getting what Bobby called hunter fever.
âThatâs not a thing.â Youâd muttered when heâd brought it up, and heâd scoffed.
âI ainât just makinâ it up for shits and giggles, kiddo. Itâs real and youâve got it.â
âI feel fine-â
âNo, you fuckinâ donât.â Bobby had given you a flat look. âYou been runninâ around like a headless dog all week-â
âThatâs not the saying.â
Bobby had ignored your mumble, pushing on with narrowed eyes. âYouâve started readinâ on the floor again. You only do that when youâre losinâ your damn mind.â
âI am not losing my mind.â Youâd snapped. âIâm trying to figure out what the fuck Iâm supposed to do now that we know. What if I start the end of the fucking world? What if my thing is like, the sun explodes, or the moon decides it want to be part of earth again, or- Fuck, what if I kill God-â
âGod ainât real,â Bobby had said your name firmly, dropping down at your side. âAnd if he is, youâre not killinâ him.â
âBut Cas said that Lilith was a Magdalene, and she started demons, and- shit, what if I start something worse than demons? What if I start super-demons?â
Bobby had sighed. âYou ainât gonna start super-demons. We donât know what your thing is gonna be, but weâll work it out when it gets here-â
âBut what if itâs really bad.â Youâd whispered. âHe called me the Magdalene. That- I donât know what that means-â
âI donât either. And it sounds like Cas donât have that big a clue either.â Bobby had run a hand over his face, letting out a long breath. âYouâre not helpinâ anything by worrying about it. Or doinâ this.â
Heâd tapped the papers scattered over the table, all covered in Enochian, and youâd swallowed. Â
Some of it was just the soul exercise. Trying to map out Bobbyâs soul, watching Sam and Dean when they were home and trying to figure out what the hell they were made of. A lot of it was new rituals or attempts to figure out who other Magdalene witches couldâve beenâCas had made it sound like they could be born anywhere in the world, which really didnât narrow down anythingâand an embarrassing amount of it was just trying to figure out how to write Deanâs name.Â
Your excuse was that writing something on purpose would help you distinguish Enochian in your head.Â
The real reason was that you loved him, and needed at way to show it where no one else could see.Â
âWhen was the last time you went this long without a hunt.â Bobbyâs voice had been soft. Cautious.Â
And youâd sighed. âIâve never gone this long. You know that.â
âHunter fever. Youâre gettinâ sick of being still and not doinâ shit, and itâs makinâ all this,â Bobby had tapped one of the notes. âWorse.â
âThatâs so fucking stupid.â
âHey,â Bobby had given you a glare, the expression massively undercut by the small smile he was failing to fight. âDonât be rude, kiddo. Raised you better than that.â
âNo you didnât-â
âTried to.â Heâd shrugged, moving back to his feet. âNot my fault it didnât take.â
Youâd rolled your eyes, glanced down at your chewed up pencilâanother new habit, because apparently if you couldnât bite yourself you had to bite somethingâand you might have had hunter fever. Between the notes, and the restless itch. settling over your bones, sinking deep and deeper every second, it makes sense. Youâve always been moving until the pain made you drop. Now you canât move, and goddamnit Bobby really was right.
Hunter fever.Â
That was a stupid name. Youâd told Bobby that, and heâd said that if you come up with a better one heâs all ears, but until then he invented it, so he gets naming rights.Â
And the hunter fever had only gotten worse, the longer Sam and Dean were on that case. Youâd gone to the library and checked out so many history books youâd had to make two trips to get them all in the Firebird. Youâve been watching so many documentaries that Bobby set a three per day rule, and started making you stop between them so you remembered to eat and use the bathroom. Youâve run out of paper to write on, so youâve switched to pen and started drawing on yourself. It pricks your skin, but itâs better than carving with your knife or nails when the Silver gets set off by nothing and you canât reign it back in.Â
And youâve started to keep track of all the times Dean couldâve kissed you and didnât.Â
Every night in the Impala. Whenever heâs been a little drunk and youâve helped him to bed, letting him hang around your body before pouring the rest of his beer down the toilet. When heâs grinned up at you from the couch, and any time heâs called you Princess, and every waking second where youâre in the same room, and he could grab you and do whatever the hell he wanted to you, and youâd be fine with it because itâs Dean.
Itâs most likely for the best that he doesnât. For so many reasons. Youâre dangerous. Youâre a Magdalene, and knowing is better than not knowing, but you still donât fucking know a lot. Youâre not exactly stable, and neither is Dean, but letting yourself crash into him isnât going to make him more stable. It would only make the Spiderweb glow, and fully consume you with Gold, and this isnât about you. It canât be about you.
And only a few days before you left for Floridaâwhen Dean was still gone and your room was colder and lonelierâCas appeared in the middle of your room, the only warning of a glowing sigil on the wall.
Heâd said your name with a deep, serious tone, and youâd sighed.
âHi, Cas.â
âYou told me we needed to speak again. About my timing.â He glanced around your room, a small frown pulling at his features. âI am here to do that.â
âI donât care about your timing.â Youâd sighed, moving to lie flat on your back. âThat was a cover.â
âA cover over what?â
âOver why I needed to talk to you. Itâs a phrase.â
âOh.â Youâd craned your neck up, and Cas blinked at you. âWhat talk are we covering?â
Youâd rubbed at your wrists, lying back down. âCan you sit, please?â
âThis body can sit, yes-â Cas had cut himself off, and youâd let him work through that one himself. âYou are⌠asking me to sit.â
âYep.â
âI do not need to-â
âCas. Please.â
Youâd expected more resistance. Instead heâd just dropped awkwardly at your side, shifting uncomfortably on the edge of the mattress. âThis is... better. Thank you.â
Youâd hummed an acknowledgment, squeezing your eyes shut. âIâm going to ask you a question, and I need you to be honest with me.â
âI cannot promise-â
âYou have to.â You hadnât cared if he could hear the desperation in your tone. âPlease.â
Cas had paused for a long moment that was tight over your lungs, then sighed. âAlright.â
Heâd folded with such little resistance, again.
That didnât really feel like a good sign.
âThanks.â Youâd mumbled. âReady?â
You glanced over to see him staring at you, giving a small nod, and youâd taken a long breath.
âYou said I could be what youâve been waiting for.â Youâd muttered, running your thumb over your palm as you spoke. âWhat does that mean.â
Cas had been silent for a long second, only staring, and youâd briefly wondered if this was what it felt like for everyone else, when youâd look at them and see their souls.
It was a little unnerving.Â
âWhen I said that.â He starts, his words slow and measured. âI was not aware of what you were. However, I am⌠not sure that matters.â
Youâd frowned. âWhat, that Iâm a Magdalene? I thought that was the whole thing-â
âYou are the Magdalene.â Cas had corrected. âBut that is not the⌠reason, I guess. I was not considering that, when we spoke before.â
âSo am I not whatever youâve been waiting for?â
âNo.â
âNo, Iâm not, or-â
âYou are.â
Youâd sighed, pushing up on your palms to fully meet his gaze. âCas. What have you been waiting for.â
âGod.â
Maybe you shouldâve had a bigger reaction to that. Cas must have noticed the complete neutrality on your face. But even in the safety of your room, where the Sky couldnât see you, youâd still been able to feel it. The Silver had started to seep out, and you had been the fear of the vines on Bobbyâs house, and they had felt the Sky watching them.
So youâd just swallowed, and taken a long, slow breath.
Why not. Between angels and Dean rising from the dead and the Sky, why not have God be a fun, new problem too.Â
âThere will be consequences. For you being the Magdalene. And I do not think even my superiors fully understand them.â Cas paused, holding your gaze. âFrom what I have found, you have long been thought to be a lie. A sort of⌠myth, is what you might call it.â
âYeah, Iâve heard about how my kind arenât real-â
Cas had shaken his head. âNot the Magdalenes. You.â
âOh.â Youâd swallowed, and Cas had sighed.
âThat is what I meant, before. It is not the Magdalene in you. It is you.â Heâd said your name, still watching you so carefully. âThere is something⌠holy.â
Youâd blinked at him. âAbout me?â
Cas had nodded. âIt is more than an angel grace. Or a soul. I have only seen it once, a long, long time ago.â
Youâd had a pretty good sense of where this was going, and you really hadnât wanted to hear it, but you were so tired of not knowing. Of only ever having more questions. âWhere did you see it?â
âThe only time I met my father.â Cas had muttered, frowning down at you, and maybe heâd been able to see it then. In the dark of your bedroom, at midnight, there was an impossibly high chance that Cas looked at you and saw something holy.Â
That was more terrifying than anything in the world.
You arenât holy. Youâre barely more than a monster. Youâre sick and in pain and exhausted, and you donât know what looking at you and seeing holy means, but you know it canât be good.
Nothing you ever do leads to something good.Â
Dean will never get to know it, but youâre starting to think John really shouldâve saved everyone a whole lot of trouble and put a bullet in your brain. Youâre making everything harder. Youâre not good for anything but hunting, and you canât even really do that anymore. Youâre going to hurt or break or infect something, because thatâs what you do, and just because the Darkness is gone doesnât mean youâre cured. If anything it means youâve evolved, like a pathogen or bacteria, and now you can press further and further into the world without resistance.Â
Youâre not good for Dean. John was right about that, too. You just take from himâhis time and sleep and attentionâand youâre not going to leave because you promised, but one day Deanâs going to find someone better for him, who never makes him yell or cry or worry, and theyâre going to demand youâll leave.
Itâs another reason you fucking hate this case. Itâs full of sweet, pretty women with no scars and toothy smiles, humming syrupy words to Dean, right in-front of you.
And they have no way of knowing that you even know Dean. And he doesnât even look at them.Â
But one day he will.Â
Then youâll have to live with that.Â
For now you can cling to how Dean brushes off the better women in favor of giving you small, cocky grins. You can feel the bright, colorful rush of the Spiderweb glowing under his attention. Youâre addicted to it.Â
And God, itâs going to kill you when he finds the woman that makes you leave. Who makes Dean happy, but gets uncomfortable about the weird freak who keeps following him around like they donât know what else to doâyou donâtâand then youâll have to leave, because Dean loves her and not you.Â
You already hate her, and itâs not even her fault. Sheâs not real. She didnât do anything to you except not be you. You canât blame her for not having scars littered in odd places across her body, for having the type of softness and experience and ease that Dean deserves. It not her fault she never makes him kill things for her, or forces him to carry her to safety when she loses her mind like some weak fucking problem.Â
And she wonât depend on him. Not like you do. She wonât be a parasite or leech that wants to wrap around Dean and drench herself in gold. Sheâll be able to sleep without him, because sheâll be kind and normal and stable. Sheâll never draw her own blood or vomit from grief, because Dean will settle down in a simple, white-picket life with her and forget all about how he ever even considered wanting you.Â
She wonât be a sickness thatâs not strong enough to cure itself. She wonât try to get better, just to make everything so much fucking worse.Â
Things wonât be complicated with her. Sheâll deserve Dean, and all his Gold.
You donât. Youâre not even close to deserving Dean. He never fucking falters, even under all the crushing weight of everything. All the blood on his hands he had to shed, and every worse thing heâs done was because he had to.Â
Dean was pushed into everything. It wasnât his fault that John made him hunt. He made that deal to save Sam because heâs a good, selfless man. He broke in hell because anyone wouldâve broken in hell, and heâd still held on for so fucking long before he gave in, because he was strong.
Youâre not.
Youâre just like this.Â
The first day without him is the worst. Youâre alone for most of it, save for when Sam finds you and hands you a towel, the vic records folded into them. He mutters that thereâs been no sulfur or temperature drops, and you nod, mumbling an agreement.
You see Dean once. Smiling at a one of those better women from behind the bar.
And his grins goes wide and boyish, the moment he spots you, and it sets off fireworks over the Spiderweb, but you canât get addicted to that. Itâs not going to be permanent.Â
But itâs not overindulging if Deanâs grinning at you.
So you smile back.
And that night, you try not to think about it too much. About Samâs words at the bar, when heâd called Dean one of those guys.
Youâd known that. Youâve never been bothered by it. Heâs never done it in front of youâwhere it wouldâve ripped you in halfâand youâd never had a claim over him that couldâve made him stop. It hadnât mattered that youâd follow him all the way down, or that you love him, or that thereâs a whole part of you that just for Dean. Youâd never thought there was even a chance of him wanting you like that until that amazing, stupid fucking kiss, so youâd simply forced yourself not to think about it.
Itâs all you can think about now. Dean sliding a woman thatâs not you his motel card, telling Sam to find somewhere else to hang out for a while, then kissing her. And sheâd kiss him back without any fear or anxiety, because sheâd know how. Sheâd have an idea of what could drive him crazy, and heâd fall on his knees for her with only joy on his pretty face, and then theyâd-
This is torture. The whole night is fucking torture, because all you can wallow and sink into it the loneliness, and the reminder that Dean deserves better. Someone who will match him.
Not someone heâll have to take care of and guide through everything.Â
The morning breaks, and youâre not sure you slept at all.Â
The second day is worse. You donât see Dean at all, and there are so many fucking people, everywhere, all the time. You hadnât realized how fucking horrible that would be until you were in it. There had been a lot of people, on the lich case with Jo. But the only time theyâd all been in one, loud place was the last night, and youâd been more focused on Dean. On keeping him safe and alive. Youâd almost tethered yourself to him, because as long as he was there and Golden, there hadnât really been much else to look at.Â
But then youâd spent those weeks between cases letting the Silver grow and grow, letting Dean soothe it into something easy you didnât want to fight, and it seems to have bloomed.Â
Youâve lost control. You canât remember the world ever being like this in your lifeâso loud and consuming and overwhelmingâand you barely been able to handle it when you were a child, and it was just single colors lined with quickly fading imprints.Â
Now itâs so much. Youâre a little bit everything all the time and thereâs so much. Why is there so fucking much. This is worse than the bar, when souls had simply been loud and amplified by the drinks and emotions. At least there youâd still be able to cling to Deanâs Gold, to breathe in the smell of spice and try not to think about how a whole lot of desire was blaring out from all the souls in the bar, directed to where you and Dean had been sitting.
It was a new trick. It had started after the kiss. You can see souls creeping and drifting out of their bodies, trying to latch onto other people. Trying to sink into them. Youâd been able to see the redheadâs hot pink, almost bubblegummy-ness aiming over Sam, and it had been fucking sickening and pungent. Not for Samâall the parts of him that were still purple had been vibrating from the attentionâbut for you, and youâd needed to get it away from you.Â
And this is so much fucking worse. There are so many people, so many souls, and twining and burning and washing over each other, and you can still smell Deanâs spice when heâs not here, and youâre going fucking insane.
They found another body, that morning. You didnât see it, but Sam did, and he said it was ugly. Looked like they got beat up by the ocean, and that some of the staff were whispering about how the girl had been seen cheating before her death.
âIâll ask around.â You mumble, pretending to be busy with the coffee while Sam takes an impossibly long time to grab the trash. âThereâs this group of ladies who have been trying to talk me into going to the beach with them, and I think they knew the vic.â
Sam nods. âIâll pass it onto Dean.â
You swallow, and the Spiderweb whines. âTell him I say hi.â
Sam gives you an odd look and his mouth opens, but you walk away before he can speak. You donât want to hear it. You know Dean wants you, at least enough to kiss you once, but he hasnât kissed you since.
Maybe it was horrible for him. It was perfect for you, but heâs not in love with you, and he probably has a higher standard for good kisses. Heâs hasnât changed since the kiss, but he hasnât tried to do it again.Â
Thereâs a chance heâs waiting for you to kiss him, to make the scores even. He kisses you once and puts it on the table. You kiss him again and then you get to have him.
You donât deserve to have him. And youâre not allowed to kiss him first.Â
âWhat about you?â One of the womenâthe ones youâd told Sam about, with long nails you really wish it would be practical for you to haveâsays your name, and you blink at her.
Theyâd already confirmed that the girl had cheated, and youâd mostly been tuning out the rest of the gossip after that. It was too colorful, and thinking about Dean was better than drowning in the vastness of the Silver, so youâd just focused on that.
But now you had to participate. You hadnât been ready to participate.
âWhat about me?â You ask, throwing on a small, nervous smile and slipping back into your role. Ditzy. Youâd told Dean youâd be ditzy.Â
âA man.â A second womanâMonica? Youâre pretty sure her name is Monicaâgrins at you, leaning back in her chair. âYou have one?â
Pretty green eyes and soft hair and full lips and Gold- âNo.â
âOh, come on.â The first womanâHalle? That sounds rightârolls her eyes. âYouâre so pretty, babe, youâve gotta have someone, or thereâs no hope for the rest of us.â
âI- I donât-â
âIs it a girl?â Monica whispers, leaning forward. âItâs okay, you can tell us. Weâre like, super chill about that.â
You sigh. âItâs not a girl.â
The last girlâKaren, that oneâs easy to rememberâgrins at you. âSo there is someone?â
âNo, itâs not- Itâs complicated-â
Halle scoffs. âIf itâs complicated, heâs an idiot.â
You scowl at that. âNo, heâs not-â
âHa!â Karen grins, and this was a mistake. You shouldâve just eavesdropped on their conversation like a normal person. âThere is someone! Whatâs his name?â
âI- Iâm not-â You chew on the inside of your cheek, trying to find a way out. âItâs really complicated. Thereâs like, a lot of moving parts, and weâve known each other a really long time-â
âAwww.â Monica gives you a sweet smile. âChildhood friends? Thatâs so cute!â
âNo- Itâs more-â You choke on the word complicated. âI have to go.â
Halle shakes her head as you stand up. âNo, wait, weâre sorry, youâre just cool and we thought there had to be someone-â
Sheâs still talking. Still apologizing.Â
But she grabbed your wrist to stop you from leaving. Right where Ketch had tied you up. Right where the lich grabbed you.Â
You canât breathe. The Silver is bursting and burning through the world because no, no, youâre so tired and it hurts and no-
Something shatters, an impossibly large wave sweeps over half the beach, and the wind picks up, ripping through the air like youâre at the top of a mountain.
The women are shrieking in fear, because this shouldnât be happening, and you run. Not forever. Just until youâre back in your room, staring at your phone and forcing yourself not to call Dean.Â
Half of that had been you. The shattering and wave had been you.
The wind had been the Sky. It had been watching. And the cold had bitten your skin, and it had been more of a warning to you than a defense for you.Â
And youâre falling apart. You miss Dean, and itâs worse than when heâd been on a case, and youâd been at Bobbyâs. At least youâd been a little useful, there. At least youâd had company, and could think about things that were better women, touching Dean in the dark while you were alone in bed.Â
Here, youâre useless. You canât figure out what the hell youâre supposed to be huntingâwhich is supposedâto be something youâre good atâbecause itâs all so loud and colorful and youâre not sleeping, and you miss Dean.
Maybe heâs spending this night with another better woman, again. There are plenty to choose from, this luxury resort filled with people to know how to have something and not infect it. And itâs almost Valentineâs day, so theyâll want company, and anyoneâwhether they can see the Gold or notâshould want Dean. Will want Dean.Â
You torture yourself with that for another night. The idea of Dean in bed with someone else, touching someone else, kissing them the same way heâd kissed you, but this time they go further, and then the next day youâll see that the rivers of silver had been painted over with another color.
Embedded. Cas had said you were embedded in Dean, and that couldnât go away easy, but what if it does. What if only a gentle, knowing touch cures Dean of you forever, and itâs that easy, and he leaves.Â
Youâd promised youâd stay, but he didnât. You both said all the way down, but that was before he kissed you.Â
It would be smart to want to take it back. To go back to never thinking about that, because you didnât think it was an option. To not be getting withdrawals from something you never even fucking had, not really.
You know that.
Knowing never helped.
And at least you still have the Gold lingering on your lips. Itâs never been there before, and it makes you feel a little like that holy thing Cas had called you.Â
You really are fucking useless. Staring at mirrors and trying to write Deanâs name in Enochian and imaging that heâll burst through your door and sweep you away.Â
It doesnât help that the wrist thing is looking like itâs here to stay.
The next morning, Sam pulls you into an abandoned room for a meeting.
But he grabs you by the wrist.
And you canât stop yourself from swinging.
Blind, frantic punches thrown into the air, uncoordinated from exhaustion and landing on nothing, someone is shouting your name but thereâs a lot of red in themâred like blood, red like poisonâand the fists arenât enough so you grab your knife and start slashing-
Sam shouts your name, and the blur fade enough for you to know itâs Sam, but then he grabs your wrist to stop the fall of your knife, and the Silver explodes.
Thereâs a crash, and a ringing in your ears, and-
âHoly- Ow.â Sam stumbles up from the floor, his hands raised in the air and the wall a little dented behind him. âWhat the hell was that?â
You blink at him, the blur fading, and all thatâs in its wake is pain. Pain and a gnawing fucking guilt, because you hurt Sam, why the fuck did you hurt Sam, whatâs wrong with you and why canât you control this without trying to kill yourself-
Sam frowns at you, something softening in his gaze. You donât deserve how gently he says your name. âAre you okay?â
âYeah, I-â You swallow, drawing yourself up tall and forcing your voice to stay even. âIâm sorry. You startled me. Is your back-â
âItâs fine. I mean, it hurts, but Iâve have worse.â Sam pauses. âAre you sure-â
âWhat do you need, Sam.â
He stares at you andâin a small mercyâdoesnât push it. Whatever Sam can see on your face, heâs able to work out that now is not the time to talk about how he just touched you, and you tried to kill him.Â
Sam only sighs, and moves on.Â
âI think weâre dealing with some sort of sex demon.â He says, shuffling back to your side. âAll the vics have been cheating, but every single thing Iâve heard about them makes it sound like they were really in love. There has to be some kind of manipulation going on.â
You nod slowly, letting out a long breath. âHow do you know they were really in love? Just online snooping?â
âThey did all just get engaged. And I mean, people make mistakes with that sometimes, but itâs usually a sign of⌠you know.â Sam shrugs. âA future. Together.â
âOkay.â You frown at the air. âYou pass it onto Dean, and Iâll keep looking for what the seal actually is, so we can stop it.â
Sam shakes his head. âI, uh- Iâve actually got the seal, too. Bobby called me.â
âOh.â
âHe wouldâve called you.â Sam rubs at the back of his neck, and suddenly the air is wired. âBut this is- Um, itâs sort of better to have in person.â
You narrow your eyes. Heâs being weird. âSam. Whatâs the seal.â
âBobby thinks.â Sam wonât meet your eyes. âBased on some old texts that be found, some of yours, actually-â
âSamuel-â
âItâs making a true love stray.â Sam mumbles, his gaze locked on the floor. âAnd Bobbyâs theory for the murders that none of them have been a true love, so after they strayed, they got.â Sam winces. âYou know.â
âYeah, okay. Thatâs- It makes sense.â You pause. âWhy does that need to be said in person?â
Sam glances up, something cautious in his eyes. âBecause you and Dean need to be careful.â
The world stills a little, like a heart murmur, but you must have just heard him wrong. âWhat.â
âYou and Dean.â Sam mumbles. âAny two people with, um, strong emotions are in danger.â
âSam.â You keep your words slow and careful. You canât really hear them over the ringing in your ears. âTheyâve been targeting engaged couples. Dean and I are-â
âYouâre really obvious!â Sam almost shouts, and you flinch like heâd stabbed you.
âNo.â You whisper, shaking your head, wrapping your arms around your stomach, and the Silver isnât even growing. This isnât a danger to it.Â
It should be. Youâre a danger to Dean.
âSam, weâre just- Iâve told you-â
âJo told me about the kiss.â Samâs voice is gentle. Youâre going to claw out your own eyes. âAnd I know you guys are dealing with other things, but youâre not just friends. And I- Iâm sorry,â he mutters your name, and a little bile creeps up your throat. âBut I knew a long time before that. You guys are obvious, and Iâm not trying to tell you want to, you know, do about it. But you have to be careful.â
No. You donât. Dean doesnât love you, but youâve never even looked anywhere but him and the Gold and that deep life in his eyes, so not only is Sam wrong, heâs cruel.
Dean doesnât want you like that, and if he loves you, itâs not the truest love. It canât be. Youâre you, and youâre a danger, and youâve never brought him anything but extra work, screams of his name, and your own tears for him to eat.Â
You canât live on tear and names. You couldâyou could conquer the world if Dean offered you tear and your name from his lipsâbut nobody sane and easy can. Dean will live off of good food from a better woman.
And youâll die with the Sky watching you, alone in that high, cold, lonely place it had promised you when you were young.
âSam.â You whisper, your hand wrapping around your throat on an old instinct, but the Silver still dormant in your body, because itâs lined with the Spiderweb, and the Spiderweb loves the idea of Deanâs love. âPlease donât say that.â
He says your name, and itâs gentle again. You think youâre choking on the air.
âDonât-â
âIâm really not trying to push you guys to do anything.â Samâs voice is almost desperate. âI just- I canât lose you both again. This demon is taking the couples-â
You make a weak sobbing sound, and Sam catches his mistake.
âPairs, itâs taking the pairs and if you both go, I donât know- Shit-â Sam pleas your name, moving to reach for you, and you take a step back.
âI- Iâm going to go tell Dean.â Your voice is strained, and you donât care about the irony of your own words. âBye.â
Youâd promised Dean you wouldnât run.Â
You havenât promised Sam fucking shit.
And you were running to Dean. You didnât care if that made you a hypocrite, or liar, or a whore. You needed to see him, because it made the Silver feel good, and the world manage because you could cling to Deanâs Gold, and know it was going to be okay.
Then you break twice. Once at the bar, when you were supposed to be working, but Dean needed to calm you down because it was all too fucking much and youâre useless. Then again when you caved and called him, just to hear his voiceâoverindulgingâand ended with him wrapped around you in bed.
Youâd slept. Well. Easily. And Dean looks peaceful, in the shifting light of dawn, starting to break through the windows.Â
Heâs perfect. The newer, stronger Gold seems like molten lava in the morning light, but itâs still not fire. And itâs moving rapidly through his body like air, but itâs not. And there a power to it like water, and strength to it like earth, but itâs never enough of one and far too much of the others for you to pin it down.
You donât really need to pin it down.Â
Itâs Dean.
You love him all the same.
He tries to hold onto you, when you twist to get out of bed. He makes a cute, disgruntled sound, and tugs you right back into his body before you know whatâs happening.
It takes ten minutes for you to slowly swap yourself with one of the pillows. And you donât want to leaveâit might be a dream, to just stay where Dean is holding you for the rest of your lifeâbut you need to think. And you canât do that when a big, warm hand is spread over your stomach again, and Deanâs breath is hot on your neck.
Your thoughts had kicked back into gear, after Dean calmed you down yesterday. And youâd made some connections.
Connections youâre going to have to tell Sam and Dean about, because they mean youâre good. You can gank the Boto Monster and fuck off. Go home. You donât even have a seal to deal with.
And youâre going to have to find a way to convince them of that without the truth.
Because under no fucking circumstances can you actually say the truth.
Dean had said the first vic was a virgin, and it had hit you in small, fragmented pieces youâd strung together in the hours after.
Sam had been wrong about the sex demon. This has to be a Pink Boto. Youâd hunted one, while you were in Brazil, and this is their exact MO. Make a young, virgin woman cheat on her partner. Then kill them both, with symptoms similar to drowning. Youâd remember how to spot one, too. Theyâd be in a human form of their choice, designed to lure the woman in, but theyâd always wear a hat. Their true forms were pink dolphinsâbotosâand they could shift however they wanted, but they could never get rid of their, so theyâd have to cover it. With a hat.
And that was great. Simple.Â
It also wasnât the problem.
The problem was that Lilith brought the boto here, to make the true love stray.
True. Not pure.Â
The seal wonât care about any virgins. But the boto will. It will target them, smell it on them, fucking see it. The same way that they can sense when humans have emotional bonds, so they can sniff out couples.
At least, that was how it had been explained to you, in Brazil.Â
It was how theyâd assured you.
You were single.Â
You wouldnât be a target.
And this is where Sam was right. You and Dean were in danger. You were the target. Lilith brought the boto here because she needs the seal broken, and she knows about your love for Dean, and she probably fucking knows about you. The other deaths havenât been about the seal. Itâs just been the boto feeding. You and Dean have been the endgame from the start.
The good news, you decide as you sit alone on the beach, your toe right on the edge of the water as the sun climbs into the sky, is that Lilith is fucked. Youâve really never even thought about anyone but Dean. Not like that. You missed the window of experimentation in your teens, met Dean at eighteen, and then there was just no fucking point to anyone else. It was Dean. Itâs always been Dean. All the way down.
Itâs not saving yourself, because that makes you sound fucking pathetic, like a midwestern church girl who wonât show Her ankles because Jesus will get mad. You just donât think about it, if itâs not Dean. And itâs not like anyone else has ever really looked at you.
That was your first kiss.Â
You are never going to fucking tell Dean that.
And youâre staring down at the sandâat the water slowly climbing over your anklesâwhen you hear him clear his throat behind you. âHey, sweetheart. Iâve been looking for you.â
âSorry.â You mutter, not looking up from the sand. âI shouldâve texted. I just needed to- you know.â
âYeah. I do.â You hear the sand shift at your side. Heâs sitting down. âJust got worried. I mean, woke up. You werenât there. Damn near ripped up the room looking for you.â
That gets a small smile. âYou think I was going to be under the couch, Deano?â
âNo. Iâm just saying I was worried. Donât run off like that.â
Thereâs a long, heavy silence, and something is wrong. The air is wired and tense, and itâs never like that with Dean. And the Silver isnât exploding, but itâs not soothed.Â
âIâm sorry.â He mutters suddenly, and it really sounds like Dean, but youâre still staring at the sand. âI just got worried, you know? You shouldnât be out here, the sun is barely even up.â
Dean would be worried. But he wouldnât say it like⌠that.Â
You suddenly really donât want to look at him. Heâs rubbing strong circles on your back but theyâre only making your breathing labored. Heâs right at your side, but you donât feel any of Deanâs gravity.
But it sounds like Dean.
And youâre frozen.Â
âDonât be mad at me.â Deanâs voice hums, close to your ear, and you squeeze your eyes shut. You feel fucking sick. âYou know I love you, baby. Letâs go back to bed.â
Baby.
Dean only calls his car Baby.Â
But that was his voice. Calling you Baby. Itâs echoing around in your head, and you canât fucking breathe, and you have to open your eyes.
It looks like Dean, too. Pretty features and a boyish grin and green eyes, itâs skin a little more tanned, but only in a way thatâs noticeable to someone whoâs insane and in love with him.
You donât need to rip its stupid baseball cap to know itâs not Dean.
Itâs not Golden.
And you can still hear it, as you explode.
Baby. You know I love you, baby.
Youâre scrambling back, as the Silver presses into the boto. And it not killing it. Not simply sucking up its life and throwing its soul into wherever monsters go after they die.
Youâre eliminating it. The same way youâve eliminated Hellâs Assassinâs.
But youâve never done it to something with a functioning soul again. A soul you can see. Sense.
Hear.
Those arenât the screams of the boto, when itâs turned into pure fucking nothing.Â
Itâs the soul. Begging you for mercy.
Baby.
Thereâs a last, weak sound, and then the boto is gone.
You fall flat on your back, and stare at the Sky.
It stares back.Â
You canât fucking breathe. The tide is starting to rise, but you canât fucking move, and you canât tell what salt is your own tears and whatâs the ocean.
And the Sky is just fucking watching.
Dean roars your name, somewhere down the beach. And thatâs how your Dean roars your name, and the Spiderweb is glowing, and heâs Golden when he appears over you like some sort of knight, sent to save you from the monster in the water.
Youâre the monster in the water. If Deanâs a heroâand he isâhe should let you fucking drown.
But he doesnât. Heâs perfect, so he scoops you into his arms with only a grunt and carries you away from the beach.Â
When you look over his shoulder, thereâs not even a fucking body. Itâs like the boto never even existed at all.
âYouâre okay.â Deanâs muttering in your ear as he sets you down somewhere with flowers and a small marble waterfall. âSon of a bitch, Princess, you canât just fucking disappear. I- You werenât there and I fucking thought- Godamnit-â
Dean grabs your face between his hands, starting to wipe the linger saltwater from your cheeks. Youâre blinking at him. In a firm pattern on once, over and over, trying to tell him everything is wrong. But heâs too focused on checking you for injury to see. And thatâs how your Dean would be worried.Â
Touching you so carefully while shouting at you with a distress you can hear.
You sob before you can stop yourself, and Deanâs eyes widen.
âFuck, wait-â He pulls you right back against his body, walking backwards until his back is pressed to a white-brick wall, and youâre still held in his arms.
He wants to be able to see anything coming. Heâs trying to keep you safe.
Your tears start to flow.
âNo- shit- Donât cry, Princess, youâre okay, itâs okay, youâre- Fuck-â
Deanâs thumb starts to run down the bridge of your nose, over and over until youâre almost slumped against him.Â
Itâs peaceful here. Against Dean. Warm and safe. Home.Â
And exhaustion is already starting to pull you down, but you can still hear it.
Baby.
âTalk,â Dean mutters your name, brushing away the hair thatâs been stuck to your brow. âShit, I- I need you to talk, I canât fucking do anything if you donât tell me what happened, why the hell were you drowning yourself-â
âIâm sorry.â You whisper, and Dean stares at you.
He thinks youâre sorry because of the vanishing act and state heâd found you in.
Heâs wrong.
You need to know. Just in case this is a more sophisticated trick, or a dream, or the last chance you ever get. Just in case the angels swoop down and try to take you, or the earth opens up and Deanâs dragged back to Hell, you need to know. Itâs selfish and unforgivable, but you need it. You need Dean.Â
Baby. I love you, baby.
âYouâre-â
Dean words are cut off as your hands fist in his shirt, and you yank him down into a kiss.Â
He responds immediately. Dean deepens the kiss in half a second, pulling you somehow closer. Like there wasnât ever a question of if he would.
And you know.
But you donât hate yourself enough to pull away.
This isnât like the first kiss. Youâd both been moving through that like you were afraid it would be ripped away at any moment.Â
Now youâre both moving like you know itâs going to be ripped away, and you refuse to waste one fucking second.
Itâs violent. Heavy and hot and wet, open-mouthed with Deanâs tongue down your throat and his lip between your teeth. Your nails scratch at his back and shoulders as he flips you around, pinning you between his body and the wall. And heâs still touching you so carefullyâlike heâs afraid youâll breakâbut thereâs no hesitation when one hand grips your waist hard enough to bruise, before trailing down and under your shirt-
A million fucking sparks set off when Deanâs knuckles touch the bare skin of your hips. Your back arches as he groans and massages your waist, and youâve stared to grind up into him without thought, because heâs Golden and made of gravity and you want him to devour you. To touch you wherever he wants until youâre painted in Gold, to kiss you until youâre just putty like this, forever. Tended to and touched and without any fucking pain, thereâs no fucking pain because Deanâs too good to have pain.Â
There canât be pain when youâre safe against his body. Nothing can exist but Dean kneading at your skin under your shirt, and moaning your name against your lips when you press against something big and hard, poking right at your hip-
Dean pulls away with a grunt, both of you gasping for breath, and your brow drops to his shoulder.
He just smells like spice, now. And you can taste it, too.Â
You love him.Â
Youâre not allowed to say it.
So instead you wrap your arms around his shoulders, clinging to him like there wonât be any consequences. Any prices to be paid.
There will be.
Youâll live with them.
âDean?â You whisper in his ear, and his hum of response rolls through your whole body. âI- I took care of it. Can we please go home?â
Youâre ready for him to push back. To ask what took care of it means, and tell you that you need to be sure, and consult Sam, and you can sit the rest of it out, but you canât leave just yet.
Instead Dean just sighs, running his fingers through your hair, and nods.
âWe can do whatever you want, Princess.â
You want him. Youâve only ever wanted Dean.
But it doesnât matter what you want.Â
Youâll have whatever the fuck Dean offers you.Â
And if itâs love, youâll rip the Sky in half to keep it.
End Note: Okay so I made her a virgin because letâs be so fr, sheâs impressively oblivious about that stuff, AND she was not about to get laid when big emotions made things blow up. Weâre lucky Dean didnât kiss her when she was still suppressing her powers. Girlie wouldâve blown up the moon about it.
Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3
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KISS 'ER UP (HVC) pt. 2
pairing: baseball player!vernon x fashion designer/fan!reader wc: 12.8k warnings: SMUT (minors DNI), oral (f receiving), p in v (wrap it b4 u tap it even if vernon doesnt), boob worship?, heavy-ish make-out; unrealistic meet-cute, vernon being cute a/n: guys holy shit this took so long but its FINALLY done. i feel like i always end by long fics with smut but at least it ends well.......... anyways, send me requests now that i'm done w kiss 'er up!!! as always, ty guys sm for reading this <3
previous ; masterlist
In 3 weeks, you go to 6 home games.Â
Which, in retrospect, is absolutely crazy because thatâs averaging two (2!) games per week in the brunt of design finalizing and fashion week scrapbooking and planning with your team.Â
And now, the one youâre sitting at seems to up your count from six to seven games in 3 weeks. Which means that your assistant will be calling you sometime next week asking if you ever finished finalizing the fashion week scrapbooks and tulle selections (only one of which youâve actually finished. The otherâŚ. Well, letâs just say that it wonât be seeing the light of day for a while). Which also is part of your explanation to why you are busy multitasking between texting Yena, your assistant, on the last flap stitches for your fold-over bag for the F/W collection, gluing pieces of fabric and drawing cut-outs and print outs and colors down onto your scrapbook, and watching the actual baseball game and participating in half-assed and quarter-minded fanchants that seem to have no soul in it.Â
All in that exact order.Â
And itâs even harder to balance (especially your phone that teeters precariously off your knee because your actual table is too full of food, beer, and your scrapbooking trash pile) when your phone chimes with a familiar notification.Â
new message from vernonâžď¸đ
You almost choke on your beer that was travelling half-way down your esophagus, coughing violently and trying not to get drops of Cass onto your scrapbook.Â
For the first time in almost fifteen minutes, you raise your head, swiveling to try and see where the hell Vernon is texting you from because not only is it the middle of the seventh inning but itâs also the middle of his game.Â
And he never goes on his phone during games.Â
vernonâžď¸đ yo u see that last play?
You roll your eyes at his text. Yo? Really? But also, typical Vernon. Almost three months â texting, calling, showing up to games, post-game chicken runs, and the occasional late-night movie theater run at Coex â made you accustomed to his rather nonchalant way of saying hi. Those including (but definitely not limited to) yo, hey, bro, dude, whats up, lol, and show cat now as in your actual feline pet, not your pussy (which you thought at first was what he was implying and almost blocked him before he clarified with a photo of his own cat that you were too scared to open for the first three minutes, thinking it was an unsolicited dick pic).Â
You pause before you reply, placing the glue stick down.Â
you yea obv
Itâs a lie. A blatant one at that. But you feel bad telling Vernon hahaha no lol was too busy working on my pfw scrapbooking and model calls to be focused on ur game im at.Â
So yeah. You lie.
But Vernon texts back in record time.Â
vernonâžď¸đ no u werent
You roll your eyes.Â
you i was watching
vernonâžď¸đ liar!! too busy lookin down @ ur sketches to watch me hit that ball outta da stadiummmm
you ur literally lying
vernonâžď¸đ no im not but u wouldnt know bc ur too busy
you i have pfw stuff to sort out sue me
vernonâžď¸đ ah so u admit that u werent paying attention
You donât get a chance to reply before the speakers above your head crackle to life, stadium static breaking over the announcerâs booming voice:
âNow up to bat, our very own number twelve, VERNON CHWE!âÂ
All of the vowels in his name are stretched way too long but most of the call of his name is drowned in the thundering cheers and applause of the Diamonds fans crowding up the stadium.Â
You jolt at the sudden screams, blinking up from your stupid silly grin at your phone.Â
And just like that, the messages stop.Â
Your phone is still perched on your thigh and the glue stick is loosely rolling under the pressure of your palm, face-down. Vernonâs already walking to the plate, bat slung over his shoulder like itâs just another Tuesday. You should focus back now. On the deadlined layouts and layering. But you canât. Not when itâs Vernon batting.
Heâs got that practiced swagger â not cocky, just calm â like he knows exactly what heâs doing, like he knows heâll hit that ball well enough for second base. If not second, then definitely first. Under the stadium lights, the noise, the pressure, the blaring commentators, none of it touches him. His helmet shifts slightly when he adjusts his grip. From where youâre sitting tonight, just behind the catcher â the peripheral of all batters â you can see his neck tilt as he grounds his feet. And you think, for one half-second, his eyes flit towards your section.Â
You swear he sees you.Â
You swear he knows.Â
Itâs annoying.Â
Itâs gut-wrenchingly annoying how good he looks standing there, chewing his gum like heâs in no rush at all. How he looks straight out of a baseball webtoon with his chestnut brown hair, tapping his bat once, twice, against the plate before he takes his stance.Â
You pause your unconscious gluing. Your thumb sticks to a piece of lace organza. You donât notice.Â
The pitcher winds up.Â
Vernon never flinches.Â
And then
CRACK!
The sound is loud. Clean. Like the air itself snapped in half.Â
You can see Vernon grin.Â
You donât even register the crowd erupting until half a second later, after the ball flies â high, hard, fast, promising â slicing through the humid air like itâs trying to give Vernon more time to run.
And him? Vernon?Â
He doesnât jog. He sprints.Â
But you can see it â the calm â in the way he lets his helmet tilt back just a bit as he works his legs, pumps his arms. You can see it in the way he lays down his bat before heâs off. Calm again, like he knew â oh, he knew â that heâd make it. Like he saw the ball arcing across the midfieldersâ heads before he even swung the bat.Â
He rounds first so quick even his teammates cheer.Â
He glances to the dugout.Â
And you swear you see him glance at your section.Â
A calm grin. Wide, so Vernon.Â
Yeah. Definitely glances towards your section.Â
Second base.Â
He slides a little as the caught ball soars through the air from the outfielders towards second base. As his cleats touch down, it kicks up dirt, staining his white uniform.Â
The ump signals safe.Â
The crowd roars in approval, losing it. A couple of girls in front of you are screaming his name, hands shaking as they zoom into his victorious face, still on the ground, dusting himself off.Â
You blink again. It hits you how much youâve been staring.Â
You shake your head, as if that will force your brain to refocus.Â
You glance down at the mess of notebooks, pens, glue sticks, scissors, food, and beer on your table.Â
The sigh is almost reactive.Â
So is the blush that creeps onto your cheeks when you look up at Vernon, inching towards 3rd base, ready to steal, and his face is suddenly projected on the jumbotron, lips tilted up, helmet pulled down over his eyes as he looks determined.Â
____________
Your home studio is a mess.Â
Your apartment is a mess, actually.Â
Not, like, a mess-mess, but the kind that only happens when you realize that youâre three days past a deadline, too stubborn to ask for help, and still choosing the color layering for a dress you told Yena you would have finished last week but technically still working out.Â
Fabric swatches from the one Myeongdong fabric shop are draped across your studio couches, your coffee table in the living room is covered in opened sketchbooks, torn-out magazine pages, a slightly crusting bowl of tteokbokki you swore you would clean up after you scarfed it down last night. You havenât. And until this color layering problem and the PFW designs start coming together, the most itâll move and clean is probably just sit idly in the kitchen sink.Â
There is the familiar bi-bi-bing!! of the giant JBL speaker in the corner of the living room as you cross your house to get to the studio-slash-sewing-slash-design-slash-procrastination room. Your playlist automatically hums to life in the background, WOODZâs voice humming through the surround sound. Itâs familiar â the same song you always put on when youâre trying to feel like a calm, collected, creative designer instead of a sleep-deprived maniac fighting for your life against the Fall/Winter collection because youâre indecisive and fashion, right about now, feels like the worst possible career choice you could have ever made. So many decisions! So little time! Yet so many deadlines!
Youâve lost your jean shorts for thin wide-leg sweatpants the moment you entered. The house is cold, like it always is, because you tend to forget to turn the AC off before you rush off to another meeting. And your off-shoulder crop top has already been decisively exchanged for a baggy shirt that you think is from your college ex-boyfriend but youâre not too sure, which is why you still have it. Your hair is barely holding in a claw clip, but you canât bring yourself to waste ten precious seconds of your fingers not gluing, sewing, cutting, or slamming down against the table.Â
Itâs methodical, the way you work now, far away from the game and thus, as an extension, from Vernon: cut, glue, sew (if needed), stare at your work for ten seconds, drink your whiskey, realize itâs empty (again), pour yourself another sip because if you pour yourself more than a sip, youâre going to end of drinking yourself to miss another deadline.Â
The drink burns, just enough to make your brain hum, and you pretend that the slight buzz will help you make your choices.Â
You lean over the sketchbook laid out on top of your work desk, tapping a pencil against the edge of the page. The problem really has never been about the silhouette â youâve had that nailed for weeks. Itâs the layering. Itâs always the layering. The trench you thought would be the centerpiece looks too heavy for the fall piece of the collection and too thin for the winter piece. So you switched it out with the asymmetrical drape coat. Except then, the metallic piping doesnât translate to print. And you still havenât decided on whether the main F/W bag should be a fold-over or a cross-body tote like the MiuMiu one three seasons ago. And donât even get started with the color dilemma.Â
Yena begged you to pick either beige or cream. You decided, in a fit of uncontrollable indecisiveness, to pick beige and cream. Now youâre stuck and beige is starting to look like cream and cream, beige.Â
You flip the page, irritated. Try sketching something else. A structured jacket? Maybe another wool cape? Fur? But everything feels too soft. Too already-done. Nothing that makes you feel anything. Nothing that would stop someone mid-video at a show and look.Â
You glance at the folded-up ticket stub from the game earlier, thrown carelessly on your desk with your phone and singular credit card when emptying your pockets.Â
You havenât heard from Vernon since he texted you a đafter the Diamonds won 13-2.Â
Not that it matters.Â
But it does.Â
And you do think about him as you sketch â completely unintentionally, which makes it like three times worse. As your pencil glides across the bumpy sketch book, your brain wanders to how calm he looks when the stadium is the loudest and even your heart is pounding. How, last week during the media conference after a game, the sleeves of your S/S line jacket looked, pushed up his forearms as he waved the reporters good-bye from the locker room. How he paired the platform knee-high boots and the slightly cropped leather jacket, all from your F/W line last year, almost perfectly with some ragged jean shorts and the most enticing little striped shirt that did nothing to hide his god-given collarbones that you couldnât help but imagine on the runway.Â
Heâs got this way of showing up in your head when youâre just starting to forget he exists. Like now. In the quiet. With the whiskey sitting in the warmth of your stomach and your body wrapped up in your own tired, tangled, teasing thoughts.Â
You sigh.Â
Your pencil pauses over the page. Your eyes flicker down and you want to almost scream at the sketch that grins up at you. Itâs him. Except, not the eyes, nose, mouth, or any of his facial features, actually, but still, him. The way his hair messes up in the front, his silhouette etched so gracefully onto your sketchbook page â the wide shoulders, sloping waistline.Â
You curse under your breath.Â
Another sip of whiskey that burns down your throat.Â
Your phone buzzes against the hardwood desk.Â
You ignore it â probably Yena.
Then, it buzzes again.Â
You reach over slowly, ready to roll your eyes at Yenaâs incessant texts.Â
Until you donât.Â
Until you see his name, blinking up at you like the broken streetlight from your not-date-date three weeks ago.Â
vernonâžď¸đ u awake?
You stare at the message. Then at the clock.Â
Itâs 12:04 AM.Â
vernonâžď¸đ wyd?
you designsÂ
And then against all notion of rational thought, you snap a photo of your sketchbook.Â
[attached]
Vernon responds in seconds.Â
vernonâžď¸đ wait thats lwk really cool
you nice to know my work is appreciated
vernonâžď¸đ would u ever design smth for me?
Your fingers hover over the keyboard. The whiskey sits too warm in your stomach now.Â
you why? u tryna be a fashion icon now/?
vernonâžď¸đ smth like that j think ur designs look cool
Thereâs a lull there. Youâre not too sure what youâre supposed to respond with. A smiley face? A thank you? A heart?Â
Another buzz.Â
vernonâžď¸đ r u still up?
you its been like 5 min yes ofc
vernonâžď¸đ im at the batting cages
you okayâŚ.. and?
vernonâžď¸đ do u wanna maybe come
You stare at the last message longer than you mean to. The cursor blinks in the text box as your thumb hesitates above the keyboard.Â
Itâs stupid.Â
Itâs so stupid.Â
So so so stupid.Â
Itâs past midnight, youâre barely sobering up from the whiskey, youâve been sitting cross-legged on your studio floor for hours surrounded by scattered swatches, rejected sketches, the remainders of your brain. You should say no.Â
You should absolutely completely say no.Â
But.Â
But the memory of him late at night during the not-date-date still lingers in your mind, cruising around your nerves to send the scent of his cologne down your spine. You canât mistake the way you wait for his text like a dog for food. Itâs pathetic, really.Â
And you canât help it.Â
you address??
vernonâžď¸đ [location shared!]
Youâre scrambling now. First for a better shirt â a Ganni one thatâs a size too big on you but you refuse to return because it was the last one left in stock in-store. Next for shoes â vintage Nikes that you bargained for in Japan. And then for the smallest purse that fits your wallet, lipstick, and your phone. And your car keys!Â
The door slams behind you and youâre in the elevator even before you can fully hear your door lock beep.Â
Itâs a little past 12:30 AM when you arrive at the batting cages. It was more of a battle trying to find a parking spot than squeezing your Range Rover through the narrow alleyway. The city streets are quiet, though, and the night air is cool against your skin as you step out of the car, the low hum of the city lights and Gangnam in the distance. The flickering lights from the batting cages cast long shadows, their glow almost surreal in the emptiness of the night.Â
You take a deep breath, listening to the steady thwack! of baseballs connecting with a bat.Â
Vernonâs the only one there.Â
Heâs caged inside one of the batting cages, bat in hand, duffle bag thrown against the bench. He looks focused as he takes another swing. The Adidas zip-up is loose on him, riding up when he swings, waistband of his boxers showing bolded words: wasted youth.Â
His body moves with fluid grace under the bright lights, the way he lines up each shot is almost hypnotic. You pause for a moment, watching him, fingers curled around the openings of the metal cage. Watching him â the way his body shifts, the subtle flex of his arms as the bat connects with the ball, the way he frowns when it doesnât hit just right. The sound of it is satisfying, the crack echoing in the quiet night air. The zip-up hands from his shoulders, the fabric moving with the flow of his motions and you can barely make out a black undershirt â a tank, probably.Â
For a few seconds, you forget why youâre here. Why youâre watching him hit ball after ball, too focused on the bat to realize youâve arrived. Itâs just him, bat in hand, hitting ball after effortless ball â and you admire it: how smooth he looks, how natural it seems, how he seems made for this.Â
But then, he falters.Â
Notices you standing behind him, eyes training on his body.Â
He pauses mid-swing, letting the ball die in the machine. His eyes flick over you quickly â your oversized shirt, your bag that swings from your shoulder, your hair. He doesnât say anything but his mouth curved up into the smallest of smiles â of smirks?
âYou actually came,â he says, voice carrying a playful tone, like he wasnât entirely sure you would.Â
He sets his bat down in the bat rack, the soft clink of the metal against the wood the only sound between you two.Â
He wipes his hands against his black sweatpants.Â
You roll your eyes, tossing your bag on the bench when he opens the cage door for you. âYou texted me in the middle of the night. Worried you were going through a mid-season crisis or something.â You bite the inside of your cheek as you grab a smaller bat that sits next to his now. âYouâre lucky I make all my bad decisions after midnight.âÂ
Vernon chuckles, low and easy. âNah, not a crisis. Or a bad decision. Just wanted to see if you could make contact after all that high talk.âÂ
You give him a look, rolling the bat in between your hands.Â
Heâs tall. Close. Built. His shoulders hide the other cageâs light from hitting your face and he grins down at you like heâs known you for your whole life.Â
You shoot him a flat look. âHas anyone ever told you that you talk way too much for someone whoâs supposedly nonchalant?â
He just grins, hands in his pockets, shrugging.Â
You sigh, moving your hands to the grip of the bat, walking up to where the fake grass turf was the barest. Youâre familiar with the weight of a bat. Youâve been a baseball fan, even though Vernon acts like heâs teaching you everything from scratch.Â
The machine whirs when Vernon flips a switch, and from the dark hole of the pitching machine, the first pitch comes launching your way.Â
You wait.Â
Swing.Â
Hit.Â
Crack!
The ball soars into the net, the thwack! echoing in the empty batting cage.Â
Itâs quiet for a moment. You think Vernonâs switched the machine off again. Or maybe itâs a lull the universe has granted.Â
Vernon lets out a low whistle. âNot bad.âÂ
You glance over at him, brow raised. âNot bad?âÂ
He lifts a shoulder, teasing grin. âYou could do better.âÂ
You scoff, turning your attention back to the machine, now whirring back to life, for the next pitch. The rhythm of it is steady. You can understand why Vernon does this. Ball after ball, the occasional miss, the occasional perfect hit. Every crack! thwack! makes you feel like every ounce of stress in your body leaves your pores in spindles of smoke â evaporated.Â
Vernon stands in the back, letting you hit and hit and hit.Â
Then, after a particularly good hit, he finally speaks again.Â
âHere.âÂ
You barely register him stepping forward, machine turned off now, befor eheâs suddenly behind you. His presence is like a magnet, pulling you closer as his hands move to adjust your stance.Â
And you try to focus â you really, really do â but itâs hard when heâs standing so close to you â chest brushing against your back, warm, solid.Â
âTry shifting your stance a little,â he says, voice low. And his hands are moving from his sides to your sides, inching up your waist before you can react. His touch is gentle, fleeting, adjusting your posture with the slightest pressure. His touch is steady, unhurried, but it sends a shock and tingle up your spine anyway.Â
You swallow, trying to focus on gripping your bat so that it doesnât clatter to the floor. âIâm already hitting fine,â you mumble. Youâre scared to look up.Â
âCould be better,â he retorts, and you donât have to turn around to know that heâs ear-to-ear grinning.Â
His hands move up from your waist to your shoulders. Down your bare arms to rest on top of yours on the grip of the bat. His hands are warm against your skin and you hope to God that he canât feel the goosebumps that rise with his touch. The pressure of his hand around yours is mind-reeling and his breath is warm near your ear as he murmurs
âRelax this a little. Youâre too stiff.âÂ
You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to ignore the flutter of your heartbeat at the proximity, at the feel of his broad chest pressed against your back as he reaches around. Heâs so focused on your swing, helping you improve, but all you can think about is how he feels against you.Â
His hands leave yours to your shoulders, gently pressing down. âRelax.âÂ
âMaybe I like being stiff.âÂ
Vernon huffs out a quiet laugh. âYou sure about that?âÂ
When he sees your hands tightening against the bat, he puffs out a sigh of air, leaning in again. His cologne is subtle but warm â something clean, fresh, with a hint of pine? Musk? Vanilla? Something that lingers. It mixes in with the scent of your detergent and itâs all you can think of.Â
His fingers slide down, adjusting your grip over the bat. His hands are infinitely warmer, covering yours completely, and the way heâs guiding your movement is too natural for your brain to wrap around. You feel your breath get lodged in your throat. You donât know whatâs happening.
His chest is flush agaisnt your back, body pressed against yours, mumbling something into your ear but you canât bring yourself to comprehend it properly. His hands on your waist, wrist, his height, build, it completely envelops you. The proximity of him makes your pulse race and your lungs tighten and you pray that he canât feel your beating thumping heart through your wrist pulse point.Â
âBetter?â he murmurs.Â
You try to say yeah, but your voice barely comes out. So you just nod instead.Â
You can feel his breath against the back of your neck, and something inside of you screams â in want, desire, guilt, something in between? His hands hesitate for just a fraction of a second â one on your hip, the other on your wrist.Â
And youâre not too sure how the next part happens. But somehow, between his fingers brushing against yours and the way heâs angled just slightly towards you, breath hot on your neck, cologne invading your senses with no mercy, you turn your head at the same time he glances down.Â
Or maybe he was already looking down.Â
His eyes are dark, soft in a way that makes your throat tighten. His lips part, a breath leaving him that you canât quite make out. Itâs not a sigh, not quite a word. Itâs something in between, laced with an emotion heavier than the tension that stretches taut between you. You donât know if heâs waiting for you to pull away, stumble out of his grasp like heâs burned you, or if heâs looking for a sign to make the next move â stoop lower to move forward, not hold back.Â
Your heart stutters.Â
The moment stretches thin.Â
His eyes flicker down to your lips and then flicker back up to your eyes. Theyâre hesitant, as if heâs wondering if this is the right thing.Â
You swallow. âVernââ
Your eyes widen in surprise, name cut off before the breath in your lungs even leaves you completely.Â
Because heâs leaning down, lips crashing down on yours, slow, deliberate, soft. Itâs slow at first, tentative, like heâs giving you the chance to pull away.Â
You would be crazy to pull away.Â
Instead, you melt into it. The bat clatters to the floor with a muted th-th-thack! and on hand goes to tangle in his hair, pulling him down further. The angle is awkward â youâre half-turned around, one arm stretched up to pull him down, one hand resting against his that sits on your waist, lingering. Heâs pressed up behind you, chest against your back, slouching down to fully reach your lips.Â
And then something clicks.Â
You twist to face him fully, hands finding their way to the collar of his jacket, fisting the fabric as you rise on your tip-toes.Â
Vernon doesnât hesitate anymore. His hand slides from your waist to the small of your back, so slowly that it raises the hair on your skin and sends shivers up your spine as he pulls you in closer, flush against his chest. His other hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheek. Once. Twice. Three times.Â
He kisses you like he means it. Like heâs been waiting to do this.Â
And you donât have any more thinking capacity left in you to be embarrassed when you let out a breathy little sound from the back of your throat that sounds a little too much like a whimper, hands finding their way to the back of his neck, pulling him down more. Now both of his hands are on your lower back, your waist, grip so firm, so warm, as he pulls you in, lips moving in sync with yours.Â
Everything else fades. The far-away sound of the bat hitting the ball, the dying hum of the machine, the soft murmur and chirp of the night â everything becomes â feels â secondary to the feel of his lips on yours. You can taste the faint tang of the lemon electrolyte drink he was drinking on his lips, feel the strength in his arms as they basically hold you up on your tip-toes like heâs not letting you go.Â
You break apart.Â
You donât want to.Â
But itâs getting harder to hold your breath.Â
So you pull back, back down on your feet, breaths coming out heavy, now eye-to-eyes with Vernonâs collarbones. You look up.Â
Vernon looks down at you with this expression that you canât quite place. His pupils are blown wideâ dark against his hazel rings â lips parted slightly as he catches his breath. Youâre still pressed so close to him that you can feel the heat radiating off him, his chest rising and falling with steady breaths. You swallow.Â
And then Vernon lets out a small little laugh, lips stretching to paint the silliest smile on his face, forehead meeting yours. His big hands are warm and calloused against your flushed cheeks, thumb tracing over your skin.Â
His forehead stays pressed to your for just a beat longer. You feel like passing out when he whispers fuck, y/n, under his breath like a secret â barely a whisper, barely above a breath, like saying it any louder might break the moment.Â
Youâre still catching your breath, dizzy from how fast everything shifted, how the entire world seems to narrow down to just the space between his lips and yours.But when your eyes flutter up to meet his â dark, hooded, unwavering â your breath gets harder to inhale.Â
When your gaze drops to his lips again, Vernon moves â pounces, almost.Â
He surges forward, lips on yours again. Except, this time, harder â needier. Thereâs no hesitation now â no caution, no prudence in the way he grips your hips, body moving you â walking you â backwards until you feel your back hit the cold metal of the batting cage. It startles you, eyes fluttering open because when had you gotten this far, and you gasp, the noise stuck in your throat.Â
Vernon doesnât stop.Â
His tongue swipes against your bottom lip so carefully, so softly, teasing. Nd when your mouth parts slightly, itâs like something inside of him snaps.Â
Suddenly, his head is tilting, hands cupping your jaw as yours scrunch his collar, deepening the kiss â messy and hot â his body caging yours against the cool chain-link fence.Â
You canât think. Canât breathe. Canât do anything but let him devour you. His tongue dances with yours â slides, twists â deliberate and sure. And when your hands move to tangle your fingers through his slightly wavy hair, slowly trailing down to the nape of his neck, clutching like you need him to keep you upright, he groans. Deep and low and rumbling in his chest, eaten up and swallowed by your greedy mouth.Â
Itâs visceral, the way you grab at each other. The way his body presses into yours and yours against the fence, like he canât get close enough â like the two of you might combust if even an inch of air dares to exist between you. A ball of heat knots deep in your stomach as his hands roam â one firm against your waist, the other sliding up the curve of your back, underneath your loose shirt, fingers kneading against the flesh. He kisses you like heâs starved. Like every pent-up look and almost-touch finally snapped him clean and the wire-tight tension â now heâs unraveling.Â
When his teeth bite down gently against your bottom lip, you whimper. Itâs soft, barely even heard because his kisses mute it. But Vernon hears. He curses softly â muffled against your moving lips â as he tilts his head, insistent on coaxing just another sound from your throat. Itâs instinct now â how you arch into him, how his hands are strong to support you as you start to get tired of standing on your tip-toes, how your hand slides up into his hair and tugs.Â
Vernon groans. Itâs louder this time, coupled with a breathy little whine.Â
And suddenly, his hands are just lower than your hips, his lips separating from yours for a second to whisperÂ
âJump,â against yours
before heâs kissing you again.Â
And you do. Jump, that is.Â
And when you jump, legs wrapping around his slutty waist, his hands are under your thighs, pressing you firm against the fence. You canât stop yourself. Youâve already crossed some invisible line, and all that matters to you is him. Vernon Chwe. The way he feels, the way he presses up closer against you, the way heâs just as desperate â maybe even more desperate â for this than you are.Â
It helps that you havenât had any sort of sexual relationship for a year and a half now.Â
Now pressed up against the fence, your arms steady around his neck, Vernonâs hands tangle in your hair, pulling you deeper into the kiss. His hold is firm, possessive, with a hint of softness and tenderness that sends a wave of heat through you. With a gentle tug, he has you looking up at the open night sky. His mouth moves from yours to your neck, lips trailing messy kisses along your skin. It has you letting out soft gasps as his teeth graze your skin, lightly nipping, pressing open-mouthed kisses afterwards to soothe. The sound of your heart is a rhythmic thud in your ear â everything is building, growing, more desperate. Especially as Vernon lightly bites against your ear.Â
You can feel the firmness of his chest as it presses against you, breath hot against your skin, and every move he makes â shifting you further up, pressing another kiss, whispering something you definitely do not have the brain capacity for â sends another thrill down your spine.
âVernon,â you murmur, voice echoing in the empty cages.Â
At the call of his name, he pulls away from decorating your neck with the hues of the darker side of the rainbow, looking up at you with dark and hooded eyes. You can almost see the desire swirling through them. But his lips curve into a faint smile.Â
âHm?âÂ
He gives you a peck on your lips before kissing down your jaw. You swallow, head thrown back still against the fence, body supported by Vernon and Vernon alone. But when you donât respond right away, he pulls back again, hands moving to hitch you up more securely, fingers brushing your bare waist where your shirt had ridden up during the mess of kisses. When you look down, heâs staring up at you with furrowed, worried brows.Â
ââS this okay?â he asks quietly, voice rough and strained.Â
You bite the inside of your cheek, hands moving from his shoulders to brush through his hair shakily. You let out a breath that feels more punched out of you than anything. âYeah,â you mumble, leaning forward so that your arms drape over his shoulders, bottom lip trapped between your teeth as you rest your cheek against your arm. You feel Vernonâs hands tighten around your thighs.Â
âYou sure?â he asks. You can hear his heartbeat. Almost.Â
You nod. ââM fine. This,â you let out a small laugh, âThis is more than fine.âÂ
Vernon is quiet before he speaks again. And you canât quite see his face, you can imagine his small smile.Â
âOkay, okay, okay. Cool, Cool. Thatâs â um â thatâs fire,â he mumbles. Rambles, actually.Â
Heâs cute.Â
You let out a laugh â a loud one â at that, tapping his arm to signal to let you down.
âFire? Thatâs all you have to say to that?â You tease, landing back on the floor with shaky legs, still clinging to Vernon, arms winding around his neck. You stare up at him and he looks down at you like you just dotted stars in the night sky. Youâve never had someone look at you like this.Â
His voice is lower when he finally speaks again. âMore than fire.â He grins, forehead coming to rest on yours as his arms wind around your waist. âDefinitely more than fire.âÂ
You giggle. Itâs weird how quickly he makes you feel like a schoolgirl and not a fully-grown adult with a life outside of swooning over him. But your teeth take your bottom lip prisoner again. âYeah?âÂ
Vernon exhales a short breath. âYeah.âÂ
When you giggle again, Vernon groans â half in embarrassment, half in he doesnât know what. âYou drive me crazy,â he mumbles under his breath, detaching himself from you with great reluctance.Â
When he steps away, letting your arms fall to your sides, you watch as he sets the bats back on the rack, shouldering his duffle, shoving his phone into his pocket. He glances at you, a small smile playing on his lips when you cross your arms, waiting. For what? Youâre not too sure yourself. Maybe for him to kiss you again? Maybe for him to lead you out and drop you off at home? You stand there awkwardly now, not quite ready to leave, not quite sure how to stay. You stand there, pretending you donât wish his lips are back on yours.Â
Vernon walks up to you, the swing of his duffle bag lazy, eyes soft but unreadable under the dim lights of the cage. He stops right in front of you, not touching (and good thing because if he did touch you, you wouldnât be able to let go), but close enough that you can still feel the warmth of his body.Â
âYou drove here, right?â he asks quietly, glancing back at the nearly empty parking lot behind the fence.Â
You nod slowly, your voice soft. âYeah.â You glance down at your feet, embarrassed now for some weird reason.Â
He hesitates, lips parted like thereâs something more he wants to say. Then he shifts his weight, eyes flickering from yours to the path out of the cages. âYou okay to drive?â
You shrug. âI mean⌠probably.â
That earns a soft, knowing chuckle from him. âThatâs not reassuring.â
Youâre still floating a bit. Still warm from his hands on your skin, his mouth on yours, his voice in your ear. Still trying to remember how to stand on your own feet. And Vernon looks unfairly composed in comparison. Like heâs turned the volume down on whatever chaos just happened between you â but itâs still written in his flushed cheeks, his tousled hair, the way he keeps looking at you like youâre a goddamn fever dream.
He steps forward and reaches for your hand, threading his fingers through yours like youâre dating or something. âCâmon,â he says, tugging gently, âIâll walk you to your car.â
The night air is cooler outside of the cages. The heat of the moment is behind you as you walk towards your car, parked rather haphazardly by a streetlight, hand-in-hand, Vernon glancing down at you every once-in-a-while. He has this silly little smile plastered on his face that makes you smile too. Makes you smile more.Â
When you finally reach your car, Vernon lets go of your hand, stepping around to the passenger side. When he opens the door and peeks in, for a split second, you think heâs about to jump in, drive with you back home.Â
But then he pulls back, grinning, shouldering his duffle, hands in his pockets.Â
âMessy,â he comments.Â
You click your tongue, pulling open the driverâs side, sliding in. Your hands hover near the handle before you grip it.Â
You donât want to say anything else, lest you break the moment â heavy, thick with everything that just happened.Â
So, naturally, Vernon does. âYouâre okay to drive though?âÂ
You smile, nodding. âYeah, I mean, unless you wanna file a police report about a girl you were making out with in the cages.âÂ
His lips twitch and you know he picked up on your tone. He leans against the driverâs side. âThink itâd hold up in court?âÂ
You laugh. âDepends. I might argue that you instigated it.âÂ
Vernon scoffs, one arm on the top of your car. Heâs so close again. âCanât. Wonât hold. I clearly said jump. Thatâs consent and delegation.âÂ
You snort. âOkay, lawyer.â
âOkay, criminal.âÂ
You both laugh, tension broken, and it feels good. Cathartic, in a way. But overall, good. His smile lingers longer this time, teeth catching on his bottom lip like heâs trying not to say something. Or like heâs trying not to leave.Â
âYou sure you donât want me to drive you back?â he asks. His voice is gentler now. He hesitates before his hand darts out, fingers gently brushing the fallen strands of hair from your face. âI can follow you, even. Just to make sure you get home okay, yâknow?âÂ
Your heart tugs a little. Itâs so stupid how sweet he is. Stupid, stupid, and so so so endearing. Even if it sounds just a little bit creepy.
But you smile, grabbing his hand before it gets shoved in the depths of his pockets again. âYou tryna be my stalker now?âÂ
Vernon shrugs, fingers folding over yours sweetly. âEh. Takes one to know one, right?â And then he smiles â all teeth and boyish with ruffled hair â and it makes you laugh.Â
âAre you calling me a stalker?âÂ
âNah. Youâre my Kiss Cam partner. âS a little diffârent.â A pause. âIâll still follow you though,â he says, a little quieter now. âNot all the way â just out the lot. Make sure no oneâs creeping out here this late.âÂ
You squint at him dramatically. âIs this your creepy way of saying you want to make sure I donât crash my car?â
âItâs my gentlemanly way of saying I donât trust you behind the wheel when your brainâs still halfway up that fence.â
The laugh that is forced out of you is as dramatic as incredulous. âVernon Chwe!â You blush red under his laughter.Â
He watches, one hand still on the frame like he doesnât want to walk away just yet.
Before he closes the door for you, you glance up and grin. âHey, if I do crash, just know my ghost is gonna haunt you in a very flirty and inconvenient way.â
Vernon laughs, full and warm this time. âCanât wait.â
He shuts the door gently, taking a step back. You turn on the engine, stealing one last glance at him through the window, now rolled down.Â
He watches you for a second. âText me when you get home?â His request is quiet, small, almost like he expects you to say no.Â
Your foot leaves the gas pedal.Â
You look at him. Really look at him. And you know if you donât kiss him again right now, youâre going to regret it.
You reach out, fingers curling into the collar of his jacket, and you tug him down to you. He doesnât resist. His lips meet yours again â this time slower, but also faster. A peck. Small, short, and sweet. Just in case you get too addicted too quick.Â
When you break apart, he looks dazed. Like you just punched the breath out of him.Â
âIâll text you,â you whisper.Â
You steal one last glance at him before rolling up your window.
He waves you off with a crooked grin, walking slowly back to his own car as you back out of the lot. And even in your rearview mirror, you can see him watching, waiting until youâre safely out onto the road.
You pull away, your cheeks still aching from smiling.
Five minutes later, at the first stoplight, your phone buzzes in the holder attached to the AC.Â
vernonâžď¸đ text me back when ur home j so i know ur ghost isnt gonna flirt me into crashing tooÂ
You bite your lip, smile stretching wide and helpless across your face. And you canât control the incoherent squeal that leaves your lips.Â
God, youâre so screwed.Â
----------------
Itâs almost 9PM when you get his text.Â
vernonâžď¸đ u @ the studio?
you sadly yes how did u know r u stalking me or smth
vernonâžď¸đ maybe i j finished training j checking in
His little typing⌠bubble doesnât go away for another couple of seconds and you just know that he probably deleted what he was going to send to you.Â
you im j working how was training?
vernonâžď¸đ the same did u eat?
you âŚno BUT im fine deadline mode
vernonâžď¸đ what kind of monster forgets to eat
you a very talented one that also missed her deadline last week? making a masterpiece rn
vernonâžď¸đ so dramatic
The conversation lulls when he doesnât send anything for a minute or two. You curl yourself against the armrest of your work chair, sewing and fabric forgotten on your work table.Â
vernonâžď¸đ do u want me to bring u food?
you only if it comes with radish!! this time!!!
You hope the exclamation points hide how red your cheeks are and how your body almost vibrates with nerves â or maybe excitement? â as you reread his text.Â
vernonâžď¸đ u think id mess that up twice?
you call it intuition
vernonâžď¸đ wow no faith in me
you i have complete faith in ur batting avg j not ur side dish memory
vernonâžď¸đ cold i hit a homer AND remembered ur drink last time
you ok fine ur batting .500 in food service tbh thats hall of fame numbers
vernonâžď¸đ lmao im omw w surprise food dont sew ur hand off!!!
you ur coming NOW??!
vernonâžď¸đ lol yeah unless u dont want me to.. i can hang the food on ur door and go
you u can stay IF ur not annoying
vernonâžď¸đ roundabout way to tell me to leave..
you no u can stay depending how good the food is
vernonâžď¸đ depending on how good u look in wtv ur making rn
you bro vernon
vernonâžď¸đ đ do u call every guy u make out w âbroâ
you omg shut up and hurry up
--------------
Youâre bent over your work table, one knee pressed close to your chest, the other crossed flat against the seat, when you hear the quiet doorbell to your studio echo through the empty rooms.Â
In the quiet of the studio, above the city hustle and bustle, the doorbell rings loudly, decrescendoing into a whisper of an intrusion.Â
You donât turn immediately â hands busy pinning fabric on the mannequin in front of you. But you know itâs him. He texted ten minutes ago that he was almost there and knowing Vernon, he probably stood stock-still in front of the door, maybe pacing, trying to psych himself up to press the doorbell and double checking if he was at the right address for five whole minutes.Â
âItâs unlocked!â you call, voice only slightly muffled by the pins in your mouth as you (attempt) to thread a thin leather string through the bodice only to have it bunch on one side. You hear the door click open, hinges creaking quietly from down the hall. Soft footsteps that stop right in front of the raised entry-way are followed by a couple of shuffles as he takes off his shoes, sliding into the slippers that you set out an hour before.Â
When you finally glance over your shoulder, heâs standing in the middle of the entry hallway with a plastic bag in his hand, a black hoodie half-off, slinging off his shoulder, over an ab-showing workout shirt, and cap flipped backwards.Â
A ridiculously loud laugh is torn from the back of your throat and you almost fall off your chair at the way Vernonâs face twists in confusion.Â
He lifts a hand.Â
âHey,â he greets, low voice soft in the quiet of the studio, mingling with your playlist playing through the speakers.Â
âHey,â you say.Â
His eyes sweep over you, then the chaos youâre sitting in â bolts of fabric stacked and pushed away to the dark corner next to your desk, three sewing machines pushed up against the right wall, your own sewing machine humming with a lazily blinking lights, and unfinished sketches taped to the window in front of your desk, a flood-over from the wall-taped sketches.Â
He lifts the bag in his hand with the cutest grin youâve seen. If you were a weaker woman, you would have blushed. âSaved your life. Again.âÂ
You roll your eyes, motioning him inside your main studio. âMaybe save the gloat for after I eat.âÂ
He steps inside, brushing past the hanging yards of tulle that you thought you would use but never ended up actually using so you hung hurriedly on the fabric rack bolted high against the wall. He pads over to you and when he sets the bag down on the nearest slightly-clean table, you can smell the scent of his cologne â clean, vanilla, a little spicy and musky. Itâs faint, like he put it on hours ago, but the way it still lingers makes your head hurt because he smells exactly the same from that night. He glances around your studio like he always does when he comes here, like heâs trying to memorize all the new wall-taped sketches and discarded fabric pieces.Â
He points to a sketch taped on the window, right above your table. âI like that one. Is it new?âÂ
You pull your hair back, twisting it up into a bun before clipping it off with a claw clip. âMaybe. It will be if I actually finish it.âÂ
He looks down at you with his brown eyes that look a little bit darker in the dim lights of the studio. Itâs a beat too long. You feel it. Like thereâs something unspoken sitting right behind his teeth and heâs not too sure whether heâs allowed to say it or if you would both benefit from him swallowing it down whole.Â
You canât stand his gaze â not if it feels like he can read your mind (even the thoughts that are definitely not suitable). So you open the bag to distract yourself.Â
The first thing that greets your hungry eyes is two packets of cellophane-wrapped containers of white radish.Â
âOkay,â you hum, unwrapping the cellophane carefully, âyou did remember the radish.â You lick a droplet of radish juice off your thumb, glancing at Vernon with a grin. âColor me impressed.âÂ
He shrugs, sitting on your work bench like heâs done it a hundred times. âWhat can I say? Iâm learning,â he mutters, leaning back on his hands. He watches as you open containers, throwing plastic lids into the large garbage can by your desk. The soft pop! of plastic lids fill the space and you canât help but push some containers of o-deng and pajeon towards Vernon to let him open those as you crack apart two sets of chopsticks, (un)gracefully moving to the floor. Your chopstick shovels a good chunk of crab meat and egg fried rice even before your crossed legs can touch the hardwood floor.Â
Itâs quiet, aside from the music in the background and your murmurs of holy shit this is so good in between rapid bites.Â
Vernon watches you for a while in silence, legs spread out in front of him, leaning back on his hands. His chopstick is untouched â like he takes more pleasure out of watching you eat than eating it himself.Â
âYou okay?â he asks eventually, noticing a stall in your hurried shovelling of food.Â
You glance up at him from your half-empty fried rice bowl. You blink. âYeah? Just tired.âÂ
He nods, eyes dropping to your bare legs tucked under you, the way your quarter-zip dips too low on your chest. He clears his throat and looks away fast â too fast.Â
You bite the inside of your cheek, setting the bowl and chopsticks down, studying him in all of his post-training, showered, deliciously-smelling glory. You canât help but stare â at his face, his arms, his chest, everything. And then at his slightly-drooping eyes and slight dark circles that seem to shadow over more in the dim studio lights.Â
âYou donât have to stay,â you say softly, poking his leg. âYou probably have practice tomorrow.âÂ
His response is as immediate as it is confident. âI wanna stay.â It makes you blush â the way he says it like he canât lie to you even if he tries.Â
You hum, legs pulled up to your chest and try not to stare the way his forearm flexes when he runs a hand through his hair. Itâs shorter, now that you focus on it. Maybe he cut it. Or maybe heâs training you for his inevitable decision of buzzing it all (he mentioned it to you in passing once and you had laughed at him). The silence stretches again, comfortable, but pulsing, like somethingâs about to break through the thick wall.Â
Vernon looks away to the side, mouth opening. âIâve been thinking about you,â he says suddenly, like it somehow fell out.Â
Your breath catches.Â
Heâs looking down at the floor now, jaw tight. His legs move to sit criss-cross, like this is a serious conversation. âSince the cages,â he starts out quiet â more quiet than youâve ever heard him â âItâs beenâŚâ he pauses, âkinda driving me crazy.âÂ
You swallow down the breath caught in the back of your throat. âYeah?âÂ
âYeah,â he says, finally glancing up. If this were any other conversation, you could have giggled over how blushed his cheeks are. âAnd I didnât wanna â fuck â I didnât wanna make it weird, yâ know?â He searches your eyes like itâll have the words he needs to finish his sentence. âBut then you didnât really text me after â no, like you did but not really â and I thought, I dunno, maybe â maybe â Iââ
Before you can even understand whatâs going on, youâre on your knees, leaning forward so that youâre staring him in his eyes with some sort of unfamiliar ferocity.Â
âYou didnât mess anything up,â you say, hand lingering on his knee. Your quarter-zip falls off your shoulder from the sudden movement. âVernon, I just didnât know what to say. Hey, I missed an entire traffic signal because of how good you kissed me seemed a little cliche and stupid.â You crack a grin.Â
Vernon lets out a soft laugh, ears tinting pink. When he looks up at you, brows pulled, lips parted like heâs trying to figure out if this is real, it gets harder for you to breathe. A shaky hand goes up to touch his face â fingers brushing his cheek, thumb grazing under his eye, lingers on the sharp cut of his jaw. His fingers curl around the hem of your quarter-zip, pulling you forward, steadying you with firm hands on your thighs when you jerk forward, falling into his lap.Â
âOops,â Vernon murmurs, but the shadow of a smile ghosting his lips gives him away. And it makes your heart beat out through your ribs.Â
âYouâŚâ you never get to finish that sentence because you find yourself leaning down to kiss him.Â
And when your lips meet his, he melts into it.Â
It starts slow. Softer than it was the first time. His mouth opens under yours, and he tastes like the strawberry drink he brought for you, like the past week of restraint cracking open. You sink into him, arms circling his shoulders, and he shifts to pull you onto his lap.
Your legs wrap around his waist, and you feel his hands hesitate at your hips. He pulls back just enough to look at you.
âYou sure?â he asks, voice low, slightly hoarse.
You nod. âMore than sure.â
And then it unravels.
He kisses you like heâs waited years, not days. Like he memorized the shape of your mouth from that night and has been replaying it on loop. Your hoodie is tugged over your head, and his lips trail over every inch of skin he can find. He leaves kisses down your chest, over your ribs, as you unbutton his shirt with fumbling fingers and way too much anticipation.
You're still perched on his lap, his hoodie long gone, your fingers tangled in his hair when he starts kissing down your neck again â open-mouthed, biting. The low hum of the studio surrounds you â the soft buzz of the desk lamp, the rustle of fabric under your knees, the faint warmth from the space heater in the corner.
"Vernon," you whisper.
He groans softly against your collarbone, your name dragging from his lips like a prayer. His hands skim up under your quarter-zip, fingers grazing your sides with a reverence that has your spine curling. His hands inch up, up, up until he meets the softness of yourâ
âFuck, no bra?â Vernon groans, hands stilling on your chest. His lips part from your neck for a second.Â
You giggle, leaning into his touch. âMaybe I took it off when you said youâll come,â you whisper into his ear, watching in sinful delight as he blushes at your words, pushing your quarter-zip up until itâs up over your head. When he throws the quarter-zip to some random corner of the studio, he freezes, eyes frozen on the way your nipples harden in the open air, your hair as it runs down your shoulders, hands kneading your tits like they are made for him.Â
âFuck, youâre gorgeous,â he whispers. His mouth goes down before you can even respond with anything, lips circling a nipple as two fingers go to tweak the other one. His tongue is warm against your skin, rolling, lightly biting, sucking. Itâs crazy â the way he knows what you want before you even say anything. It drives you absolutely crazy.Â
"Wanna taste you," he murmurs, voice low, thick.
Your breath catches. Your eyes meet his. Thereâs something unshakably tender about the way heâs looking at you â like this has been haunting him. Like heâs starving and youâre the only thing thatâll fill him.
You nod.
Thatâs all it takes.
His hands are slow, tender, trailing down your sides as he eases you onto your back, bare skin meeting the plush fur of your carpet. A scarf â forgotten on the floor â is swept aside, discarded like all other distractions.
The round carpet you brought home from Taiwan softens the ground beneath his knees. Youâd chosen it because it reminded you of moonlight, round and pale and slightly worn. Now it presses into the bones of his legs as he settles between yours like he's found the only place he's ever needed to be.
He leans in close, breath ghosting warm over the sensitive skin of your thighs. And then he begins.
One kiss.Â
Then another.Â
And another.
Soft at first â reverent, almost â each one carefully placed along the inside of your thigh. His mouth is warm, and his lips linger like he's trying to imprint the shape of you onto himself. He pauses to breathe you in, lashes fluttering against his cheeks as his hands smooth up and down your legs. One hand wraps beneath your thigh, thumb rubbing small, grounding circles while the other curls possessively around your hip.
Every kiss climbs higher, closer, and your hands instinctively grip at his hoodie, still bunched around his arms â the fabric wrinkles between your fingers, grounding you while everything else begins to blur. He looks up once, eyes dark and earnest, gaze locking with yours like heâs checking if you're still with him, still his. You nod, a breathless motion, and he smiles â just barely â before ducking his head again.
When his tongue finally finds you, itâs slow â intentionally slow. One long, deliberate lick that makes your breath stutter and your back arch from the couch. His mouth settles against you like a man starved â greedy, hungry, but still worshipful. The way he moves feels like he's memorizing you with every stroke â cataloging the way your thighs tense, how your breath catches, the exact sound you make when he sucks just right.
You whimper his name, and his body reacts â shoulders twitching, hips shifting, a soft gasp breaking against you like he feels it too. His fingers dig into your hips as if anchoring himself, but you can feel the restraint â like heâs holding back from tearing the rest of your clothes off and burying himself inside you.
âDonât stop,â you whisper, desperate, the words barely coherent.
He doesnât.Â
He canât.
When your thighs start to tremble, he groans â the sound guttural, animal â but he doesnât slow. His arms tighten around your legs, pulling you in closer, locking you into place like youâre the answer to every prayer heâs never dared to say aloud. Your hands slide into his hair, nails scraping gently against his scalp, and his response is immediate: a full-body shiver, a muffled moan into your skin that makes your toes curl.
And when your warning comes â a breathy, broken gasp of please or Iâm close, youâre not even sure which â he holds you tighter. He pushes his tongue deeper, faster, more insistent, drinking down every sound you make like he's parched.
You fall apart on his tongue, crying out his name as your whole body tightens, then trembles, then shudders in release. He doesnât stop. Not right away. He keeps his mouth on you, gentler now, lapping at the aftershocks like he wants to make sure every last wave of pleasure is felt. You twitch beneath him, hypersensitive and dazed, and finally â finally â he pulls back.
His chin is wet, glistening. His lips are pink and swollen, slightly parted like heâs still catching his breath. Thereâs a dazed, wrecked look in his eyes â the kind of haze that only comes from witnessing something divine.
He blinks up at you like heâs trying to remember where he is, and then, with a hoarse little laugh that barely makes it past his throat, he wipes the back of his hand over his chin and whispers, âYou taste like fucking heaven.â
But itâs more than just lust in his eyes.
He looks at you like heâs just been undone. Like your pleasure unstitched something in him he canât sew back together. And for a long moment, neither of you speak. The only sound is your breathing â still uneven â and the soft rustle of fabric as he leans in, kissing the inside of your thigh again. Slower this time. Calmer.Â
Like a benediction.
Like thanks.
You lean up, breathless, cheeks a deep red, tugging him by the collar of his shirt. "Bed," you whisper. "Come here."
His pupils blow wide, as do the rest of his eyes.
You giggle as you grab his hand, scrambling up to your shaky feet, and pull him toward the bedroom â the small tucked-away space past your sewing machine and half-stuffed closet. The lights are soft inside, fairy lights strung in lazy arcs across the ceiling. The bed is already messy, the comforter folded halfway down, pillows too soft to hold structure, the rest of the room packed with machines you donât need this season and bolts of fabric that didnât really pass your test.Â
He pauses just inside the doorway, hand still in yours, taking it in.
âHolyâ the hell?â he mutters.
You blush. âTake your hoodie off.â
He does â slowly, deliberately â and lets it fall to the floor as you sit on the bed, pulling him between your legs. He cups your cheek and kisses you again, deeper now, heavier. And when you lie back on the comforter and he climbs over you, settling into the space between your thighs like he was made for itâit feels like every part of you says finally.
The bed dips under his weight, comforter cool against your back, but the heat radiating from Vernon is all-consuming.
Heâs still above you, kissing you like heâs trying to memorize your mouth â hand braced next to your head, the other dragging up your shirt so slowly itâs unbearable. Your skin prickles under his touch, goosebumps chasing every inch he reveals.
"Can I?" he murmurs, thumb brushing just against the waistband of your now-ruined panties. His voice is low, a little wrecked already.
You nod, but your voice is thin. âFuck, please.â
His eyes hold yours for a moment longer before he pulls your panties down slowly, your legs going up to let him trail his fingers down your bare thighs to throw the panities to a random corner of the room. You reach up, tug at his waistband â a silent demand â and he complies, standing just long enough to strip down to his boxers. When he returns to the bed, all warm skin and toned muscle, you think, this is going to ruin me.
He kisses down your chest, slow, reverent. Your brain is gone in seconds, and then his mouth is on you â warm, wet, tongue swirling in lazy circles that have you arching off the bed. One of his hands grips your waist while the other moves between your legs, pressing over your soaked panties with a hum.
"You're shaking," he whispers.
"Youâre taking your time," you shoot back breathlessly.
He chuckles â and then shifts lower. And then⌠he just looks at you. Drags his hands up your thighs and stares like heâs seen God and sheâs spread out on her own damn bed.
"Fuck," he mutters. "Youâre beautiful."
You reach for him again, desperate, and he finally gives in, grinding down against your bare core with a low groan. His hips rock once, twice â and you both hiss at the contact. Then he pauses.
âI donâtâ I didnât bringââ
âSâ okay,â you breathe. Your fingers reach for his, eyes never leaving his. âYouâre clean, right?âÂ
He nods almost dumbly, staring at you with toussled hair and parted mouth.Â
You gasp in a breath, smiling. âSâ fine, then. I have an IUD.âÂ
And then itâs like something clicks into place in his brain because his eyes bulge a little as he leans down, biceps shaking, brushing hair out of your face. His next words are almost reverent. âRaw?âÂ
You hum, kissing his jaw greedily. âRaw,â you whisper teasingly into his ear.Â
And then heâs kissing you hard. His hands are a little shaky â not with fear, but with need. Like heâs been dreaming of this for months. Like if he doesnât get inside you now, heâll die wanting.
And when he finally does â when he pushes in, slow and careful, your legs wrapping around his waist again â you both go still.
Vernon buries his face in your neck.
âHoly fuck,â he whispers. âYou feelâ fuck, you feel so good.â
Vernon pauses once he's fully sheathed in you, a low, guttural breath escaping his lips.
"Shitâ" he mutters, his voice trembling as his arms brace tightly around you. His forehead presses against yours. "You okay?"
Your legs are wrapped around his waist, your fingers locked at the nape of his neck, body trembling beneath him. Itâs a lot. Heâs thick and long, stretching you more than you remember, and the sudden fullness has you gasping for air, your walls fluttering around him.
"Itâs⌠itâs been a while," you whisper, biting your bottom lip. "You're justâbigger than I thought."
He groans â actually groans, a sound pulled straight from his chest, jaw clenched like heâs trying not to lose control.
âFuckâdonât say that. Iâm already barely holding it together.â
You laugh breathlessly, cupping his cheek. âYou donât have to move yet. Just stay.â
And he does.
Vernon stays perfectly still, despite the way his hips twitch against yours every few seconds, like his body is begging for friction. One of his hands gently cradles your jaw, the other slips between your bodies to softly stroke your waist, grounding you.
âJust tell me when,â he murmurs, eyes locked on yours.
You focus on breathing, adjusting slowly. He kisses you â slow, deep â his lips pulling moans out of you with nothing but gentleness. And all the while, he whispers against your skin: "Youâre doing so good." "I missed you." "You feel unreal."
Your body slowly opens for him, easing into the stretch. The sting dulls into something that makes your toes curl, the kind of pressure that has your thighs trembling with need again.
Finally, you nod, pulling him closer with your legs. âOkay⌠Move.â
He groans again, this time low and wrecked. He starts to rock his hips, just the smallest roll â and you moan, sharp and high-pitched. His hands tighten on your waist instantly.
âStill good?â
âDonât stop,â you breathe.
He listens â slow thrusts at first, hips rolling in a deep, steady rhythm that makes your eyes flutter shut. His movements are fluid, controlled, like heâs making love to you with everything heâs held back for months. The stretch is still there, just enough to make every motion feel heady and overwhelming, but now it feels good â so good, it makes you tremble.
Every few strokes, he stops just to kiss you again â like he needs the anchor, or maybe just canât believe this is real. His mouth trails over your neck, down to your chest, over the curve of your breast.
When he bites gently at your collarbone, you arch, your body clenching around him without warning.
He chokes out a moan.
âFuck, you keep doing that and Iâm not gonna last,â he warns, sweat dampening the strands of hair at his temple.
âYou feelââ You gasp when he shifts just right. ââso deep, Nonie.â
Your hands claw at his back, and he picks up the pace just slightly. Heâs still holding back â you can feel it, the way his bodyâs taut above you, trembling like heâs restraining every instinct.
But it doesnât matter â every slow, deliberate thrust drives you wild.
âTouch yourself fâ meâ he murmurs. âWanna feel you fall âpart fâ me.â
Your hand slips between your bodies, fingers circling your clit, and the added pressure unravels you. Your moans get louder, body jolting beneath him, and he watches, completely entranced â pupils blown wide, lips parted, sweat glistening across his chest.
Then, you tighten around him again, crying out his name â and he curses, loud, hips stuttering.
âYou gonna come?â he pants.
âCloseâ Iâm so close, justâdonât stop.â
And he doesnât. He fucks you through it, deeper now, pace unrelenting but still somehow careful â so damn attentive even when heâs right at the edge.
You break first.
The orgasm hits you like a wave â your whole body curling, vision blurring, mouth open in a silent cry. Your thighs clamp around him, and you shake, pulling him down with you.
And thatâs all it takes.
He lets go, hips slamming into you one final time, face buried in your neck as he moans your name against your skin. His arms wrap tight around you, holding you as he pulses inside you and white hot fills you, so thick and heavy that when he pulls back just slightly to brush a kiss against your sweaty neck, dribbles of white roll down your thighs and it has you whimpering into Vernonâs shoulder. Heâs panting through it like heâs never come that hard in his life.
The room goes quiet â just heavy breathing, soft whimpers, and the distant hum of the fairy lights above.
Vernon doesnât move for a long time. Just holds you. Kisses your cheek. Your shoulder. Your lips.
When he finally pulls out and lies beside you, you take pride in the way his eyes linger at the mix of cum that you can feel run down your thighs.Â
He nuzzles you. âSorry. Clean you up in a bit, yeah?âÂ
You just hum, wearily moving to wrap your arms around him, nodding.Â
He curls around you instantly, one arm slung over your waist, the other brushing your hair off your face.
Youâre both still trembling.
âWas it okay?â he whispers again, quieter now. Almost scared.
You turn your head to look at him. âIt was perfect. Worth the wait.â
He exhales, relieved, and buries his face in your neck again â smiling against your skin.
ââŚYou sure it didnât hurt?â
You snort. âIâm a big girl. I can take some good dick.â
Your pulse speeds up when he laughs loudly.
Your breathing starts to settle before his does.
Vernonâs arm is still around your waist, skin sticky against yours, his chest rising and falling fast as he stares up at the ceiling like heâs trying to replay every second in his head. You can feel the tension still lingering in his muscles â not from arousal anymore, but from something softer. Almost nervous.
You turn your head slightly, your cheek against the curve of his shoulder, and whisper, âYou okay?â
He lets out a breath. A beat too long of silence follows.
Thenâ
âI just⌠donât want you to think I came here for that.â
You blink.
When you look up, his face is flushed again â not from sex this time, but embarrassment. His brows are pulled slightly, lips parted like heâs not sure if he shouldâve said anything at all.
âI know it was kinda fast. And maybe it doesnât make sense butââ He pauses. âI like you. I mean, I really like you. And thisâtonightâwasnât about just⌠getting in your pants.â
You canât help the tiny smile tugging at your lips, even through the exhaustion threading through your bones. If Vernon was any closer, you swear he could hear the way your pulse pounds in your ears from sheer delight. You nudge him gently with your nose, closing your eyes blissfully. âIf you were just trying to sleep with me, you wouldnât have held me like that.â
Vernon goes quiet again. His arms tighten around you just a little.
ââŚOkay. Good.â
You laugh softly and press a kiss to his chest â right over his heart. Itâs racing, still.
He exhales through his nose and shifts onto his side, finally facing you fully. You melt into it without hesitation, curling up instinctively in the circle of his arms as one hand moves to brush your hair back from your forehead.
But now that youâre still â fully come down, the adrenaline gone â the weight of everything else starts creeping in. Your eyelids feel heavy. Your limbs ache in that dull, familiar way that says too many hours, too many nights, too much caffeine, not enough sleep. That and your lower back protests every time you move even a millimetre, which you can probably blame on Vernon.
Vernon notices.
He tilts your chin gently and looks at you closely.
âHey⌠when was the last time you properly slept?â
You hesitate. Then mumble, âDonât ask me that right now.â
He frowns immediately.
âBaby.â
You decide to keep the way you internally scream and your heart races in your chest at the pet name a secret from him forever.
âI didnât forget or anything,â you lie poorly, burying your face against his collarbone. âI just had deadlines. And fittings. And I didnât know you were gonna show up and ruin meââ
âRuin you?â he says with a breathless laugh, even as his hand cups the back of your head. âI wasnât trying to ruin you.â
âYou did,â you murmur, yawning mid-sentence. âBut not complaining. Maybe all I needed was to get dicked down to stitch the rest of the sequins on that fucking skirt.â
âYouâre ridiculous,â he mutters affectionately, pulling the comforter over your shoulders. âBut you hafta sleep.â
You hum softly, letting him shift so heâs slightly propped up, your head resting on his bicep. He runs his fingers down your spine â absent, steady, soothing â and your eyes flutter closed despite yourself.
âI was gonna leave after I dropped off the food,â he suddenly says. âSwear to God. But then you opened the door looking like that and all my good intentions evaporated.â
âYour fault then,â you mumble sleepily. âYou seduced me.â
He chokes on a laugh. âI seduced you?â
âMhm.â
Thereâs a beat of silence. His hand stills against your back.
ââŚYou really tired?â
You nod, the motion barely there. âSo tired.â
He kisses the top of your head and pulls you even closer, like heâs trying to wrap himself around you completely. Your bare legs are tangled, bodies pressed together under the covers. The fairy lights above your head glow softly, the only thing illuminating the room aside from the moonlight slipping through the sheer curtains.
âWhaddaya want in the morning?â he whispers. âSomething warm? Iâll order before I leave for training.â
âTraining?â
âYeah. We have morning training for the game tomorrow night.â He pauses. âYou coming?â
The slight uncertainty in his voice makes you smile. ââCourse. Wouldnât miss my boyfriendâs game for the world.â
He laughs again, but this oneâs softer, his chin nudging the top of your head.Â
âBoyfriend?â he asks, brow raising.Â
You nod. âMhm. Think you deserve a title after dick that good.âÂ
Vernon lets out a loud laugh that echoes through the room â all high-pitched and throaty. âGod.âÂ
And then he turns quiet.Â
âYou know,â he murmurs after a few seconds, âthis bedâs really small.â
You nod against him. âTold you.â
âAnd we barely fit.â
âMhm.â
ââŚKinda like it though.â
You peek up at him with one eye, a smirk playing at your lips. âYeah?â
âYeah.â He presses a gentle kiss to your nose. âMeans I get to keep you close.â
You nuzzle in again, your heart suddenly too full for your chest. Safe. Sleepy. Wrapped up in the arms of someone who likes you exactly how you are, late nights and all.
âIâm glad you came,â you whisper.
He squeezes your hip. âIâm glad you let me in.â
And then, just before sleep takes you under:
ââŚYou drooled on me a little.â
âWell, you came in me so I think that makes us even,â you retort, already falling asleep, especially with the rhythm of Vernonâs hand patting your back. Before you know it, everything â even Vernonâs soft breaths â goes mute, your body relaxing against Vernonâs firm hold.Â
The next morning, you wake up to an empty bed, still vaguely warm, congee in the microwave, and a messily-scribbled note on one of your cat post-it notes you keep on your work desk.Â
morning babe. iâm off to practice. i know you told me to wake you up but thought youâd appreciate more sleep than a kiss goodbye from me (gave u one tho). iâll see you later, yeah? call me when you have time.Â
- HVC
You press the note close to your chest, eyes welling up in tears that youâre not too sure are from hormones or something else. Your emotional parade is cut short when your phone buzzes on the nightstand. The screen lights up with a name that has you laughing out a watery laugh.Â
vernonâžď¸đ is callingâŚ
: ĚĚâ âđ°ââđŽââđ¸ââđ¸â ââđŞââđˇâ âđşââđľâ @astrobebba ; @ayupfrogg ; @steamyjaehyun @chwenott ; @toplinehyunjin ; @syluslittlecrows ; @itsclda ; @luminouskalopsia ; @kiachiako ; @81evermore ; @daaaph-lol
#seventeen#vernon#vernon chwe#seventeen fluff#seventeen angst#seventeen smut#seventeen fic#vernon x reader#vernon smut#vernon fluff#seventeen baseball! au#baseball player!vernon#kiss er up!!#seventeen fics#svt fic#svt x reader#gia's long fics#slow burn#meet cute
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"In a world of boys, he's a gentleman." Ushijima Wakatoshi as your volleyball player highschool boyfriend. âË.đ âŠ
When Ushijima realized that he had feelings for you, he assumed he didn't need to do anything about it. It was a happy crush perse, a feeling he could just acknowledge that was there but not take action on it.
Well, that's until you started showing up on his big gamesâthe ones with student cheer squads on the benches. Whenever he'd score, the crowd goes wild. Chanting his name. It felt good for people to acknowledge their team's power, but it felt even better when he met your excited eyes.
He'll find it oddly energizing when he'd see you on the benches.
From the moment his team would enter the gym, his eyes would wander to Shiratorizawa's side of the benches. Looking for you. If you weren't there, he'd ask your friends where you were.
He wouldn't do anything about his feelings. Well that's until someone else took your attention. Ushijima is silently a possessive person, he has confidence in himself that he can make you fall for him. And his confidence would shoot higher than the skies if his competition was someone who played volleyball too.
He'd find you cheering for another team, or getting too supportive of another school. You come from Shiratorizawa, why would you support another school?
He'd look for you after the game, amongst the crowds of people looking to go home. And when he'd finally see you alone, you're with one of the players he had just fought.
He'll stop himself from doing anything, but he'd clench his fist. Going up to you, he'd ask if you could talk alone. If you said no, he'd say it right there.
"Y/N L/N." His tall stature looking over you and the poor guy would make it seem like he's picking a fight in other people's eyes. "It seems that I have feelings for you." He'd shoot the guy from the other team a glance, then proceed to head back to the gym. "I will talk to you at another time, however I hope you take my words seriously."
And that's basically how your relationship started with him, his straightforwardness is one of the many reasons you love him. The next morning, he'd be outside your classroom with a bouquet of your favorite flowers with a gift that he researched from your friends. Making sure to ask your family for permission to court you if you hadn't liked him yet, but to his surprise you agreed to date him.
No matter how long his practice hours go until late evening, he'd never let you walk home alone. He'd personally tell the coach to let him take you home before resuming practice. And if he couldn't come, he'd make sure to tell your parents you'll come home late and suggest you watch him play. He would even suggest for you to become a manager of the volleyball team. Of course, his idea was rejected.
On your first date, he'd ask his teammates for advice on what to wear. Wearing special perfume he'd save only for special occasions, checking how he looks from time to time on the way to your house. He'd make sure to always bring a gift for your parents as well, practical ones like fruits or vegetables.
He doesn't like PDA, but he'd never refuse to hold your hand. He'll let you bring him lunch from time to time, but he'd tell you not to especially when he knows you're busy that night or morning. He'd tell you to eat healthier when he notices you've been eating too much junk food, and bring you on his runs sometimes too.
On valentine's day, there'd be a school event in Shiratorizawa. But instead of partaking in that, he'd much rather spend it in private with you. He wants to share special and intimate moments with you and only you, giving gifts, holding hands tighter than usual, seeing you smile.
Your arguments would be calm, there'll be no screaming or blaming. But fighting his pride would prove to be hard, he knows he's only thinking of what's good for you and him. But sometimes he forgets to notice your feelings. You have to be clear with him and be straightforward with how you feel, no matter how ridiculous you think it sounds. He'd reassure and explain everything to you.
When you start to cry, his heart drops like a ball in front of his eyes at the most crucial time of a game. But unlike how he'd act when he's in a game, his will would be shaken. He'd question what he said or did, he'll try to comfort you with words but he'd think twice. What if he'll say something that'll hurt you again? So he'd hug you, he'd hug you tight.
"I apologize. I didn't mean to make you cry. You can hit me if you're mad. Just please.. stop crying." You'll never see a more pained expression than when you're crying in his arms, and even more so when he's the reason behind those tears.
He's the type of boyfriend that decided he will marry you the day you became his girlfriend.
#ushijima wakatoshi#haikyuu#shiratorizawa#haikyuu ushijima#haikyuu wakatoshi#hq wakatoshi#wakatoshi x reader#ushiwaka#ushijima x reader#haikyu x reader#ushijima#hq ushijima
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Creatives have always fought to have representation in their projects. Even under a company like Disney, if the team has something they want to show, they'll find their way around whatever the suits and sales execs forbid (especially for non-theatrical releases/media, where they might be able to get away with a bit more).
It got me thinking about an episode of Lilo & Stitch: The Series! that I've mentioned before, the one about Pleakley's family wanting him to settle down with a wife. I thought about this episode specifically because Jumba and Pleakley may have been shipped by the writers through bits and jokes and one-offs throughout the show, but in this episode they really tried to do the most official, "We ship these characters," as they possibly could without actually getting in trouble with the higher-ups.
Here's the setup for the episode if you're unfamiliar:
Pleakley's mother wanted him to finally marry a girl, or else she would find a girl for him back on his home planet. Pleakley ends up lying to get out of the arrangement, saying that he already has a woman he's engaged to on Earth. Just a minute later, when he answers the door, he realizes he's only made the situation worse: his family's there on the doorstep, saying they immediately "hopped a wormhole" to be there before his supposed wedding day.
He begins to stack lies on top of lies and claims that Nani is his bride-to-be. Nani is only convinced to go along with it after being reminded that, if Pleakley left, the only remaining adult to supervise Lilo would be Jumba.
Both Pleakley and Nani don't enjoy the charade they have to put up with for the next few days. Nani begrudgingly plays her part up until the actual wedding day, where she finds out that a real ordained minister was hired, meaning she would be legally married to Pleakley, which is where she draws the line. Nani refuses to be a part of the lie any longer and leaves just before the ceremony begins.
Here's where the Pleakley/Jumba stuff begins (and where the creative team had to start tiptoeing around what would force a rewrite from the execs):
Lilo convinces Jumba off-screen to take Nani's place. This way there's no need to write any kind of "ew no I don't want to" joke or have Lilo bribe him or something of the sort to get Jumba to do it. We don't see or hear Jumba's thoughts when he would supposedly be told that he is legally marrying Pleakley. This way the writers are neither confirming nor denying anything about Jumba being interested in Pleakley or not.
During the ceremony, Jumba doesn't seem put off by it all. There's no gag that he thinks it's gross to be married to Pleakley, or is "only doing it" because Lilo said he has to, or that he wants to be the groom instead of the bride, or anything like that. When asked for his name, he does claim to be "Jumbina," but that's most likely because Pleakley's family specifically wanted him to marry a girl (and are a very heteronormative bunch; if Jumba walked down the isle as a second groom, they would've been just as upset as if they found out Pleakley wasn't actually engaged). Regardless, I'd say Pleakley looks content-enough that Jumba's the one walking down the isle instead of Nani.
When the minister then asks for the vows, the audience is only given a single line from Pleakley: "Dearest, the day we met, I couldn't take my eye off you." As he says this, the genetic experiment of the episode -who happens to be a lie detector experiment- starts beeping loudly, meaning that was a lie. Which actually makes total sense. That was a lie. If you go back to the day they met, Pleakley was being brought to Jumba's prison cell, where Pleakley was told he'd be shipped off to catch a deadly experiment with this criminally-convicted mad-scientist he just met. These two were absolutely not a case of "love at first sight." I mean, when Pleakley first saw him, Jumba was crazily ripping up and stuffing newspaper into his mouth.
And that's the ONLY vow that we get to hear either of them say at the wedding. The writers explicitly made the ONLY vow a false one so the lie detector could buzz at it. Jumba and Pleakley don't say anything about how much they might actually love each other, because then the writers would be forced to make it a lie so they wouldn't get in trouble for suggesting that the two male characters have feelings for each other. If it was all just part of the joke, it would be super easy for the characters to say how much they "really love one another" and then have the lie detector go off in the background. The writers can't have vows that would imply that these characters are gay, so they instead made the characters not say vows that would imply that they aren't gay.
Now, if you know anything about how the legality of marriage actually works, you know that most fiction gets it wrong: you don't stop someone from being married by interrupting their "I do"s, cutting the minister off before they say "I now pronounce you," stopping the kiss, taking the rings, or anything like that. You are finally "legally married" when you sign the marriage certificate and legal paperwork, which can be during, after, or even before the actual wedding.
So, while the ceremony gets crashed just before the end of it by Gantu trying to grab the genetic experiment, that doesn't actually stop the marriage proceedings unless the signings are postponed. Also, let's appreciate how Pleakley immediately hops into Jumba's arms at the sight of danger, and how Jumba accepts it.
After the ceremony is wrecked and Pleakley explains all of his lies to his family -and they apologize for being hard on him and not understanding- the minister stands up from under the rubble to ask who's paying for the officiation as he holds up some papers, supposedly the legal documents for the marriage. But no one actually responds. The scene ends with a look of newfound-understanding between Pleakley and his mother about their conversation from just a moment ago.
There's no further comment towards the minister about how they don't actually need marriage papers or that the marriage itself is being called off. No one says anything about it in the wrap-up scene just afterwards where Pleakley's family leaves. There's no, "Man, I'm glad I didn't actually have to marry Pleakley," from Jumba or some kind of, "I'm glad that's over," from Pleakley.
From all we know, Pleakley and Jumba did sign those papers for the minister to file with the state of Hawaii.
And this is the best the writers could do. They weren't allowed to canonize/confirm anything, even if they wanted to. They have to try making it as canon as possible by explicitly not stating certain things that would delegitimize it. It becomes a whole assignment to carefully slip past the people holding their paychecks.
As the industry and world have shifted a bit, different kinds of representation have become at least somewhat easier to include than these ever-so-meticulously-crafted inclusions from the past. But, when the people in power have doubts on what might make/lose money, they immediately look to topics like these that polarize extremist audiences. Taking any kind of positive/accepting stance on representation is the first thing they neutralize. So, even when the inclusion has to be as convoluted as this, I still personally see and appreciate everything that the creative teams do.
#pleakley#jumba jookiba#jumba and pleakley#lilo and stitch#disney villains daily#villain talks#scene spotlight#lgbtqia#lgbtq#lgbtq representation#gay#long post
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Opposites attract
CHAPTER I â CHAPTER II
Frat-boy!jock!Chris X nerdy!fem!reader
â needing the extra credit, you begrudgingly decide to sign up as first aid for the rugby team in their upcoming league. In which your existence become apparent to the schools top dog
â word count: 1.5k
â THEMED PLAYLIST
Chris Redfield wasn't an uncommon name to be heard around school,
Known by the guys for his phenomenal skills as the rugby teams captain, loved by the girls for his charming charisma and flirtatious glances he'd shoot them
The guy was practically top dog, the leader. What Chris said went, and wherever he walked people followed. Like dogs on a lead. He was confident and charismatic, the image of the perfect boyfriend for a girl to have.
You could say social anxiety was scared of him, he was always ready to talk, ready to socialise and party with his friends. The definition of a social butterfly that everyone couldn't get enough of
Enter you; a nerd. You weren't labled as 'popular', it was quite the opposite you were far more shy and soft spoken, more focused on your studies and getting a scholarship into a good college rather than partying until late at night and messing around with guys
The teachers loved you,
âSheâs a delight to teach in lessonâ
"one of my top students, A+ for the year!â
As much as you didn't mind the constant praise, sometimes your academic skills brought you misfortunes,
Like today.
The coach for the school's rugby team was in desperate need of a first aider. At first you thought nothing of it, knowing you were safe from such duties
Why would you want to be around a flock of sweaty guys anyway? Gross
That was until you'd been selected for the role; much to your despair. One of your professors recommended you to the coach, giving overwhelming praise of your skills and talents. It was that good the coach couldn't refuse, even though any sort of sport wasnât for forte
You wish he had, wished he'd stuck his nose up and turned away to find a better candidate. But luck must've not been in your horoscope today.
Begrudgingly, you accepted the role.
It was for the extra credit
You told yourself. It was only for the team's upcoming league anyway, just a few weeks you hoped.
Before you knew it you'd be able to go back to hiding away in your little corner of the library, with little to no one acknowledging your existence as you worked away at your assignments and studies. Just how you liked it, really.
You really regretted your decision as soon as you were around for the team's first practice. Stood there in the sweltering heat as you watched them play on the field. You had no idea how they could stand the warmth, especially when doing something as physical as a rugby match
You felt more lucky that you were first aid, being roughly tackled and and hurdled into by a flock of sweaty boys really wasnât for you. At all. It was a wonder how they even enjoyed such an activity, one that left you with cauliflower ear and bruises. So many bruises. Not to mention the aches and pains the next day? No thank you..
Luckily, youâd settled under a tree for some shade, it was right in front of the entire match so you were still there if any of the boys needed medical attention.
And there he was, the captain,
Chris redfield
Out of all the boys, he was the one who had girls tripping over themselves. Even some guys. He was always stuck in some crowd. His friends, you assumed. You couldnât think of a more awful friend group to be in. They were always loud and rowdy, disrespecting the teachers, thinking they were soo cool.
You had to stop yourself from rolling your eyes at the thought
You knew his true colours. At least, you had an idea. He just loved batting his eyelashes at any pretty little thing that decided to look his way. Luring them in with sweet words and promises. Only to use them to get his dick wet, heâd often leave them feeling used and broken hearted. Though some girls didnât see through the facade, just happy to be on the receiving end of his attention
His treatment, using girls how he does, made your blood boil. It was immensely
Satisfying to picture his downfall and loss of popularity, at this point you had started mentally betting on when heâd finally go into the real world and realise heâs not all that. Just a person who peaked in highschool
If there was anyway to get him to see how his actions affect people and justâ
âTime! Everybody take a ten minute break, no more no lessâ
That was the coach. Great, now you get to tend to a bunch of very foul smelling boys where they would either completely ignore your existence or make crude comments about you.
And so, you started your duty. Handing out water bottles, a few ice packs here and there. Occasionally having to give someone a bandaid for a knee scrape. How dramaticâŚ
Luckily, there were no life threatening Injuries that decided to make an appearance today
And then came your last âpatientâ, Chris. He was sat so nonchalantly as if he wasn't just tackled and hit with the force of a thousand sons
It was almost intimidating, you'd admit. Sat back and relaxed like he was on top of the world, hands resting behind his head. Sweaty no doubt.
As much as you didn't want to, you'd have to give him your attention and any assistance needed. You trudged towards the spot he was sitting in, Chris only noticed you when you casted a shadow. His eyes had a glint in them as his usual smug smirk spread across his lips
âbout time, I'm dyinâ out hereâ
He complained, you fought the need to roll your eyes as you passed him a water bottle. Which he gladly chugged down like his life depended on it
âDo you need any medical attention..at all?â
You inquired, attempting not to curl your lip in slight disgust as he drank the water down as if he was an animal, then wiping his mouth on the back of his hand
âNo..I don'tâ he answered, he scanned you up and down, landing on your glasses that were sat on the bridge of your nose âthough, I didn't know they were taking in bookworms for first aidâ
Biting back a scoff, it's not hard to notice Chris eyeing you up. Taking in your appearance, you wouldn't be surprised if this was the first time he'd ever noticed your existence. It was only a quick glance though, it was obvious he didn't consider talking to you important enough due to both his and your social status
Though it was clear you didn't dress like the cheerleaders he was so used to being around. You were far from tiny skirts and tiny tops, if anything, you loved yourself a nice cardigan or long flowy skirt.
âIs that all?â You ask sharply, you couldn't muster a lot of patience with him, as much as you didn't want to let it show
Chris huffs in amusement at the display of the cracks in your annoyance, tipping his head forward
âYeah, that'll be all, dollâ
It took everything in you not to look at him like he was a freak, because what the hell did he just call you? You weren't one of his hookups, nor were you going to be.
To your relief, their break was over. Another match started and you got to do the same thing all over again
Chris gave you one of his usual, flirtatious winks before running back onto the pitch. Leaving you almost frozen as he messed around with his friends before the game started
Now, you got to just..sit there. Watch them fall over themselves for a weirdly shaped ball, help with first aid
Rinse and repeat
When practice was over, you could've jumped for joy. You could finally haul your ass off the field and go home, which was signalled by the school bell screeching at you
At your locker, you couldn't help but look over at the rambunctious group of people next to you; Chris' friends.
You were sure you heard some mention of you, he didn't know your name but you made out "nerdy girl with glasses"
Whether they were making fun of you or not, you didn't know. It was best to ignore it.
Though it almost made you wish, just for a moment, that you had a little friend group of your own. Your own little found family where you'd tell each other everything and trust each other with your life
It was a nice idea, though there were little to no people who would fit the criteria. As well as friend groups you'd have trouble fitting in, like the wrong final piece of a puzzle
Though for now, you could settle for being on your own. It was more peaceful to be with just your thoughts, no drama from friend groups you'd tell yourself.
Yes, it did reduce the drama in your life, it was much quieter and enjoyable to stick your head in a book with no one yapping your ear off about their boyfriend or something
But there was always something missing, whenever you'd look at friend groups, when they were laughing together. You'd try to imagine what it'd be like for you
But that wasn't the burning dilemma right now, what you needed to figure out is how you were going to get through this semester seeing Chris redfield more often than you wanted to
Now that, that was going to be a challenge.
#harpy speaks#resident evil#chris redfield#chris redfield x reader#resident evil 5#highschool au#chris redfield resident evil#chris redfield fanfic#chris redfield fic#chris redfield fanart#chris redfield fanfiction#chris redfield smut#i love chris#chris
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Article transcript below the cut.
CODY CECI
OTTAWA SENATORS DEFENCEMAN AND OTTAWA NATIVE
October 2014
Born and raised in Ottawa, Cody Ceci has accomplished what most people in Ottawa can only dream of doing- playing for his hometowns NHL team he grew up cheering for, The Ottawa Senators. This 20 year old defenseman plays an intensive, hard-on-the-puck style of hockey. At 6â2â and 207lbs, the Ottawa defenseman has an ideal hockey figure that allows him to have plenty of high-end offensive ability. He is one of the faster skaters on the Ottawa Senators and has an amazing point-shot, making him a perfect asset, especially for power-plays.
Drafted in the 1st round, 15th overall, Ceci has proven himself as a promising addition to the Ottawa Senators as well as the fans, as his game is only going to improve from here. He played for Binghamton Senators for 2 years prior to playing for the Senators. In early 2014, The Ottawa Senators GM Bryan Murray told Ceci he should look for an apartment in Ottawa, as he is here to stay- something that Ceci as well as many Ottawa Senators fans were hoping to hear!
We caught up with the Ottawa Native Cody Ceci to discuss his passion for the game, what it was like growing up in Ottawa and to discuss many of his accomplishments in the world of hockey, all before his 21st birthday.
[Faces:] In the 2011-2012 hockey season you had the second most points out of all defensemen in the OHL, scoring a total of 60 points. You were also invited to tryout camp for Canadaâs U20 team in just your third season. How did it feel to accomplish all of this at such a young age?
[Ceci:] Itâs an awesome feeling looking back. Played with a lot of talented guys and had a lot of fun in Junior hockey.
[Faces:] You were drafted 15th overall in the 2012 draft by the Ottawa Senators and signed to a 3-year entry level contract. What did it feel like being drafted by the NHL hockey team located in the same city you grew up in?
[Ceci:] Being drafted by your home team is every kids dream growing up, and I was fortunate enough to have that happen to me. Couldn't have been happier with the outcome that day.
[Faces:] What was your favourite hockey team to watch when you were growing up?
[Ceci:] Growing up in Ottawa I was always a Senators fan. My bedroom at my parents place is still decorated in Sens stuff.
[Faces:] Growing up in Ottawa, when did you first start playing hockey? When did you realize that hockey was something you wanted to do for the rest of your life?
[Ceci:] I started around 5 years old and fell in love with the game. The more I came to realize it was possible to play in the NHL and make a job out of it, the more time I dedicated.
[Faces:] Your first NHL game was an emergency call up (because of Jared Cowen's suspension) against the Buffalo Sabres. What was it like walking into the dressing room with all of the other Senators for the first time?
[Ceci:] The feeling was unbelievable all the coaches, trainers, and players made me feel right at home, right away. It was cool to see my stall set up come game time with all my gear and name bar on the jersey. I went from really excited to really nervous pretty quickly.
[Faces:] You scored your first goal on December 16th, 2013 at 3:59 minutes of overtime against the St. Louis Blues, helping your team take the 3-2 win. What emotions ran through your head when you scored the goal? How long did these emotions last for and who was the first person you talked to on the phone right after the game?
[Ceci:] That was a moment I'll remember for a long time. It was a big game and St. Louis was hot coming in so the significance made it that much more amazing for me. My whole family was at the game, as well as some friends, so I was lucky enough to see them all in person after the game.
[Faces:] You were advised in mid-January of 2014 by Bryan Murray that you should look at getting an apartment here in Ottawa, as management told you that you're here with the Senators for good. How much of a relief was it to be told you're becoming a full-time NHLer? How long did you spend looking for a place to live?
[Ceci:] It gave me a little bit of peace of mind hearing that news. For a long time I was living in the hotel day to day. When I got the news I was really happy but went into a bit of a panic cause I had no idea where to begin.
[Faces:] Who is your closest friend on your hockey team?
[Ceci:] Mark Stone lived with me all summer and trained at the rink so we saw a lot of each other, grew pretty close.
[Faces:] What kind of music do you listen to before your games?
[Ceci:] I listen to all sorts of music outside of the rink depending on the mood, but before a game I like to listen to rap or EDM.
[Faces:] What are your hobbies throughout summer in the off-season?
[Ceci:] I got a speed bike this summer and took up cycling but other than that I do quite a bit of wake boarding and wake surfing.
[Faces:] Where is your favourite city to travel to and play hockey in? Where is your least favourite city to travel to and play hockey in?
[Ceci:] I got to travel to a lot of cities I've never been to before this past year. As far as favourites go Nashville or New York City land pretty high on the list. Least favourite would have to be Toronto for obvious "rival" reasons.
[Faces:] Who was your favourite coach growing up and how did he contribute to your success?
[Ceci:] Favourite coach would have to be my dad, although he got fairly intense at times he pushed me to become the player I am today.
[Faces:] During the off-season, where is your favourite place to travel to? Who do you usually travel with?
[Ceci:] I spend most of the off-season up at the cottage with family and friends. I love to get away from it all and just hangout on the water, whether were boating or not theres always something to do up there.
@/Cecer_83
Block quote: âBeing drafted by your home team is every kids dream growing up, and I was fortunate enough to have that happen to me. Couldn't have been happier with the outcome that day.â
why did they put cody ceci in pyjama pants in the oct 2014 edition of faces magazine
every day my anons come into my inbox and do psychological warfare that every military on earth could learn something from.
this is how I know straight men ain't shit because no serious person is looking at Cody Ceci's play on ice and letting it distract them from their cozy boyfriend imagines. like??? Steve Dangle should be forced to do restorative justice for the crime of how the entire hockey world's narrative around Cody Ceci is: He Plays Bad Hockey and He Sucks At Everything. And not: He Plays Bad Hockey And Sucks But Brother So Do I And I'm On My Knees. god!!!!!!!!!
#cody ceci#shrexwife lb#clipping: faces#hockey tag#discovered a brand new best friend named bixby vision scan text that has materially improved my life in the last 12 hours...!!
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⨠pokĂŠmon AU! đ´â¨ clora is mainly fairy & psychic (bc shes sweet but also smart) whereas seb trends towards fire/dark (even tho i only ended up giving him 1 dark pokemon...shhh) i originally gave him a houndour, bc dark + guard dog was such a perfect combo for him, but arcanine ALSO suits him and is way cuter so i had to go with that 𼚠and i had to fit in a raven and a snake pokemon somewhere bc...cmon𼰠BAHAHA
TYSM to the anon who inspired this!! it was so much fun
#also both of them have matching swellows that they dont use in their team...its my pokemon AU equivalent of their matching swallow patronus#& i didnt end up drawing this but when theyre older they also discover Unown in some ancient ruin/catacomb#and so it just kinda ends up following them/they keep it after they discover it#also anon... u said u had notes on ur phone for why sylveon is perfect for clora PLS SEND THOSE...or reply to this...im curious#god im so jealous of clora in that last pic of her being coddled by arcanine and charizard tho (and i guess by seb toođ)#oh to be snuggled by a bunch of pokemon...that should be MEEE!!!! im a cat person irl but god i love arcanine SO MUCH#i always have one in my team when i play and i always name him cheetođ§Ą#also i only gave seb a gengar bc i like him matching with clora and her having a clefairy BAHAHA..had to get my love of opposites in#gengar does suit him tho i mean just look at that face and that damn smile#same with togepi and corviknight...love the idea of the bird protecting the egg hehe. and ice type alolan vulpix with fire type arcanine#i also almost gave seb a ceruledge or amouredge bc they look like knights bahaha#i also originally gave clora an alcremie instead of lunatone bc i love alcremie...but the shiny lunatone is too perfect for her#a pale crescent moon with blue eyes like HELLO and its psychic..i had to...ravenclaw as hell#hogwarts legacy#sebastian sallow#sebastian sallow x mc#sebastian sallow x oc#hogwarts legacy sebastian#clora clemons#choccyart
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Party (group) party (celebratory)! (Patreon)
#Doodles#Pokemon#Gyrados#Ninetales#Sableye#Ampharos#Banette#Politoed#Pikachu#The lot! Mostly my SoulSilver guys but a kind of general mishmash of nostalgia and aiming-fors#Even tho I played Yellow when I was quite a bit younger I never beat it or got particularly attached to my 'mon and ended up selling it#Mistake I know blame the folly of youth lol#So I really consider Soul Silver as my ''first'' game - though I beat X before SS pfft just can't make it simple eh!#But I got veryyy attached to my SSteam <3 It's fun to watch them grow in the photo album! Can see most of them as babies :D#I ended up with a Vulpix named Beauty since Ninetales is my favourite Pokemon <3 I knew she'd grow into a beauty! Thusly named#And a Magikarp that I thought would be ironically funny to name Beast because well - y'know lol#Did not even occur to me Once that they'd be Beauty and Beast haha - the reasoning is so strongly connected it just didn't register!#They're a fun duo :) Fire and Water Fish and Fox hehe <3 Cute lads!#Group of four was speculations about building a really ideal team for me - Mareep Line Obviously and Ninetales goes without saying#Sableye is another really obvious one lol I love Sableye so muuuuchhhh aghhh <3 <3#Banette wouldn't exactly fill in many gaps but I've always leaned more towards Ghost and Psychic types#The Politoed doodles were just for funsies tho lol I really can't decide on a Water type I like that I haven't already exhausted!#They're silly little frog guys which I do enjoy haha#Probably not my personal pick but I like them :)#The aforementioned Yellow playthrough had me with a Pikachu I named Sparks which I then wrote fanfic about haha#Baby's first fanfic and fanart were both Pokemon! I have no idea where it'd be now as it was in a notebook but I remember the gist at least#Thought it'd be nice to bring him back to visit <3#And then some silly ones for myself lol what's a good trainer pose!#I think they're all silly lol but I do like the middle one :D#I'd love a Pokeball shirt like that! All the Pokemon things pls and thank you!
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i think my favorite part of my p4 playthrough is that i somehow never got pixie and had to go back to get her when trying to fuse black frost for the shadow mitsuo fight. i still don't know how that happened i was in the castle for so fucking long sfldkjskfjfdksfdkjfd-
#rambearling#persona 4#p4#i love my black frost by the way he's so fucking strong. he and izanagi are my mvps <3#mind charge + maragidyne/bufula (i wasn't able to get bufudyne on him for some reason) is so overpowered#i don't have ziodyne on izanagi though annoyingly enough-#probably should've figured out what persona gets ziodyne's skill card at chagall's :/ that's how i got zionga on him#eh there's always new game plus. won't be able to fuse izanagi-no-okami immediately anyway#even if i could i don't think i would cuz a level 91 persona would be waaaaay too overpowered-#can't you get magatsu-izanagi too. so many izanagis..............#irrelevant to the tags but i can't think of pixie without thinking of that one video where yu doesn't know his personas names#and calls high pixie lesbian-#dog by the foot is my favorite persona. and about eight snakes. the one i got from shuffle time. kill rush-kun#that's kinda how i refer to my personas in my head when playing a lot of the time sflkfdjsjfdksfdkjfds-#i honestly barely use the velvet room................ this is my first time actually playing persona okay-#in p5 my moms always spend like an hour in the velvet room looking at guides to figure out what personas to get-#and then there's me playing p4 and just looking at the list and fusing whatever personas look cool and don't need izanagi or black frost-#i mean i. kind of try to get good coverage? kind of#i don't think i have any wind skills on my team aside from izanagi having magaru-
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timeskip!kenma kozume x fem!reader
notes: marriedâ established rs, this feels so ooc i apologize, y/n used a couple times, actual streaming terms used(willing to explain them if needed!!), fluff, kuroo mention, lowercase intended!
â38 minute and 42 second compilation of kodzuken being whipped for his wife.â
this is the seventh part of the series created by this fan. the first part of the series was titled, â15 minute compilation of pro gamer kodzuken talking about his girlfriend.â the fourth part was the change from girlfriend to fiancĂŠe, and the sixth part was the change from fiancĂŠe to wife.
this youtube series has blown up everywhereâ to the point some people donât even know kenma as the CEO of Bouncing Ball Corporation or as a professional gamer/youtuber.
kuroo had been talking to his colleague about kenma once, when highschool was suddenly their topic of conversation. âever heard of kodzuken?â âyour best friend is the dude who doesnât shut up about his wife?!â kuroo couldnât even tease kenma about it anymoreâ kenma just was so shameless when it came to you! (and before he got famous all the yapping about you was always to kuroo. trust me, heâd recieve earfuls about you when you werenât even together yet.)
after every valorant or league tournament (ewwwww) whether it was a win or loss, once the mic was brought to him to ask about the game, heâd state simply, âIâd like to thank my wife. Good games.â god heâd be even more annoying when it came to a solo queue in valorant. his go-to insult for a snobby teenager would be, âyouâre bitchless AND jobless.â safe to say his ego inflates when they realize theyâre talking to THE kodzuken, and if they didnât know beforehand, theyâll know him soon enough when his motor of a mouth warms up to talk about his wife, forgetting to ever brief on the topic of having multiple jobs with high incomes.
oh but the comments on the series were always the best.
user @applepie: may this love attack me
user @kodzusss: y/n how do you find a man like this
user @makemestays: aura farming again
user @svteenm: i think i know more about y/n than i do about kenma at this point
user @moalways: heâs the standard i fear
user @emizszc: laying on the highway as we speak
user @sunaslefttoe: I WANT WHAT THEY HAVE!!!!
if you add up the time of all seven videos, the total time is pushing 5 hours⌠god he just canât shutup about you. all the little emoticons for his channel; raids, copium, NT, are just you and him. every sub challenge just surrounds you. just to name a few, there was
âxx subs for a cooking stream with my wifeâ
âxx subs and my wife will play a ranked valo gameâ
âxx subs for a just chatting stream with my wifeâ
even when he had to switch gears. as a CEO, his management team was sick and tired of him. today he had been invited for an interview. he knew the interview show was scuffed prior to coming, so he decided to just do what he was best at. âŚtalk about you of course!
âso, if it ever came down to choosing between your wife or your company, whatâd you choose?â
âmy wife.â he puts up his pointer finger before speaking again, âactually, she was one of my main motivations to start working on the ⌠blah blah ⌠and she really ⌠blah blahhh blah ⌠my career ⌠blahâ the interviewer felt a bead of sweat drop from her temple.
sigh kenma is so in love with his wife.
part two and three of my mini kenma series here!!
#kozume kenma#haikyuu#haikyuu kenma#haikyu x reader#haikyu fluff#haikyuu x reader#hq kenma#kenma x reader#kenma fluff#kodzuken#emizsc
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The JJK men want YOU to wear their jersey
Tags: JJK men x fem!Reader, college au, sports au, mostly fluff and/or crack, suggestive only on Tojiâs (nasty bitch), itafushi makes an appearance
An: This has been heavy on my brain recently đââď¸ Also, I donât know if this concept is only in like my area, but basically, the concept is that on game days, a common thing for highschool/college players to do is to wear their jersey to class, and their sweetheart wears their home/away jersey. itâs just a cute thing to show support. Another thing, I know Kamo is not Chosoâs last name, and I know Sukuna is not Sukunaâs last name. Sukuna might not even be Sukunaâs name at all. idk and idc. this is a no curse au anyways so who cares! let me know if i should do more sports au :)
Incl - Satoru, Suguru, Nanami, Choso, Toji, Sukuna

SATORU
Girls will literally hunt Satoru down to get his jersey from him, and if you were the lucky girl who got to wear the jersey of the star quarterback⌠you either became instantly popular, or every girl in the university wanted to kill you.
âIâm sorry, ladies. I already have someone in mind.â Satoru flashed a grin towards the crowd of girls surrounding his seat. Disappointed sighs and whines emitted from the group as they slowly dissipated from his desk.
Satoru couldnât care less. They could be mad at him if they wanted to. They were no where near as special as the girl he had his eyes set on.
Class had yet to start, and Satoru was growing tired of just staring at the back of your head. He finally got up, and he slumped down in the chair next to you.
âIs this seat taken?â He asked with a bright smile. He hadnât interacted with you much, but he always had his eye on you. You were the one of the few girls who didnât dumb down their intelligence for him to make themselves more appealing.
âItâs not.â You replied shortly. You werenât rude, just incredibly matter-of-fact.
âWanna make a bet with me?â Satoru asked as he tried to catch your eyes from your book. He was really pining for your attention, and you wouldnât pass him a second glance.
âNot really.â You replied, not looking up from your book.
âI bet the professor will be twenty minutes late.â Satoru went on anyways, not taking your rejection to heart.
âHmm. Doubtful. Heâs normally prompt.â You say finally looking up at Satoru, which causes him to flash an easy smile. Heâs happy to have your attention â now he wants to keep it.
âIf he isnât here within the next twenty minutes, you have to wear my jersey today and every game day for the rest of the season. If he makes it here before twenty minutes is up, Iâll buy you as many books as you can carry.â Satoru proposes as he taps on your book with a cheeky grin.
You think for a moment⌠all the books you can carry?? âDeal.â You say with a smile, offering your hand to him to shake on it â thinking you just easily won yourself a free shopping spree. Satoru takes your hand, and he gently shakes it before bringing it to his lips and pressing a kiss to your knuckles.
Heâs already won.
Satoru knows that youâll be wearing his jersey today, and youâll wear his colors for the rest of the season. Heâll make more bets⌠win you over slowly with false bets. Oh, heâll buy you all those books you want too just because he can.
Heâs already set Geto in motion to go run into your professor with large cups of coffees in his hand. Your professor ended up cancelling class after being 25 minutes late.
When the group of girls sees you with âGOJOâ written on the back of your jersey, their faces contort in utter disdain, but Satoru looks at it with a shit-eating grin on his face. He won.
SUGURU
Suguru really didnât get the thing about giving a girl his jersey on game days. Basketball season is pretty ruthless. While football teams only have 12 games in a season, basketball teams play over 30. Thatâs 30 days in one season that heâd have to find a girl that he gave enough of a shit about to give his jersey to? No thanks.
Of course, if he had a girlfriend it wouldnât be too big of a deal, but the whole attitude around giving a girl your jersey was just something Suguru didnât subscribe to.
Well, he didnât think he subscribed to it until he saw one of his teammates offering you their jersey.
Maybe on a more psychological level, this was territory marking, and Suguru would be damned if he sat back and let another man mark you as their territory.
Even though heâs not proud of it, Suguru immediately marched straight up to you and his teammate with his away jersey thrown over his shoulder. He placed his hand firmly on the small of your back, and he gave his teammate a piercing look with his violet eyes. His lips curled into an easy smirk.
âSorry man, sheâs already agreed to wear my jersey today, isnât that right angel?â He asked in such a condescending tone, and his fingertips dig into your skin with just enough pressure to make your face flush.
Luckily for Suguru, you were into it â and not his teammate. âYeah, sorry. I almost forgot.â You agree, giving his teammate an empathetic smile.
So no, Suguru doesnât get the idea of giving his jersey to a girl on game days, but he does get the idea of giving you his jersey. He loves how he towers behind you in the halls, seeing the name âGETOâ written on your back with his number. He loves remembering the way you easily went along with his plan. You just fit him.
NANAMI
Nanami doesnât need antics to get you to wear his baseball jersey.
Plenty of girls pine for Kento. Who wouldnât? He was the leading star of the baseball team⌠whoâs ass just so happened to look so good in those white tight-fitting pants.
Your college certainly played into it, giving Nanami the big screen when he takes off his helmet and shakes out his messy blonde hair that a bit damp from sweat. His cheeks are smeared with his eye black smeared on his cheeks (the charcoal black lines that athletes sometimes have).
They knew what they were doing when the yearbook crew took professional level pictures of Nanami looking absolutely jaw-dropping while delivering the nastiest pitch.
He was like eye candy that enticed a bunch of girls to buy tickets to the baseball games, and dammit, it worked.
Despite his celebrity status at the school, Kento didnât act above anyone else. He didnât flaunt money or act posh and sophisticated like a lot of the wannabes did at your university.
He was down to earth, smart, caring, and humorous to the right group of people (the dry humor enjoyers). Kento was the type of man to be able to reject someone without them even feeling rejected, which he did a lot when girls would ask for his jersey.
You often came to baseball games to watch (to watch nanami lets bffr), but you werenât bold enough to ask Kento for his jersey on game days. You had witness girls before you, pilgriming the way to Nanami before they turn back empty handed. You couldnât risk the heartache.
It wasnât until one day after class you and Kento were the only two still packing up after a lecture, he casually strolled to your desk. âWill you be at the game tonight?â He asked with a genuine air of curiosity to him. This wasnât awkward forced conversation because you two were the only two people in a room together.
You hadnât even known that Nanami noticed you, much less noticed your attendance at games. You could feel your heart start to thud obscenely loud in your chest as you came to terms that youâre not invisible in Kentoâs life.
âYeah, I think Iâll show upâŚâ You try your hardest to sound casual, but you just sound terribly nervous.
âIâll look forward to seeing you.â He said politely before he reached into his bag and pulled out his spare jersey. âHopefully wearing this..?â
Your eyes widen as you realize he was offering his jersey to you. âThat- are you sure? Me?â
âYes, Iâm sure.â He gives an honest laugh. His multimillion dollar smile makes you swoon, and he hands his jersey out again. âYou should put it on now. Thatâs the tradition, right?â
You slowly slip the jersey on over your long-sleeved white top, and it definitely hangs loosely on you, but with a few tucks and adjustments, it finally sits on your body appropriately.
âIt looks good on you. Iâll see you tonight.â Kento smiles before leaving the classroom.
You had never gotten more shocked stares than when girls saw you with âNANAMIâ printed across your back.
CHOSO
âHey Yuji, why does Megumi wear your jersey on game days?â Choso asked his teammate as he sat down on the bench in the locker room.
He had seen quite a few people - guys and girls who werenât on the basketball team wearing the jerseys of his teammates, but he didnât understand it. He figured heâd ask the one teammate who he considered to be more of a brother to explain.
âBecause I make him.â Yuji laughed as he dried his pink hair off from the shower. It was a pretty brutal practice, even Chosoâs raven hair was down, messy from sweat.
Choso furrowed his eyebrows. âWhy would you do that-? I thought you liked him.â
Yuji laughed even harder as Choso clearly didnât understand the dynamic he had with Megumi. He also clearly didnât understand the concept behind giving someone his jersey.
âI do like him, so I like seeing him wearing my jersey on game days. I think he looks good in it too, even if he pretends to hate it. I know he likes showing his support.â Yuji explained, but he went on, âPeople give their jerseys to someone they like. Itâs like a courting gift, and it lets everyone know your intentions with that person.â
Choso nodded as he began to understand. He should give his jersey to someone he liked - to someone he wanted to court, and his intentions would be made known.
Thatâs how shy, timid Choso ended up at your dorm door late one evening. After much encouragement and convincing from Yuji, he finally gave your door a soft knock, and Yuji ran around the corner to hide.
When you opened the door, looking at Choso with those big pretty eyes, he completely clammed up and forgot the mental script he had prepared about how he really liked you, and itâd mean a lot to him if you wore his jersey.
Instead, âI want my intentions known.â He nearly shouted as he gestured his jersey to you.
Yuji facepalmed around the corner.
You blinked a few times, looking down at the jersey then back up to him. He was lucky that youâre very good at filling in the blanks. âYou want me to wear your jersey, Cho?â You asked with a small laugh before taking the jersey from his hands.
His cheeks were flushed, and he gave you an awkward smile before nodding his head vigorously. âAnd uh.. I want to court you.â He finally added all in one breath.
To Chosoâs delight, you agreed, and now, he finally understands the real reasoning behind giving his jersey to someone he likes because seeing âKAMOâ on your back makes him feel all dizzy with love and adoration.
TOJI
It started off as a small prank amongst girls. A prank that really pissed Toji off. A group of girls decided it would be cute to steal Tojiâs spare hockey jersey and wear it without his knowledge.
When Toji saw one of the girls wearing his stolen jersey with his appalling last name printed on the back, he was livid.
Needless to say, he got his jersey back, and the girl couldnât even look him in the eye after that whole experience.
He hated his jersey. He hated how his last name was on the back, and he hated how anyone else would want to wear it.
He couldnât just get rid of his spare jersey. Then, heâd owe the school even more than what he already owes them. He couldnât trust to keep it in his dorm because he didnât put it past those bitches to try to sneak into his dorm to get their filthy hands on it. That was when he had a genius idea.
âWear my jersey.â His gruff voice demanded as he dropped the fabric on the table in front of you, his too responsible friend.
âNo, it probably stinks.â You pushed the jersey aside, trying to focus on the homework in front of you.
âNah. It smells like the last bitch who stole it.â He remarked as he plopped down in a chair in front of your desk.
âEven worse.â You respond back unamused, still not giving Toji the time of day.
âDo you remember who hunted down the fuck who stole your headphones?â
You sighed, finally looking up at Toji to show that you were paying attention. âWhy do you think me wearing your jersey will deter them?â
âMaybe theyâll think youâre my girl and piss off for a while. I donât know, but if I see another preppy bitch wearing it without my knowledge, Iâm going to burn it.â Tojiâs voice sounded stressed as he pinched the bridge of his nose.
âAnd you donât mind them thinking that?â You inquire, raising your eyebrow.
âDoll, you know Iâve spent the last three years trying to get you to hop on my-â
âEughhh, give it.â You interrupt Toji before he can go into any further detail, snatching his jersey up and putting it on over your clothes. âThere. Happy?â
Toji didnât expect to have such a reaction to seeing you in his jersey. He knew he was serious about liking you, no matter how much you liked to believe that he didnât actually like you, but seeing you in his jersey â the way it swallowed you whole. He figured heâd still hate seeing his last name on you, but there was something satiating those deep primal urges when he caught a glimpse of âZENINâ across your back.
SUKUNA
Sukuna is much comparable to a dragon. He sees something pretty and shiny (you): he wants it all for himself. He wants to hoard treasure (you) to keep, and he definitely does not like the idea of anyone else looking or touching his treasure.
So, how does he keep wandering eyes off his treasure? He cloaks her in his favor, making her brandish his last name on her back along with his number. Yes, Sukuna demanded for you to wear his football jersey.
There was just enough satisfaction of seeing you walk around campus with âSUKUNAâ written on your back that kept him from trying to hoard you in his room.
Oh, heâs also like a dragon in the sense that heâs absolutely devastating out on the field.
#jjk#jujutsu kaisen#jjk fanfic#fanfic#drabble#jjk suggestive#jjk gojo#gojo satoru#jjk suguru#suguru x reader#satoru x reader#gojo x reader#jjk nanami#nanami x reader#jjk choso#choso x reader#jjk toji#toji x reader#jjk sukuna#sukuna x reader#jjk men#jjk men x reader#jjk drabbles
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juno | l.hc
âone of me is cute, but two thoughâŚ?â
đżnow playing: juno by sabrina carpenter



⯠summary: Kids were never really something you thought about. But then you saw your sexy as fuck boyfriend playing uncle and now you can't stop thinking about giving him a baby of his own. What can you say...your hormones are high.
⯠pairings: haechan x fem!reader
⯠genre: smut, established relationship
⯠words: 2.7k
⯠tags: 18+ minors dni!, unprotected sex (don't do this!), swearing, breeding and pregnancy kink, possessiveness, dirty talk, begging, praise, creampie, slight angst not really idk, fluff, reader uses she/her pronouns, literally just the reader getting baby fever from seeing hyuck with kids (very real el oh el.)
an: i know this is like my third haechan post in a week, but i literally donât care. sue me x

You didnât want kids. Well, thatâs not true. You were indifferent to kids.Â
That was until you saw your boyfriend with them. You didnât think you could be more attracted to him, but then he had to go and check off the "great with kids" box. Maybe itâs just his playful side, but Lee Donghyuck is just so good with them.
And being forced to attend his nieceâs first birthday party made you realise it. Honestly, youâd never given much thought to the idea of kidsâcute yes, ready to give up endless nights of sleep, no.Â
But the minute after you walked through his childhood family home and were done greeting his parents and siblings, a swarm of kids ran at him, hugging his legs and stomach. And he just melted into them, so gentle and excited. It was cute and made you smile.Â
From then it was him letting his oldest niece cover his tanned cheeks in blush and stickers, to tossing a ball with his nephew after he announced he made the basketball teamâand donât even get started on him poking the chubby cheeks of his youngest niece, her soft giggles filling the backyard of the party.Â
It was like he was in his elementâsoft, loving, and completely at ease. And even though his nieces and nephews had other uncles and aunts, theyâd always say Uncle Hyuck was their favouriteâeven if they werenât supposed to.
You watch him from the patio door in the kitchen, overhearing him tell his dad heâs âtoo young to be having the adult conversations,â which was really code for âlet me play with the kids.âÂ
Running around, telling jokes, creating games. It had your stomach turning andâwere your heart strings being pulled? Seeing this absolute perfect man, so caring and playful, living just to make those little ones laugh and smile, had you seriously considering the sleepless nights that might come with having some of your own.
Wait.Â
âHeâs good with them, huh?â
You jolt, turning to see Hyuckâs sister standing behind you.
âUh... yeah, I guess so,â you shrug. She steps beside you, and the two of you stand there, watching your boyfriend bounce his niece in his arms, soothing her gently.
She giggles, and you glance over at Hyuckâs sister again. âWhat?â
âNothing,â she shrugs. âJust... youâre looking at him like youâre ready to add to the Lee family name.â
You gasp. âI am not!â
She gives you a knowing look, and you bite your lip, eyes shifting back to Hyuck. This time, heâs handing his niece a sippy cup, tapping her nose. Your chest tightens.
âOkay... I suppose he is good with them.â
Hyuckâs sister nods, humming in agreement. âHe always has been. With every younger sibling, every cousinâeven when I had my first daughter, Hyuck was the most excited.â
Heâs sitting on the grass now, all his nieces and nephews swarming him, tickling him. Heâs being extra dramatic, letting the younger ones tug at his hair just to make them laugh. You stare, warmth and wholesomeness filling you.
âHeâd make a great dad, Y/N.â
The statement is completely sobering.
âUh,â you stammer, running a hand through your hair. âI donât know. We havenât really talked about it.â
Thatâs not entirely true. You had spoken about itâonce. Youâd told him it wasnât something you had planned for but werenât necessarily opposed to, and the conversation had never come up again.
Hyuckâs sister blinks at you, clearly confused. âThatâs crazy. Hyuckâs always said he wants to be a dad.â
Clearly.Â
Thereâs no denying that. Itâs so obviousâevery second heâs cupping up the kids, tickling them, teasing them. He looks so profoundly happy, so perfect. And it suddenly clicks for you.
This could be yours. Forever. He wants it. And now... youâre starting to think you want it, too. Him, this, forever. His kids. Your kids.
âY/N! Y/N!â one of the younger kids calls, waving you over from across the backyard. âCan you play with us? We need more people to play the monsters. Uncle Hyuckie canât do it on his own.â
And just like that, youâre being pulled away from the baby fever conversation and coaxed into joining themânot that it took much convincing. Your thoughts were starting to scare you a little. Youâd never seriously thought about kidsâuntil now.
Because youâd never seen Hyuck look more attractive than when he was playing dad.

âI canât believe sheâs one already,â Hyuck beams from where heâs stretched out on your bed. Heâs been talking about the party nonstop since you got home. âDid you see the little bows in her hair? So fucking cute.â
You glance at him through the vanity mirror where youâre sitting, watching the way his face lights up, animated and so full of joy. Thereâs a warmth in your eyes, your lips curved into a soft smile as you take him in. He notices, raising an eyebrow.
âWhatâs that look for?âÂ
You stand and walk over to him, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to his lips. His eyebrows knit together, more confused now.
âY/N, whatâs going on?â
You smile, sidestepping his question with one of your own. âDid you have fun today?â
âYessâŚ?â he replies, but thereâs a trace of suspicion in his voice.
âYour familyâs really nice.â
âOh, are they now?â He squints playfully. âI saw you talking to my sister. I hope she wasnât embarrassing meâshe loves doing that.â
You shake your head with a giggle. âShe wasnât.â
âOkayâŚâ he draws out. âThen what was she saying?âÂ
âThat youâd be a good dad. That you want to be a dad.âÂ
Hyuckâs eyes widen and you mentally add this moment to the short list of times your boyfriend has been rendered completely speechlessâstill countable on one hand.
He coughs, his cheeks turning pink. âS-She said that?â
You nod, biting your lip to keep from laughing.
âAndâŚwhat did you say back?â
You spread his legs out on the bed so you can slide between them, sitting there and looking up at him as he waits, eager for your response. Heâs so cute like thisâadorable, evenâclearly dying to hear what you thought.
âI didnât respond,â you admit honestly.
You catch the flicker of hurt in his eyes, but he covers it with a laughâthough itâs not genuine. You can tell heâs trying to brush it off, trying to pretend that heâd be okay with the possibility that you might not want that kind of future with him.
âShe shouldnât have said that,â he mumbles, embarrassed. âI used to talk about it a lot as a kid. I donât really think like that now. I canât, you know⌠because of my job.â
âSo you donât want kids because of your job?â You ask. The tone in your voice takes him by surprise because now youâre the one sounding hurt.Â
âBaby... is this a trick question?â He laughs nervously.
You shake your head, crossing your arms across your chest. âNo Hyuck. But I want you to answer it truthfully.âÂ
He shrugs, looking unsure. âI donât know. I havenât really thought about it.â
âYouâre lying.â
He lets out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair. âBaby, I donât know what you want me to sayââ
âThe truth,â you insist.Â
He pauses, his gaze softening. âI love you, Y/N. You said kids werenât really part of your plan, and thatâs okay,â he begins, his voice steady but sincere. âAnd yeah, maybe I always kind of thought kids would be in mine, but then I met you. And you became my plan.â
You grab a hold of his hand and squeeze. It draws a genuine smile from him before he speaks again.Â
âI know weâve never talked about it since. But Iâm fine with anythingâas long as itâs with you.â
You smile, his comment pulling at your heartstrings because you feel the exact same way.Â
âThose kids absolutely adore you, Hyuck,â you say and he gives a half smile.Â
âWell, I am their favourite Uncle.âÂ
You trail a soft finger up and down the naked skin of his arm. His eyes follow your touch and that furrowed expression is on his face again.Â
âY/N whatâs going on with you? Youâre confusing meââ
âYou knowââ you cut him off. âI think youâd be a great dad.âÂ
He stares at you, properly taking you in. Heâs never seen this side of you before, and youâve never given him a compliment quite like that before. The thought of you being into the idea of him as a dad⌠well, he didnât expect it to turn him on this much. Maybe itâs the way your fingers brush his arm? Yeah no, itâs not.
âToday made me realise something,â you say, shifting to straddle his hips, your arms wrapping around his neck now. He raises a curious brow, waiting. âYou look so hot with kids. The thought of you being a dad is so fucking hot, Hyuck.â
Hyuck smiles at the confession, and his hands move to grip your ass as he ground your hips forward on himself. You let out a small gasp of surprise as you feel him.Â
âPlease donât joke like that, Y/N,â he whines, eyes squeezing shut. âBecause Iâve been thinking about you being the mother of my kids since the day I met you.â
You giggle, biting your lip to stifle the soft moans escaping you as he grinds you slowly against his growing bulge.
âWell, why donât you do something about it then,â you tease breathlessly, feeling the hardness of him through his sweatpants.
Hyuckâs mouth parts, caught somewhere between awe and shock, but before he can question how serious you are, your lips capture his, and your tongue is slipping inside his mouth to deepen the kiss.
The groan you both share is synchronised, and itâs all the encouragement he needs to flip you over, hovering above you with a renewed sense of urgency to make promise of your teasing.Â
His fingers hook into your panties, sliding them off as you shift upward against your pillows, tossing your nightgown aside. Hyuck strips out of his own clothes, desperate to press his bare skin against yours, his need overwhelming any sense of patience.
He kisses you back roughly, passionately. Fuelled by your impossible hotness and readiness to be fuckedâfucked by him. Your tongue dips deeper and deeper into his mouth, never satisfied, craving more of him. You cling to him, your hands and legs moving over his skin, desperate to feel every inch. Your hips roll up, slickness coating his shaft, causing a rippling gasp to leave his mouth.Â
Hyuck pulls back with dark eyes. Youâhis girlânaked and desperate under him, begging him to do something about his baby feverâyour baby fever. Itâs the hottest shit heâs ever seen. His new favourite thing. His obsession. He loves seeing you like this, he decidesâso willing, so desperate for him, for his cock. Needing him to bring you the pleasure only he can give. And heâll make sure you remember that once you're carrying his child.
The image floods his mindâyour stomach growing, swelling with his baby, the glow in your smile as you hold his child. A family, all with him. Only him. Because you want his kids.
The last thought pushes him over the edge, and with a low growl, he bites down on your neck, lips and teeth claiming your skin. He wants you marked by himâlike alwaysâbut this time itâs different. Itâs possessive. Primal. Feral. His saliva wet on your neck, dark bruises blooming over your breasts, his fingers burning prints into your hips, and his seed buried deep inside your soaking wet cunt.
His cock jumps when you roll your hips again, your whimpers causing him to groan and eyes roll back. You sound so desperate. Desperate to make him your forever.Â
âHyuckââ you sob as his teeth graze your nipple, sending it hardening under his touch. âPlease, I need to feel you.â
His eyes sparkle with lust as he drapes your legs over his waist and leans down, capturing your mouth in a long, needy kiss. He aligns himself with your slick pussy, your fingers clawing at his back as he slowly eases into you. He fills you completely, lifting your hips to bury himself deeper.
âSo fucking pretty like this,â he mumbles, pulling away to admire the way you take his thick cock. âTaking me so well, always so good for me, arenât you, baby?â
You moan as his cock hits every spot inside youâso deep, so hard, so good. Each thrust drags along your walls in a way that feels divine.
âCanât wait until youâre mine, so full of me,â he whispers, kissing your neck. You whimper, your walls clenching at his words, urging him to quicken his pace. âDo you want that, baby? Want my cum inside this pretty pussy?â
âYesâfuck yesâplease.â
âSay it for me,â he requests softly, a gentle yet desperate edge in his voice. âPlease tell me.â
âI want to be yours; make me yours,â you breathe out.
Hyuck's gaze drops to your lips, entranced by the words spilling from them. He thrusts harder, your nails digging into his skin as you pull him closer. Your cunt swallows his cock whole, turning his thrusts sloppy, and he groans.
Youâre practically sobbing with how fast heâs driving into you, so close to seeing stars.
âYouâre so good at taking me,â he praises, his breath ragged. âGonna make me fill you.â
You squeeze around him, and the thought of cumming inside you sends a shiver through his thighs, making his breathing stutter.
âYes! Fuck, please keep going,â You pant.Â
âWant you so full of me that itâs dripping down your leg. And then Iâll push it back in when I fuck you again.â
Your breaths grow louder and quicker, matching his as you both teeter on the edge. He kisses you deeply, your mouths suffocating each other as you grip his soft brown hair. His fingers dig into your hips, holding you tight.
âHyuckâIâm gonna cum.â
âSo fucking good, baby,â he moans in awe. âIâm going to fill you with my cum. I want you overflowing with my seedâfuck!â He grunts hoarsely, his body tightening with tension.
Your walls shatter around him, tightening and fluttering on his cock as you cum. Hyuck holds you close, so intimately, holding himself deep inside you as he feels the first spurts of his cum shooting from his cock.Â
He doesnât stop, his hips still moving gently, making sure you take everything, softening each thrust with tender kisses along your bare shoulders. You sigh dreamily, fingers threading through his hair, and he smiles, still half-hard inside you. Youâre exhausted, and the sight of your sleepy expression makes his heart twist. Leaning down, he presses a soft kiss to your lips, and for a moment, you stay like thatâso close, so intimate.
But as the post-orgasm bliss begins to fade, a flicker of panic flashes in his eyes.
âFuckââ he mutters, pulling himself off of you quickly. Thereâs a gnawing feeling in his chest, a sudden guilt. âY/N, Iâm really sorry, I got caught up in the moment. Do you want me to run to the storeââ
âNo.â You shake your head and grab his arm, keeping him close. âI donât want you to. If thatâs okayâŚâ
His eyes darken with lust before a slow smile spreads across his face.
âY-yeah⌠thatâs more than okay with me,â he says, nodding eagerly.
âWho knows?â You shrug with a teasing grin. âI might not even get pregnant this time.â
His eyebrows shoot up. âThis time?â
You nod confidently. âYeah, this time. Because weâre going to keep doing this until I am pregnant, Hyuck.â
His grin widens as he climbs back into bed, pulling you into his arms.
âI never thought Iâd hear you say that, especially not when I woke up this morning,â he laughs, pressing soft kisses along your neck.
You giggle, leaning into his touch. âWhat can I say? Seeing you in dad mode made me so fucking horny.â
#nct smut#haechan smut#nct 127 smut#nct dream smut#nct x reader#nct 127 x reader#haechan x reader#nct dream x reader#nct hard hours#kpop smut#kpop x reader#nct oneshot#nct scenarios
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max verstappen being the perfect boyfriend: a compilation
summary: max verstappen canât help but talk about his girlfriend whenever he cans, fans make compilation videos about it
folkie radio: HAPPY BIRTHDAY MAXIEEE, it's been a minute since the last time i did a compilation blurb and this felt like the perfect occasion to bring them back, i hope you like this!
MASTERLIST | MY PATREON
Max Verstappen, three time world champion and the best driver of his generation is known for his incredible driving skills and relentless pursuit of victory on the track.
However, behind the wheel, Max has another passion that rivals his love for racing: his girlfriend.
In every interview, press conference, and social media post, Max can't help but gush about her, seamlessly sharing stories of their life together into conversations about lap times and race strategies.
Fans quickly began doing compilation videos about all the times he mentioned his girlfriend publicly, and those gathered millions of views across social media platforms.
The most popular one was called "Max Verstappen being the perfect boyfriend: a compilation," and it began with a video of Max arriving to the paddock for media day, Red Bull's social media team filming him while he answered some rapid fire questions.
"Waffles or Pancakes? You know I used to love pancakes but I think I've had too many because my girlfriend is obsessed with making them," he said as he signed some stuff, "So I would go for Waffles at the moment, but if my girlfriend is watching this I'd say I take her pancakes every day."
The next clip was from a post qualifying interview, and of course, Max earned the pole position, the interviewer had asked him what was expecting for the race the following day.
"To win of course, that's what I'm here for," he said with so hesitation, "But I'm also looking forward to it because my girlfriend will be here, it's the first race she attends this season and I can't wait to see her in the crowd while I take on the podium."
The video moved to show Max with his teammate Sergio Perez, they were playing a game of Green Flag or Red Flag, they were asked about people who film themselves at the gym and Max immediately waved the red flag.
"I actually don't go to the gym anymore," Max added, "I get annoyed by everyone else so I just exercise at home."
"So no topless selfies, not even at home," the interviewer said.
"I don't need to impress anyone, I've got my girlfriend, so," Max shrugged.
The next clip was taken from Max's own Youtube channel, he was showing some of his preparation routine for a race, that included some neck training, checking statistics, quick meetings with his team and engineers among other things.
And of course, his girlfriend made an appearance, standing in a corner watching everything unfold. He approached her, race suit on and helmet in hand, kissed her lips gently as she caressed his arm.
"Be safe out there okay?" her voice could be faintly heard.
"Always schatje, I love you."
In the next segment, Max had just earned his second world championship and was doing a casual interview for a sports channel.
"Do you have your girlfriend now call you 'Two time world champion Max Verstappen' or just Max,"
"Definitely not the first one," Max laughed, "She'd never do that, she says she likes to keep me humble."
"Your girlfriend has a pet name for you?" the guy asked again.
"We call each other a bit different but I prefer not to say that on camera," Max laughed again, "I don't want the internet to make fun of me for being cheesy."
The next clip was from Max's streamings, he was too immersed in a game that he didn't hear his girlfriend come into the room, noticing her presence when she leaned into him.
Out of habit of keeping their privacy, he covered the camera but forgot to turn his mic off.
"Schatje I'm streaming," he said, unaware that everyone could hear him.
"Oh I'm sorry, I was going to ask if you could feed the cats but I'll do it myself," his girlfriend spoke.
"No I'll do it, just let me get off the stream,"
"Baby, there's no need," she insisted.
"I was missing you anyways, just give me a minute."
His audience couldn't see anything but they clearly heard how Max kissed his girlfriend's lips, turning his attention back to the screen, he realized that he was broadcasting their conversation to everyone.
His viewers went wild in the chat, spamming heart emojis and comments about how sweet the couple was. Max ended the stream with a laugh, addressing his fans. "Alright, you heard the boss. I gotta go feed the cats. See you all next time."
On the same note, another clip from a video for RedBull with Checo was included, they had been asked to show the most recent picture in their phones.
"Oh it's from this morning, my girlfriend with the kids," Max said, showing the picture to the camera.
"The kids?" Checo asked with a laugh.
"The cats are our kids," Max shrugged, "Jimmy and Sassy Verstappen."
A particularly touching moment was from a press conference after a difficult race. Max had finished fifth, a rare position for him given his usual dominance. When asked how he dealt with setbacks, he gave a candid response.
"It can be tough, but my girlfriend always knows how to lift my spirits. She's my biggest supporter and always finds the right words to say. Just being with her makes everything better, no matter how bad the race went."
During a clip of Max giving a tour of the Red Bull factory, he stopped at a wall covered in race-winning memorabilia. Among the trophies and champagne bottles, there was a small, framed photograph.
"This is special to me," Max pointed it out, "It's from my first win with Red Bull. But look closer..."
The camera zoomed in to show a young woman in the background of the photo, cheering in the pit lane.
"That's my girlfriend," Max said softly. "She was there for my first win, and she's been there for every one since - even if she can't always be at the track. The team knew how much that meant to me, so they made sure she was in this photo when they framed it."
In the next segment, Max was asked about his favorite off-track activity.
"I love cooking," Max grinned, "Well, more like watching my girlfriend cook. She's amazing in the kitchen, and I'm just there to taste-test everything."
The compilation included a moment during a press conference, Max addressed a question about his girlfriend facing criticism online. The question arose after she received negative comments following a public appearance with him.
"Look, it's tough sometimes," Max began, his expression turning serious. "She didn't choose this life, but she supports me through everything. It's not fair for her to get hate just because of who she's dating. If you have a problem with me that's fine but don't go after my family or my girlfriend because that is just unacceptable."
The final clip that wrapped the video us was from the FIA Prize Giving ceremony, Max received his trophy for winning the 2023 championship.
In his acceptance speech, he thanked his team, his family, and, of course, his girlfriend.
"Winning races and championships is amazing, but having someone by your side who believes in you and supports you unconditionally is truly special. To my girlfriend, thank you for being my rock and my biggest cheerleader. I love you."
The screen faded to black, showing a text that read: Max Verstappen, three time world champion and the perfect boyfriend.
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A SURPRISE VISIT â ITOSHI RIN
๨ৠâ you decide to surprise your fiancĂŠ while he is doing a photoshoot for a brand he works with. the director and photographer never even knew rin could smile in such a way...
itoshi rin x reader. fluff, pro soccer player!rin, yâall are like mid-twenties here, established relationship, sunshine x grumpy vibes :>Â
word count. 1.3k

Itâs not often you are able to visit Rin while heâs working. Given the nature of his job, he spends most of his time traveling around for away games and matches outside of Japan.
Today, however, Rin is in town for a photoshoot with a local luxury brand and you decide that is the perfect opportunity. for you to surprise him. He spoils you plenty himself, bringing you souvenirs and cute trinkets from his travels. This is the least you can do to pamper him back.
You prepare him a quick and easy mealâa grilled mackerel rice bowl with a side of spinach saladâbut still packed with nutrients to help fuel his body for the long day ahead. Rin has complained about PR and photoshoot days to you plenty of times before. They were busy and tiring and he barely got any breaks. What better way to bring some light into his day than a little surprise?Â
Along with a warm, homemade lunch, you decide you want to stop by for some flowers as well. At a nearby florist, you order a bouquet of vibrant blue morning glories (the closest color you can get to his eyes, though nothing seems to be the perfect match) mixed in with classic white florets.Â
Pleased with your little bouquet and neatly wrapped lunch box, you bound along to the studio Rin was working in for the day.Â
Immediately upon entry, you find yourself greeted by the receptionist, cheerily asking how she can help you.Â
âIâm just here to visit my fiance,â you say with a smile. âHeâs here for a shootâ Itoshi Rin.â
She eyes you skeptically, her eyes briefly flitting to the phone on her desk. âCan I ask for your name, please?â
âOf course!â you agree hurriedly, pulling your ID out of your wallet as you stated your name. Itâs inconvenient at times, having a professional soccer player as a fiancĂŠ, but you understood why security had to be higher for him. âI promise, Iâm not lying! See.â
You flash her your diamond engagement ring and show her your lock screen photo of you and Rin making kissy faces at the camera.Â
âOh, no! I donât think youâre lying! Mr. Itoshiâs team always gives a list of who he might be expecting and, well, the list only has your name on it,â explains the receptionist, looking back and forth between your ID and her computer screen. âYou can head right in! His session is in the big room to the left.â
âThank you!â you chirp, gathering the bouquet back up in one arm as you hold his lunch in the other. You hope Rin will feel how much you love and value him.
You walk down the hall and hesitantly knock on the door, before deciding to push it open after not hearing a response.Â
As soon as you peek your head in, your eyes lock with Rinâs as he poses in a relaxed stance, one hand in his pocket as he looks away from the camera dramatically. Once he notices you, his serious expression changes into one of surprise as the corner of his lip quirks upward into the semblance of a smile.Â
âYes! Exactly like that!â the director cries in relief. âHold that smileâ This is the first one weâve seen from you all day!âÂ
As Rinâs attention is directed away from you, the sullen expression returns to his face.Â
âNo! Smile, I said,â said the director exasperatedly.Â
You wave your flowers around in the background, hoping to catch Rinâs attention as you shoot him a playful wink. Itâs similar to when parents are trying to get their baby to smile for the camera by playing peek-a-boo behind the lens.Â
Rinâs much too old to be treated like a baby, yet somehow, your method works.Â
His eyes soften as he lets out an amused snort. Itâs quiet and barely there, but it was enough to change the ambiance of the photoshoot. From the corner of your eye, you see the creative director nodding at the photographer fervently as the rapid clicks of the camera sound in succession.Â
Once satisfied with the amount of successful photos they captured, the director soon calls a quick break so the next scene can be shot. Rin wastes no time in heading over to you with a question in his gaze.Â
âWhat are you doing here?â he asks.
You grin, handing him the bouquet of flowers. âTo give you this!â you say simply. âI wanted to surprise you. I also brought you lunch. I know you donât have much time to eat, but I hope you can find time to sneak a few bites between shoots.âÂ
Rin takes the flowers and lunch box into his hands, eyes softening as he pulls you into a quick hug. âNow why did you go through all this on a random Thursday?âÂ
âDo I need a reason to see my handsome boyfriendâer, fiancĂŠâduring work?â you say with a playful pout. He proposed only recently, and calling him fiancĂŠ is still new to you. âDonât tell me youâre not happy to see meâŚâ
Rin rolls his eyes at your dramatics. âIâm always happy to see you, and you know it.â
âI do!â you agree happily, bringing another small smile onto his face. âNow, I donât want to keep you from your work for too long. I better get going.â
He frowns. âCanât you stay longer?â
Before you can reply, the creative director from earlier concurs, âYes, can you please? We need more pictures of Mr. Itoshi looking like heâs not miserable!â
Rin glares at him in annoyance. Partly for saying he looks miserable and partly for interrupting his conversation with you.
You laugh at the directorâs pleading. âI wish I could, but I do have some work of my own to finish up today.â
You arenât sure whose face looks more dejectedâthe directorâs or Rinâs?Â
âBut,â you start, trying to cheer them both up, âRin, you can look at the flowers I got you and smile when you think of me!âÂ
Rinâs cheeks color and a grunt of embarrassment escapes him as his eyes flit frantically to everyone overhearing the conversation.Â
You grin, not letting up. âAnd, if you eat the lunch I made you, your stomach and soul will be warmed for the rest of the shoot!âÂ
The director nods along like you came up with the most brilliant idea ever.Â
âOkay, now I really do have to go,â you say apologetically, placing a chaste kiss onto Rinâs lips. âIâll see you at home? Soon?
He nods. âSoon.âÂ
âAnd,â the director sings, âit might be even sooner than planned. Mr. Itoshi, if you cooperate well, we may be able to finish up within the next hour and a half.âÂ
Rinâs expression turns serious, a look of fierce determination forming on his features. âSo, I can be home in less than two hours?â
âYes. Maybe even sooner if we get into a good flow.âÂ
âWe will,â promises Rin as if he has no other option. âIâll be home soon.â
You giggle at his resoluteness. Nothing motivates him more than soccer and spending time with you.Â
âWork hard then!â you say. âIâll see you in a bit, baby.â
The tips of Rinâs ears turn red as he hisses, âIn public?âÂ
You have to stop yourself from snickering at his embarrassment. The two of you really need to work on your public displays of affection.Â
âWaitâ Thatâs it!â exclaimed the director. âThatâs the perfect flushed face! Someone bring a camera here, stat!â As the director rambles along, you wave goodbye to Rin, wiggling your fingers as you watch the look of misery return to Rinâs face, his eyes calling to you to help get him out of here.Â
âBreakâs over! Come along now, Mr. Itoshi.âÂ
You spare him one last thumbs up before leaving the studio with a laugh. Well, that visit certainly turned out to be more entertaining than you had imagined. You would have to visit Rin at work much more often.Â
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Breaking Point
Pairing: Max Verstappen x Driver!Reader
Summary: Your rivalry with Max Verstappen is legendary, but behind your fierce performances a chronic condition is slowly wearing you down. When Max starts to uncover the truth he has to decide, win the title at all costs or protect the one person who may have come to mean more than it.
7.9k words / Masterlist
The crowd was deafening. Cheers, chants, and the rhythmic pounding of drums thundered through the air as you stepped onto the flatbed truck for the drivers' parade. Flags waved like wildfire, and fans pressed up against the barricades, screaming your name with faces painted in your colours. You gave them a wave, heart thudding not from nerves, not exactly.
The season wasnât just heating up⌠it was boiling over.
Roughly a third of the way through the calendar, the championship fight had already narrowed to two names. Yours and Max Verstappenâs. The sportâs fiercest rivalry in years was dominating headlines, youâd traded podiums and paintwork, elbows out at every corner, and now, as you glanced across the flatbed and spotted Max surrounded by cameras your stomach twisted.
This wasnât just about racing anymore.
The rivalry had been brewing for years and had in turn become infamous "the clash of titans," they called it. A new golden age of Formula 1. The media couldnât get enough of the drama: two elite drivers, one championship, and absolutely no love lost. But they didnât know the full story.
Because the truth was, your battle with Max wasnât only happening on the track.
You were hiding something. Something big. And if Max, or anyone, found out⌠you werenât sure youâd even make it to the final race, let alone walk away with the title.
You shifted your weight, careful not to wince. The pain had become familiar, a dull hum beneath your skin, a reminder with every breath that you were running out of time.
Max was only a few feet away now, stepping up onto the flatbed at the last second with his usual casual confidence. His race suit hung open at the neck, fireproofs damp with sweat already, and yet he looked unbothered, cool, collected, irritatingly calm.
As much as you sometimes hated to admit it, youâd always respected him.
âReady for another close one,â he said, flashing you that infuriatingly smug smile, âor are you finally going to give me a little room today?â
You raised an eyebrow, already steeling yourself for the mental game he always played before a race.
âRoom? I didnât realise this was bumper cars Verstappen. Keep pushing me like you did last week and Iâll send you into the gravel.â
Max chuckled, the sound surprisingly light. âWouldnât be the first time someoneâs tried. But we both know youâre going to be glued to my rear wing for half the race, just like usual.â
A twinge of frustration flared in your chest. Max knew how to get under your skin. His self-assuredness, his relentless confidence, it felt like he was mocking you, but that wasnât what really stung.
What hurt was that he was probably right. You were slipping. You could feel it, the sharpness in your driving dulled by something you couldnât control. The exhaustion was creeping in, and the physical pain was harder to ignore with each race. You knew you were hiding it well enough from the cameras, the media, even your team, but for how much longer?
âYeah, well,â you muttered, trying to sound nonchalant, âdonât get too comfortable up front. You wonât see me coming.â
Max studied you for a moment, his blue eyes narrowing just slightly. There was something indecipherable in his expression, a flicker of curiosity or concern, but it was gone before you could pin it down. He shrugged and gave a nod.
âWeâll see.â
As he turned away, you felt a wave of relief wash over you. Max didnât know. No one did. You still had time to figure things out, time to win this race, this championship, before everything came crashing down.
The race had been brutal.
Maxâs Red Bull stayed just barely ahead, the gap flickering between eight-tenths and half a second, a cruel reminder of how close you were, and how far. Every time you lunged, he countered. Every time you found grip, he found more, but as the final laps closed in, it wasnât the tires or the fuel or even Max that started to wear you down.
It was your own body.
The first flare of pain hit you under braking at Turn 6 a stabbing bolt in your ribs that nearly made you lift. You ground your teeth, forced your foot down harder, trying to drive through it. But it didnât go away. It spread. Fast. Each breath felt like knives slicing through your chest, stealing oxygen, focus, control.
Your hands clenched the wheel in a death grip, sweat slicking your gloves, vision starting to grey at the edges. You were spiraling.
Not now. Not here.
You clenched your jaw, gripping the wheel with white knuckles. Youâd been fighting this for too long. Too many sleepless nights, too many doctorâs visits in secret. The diagnosis had been a shock, a harsh reminder of how even the strongest athletes could be brought down by something they couldnât control.
Chronic pain, theyâd said. Something to manage, not to fix. And no one could know, not your team, not the press, and certainly not your rivals. If they did, it would be seen as weakness.
Weakness wasnât an option.
âCome on, come on,â you muttered, the corners felt tighter, your vision slightly blurred at the edges, but you couldnât afford to back off. Not now.
Max was just ahead, his rear wing taunting you down the straight. You pushed harder. Too hard.
On the second-to-last lap, you misjudged the corner. A split-second of lost focus, and your tires hit the curb too hard, sending the car into a brief spin. By the time you regained control, Max was already crossing the finish line.
The race was over.
Max had won.
The car coasted to a stop, and all you could do was sit there, helmet still on, pulse thudding in your ears, pain radiating like a siren call through your ribcage.
Youâd lost. You slammed your fist into the steering wheel, the pain in your ribs now radiating with every breath. It wasnât just the defeat. It was the knowledge that you werenât at your best. That you might never be again.
As you climbed out of the car, you could feel the weight of disappointment settle over you like a cloud. The team surrounded you, offering words of comfort and encouragement, but none of it really sank in. Your mind was elsewhere, consumed by the fear that had been growing in the back of your mind for months.
Max approached, still wearing his helmet but with a glint of triumph in his eyes. He pulled it off, sweat-drenched hair sticking to his forehead, and gave you a nod.
âHell of a race,â he said.
You forced a smile. âYeah. You got me this time.â
âThis time?â He raised an eyebrow, his usual teasing tone creeping back. âIâve been getting you quite a bit lately.â
You laughed, but it came out more like a cough. âDon��t get used to it.â
Maxâs gaze lingered on you, more intense now. His eyes flickered down to your waist, where youâd been subconsciously holding your side. You quickly dropped your hand, straightening up.
âYou alright?â he asked, his voice lower now, a little less casual.
âYeah, just⌠just tired,â you lied, trying to sound convincing. âLong race. Long seasonâ
Max didnât say anything for a moment, then he shrugged, a small smile returning to his face. âRight, well, rest up.â
But the way he looked at you, you knew he didnât entirely believe your answer.
The following weeks were grueling. Training sessions were harder than theyâd ever been, your body refusing to cooperate despite your best efforts. Every stretch, every weight rep, every sim session pushed you closer to the edge. What used to be routine now felt like punishment your body refusing to respond, refusing to bend without protest.
You spent more time in physiotherapy and doctor's offices than you did on the track, always in secret, always through back doors, under fake names on appointment logs, always careful to keep up the facade of strength. You couldnât afford questions. Couldnât afford whispers.
But the cracks were showing. And Max⌠Max was noticing.
At first, it was nothing, just the way he watched you more closely during press events, his eyes narrowing whenever you winced or shifted uncomfortably. The casual questions about your health, disguised as jokes. You tried to brush it off, deflecting with humor, but Max wasnât stupid. He was as sharp off the track as he was on it. He saw patterns. He felt when something was off. And now, you were off and he was tracking it like telemetry data.
âLose a fight with your seat insert?â heâd ask when you sat down a little too slowly.
You brushed it off every time. âJust sore from carrying the team,â youâd quip. But his eyes would flick to your side, or your hand when it rubbed a phantom ache across your ribs, and he didnât laugh like he used to.
One evening, after a particularly brutal qualifying session where youâd barely managed to secure P7, Max found you behind the hospitality motorhomes, still in your race suit, half hunched over with one hand braced on a railing, trying to catch your breath without drawing attention. You straightened when you heard his footsteps, but it was too late.
âYouâre not okay,â he said bluntly, his usual playful tone absent.
You blinked, surprised by his directness. âWhat are you talking about? Iâm fine.â
Max crossed his arms, his expression hardening. âNo, youâre not. Iâve seen you, the way youâve been moving, the way youâve been driving. Somethingâs off.â
âIâm just tired Max, itâs been a long day,â you sighed, trying your best to divert the conversation, but Max wasnât having it.
âCut the crap. This isnât tired. This is different. Youâre hurtingâ he said, his voice firm. âWhatâs going on with you?â
You hesitated. No one had pushed this far before, not even your team. The truth burned on the tip of your tongue. You wanted to say it. Just once. To let someone else hold the weight of it, even for a second. But then you saw the season flash in your mind, what youâd risk, what youâd lose if it all came crashing down.
âI donât know what youâre talking about,â you lied, turning to walk away.
Max grabbed your arm, not hard, but enough to make you stop. âYou can trust me, you know,â he said quietly, his voice softer now. âIf somethingâs wrongâŚâ
His words hung in the air, and for a brief moment, you almost caved. Almost.
But then you remembered what was at stake. Your career. The championship. Everything.
You pulled your arm away. âIâm fine Max. Let it go.â
Max looked at you for a long time, his eyes searching yours. But eventually, he nodded, stepping back. âAlright. For now.â
You turned and walked away, but the pit in your stomach only grew, because Max was getting closer to the truth, and you werenât sure how much longer you could keep running from it.
The race in Monza was supposed to be your redemption. After a brilliant quali this was a chance to prove you still had what it took to win, to show Max and everyone else that you werenât done yet. That the whispers, the doubts, the endless speculation about your decline were nothing but noise, but it quickly became clear that your body had other plans.
The pain was worse than ever, radiating from deep within your chest and flaring through your ribs every time you hit a kerb or took a high-speed corner. You gritted your teeth and kept pushing, but by lap thirty your arms were trembling. Sweat clung to your skin beneath the race suit, and your hands shook as you tried to keep a steady grip on the wheel.
Max was behind you, closing in. Not just with raw pace but with that ruthless, unrelenting pressure he was known for. He was waiting for a mistake.
Your vision began to blur somewhere around lap forty. It took everything just to stay on the racing line, and then suddenly the rear snapped. The car spun. Your world whipped around in a blur of colours and screeching tires before the impact came, jarring your entire body and sending pain lancing through your ribs like a knife. The barrier caught you hard on the left side. The engine cut out and smoke billowed. Your hands were trembling as you ripped off your gloves and undid the harness.
As you sat in the wreckage of your car, the pain in your chest now unbearable, you couldnât help but feel the crushing weight of defeat. It wasnât just the end of the race. It was the end of the illusion. You werenât okay. And no amount of pride or stubbornness could mask it anymore.
You felt tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them back. This wasnât the place to break down. Not here, not now.
By the time the medical car got you out, you were biting the inside of your cheek to keep from crying out. You waved off their questions, said you were fine, but you werenât even sure what fine meant anymore.
The walk back to the paddock felt longer than the entire race weekend. Your helmet dangled from one hand, your other pressed tightly against your ribs beneath the suit. But later as you walked back through the paddock Max was already there, he was leaning against a stack of crates just outside the Red Bull motorhome, arms crossed, cap pulled low, but when he spotted you, he straightened immediately. His expression shifted the moment your eyes met
You barely had time to react before he was in front of you, one hand reaching for your arm, the other hovering like he wanted to touch you but wasnât sure where it wouldnât hurt.
âCome with me,â he said under his breath, glancing around.
Before you could argue, he was already steering you gently but firmly into a quiet corner away from curious eyes.
âWhat the hell were you thinking?â he asked, voice sharp with worry. âYou shouldâve pulled into the pits. You could barely hold the car straight by the end.â
You opened your mouth, tried to say something, anything, but no excuse felt good enough. So you said the only thing you could.
âI didnât want to stop.â
Max ran a hand through his hair, pacing half a step away before turning back to you.
âYouâre done hiding this,â he said firmly, stepping closer. âWhatever it is, Iâm not letting you keep it to yourself anymore.â
You opened your mouth to protest, but the words didnât come. Instead, you just stood there, the pain and exhaustion finally catching up to you.
Max looked at you for a long moment, then took another step closer. âYou can barely stand,â he muttered. âJesus, I knew something was wrong. I could see it in how you were driving, you never make mistakes like that.â
âIâm fine, this is none of you business Maxâ you tried, but the words were weak, barely more than a whisper. They sounded pathetic even to your own ears.
âNo. Youâre not,â he snapped, louder this time. âYouâre not fine. You couldâve been seriously hurt. Or worse, do you not get that? You put the car in the wall going 200 mph and then walked back here like nothing happened, like you didnât just scare the hell out of meââ His voice caught, and for a moment, it was like the weight of what he wasnât saying hung between you. âDo you even understand how close that was?â
âI didnât meanââ you started, but he cut you off with a frustrated breath.
âYou didnât mean to? Thatâs not good enough,â he said, voice sharp with emotion. âYou drove knowing you werenât okay. You risked your life because what? You didnât want anyone to know youâre hurt?â
He exhaled hard, stepping back like he needed to breathe or else he might say something he couldnât take back.
âI thought I was going to see you being pulled out of that car unconscious,â he said, his voice low now, broken at the edges.
You stared at him, your own throat tight, unsure what to say.
His expression softened, as his hand came up, hesitated, then landed gently on your shoulder. Warm. Steady. âCome on, letâs get out of here.â He watched your eyes flicker, like you were on the edge of bolting, and his voice dipped, almost pleading. âPlease.â
For the first time in a long time, you didnât argue.
It was late that night when you finally told him. You sat together in the shadows, tucked in a forgotten corner behind your hospitality unit, your back against the cool metal wall, your legs stretched out.
Max still hadnât left your side. Not after the crash. Not after the walk back. Not even after you tried to brush him off the fifth time with a tired excuse.
He just stayed.
And maybe thatâs why the words finally came.
Of all the people you could tell, Max Verstappen probably wasnât the smartest choice. He was your fiercest rival. The one person youâd spent the better part of your career trying to beat, trying to outdrive, outlast, outdo in every possible way. You had a whole history of near-misses and podium scuffles and tension thick enough to choke on. So why him?
You should tell your physio. Your team principal. Your family. Your press officer even. Anyone but Max.
But instead here you were, in a dark corner of Monza, unloading your deepest vulnerability to the one man whoâd spent the year trying to beat you.
And yet⌠something about it felt right.
Maybe it was the way he looked at you, not with pity, not even surprise, but understanding. Quiet and real and grounding. Like he got it, in some strange way. Like there was some unspoken language between you, forged through years of competition and split-second decisions and shared silence in the paddock long after the fans went home.
You hated how easy it felt with him.
And God, that scared you.
Because you didnât want to need anyone, especially not Max, with his impossible standards and his cutting sarcasm and the kind of intensity that could burn through stone. Youâd built entire walls around yourself to survive in this sport, and Max Verstappen was one of the only people who had ever seen behind them.
âWhy are you even here, Max?â you asked before you could stop yourself. âYou didnât have to stay.â
He turned to you, eyes meeting yours in the dark. âYeah,â he said simply, âI did.â
And damn it, there it was again, that thing. That something between you that neither of you ever named, never acknowledged, but always felt. It lingered in the way you pushed each other harder than anyone else. In the way he always found your eyes on the grid. In the way you could never quite root against him, no matter how badly you wanted to beat him.
âI have chronic pain,â you admitted, your voice small, barely audible over the distant hum of a generator. âIt started last year. Nothing major at first, twinges, tightness⌠easy to write off, but it got worse this season. Iâve been hiding it, trying to push through, but⌠itâs not working anymore.â
Max didnât speak. He turned slightly to face you, legs bent at the knees, arms resting loosely on them. He didnât rush you, he just listened quietly, his usual brashness gone, didnât interrupt, didnât ask questions, he just let you talk.
âIâve been hiding it from everyone. From my team. From you. Iâve been managing it or trying to, physio, meds. I thought I could push through, like always. Just grit my teeth and keep racing. I thought for a while maybe it was all in my headâ You let out a hollow laugh. âItâs not.â
Maxâs jaw tightened, but still he said nothing.
âI didnât want anyone to know. If the team found out, theyâd pull me. If the media knew, theyâd crucify me. And you⌠I didnât want you to think I was weak.â
Thatâs when he finally spoke.
Max frowned at that, shaking his head. âWeak? Youâve been racing like this all year and you think that makes you weak?â
You laughed bitterly. âI havenât won in months, Max. I can barely finish a race without screwing up. I put it in the wall today. Thatâs not strength. Thatâs pathetic.â
Max sighed, leaning back against the wall, his gaze fixed on the night sky. âYouâre not weak,â he said after a long pause. âYou shouldnât have been in the car today. Hell, you shouldnât have been in the car for the last few races. Youâre stubborn as hell, but not weak.â
You let out a breath. Your whole body ached. Not just from the crash, but from months of pretending.
Max sighed, leaning back against the wall, glancing up like he was searching for the right words. âYouâre not weak,â he said again, softer this time. âYouâre just tired. And in pain. Thatâs not the same thing. Youâve been shouldering something most people wouldnât even start a race with. And you kept going. Alone. Thatâs not weakness. Thatâs something else entirelyâ
You looked away, jaw tight, trying to keep the emotion from spilling over. It was one thing to admit it. It was another to have someone see it.
Max moved closer âYou shouldâve told me... or someone at least.â
âI didnât know how,â you whispered. âI didnât want to make it real. Saying it out loud makes it feel like it wins.â
He shook his head. âNo. Saying it out loud means youâre still fighting. And you donât have to do it alone anymore.â
You smiled, a small, grateful smile, but it didnât last long.
âSo whatâs the plan?â He asked.
You blinked. âThe⌠what?â
He shrugged, but there was nothing casual in the way his eyes locked onto yours. âYou said itâs getting worse. You canât keep racing like this. So whatâs next?â
You looked down, chewing on the inside of your cheek. âI donât know. I havenât figured that part out yet.â
âThen letâs figure it out,â he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
You shook your head. âMax, this isnât your problem.â
âYou think I waited for you after every race, checked in between flights, watched you limp through interviews because I was just being nice?â
You looked up, and he was right there, eyes blazing.
âI care about you, and you trusted me enough to tell me,â he said, softer now, like it hurt to say it too loud. âThat means this is my problem. Whether you like it or not.â
Your throat tightened. âItâs not that I donât want you here Max. Itâs just⌠Iâve been carrying this for so long, I donât know how to let someone else in.â
He gave a small, almost sad smile. âThen start with me.â
You hesitated. âEven if the plan means stepping back? Even if it means disappearing from the grid for a while?â
âNone of that matters,â he said. âWhat matters is that youâre okay. That youâre healing. That youâre not destroying yourself just to prove you belong, because you already do."
You swallowed, the weight of his words sinking in. He was right, of course. Youâd been fighting this battle on your own for too long, and it was killing you. But asking for help⌠it still felt like admitting defeat.
Max was quiet for a moment, then he looked at you, his expression serious. âYou need help. Real help. You canât do this alone anymore. Taking time for yourself doesnât make you weak either, please believe that.â
You let out a shaky laugh, blinking back tears. âYou make it sound easy.â
âItâs not,â he admitted. âBut Iâll be there, every step of the way. If you let me.â
âBut if I stop nowâŚâ you whispered, ââŚitâs over isnât it? I stop, and theyâll replace me. And even if I get better⌠what if I donât get the chance to come back?â
Max shook his head. âNo, itâs not. You take the time to get better, to figure out what you need to do. And when⌠when not if you come back⌠youâll be stronger.â
You looked at him, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. For all the years of rivalry, the banter, the competition, you hadnât expected this.
You let out a shaky breath, blinking back tears. âYou really think Iâll get the chance?â
âI think youâre one of the best drivers on the grid,â he said, without hesitation. âAnd I think anyone whoâs seen you drive knows that. This isnât the end. Not if you donât let it be.â
You dropped your gaze to your hands, suddenly overwhelmed by how much you'd just given him. âYou know this changes things right? You knowing.â
âI know,â he said. âBut not in the way you think.â
You looked up at him again.
âIâm not gonna see you as anything less because of this,â he said firmly. âIf anything, I respect you even more⌠if thatâs possible. Even if I hate that you didnât tell anyone sooner.â
âYou could use this against me, you know,â you said quietly. âIf you tell anyoneâŚâ
Max met your gaze, his blue eyes steady. âI wonât.â
You raised an eyebrow. âYou wonât?â
Max shrugged. âIâm competitive, not cruel. If Iâm going to beat you, I want to beat you at your best.â
You stared at him, searching his face for any hint of deception, but there was none. He was being honest.
For the first time in months, you felt a flicker of hope.
Maybe you didnât have to fight this alone anymore.
âThank you,â you said finally.
He gave you a small nod, then reached over and nudged your knee with his own. You rolled your eyes, but you didnât stop smiling. Not this time.
The decision to step back wasnât easy.
It didnât happen in one dramatic moment. It was a slow, aching acceptance, drawn out over sleepless nights, quiet tears in hotel bathrooms, and the gnawing worry for the future that refused to be silenced. It took soul-searching. And honesty, the brutal kind. With yourself. With your team. And, surprisingly, with Max.
Somehow, over the course of the ordeal, Max had become your anchor. The rivalry that once defined your relationship had softened, twisted into something far more complicated. He listened without judgment, pushed when you needed it, and called you out when you tried to pretend you were still invincible.
âI think youâre brave enough to admit it,â heâd said one night, âand I think youâre strong enough to come back.â
That stuck with you.
So when the decision was finally made, it wasnât with fireworks or fanfare. Just a quiet nod to yourself, a shaky breath, and the understanding that sometimes stepping away took more courage than staying in the fight.
You announced it publicly just before the next race weekend, standing in front of a press room full of cameras and microphones that never seemed to miss a tremor in your voice. You told them a half truth, the version of it you were ready to share.
You needed time. Time to heal. Time to breathe. Time to come back stronger.
The media response was predictable. Headlines spun into chaos. Speculation ran rampant. Some questioned your drive. Others called you finished. They debated what was âreallyâ wrong, but through it all, Max stayed silent.
Not once did he give the press a quote. Not once did he betray what he knew. Even when reporters tried to bait him, digging for scraps of scandal or sympathy, he deflected effortlessly changing the subject, shutting it down with a single look.
Youâd never been more grateful.
As the weeks turned into months, you watched the races from the sidelines. At first, it felt like slow torture. Your body rested, yes, but your heart ached. Frustrated because every fiber of your being missed the track, the competition, the sheer thrill of racing. And yet, there was relief too, quiet and unfamiliar. You were no longer holding yourself together with adrenaline and fear. For the first time in ages you were breathing without pretending.
Max of course continued to dominate the championship. Beneath the cold stats and glowing headlines, there were moments that didnât make it into the press, moments that were just for you. Heâd call or text, checking in, making sure you were doing okay.
Heâd text after qualifying, sometimes just a one-liner:
Trackâs a mess. U wouldâve hated it.
A call between flights, memes sent at 2AM with no context, only to be followed by a simple you okay? And sometimes no words at all, just a photo of the garage, or the view from his balcony, or his cat curled up on a travel bag, like he was reminding you that life was still moving and you were still part of it.
He didnât ask invasive questions, he never pushed, but he always checked in. Subtly. Consistently. Like clockwork. Like he was making sure the world hadnât swallowed you whole while he was out there conquering it.
It was strange, at first, getting used to the version of Max who wasnât trying to out-qualify you or bait you in press conferences. This Max was⌠patient. Steady. A little sarcastic still, the texts always came with a dose of dry humour, but there was warmth beneath it, a quiet sort of care.
And you found yourself replying more than you expected, telling him small things. That your shoulder finally didnât ache when you lifted your arm. That you missed the smell of burning rubber. That youâd accidentally called your physio by your engineers name out of habit. That you'd tried your first ever Red Bull drink and hated it much to his chagrin.
The friendship that formed was easy in ways nothing else in your life was.
It didnât demand anything of you. There was no pressure to be strong or fast or okay. With Max you didnât have to pretend, he never told you what you should be feeling, he was just there in anyway he could be, again and again, until you started to wonder what life had even looked like before he was in it this way.
One evening, late after another one of his perfectly executed wins you picked up your phone and typed out a message. You hesitated before pressing send, unsure why you felt nervous. Maybe it was because lately your heart beat faster than it used to when you saw his name light up your screen. Maybe because this was all still new, this version of you, this version of him, this version of you and him.
Because youâd spent your whole career learning how to stand alone. How to keep everyone at armâs length. Rivals were rivals. Friends were rare. And Max⌠well Max had never fit neatly into either box.
Congrats on the win. Just donât get too used to it alright? Iâll be back soon.
You hovered over the send button for a second longer, wondering if heâd see through it. If heâd hear what you werenât saying.
I miss it.
I miss you.
I donât know what this is, but itâs starting to matter.
The reply came almost instantly.
Looking forward to it. But seriously take your time. Weâll settle this on the track when youâre ready.
There were no fireworks in the message. No confessions, no overreaching sentiment.
But it meant more than he probably knew.
You leaned back on the couch, phone still in your hand, the hum of the television playing highlights in the background. For the first time in months, you felt something like peace settle over you.
You didnât know when youâd be back. Or if youâd ever be exactly the same driver you were before, but you didnât feel alone anymore.
The new year and the new season came around quick, and finally after what felt like a lifetime of recovery, rehab, and soul-searching, you were ready to return to the grid.
It wasnât easy. It never would be.
The pain hadnât vanished. Some days were better than others, but you knew by now that it would always be there, lingering under the surface like a shadow. What had changed was how you dealt with it. Youâd learned to listen to your body, to recognise the difference between pushing your limits and hurting yourself.
Telling your team hadnât been easy either. There were long, uncomfortable meetings behind closed doors, doctorsâ reports and second opinions, legal clauses and moral dilemmas. Everyone had the same questions: Was it safe? Were you sure? Could you handle it if it went wrong again?
You didnât pretend it was foolproof. There were no guarantees in motorsport but there never has been. You looked them all in the eye and told the truth, you were ready, and more importantly you promised that if it ever got too much again, youâd say something. No more silence. No more hiding.
What surprised you most was that they said yes. That they took the risk on you. And somewhere in the mess of nerves and determination, that gave you a quiet sort of strength.
By the time race week rolled around, your nerves were frayed and your heart was racing before you even set foot in the paddock. But the second you did, something clicked. The smells, the sounds, the adrenaline in the air it all came rushing back.
And then there was Max.
He was one of the first people to spot you as you walked through the paddock gates, your jacket tied around your waist, race bag slung over your shoulder. He made a beeline towards you grinning like a kid.
âAbout time you showed up,â he said, his usual cocky tone back in full force.
You rolled your eyes. âMiss me that much Verstappen?â
He stopped in front of you, eyes glinting. âMaybe. Or maybe I just got bored winning without any real competition.â
âCareful,â you said, nudging his arm with your elbow, âyouâre starting to sound sentimental.â
He grinned. âDonât get used to it. Iâve got a reputation to uphold.â
But then, softer, barely audible beneath the bravado he added, âItâs good to see you back.â
You looked at him for a moment longer than necessary, trying not to let the warmth in his voice get to you. But it did. It always did now.
The race that day was one of the hardest of your career. Every lap was a war between muscle memory and the cautious voice in your head. Every corner was a test of discipline, control, trust in your body. And when you crossed the finish line just behind Max you didnât care that it wasnât a win. You didnât care that your suit was soaked with sweat. Youâd made it. Youâd done it.
You were back.
As you climbed out of the car, your chest heaving, Max was already striding toward you. He didnât wait for the cameras to move. Didnât play it cool. He pulled off his helmet, a wide grin stretched across his face and pulled you into a crushing hug.
âNot bad for your first race back,â he said, cheeks flushed, eyes alive with adrenaline, âbut next time I expect you to give me a real challenge.â
You shot him a look, wiping the sweat from your brow. âOh, donât worry,â you said, breathless but smiling. âI will.â
The weeks following your return were a whirlwind, races, press conferences, back-to-back simulator sessions, long nights with your physio, and an endless stream of media narratives. They called it the comeback of the season, painted you as the fighter, the underdog, the miracle story. But you knew the truth.
It was hard. Every lap still demanded more from you than it ever had before. And the only constant, familiar and infuriating, was Max.
The rivalry between you had never been sharper. He didnât go easy on you. If anything, he pushed harder, drove aggressively when you were in his mirrors, blocked with precision that made you curse into your radio. But even through the heat of battle, there was something else brewing.
It was in the way he waited for you after races now. The way his calls came after rough weekends without needing an explanation. It was in the long glances across the paddock. The casual shoulder bumps that held just a little too long. The way you both kept pretending it was nothing, even when it clearly wasnât.
Max had always been your toughest competitor, but now⌠now, he was something more. He wasnât just the guy pushing you on the track. He was the one who had stood by you when things had fallen apart. He had seen you at your worst and hadnât walked away. He was the one who knew how bad your ribs hurt when the track leaned right. The one whoâd stayed the night when you cried after a brutal practice in Singapore. The one who never once told you to be stronger, he just reminded you that you already were.
A late evening, after a draining Friday practice session, you found yourself next to him on a concrete wall in the far end of the paddock, away from everyone you sat shoulder to shoulder. The track was silent now. The stars were barely visible, but the moon hung low and bright, casting long silver shadows over the empty circuit.
âYou ever think about how weird this is?â he asked.
You looked over at him, brow raised. âWhatâs weird?â
He gestured vaguely between the two of you. âThis. Us. Sitting here. Talking. Not trying to rip each otherâs heads off. You didnât even call me a smug bastard today. Iâm starting to worry.â
You chuckled, shaking your head. âYeah it is a little strange. Guess weâve come a long way.â
âSeriously though,â he said, his smile fading into something quieter, more sincere, âI never expected this.â
You tilted your head. âExpected what?â
âThis... us. Iâve always kept people at armâs length. Easier that way, you know? Just focus on racing. Keep everything else out.â
You swallowed, something catching in your throat. âWell, to be fair you were kind of an asshole when we first met.â
He let out a soft laugh, the sound light but a little sad. âI still am sometimes.â
He looked at you again, longer this time, the silence stretched on, not awkward, but heavy
âI think about it sometimes,â he murmured. âIf things were different. If we werenât in this job... or if we didnât have to pretend...â
âDo you?â you asked, barely above a whisper. âPretend?â
He hesitated for a heartbeat too long. âEvery day.â
The air between you crackled. Your hand was resting next to his on the wall, your pinkies brushing lightly, and neither of you moved away. You swallowed hard, unsure of what to say.
âMaxâŚâ you began, not sure if it was safe to say what had been sitting on the tip of your tongue for weeks.
âAnyway,â he said, standing and stretching, slowly as if reluctant to break the moment. âWeâve got a race tomorrow better get some sleep.â
And as he turned to leave, his hand brushed against yours, deliberately this time and he let it linger just long enough to send your pulse racing.
You watched him disappear down the paddock, your heart a tangle of adrenaline, but this time it didnât feel like an open ending. It felt like the beginning of something that had been slowly building, quietly, stubbornly, undeniably and now, finally, it was starting to take shape.
Your first win of the season felt like a dream. The chequered flag waved, the crowd roared, and for a moment, the entire world blurred into a rush of relief and triumph.
Youâd done it. Youâd won again.
You didnât even get your helmet off before Max was there, grinning like he hadnât just spent seventy laps trying to ruin your life.
âYou actually made me work for that one.â
You pulled off your helmet, shaking out your hair, heart still pounding from the final laps. âAdmit it you were sweating.â
âOh, I was sweating,â he said, stepping closer. âJust not only because of the race.â
Your brows lifted, a smirk tugging at your lips. âWow. Bold move, Verstappen you flirting with me now?â
He shrugged, eyes dropping to your mouth for half a second too long. âBeen doing that for a while. Youâre just slow.â
You let out a breathy laugh, half exhausted and half completely wrecked by the way he was looking at you, like you were the finish line and heâd been chasing you all season.
Later you stood on the top step of the podium, champagne dripping down your fireproofs, heart pounding as the anthem played. And right next to you, among the flashes of cameras you caught Max looking at you. Not with envy. Not with rivalry.
With something else entirely.
Pride. Awe. Maybe even something dangerously close to love.
You thought that was it. The end of a perfect day, but long after the night fell silent there was a knock at your hotel door.
You opened it to find Max standing there. Freshly showered, hair damp, hoodie half-zipped over a Redline t-shirt, eyes impossibly blue in the hallway light.
He didnât say anything at first. Just stood there, hands in his pockets, gaze flickering from your face to your bare feet, then back up.
âYou gonna invite me in?â he asked eventually, a lopsided smile pulling at his lips.
You stepped aside, pulse quickening as he walked in.
The room was quiet. You were still in the oversized team tee you wore to bed, the one that fell to your thighs and smelled faintly of fuel and champagne.
âYou okay?â you asked, closing the door gently behind him.
He nodded. âYeah just... couldnât sleep.â
You tilted your head. âYou? The king of sleeping through debriefs?â
He gave you a look. âThat was one time.â
You smirked, walking over to the small kitchenette to grab a bottle of water, needing something to do with your hands. âSo whatâs really going on?â
Max didnât answer right away. He moved toward the window, looking out over the glittering city lights, his arms crossed over his chest. âIâve been trying to figure out what the hell to say to you for weeks,â he said finally.
You froze, the cap of the bottle halfway twisted. âYeah?â
He turned, and the look on his face was... different. Unarmored.
âYou winning today,â he said softly, âit made everything harder.â
You frowned. âHarder?â
âBecause I keep telling myself to keep this simple,â he went on, walking toward you now, slow and careful. âJust racing. Just rivalry. Just⌠whatever itâs always been between us.â
Your heart pounded louder with every word.
âBut itâs not that anymore,â he said, stopping just a few feet away from you. âHasnât been for a while.â
You swallowed hard. âSo what is it, then?â
He looked at you like he wanted to memorise every inch of your face. Like saying the next words out loud might break him open.
âI think Iâm in love with you,â he said, voice hoarse. âAnd it terrifies me.â
The air left your lungs. The words hit you like a gut punch not because they hurt, but because they were so impossibly vulnerable coming from him. For a second, you just stood there, blinking at him.
âMaxâŚâ
âI didnât come here expecting anything,â he said quickly, âI just⌠I needed to say it. Because watching you win today, watching you come back from everything and still be that fucking brilliant made me realise that if I donât say it now, I might never get the chance. When you won all I could think about was how much I wanted to be the first person you saw after you crossed that line.â
The room felt suddenly too small, the silence between you too loud.
You swallowed again. âMaxââ
âI know what youâre gonna say,â he interrupted, stepping closer. âThat itâs too complicated. That thereâs too much at stake. But you canât stand there and tell me you havenât felt it too. Donât do that to me.â
His voice cracked at the end, and it shattered something inside you.
Silence stretched, thick and fragile.
Of course you had felt it. You felt it in every late-night phone call. Every text that made your chest ache. Every glance across the garage. Every time his car sat just ahead of yours on the starting grid and you felt more pride than envy.
You stepped closer.
âI was afraid,â you admitted. âI didnât want to ruin what we already had. We worked so hard for this friendship, for trust, and wanting more felt greedy. Like it might cost me the one person who never looked away when things got ugly. You reminded me who I was when I forgot. And IâI didn't want to risk losing that. Losing you.â
He gave a breathless laugh, almost disbelieving. âYou think I could ever go back to before⌠to pretending?â
Your hand brushed against his.
He didnât pull away.
Neither did you.
âI feel it too, of course I do.â you whispered. âYou were there when everything fell apart. And you stayed.â
He reached for you then, not to kiss you, not yet, but to cradle your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing gently along your cheekbones.
âIâll keep staying,â he said. âAs long as youâll let me.â
And that was it.
You leaned into him, your hands gripping the front of his T-shirt, and kissed him like youâd been holding it back for far too long. It wasnât rushed. It wasnât desperate. It was deliberate. His hands found your waist, gentle at first, then firmer, like heâd been holding himself back for so long, unsure if he was allowed to want this. But now that the dam had broken, he wasnât going to pretend anymore. You kissed him like you meant it. Your lips moved with his like you already knew the rhythm, like your bodies had been waiting to catch up with what your hearts had already decided.
When you pulled apart, foreheads pressed together, he was smiling.
âSo,â he murmured, brushing his nose against yours, âdoes this mean I can stop pretending I only text you for tire strategy talk?â
You rolled your eyes, and kissed him again just to shut him up.
And just like that, the noise of the world faded, the lights outside blurred, and for the first time, your heart wasnât racing because of fear, or pressure, or pain.
It was because of him.
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