#i keep pausing to just keep looking at him

[madamechrissy]

Caleb's favorite things

pairings - Yandere Caleb x f!reader

warnings - MDNI- just a drabble where Caleb loves putting you in a mating press, breed kink like a mf, possessive and jealous of inanimate objects that get his pips' attention, and being angry that you grip your sheets!

Caleb loves nothing more than putting you in a mating press - fucking desperately into your pretty pussy, while you're just folded in half under him. He loves any position with you, but especially this, so big over you, inside you. 'She only knows my shape, huh?' you nod weakly at that, earning him fucking you harder.

His silver dog tag is dangling as he grips your face with his huge hands so tightly, looking at you with pussy drunk eyes, glinting purple and dilated. His eyes get insane when he fucks you like this, when he gets to cum deep inside your perfect pussy. Nothing makes him more feral than picturing having you filled with him.

'That's it, gonna put so much cum in you, gonna drip me everywhere, huh pips?' he loves to talk shit, a mix of heavy praise and losing himself, you're gripping the sheets underneath you two, nodding weakly. He glares when he catches the action, pulling back and leaning on his knees.

Caleb is not just jealous of anyone near you, he also gets very jealous when you try to grab a plushie and hug it, he throws them right off the bed and fucks you harder. He hates when you snuggle even with pillows, shouldn't he be enough? and now this, it drives him crazy, he lets your thighs spread wide, glaring down at you.

'Are the sheets fucking you honey?' his tone is lilting, so soothing, when he shoves his cock in deep, watching your hips buck, cunt gushing down his thick, veiny cock.

'C-Caleb... please...' you're whining out, he feels so good, cock splitting you apart, while your hands keep gripping.

'Asked ya a question pretty, are the sheets fucking you?' you shake your head, and his jaw tenses, gripping your wrists, dragging your hands to him as he leans over you. 'Then why are you gripping them, and not me?'

You're immediately digging your nails into his strong biceps, earning his moan, when he sinks back inside you, pressing on your tummy, picturing how much cum he was gonna put in your tummy. He's thicker, pulsing as your nails dig so hard they leave marks that will last for days.

'That's it, you want all this cum, huh pips? all these babies?' you nod weakly, slipping your nails down his arms and leaving scratches, he lets out a breathy moan as he leans down, kissing you desperately. you try to bury your face in a pillow and he launches it across the room, scowling again.

'Caleb...' you're giggling, but that soon stops as he fucks you so deep your tummy is bulging with his shape, and he edges you with a rough thumb on your clit. 'please, lemme cum... please...'

'When your attention is on me, pips, only me,' Caleb's pretty violet eyes flutter shut, his dark hair falling while he toys with your slick, twitchy clit, eyeing you as he laps it off his thumb, pausing his stroke. 'Say it, only me, want me to fill you with all my babies?'

'Only you' that's all Caleb needs to roll his hips just right, leaky tip dragging on that little spot in your gummy walls, groaning out and toying your clit how he knows you like it.

'Only me, n-no more... pillows, plushies, sheets- laughin' again pips? you really never learn a lesson, do ya?'

your honor I love this man

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 33: September 2024 - Part 4

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

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

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

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

Warnings and Notes: 

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

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

The office was quiet, soft. A low hum of air-conditioning filled the silence between words, the kind of ambient white noise that Belle had grown to find oddly comforting. She sat cross-legged on the couch, a mug of chamomile tea cooling in her hands. Simone, always calm, always precise, watched her with an expression that never pushed—but always invited.

“I think it’s… better,” Belle said slowly. “Not fixed. Not even close. But better.”

Simone nodded. “What feels better?”

Belle thought for a moment. “Arthur’s been texting more. Charles and Lorenzo send me links to baby things they think I’ll like. Nothing huge. Just... consistent. Like they’re trying.”

“And how does that feel?”

“Confusing,” Belle said honestly. “Nice, sometimes. Other times I want to scream. But I’m not… shutting them out. Not completely.”

Simone’s gaze softened. “That’s progress.”

“Yeah.” Belle gave a wry smile. “It’s baby steps. My mother sends me articles about parenting now. Like I haven’t already read everything the internet has to offer. But she’s trying.”

“And how does it feel when he does?”

“Complicated,” Belle admitted. “It makes me happy, but it also makes me angry, like—where was this five years ago? Where was this when I needed it?”

Simone nodded once, acknowledging the contradiction without judgment. “You’re allowed to feel both. One doesn’t cancel out the other.”

“I know.” Belle paused. “But I think… I want to keep the door open. Just a little.”

“That sounds brave.”

Belle gave a dry laugh. “It sounds terrifying.”

Simone tilted her head. “Would it help if you had more control over how you let them in?”

Belle looked up. “What do you mean?”

Simone set her notebook gently aside. “What if you invited them to something low-stakes? Something where they’re part of your world, but not the center of it. Somewhere you can set the tone, and where other people are around. Like a buffer.”

Belle blinked. “Like what?”

Simone smiled lightly. “You mentioned Max’s birthday. That you’re planning to decorate the nursery that weekend?”

“Yeah…” Belle’s voice trailed off as the thought formed. “We were going to build the shelves and hang the prints. Nothing fancy. Just… make it feel real.”

“What if you invited your family to be part of that?” Simone asked gently. “Not the whole day. Not a big deal. Just… included.”

Belle was quiet for a moment. “It wouldn’t be about them.”

“Exactly,” Simone said. “It’s about you. Your space. Your child. But it could be a way to let them step into that gently. On your terms.”

“And if it’s awful, I can make Max tell them to leave,” Belle muttered.

Simone smiled. “You’re not alone anymore. That’s the difference.”

Belle stared down into her tea. The idea sat heavily—but not painfully.

Maybe it wasn’t a reconciliation. Maybe it wasn’t forgiveness.

Maybe it was just… the next step.

“Okay,” Belle said softly. “Maybe I’ll ask them.”

Simone nodded, kind and steady. “Only if you want to. You don’t owe anyone a seat in your story. But if you want to hand them a folding chair—they’ll know where to find it.”

Belle snorted. “God, that’s such a therapist metaphor.”

“And yet,” Simone said, eyes twinkling, “you got it immediately.”

Belle smiled, small and tired and real. “I did.”

***

The fan hummed softly overhead. The windows were cracked open just enough to let the night air in, and Belle was half-curled on her side, head resting on Max’s chest, her fingers absently tracing the edge of his shirt.

They were supposed to be asleep. But the baby had kicked just hard enough to startle Belle, and now sleep felt like a distant thought.

“Do you want to keep talking names?” Max asked quietly, not pushing, just offering.

Belle didn’t answer right away. Her fingers paused, then started again. “Maybe.”

Max waited.

“I’ve been thinking about middle names,” she said eventually. “And… I don’t know. I’m stuck.”

“Too many options?” he asked, brushing his hand along her spine.

She shook her head. “Just one. That I keep coming back to.”

Max was quiet, letting her shape the words however she needed to.

“My father’s name,” Belle said softly. “Hervé.”

He didn’t react. Just shifted a little so he could see her face better. “Okay.”

“There’s this… expectation,” she continued. “I haven’t said anything to anyone, but I know. My family will assume we’ll use it. Especially because we are having a boy. It’ll be this unspoken thing that I’m supposed to do.”

Max ran his thumb gently along her arm. “Do you want to?”

Belle was quiet again. “I don’t know.”

And that was the honest truth.

“I loved him,” she said, her voice rough now. “He died when I was nineteen. There’s a part of me that still misses him every day.”

Max’s eyes softened. “I know.”

“But he also…” She swallowed. “He sold Blanche.”

Belle let out a breath. “Sold her. My horse. My best friend. Just—gone. For karting tires. For Charles. And I know it was to help the family, and I know he thought he was doing the right thing. But he never even told me. He didn’t say goodbye. I came home and the stable was just… empty.”

Max didn’t try to fix it. He just leaned in a little, one arm brushing hers. Letting her feel him there.

“So now,” she said, throat tight, “I think of giving our child his name, and there’s this voice in my head saying, you should. That it’s the right thing. That I’ll be ungrateful if I don’t. That everyone will judge me.”

Max reached for her hand and wrapped it gently in his.

“But then,” Belle whispered, “there’s this other part of me that still feels like that girl. Standing in that empty stable. Wondering why I wasn’t enough to keep.”

Silence bloomed between them. Not heavy. Not cold. Just true.

After a moment, Max spoke, voice low but certain. “You don’t owe anyone that name.”

“I know,” she said. “But part of me still wants to give it to the baby. Because he was my dad. Because I did love him. Because it wasn’t all bad.”

She turned to look at Max. “Is that stupid?”

“No,” he said immediately. “It’s not stupid. It’s human. He mattered to you. It’s okay that it’s complicated.”

Belle’s eyes glistened. “What if people think I’m being selfish for not using it?”

Max shifted closer, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Then let them think it. This isn’t about them. It’s about what feels right to you. To us.”

She leaned into him slightly, comforted by the certainty in his voice.

“And Belle,” he added, voice gentler now, “you know Charles or Arthur or maybe even Lorenzo will use the name. One of them will. Hervé will live on, one way or another.”

Belle turned slightly toward him.

“And maybe they should,” Max continued. “Because he had a different meaning to them. Because Hervé was their father too. And that’s their grief to carry, their memory to honor.”

Belle gave a small, tearful laugh. “Arthur will probably make it the kid’s first name and then forget to tell anyone.”

Max smiled. “Exactly. So you don’t have to carry that weight for them. Not this time.”

She nodded, silent again. But this time, it felt less like drowning in indecision and more like finding breath.

He squeezed her hand. “This is our child. And this name? This is yours to choose. Not for tradition. Not for guilt. For love.”

Belle blinked back tears she hadn’t meant to let fall.

Max smiled softly. “If you want to use Hervé, we can. But it doesn’t have to be this time. Or ever. Our baby won’t love you less. He won’t even know unless you choose to tell him.”

Belle exhaled shakily and rested her head on his shoulder.

“Can we just… sit on it for a while?”

“For as long as you want,” Max said. “We’ve got time.”

Belle stayed curled against him, listening to the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat. One of his hands had settled over the curve of her belly again, warm and grounding. She didn’t want to break the moment—but she also didn’t want to hold it in anymore.

“There’s something else,” she said quietly.

Max shifted just enough to show he was listening.

“I saw Simone yesterday.”

“Yeah?” he murmured. “How was it?”

“Good,” Belle said. Then, after a pause: “Hard. But good.”

Max waited.

“She brought something up. Something I haven’t stopped thinking about since.”

Max hummed softly, encouragement in sound form.

“She suggested… maybe I invite my family to help with the nursery. On your birthday.”

Max blinked. “Oh.”

“I know that’s not what we planned,” Belle rushed to say. “And it’s totally okay if you don’t want to. Or if it feels like too much. I just—Simone said it might be easier if I let them come when it’s not just about me. When it’s already a full day. Less pressure. Less expectation. More people around.”

She lifted her head slightly to look at him. “Would that be okay?”

Max was quiet for a moment. Not because he was upset—Belle knew his silences now. This one was full of thought, not hesitation.

“I don’t care what my birthday looks like,” he said softly. “As long as you’re okay. If this helps you… if this makes it easier to let them in, even just a little—I’m all for it.”

Belle’s brows knit, uncertain. “Are you sure?”

Max reached up and gently tucked her hair behind her ear. “I’m sure.”

She searched his face for any sign of discomfort. There was none.

“I just…” She took a breath. “I don’t want it to become a whole thing. Like—‘we’re all fine now,’ or ‘look how close we are again.’ I’m not there. I’m not even close.”

“You don’t have to be,” Max said. “It doesn’t have to be anything more than a few hours of paint and furniture and wallpaper. If anyone tries to turn it into a redemption arc, I’ll lock them in the garage with Christian.”

Belle laughed wetly, wiping her eyes.

“Let them come,” Max said, gently. “Let them hold a paintbrush and hang some shelves and exist in a space that you created. That we’re building for our son.”

She exhaled slowly, like letting something heavy slide from her shoulders.

“And if at any point it’s too much,” Max added, “just say the word. I’ll fake a plumbing emergency.”

Belle snorted. “A plumbing emergency in a newly built Monaco penthouse?”

He grinned. “I’m very committed to the bit.”

She rested her forehead against his. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For letting me have it both ways,” she said softly. “For letting me try.”

Max’s voice dropped, rough with affection. “I always will.”

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Lando Norris

Max: you’re coming to my birthday next weekend don’t make a face we’re decorating the nursery

Lando: oh thank god i thought you were about to make me wear a button-down and socialize

Max: no button-down just emotional labor and assembling IKEA furniture

Lando: so… worse

Max: also the Leclerc brothers will be there all of them

Lando: MAX NO no no no no no i’m not sitting through Arthur quoting Pinterest at us and Charles making emotionally repressed noises

Max: that’s why i’m texting you i’m not sitting through that alone you’re my support gremlin

Lando: i hate it here

Max: bring a drill and snacks or just stand near me and make fun of Arthur under your breath either works

Lando: i had plans that day

Max: do you even know what day it is

Lando: not the point

***

Text Messages: Lando Norris & Emilie Abadie

Lando: MAX IS MAKING ME GO TO HIS BIRTHDAY NURSERY BUILDING CHAOS THING

Emilie: yes. we are going.

Lando: WHAT WE??

Emilie: yes. You’re not getting out of it. I already RSVP’d for us when Belle mentioned it

Lando: this feels like betrayal

Emilie: it’s community support and if i have to be in the same room as Charles, i’m not doing it alone

Lando: but i was going to play FIFA and ignore my feelings

Emilie: congratulations. now you’ll be building a changing table and confronting emotional growth instead

Lando: i’m calling HR

Emilie: HR said bring cupcakes

***

Text Messages: Lando Norris & Max Verstappen

Lando: we’re coming emilie sold me out

Max: excellent i’ll save you a paint roller

Lando: i hope the baby grows up to be a McLaren fan out of sheer spite

***

Group Chat: WHAT IS HAPPENING

(Members: Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri and Daniel Ricciardo)

Lando: i need backup this is an emergency

Oscar: hello to you too

Daniel: what did you do now

Lando: MAX invited me to his birthday which is also apparently a nursery decorating session AND THE LECLERCS WILL BE THERE plural. brothers. full trio. mother. no escape

Oscar: so what you’re saying is you’re being forced to be emotionally supportive and also use a screwdriver

Lando: YES emilie said we’re going i didn’t even have a say i was mid toast when she RSVP’d for both of us

Daniel: mate that sounds like a you problem i’m in australia 8,000 miles away UNREACHABLE

Lando: that’s cowardice

Daniel: that’s geography 😌

Lando: oscar please don’t leave me alone with a roll of painter’s tape and charles leclerc talking about childhood trauma

Oscar: unfortunately i have a prior engagement

Lando: you don’t even know what day it is

Oscar: still. engagement confirmed. cannot cancel.

Daniel: i hope they make you do the stenciling

Oscar: i hope you get stuck between Arthur and Jos in a very small room

Lando: i hate both of you i want that on record

Daniel: duly noted, now post pictures of you holding a baby onesie and pretending to care

Oscar: bonus points if you cry during the wallpaper reveal

Lando: this is abuse

Daniel: this is family ❤️

***

Text Messages: Lando Norris & Lily Zneimer

Lando: Lily. Light of Oscar’s life. i need your help.

Lily: what did he do now

Lando: MAX invited us to his birthday slash nursery decorating emotional ambush oscar said he had “a prior engagement” please tell me that’s fake. PLEASE.

Lily: excuse me??? this is the first i’m hearing of it

Lando: I KNEW IT he’s trying to abandon me with a paint roller and charles leclerc’s unresolved childhood trauma

Lily: he said nothing about this we are absolutely going

Lando: thank god you’re my favorite

Lily: i am texting him right now “prior engagement” my ass the engagement is with Belle’s wallpaper

Lando: can i stand next to you the whole time

Lily: yes but only if you bring cupcakes and stop calling it an emotional ambush

Lando: i make no promises

***

Text Messages: Lily Zneimer & Oscar Piastri

Lily: “prior engagement” ??? MAX’S NURSERY DAY IS NEXT WEEKEND AND YOU LIED

Oscar: i didn’t lie i deflected

Lily: we’re going. you’re painting something. lando is emotionally fragile. you are not abandoning him.

Oscar: i regret all of my life choices

***

Text Messages: Oscar Piastri & Lando Norris

Oscar:I hate you.

Oscar:Lily said i have to help you emotionally regulate during baby-themed social situations

***

Leclerc Family Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, Lorenzo and Pascale)

Belle: Hi everyone— I wanted to let you know that we’re doing some nursery decorating on Max’s birthday. Nothing formal, just paint and furniture and probably chaos. We’ll be at the house all day. If anyone wants to come by and help, you’re welcome.

Belle: No pressure. But… if you want to be part of this, this is a good place to start.

Arthur: i’ll be there!! do i need to bring snacks??

Charles: Thank you for inviting us We’d love to help

Lorenzo: Do you need tools? Or wine?

Belle: both, probably

Pascale: Thank you, ma chérie. I’d love to come. Let me know what you need.

Belle:Just… bring yourselves. And maybe don’t wear white.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Max: just a heads up the entire Leclerc family might be at the house next weekend

Victoria: wait what like… the Leclerc family?

Max: all of them Belle invited them to help with the nursery on my birthday painting. furniture. emotional tension. the works.

Victoria: so… you’re telling me that i need to bring snacks, patience, and a fully charged phone for live updates

Max: absolutely arthur’s already trying to bring snacks so we’ll see how that goes

Max: i’m just warning you there will be wallpaper there will be feelings there may be passive-aggressive screwdriver moments

Victoria: i’m bringing wine and wearing black in case we need to mourn the concept of boundaries

Max: smart also maybe stay near belle just in case she needs backup

Victoria: always

Max: she’s trying so hard i just want it to go okay

Victoria: it will you’ve got me and a surprisingly motivated lando norris, apparently

Max: he’s been emotionally blackmailed into coming it’s beautiful

Victoria: see you there, birthday boy don’t let anyone cry on the crib mattress

Max: no promises

***

Team Redline Stream Transcript

Luke Crane: (laughing) “Okay, okay — last lap, and then serious question time. Max. Birthday boy. What’s the plan for tomorrow?”

Max: (without hesitation) “Ah, nothing crazy. My family’s coming over.”

Gianni Vecchio: “So what, big party? Michelin chef? Yacht? Balloons shaped like racing trophies?”

Max:  “No, nothing like that this year.” (pauses, completely deadpan) “We’re doing the nursery.”

(beat of stunned silence)

Chris Lulham: “…You’re doing what?”

Max: (grinning now) “You heard me.”

Chris: “Mate. Like… baby nursery?”

CHAT: 🧡🧡🧡 “Wait. THE NURSERY??” “HELLO???” “Is this how we find out he’s building the baby room???” “MAX. HELLO. BACK UP.” “Soft dad mode ACTIVATED.” “27 and domesticated.” “Say ‘my wife’ next, I dare you.”

Max (nodding, smiling like it’s the best thing in the world): “Yeah. Belle wants everything up before December, so we’re starting now. Wallpaper, furniture, the works. It’s… nice. Feels real.”

Luke: “You’re telling me you, Max Verstappen, multi-time F1 World Champion, are spending your birthday assembling a crib?”

Max: “Yeah. Why not? We’ve got to put up the wallpaper. And the mobile thing. The one with the little monkeys. I have been trying to build the giraffe lamp for three days and failing.”

CHAT: “BELLEEEE 🥺” “JUNGLE. NURSERY. I’M DEAD.” “Wait it’s a jungle theme I can’t breathe that’s so cute.” “HE SAID HER NAME.” “‘My family is coming over’ = wife + baby bump confirmed.” “IKEA collab when.”

Luke:  “Do we get a vlog? A ‘Verstappen Builds a Jungle’ series?”

Max:  “You can come help if you want.”

Luke:  “Absolutely not. I’m not getting blamed if the giraffe ends up upside down.”

Max: (shrugging)  “It’s Belle’s vision. I’m just the assistant. And maybe the muscle.”

Chris:   “Can’t believe the guy who nearly flipped a kart at age nine is excited about monkey mobiles.”

Max:  “Yeah, well. Turns out there are better things than trophies.”

Gianni:  “…you’re telling me your birthday party is IKEA furniture and jungle wallpaper?”

Max (smiling): “Yeah. And honestly? I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

Chris: “God, he’s in deep.”

Luke: “Deep? He’s gone. Man said nursery like it was a five-star spa weekend.”

Max: “It kind of is. You don’t know joy until you see Belle looking at stuffed lion.”

Gianni: “Max Verstappen: Three-time World Champion. King of the jungle nursery.”

Max: “Soon-to-be father of one very spoiled, very loved little monkey.”

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/gridwife: MAX VERSTAPPEN SAID “YOU DON’T KNOW JOY UNTIL YOU SEE BELLE LOOKING AT STUFFED LIONS” don’t touch me i’m emotional

@/rbrarchive: i don’t want Drive to Survive i want a 4-part miniseries called “Verstappen Builds a Jungle”

@/formulafem: Belle: “Don’t make it all about me.” Max: “Her name is Belle. She wants monkeys. I love her. My job is giraffe assembly.” 🥹🥹🥹

@/kartsandcookies: Soft dad era Max Verstappen is stronger than any Red Bull aero package. He’s GONE. He’s in the jungle with a mobile in one hand and an allen key in the other.

@/f1contentqueen: We just watched Max Verstappen admit live on stream that he’s building a jungle-themed nursery for his child. On his birthday. Because Belle wants it done before December. Sir. You are the prize.

@/itsgivingdadenergy: 27. Multi-World Champion. Could be celebrating on a yacht. Instead: – Crib assembly – Monkey mobile – Jungle wallpaper – Saying “there are better things than trophies” 🥹

@/alonsohascats: MAX SAID BELLE WANTS “EVERYTHING UP BEFORE DECEMBER” SOFT DEADLINE?? BABY VERSTAPPEN ETA CONFIRMED FOR DECEMBER???? HELLO????

@/verstappenanon: You can actually hear Chris Lulham’s soul leave his body when Max says “the nursery.” I need the highlight reel. I need the full transcript. I need therapy.

@/sheercontent: Please understand that “Soon-to-be father of one very spoiled, very loved little monkey” is now my religion.

@/formulaiconics: Someone asked Max Verstappen what he’s doing for his birthday and he said “assembling jungle furniture for my unborn child.” This man has never been hotter.

@/gridtea: Max: "My family is coming over." Us: oh cute. Max: "We're doing the nursery." Us: EMOTIONAL COLLAPSE

@/carbonsnack:

I regret to inform you that Max Verstappen is so deep in domestic bliss he considers building IKEA furniture a birthday treat.

@/chaosandcarbon:

Max Verstappen, in 2019: “I’m here to win.”

Max Verstappen, in 2024: “I’ve been trying to build the giraffe lamp for three days.”

@/iknowaboutthegiraffelamp

if you’d told me five years ago that Max Verstappen would be losing sleep over a giraffe lamp and grinning about baby mobiles on Twitch I would’ve called you delusional but here we are

***

The plan had been simple.

Paint the nursery. Assemble the crib. Maybe hang the curtains. A cozy afternoon with a few close people.

Instead, there were 20 humans, two stepladders, a very suspicious IKEA instruction manual, and one giraffe lamp with a death wish.

***

In one corner of the nursery:

“Don’t force it,” Lily said calmly, crouched beside Oscar as she braced the neck of the lamp, her fingers steady against the ceramic.

“I’m not,” Oscar replied, tone even, brows furrowed in concentration as he adjusted the internal wiring with surgical precision. “But whoever assembled this originally had a deep disregard for physics. Possibly also sanity.”

Lily glanced at him, amused. “So Max, then.”

He gave her a long, unimpressed look. “Do you want the giraffe to work or not?”

She held up one hand in surrender but didn’t let go of the lamp. “Please continue your delicate surgery, Doctor Piastri.”

Oscar muttered something under his breath about hostile work environments, but his hands were careful, his focus razor-sharp. Despite the chaos unfolding around them—Arthur dropping wallpaper paste on the floor, Charles reading the instructions upside down, Lando declaring himself a “pattern expert”—the corner they’d carved out for themselves was oddly peaceful.

They’d been working on the lamp for nearly twenty minutes. Rewiring the socket, re-aligning the brass hardware, and gluing down a chip in the giraffe’s ear with Lily’s travel-sized nail glue. The giraffe’s head, slightly cocked to the side, had a vaguely judgmental expression, as if it, too, was questioning every decision that had led to this moment.

It fit right in.

“There,” Oscar said finally, sitting back on his heels. “Moment of truth.”

He reached up and flipped the switch.

The giraffe’s eyes lit up—literally. Two soft golden bulbs nestled behind the ceramic pupils flickered to life, casting a warm, slightly eerie glow around the corner of the nursery.

Lily gasped, delighted. “It’s majestic.”

Oscar tilted his head. “It’s deeply unsettling.”

“Majestically unsettling,” she corrected. “I’m naming him Gerard.”

Oscar blinked. “Gerard?”

She nodded, solemn. “He’s seen things. He has opinions. He’s here to supervise.”

Oscar glanced at the giraffe’s glowing face and then at Lily. “We’re not keeping this in the corner. It’s going next to the changing table. That way the baby can meet Gerard during every diaper change.”

“Perfect,” Lily said. “An early lesson in judgment and accountability.”

They both laughed, low and warm, the kind of laugh that comes from knowing each other too well and still liking what they find.

Across the room, Belle caught the glow out of the corner of her eye and smiled. “Did you fix it?”

Oscar looked up. “Gerard lives.”

Belle blinked. “You named the lamp?”

Lily patted Gerard on the head. “He named himself.”

Max, overhearing, just said, “If that lamp judges me at 3am while I’m trying to swaddle a screaming child, I’m throwing it in the bin.”

Oscar stood, dusting off his hands. “He’d survive. Gerard has strong main character energy.”

***

In another corner of the nursery:

“Okay,” Alexandra said, holding up a brass knob shaped like a monkey. “We’ve got a giraffe, an elephant, a lion, a hippo, and this little guy. Rank them in order of jungle superiority.”

“Giraffe wins for drama,” Emilie said, without looking up as she carefully smoothed down a tiny cotton onesie covered in embroidered leaves. “Monkeys are too chaotic. They’re basically Lando with a tail.”

Charlotte, on her knees by the partially assembled dresser, looked up with a grin. “So lion goes in the center drawer. Obviously. Power placement.”

“Agreed,” Alexandra said, already unscrewing the generic silver knobs from the dresser Max had built three weeks ago and left in ‘temporary, totally functional’ mode. “This child will be raised with aesthetics and authority.”

“Also, do we alphabetize the clothes?” Charlotte asked, holding up a delicate pale green muslin romper. “Or organize by size? Or by outfit vibe?”

Emilie blinked. “Is… outfit vibe a category?”

Charlotte shrugged. “If it’s not, I’m inventing it. Look at this cardigan. It’s giving ‘baby goes to brunch.’ This one?” She held up a tiny zip-up hoodie with bear ears. “This is ‘baby goes camping but stylishly.’”

Alexandra held up a pair of overalls the size of a dinner napkin. “This is ‘baby is emotionally prepared for tax season.’”

Emilie snorted. “Belle is going to walk in here and either cry from joy or immediately revoke our access to her child’s wardrobe.”

“I’m betting on both,” Charlotte said.

They laughed, quietly, gently, surrounded by soft fabrics and the scent of wood polish. Emilie reached for the drawer handles and began screwing on the animal knobs—giraffe on the top left, lion in the middle, elephant bottom right. It was absurd how satisfying it felt.

“Does this feel… real to you?” Alexandra asked after a moment, her voice a little softer now. “Like… Belle is having a baby.”

Emilie paused, hand resting on the edge of the dresser. “Sometimes, no. And then I fold a pair of newborn socks and remember that a tiny person is going to wear them.”

Charlotte added, “A tiny person with Max Verstappen’s DNA. Which means we’re probably going to have to baby-proof the sim rig by month four.”

Emilie smiled, but her eyes were warm. “They’re going to be so good at this.”

“They already are,” Alexandra said.

Emilie screwed in the last knob—a hippo, slightly crooked, just enough to be charming.

“Done,” she announced.

Charlotte leaned over to inspect. “That hippo is judging me.”

“Perfect,” Emilie said, sitting back on her heels. “He and Gerard the giraffe lamp can have meetings.”

***

In another corner: 

It was supposed to be a straightforward job.

 One wall.

Four panels of jungle-themed wallpaper.

An afternoon of light banter and bonding.

Instead, it had become a cautionary tale about letting three Leclercs, two Verstappens and a chaos-addicted McLaren driver do anything involving measurements.

“Okay,” Max said through gritted teeth, holding the smoothing tool in one hand and a strip of wallpaper in the other, “this is the last panel. We just need to line it up with the tree trunk on the previous one.”

Charles leaned in, squinting. “It’s already misaligned.”

“I haven’t even put it on the wall yet, Charles.”

Arthur, standing precariously on the second ladder with a glue brush in one hand and his phone flashlight in the other, said, “It’s the giraffe that’s off. Look. Its legs don’t line up.”

Lando, sitting cross-legged on the floor, leaned back slowly until he was lying flat, arms splayed out dramatically. “I could be anywhere else. I could be in Bali. Or dead. Either would be better than this.”

“You’re not helping,” Max muttered.

“I told you I wasn’t helping,” Lando said, voice muffled by the carpet. “I was promised cake and low-stakes birthday vibes. Not psychological warfare disguised as home improvement.”

Lorenzo sighed loudly. “I said we should’ve started with the right side and worked left. But nooo, Arthur had a system.”

Arthur looked offended. “My system was logical!”

Jos, standing by the door like a deeply disappointed god, crossed his arms. “Your system has resulted in two upside-down leaves, a floating lemur, and ten minutes of arguing about tree trunks.”

Charles rolled his eyes. “We wouldn’t be arguing if people listened to me when I said we needed a laser level.”

“NO ONE OWNS A LASER LEVEL, CHARLES,” Max snapped, eyes wild.

“I do,” Jos said, calmly.

Everyone turned to look at him.

“What?” he asked. “I like precision.”

Lando groaned from the floor. “I’m going to fake an injury. Someone drop a bookshelf on me.”

“Can we please just get this on the wall before my son graduates university?” Max asked, voice climbing into a pitch usually reserved for pit wall frustration.

Jos stepped forward silently and took the smoothing tool from Max’s hand.

“Oh, thank god,” Lando muttered.

With terrifying precision, Jos adjusted the paper, ran the tool down the seam, and stepped back. It was perfectly aligned.

No one said a word for a full five seconds.

Then Jos, still deadpan, muttered, “It’s like working with unmedicated squirrels.”

Arthur snorted.

Lorenzo looked personally wounded.

Charles opened his mouth and wisely closed it again.

Max dragged a hand down his face. “Why did I think this was a good idea?”

Lando, now half-asleep on the floor: “Because you love Belle. It’s always because you love Belle.”

Jos handed the smoothing tool back to Max and walked out without a word.

A moment of silence followed.

Then Arthur said, “Should we… fix the lemur?”

Max turned slowly. “If you touch that wall again, I’m using your face to test the crib mattress.”

***

In another corner: 

The nursery was full of chaos—ladders, laughter, half-screwed drawer knobs, wallpaper that had probably driven someone to therapy. So Belle had retreated to the sun-drenched living room with a basket of baby clothes and a folding station made out of the coffee table. Victoria helping her sort the clothing by size. 

Sophie knelt near the bookshelf, methodically stacking picture books and board games by theme and height. Pascale perched neatly on the edge of the armchair, holding a cup of herbal tea. 

In the hallway just outside, the sounds of chaos filtered in: a thump, a shout, and the unmistakable hiss of an offended cat.

“I said don’t chase Sassy with the tambourine!” Tom called, exasperated.

“We’re not chasing it, we’re guiding her with sound!” one of the children yelled back.

Victoria winced. “That’s the third time today.”

Belle sighed.  “She’ll live. Granted, she’ll loudly complain to Max this evening, but she’ll survive. ”

They shared a smile, the kind of tired, knowing thing women passed between each other without words.

The conversation drifted toward baby names as Belle started sorting through the pile of baby clothing.

“We’ve narrowed it down,” she said casually, “but we’re still thinking about middle names.”

“Have you considered something from your side of the family?” Victoria asked gently.

Pascale perked up immediately, voice sweet with just the faintest edge of expectation. “I always thought Hervé would be such a lovely tribute.”

The words hung in the air.

Belle’s shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly. “Yes,” she said, carefully. “We’ve talked about it.”

“I just think,” Pascale continued, smiling, “it would be such a nice way to honor your father. Especially since it’s a boy. Your father would’ve been so proud.”

Sophie, without looking up from her espresso, said, “Would he?”

Pascale blinked. “Excuse me?”

Sophie set her cup down and looked up slowly, voice as calm and cutting as a fine blade. “You speak as if love and grief are simple. As if honoring someone is a duty, not a choice.”

Belle’s breath hitched, just slightly.

“He was her father,” Pascale said, defensively.

“Yes,” Sophie said. “And he made choices that hurt her. That shaped her. That took something from her she never got back. That doesn’t make him a villain. But it does make this complicated.”

“I’m not saying he was perfect,” Pascale said stiffly. “But he was part of her.”

“And she’s allowed to decide which parts she wants to pass on,” Sophie said. “You may think you’re asking for a tribute. But what she hears is a demand.”

Pascale fell quiet. Not insulted. Just… still. Like someone who’d finally heard something that made the ground tilt.

Belle didn’t speak. She just folded a blanket slowly, fingers steady even though her throat was tight.

Sophie’s voice softened. “If Belle chooses that name, it should be because it brings her peace. Not because she feels indebted to grief.”

Victoria reached out and gently squeezed Belle’s hand.

And then—quietly, almost too quiet to hear—Pascale said, “I never thought of it like that.”

Belle looked up.

Pascale swallowed. “I just… I thought I was helping. I thought keeping his name alive meant something. But maybe I was asking her to carry something I should’ve been carrying myself.”

Sophie nodded, sitting back. “Then perhaps now, you can start letting her choose her own way to remember him.”

***

Instagram Stories: @/victoriaverstappen

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/sportschaosnet max verstappen going from “i don’t need friends” to “i have a jungle-themed nursery and a sister who writes poetry about it” is MY roman empire

@/OscarHardLaunch MAX HAS A NURSERY THERE IS A JUNGLE THEMED NURSERY THE CATS HAVE BEEN DEFEATED THE ERA HAS BEGUN

@/wheresthedrama Studio_B tag = BELLE IS THE DESIGNER = Max Verstappen’s wife is actually an interior architect with immaculate taste Do not speak to me I’m in mourning for my own walls

@/featherandfuel “Happy birthday, Max. You picked the best kind of life.” HELLO???? I’M CRYING IN TARGET

@/MaxVerstappenDefenseSquad can’t believe max verstappen’s redemption arc includes a eucalyptus mobile, a giraffe lamp, and an younger sister who now speaks in emotional prose

@/charlesgirliesunite i just know charles walked into that nursery and immediately questioned every aesthetic choice he’s ever made

@/formulalatte tbh the only thing more powerful than belle’s design taste is victoria's commitment to chaos. what do you mean “objective: avoid punching my brother” girl HELP

@/verstappenupdates victoria tagging @studio_b like belle isn't her sister-in-law and bestie now LMAOOO supportive queen

@/circuithearts max verstappen having a jungle nursery and victoria getting emotional about it was not on my 2024 bingo card but I’m here for the domestic era

@/softerverstappen “Happy Birthday, Max. You picked the best kind of life.” i am on the FLOOR. this is max’s roman empire.

***

The house was quiet. Max had gone out for a drive to clear his head after dinner, and the chaos of the day—the laughter, the teasing, the wallpaper war—had finally settled into a gentle hum in Belle’s memory.

She sat cross-legged on the rug in the half-lit nursery, a notepad resting on her knee. The giraffe lamp—Gerard—cast a golden glow over the list of names she’d scribbled and rewritten so many times the page had started to wrinkle.

She wasn’t even pretending to be objective anymore. The list was chaotic. A mix of classic and unusual, soft and strong. Names Max had liked. Names Belle had dismissed. Names from books. Names from nowhere.

And again—again—her pen landed on the same one.

Emilian.

She wrote it down softly. Fourth time this week.

She didn’t say it out loud. Didn’t need to. Just traced the letters, over and over, until the ink deepened and the paper thinned beneath it.

It was Max’s middle name. One he almost never used. One that came up once in conversation, early on, and she’d filed it away without knowing why.

But that wasn’t the only reason.

It was Emilie, too. The girl who had stood beside her in everything. The one who’d carried her grief like it was nothing and handed her back joy in return. It was Emilie’s laugh. Emilie’s loyalty. Emilie, who had become something like a sister without ever asking for the title.

Emilian.

It felt right in a way she couldn’t explain.

Strong, but soft. Steady.

She never said anything to Max. Not yet. She didn’t know if she was allowed to name something so permanent after people who already meant so much. Didn’t know if Max would see it as sentimental or strange.

So she kept the name to herself.

Wrote it at the top of every new page.

Circled it absentmindedly when she talked to the baby alone in the quiet.

Sometimes whispered it under her breath when she folded tiny onesies or passed by the crib and imagined someone small in it.

Emilian.

Maybe she was waiting to see if Max said it first. Or maybe she just needed to be sure.

But again and again—when she closed her eyes, when she dreamed of someone with Max’s eyes and her stubbornness—

That was the name that came back.

[deathofacupid]

★ in which satoru assures you that pre-wedding jitters are nothing to be worried about xx

"you're freaking out," satoru says, his knock on the heavy mahogany door startling you. your eyes dart to the rich wood, and a frown creases your brow.

"don't come in!" you scold, ignoring his claim. "it's bad luck if you see me before the ceremony."

a faint chuckle floats through the door, and you can practically hear the defensiveness in his voice. "i'm not, i'm not." there's a soft shuffle of movement behind the wood, and you let out a sigh.

"okay, so… i'm a little nervous," you admit, your fingers fiddling with the delicate fabric of your wedding dress. it’s truly beautiful — a dress that your younger self, with her countless pinterest boards, would have been absolutely elated to find.

everything has been perfect so far. satoru made sure of it. but mostly, it’s been perfect because it’s the day you’ve been looking forward to since the moment you met him. there's little that could mess it up, you think, but the stakes still feel incredibly high.

satoru jokes, but you can sense a hint of panic underneath his words. "you're not getting cold feet, are you?"

quick to reassure him, you shake your head, even though he can't see it. "no, 'toru. that's not what i'm worried about. it's more along the lines of, like, tripping down the aisle. what if i trip down the aisle? do you know how mortifying that would be?"

"you're not gonna trip, baby," he snickers, and you're not particularly fond of the amusement he finds in your anxiety. "and if you do, i'll… trip in solidarity."

"in solidarity?" you repeat, scoffing. "seriously? what does that even mean?"

"i'll face-plant alongside you. that way, you won't fall alone. duh."

"okay." a pause, as you tread carefully with your words. "do not do that."

you're sure satoru is pouting on the other side of the door. "why not? isn't that romantic?"

you ignore him, standing up and brushing down your gown, chewing on your bottom lip. "what if it starts raining?"

"does it matter? we're inside."

"oh. right," you mumble, stopping your pacing. "you aren't nervous?"

there's a beat of silence. "no, i'm not. i just want to be married to you already. it's not like i have anything to be scared about, anyway. unless you're planning on running away with my best man?" he kids.

"depends. does geto often have the bright idea to down two cups of coffee before bed and then act surprised when he can't fall asleep until after midnight? and keep me up in the process?"

"point taken. but we make good use of that time, don't we?"

you huff, crossing your arms as heat rises to your cheeks. "shut up."

"hey," he whispers, his knuckles tapping against the door again. "open it."

"what? i can't. it's bad luck," you repeat.

"i know, i know. i'll keep my eyes closed. promise." there's a new softness in his tone, and it has you giving in instantly.

satoru never has to try very hard to convince you of anything. besides, you miss him. it hasn't been long at all, but even the minutes feel like hours, making you ache for his warmth, his touch.

you, a little less than hesitant, pull the door open, and it quietly creaks. your breath catches as soon as you see him, his striking white lashes fluttered shut.

his hair is delicately styled back, held in place with a touch of gel. clad in a perfectly tailored black tie tuxedo, satoru looks absolutely heavenly. your fiancé. your to-be-husband. your soulmate.

he feels for your waist, gently pulling you against his chest, and you melt into his familiar touch. "i just know you look beautiful," he breathes, his voice a low rumble. "i can't wait to see you walk down that aisle."

"i can't wait to walk to that aisle."

he holds you just a little tighter. "i can't wait for you to be my wife."

"ready to get married?" you ask, from the crook of his neck.

oh, he's been ready.

[yasministration]

hands full - harry potter

summary: sex with harry potter makes you lose your ability to think, even when his mother is speaking to him on the other side of the locked door. 1.3k words of basically pure filth. porn and no plot. cw: almost getting caught? kind of? concussions and interruptions au - can be read as a standalone

The oxygen in the room was heavy, barely making its way into your lungs with every slow shove of his pelvis into yours, your skin dragging upwards in a pinch with the force of Harry’s moving hips, rolling over the bones of yours with bruising potential. Moans were fluidly tumbling out of your lips, like a chant, a prayer of some sort that no one could prevent.

Harry’s hair tickled the skin of your neck, his hot breath pulsating against the layer of sweat coating you. He murmured sweet words, lips brushing the shell of your ear. It was half for himself, half for you. “Oh, you’re doing so good for me, sweetheart,” That one got a particularly loud keen from your, your hips bucking up to meet his as you clenched around his cock. “My perfect girl” He added with a moan.

“You feel so good.” You whimpered with your own praise, nails dragging across the wet skin of his back. His muscles contracted under your harsh touch, everything else about the situation so sweet and gentle. One of Harry’s big hands reached down to curl underneath your thigh, pulling it up to mirror your other leg, folded up with your foot flat against the sheets. He manhandled your limbs, spreading your legs wider for him to reach deeper crevices of your cunt, constantly leaking around his erection to encourage his movements.

Harry didn’t pry anything out of you; one glance your way had him confirming that you were too deep in pleasure to respond to anything he had to say. A particularly loud moan flew between your lips, Harry’s cock reaching just that much further into you, nearing your cervix. Harry groaned as your hand snaked into his hair, massaging his scalp. His eyes rolled to the back of his head, though he continued to lazily thrust into you.

The atmosphere in the room completely stilled for a moment, both of you pausing to ensure you heard the same thing - a knock on the door.

“Harry, you in here?”

Harry rose off you, and his cock plunged further into you. You bit your lip, a noise of pleasure vibrating in your throat at the feeling. Your boyfriend’s eyes widened, and he pressed a strong hand over your mouth, shooting you a panicked look. “Yeah mum! In here!” Harry shut his eyes briefly, pulling his hips out again at a sluggish pace, but he saw the effect it had on you when his eyes fluttered open again; head digging into the pillow, your mouth parting beneath the palm of his hand.

“Is y/n here?” She asked, pressing her ear to the door to hear your responses from inside. Harry gasped quietly, inhaling deeply as he pushed back into you, calling out “Yeah, she’s here!” Giving you a pointed look, Harry withdrew his hand from over your mouth, and you gripped his wrist to ground you, saying loudly “Hi!” It was all you could muster.

The door handle rattled as Lily Potter tried entering her son’s room, eyebrows furrowing when it didn’t open. “Well, let me come in and say hi!” Harry’s hand returned to your mouth as he leaned his weight on you again, praying that his mum would get the hint and go away. “I can’t open the door, my hands are full!”

“Let y/n open the door then.” Oh, she was clueless. Harry groaned, a mix of pleasure and frustration. He saw your eyes widen in shock, one of your hands over the one he had on your mouth, keeping him in place. You shook your head as well as you could. Harry huffed into the crook of your neck. “Mum,” He began with an obviously annoyed whine, “She can’t open the door, her hands are also full.”

The startled “Oh” that came from the other side of the door was barely audible to you, because Harry had decided to silence himself by sucking on the skin of your neck. Unfortunately for you, it just made it more difficult to stay quiet, your hips twitching upwards at the added friction. Harry kept an ear out for his mother’s subsiding footsteps before finally whispering filthily “Yeah baby, I know you want to cum.” And luckily for you, he removed the hand from your mouth — now coated with saliva — and used two fingers to rub harsh circles on your clit, immediately making your legs twitch around his torso.

“Can you try being quiet?” He peeked up from the dark crook of your neck where he was hidden, grinning when you nodded quickly, eyebrows furrowed as you chewed on your bottom lip, trying your best not to make any noises. Your breathing was heavy, and your hands moved to grasp each of Harry’s biceps, nails digging into his supple skin as he continued working you towards your orgasm.

“Harry” You whined, trying to turn your face towards him, trying to communicate to him that you were close. “Oh, I know baby, I know.” He whispered, separating his lips from your neck to bring you into a kiss. You gasped loudly, back arching off the mattress, pushing your chest into his as one of your hands returned to grip his hair, pushing him further into the kiss. Harry’s cock twitched inside you and you were grateful to know you weren’t the only one nearing your orgasm.

Harry forced his tongue into your mouth, tongue gliding against yours. Your brain took too long to communicate with your body from the exhaustion, and you were barely able to kiss him back, but Harry took control of the messy kiss, revelling in the rare sloppiness you kissed him with. Fuck, he was turned on by merely knowing the effect he had on you.

“Gonna cum, Harry.” You warned in a shaky whisper, tilting your head back to make space between your lips and Harry’s. “Cum for me, baby.” His rough fingertips on your clit drove you past the edge, body stiffening in a storm of white-hot pleasure, washing over you with a force you couldn’t explain if you tried. But now, you submitted to the pleasure of your orgasm, hearing Harry’s guttural moan in your ear as his head dropped down to rest on your shoulder, cock driving into you to the hilt, his entire body freezing with the exception of his hips, stuttering into you while he emptied his load into you.

“I love you.” Harry moaned loudly, his body going limp on top of yours, chest to chest with you as your legs fell flat on the bed around his torso. It took you a while to come back to your senses, fingers brushing Harry’s hair away from his face as you finally replied “I love you too.” Your boyfriend’s cheeks flushed hotly at the realisation that he had admitted to loving you balls-deep inside you. It wasn’t the first time he’d said it, but the hundreds of other times these three important words had been said were all while fully sober, not drunk on pussy.

“I need to go say hi to your mum.” At the mention of his mother, Harry felt his cock soften inside you, and he pulled out with a groan, flopping next to you on the bed. You turned your head to the side, pressing a kiss on Harry’s cheek before struggling out of bed. “I’m gonna take a quick shower, then go say hello.”

Harry perked up, pushing himself up on his elbows, his gaze following your naked body across his room. “Shower?” He repeated, a silent question lingering in the air. You rolled your eyes playfully, a smile tugging at your lips as you opened the door to his bathroom. “Yes, you can join.”

Harry scrambled up, leaping over the other side of his bed so he could catch up to you before you shut the bathroom door in his face.

taglist: @ravisinghs-wife, @starry-remus, @pain-in-the-ashe, @hiireadstuff, @treefairy-28, @superlegend216, @kitkatkl, @juliet-017, @fl0weryannie, @tiaajosephin, @dream-alittlebiggerdarling, @dearlizzies, @potterheadlovespotter, @matcha-kitty13, @thenasoneshots, @hisparentsgallerryy, @liviessun, @rory-cakes, @heebiemcjeebies, @fl0weryannie, @muffinemmaa, @anne061989, @regsg18, @graciereads, @adharaoaklyn, @hawaii2320, @c0ldstvff, @bigbodycity, @starmaniii, @urmom101, @simpfortoomanymen, @ennaholic, @dream-alittlebiggerdarling, @dearlizzies, @eunicefrogsandfoes, @dreamamubarak, @quinquinquincy, @vxyselectric, @xmatcha-kitty13, @liliemb04, @crowleythesexydemon, @lovelyygirl8, @matcha-kitty13, @dlljdhsh, @yegrnn, @thenasoneshots, @marauder-era6779, @xadenswhore, @5sospenguinqueen

[y2kstarr]

— ᥫ᭡ juicy . . . chris and matt sturniolo

where . . . At the gym, Chris and Matt spot you doing squats, and to their surprise, they realize just how thick your ass and thighs had gotten from your routine workouts, leading them to want to show you just how much they appreciate your hard work

contains . . . eventual smut, threesome (ZERO INCEST), reverse cowgirl position, oral (m!receiving) + handjob, slight spanking, praise

credits to @delilahsturniolo for the marathon concept

HOT PINK WRITING MARATHON . . . fic #12

Controlled breaths and soft grunts left Matt's lips as he stood in front of the wide mirrors on the walls, watching himself as his arms curled up, his hands gripping dumbbells.

His white tank top was already clinging to his chest and shoulders, darkened around the collar with sweat. His arms flexed with each movement, clean and practiced, biceps bulging as he curled the weights up slow, controlled, the kind of effort that didn’t need noise to prove itself.

A few feet away, Chris was mid-set on the incline bench, veins snaking along his arms as he pushed the barbell upward, the plates clinking softly as they steadied at the top, breaths slow and steady.

His black tank stuck to his skin in the same way as Matt's, but it rode up at the sides to reveal carved abs and a sheen of sweat ran down his v-line that lead underneath his basketball shorts. 

They weren’t talking and they didn’t need to. The shared rhythm was there like always — both of them tuned into their own routines, but still clocking each other in that silent way brothers do. Who was lifting heavier. Who was keeping pace. Who was going to tap out first.

Matt made it through one more before his form started to slip. He paused mid-lift, teeth gritted and his huffs seeping through his teeth, then let the weights drop with a quiet, frustrated thud against the mat, a defeated huff leaving him as he heard Chris's bar clink as he racked it.

From the bench, Chris didn't even try to hide his grin as he sat up, his voice almost breathless as he celebrated. “Ha! Told you you’d tap out first.”

Matt shot him a look, still catching his breath, rolling his shoulder in that way he always did when he was being petty. “I didn’t tap out. I’m switching muscle groups.”

“Sure you are,” Chris teased, grasping his gym towel and tapping the sweat that lines his hairline. “That face said ‘I’m done’ five reps ago.”

Matt huffed out a laugh, rolled his eyes, and grabbed his water bottle. “Your bar’s lighter than my warm-up set.”

Chris leaned forward on his knees, towel now slung around his neck as he chuckled. “You can say whatever helps you sleep tonight, man. Just admit it — you tapped out.”

Matt ignored him, raising the bottle to his lips as his eyes absentmindedly swept across the gym absently — just taking in the space, the atmosphere and other people present, maybe thinking about what machine to hit next.

Until his eyes suddenly landed on you.

All three of you had come together, a routine you'd kept up for the last three months of your relationship, but as Matt looked at you, he'd realized something he sure as hell didn't realize before.

You were at the squat rack with your back to them, legs shoulder-width apart, moving through your set with slow, intentional form. There wasn’t a hint of struggle in the way you lowered into each rep, thighs tightening beneath your leggings, ass moving in that perfectly controlled rhythm.

Matt blinked once, then twice, and slowly, his water bottle lowered just a little from his lips, as if he were in a trance.

Chris noticed the shift in his brother's silence, that pause in his motion, and decided to follow his gaze, suddenly now beyond happy he'd made the decision to do so.

You were still going, steady, focused, completely in your own zone. Each time you lowered, your form was solid — back straight, knees right where they needed to be. But the way your leggings hugged you, how your thick thighs now filled out the piece of clothing, how the curve of your ass moved with every rep — fuck, it was something else.

Chris finally broke the silence as he let out a quiet breath. “Damn.”

Matt didn’t answer, just tilted his head a little like he was recalibrating everything.

“When did that happen?” Chris asked under his breath, referring to how thick you'd gotten, tone almost impressed as he stood up from the bench he was on.

Matt swallowed as he slowly capped his bottle, still watching you with a chuckle in his tone. “I have no idea... but i'm fucking loving it.”

“She’s been working legs without us,” Chris pointed out as he now stood next to Matt, a little amused now, arms crossed loosely over his chest.

Matt glanced at him. “Apparently.”

They both stood there for a second, caught between moving and not. You hadn’t looked over yet — but the angle of the mirror in front of you caught everything. And a beat later, your eyes flicked up, right to where they stood.

You didn’t miss a thing. Not the way they were staring, not the way Matt had gone quiet, not the crooked grin starting to pull at Chris’s mouth, even if they both looked like total pervs just staring at you.

You didn’t break your stride though, just kept going, but a smile tugged at the corner of your lips — smug, like you knew exactly what you were doing.

Chris leaned over just a little toward Matt, keeping his voice low and teasing. “Still pacing yourself?”

Matt narrowed his eyes as he glanced at Chris, shaking his head once before holding his bottle tight in his grip, starting to walk over to you.

“You coming?” he asked over his shoulder at Chris who looked as if he was still curious on whether he should come to you or not, but as Matt grew closer, he couldn't help but chuckle before he grabbed his bottle from the bench and made his way over to you and Matt.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

By the time all three of you got home, you were trying not to grin as you fumbled with your keys, the lock just slightly stubborn in that way it always was. You leaned into the door with a soft laugh under your breath as Matt’s hands slid around your waist from behind, pulling you gently back against him.

“Hey—” you protested, giggling a little, half-surprised at how handsy they were getting with you. “I’m trying to open the door.”

Chris’s voice was a breath right at your ear. “Mhmmm,” he murmured, his lips ghosting over your skin. “That’s why you've been taking your sweet ol' time with the key for like… a full minute.”

You laughed again, breathy and flustered. “It’s stuck!”

Matt kissed the back of your shoulder, slow and warm, whilst Chris's kissed at the opposite side of your neck, Matt murmuring against your skin. “You’re stuck. On our minds.”

“Oh my God,” you scoffed at his cheesiness, but you were already smiling, biting your lip as you finally got the door open. The second it creaked inward, Chris stepped behind you as you all walked in and kicked it closed without missing a beat.

You took two steps forward before you felt Matt’s mouth again, soft and slow at the base of your neck, while Chris’s hands slid under your tank top from behind, grazing up your sides. You squirmed a little between them, a laugh bubbling up before you could stop it.

“Okay, okay,” you said through a grin, trying to turn around. “Why are you two acting like this all of a sudden?”

Chris didn’t move far, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, feigning innocence with a soft chuckle. “Acting like what?”

“Like you’re about to eat me alive,” you teased, giggling again when Matt’s hand squeezed your hip.

“Because we are,” Matt said, voice rough but playful. “You should’ve seen the way you looked at the gym.”

“You were showing off,” Chris added, grinning as he tugged gently at the hem of your tank top.

“I wasn’t,” you lied, barely holding back another laugh as you knew you were totally trying to catch their attentions back at the gym, a breath catching in your throat as Matt’s fingers slid under the waistband of your leggings.

“Then why were you smirking at us in the mirror?” Chris asked, pressing a kiss to your cheek, then lower. “You knew we were staring.”

“You were staring?” you asked, pretending to sound scandalized — but it was no use with how flushed your face felt. Your voice broke on a laugh as Matt’s hand smoothed over the curve of your ass, just firm enough to make your knees wobble a little.

Matt leaned in, pressing up behind you like he was losing grip on his self control. “How could we not?”

Chris slipped to walk in front of you, his hand finding yours to guide you gently forward, his back facing away from you. “Bedroom. Now. Before I do something ridiculous in this hallway.”

You giggled again, tripping a little on your way down the hall, but they steadied you between themselves like they had a plan — like they’d been thinking about this since the moment they'd left that gym.

As you all stepped into the bedroom, your lips met Chris's, his hands trailing down to grasp the hem of your tank top as your hands slid up to curl into the strands of his hair. You felt as he tugged up your tank top, making you pull from the kiss to help him take it off, chuckles and giggles spilling from the three of you as you got to the bed.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

"Oh f-fuck!"

Your moans echoed throughout the bedroom, mixing in with Chris's groans as his hands gripped your hips tight, his eyes trained on the way your ass lifted and fell with each movement you made, your hands holding yourself up on his thighs as you rode him reverse cowgirl style.

A gasped yelp left your lips as Chris's hand came down with another smack, not too hard, but not too weak, perfect enough to sting upon impact before instantly melting into thrilling pleasure that coursed through your body.

"Jesus fuck, ma— such a perfect fuckin' ass. Been working it out for a while now, huh? Wanting to see if we'd notice?" Chris teased as his hands guided your hips, his head lolling back at the ecstatic feeling of you riding him like this.

You could hardly give him a clear answer back as Matt's cock slipped back into your willing mouth, your eyes rolling back at the taste of him before bobbing your head, a muffled "mhmmm" leaving you around Matt's dick as one hand came up to grip his thigh as well.

"Couldn't– fuck– couldn't help ourselves, baby," Matt cooed down at you, groaning deeply as you took him so perfectly, just like you always did, your pretty eyes looking up at him in a way that had him nearly blowing his load right the. and there. "We just had to reward you once we saw how much your work's been paying off."

You moaned around Matt's cock at his words, feeling as his fingers gripped your hair tighter with a grunt leaving his lips.

Nothing but sounds of pleasuring sex filled the room, groans and moans, whines and grunts, slaps and slurps. It was obscene, but god, you fucking loved it. You couldn't help the way you mewled as Matt's cock slipped from your mouth, feeling as Chris thrusted up into you, his movements now quickened in a way you knew all too well.

"Shhhit, ma— god, you're gonna make me fuckin' cum—" Chris groaned out almost pathetically, his hands sliding down to dig his fingers into your deliciously thick thighs, his thrusts meeting your moving hips in a way that had your nearly trembling with pleasure.

You couldn't get Matt back into your mouth with how Chris was fucking you, so your hand shakingly moved up, wrapping around his thick cock and starting to pump him at a pace that had him stuttering his breath and tensing his thighs.

"Fucking hell— gonna make me fucking cum too, baby— keep that up— oh fuck, please—" Matt moaned, his hips thrusting forward to meet your pumps, practically fucking your fist as you looked up at him with parts lips and flushed cheeks.

You could feel as both of their movements became a little sloppy, hurried as if they were scrambling to the edge, and as you felt that burning pleasure grow and grow within, you moved your hips and hand in time just to tip them over the edge.

As if in unison, you felt as thick, warm spurts of cum from Chris filled your sweet cunt, all the while pearly ropes of cum shot from Matt's cock, your mouth open as they landed on your tongue and face, making you let out a breathless giggle before you felt your orgasm wash over you like a tidal wave, your eyes rolling back in ecstasy.

Groans, whines, and moans filled the room as you rode out your collective highs, before everything finally slowed down to a stop, Chris's thrusts halting, you hips stopping, and your hand slipping from Matt's cock. The once pleasured noises turned now into panted breaths.

"Please don't ever fucking change this gorgeous body, ma," Chris panted behind you, pulling breathless chuckles and giggles from all three of you, a collective agreement throughout the room.

Oh you were never going to stop giving them more to drool over.

☆ : so so sorry this is coming out so late in the day, was out most of the day with family so, had to work on this when I could 😭 hope it turned out good and that you guys enjoy!! 1 MORE DAY YALL <33

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[heliosunny]

Hihi....I'm really in love with your Yandere Phainon fanfics, so I wanted more....I don't really care whatever it is as long as it's in high school au🙏🙏

CTRL U

Yandere!Phainon x Reader

The school tech lab was always quiet during lunch break. While others filled the courtyard and cafeteria with chatter and energy, you found solace in the rhythmic clack of your keyboard and the soft humming of a monitor. You had taken over the corner desk near the window, your own little bubble away from the chaotic social jungle of high school.

Your fingers flew over the keys, eyes darting across lines of code. The pixelated spaceship on your screen moved up, paused, then exploded with a dramatic “BOOM!” animation. You smiled a little, it was just a simple 2D space shooter, but you were proud of it. Debugging the collision algorithm had taken two days.

Outside the lab, you heard distant voices echoing down the hall.

“Dude, Phainon! You coming to the court or what?” “Later, maybe! I need to drop by the lab first.”

Phainon. Popular, charming, and surrounded by friends like gravity pulling planets. You’d only ever interacted with him during that one disastrous group project in sophomore year. You didn’t speak much. He did all the talking.

The door creaked open. Your screen still glowed with the tiny spaceship hovering in space.

“Yo, is someone in?”

You whipped your head up and saw him. He had one headphone in, his school tie loosened, hair a little messy.

He looked around, then spotted you.

���Hey, didn’t think anyone would be in here.”

“...Hi.”

He tilted his head toward your screen. “Wait, is that a game?”

You quickly moved the mouse to close the window, but not fast enough.

“Whoa, don’t shut it down!”

“It’s still buggy.” you mumbled, minimizing the program and locking your screen.

He leaned in, eyes lighting up.

“Wait, you made that? That’s sick.” He turned to look at you. “You’re seriously talented.”

You avoided his gaze, focusing instead on unplugging your USB drive.

“It’s just a hobby…”

Phainon chuckled. “‘Just a hobby’? You’ve got a whole game running. That’s way cooler than anything I’ve done today.”

This wasn’t how your quiet lunch break was supposed to go.

You stood up quickly, slinging your backpack over your shoulder, trying to gather your things.

“I need to go.”

“Oh. Wait, did I say something wrong?”

“No!” you said too fast, stepping back toward the door. “I just... have other stuff.”

He watched you retreat, a confused expression softening his features. Then he smiled again, tilting his head slightly.

“Hey, what’s your game called?” he called out as you reached the door.

“…It doesn’t have a name yet.”

He grinned.

“Let me know when it does.”

You tried to return to normal after that day in the lab.

No more coding during lunch breaks.

No more late stays in the tech room.

But Phainon didn’t understand and keep showing up everywhere you go.

“Hey! Game Dev!” he called out from across the school courtyard one afternoon, jogging to catch up with you.

You pretended not to hear him and quickened your pace.

He caught up anyway, effortlessly matching your stride. “You never told me more about the game.”

“I’m busy.”

“That’s cool. I can wait.”

You stopped in front of your classroom. “Don’t you have a fan club or a game to get back to?”

Phainon just gave you that stupid, easy grin. “Maybe. But I kinda want to see what happens next in your game.”

You didn’t respond. Just walked in, ignoring the snickers from a nearby group of girls.

It wasn’t just one or two people talking. You’d heard whispers in the hallways.

“Why’s he talking to them?” “They probably faked the whole ‘coding’ thing just to get attention.” “Didn’t they get rejected by Phainon or something?” “Creepy how they’re always alone, right?”

At first, it didn’t bother you. You were used to being left out.

But that changed when you stayed late one afternoon to grab your notebook and accidentally overheard something.

“Okay, but what if we just hire some expert to.. idk, download a virus on their computer or something?” “Ooh, or leak their browsing history or whatever. Even if it’s fake, no one’ll care.” “Right? Who’s gonna believe someone like that anyway?”

You backed away slowly.

You’d had enough.

That night, you didn’t sleep. Instead, you slipped on your headphones, pulled up a few proxies, and found the backdoor in their school Wi-Fi habits.

In two hours, you’d broken into their cloud storage and group chat backups. In four, you’d carefully rearranged screenshots, spliced audio files, and created just enough drama to make it seem like they were all talking behind each other’s backs.

You didn’t even upload them yourself. Just scheduled a timed drop via a burner account.

By Monday, the group was in ruins.

And you, finally, had silence.

Until Phainon found you again. This time, at the bike racks after school.

“Hey.”

You glanced up. “What.”

He held up a hand in surrender. “Not here to bug you about the game.”

You turned away. “Then leave.”

He didn’t.

“They deserved it, huh?”

He took a step closer. “You’re good. Real good. That’s not amateur stuff.”

You looked at him sharply. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You didn’t deserve what they were doing. But...” He hesitated. “Just... don’t lose yourself in it, alright?”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to.

“Next time someone comes after you… maybe let me know first.”

He turned and walked away, hands in his pockets, not looking back.

You never felt safe after the drop. Sure, no one came at you again, not publicly. But silence didn’t mean safety. Silence could be a trap.

And Phainon, despite everything, made you uneasy.

Why? Why was he so calm? Why did he know what you’d done?

That night, your fingers hovered over the keys. Your curiosity itched too loud to ignore.

You slipped past a few weak firewalls and into his cloud activity.

“...wait.”

The path you followed suddenly folded in on itself.

And you’d taken it.

You burned the scripts, cleaned the logs, wiped the trace tools—anything that might be tied to you. Anything he could use against you.

And when it was over, you sat in the dark for a long time. Cold sweat down your back.

The next day, he said nothing.

You watched him across the quad, laughing with his friends, sleeves rolled up, the same lopsided smile like he hadn’t laid a trap for you.

Maybe you were overthinking it.

So you did something stupid.

You pulled an old CD-R out of your drawer, labeled it in your tight, scratchy handwriting: [ TEST BUILD v2.6 — SPACEWAR ]

And the next morning, you caught him by the lockers.

“…Here,” you muttered, holding it out. “The game. Just a standalone version. I just thought you might want to test it.”

“You’re giving me the first build?”

“It’s just a test. You don’t—”

“I’m gonna play it tonight” he said. “I’m finishing it. No way I’m sleeping until I beat it.”

“It’s literally half-coded and full of bugs.”

“So am I,” he smirked. “Perfect match.”

You didn’t expect him to go that far.

Next morning, he walked into class with dark shadows under his eyes, hair messier than usual, hoodie half-zipped over his uniform.

“Hey,” he grinned. “I beat it. Twice.”

“Wait... You stayed up?”

“You said test it. I tested the hell out of it.” He nudged your arm. “Seriously, it’s awesome.”

You stared at him. Then laughed. You couldn’t help it. “You idiot. You could’ve just given me a bug report.”

“Nah. That’d be boring.”

You shook your head and turned away to hide your smile.

Later that night, at home, you sat down at your desk. Curiosity beat out caution.

You slid the same disc into your computer. It whirred softly.

[ SPACEWAR ] — Test Build v2.6

You clicked Start Game.

The opening sequence played—then flickered.

The background glitched. The pixels warped, briefly forming words in a distorted typeface:

"Hello, Player One."

Then the game resumed normally.

You yanked the disc out. Looked at the underside.

A low beep from your laptop made you jump.

You flipped the screen—the camera light was on.

For half a second. Then it shut off.

You stared at the reflection of yourself in the screen. And realized:

He gave you his disk.

You didn’t sleep that night.

The glowing reflection of “Hello, Player One” burned behind your eyelids every time you blinked. You’d covered the webcam, shut the laptop, and unplugged everything. But it wasn’t just paranoia this time—Phainon had done something, and you needed to find out why.

So the next morning, you waited outside the gym, watching him laugh with his usual crowd. He noticed you immediately, his smile slipped, and he walked over.

“You okay?”

“We need to talk. Alone.”

Phainon blinked. But he nodded.

You sat in the empty room, across from him at a table where morning light filtered through the blinds.

He leaned forward slightly. “So...?”

You looked him dead in the eye. “Why did you do it?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Do what?”

You pulled the disc from your bag and placed it on the table. “Why?”

Phainon leaned back, quiet for a moment. Then:

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

You frowned. “What?”

“Two years ago. National Coding Competition. You made that AI that learned player patterns in real time. I was in the same bracket—you crushed everyone.”

“You were there?”

He nodded. “You were the best person in the room. I admired you. Then you disappeared. I always wondered why.” He paused. “When I saw you here, I thought—maybe I could get to know you.”

“So you thought breaking into my computer was your idea of caring?”

He flinched slightly, guilt flickering behind his eyes.

“You invaded my privacy. You used something I made against me.” Your voice shook. “Don’t twist this into something noble.”

He sighed. “I just wanted to understand you. You’re brilliant, but you shut everyone out. I thought maybe if I got closer—”

“—by spying on me?”

There was a long silence.

“Didn’t you do the same? To those girls?”

You were speechless.

“I’m not saying they didn’t deserve it. But you didn’t talk to anyone. You handled it alone.”

That stung.

Your hands clenched under the table. “So now you’re saying we’re the same?”

He shook his head. “No. I’m saying we both did things we regret. Doesn’t mean I’m proud of it.” He looked at you. “I’m sorry. For crossing the line.”

“Stay out of my stuff.”

And you walked out.

The rest of the day, you ignored him. He didn’t try to talk to you. Not even once.

But the silence wasn't peace. It was pressure, thick and heavy. You couldn’t focus.

By lunch, you'd pulled up three transfer applications on your phone, but none of them felt like the right move. Running didn’t solve the problem, it just meant you’d keep running.

So instead, you started thinking differently.

If Phainon wanted to get close to you? Fine.

You’d make him hate it.

You listed ridiculous stuff maybe you could use against him:

Step 1: Code like a cryptid. Talk only in binary. Step 2: Constantly mention obscure operating systems and laugh when he doesn’t get it. Step 3: Bring spreadsheets of cat behavior patterns and pretend they’re “emotional simulations.” Step 4: Add him to a fake group project and send 3am emails titled “urgent patch notes.”

Your plan was almost working.

The constant 3 a.m. “patch note” emails. The random references to deprecated programming languages.

It should’ve been enough.

But he always came back.

You were exhausted.

So you went back to Plan Move Away. You re-opened the school transfer forms, actually filled out your personal statement, and left the tab open just in case.

And then, out of nowhere, Kaito happened.

You met him during a school lab module. He wore round glasses, always had cat-hair on his hoodie, and genuinely laughed at your dry jokes. Even better? He knew how to debug. You both ended up fixing an old RPGMaker horror build for fun and spent lunch breaks balancing variables and laughing over cursed enemy sprites.

He wasn’t dramatic. He didn’t hack your life. He was just... easy.

Which was why Phainon noticed right away.

He cornered you by the vending machines after school.

“So... That new guy.”

“His name is Kaito.”

“Cool... But I thought we were working on your game.”

You crossed your arms. “We were. Then you installed spyware on my hard drive.”

“I apologized for that.”

You didn’t budge.

“So you replaced me?”

“I didn’t replace anyone. Kaito’s just someone I can work with without needing to run background checks.”

He scowled. “So you don’t trust me.”

“Can you blame me?”

Phainon looked at you, searching for something. Then he took a step closer.

“Okay. Fine. Maybe I messed up. Maybe I made it weird. But I thought we were building something—together. I didn’t realize you’d hand the controller to some new guy and bench me.”

“Everyone deserves to code.”

That struck a nerve.

“Right.” His voice dropped. “But not everyone gets you.”

This was personal.

Which made it more complicated when, the next day, you came home, turned on your PC and noticed a new folder on your desktop.

“GAME_PATCHED_FINAL_no_KAITO”

And a note:

“If you're gonna replace me, you better fix the recursion loop. Or let me help.”

You stared at the screen, heat crawling up your neck.

You didn’t know if you were furious or impressed.

You had your code. You had your own project. You had Kaito now.

You went on without him.

You stripped your old game build clean, rewrote the framework, even changed the name. Burned all the folders that had anything labeled “v2.6” or “player_one.” You started fresh.

And Phainon? He kept his distance. At least physically.

Then came the mailbox.

It was a regular Thursday when you got home. You were stepping out of your shoes when your mom called from the kitchen:

“There’s something in the mailbox for you.”

You blinked. “Mail? As in—physical?”

“Yeah. Like the old days.” She chuckled. “Looks like a CD.”

You grabbed it, peeling back the envelope carefully.

Plain. No return address. Just one thing written in black marker on the CD’s surface:

“BOOT ME :)”

You rolled your eyes. “Really?”

Of course it was from him. The handwriting was unmistakably chaotic.

You weren’t stupid. You weren’t going to test this thing on your personal machine. Not after last time.

So you waited.

The next day during free lab hour, you sat down at one of the school’s clunky public PCs. You slipped on the headphones just in case it played audio.

The CD slid in.

[ Loading... Welcome Back, Player One ]

A single line of code glowing on a black screen:

function whyYouLeft { return “?”; }

Then the screen glitched again—and a video window opened.

It wasn’t anything dramatic. Just a shaky webcam video of Phainon in his messy room, sitting on the floor cross-legged.

“Okay. So, if you’re watching this… then I guess I broke like, ten privacy boundaries again. But I swear—this time, no access to your camera. Just... this.”

He scratched the back of his neck, looking sheepish.

“I don’t know why you pulled away. But I want to understand.” He looked at the disc. “I know I messed up. And maybe that scares you. Maybe you think people only get close to you because of your talent. Maybe you hate how I made it all messy.”

He looked up at the camera, eyes sincere.

“But it wasn’t about your code. Or the game. I wanted to know you. The person behind all that.”

He paused, then added quietly: “I miss being your Player Two.”

The screen turned black again.

You stared at the screen. The headphones still buzzed faintly in your ears with the silence that followed.

You didn’t eject the CD.

You just… sat there.

----

The hallway echoed with the soft shuffle of bags and the clatter of desks being dragged back into place. Students were peeling off one by one, some still laughing, some too tired to care. The bell had rung fifteen minutes ago, school was out, but you stayed.

Until it was just two people left in the room: You and Phainon.

He was halfway through zipping up his bag when he noticed you approaching.

He blinked, clearly surprised. “…Hey.”

“I watched the CD.”

Phainon straightened, instantly alert. “Yeah?”

“It was unnecessary.” you said dryly. Then paused. “But… I get it.”

He opened his mouth, maybe to defend himself, maybe to apologize again, but you raised a hand before he could.

“I’m not starting over with you. I’m continuing, with conditions.”

“You can join the project again,” you said firmly, “if you promise to stop doing stuff behind my back. Everything stays aboveboard.”

You added “Also, if we’re working together, you have to be civil with Kaito.”

“Kaito?” he repeated.

You nodded. “He’s part of this now. Whether you like it or not. I’m not removing him just because it makes you uncomfortable.”

“You want me to team up with someone who’s clearly trying to be me?”

“He’s not trying to be you.”

Phainon didn’t say anything for a moment. His fingers curled slightly around the strap of his bag.

“So that’s the deal?” he asked quietly. “Let you keep your new friend, and I get supervised access to your game like it’s a daycare pass?”

You shrugged. “If it bothers you that much, you don’t have to join.”

There was a tense silence between you.

“Fine,” he said, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “If that’s what it takes.”

You both left the room.

But the minute he walked into the golden hour light outside the school building, Phainon’s smile twisted into something else.

He had no intention of sharing.

Kaito was an obstacle. And Phainon knew exactly how to handle obstacles.

He didn’t need to hack anyone this time. Not when he had reputation.

He was a magnet in the school ecosystem - student rep, the guy everyone knew, the guy everyone liked. Popularity was a language, and Phainon was fluent.

He spoke to people in Kaito’s other classes. Casually dropped things like:

“You know that Kaito guy? Little… intense, right?”

Or:

“Hey, just a heads-up. He’s been engaging with some guys out of school these days. Kinda weird, don’t you think?”

Rumors ran faster than servers during a DDOS attack.

You didn’t notice it right away.

But the others started acting cold toward him. Like he was radioactive.

“Hey… did I do something? People’ve been acting weird.”

You frowned. “Weird how?”

Kaito hesitated. “I dunno. Just… off. Like they know something I don’t.”

Phainon acted perfectly normal the next day.

He brought snacks. He complimented your new UI layout. He laughed at your deadpan jokes.

Phainon never played fair.

It started with a casual invite. One that looked harmless on the surface.

Phainon leaned over your desk during your group’s usual project hour. “Hey,” he said. “There’s a match this weekend—finals. I’m playing.” Then he added, “You and Kaito should come. Y’know. Team bonding. Off-screen chemistry.”

Kaito, surprisingly, looked excited. “I’ve never been to one of your matches. Might be fun.”

For once, Phainon was asking.

So you said yes.

But plans changed.

Your part-time shift at the local computer shop ran long, someone brought in a corrupted hard drive and left in tears, and by the time you were done running diagnostics and fixing their system, the sun had already dipped behind the horizon.

You texted Kai.

[Sorry. Can’t make it. Tell me how it goes later.]

No reply.

You didn’t hear from him until the next morning.

Your phone buzzed with a single message:

From unknown number: “Your friend’s at City Medical. You should come.”

You nearly dropped your phone.

Kaito lay in the bed, right arm in a sling, a thin cut on his brow, bruises trailing the side of his cheek. His glasses sat on the tray next to him, bent out of shape. He was asleep when you walked in.

Phainon was sitting beside the bed.

He glanced up when you entered.

“Hey.” He stood slowly, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeves. “Didn’t expect you so early.”

“What happened?”

“It was an accident. During the second half, he tripped—took a bad fall.”

You stared at him. “He doesn’t even run. Why was he even on the field?”

“He got a little too excited. Honestly, I tried to wave him back.” He looked at the bed again. “Poor guy. Probably got caught up in the moment.”

But… the whispers had already started at school. You heard them in the hallways, snippets like:

“I heard that nerd wasn’t watching the game rules.” “Why was he even on the field?” “Guess he wanted attention.”

It was already being spun. And no one could prove it otherwise.

You sat quietly in the chair by Kaito’s side once Phainon left. Your eyes didn’t leave the steady rise and fall of his chest.

With Kaito out of the picture, it was just you and Phainon again. He was standing behind your chair, one hand resting on the backrest while he leaned over to comment on your code.

He would speak low near your ear like the two of you shared something secret. Sometimes his hand would linger on your shoulder, a little longer than it should.

And you just kept coding.

You didn’t want to say it out loud, but ever since the hospital visit, your guard hadn’t dropped once.

Every time Phainon brought snacks, or coffee, or even just his charming laugh, there was something clawing at the back of your head.

The others in school weren’t subtle either. You noticed the sideways glances. The hushed tones in the hallway. Students whispering by the lockers, pretending not to look your way.

Some even snickered outright when you walked into the lab with Phainon beside you, your laptops under your arms like a pair of matching uniforms.

“Guess if you can’t compete, just date the star instead.”

Phainon noticed. Of course he did.

He smirked as he leaned in and whispered: “Let them talk. We’re the ones doing something real.”

You didn’t reply. You just sat down and turned on your machine.

And when you got focused, really focused, you forgot everything else. You skipped lunch. You skipped breaks.

That’s when Phainon would step in again.

You hadn’t even noticed him peel open a rice ball wrapper until he tapped your chin gently with it.

“Eat.” he said simply.

“What?”

“You haven’t touched a single thing since third period. Just chew.”

He held it closer to your lips—half a challenge, half a joke.

You frowned slightly, but opened your mouth. He fed it to you.

---

"Why are they always together now? It’s getting annoying."

"Seriously. Ever since that freak started hanging out with Phainon, he’s been acting weird. Ignoring us."

"They practically live in the lab. It’s pathetic. Clingy."

"Didn’t Kai or whatever his name is end up in the hospital too? You think it’s a coincidence?"

"Well… maybe we should remind them where their place is."

Your bag was heavy on your shoulder. You were heading to the lab as usual, maybe Phainon would be there already, or maybe not. You didn’t text him today.

You were halfway down the stairs when it happened.

A slight nudge.

There was a moment—a single heartbeat—when your brain recognized the danger.

Then everything went black.

[Hospital Room – Present]

You woke to pain pressing behind your eyes and an icy pressure on your wrist.

“Hey.. hey. You’re awake?”

You blinked through the blurriness. Phainon’s face came into view, shadowed by worry and sleeplessness.

“Don’t move too fast. You hit your head—really hard.”

Your throat felt dry. You tried to speak but failed. He immediately reached for the straw in a plastic cup and held it to your lips.

You let the water coat your throat. Your mom entered then, her voice choked with relief as she kissed your forehead and muttered prayers under her breath. Behind her, your sibling waved awkwardly with puffy eyes.

Your body still ached. But in your stillness, your mind drifted.

[Seven Years Ago]

You stood outside the regional coding challenge arena, holding your little cardboard certificate for First Prize in your hand. The others from your school were celebrating inside, but you stepped out for air.

That’s when you heard it.

Sniffling. The sound of someone trying really hard not to cry.

You followed the noise and found him, curled behind the bushes next to the school’s HVAC system, arms wrapped around his knees. He was kicking at a tangle of wires and muttering under his breath.

His screen had crashed halfway through the demo. His mom, who was in the audience, had made that face. Not angry—disappointed.

“Leave me alone” he snapped when he noticed you.

You stood there silently and pulled out a juice box from your bag. Pushed it toward him.

He glared at it, then you. “I lost.”

You shrugged. “Your code was complex, though. That’s impressive for our age.”

He finally took the juice box. Sipped it quietly.

You sat beside him, ignoring the grass stains and bugs. “I could help. If you want. You’ll get better.”

He stared at you, like trying to see through your intentions.

“…Why?”

“Because you were good. And no one helped me when I started either. So I guess I just want to promise it won’t always suck.”

You smiled. “Wanna be friends?”

He nodded.

You forgot that moment. Years passed. But Phainon never did.

Because in that moment, you were the first person who saw value in him.

And he kept that memory like a loaded save file.

Waiting to be opened again.

[Hospital Room – Present]

You stirred awake.

Night had fallen.

Phainon hadn’t left. His hand was still holding yours, as if letting go would make you disappear.

You stared at the ceiling. “Did you know?”

He looked up.

“About the stairwell?” you clarified.

His jaw tensed. “…Yes.”

You didn’t respond.

He continued: “I told them to back off. I thought that was enough.”

You turned to face him.

“I was too late. And I’m sorry.”

You didn’t want his apology.

You wanted to go back and undo all of it. All the memories with him.

[One Month Later]

It was as if you had never existed.

Even your home, he passed by once, late at night, still in his hoodie and uniform, was locked up, the windows sealed, the gate chained. A "FOR RENT" sign swayed faintly in the wind.

You had moved.

Without goodbye.

“…Didn’t they get, like, pushed or something?”

“Maybe their parents freaked out.”

“Phainon’s been acting insane ever since. You think he—”

The boy they were whispering about passed them without a glance.

He just sat in the old lab sometimes—your chair cold and silent across from him—staring at the unfinished game you both used to work on. His fingers would hover over the keyboard, only to fall away.

He didn’t talk to Kaito anymore. He didn’t talk to anyone, really.

One week later, Phainon stared at the wall of post-its he'd started building.

A map of digital footprints.

The last IP address you logged in with.

An email you once mentioned.

A string of code only you would write—he knew because he still had a CD of your logic framework.

An old blog post under a different name, dated three years ago.

He had learned from you. Studied you. Watched you work, memorized the way you built firewalls, nested loops, hid access points like digital breadcrumbs only someone obsessed would find.

And he was obsessed.

At school, Phainon finally started speaking again.

To the computer science teacher.

To the club advisor.

To anyone who might know where the school sent your records. What your “transfer” details included.

But they all said the same thing.

"We don’t know." "It was a private transfer." "We were told not to disclose further."

He sat by his screen again. The glow cast his face in cold blues.

On it was a pixelated image—the game you had coded.

Only this time, it had been modified.

There was a new character. One that looked an awful lot like you. Standing at the end of a path surrounded by glitchy trees.

He pressed enter.

And the character vanished.

Phainon leaned back in his chair.

Where did you go? He didn’t get an answer.

Not yet.

But he would.

----

The screen glowed in the pitch-black room.

Phainon hadn’t slept. Not properly.

There it was.

Phainon’s lips parted. His eyes lit up like a mad scientist finding the last missing variable.

“…Got you.”

----

You sat in the back of the new lab, a new place, everything is new to you, headphones in, hoodie up. You'd been making slow friends here.

Safe. Or so you thought.

Until you saw a notification blink on your laptop.

“System Resource Conflict – Unknown Peripheral Access Attempted.”

You immediately yanked the USB port out.

"Dammit."

----

[Night – Back in Your Apartment]

You watched the camera LED on your laptop blink once, then stop.

You covered it. Disconnected from all networks.

And still, you found phantom code—commands embedded in weird spots.

He was inside.

“What do you want, Phainon?”

The screen lit up again.

Just a simple text file opened itself.

I want what’s mine.

[Elsewhere – Phainon’s POV]

He sat in a cheap hotel near your neighborhood, his laptop surrounded by energy drink cans and open notebooks filled with your old quotes, half-written function names, sketches of you in the margins.

This wasn’t about revenge.

This was about fixing the error that happened the day you left.

[The Next Day – At Your School]

You felt someone watching.

Students still walked the hall like normal. But your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

And when you reached your locker, you found a CD. Labeled in black marker:

“Final Build – OUR Game.”

You dropped it immediately. You didn’t pick it up.

But someone else did. Your cousin.

“…Hey, isn’t this yours?”

“No. Leave it.”

That night, when you checked online, your cousin’s PC pinged offline.

“Ugh.. I warned him already.”

Then his phone. Then his socials.

Gone.

You wanted to end this. So you did what you must.

“Don’t worry. I’m here now.”

“We’re going to finish what we started.”

“Together.”

The lights in your room dimmed.

You agreed to meet him.

“Let’s end this.”

Rooftop. 5:00 PM.

You knew this was dangerous.

But you were exhausted.

Of hiding. Of losing friends.

You needed closure—even if it meant facing him again.

----

Phainon stood at the edge of the roof, back to you.

He hadn’t changed much.

You approached slowly.

Phainon turned.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he said, stepping forward. “I just… wanted to be with you. Always.”

“You hacked my laptop.”

“You left first.”

“You stalked me. Threatened people. My cousin.”

“He shouldn’t have touched our game.”

“It wasn’t ‘our’ anything!” you snapped. “It stopped being ours the moment you tried to control me.”

“...I see”

That was it. You said what you had to say. You turned toward the door.

You should’ve kept your guard up.

CRACK

Blinding white. Then black.

-----

You stirred.

Phainon sat nearby, typing.

“Hey,” he said softly, as if he hadn’t just abducted you. “You were out for a while. I was worried.”

“Let me go.”

He tilted his head. “But I just got you back.”

“You can’t keep me here.”

“I can. And I will. We have work to finish.”

“…You're insane.”

“No,” he said with unnerving calm. “I'm in love.”

He stood, walking toward you, crouching beside your chair.

“Look, I added your old AI logic into the game. It talks like you now.”

You stared at him in horror.

“Phainon… you can't replace me with code.”

He smiled.

“Then stay.”

Then, like he was explaining code to a beginner:

“If I lose you again… I’ll transfer you.”

“What?”

“If your body dies… I can keep you. Upload your consciousness into the framework. You’re brilliant, after all. Your patterns, your memory depth... already trained into the AI from our game.” He reached up and gently touched your temple. “You won’t even notice the difference.”

You went completely still.

He was serious. Fully convinced. He would do it.

“…Phainon” you said quietly, doing everything you could to keep your voice steady. “That’s… sweet. But I’m not ready for that.”

“I just think,” you continued, “maybe I can help improve the code more if I’m still—” you laughed nervously—“you know, in this form.”

Then… he sighed. “You’re so logical,” he murmured. “So calm.... That’s why I love you.”

He leaned his forehead against yours.

“I knew you’d understand eventually.”

[uhuhmaries]

PART 2 (A.A.) — Control Freaks

Summary: Diving into the filthy mess. Literally just pure FILTH.

Warnings: explicit sexual content, oral (f & m receiving), 69 position, dom!Harry with light sub undertones, praise & teasing, public-ish sex (curtains open), unprotected sex (don’t do this irl pls), age gap (reader is mid-20s, Harry is early 30s), power play, mutual obsession, emotional tension, one-night stand vibes that evolve, slight possessiveness & rough edges, minor alcohol references

Series: Almost Acquaintances

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

You…. Gave in.

The door to the black SUV slams shut behind you before you can say a word. Harry’s hand is still loosely wrapped around your wrist, but now it’s just the two of you in the quiet hum of leather seats, the party music muffled into the distance.

You shoot him a faux-scandalized glare. “So this is what getting kidnapped by a pop-star feels like?”

He leans back in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, the other rubbing his jaw with the slowest, smug grin. “You seemed like you wanted rescuing,” he murmurs. “Thought I’d offer a ride. Somewhere quieter.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Quieter, or dirtier?”

His laugh is low, scratchy. “Depends on you, bunny.”

The ride to his house is slow—he makes sure of it. Every red light feels intentional. You sit with your legs crossed, acting like a good girl, but he can feel your gaze tracing the tattoo peeking from under his sleeve, the way you slightly shift every time he rests his hand near the gearshift.

“I can feel you staring,” he says, eyes still on the road.

You blink innocently. “Just wondering how many girls you’ve kidnapped this week.”

He chuckles, glancing at you sideways. “None with that fake innocence as badly as you.”

You smile sweetly, “Good. I like to stand out.”

When you arrive, his hand grazes your lower back as he leads you inside… a mansion, of course, dimly lit, clean, and way too quiet. He offers you water. You decline.

“You can stay, y’know,” he says, voice suddenly softer. “You don’t have to go.”

You hum, letting your back turn to him. “Oh? Generous of you offering me just to stay the night after kidnapping me from a party.”

And then, as if it’s the most casual thing in the world, you hook your fingers under the zipper of your bodysuit and slowly, deliberately drag it down. The soft sound of the zipper feels loud in the silence. His breath catches before you even make it halfway.

You pause, glancing over your shoulder.

“Are you staring, Styles?”

There’s a beat of silence. Then the sound of his footsteps—fast, firm. His hands grip your hips and spin you around before your bodysuit’s fully undone, but he doesn’t push it back up.

Instead, he leans in, eyes blazing. “You think you’re clever?”

You smirk. “I know I am.”

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

His mouth crashes into yours before you can say another word. Hot, desperate, bruising. He walks you backward, tongue claiming yours with no hesitation, until your back hits the edge of the kitchen island. He pulls away just enough to speak, voice low and wrecked.

“Keep teasing me like that, and I’ll ruin you right here.”

Your hands tug at his costume, hinting him to take it off. “Isn’t that the point?”

He growls under his breath, easily stripping himself from his costume. Leaving him only in his shorts, then he lifts you easily–setting you on the cold countertop. His hands roam fast, possessive, and greedy–but he slows down when he gets between your thighs. His fingers drag up your lace-covered core like he has all the time in the world, even though his eyes look ready to snap.

“You play innocent, but your body’s screaming for it.”

You tilt your head. “Then give it to me.”

And he does.

He pulls your panties aside and sinks two fingers inside you—slow, deep, just to hear how you gasp. His thumb circles your clit in rhythm, while his other hand wraps gently around your throat, his grip firm but never cruel. You feel him twitching hard against your thigh, straining in his pants, but he doesn’t rush.

“You like letting me take control,” he says in a growl. “But you want to see how far you can push me first, don’t you?”

You meet his eyes and catch it—a flicker of something softer. Controlled, yes, but waiting. Waiting for you to take just a little more.

“You like when I take the lead,” you whisper, wrapping your legs around his waist, “but I bet if I told you to get on your knees right now, you’d do it and beg me to pull your hair.”

His eyes darken.

For a moment, he doesn’t speak. But his jaw tightens. His fingers curl deeper inside you. And his voice drops to a whisper.

“…You’d be surprised.”

His stare lingers on you for a moment too long—like he’s trying to decide whether to throw you over his shoulder or drop to his knees and worship. But instead, he grabs your chin gently between his fingers, tilting your face to his.

“You don’t want to start a game you can’t finish,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours but never fully giving in.

You smile, breathless but composed. “Who said I ever quit?”

And that’s it. That’s the moment he breaks.

He hauls you off the countertop and drags you into the living room like he’s on a mission—his grip tight around your wrist, guiding you to the plush velvet couch with his steps controlled. The curtains are open. The city lights pour in through the giant windows, neon streaks dancing across the walls. You know damn well anyone in the buildings across could see you both. That’s what makes your pulse race harder.

The bodysuit hangs halfway off you, undone and inviting, and Harry doesn’t give you a moment to adjust. His lips trail down your jaw, then your neck, then lower.

You glance over his shoulder at the view and smirk. “You’re not even going to close the blinds?”

He doesn’t even look up. “Why would I?” he murmurs against your chest, voice thick with desire. “Let them watch.”

His mouth wraps around your nipple, tongue swirling before he sucks, slow and deliberate. His fingers slip between your thighs again, making you arch into him with a gasp you barely manage to muffle. Your hips roll against his palm like they’re aching for more, and they are.

“Still acting like you didn’t come here just for this,” he whispers.

“And you’re still pretending you don’t want to be told what to do,” you murmur back, threading your fingers through his hair and giving it a little pull.

He stills for a second (barely) then growls low in his throat and hooks your thighs over his shoulders.

“Careful, Y/N,” he says, the nickname now soaked in lust. “Say one more thing like that and I’ll have you screaming with the windows wide open.”

You giggle, breathless, but it cuts off when his tongue drags up your center—slow, teasing, thorough. He eats you like he has something to prove: that he’s still in control, even if your moans are the ones echoing off the windows. His tongue flicks and circles, then flattens, then plunges until your back arches and your hands claw at the couch cushions.

You look down, and for a split second… there it is.

The way his eyes flutter closed when your hand grips his curls tighter. The way he groans into you when you press your heel into his shoulder.

He’s still in charge. But part of him likes being taken there: led, dragged, used.

You file that away for later.

“Harry,” you pant, your voice cracking, your legs trembling, “You’re gonna make me—”

He doesn’t stop. In fact, he speeds up. And when you finally fall apart on his tongue, he groans like he’s the one unraveling.

He stands, mouth glistening, eyes dark and blown wide. You barely get a chance to recover before he pulls you up and spins you around, pressing your chest to the back of the couch. The city lights blaze in front of you, a full view of the world while your knees dig into velvet and your hands brace the edge.

You feel him behind you, thick and ready, rubbing against your folds. He pauses, breath hot against your ear.

“You gonna fake innocence now, sweetheart?” he murmurs.

You throw a look over your shoulder. “What do you think?”

With a low, strained curse, Harry guides the tip in slow, deliberate. It pulls a soft whimper from your throat, your body betraying you as your hips roll back, eager and greedy, swallowing him whole in one obscene, perfect motion.

He stills, breath catching as he watches. “Fuck,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “That was the filthiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

The stretch steals the breath from your lungs, your eyes fluttering shut, jaw slack as your body struggles to adjust around him but he doesn’t give you time.

He pulls back just enough to slam forward again, setting a brutal pace from the start—each thrust sharp, punishing, deliberate. The couch creaks under the force of it, a helpless witness to the way he’s completely unraveling you.

Your palms slap the cushion.

Your body jolts with every thrust.

And the windows stay wide open.

He wraps your hair around his fist and pulls just enough to arch your back. “You feel so fuckin’ good. You gonna take it all for me?”

“Y-Yes,” you manage, barely. “Harder.”

He groans, deeper this time. “Fuck—gonna give you everything, baby. But you’ve gotta beg nicely.”

You turn your head, voice raw, flushed, grinning through it:

“Please, Harry. I need you to break me. Use me. However you want.”

That does it.

He fucks you like punishment, yet he’s the one panting your name like a prayer.

Your body’s trembling against the back of the couch, every breath coming out in shaky gasps as he slams into you over and over again. The slap of skin, the sharp whine of the velvet cushions underneath you, the obscene sound of your arousal filling the room—it’s all too much and still somehow not enough.

Harry’s grip on your hips definitely will be leaving marks now. His breath is ragged, jaw clenched as he fucks you harder, deeper, chasing the edge with everything he’s got.

“Fuck, bunny…” he growls through gritted teeth. “You’re taking me so well—so fuckin’ tight—so filthy, letting me do this where anyone could see.”

You whimper his name, collapsing forward as his hand finds your clit again—rough, fast, relentless. Your second orgasm crashes into you like a wave breaking through glass. Your whole body clenches around him, and you hear him snarl behind you.

“Jesus—fucking—Christ—”

His thrusts stutter. You feel him pulse deep inside you, spilling himself with a strangled groan that sounds like he’s unraveling right at the seams. His body folds over yours for a moment, forehead pressed to the back of your shoulder, his breath hot and uneven.

Neither of you move for a second. Then he pulls out slowly, with a soft hiss between his teeth. You feel the warmth of him dripping down your inner thigh.

And then he drops to his knees.

You blink, turning slightly to look back– but he’s already spreading your legs, gentle now, parting you like something sacred.

“Let me clean you up,” he mutters, voice low and hoarse, eyes not even meeting yours at first. He’s focused like he’s desperate to make it right.

You watch, breath still caught in your throat, as his tongue slides up your thigh, slow and purposeful. Then higher—tasting himself and you, licking up every trace he left inside you like he’s starving for it. His hands hold your hips steady while he works, making soft, filthy sounds against your overstimulated skin.

You should feel powerful. And you do.

But the way he moans into it—the way his tongue lingers, reverent and possessive—makes you realize something else:

He likes being on his knees for you. Or honestly, most likely just for anyone.

Not just because he has to.

Because he wants to.

His tongue is still working between your thighs, savoring the mess he made—lapping it up like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted to taste.

You stare down at him, chest heaving, flushed and unsteady, and something about the sight of him—on his knees, hands gripping your thighs like he’s anchoring himself, pupils wide and wild, sparks a heat low in your belly that doesn’t go away with release.

It grows.

“You look pretty good down there,” you murmur, voice rough and sticky with desire. You run a hand through his curls, gently, like a reward. He lets out a soft, breathless laugh against you, but he doesn’t stop. His tongue stays locked on your soaked center, devoted and unrelenting, like your approval only fuels him.

You tug lightly. “But I’m not done with you.”

Harry leans back on his heels, blinking up at you, dazed. “Oh?”

You nod once toward the wide couch, and your voice drops to a tone you didn’t know you were capable of:

“Lie down, Styles.”

He obeys immediately. Eager, curious, and cocky but there’s a flicker of something else in his expression now. Something pliant.

He stretches out along the velvet, chest rising and falling fast, lips wet, eyes never leaving yours. He even props one arm behind his head like he’s trying to act casual, but the way he shifts beneath you betrays him—already hard again, already needy.

You straddle him slowly, your thighs on either side of his waist at first. He thinks you’re going to ride him. You lean in like you are. His mouth parts.

But then…. You lift up, scoot forward, and settle yourself directly over his face.

Harry’s breath catches, sharp and surprised but then he groans, deep and low, hands flying to your hips. You feel the grip, tight, almost possessive, but he doesn’t guide— he waits.

And you smile. “You gonna let me use your face, sweetheart?”

The whimper that leaves his throat could be classified as dangerous. His eyes flutter shut as his tongue flicks out, barely grazing your folds. You grind down in response—slow and slick and deliberate.

And he fucking moans.

You take your time. Ride his face like you’re savoring every second, every stutter of his breath, every twist of his tongue. His nose nudges your clit, and you rock forward with a gasp. His hands tighten, but he’s still letting you lead.

“Mmm—look at you,” you pant, glancing down. “Getting off on this already?”

He nods—fucking nods—his mouth still working, relentless.

His tongue moves like he’s mapping every inch of you—messy, greedy, obsessed. You ride it with your head thrown back, hands in your hair, moaning shamelessly into the open room. You don’t care about the view anymore.

“Fuck—Harry!” You gasp, grinding harder now, the pressure just right, the rhythm frantic. “I’m—gonna—oh—”

He sucks your clit at just the right second and that’s it. Your vision whites out. Your thighs tremble around his face, and you lose yourself—loud, raw, aching.

You twitch and roll your hips through the aftershocks, still straddling his mouth, his tongue giving soft, slow licks like he’s milking every last wave out of you. Like he’s addicted.

When you finally lift off him, your legs nearly give out.

Harry’s wrecked beneath you—lips swollen, chin wet, eyes heavy and so fucking gone.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispers hoarsely, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand but not breaking eye contact. “You’re gonna be the end of me.”

You crawl down his body, press a soft kiss to his jaw, then his lips. He kisses your mouth slowly, messy, claiming—and you kiss him back like you want to ruin him. His hands roam your body with a mix of reverence and urgency, cupping your ass, pulling you flush against his already-hard-again length. He’s insatiable. And so are you.

You slide down his body with intention, every movement deliberate. Settling on your side, this time your face– especially your lips hover near the thick, pulsing length aching for attention just as he shifts beneath you, hooking your thigh and guiding you back toward his mouth, tongue finding your heat like he’s starved for it.

You both exhale– shaky, desperate.

Your head rests just beneath his hips. His tongue parts your folds with a slow, deliberate stroke, and your breath catches as heat floods through you. Your hand wraps around his shaft, teasing the head with the flat of your tongue, savoring the twitch he gives in response.

He groans into you, the sound muffled but dark, and the vibration sends a jolt through your spine.

This isn’t gentle—it’s ravenous. You both take and give in tandem, your bodies locked in a rhythm of gasps, moans, and messy devotion. His grip tightens on your thigh, trying to keep control. But from the way he’s trembling under your mouth, he’s already losing it.

Your cheek rests just below his waist. His cock grazes your lips, heavy and warm, while his mouth finds your heat again—tongue sliding between your folds with practiced ease.

Your thighs already tremble, anticipation tightening every nerve as he moans softly against you, lost in the taste of you. The heat is immediate. All consuming.

He licks you right at the core—flat, slow drags of his tongue that make your toes curl. You moan against the head of his cock, and he shudders, hips twitching forward involuntarily.

“You’re unreal,” he mutters into your cunt. “Taste like heaven. Sound like sin.”

You take him into your mouth—slowly at first, savoring the weight and heat of him on your tongue—and he groans, bucking forward slightly before catching himself.

It’s a game of control now.

He sucks your clit and you moan around his cock. You swirl your tongue around the tip, and he practically whimpers against you. He’s relentless. You’re merciless. It’s mutual destruction.

His fingers dig into your thigh as his tongue works deeper, wetter, more desperate, and your hips buck uncontrollably.

You pull him deeper into your throat in retaliation—and that’s what finally does it. You feel him twitch in your mouth. He pulls off your cunt with a sharp gasp, panting into your skin.

“Fuck—don’t stop—fuck, bunny—”

You hum around him, moaning just to make it worse, and he loses it—spilling into your throat with a strangled cry, one hand gripping your hip while the other fists the couch cushion.

You swallow all of it.

Moments later, he comes down from it still panting, but his tongue never leaves you.

You arch back into him, crying out when his fingers replace his mouth just long enough to draw out your final orgasm of the night. You shake through it, legs kicking, breath broken and high.

He kisses your thigh softly, one last time. You both collapse—sweaty, panting, wrecked.

There’s a long silence between you. You feel his arms wrap around you from behind, pulling you into his chest.

Stillness.

“I wasn’t supposed to like that that much,” he finally whispers, voice raspy against your neck.

You turn your head to look at him.

“Did you?”

He nods once, serious. “I did.”

You could laugh, but you don’t. You just let the silence fall again, warm and strange. You don’t know what this is yet. Or what it’ll mean when morning comes.

But tonight, it means everything.

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

📝 Author’s Note:

I’m dyinggggggggggg. Feeling feral at 10am. I kinda didn’t read it after revising each paragraph so IM SORRY IF ITS KINDA SHIT. Next chapters will be a little more angsty I feel like to calm us all down 😭🙂‍↕️👁️

@thenovarose

[lxstxr]

For Later

summary: You get flustered at Emily's interrogation tactics, and the team teases you mercilessly for it. Set in 16x05.

word count: 0.7k

tags: established relationship, fluff, no use of y/n

a/n: this is my first time posting anything on tumblr (I've been lurking for a few years, but never had the balls to post anything) so I apologize if the formatting is slightly off for whatever reason. anyway, my inbox is open if anyone has any thoughts/reqs. enjoy!

You’ve seen Emily in her element before. You’ve watched her command press briefings, direct teams in the field, and analyze crime scenes like a chessboard. But nothing could have prepared you for this version of her you're watching in the interrogation room.

Behind the one-way glass, you stand nursing a stale cup of coffee as Emily walks slowly in front of the unsub. Her voice is low and controlled as she leans on the table, fingers splayed. “Benjamin, you’ve been a bad boy, haven’t you?”

The unsub visibly twitches. You do too, slightly choking on your coffee. Bailey blinks. “I’m sorry, what?”

You clear your throat. “She’s leveraging a maternal dominance angle. Power dynamics. Very effective.”

Luke elbows you lightly. “You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself.” You elbow him back harder.

Inside, Emily keeps going, “My kid doesn’t like it, but whatever. Fuck him, you know?”

Bailey turns. “She has a kid?”

“No,” you and Luke both say, in sync. 

The unsub smirks back at Emily. “That’s how you talk? About your son?”

She’s quick to respond. “That’s how you were spoken to, isn’t that right?”

Your jaw tightens. You’ve seen her in action before, but this is different. The control in her tone. The lean in her posture. The way her eyes lock onto his. You’ve heard that voice before, but never like this.

Luke whispers, “You’re sweating.”

“I am not.”

Benjamin begins to reveal details of the Sicarius case, stunning the room to silence. Inside, Emily keeps her cool. “You want to impress me? Tell me something I don’t know.”

Luke mutters, “There it is. The voice.” You squeeze your eyes shut. 

With that, Benjamin Reeves delivered one final blow, “Whitfield County, Georgia. More buried treasure.”

Emily’s eyes flicker, just slightly. You feel like you need a cold shower.

-

Later, Emily enters the bullpen, cool as ever, paperwork in hand. The team is gathered around. You’re seated at your desk, pretending you weren’t turned into a puddle minutes earlier.

Luke stands, arms folded. “Nice work in there, Chief.”

JJ grins. “Yeah. ‘You’ve been a bad boy’ was definitely a first.”

Emily pulls a deep breath in through her nose.”Everyone heard about that already?” The team lets out a few chuckles, and you turn your eyes to the floor. “Well, I did what I needed to do, and it worked.” 

“It worked on you, too,” Luke says, elbowing you. You shoot him a death glare. 

Before you can fire back, your phone pings with a text from Penelope. “Heard about Prentiss’s mommy moment today. I can get you a copy of the recording. For later, just in case.” Your face turns beet red as you move to quickly flip the phone face down. 

“Nothing.” You lunge. “Give it!” 

Luke snatches the phone and reads it. “Oh my God.”

Emily, now curious, plucks the phone from his hand. She reads the text. Pauses. Then looks at you, smug. “For later, huh?” Your face is on fire, and the bullpen is howling.

You drop your head into your hands. “I hate all of you.”

Emily leans close, not even bothering to lower her voice. “Want me to recreate it for you?”

You groan. “You’re evil.”

She presses a kiss to the top of your head and smirks against your hair. “You love it.”

-

The bullpen is finally quiet. The team has trickled out one by one, with JJ and Luke heading to Georgia, and the teasing has dulled for now.

You stretch your legs out under your desk, still feeling the residual heat in your face. Emily leans back in a chair beside you, eyes closed for just a second, letting the chaos of the day slip off her shoulders. “I think Garcia’s actually going to send me that recording,” you say after a long pause.

Emily chuckles. “Make sure you label it educational material.”

You give her a sidelong glance. “I’m not going to escape this anytime soon, am I?”

She smirks, voice low and warm. “No, you’re not.”

[sweetlovepascal]

closed doors

pairings harry castillo x reader

summary you had his cock in your mouth under the desk when his clueless assistant walked in with a clipboard in hand, rambling about contracts while harry kept a straight face, only to bend you over that same desk the second the door closed as he fucked you like the spoiled little brat you are.

“do you feel me? this is how deep i am inside you.”

content nsfw 18+, explicit sexual content, semi-public sex (office setting), rich bratty reader, power dynamics. established relationship, unspecified age gap. proceed with care.

masterlist

you’re curled up on the velvet chaise in the corner of harry’s sleek glass-walled office, swinging one leg lazily, wearing a minidress that really shouldn't be appropriate for a business visit. but it’s harry. and you’re not just anyone.

he’s seated at his desk, speaking sharply into a call. you watch the way he moves.

fingers tapping, jaw tight, voice low and commanding.

and he hasn’t looked at you in twenty full minutes.

you rise slowly, crossing the polished floor without a word. he notices you in his peripheral but keeps speaking.

you perch on the edge of his desk. then slip down beneath it.

"get—get that document signed by noon," he says tightly.

you grin against the fine wool of his trousers as your fingers slowly trace his thigh. you tease.

you take your time undoing his belt. he’s gripping the desk now.

harry pauses, hand covering the mic. “don’t start something you can’t finish,”

you look up through your lashes, sugary sweet. “watch me.”

you palm him first, lazily, until he’s thick and twitching beneath your touch.

you draw his big thing out and lean forward to press a kiss to his tip. not a real kiss. a tease.

you swirl your tongue around the head. slow and wicked.

harry’s voice falters on the phone. “yes, we’ll finalize the contract.”

your tongue flicks the underside of his crown, and he grips the desk with white knuckles.

you don’t take him in yet. you smile, kiss him again. whisper, “why aren’t you watching me, harry?”

harry end the call and finally looks down. his jaw tight and eyes dark.

just as you begin to close your mouth around him, there’s a knock.

“mr. castillo?”

you pause. look up. smirk.

“let him in.”

harry glares at you like he might drag you to hell. then clears his throat.

“come in.”

his assistant walks in, clipboard in hand. business as usual.

except you’re still under the desk.

you drag your tongue up his shaft. slow strokes of your hand. sucking just the tip, softly. he bites the inside of his cheek.

“move the contract to next week,” he says, voice strained. “and tell legal to revise clause four.”

the assistant eyes him warily. “are you sure, sir? you told legal to finalize it today.”

harry clears his throat, jaw flexing. “yes. i changed my mind.”

there’s a beat of awkward silence. you suck him deeper.

“sir… you seem a little… tense,” the assistant says hesitantly.

harry’s voice is hoarse. “it’s been a long day.”

“would you like me to reschedule your 3 p.m.?”

you flick your tongue. harry exhales sharply. “no. keep it. anything else?”

the assistant flips a page. “only the fundraising gala. you’re supposed to finalize your guest list.”

harry locks eyes with the wall. “i'll put you on it.”

pause. “me?”

harry’s voice turns deadly calm. “do you need me to spell it out?”

“no, sir. i’ll take care of it.”

when the door finally closes behind the assistant, harry's grip is firm when he yanks you up from under the desk, and he doesn’t say a word at first.

not with his jaw clenched like that, not with his cock slick from your mouth and his knuckles white from how hard he’d gripped the chair.

"you want to act like a brat in my office?” he hisses. “fine.”

he throws you onto the desk, dress bunched at your hips.

you gasp, breath catching. he slides your panties with one hand, the other tight at your back.

“now you get to take it.”

“hands on the desk,” he murmurs, voice like velvet and command all at once.

you obey without question, your palms on the cool wood.

the city stretches behind the glass walls, glittering and unaware. this world. yours and harry’s.

his hand drags down the curve of your spine as he steps behind you.

“you know what this does to me,” he says, breath rough at your ear. “knowing no one can see you like this but me.”

you glance back at him with a playful glint in your eyes.

harry slides in from behind in one long, punishing thrust. your moan shatters the quiet.

he moves inside you like he’s trying to memorize the way you feel.

“sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice soft against your skin. “you undo me.”

“you wanna tease me like that again? make me sit through a meeting with your lips wrapped around my cock?” you nod.

“you’re soaked, i could live inside you.”

he thrusts hard. the desk shakes. you cry out.

“you gonna be good now?” he pants.

you grin through glassy eyes. “probably not.”

“then i’ll fuck the attitude out of you.” he brushes your hair back and presses a kiss on your shoulder.

he keeps moving inside you. the city glows, but he’s the one setting you alight.

“this little act of yours,” he mutters, pressing a kiss to the nape of your neck between movements, “your mouth on me with my assistant a feet away…”

“you let him in,” you gasp, voice shaking. “you could’ve said no.”

he laughs against your skin, deep and breathless. “you’d already wrapped me around your finger.”

you arch into him, and his rhythm falters. harry groans your name like it’s sacred.

“you’re mine,” he says,

you breathe. “i’m yours.”

“you are. every spoiled inch of you.”

his hand slips from your hip to your stomach, pulling you back against him while he keeps moving inside you slower now.

“do you feel me?” he murmurs at your ear. “this is how deep i am inside you.”

when you come, shaking around him with your cheek pressed to the desk and his name breaking in your throat, he follows with a low shuddering moan and a kiss to your shoulder.

he’s gives you all the parts of him no one else gets.

when he pulls out, he doesn’t move far. just wraps an arm around your waist and rests his forehead to your back, breath still uneven.

[thecreelhouse]

me reading this chapter:

okay but also the way my tears instantly paused over that one kid’s reaction “is she gonna die?” And reader GLARING LMAOOOOO

But ugh poor penelope 😭💔 and Steve getting emotional about reader being so supportive… saying he wishes reader was Penelope’s mom….. I’m drowning in tears

can’t say enough how much I adore your version of dad!steve. he’s doing a great job despite the challenges of being a single parent, and reader reassuring him is just 🥺!!! but I love how human you write him too— he’s goofy like a dad, wholesome in so many ways, would do anything to keep penelope safe and happy, but also has his moments of little slip ups of swear words lol, lack of time overwhelming him, the little details of the house being a bit messier than the first time reader comes over, the exhaustion of juggling so much at once catching up to him sometimes— idk I just appreciate it all so much. He’s not written as some flat, total rainbows and sunshine parent, but still has a heart of gold and has easily passed that onto his daughter.

And influences of backup parenting (for lack of a better phrase) from reader where it’s not overstepping boundaries, but rather simply helping Steve in those moments the extra support eases any worry or stress, idk it’s just all so heartwarming!!! You’ve written reader flawlessly fitting into both Steve and Penelope’s lives as they get closer, like they’re just meant to be a lil family 🥺💞 even if reader and Steve were only to stay friends, as heartbreaking as it would be, it’s still a dynamic written so well I could see that working well too (but god i do hope they can finally become more 😭💞)

Sooooo so so looking forward to the next part; it’ll be bittersweet for this lil series to end, bc it’s just so dang good, but whatever the outcome is, I’m excited to read it!!

The Shape of Family ‧₊˚❀༉

As a single dad, Steve’s world revolves around school drop-offs, bedtime rituals, and tee-ball practices—and he's struggling to keep up. But you're always there, happily lending a hand when he needs it most. / masterlist

part five - tee-ball practice leads to a trip to the emergency room. cw mentions of sex, description of injury (no gore) 12k

a/n - this broke my heart to write i apologize in advance

── .✦

You didn’t spend much time on the phone before you met Steve. The landline lived on your kitchen countertop, collecting more toast crumbs than voicemails. But it has since been moved to the living room on a fold-out table beside your couch. Because now, several times a week, you collapse there with the phone wedged under your ear for hours, a smile as constant as the voice on the other end. 

The first thing you do when you get home is check your answering machine. You’ve come to love that little red light that lets you know when you have a new message. Sometimes it’s no one important, a salesman or a scam or work, but most of the time it's Steve.

You know his phone number better than anyone’s. You’ve entered it so many times the digits have started to wear away on your keypad. And the trill is as thrilling as the first time you heard it. 

Brrrr. Brr. Brrrr. Brr. Brrrr. Brr. Brrrr. Brr– “Hey, you’ve reached Steve– AND PENELOPE– Yes, and Penelope, uhh– WE’RE BUSY– well, yeah if you’re hearing this we probably are sooo leave a message and I’ll get back to you when I can. By– BYEEE!”

Steve changed his voicemail the night you exchanged numbers. He wanted something more him, more Penelope, too. And you love it more than he knows. Sometimes you hope he won’t pick up just to hear the message play. 

You press the switchhook before it beeps. You’re turned and only two steps away when it rings back. “Hey,” you grin into the receiver. 

“Sorry, hi, I just– I think I've flooded Nell’s bathroom and–”

“You think?”

“Alright, fine, I definitely flooded Nell’s bathroom. Look, there was food in the oven, I told her to start the bath, and then— boom— suddenly it’s the goddamn Titanic in here. I’ve been stomping on towels for like ten minutes, and it’s not helping.”

You snicker down at your pajamas. “Do you want me to come over?” 

“No, no, I’ve got it. The house will probably just smell like wet dog for eternity.” 

“Better put it on the market now before it really sets in.” 

“Yeah, I–” Steve pulls the phone away to shout, “Penelope Anne! No, thank you!– I might have to call you back, she's–” There’s a thump and a crumbly static sound like the phone was dropped, and then– “I wanna talk! Hi, Y/N!” 

Hijacking the phone isn’t uncommon in the Harrington household. Steve would scold you for letting Penelope hear you laughing about it. But he’d be just as guilty, smiling through something like you’re supposed to be on my side, you know.

“Hi, Miss Penelope Anne.” You tug the phone’s rubber cord to your heart, your voice sticky with affection. “Are we being a good listener for Dad?”

She giggles. You’ve never used her full name– didn't even know it until two seconds ago– and you’re pretty sure it’s reserved for when she’s in trouble. “Yes!” 

“Are you sureee?”

“Yesss,” she promises. Steve’s voice is too muffled to make out in the background, but Penelope fills in the gaps, “I’m not lying, Dad!” 

Your hum drags suspiciously. “Did you help him clean the bathroom?”

“Yes, and it wasn’t even my mess.”

“Oh, well, it’s still nice to help, yeah?”

“Will you come to my game tomorrow?”

You are unfazed by her master deflection skills at this point. If Penelope is finished talking about something, she will make that clear. “I thought it was over the weekend, babe.”

“Oh– dad says it’s just pra-tiss.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Daddy! Tomorrow?” A long beat, Steve’s voice barely crackling through the speaker. “Yeah. He said you don’t have to go, but I think you should ‘cause it would be really fun if you did.” 

“Sounds super fun. What time tomorrow?” 

“Six? Yeah, six,” she confirms. 

“Okay, I’ll try to go. But only if you’re a super-duper good listener for the rest of the night. ‘M gonna call Dad later to check, ‘kay?” 

“‘Kay.” 

“Okay, I’m gonna hang up now. Tell him I said I’ll call back. And go stomp on some more towels with him.” 

“Okay, bye-bye.”

“Bye, Pen. Goodnight.” 

You hang up the phone with aching cheeks. You’re still smiling as you set out tomorrow's clothes and even as you slip into bed. It’s always like this with them, this perpetual, overwhelming sense of joy. 

Work isn’t quite as boring when you have tee-ball to look forward to. But still, each passing hour feels like a hurdle between you and the best part of your day.

You arrive at practice a little late, more than a little worried that Steve will think you’re making his daughter empty promises. But he’s waving at you from the top of the bleachers with a huge grin, and all the worry disappears. 

“You made it,” he beams as you climb up past other parents. 

“‘Course,” his warm fingers slip across your pulse point as you take his hand. “You doubt me?” 

“A little. You are like twenty minutes late.” 

You sit, hip to hip, your smile aimed up at his. “There was a bad accident. Had all of Pine Ridge blocked off. Oh, and then I missed the turn and I couldn’t find the entrance. This place is like a maze, they should have more signs.”

He hums agreeably. The sun spills across his front like a can of gold paint was dropped on his lap. One eye’s clamped shut and the other’s narrowed, glinting like a shard of amber. “Nell wanted to get ice cream after this if you wanna go.” 

“You buying?” 

“Maybe. If  you’re nice to me.” 

“I’m always nice to you.” You swipe the sunglasses off your head and turn the arms toward his face. He lets you push them up his nose without complaint. You’re much gentler than when Penelope tries to do it. And they look as silly on him as you hoped they would, pulling a bubbly laugh from the bottom of your chest. “See? I’m nice. What number is she?”

His eyes roll behind the tinted lenses. “She’s four.”

You scan the field. There’s a ring of girls in teal at the pitcher's mound, tip-toed with their hands in the sky. Penelope stretches beside the coach in the cutest jersey, HARRINGTON stamped proudly across her back. “Why? ‘Cause she’s four?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he huffs. “She lucked out. I guess three other kids had the same logic. ” 

“Aww, look,” you elbow Steve, leaving your arm against his side where it’s warm. 

He feels you sit up straighter to wave at Penelope, who’s literally jumping for you now that you’re here. A few girls turn their heads to see what the big deal is, and you feel a little shy when the parent in front of you does the same. 

Steve would never tell Robin this, but she has officially been knocked to number two on Penelope’s list of favorite people. Penelope adores you more than anyone he’s ever met. She talks about you more than all of her classmates combined. And most of her crafts from school end up on your fridge instead of theirs. He even had to put the phone up where she couldn’t reach after she memorized your number and started harassing you after work.

The girls stretch and run laps around the field's perimeter before taking turns swinging foam balls off the tee. Penelope’s got a pink glove to match the cleats you helped them pick out. And her helmet’s already decked out in stickers from the Lisa Frank book you gave her. You forget how intertwined you’ve become in their lives until it’s so apparent you can’t even try to deny it. 

Baseball fields are quite noisy. Moms trade gossip with other moms, whining siblings are entertained by other even whinier siblings. There’s the consistent knock of a ball against a bat, cheering and chanting from an adjacent field, and the occasional “heads up” to listen out for. You and Steve watch the team, but you slip into the comfort of each other’s company, the outside world fading away as you trade stories. But then someone gasps, and it’s like the whole park stills, the silence hanging just long enough for an awful scream to break it. 

“Oh, shit. What happened?” 

“It’s one of the girls. She fell I think.”

“Is she okay? Whose kid is that?” 

You get up from your seat as Steve pushes past you. Your heart becomes a woodpecker, peck, peck, pecking you in the ribs like it wants out. And your eyes snap between Steve and the field in a desperate search for Penelope. 

Steve cuts through the dugout as the girls start to huddle around third base. It’s impossible to tell them apart when they’re all wearing the same shirt. But there’s number six, number thirteen, number two– fuck where is she? 

The crowd parts for Steve to get by, and then, finally, you see her. Poor Penelope’s curled up on her side in the clay. Something about it puts your brain on autopilot and your feet start moving on their own volition. 

It’s a blur how you end up on the other side of the fence but you’re there, kneeling in the dirt beside Steve with a big audience of onlookers. Penelope squeals out a pitiful little sound and it’s like an anchor drops right on your chest. 

“I’m here. I’m right here,” Steve’s promising her. His hands hover near her face. They’re shaking so hard he’s afraid to do anything with them. “You’re okay. It’s okay.” 

Penelope’s whole body trembles with the force of her breath, one gasp tripping over the next. Her face is scrunched bright red, leaking snot and tears like a faucet. And she’s trying so hard to speak but all she’s babbling out are broken sounds. 

Steve attempts to move her hand out of the way, but she screams at him loudly. 

“I know it hurts, I know– I have to see, baby.” 

You pin her ankles to the ground so she stops kicking him for one second. He quickly pries her fingers loose, his voice straining through apologies as she squirms. Her left arm lies limp across her tummy, swollen twice its size, a shade of plum blooming from her elbow out. It’s really an awful sight. 

You feel your arms prickle and your face goes cold. You want to turn away, but you can’t. 

Someone behind you says, “It’s really swollen.”

A smaller voice goes, “Will she be okay?” 

And a third, “Is she gonna die?” 

Your neck cracks with the speed at which you turn around. You glare daggers at the kid you’re pretty sure that came out of. Admittedly, not one of your proudest moments. 

“Here,” someone shoves a grocery bag full of ice into Steve’s hands, “ice it.” 

Steve molds it to her arm and her other hand grasps for something to squeeze. You scoop her fingers up from the dirt, letting her nails bite the meat of your palm. 

You miss whatever the coach says to Steve, but it doesn't appear to be good. Steve gears to stand up but falters with wobbly legs. There’s a great distance in his eyes like he’s seeing right through Penelope. 

You press up off your shins and squeeze his arm until he nods. 

You think her screaming can’t possibly get any worse, but it does the moment he lifts her off the ground. You’re trying really hard to turn your ears off, to trigger whatever dissociative state Steve has gone into, but nothing will stop the hurricane that is your heart. 

Steve speedwalks across the pitcher's mound. There are a few dozen sets of eyes on him, but he barely notices. His mind is running a mile a minute. All he keeps thinking about is how he wasn’t watching when it happened. 

What if she hit her head? Is she in shock? Should I be helping her in some other way? Which hospital is closest? And where the fuck did I park the car? 

You catch up to him and cover the back of his bicep with your hand. He glances at you and exhales a shaky breath he'd been keeping. He doesn’t smile like he usually would. But he’s more grateful for your presence than he can put into words right now.

You shove the chainlink gate open and easily spot the beamer, parked in the very first row of cars. Steve almost eats shit in the dip from pavement to gravel but he rights himself with the help of your hands. 

You try the backseat door handle and find it locked. “The keys?” 

He takes one hand off of Penelope and quickly returns it when she shrieks. And she nearly launches herself out of his arms when he tries to shift her to his hip. He looks at you miserably and says, “Front pocket.” 

You might’ve felt weird about reaching into the front pocket of Steve’s jeans in any other circumstance, but there was no time for hesitation here. You unlock the doors and start the car while Steve fights to get Penelope in her seat. 

“Nooo,” she yells, gripping the back of his shirt so hard the neckline chokes him. 

You turn in the driver's chair, finding Steve with his teeth gritted, knelt on the edge of the backseat, and Penelope holding onto him for dear life. Her back arches under his hand, her feet pushing the passenger seat forward a notch. She’s relentless. Steve pulls her back out of the car and swings to the other side. He climbs in behind you and slams the door hard. His eyes find yours in the rearview as he urges you to, “Just drive.” 

You wrench the gear shifter into reverse and reach behind the passenger seat so you can see. While you are focused on not running anyone over, it’s hard not to notice the battle going on in the backseat. Steve’s wedged up against the car seat, in the middle of the row, and Penelope's crushing his nose with her good hand. 

By the time you’re turning onto the main road, Steve has given up forcing her to sit in her own seat. It’s doing her arm more harm than good at this point. 

His head slumps hard into the headrest, his arms keeping her tight to his chest. “It’s okay,” he keeps saying. “You’re okay,” he promises, but the words do nothing to relieve her tears. 

Your fingers tap the steering wheel impatiently. The cars in front of you aren’t moving nearly fast enough, and you’re already pushing the speed limit. You check the rearview for the umpteenth time. “Almost there, Pen. Promise.” 

She warbles something too quiet for even Steve to make out. 

“What?” he asks her. 

“Don’t want my– my arm– ‘r gonna,” she gasps, “take my arm.” 

Steve blinks at her sorely until it clicks. “No, baby. No one’s taking your arm. They’re gonna help it feel better. No one’s gonna hurt you.” 

“It hurts,” she sobs. 

Steve wipes his eyes. “I know.” 

This is simultaneously the longest and shortest drive of your life. You park under the emergency room’s overhang behind an ambulance. Steve tests the child lock on his door until you can get out and open it. 

You’re rushing in behind them when an EMT stops you. “Ma’am. Ma’am, you can’t park here.” 

You’re ready to argue but Steve doesn’t give you the chance. “Just go park,” he barks, halfway through the automatic doors. 

The car’s parked in the first spot you see, and the jog back up to the building is achingly long. From the sidewalk, you can already hear Penelope wailing inside. And the sound only worsens as the entrance doors open. Steve’s not hard to find, shifting impatiently at the front desk. 

The receptionist slides a clipboard across the counter like he has room in his arms for paperwork. But you appear at his side as you always seem to, reaching for the pen and paper before he even has to ask. 

Steve hoists Penelope back up where she’s slipped and turns around without a word. He’s expressionless, near mechanical in his movements. You’ve seen him have bad days at work and you’ve seen Penelope scare the shit out of him a good handful of times, but you’ve never seen him like this. You follow him to a vacant pair of chairs, hugging the ream of paperwork to your chest as you sit. 

Penelope still doesn’t settle. Steve encourages her sweaty cheek off his chest and she looks up at him in this terrible way that splits your heart right in half. Her eyes are glossy, and so swollen, her lashes dampened into dark points. Her ponytails have loosened, frizz bunching up at each hair tie. And she looks like she needs an inhaler the way her chest keeps distending for air. 

Steve flattens a hand down the short breadth of her spine, the other wiping snot bubbles from her nose. “Penelope,” he pleads, “take a breath, baby. Take a breath.”

She sucks in air so hard she chokes on it. It’s scary from your position, you can’t imagine how Steve feels. 

“You’re okay. I’m right here, it’s okay.” 

“No,” she shakes her head and hiccups, “hurts.” 

“I know.” He brings her head to his lips, nostrils flaring against her bangs. He’s blinking like tears will fall any second. All he can say is, “I’m sorry.” 

You feel so bad. Anxious and useless most of all. You stop clicking the pen in your hand and flip through the intake forms on the clipboard. It's standard stuff– name, date of birth, allergies. You fill in what you know, which isn't much, but it keeps your brain occupied and saves Steve a few questions. 

Penelope’s crying subsides to a steady whine. The tears stop, but her back spasms with every handful of breaths. She’s gotten as comfortable as she can be in the crook of Steve’s elbow, his hand stapling her face to his bicep. 

“Pen,” you start softly. 

Shiny brown eyes flick up to yours. 

“Help me out here. Do you know your birthday? You remember?” 

She shakes her head as much as she can manage with her head laying like that. 

Steve frowns at her. Or maybe he’s just looking at her, and the frown’s a permanent new addition to his face. “Come on, you know it,” he whispers. “Tell me."

“Ju–une,” she shudders.

You wiggle your eyebrows excitedly. “June… first?”

“No.” 

“June second?” 

“No.” 

“June one hundred and sixty-fourth?”

Not even a millimeter of a smile. You might be poking the bear the way her brows twist at you angrily but you continue to tease her regardless. “Do I have to say every number in June?” 

She kneads her eye with a closed fist and grumbles, “Se–even.” 

“June seventh?” You look at Steve, and his eyes flick to yours. “Eighty-nine?”

He nods. Penelope looks severely unhappy with you, but at least she’s distracted. 

You run down the long list of questions together. You fill in his information for the emergency contact, then Robin’s as a secondary, and then Steve asks, “Can I add you?” 

“Add me?”

“As another contact.”

You blink at the page and then raise your eyebrows at Steve. The idea would’ve never crossed your mind.

“Only if you want to. It’s fine if not.” 

“No,” your brows sink and furrow, “I mean, yeah– I want to. I'd love to.” You grin, and he grins poorly back. 

A nurse calls Peneleope’s name from the other side of the room. You’re guided down to triage– less a room and more a section of the hallway, tucked behind a frosted glass partition and cramped with a cabinet full of supplies. 

Steve sits in the patient chair with Penelope on his lap. He explains what happened, and that no, she has no allergies, no nausea, no fever, just a very obviously broken arm. The nurse sticks a thermometer under her tongue anyway, cuffs her working arm with a blood pressure monitor, and counts the beats of her pulse. He fits her with a sling tinier than you’ve ever seen and administers cherry-flavored children’s Tylenol, which sparks a whole new well of tears because Penelope clearly stated she wanted strawberry. The nurse isn’t as apologetic as you think he should be, he just straps a bracelet to her wrist and you’re walked right back to the havoc that is the waiting room. 

And so you wait. When you’re not people-watching, you watch the clock because there’s nothing better to do. Fifteen minutes, thirty, forty-five minutes pass. At an hour, you peel your legs off the vinyl chair to take a lap around the room. You skim a pamphlet about heart disease and a second about stress management. 

You present Penelope with a wrinkled Highlights magazine you found, and she’s not thrilled, but she’s calm at least. Stuffy and tired, but in much less pain than she was. Steve coaxed her down for a nap, but she insisted that it’s too loud. And between the constant sirens and people rushing in and out and the fluorescent lights, you can’t blame her, you wouldn’t be able to nap either. 

Steve’s sneaker is a riot under his chair. You cup his knee to stop it from bouncing, though it doesn’t do much. He places the front of his hand across the back of yours. It’s noticeably clammy but it could be drenched in sweat and you probably still wouldn’t move it.

You feel his fingers flex every time a nurse returns with a clipboard and a new name to call. But each time, all the anticipation deflates when it’s not Penelope’s. 

Another hour passes, and you’ve had enough when, for the second time in a row, someone who arrived after you gets called back first. You stand quickly and inform Steve, “I’m gonna ask how much longer.” 

He nods, gratefully, you think. 

The receptionist offers the same rehearsed answer they probably give everyone else– “The doctor will be with you as soon as they’re able.” 

You stare at her bland face. You know she has nothing to do with the number of patients here or the order in which the nurses decide to call people back, but it’s no less frustrating. 

“Soon,” is what you tell Steve when you return. 

He knows you well enough to tell that you don’t actually know how long it’ll be. But he pretends like you’ve told him the truth anyway. He finds it’s much easier to be optimistic when you’re around. 

You drop back in your seat, arms crossed, feet tapping away on the linoleum. Steve can’t sit still either. You’d think his hands would get tired, but they’re tenacious when it comes to back rubs. His hips shift, and Penelope whines. You chalk his squirming up to an anxiety similar to your own, but he’s starting to act like he sat on an ant hill or something. 

“What?” you ask.

Steve shakes his head, eyes drilled on the floor. 

“You okay?” 

He funnels air slowly out of his mouth and nods. 

“Steve, what?”

“Just have to pee,” he mumbles, his hand kicking back into gear where it paused on Penelope’s shoulder. “‘S fine.” 

“Go,” you say. “I’ll sit with her.”

He looks from the floor to you, back down to Penelope. She’s comfortable, finally, and moving her is a risk he doesn’t want to take. But he really fucking has to pee. He nods at you, straightening out in his chair and pushing Penelope forward. 

She protests the movement with a great big groan. It’s like when she wakes up from a long nap, always so grumpy, but with the cutest little pout. Though this time, you’re foreseeing a meltdown, and you can’t imagine it’ll be cute at all. 

“I have to go potty. I need you to stay here,” Steve explains. 

Her face crumples instantly, her lip jutting as her eyes fill with fresh tears. She clings to Steve’s arm like a buoy, blubbering into his sleeve, “Go with you.”

“I can’t hold you in there, baby.” 

Her voice rises, earning a few turned heads. “But I want you to!” 

“Please, baby. I’ll be so quick, promise.” 

“Pen, let’s look at that magazine again,” you try. “I think I saw Tic-Tac-Toe somewhere.” 

Steve dumps her in your lap and books it. He feels terrible but he’ll feel much worse if he pisses himself in the ER lobby. He prays Penelope isn’t as rough with you as she is with him, but she’s still shouting for him by the time he reaches the bathrooms. Not a good sign at all. 

You press the back of your hands to her cheeks with the utmost care. They’re so warm and slick with tears falling too fast to chase away. She’s gone ballistic, bawling helplessly at you like you’ve done something truly terrible to her. And you sort of have. You urged Steve to go, that you could handle it, but a little part of you is starting to regret that. 

There are at least a dozen pairs of eyes on you, filling you to the brim with embarrassment. Generally, you think you’re pretty good at talking Penelope down from a tantrum. You make up silly songs and do weird little dances, but none of it is coming even close to working right now. She’s crying so loud you almost miss her name being called. 

“Penelope Harrington,” the voice says again. 

You lock eyes with the nurse across the room. Fuck. 

“Pen, hey, Penelope, listen,” you tip her face toward yours, “we have to get up, okay?” 

“I want Daddy.” 

“I know. He’s coming. He’ll be right back.” 

“No– we, we can’t–” her voice cracks into another heaving sob. 

“We won’t leave without him, we just have to get up.”

She continues to cry as you struggle to your feet. Penelope’s not what you’d consider heavy but her lack of cooperation is making her very difficult to carry. 

The nurse meets you halfway and confirms, “Penelope?”

“Yes, she’s– can we just wait one second, her dad’s still– he’ll be right back, he just ran to the restroom.” 

The nurse follows your gaze to the empty hall. Her mouth opens and closes like no is on the very tip of her tongue. 

“He’ll be just one second,” you plead.

Penelope must gather what’s going on and she’s not a fan at all. Her fit escalates even more, one hand cinching your collar, tugging your shirt so far down you fear you've just flashed the nurse. She nearly flails herself onto the floor, then headbutts your chin hard enough for your eyes to water. The reactionary tears worsen into real ones because you have absolutely no idea what to do. Steve steps away for all of two seconds, and you’re already screwing it up.

“Look,” the woman says in a way that makes the back of your throat burn even worse, “I’ll come back–” 

“No, wait, he’s–” You blink until the restroom sign unblurs and find that Steve’s actually there at the end of the hall this time.  “He’s right there, see– Steve!” 

Steve's jogging life his life depends on it. Nearly knocks someone over trying to pass them. And when he gets close enough to see your matching wet eyes his stomach kinks itself like a hose. 

Your arms are burning, nearly trembling by the time Steve takes her. Never in your life have you been so grateful to give up your Penelope. 

But Steve is just so good at being a dad. He calms her with practiced ease, cradling her like she’s no bigger than she was the day she was born. The walk to her room gives her a chance to catch her breath and for you to wipe your eyes. Steve asks if you’re okay and if you’re sure when you swear that you are. He’s a great dad but an even greater friend. 

Steve situates himself on the edge of the hospital bed with Penelope balanced on his thighs while you stand restless near the foot. You can’t shake the goosebumps from your skin, and your headache thrums like a second heartbeat behind your eyes.

“Alrighty, Miss Penelope,” the nurse reads sternly off her clipboard, “can you tell me what happened?” 

Steve reiterates the play-by-play. They discuss her pain levels, medical history, changes in symptoms– it’s deja vu. The woman is as curt as just about everyone else in this place, jotting his answers down like she already knows them. And she’s halfway out the door before you or Steve even have a chance to ask any questions. 

Steve shakes his head at you. How he’s not snapped at anyone by now, you have no idea. But you think his last nerve is starting to fray, and yet, his voice still softens when he tells you to, “Sit.” 

There’s only one chair in the room, the same peeling vinyl type from the waiting room. You steer it over to the side of the bed and sit. 

Penelope mumbles into Steve’s chest, her words buried in the fabric of his shirt. 

Steve’s gaze falls to her. “What, baby?” 

“‘M hungry.” 

“You’re hungry?”

She hiccups, nodding with the tiniest sweep of her chin. 

“Want me to go stick my hand up the vending machine?” 

No, her head shakes. “Stay.” 

You’re already standing when Steve looks at you. He digs around in his jeans for his wallet, but the second you see it, you wave him off.

“I got it,” you press.

He opens it one-handed across his thigh, but you flip it closed.

“Watcha want, Pen?” 

You think she shrugs, but your eyes are sewn to Steve’s. He fights the worn leather back open and pulls a crisp twenty out. “Please?” 

The magic words don’t work on you at his big age. Not for this at least. You tear the wallet from his hand and slide the bill back inside. 

If Steve didn’t have Penelope in his lap and his brain didn’t feel like it had been diced up on a hibachi grill, he’d put up a much better fight.

You swing the door open with an, “I’ll be back!” 

Steve frowns at your gloating smile, but his lips catch something similar the second you’re through the door. 

You’re thrilled to have something to do. Watching Penelope be miserable is at the very bottom of your list of least favorite pastimes. Your chest squeezes as you remember her poor little face. You’ll never forget that first scream at the field. Or how when she fell, she just laid there. You’d thought so many awful things might’ve happened. 

The gift shop is hard to miss with windows stretching from floor to ceiling. And right there on a shelf in one of them is a teddy bear with its arm in a sling. Jackpot. 

The door jingles as it opens and an employee greets you from across the room. You browse the get-well cards and bouquets of balloons, but nothing is as good as a new teddy when you’re a kid. You take it to the counter quickly. You’ve been sent out on a very important mission and you’d guess Penelope’s mood is souring with every grumble of her empty stomach.

The first vending machine you find is fully stocked– snacks, candy, soda– a hangry little girl’s dream. You have a pretty good idea of what she likes at this point, but a much safer way to ensure you get the right is to just buy all of it. Maybe not all of it, but you do feed a twenty in the mouth of the machine and buy as much as you can. Pack after pack of candy drops into the well and a few healthier options in the rare chance that Steve vetoes. You shove them all in the gift shop bag and hustle back to the room. 

The snacks are dumped across the foot of Penelope’s hospital bed, much to Steve’s horror and Penelope’s great surprise. It’s like Christmas the way her eyes light up.

“Wow,” Steve says. “Bought the whole machine out, huh? Whadya say?” 

“Thanks,” Penelope sniffles. Her lovely voice is so congested from all the crying. 

“You’re very welcome. Which one you want?” 

“M’s.” 

“Yeah, M’s,” you laugh. “That’s what I thought you’d say. 

Your eyes flick to Steve’s as you lift the pack of M&Ms. He nods as you tear them open. 

You hold out your hand to ask for Penelope’s, but she opens her mouth instead. 

“What! You need me to feed you?” you play along. 

She stifles a giggle, her open mouth twitching to smile. 

“Last I checked, you still have one working arm.” 

“No, feed me,” she implores. 

Steve squeezes her thigh. “Come on, you’re a big girl.” 

Penelope shakes her head, still tilted up at the ceiling. 

“Alright, alright, here’s one. You can do the rest, silly girl.” You drop an M&M on her tongue and let Steve steal the bag from you. 

“Yummy?” you ask. 

She nods and pops another few in her mouth. 

Your eyes return to Steve’s. “For you? There’s a Snickers and a Hershey’s and…”

He shakes his head, pushing his hair back before it falls over his eyes. “Thank you,” he mouths. 

Your lashes mesh together when you smile at him, but your eyes pop back open as fast as they closed. “Oh– Pen, guess what?” 

She blinks at you with a mouthful, chocolate already painting the underside of her chin. 

“I gotcha something else.”

Her eyes go impossibly wider, and they have a much happier sheen to them. “What?” 

She springs up with a newfound energy as you unveil the teddy bear. You press it into her lap and her fingers curl around its tiny ear to keep it upright.

“Like it?”

“Yeah,” she coos, “can I keep it?”

“Of course, it’s for you.”

“We match.”

“Yeah, isn’t that cool?” 

She beams, her hand roving all across its fur, her smile blooming full force. 

Sometimes, it feels like all the love you could ever need is right here— woven into every grin, every word, every look Penelope gifts you. Her smile truly is like a weight off your shoulders. 

The intensity of Steve’s gaze pulls your eyes away from Penelope. He’s looking at you with enough warmth to set your face on fire. And if he’s not careful he really might have to call the fire department. Or maybe just a nurse in case your heart gives out. You turn away, but your smile is no secret. 

You end up with a pair of disposable gloves from the counter. They get blown up with air and each a set of eyes with a pen you found, and now Penelope’s got two turkeys to play with. You’re so creative, Steve really doesn’t know what he’d do without you. He’s done this whole parent gig by himself for the majority of Penelope’s life, but he’s starting to rely on you like you're the other half of her. Had you not already been at practice, he’s sure he would’ve called you from the hospital. 

It’s during difficult times like these that Steve yearns for validation of his parenting choices from his own mom and dad. He knows they’re no example setters and he has far better people to seek that from, but it’s an urge he can’t put away sometimes. But then there’s you, laughing and making his daughter laugh even harder, and he realizes he just doesn’t need it anymore. He knows he must be doing something right when you’re around. 

Penelope gets another snack, and Steve gets his very own balloon turkey. You cycle between lots of games as you wait. You think Charades might be Penelope’s new favorite after you end up in a pretzel on the floor trying to get her to guess that you’re an octopus. Steve gets a kick out of it too, though you are adding it to your book of embarrassing things you did to make Penelope laugh. 

Thankfully, you’ve finished making a fool of yourself when the doctor knocks. She’s got a pep in her step and a wide, pearly smile. If only this type of attitude were more universal among the hospital staff. 

“Hi, there!” she says. “I’m Dr. Ruthman, I’ll be your–” A hand clamps across her gaping mouth. “Woah! Wait a second,” her eyes flick between her clipboard and Penelope, she flips a page theatrically, “they didn’t tell me I’m taking care of the Penelope Harrington today.

A Cheez-It slides out of Penelope’s hand onto the floor. Her blank stare is comical and says I’ve never met this woman in my life. 

Steve appears to be similarly confused– his brain really is fried– but you catch on quickly. “Pen, you famous around here or something?” 

Dr. Ruthamn scoffs. “Are you kidding me! Only the coolest, bravest athletes get to see me.” She shoves her hand out in front of Penelope. “It’s an honor.” 

Penelope has next to no clue what is happening, but she giggles because it seems like it’s something silly. She takes Dr. Ruthman’s hand and shakes it gently. 

“You’ll let me get your autograph, later, won’t you?” 

Penelope smiles funny, her voice lilting up an octave. “I guess?”

“You must be a busy woman.” Dr. Ruthman sticks her hands in the sink and flips the faucet handle. “What number are you again?”

Penelope’s gaze falls to her aching arm, snug in the sling. You can just see the gears turning as she realizes her counting hand is out of commission. Her other hand raises slowly, and four fingers unfurl stiffly. She double-checks that she’s got the right amount up before saying it out loud. 

“Four! No way! You know, I used to play basketball when I was in school, and you’ll never guess what number I was.” 

Penelope tips her head. “Four?” 

Dr. Ruthman gawks as she crouches in front of Penelope. “Ugh, you are just the smartest little smartie-pants, huh? How’d you know that? ”

She shrugs. “I dunno. I just did.” 

“You just did,” the doctor laughs, “Well, don’t you worry, I’m gonna get this arm back in swinging shape. Get’cha back on the field in no time.” 

Her freshly gloved hands run gingerly down Penelope’s arm, two fingers poking and prodding the inflated muscle. Steve cradles Penelope’s knee to keep her still, his other hand working lots of love into her shoulder. 

“Score any home runs today?” the doctor asks. 

Penelope’s mouth opens and snaps shut. How can she possibly focus on the conversation when this woman is kneading her arm like a cat? 

“Being so brave, honey. Can you wiggle your fingers for me? Yeah, good. Your thumb?” 

You wince as Penelope does. Fresh tears start in her waterline and she writhes uncomfortably back into Steve’s chest. 

“Good!” Dr. Ruthman beams genuinely. She pokes Penelope’s palm with her fingertip. “Can you turn this side to the floor? Perfect, now to the ceiling?” 

Penelope’s lip quivers as she tries. She can’t even get it halfway before her hand starts to bobble. 

“That’s okay. Doing so good.” 

“So good,” Steve echoes. He thumbs a little tear off her cheek.

Dr. Ruthman sheds her gloves and looks from Steve to you as she stands. “Your girl’s a trooper. I’ll go ahead and order an X-ray. A tech should be by to pick her up soon.” Her focus returns eagerly to Penelope. “And I’m coming back for that autograph, number four.” 

Penelope doesn’t cry like you expect she will. She really is a trooper. Steve tells her so several more times and promises they’ll get two ice cream cones since she’s been so brave. 

There’s not much to entertain yourself with, let alone a four-year-old. Steve keeps Penelope busy with Tic-Tac-Toe on the back of a diabetes brochure, then I Spy when she gets bored. But unfortunately, the majority of the room is white so that doesn’t last very long either. 

Meanwhile, you flip over the only magazine on the side table and skim the all-caps headline about sex health. There’s no shot Steve can read it without his glasses from where he’s sitting, but still, you feel self-conscious for not putting it down. You’re both adults, and you’re close friends, yeah, but you don’t exactly discuss your sex lives with each other. The thought of Steve having partners you aren’t aware of crosses your mind. He’s entitled to his secrets, you suppose. And it's probably best for your own sake that he doesn’t tell you anyway.  

You read an article praising abstinence for being the safest sex practice but feel weirdly worse about your own case. When Steve asks what you’re reading about, you lie, foot fungus. He takes you for a comedian and doesn’t press for details. 

The x-ray technician pops in sooner than you expect. He escorts you three turns down the hall to a room packed with lots of expensive-looking machines. A wall divides it into two, the first section smaller with a long counter and enough computer monitors to track a space launch. 

The tech stops you from following him and Steve into the second half. “Only one of you can come with her in the examination area,” he says as he jams a stopper under the door. 

You nod and hang back in the doorway. Penelope whines about how dark the room is, and Steve tries, but she still refuses to be put down. The tech fits them both in heavy-looking aprons and wheels a table up to the chair they’re sharing. 

Penelope peeks up at you with a deep frown that screams get me out of here! Her brows twist together like she’s trying very hard to telepathically forward her escape plan to your brain. It tears you apart, but the best you can do for her is two big you got this thumbs-up. 

The technician removes the sling, taking Penelope’s arm and gently pushing it in a way it just does not want to go. The tears are immediate, like silver streamers unraveling down her cheeks, shimmering under the machine's lights. Steve watches the tech helplessly as he straightens out Penelope’s arm. 

You backtrack out of the doorway, and the tech kicks the stopper out on his way in. The door slams, and Penelope’s hysterics muffle, though you can still see her struggling through the thick pane of glass. 

The tech types and clicks away at the desk. You know there’s no use in rushing him, but the urge is there. It’s any other day for him, but probably the worst of Penelope’s whole life. 

Eventually, he clicks his tongue, stands, and marches back through the door. He repositions Penelope’s arm– not without protest– and circles back to the desk. It’s a terribly long and painful deal of rinse and repeat. And Penelope doesn’t give poor Steve’s ears a break. 

You count eight photos on the monitor by the end, all from different angles and proximity. You’re no doctor, but there’s a distinct line through the white of her bone in nearly all of them. 

The tech pins the door back open and flicks the examination room lights on. 

“All done,” Steve shushes into Penelope’s hair. “That’s it, no more. You’re all done.” 

His knuckles have turned white where she’s squeezing them. Her whole body turns towards his, and she collapses with a big, open-mouthed sob. 

The tech fixes her sling back on while you lean over Steve’s shoulder, your hand rooted gently on his spine. “You did so good, Pen. Always so brave.”

“So so brave,” Steve affirms. “‘M so proud. Think about that ice cream we’re gonna get.” 

She couldn’t be less interested in praise or even ice cream at the moment. Steve tugs the apron up her back, you help thread her arms through the holes and pass it to the tech. Steve struggles to slip his off one-handed, so you guide one weighty end of it over his head, your fingertips skimming the fluffy ends of his hair. 

With Penelope still glued to his front, the four of you trek back to her room. She cries the entire way but panicked tears ebb into sleepier ones. You realize how many hours past her bedtime it is. 

“The doctor will be in with the results soon,” the technician explains on his way out. 

Steve resumes his position on the hospital bed, scooting back to the headboard and crossing his legs over the sheets. Penelope slumps down in his arms, boneless with the heavy weight of defeat. Her hiccups peter out under Steve’s hand, her breaths turning thick and congested with sleep.

“Coffee?” you ask, not because you want any, but solely because you’re anxiety swells again and you'd love something to do. 

Steve looks up with heavy-set eyes. He feels terrible, suddenly, looking at your own. “You don’t have to stay. I can– I’ll call you a cab.” 

You hadn’t considered that to even be an option, and honestly, you still don’t. “I want to stay.” 

He sighs but he decides he won’t fight you further because he really, really wants you to stay too. 

“Large coffee, three cups of sugar?”

He cracks a smile for the first time in a while. “I’m not that insane,” he defends, carefully maneuvering his wallet out of the front pocket of his jeans. 

You take it without argument this time. He might throw it at you if you avoid it any longer. And you’re not made of money either, the gesture is always appreciated. 

The cafeteria is closed, which, maybe you should’ve guessed. But you do some exploring and eventually find a pot of coffee in some sort of lounge you aren’t totally sure if you’re allowed to be in. It’s for a good cause, you tell yourself as you steal a styrofoam cup. The coffee is lukewarm at best and questionable in color, but Steve takes enough sugar in his you expect he won’t know the difference. 

There’s a pen lying there and a pail of extra sugar packets. You draw a smiley face on one and stick it inside the flap of his wallet for him to find later. And while it’s open, you can’t help but snoop. Cash and cards with his full name, a thick stack of pictures of Penelope, and a folded photo booth print of the three of you, your face plain as pavement in the clear pocket on the side. 

You keep the other half tucked in the sun visor of your car but it hadn’t occurred to you that Steve would treasure his copy just the same. Your heart tumbles, your thumb roving across the plastic divider. You’ve held your version long enough to sear those images into your brain forever. But these two you haven't seen since the day they were taken. You look at them for a long while before heading back. 

When you return, Penelope’s still snoozing, and Steve’s mid-conversation with her doctor. 

She pivots when his eyes veer to yours. “Oh, Mom, you’re back! Perfect timing!” 

Mentally, the caffeine heist is still underway. Her words don’t process until she’s well into her next sentence. She talks so damn fast that Steve didn’t have much of an opportunity to correct her either. Though maybe he wouldn’t have. He looked at you after she said it, oddly calm for something that cranked your pulse up a few notches. 

The doctor clasps her hands together. “Okay, so, do we want the good news or the bad news first?” 

Steve winces. “Bad?”

“Tee-ball is off limits for a couple months, give or take. But good news, it’s a clean break, should heal good as new in no time.” 

As far as bad news goes, he was expecting a lot worse, but this will still devastate Penelope when he has to tell her. She hadn’t even made it through a week of practice, and he’s pretty sure he isn’t getting her registration fees back. 

Dr. Ruthman explains lots of medical mumbo jumbo as you hand Steve his coffee. She leaves and you end up back in your chair, sleepy enough to think that maybe you should’ve gotten something with caffeine too. Your back aches against the sturdy armrest but you’re trying to pretend it’s a lot more comfortable than it is. You must not be doing a very good job, though, because Steve shuffles to one side of the hospital bed and pats the sheets. 

Your gaze floats up to him. “I’m okay.”  

“You look tired.”

You are tired, but you hoped it wasn’t that obvious. 

Steve pats the sheets again when you don’t answer. 

You push yourself onto your feet and trip over to the empty half of the bed. There’s an obvious lack of space between your bodies– this bed was clearly not built for two adults– but neither of you minds. It’s not the first time you’ve sat like this, and you’d bet it won’t be the last. 

Like Penelope’s Barbies, you both sit upright with legs straight out across the sheets. Both of your guys’ knees are smudged brown with clay. You wonder if it’ll come out of your work pants and Steve’s nice jeans. Yours aren’t anything expensive, you can always buy more if it doesn’t. 

You let the side of your shoe tip into his, just to see how they look beside each other. His sneakers are well-loved with lots of creases and a hole or two, not so far off from your own pair. You zone out pretty quickly thinking about shoes. Your eyes start to burn, but you refuse to let the exhaustion catch up. 

“I stepped on your foot earlier.”

You blink the weight off of your lashes and turn your face toward Steve’s. “What?”

“I stepped on your foot. On the bleachers, when I was getting off. I just remembered.” 

“When?”

“When she fell.”

“You did?” You struggle to talk through a big yawn. “I don’t– I don’t even remember.”

“Yeah, sorry.”

“It’s okay, Steve.”

“I know, I just… felt bad.” 

You sigh deeply and let your ear drop to his shoulder. There’s a gentle curve to your lips, a happiness bubbling inside and out. “Better call the nurse back so I can get it x-rayed.” 

He huffs through his nose. “Don’t start.” 

“Don’t be sorry, then.”

You can’t help but close your eyes. Steve’s a good pillow, though maybe that’s the delirium setting in. 

He takes your hand to the tiny sliver of his thigh that Penelope isn’t using. His fingers bunch yours up, then unfurl them one by one. You’ve seen him fidget with Penelope’s hands countless times, though this is the first time the nervous habit’s been extended to you.  

A little nap won’t be the end of the world, you decide. 

You wake to voices, Steve’s and a less familiar one. You gather from the short conversation and Steve’s sudden sitting up that she must be the casting technician. 

Steve slides off the bed onto his feet. Penelope’s still passed out on his chest, her open mouth coating his sleeve in drool. He hears you elbowing up off the sheets. 

“You can stay. It won’t take long,” he says quietly. 

You swipe the crust out of your eyes and shake your legs awake on the floor. “Mm-mm. I’ll go.” 

You follow him and the casting tech to a room so small you could’ve mistaken it for a storage closet. 

Penelope’s still in Steve’s arms when she rouses, but she’s in an entirely new room. There’s someone she doesn’t remember meeting, a girl with a boy’s haircut, wearing the same boxy clothes that everyone who works there has. 

“Hey, sleepy girl,” Steve rubs her thigh, “gotta pick a color for your cast.”

Penelope scrunches her eyes real tight at Steve. It is not time to wake up. 

The casting tech clears her throat, “We have pink, purple, red, blue, black…”

Steve sits Penelope upright on his lap as her head lolls to his shoulder. “Baby, look, see these pretty colors?” 

“Pink,” she groans into his shirt, her lashes fanned across her cheeks. 

“Pink?” the tech calls. 

Steve nods and the woman begins to prep on the countertop. You stand beside the bed Steve’s perched on, your head heavy as a dumbbell. 

“Don’t fall over," Steve says.

You grab his shoulder for balance. “‘M not.” 

The technician rolls a side table up to Steve and pops the brake. She has him scoot forward and maneuver Penelope’s broken arm flat. His stomach knots itself in a guilty pretzel when her eyes open full of tears. Casts are all the rage when you’re that young, but they’re not so fun to put on and take off. 

She’s so spent she barely puts up a fight. Steve holds her good hand more for his sake, sprinkling sorry kisses all across her head as the tech works.

Penelope’s arm is wiped, padded, and all plastered up in no time. The amount of minutes it takes to harden is the same amount it takes Penelope to calm back down. She’s awake, but zombie-like; moaning and groaning like she might really bite someone’s head off. 

Back in her hospital room, she tests the weight of her cast, complains that it’s so itchy and too heavy. But the mention of signatures adds a little shot of excitement to her cup. You track down a Sharpie and are begged to sign it first. After, she insists you must draw Cinderella too. And now you're no artist, but you try your absolute best.

“I’m the only boy who’s gonna sign this, right?” Steve asks as he colors in a heart by DAD. 

Penelope nods with her lip between her teeth so she doesn’t laugh. Every boy on the block is about to sign it, that’s for damn sure. 

A nurse steps in with discharge paperwork and a speech about cast care and referrals and payment plans and it all goes in one ear and out the other. But finally, Penelope is free to go. 

It takes ten minutes of wandering the parking lot to find the car because you’ve completely forgotten where you left it. Penelope treats it like a game of hide and seek and Steve genuinely doesn’t seem to mind, though he does tease you about your awful parking job when he sees it. You’re just glad it’s in an actual spot and not halfway to some impound lot. 

Penelope fusses as Steve eases her into her car seat. He threads her casted arm carefully through the seatbelt strap, her new bear crushed to her chest with the other. She looks more asleep than awake the way she’s blinking at him. 

It’s late enough to wonder if he’ll keep her home from school tomorrow. Or if maybe he’ll stay home from work himself. You could call off too, make a special day out of it. 

Steve adjusts the rearview so he has a slice of Penelope when he checks it. She’s an absolute goner before the car’s even left the parking lot, her head swaying like a ragdoll with every turn. 

The drive back to the field is peaceful. The hum of the engine pushes you dangerously close to a second nap. And Steve patting your thigh certainly doesn’t help. 

When he parks you’re crestfallen with the realization that the night is coming to a close. It’s been the most stressful part of your week and yet undeniably your favorite. You hang out in the heat of the car while Steve goes to search for Penelope’s missing cleat. He searched all up under the car seats for it, but you’re almost positive she kicked it off on the field. 

You watch Steve retrace his steps up to the dugout. Your mind, for whatever reason, jumps to earlier, smushed in that little twin bed, using his arm like a pillow. He was so gentle with your hands. He always is. And you were close enough to kiss him as you have been so many times in the last couple of months. You’ve had every opportunity to do it, but so has he. If it’s something he wanted to do, surely he would’ve done it by now. But it is nice to consider that maybe one of these days your delusions won’t be so delusional.

The passenger door clicks, and a swell of cold air hits your side. You’re stunned for a split second before Steve’s face slides into view. His eyes swing from Penelope’s over to yours. “Ready?” 

His fingers are icicles, slipping between yours to pull you up. You stand toe to toe, more than happy to encroach on his body heat in the residual spring chill. There’s a streetlamp behind him, his face is shadowed but still clear, his head fringed in white like a halo. 

“Couldn’t find ‘em,” he says, “but I did find your sunglasses.” 

“Oh,” you pat the top of your head, “I didn’t even realize.”

He cleans the lenses with the hem of his shirt before folding them into your hand. “Sorry, I must’ve dropped ‘em.” 

You shake your head. He could have snapped them in two and you still wouldn’t care. “Her cleat– one of the moms? Or her coach, maybe?” 

“Yeah, probably. Her bag’s gone too.” 

You hum. Your chest aches fiercely with the gauntlet of emotions you’ve bounced between all night. You aren’t sure what to say apart from, “Sorry.” 

He wrinkles his nose, a laugh of disbelief shaking his shoulders. “Why on earth are you sorry?” 

You squeeze your hands together, grasping for the right words. You're running on empty, though, and your thoughts just feel so heavy right now. “Today… it was all just so scary,” your voice goes paper-thin. “I just can’t imagine.” 

Steve’s eyebrows pinch together. He’s quiet for a while, staring at you like you’ve said the wrong thing. And maybe you have, it’s so late you can’t tell up from down anymore. But his face screws itself tighter, he looks away and then quickly back with even more severity. And then his arms are pulling you roughly against his chest, squeezing you gently. “God, Y/N. I should be the sorry one, you– she’s not even your fucking kid and you– you don’t need to be sorry.” 

“No,” you push off his chest until you can see his face again. He’s frowned enough times today to last him a lifetime. “I am. I care so much about her and it was all so awful. I just can’t even imagine how you must’ve felt.” 

Steve’s eyes sting like fire ants have made a nest in his waterline. He’s using every last drop of energy he has not to break in half right now. The last thing he wants is for you to feel even more sorry for him.  

He puts you back where you won’t see if he does cry, a big hand holding the side of your head to his chest. Your arms loop around his waist, hands latching onto his shirt like he’ll turn to dust and blow away. 

“I don’t think I would’ve survived tonight without you,” he murmurs. 

“You would’ve figured it out. Always have.” 

“No, I–” he exhales hot air down the back of your neck, his chin anchored to the slope of your shoulder. “Honestly, yeah, I don’t think I’ve ever been that scared in my life,” he admits. 

“Yeah, it was scary. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a kid scream like that.” 

“I’m gonna have nightmares, I think.” 

He says it like a joke, but neither of you laughs. It feels too true to be funny. 

“I thought it would get easier as she got older… but I– I still have no idea what I’m doing.” 

Your lashes tickle his collar every time you blink. And your hand crawls up and over his shoulder, but a light squeeze does nothing for all the tension packed in there.  “I don’t think anyone does, Steve,” you say. 

A sigh whistles through his nose. 

“But I do know you’re doing a good job. A really good job.” Your sincerity colors every bit of your tone with warmth. “I think it all the time.”

“Really? You don’t think I’m astronomically fucking this whole raising a decent human thing up?” 

“Now I know you’re just fishing for compliments,” you pull back to flick his chest. The bud of a small smile appears on his face. “You know what I think.” 

He catches your wrist before it drops, bringing his other hand up to heat yours in both of his. “You know, I know she’s not yours, but I’m really grateful that she has you in her life.”

“I’m just–” 

“You’re here,” he cuts you off. “You’re not her mom, but I mean, you’re here. You’re always here for her– and for me.” 

“Steve.”

“It’s so fucking selfish of me, but God, I just wish sometimes you were her mom, like her actual mom, even if we weren’t–” he looks away, his eyes somewhere else before he turns back, “she’s just so fucking lucky to have you is all.” 

You swallow the giant rock in your throat. You hope he’s squeezing your hand tight enough not to notice how it’s shaking. “I wouldn't be as good at it as you think. You’d get sick of me.” 

“Are you kidding? You’d make a great mom.” 

You turn your face away. “Don’t play with me, Steve.”

“I���m not. I swear, I’m not.” 

You don’t know if you believe him. He speaks with such conviction it’s hard not to. But after tonight, you do know that parenthood scares the hell out of you, so much more than it already had. 

And every moment with Steve leaves your heart more exposed like it’s blistering itself raw under the weight of all these hidden feelings. You can’t kid yourself, you love Steve, maybe more than anyone you’ve ever loved in your life. And for a while, it seemed like hiding it was the best option, hoping it’d just go away seemed like it would work. But you’re still here, being tortured by every little stupidly kind thing that comes out of his mouth. 

Maybe it’s the lingering adrenaline, but suddenly this moment feels like your opportunity. You’re both being vulnerable, clinging to each other like you’re years past friendship. You know Steve. He’s considerate and patient and empathetic, he would never end things completely over this. 

Your lips part, then smush back together. It’s like you’ve swallowed a pint of glue, the words stuck swirling in the pit of your aching tummy. 

“I–” You clear your throat, “I think… I’ve been, um–” Your eyes close so hard you see colors. You laugh strangely, much more of a breath than sound, shaking your head, then his hands off of yours. “It’s freezing out. I’m– I’m gonna go.”

He nods fiercely. 

You don’t allow yourself to look at him, spinning on your heels before the words have left your mouth. “Night, Steve.” 

“Goodnight,” he tells the back of your head. 

The wind doesn’t help your stinging eyes. But you don’t wipe the wetness away until you reach your car on the other side of the parking lot. Inside you take a big desperate breath. You feel like you’ll be sick all over the steering wheel. 

He probably thinks you're such an idiot stumbling over yourself and then just leaving like that. The whole thing was stupid. It was stupid and impulsive, not at all how you’ve dreamt about doing it. You couldn’t even do it. You should have just saved yourself the embarrassment and kept it to yourself like you have been. 

You take your half of the photo booth pictures from the sun visor, your finger sliding across the torn ridge gently. You and Steve are friends! He’s said so himself dozens of times. And tonight, while it was absolutely awful in just about every way, it’s still a memory you’ll cherish because of Steve. You are so afraid to lose that. 

Every time you think you’ve come to terms with the way things are he goes and does something that sends you right back to square one.  Half of you is endlessly grateful for what you and Steve have. But the other half mourns the idea that this is all you’ll ever be. 

On Saturday, you arrive at the softball field early this time, nerves chipping at the soft smile on your face. Things with Steve have been… off since the last time you were here. Not alarmingly so, but enough to make your stomach turn when the beamer pulls in beside you. Though he’s grinning at you through the window like you’re a pile of gold, you decide that maybe you’ve just been overthinking things. 

Steve rolls Penelope’s window down with his. She’s loads happier than when you last saw her, sticking both hands out of the car to wave at you. 

You're beaming instantly, stupidly so, as you turn your car off and step out. It’s relieving to see her smile again. 

“Oh my goodness, look at you! Look at these fancy bows!” you fawn, pulling her door open for a full view of her uniform. She’s got knee-high socks over her pants, two big bows securing her braids, and streaks of sparkly face paint on her cheeks. “Are you so excited?” 

“I have pom-poms!” She nearly smacks herself with the speed she brings them up to show you. “I’m just cheering today.” 

“Did you practice your chants?”

She nods, still smiling but chin pointed down with an atypical bashfulness. 

“Saving them for the game?” you nod back agreeably. Your eyes flick over to Steve’s, where he’s elbowed into the center console to watch. He’s observing with that familiar softness, but there’s something else attached to that look. Tension, maybe, whether a good or a bad kind, is yet to be determined. 

You help Penelope with her seatbelt. With two hands, unbuckling is a breeze for this smarty-pants. But a bulky cast over one of them makes it quite a bit more challenging for her little fingers. 

“You’ve got so many new signatures I see,” you point as she springs out of her seat. 

“My whole entire class signed it! There was barely even room!” 

“Wow,” you squint at her wrist, “someone even squeezed a smiley face in there!” 

“Yeah, that was Shell. She's like my bestest friend in the world.” 

“Oh, Shelly with the short hair?” 

“No,” she squawks like you’re crazy to have even thought so, “It’s Michelle. Sometimes I call her Shell ‘cause it’s for short.” 

“Ohh,” you chuckle, a tight hold on her arm as she jumps out onto the gravel. “Michelle, of course.” 

“Yeah, of course.” 

“Silly me.” 

Steve laughs from the back end of the car where he unloads all her gear from the trunk. He helps her arms through the hefty straps on her bag. It’s heavy with a bat, helmet, and glove she won’t need today, but she insisted on bringing, just in case someone forgets theirs.

For the next six weeks, Penelope is the team’s very own part-time cheerleader and part-time dugouts assistant. This was abysmal news at first, she cried for an hour when Steve broke the news. It’s more than half of the season she won’t get to play. But you’ve spun it like it’s a real special job– and it is. You don’t know anyone who can cheer you up faster than Pen can. 

The three of you trek up to the field. Steve’s got a cooler full of juice boxes and a grocery bag of snacks for Penelope to hand out. You’ve teased him about being the team's best mom before, but this couldn’t be more on the nose. Still, it almost makes you want to cry, Penelope gets every drop of her generosity from him. 

Several families convene around the stands, sending their girls into the dugout with good luck. Penelope greets a couple of her friends, both of whom gawk at her cast and argue over who will get to sign it first. 

Steve reels her back over for a quick hug and a round of super embarrassing dad kisses. “My little superstar,” he calls her. “Gonna hear you chanting in the next field over, yeah?” 

She agrees and smacks his hand with her good one. 

You hold out your own with a, “Good luck, Pen!  

She whams down on your palm so hard it burns, but you’re both beaming despite it, high off the excitement of the very first game of the season. Penelope is towed away by a gaggle of girls dying to ask all sorts of questions about her arm. Steve drops the cooler off in the dugout and meets you in the bleachers. 

“Hello,” he says as he sits. "Fancy meeting you here." His eyes flit around every inch of your face, his smile beginning to mirror yours.

“Yeah, funny, I was hoping to see you."  

“You got all dressed up for this.” You're in a plain tee and jeans, but the shirt is technically new.

“Teal’s a hard color to find. Three different stores it took me.” 

There’s a pause, neither of you looks away, no one says a thing. 

“Thank you for coming,” he eventually says. He’s so serious about it as if he doesn’t possibly thank you enough. 

You bump your elbow to his and turn towards the game.

Penelope leads warm-up stretches in the outfield, shouting each countdown as loud as Coach does. There’s a little speck of pink in all that teal parting her from the rest of them. And maybe it’s cheesy, but it feels metaphoric. Penelope is truly one of a kind, your sun is a sky full of gloom. The kids’ stolen your heart for good, Steve, her little accomplice. 

[starmaidengarden]

hi!! i was wondering if i could request just a very sweet moment of just being close to one another and kissing them with rook and kalim? you can also add whoever u want if u would like! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

—Rook : Kalim : Jamil : Malleus : Ace x gn!reader. no cw/tw. dividers: uzmacchiato.

note: sorry this took so long!! (T_T)

Rook Hunt ༉⋆｡˚

Rook doesn’t just love you—he adores you, in the way one might admire a breathtaking sunset or a perfectly composed poem. You’re both sitting beneath a tree at the edge of a flower-filled courtyard, the golden hour sunbathing you in a soft, warm glow. He’s been quiet for a moment, his gloved fingers brushing over the back of your hand, his eyes half-lidded with a gentle smile playing on his lips. “Mon trésor... you’re radiant in this light,” he whispers, his voice full of awe. You laugh softly, brushing a petal from his shoulder—and he watches you as if he’s trying to memorize your every move. You don’t even realize you’re leaning in until your foreheads are touching. He closes the gap with a kiss, slow and tender, his hand rising to cup your cheek with almost reverent care. It’s sweet, and light, but full of emotion—like he’s telling you just how deeply he feels with nothing but a kiss.

Kalim Al-Asim ༉⋆｡˚

The two of you are on the rooftop of Scarabia, wrapped in a blanket, staring up at the stars. Kalim is warm—physically and emotionally—and his laughter still lingers in the air from the joke you told moments ago. He’s not shy about affection, but this is different: quieter, softer. He leans his head against yours and sighs dreamily. “This is perfect, isn’t it?” he murmurs, turning to look at you with those bright, earnest eyes. You nod, and when you look back at him, he's already close—so close. He smiles again, less energetic this time and more adoring, and leans in to kiss you. It’s not hurried or giddy like usual—it’s gentle, slow, a moment where his joy softens into something deep and genuine. He hums against your lips, his hand squeezing yours, holding onto the moment like it’s precious.

Jamil Viper ༉⋆｡˚

It’s quiet in the Scarabia lounge, the lights dim, and the world outside feels miles away. Jamil isn’t one to initiate contact too often, but right now, he’s relaxed—so much so that your head is resting on his shoulder and his arm is around you. You can feel his heartbeat, steady and calm, under your hand. He doesn’t say much. But when you look up at him, there’s a softness in his eyes that he rarely shows others. His fingers brush through your hair before resting gently at your jaw, guiding you to face him. He kisses you slowly, purposefully, like you’re the only thing that exists in his world right now. There’s no rush, no performance—just a simple, tender press of lips that says I trust you. And when he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, he whispers, “Stay here… just like this, a little longer.”

Malleus Draconia ༉⋆｡˚

Malleus is used to silence, but the quiet with you is different—it’s peaceful. You’re walking together in the moonlit gardens of Diasomnia, hand in hand. Fireflies flicker around you like falling stars, and his expression softens every time he glances your way. You pause near a blooming flowerbed, and he turns to face you fully, one gloved hand resting gently at your waist. “The night is beautiful,” he murmurs, “but it pales in comparison to you.” His words make your cheeks heat up, and Malleus smiles softly. Carefully, like he’s handling something fragile, he leans in and kisses you. It’s full of ancient affection and discovery, slow and full of quiet emotion. The kind of kiss that makes time seem to slow down. He lingers close afterward, gazing into your eyes like he’s seeing eternity in them.

Ace Trappola ༉⋆｡˚

You’re sitting side by side on his bed, your legs brushing. The TV plays something forgotten in the background, but neither of you is paying attention anymore. Ace keeps glancing your way, lips twitching like he’s got something to say but can’t find the words. Finally, he nudges your knee with his. "You always do that thing with your nose when you're trying not to smile. It's stupid cute." You snort and smack his arm lightly. His laughter dies down as he leans closer, just barely touching foreheads. “You’re real cute when you get flustered too, y'know…” His voice is quieter now, almost sheepish. And when he kisses you, it’s surprisingly gentle—no teasing, just soft pressure and warmth. He lingers for a moment, then pulls back just enough to smile that rare, genuine smile of his. "...You make my heart do all kinds of dumb stuff," he mutters, face a little red.

[cressidagrey]

Didn't come up

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary:  5 times another driver/teammate of Oscar found out about Felicity or Bee. 

Warnings and Notes: Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

Logan Sergeant - 2016 - Formula 4 UAE 

Oscar Piastri had just finished reviewing telemetry with his engineer when Logan Sargeant flopped down beside him on a folding chair like he’d been personally wronged by the concept of humidity in Abu Dhabi.

“You guys always this sweaty in Melbourne?” Logan asked, swiping at his forehead with a water bottle and missing.

Oscar smirked. “Not unless you’re karting uphill in January.”

Logan leaned back, rocking the chair onto two legs. “You’re weirdly calm for someone who just overtook half the grid on turn three.”

Oscar shrugged. “Had to. The inside line was open.”

Logan whistled low. “You Aussies are built different.”

There was a beat of silence, filled with the clatter of wheel guns and distant shouting from a team manager on the other side of the paddock.

Then Logan nudged him. “You bringing anyone to the next round? Girlfriend? Family?”

Oscar blinked. “Uh, no, she’s in school.”

Logan perked up. “So you do have a girlfriend.”

Oscar nodded. “Her name’s Felicity.”

“Oh, fancy,” Logan said, smirking.

Oscar just shrugged again, but this time it’s a little more self-conscious. “She’s smarter than anyone I’ve ever met. Like… scary smart.”

Logan laughed. “Dude. You’re literally doing physics problems between sessions.”

“Yeah, and she’s the one who checks them.”

That got a double take.

“Wait, how old is she?”

“Fifteen. Same year as me.”

“And she checks your work?”

Oscar looked at him, deadpan. “She once rewrote my entire MATLAB script for a school project because the code was inefficient.”

“...I don’t even know what a MATLAB is.”

Oscar finally cracked a grin. “Exactly.”

Logan leant back on his palms, looking vaguely awed. “Damn. Is she into racing too?”

Oscar’s face softened. “She watches every livestream. Even the janky ones that lag and buffer every five seconds. Says she likes seeing how I figure things out under pressure.”

“Supportive and a genius?” Logan whistled. “You’re punching, man.”

“I know,” Oscar said without hesitation.

And that’s the thing — he said it without irony, without doubt, like it’s just fact. Like Felicity  was a fixture in his life the same way racing is. Like even here, on the other side of the world, in a sport designed to chew you up, she was still his anchor.

Logan watched him for a moment, then grinned. “Alright then, Piastri. Guess I gotta step up. You’re out here with a rocket science girlfriend and a podium finish.”

Oscar shrugged again, but there’s a glint of pride in his eyes. “She’s not into big shows. Just… likes when I try hard.”

Logan nodded slowly. “Sounds like she keeps you grounded.”

“She does,” Oscar said. “She’s the reason I remember to eat lunch most days.”

“Bro,” Logan said, mock serious. “Marry her.”

Oscar didn’t laugh.

He just sips his water, quiet for a beat.

Then: “I might.”

Logan blinks. “You’re fifteen.”

Oscar shrugs. “Still might.”

***

Max Fewtrell - 2018 - Formula Renault Eurocup

Max Fewtrell had exactly three things in his race day ritual:

Complain about the weather, regardless of what it was actually doing.

Eat like he hadn’t seen a carb since Wednesday.

Steal food off anyone who had a better lunch than he did.

So when something absolutely divine — chili, soy, sesame, and maybe the faintest whiff of wok hei — drifted across the Renault Eurocup paddock, Max paused mid-wrap-unfurl, frowned at the damp tortilla in his hands, and began scanning the area like a bloodhound on a mission.

He didn’t have to look far.

Under one of the team canopies, Oscar Piastri was seated like a picture of tranquility. Legs crossed, back straight, Tupperware open on his lap. And, insult to injury, the kid was using actual chopsticks, not a spork like the rest of the peasants.

Max narrowed his eyes. He knew that smell.

“…Is that char kway teow?” he asked, tone already accusatory.

Oscar didn’t look up. Just plucked another glistening noodle from the box like this was a tea ceremony and not a war crime.

“Yes,” he replied, bone dry.

Max was already halfway to him. “Where did you even get that? We’re in France. I’ve had nothing but beige food for a week. A week, Oscar.”

Oscar finally glanced up, entirely serene. “My girlfriend made it. Sent it with me.”

“Wait, you have a girlfriend?”

Oscar nodded. “Felicity. She’s in school back in Britain. Singaporean-Chinese. Makes the best food I’ve ever had.”

Max stood there in silence for a beat, the betrayal setting in.

Oscar, sensing it, took another elegant bite.

Max’s mouth opened. “Does she—”

“No,” Oscar cut in, flat as a carbon fiber board. “I’m not sharing.”

Max stared. “That’s not very sportsmanlike of you.”

Oscar didn’t even blink. “Neither was that last overtake into Turn 4, but here we are.”

Max scowled, reached into his sad lunch wrap, and hurled a bit of limp lettuce at him.

Oscar dodged it with the kind of slow ease that made it worse. “Also,” he added, “she packed chili crisp and garlic oil in the bottom layer. You’d cry.”

“I’m already crying,” Max muttered, slumping into the folding chair next to him. “Mate’s got a literal food goddess and refuses to share. Unbelievable.”

Oscar, not even looking up from his noodles: “Get your own Felicity.”

***

Frederik Vesti - 2020 - Formula 3 

Frederik blinked blearily across the team truck as Oscar Piastri walked in looking like the ghost of someone who used to sleep.

His hair was sticking up at odd angles, his hoodie was inside out, and there was a faint stain on his jeans that looked suspiciously like dried milk. He held a coffee cup like it was an IV drip.

“You okay, mate?” Frederik asked cautiously, watching as Oscar shuffled toward the breakfast table and missed the toaster by a good six inches.

Oscar made a sound that might have been “fine” or might have been “fire,” but either way it came out in a low rasp and was not convincing.

“You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

“Six days,” Oscar muttered, blinking like he was trying to reboot.

Frederik laughed — and then froze.

Oscar didn’t laugh back. He just stood there, buttering toast in slow motion, like a man trying to remember what gravity was.

“…Wait. Are you actually serious?”

Oscar nodded faintly. “She sleeps during the day. But at night she just…screams. And if she’s not screaming, I keep checking to see if she’s breathing.”

“She?”

Oscar blinked again and finally looked at him. “Bee.”

Frederik stared.

Oscar seemed to realize something. “Oh. Right. You didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know what, exactly?” Frederik said very slowly, like he was trying to diffuse a bomb.

Oscar sipped his coffee. “That I’m married. Or that I have a baby now. Probably both.”

Frederik dropped his spoon. “YOU’RE WHAT?”

Oscar looked vaguely apologetic. “Yeah. Sorry. It wasn’t exactly a press release moment.”

Frederik gaped. “How do you have a wife? We’ve been teammates all year. You’ve literally never mentioned her.”

Oscar shrugged. “We’ve been married since I was 18. Felicity. She’s private. Doesn’t like attention.”

Frederik opened his mouth. Closed it again. “Okay. Wow. But… a baby? When? How?”

“She was born two weeks ago. Her name’s Bee. Emergency C-section. Heart surgery twenty-three minutes after birth.  NICU for a bit. My wife nearly died.  They’re home now. I’m… here.”

Frederik stared.

“You’re telling me that over break, you became a dad, your baby had surgery, your wife almost died, and you just—what? Came back to work like it was fine?”

Oscar ran a hand through his hair and yawned so hard it looked painful. “Felicity told me to. Said she wanted something to feel normal again.“

Frederik sat down heavily next to him. “And you’re just here. Like it’s nothing.”

Oscar stared blankly at the table. “It’s not nothing. But if I stop moving, I think I’ll fall apart.”

Frederik nodded slowly. Then slid the entire plate of toast in front of Oscar and said, “Alright. First of all, you’re eating. Second, I’m buying you a real coffee. And third—what the hell do you mean your baby had open heart surgery?”

Oscar’s voice was quiet, but steady. “She has a congenital defect. Total anomalous pulmonary venous return. They caught it late. If they’d waited ten more minutes, she wouldn’t have made it.”

Frederik swallowed. “Jesus.”

Oscar looked down at his hands. “She’s so small. But she’s alive.”

And for the first time that morning, Oscar smiled—just a little. Not smug, not tired. Just real.

Frederik exhaled hard, then clapped a hand on his teammate’s shoulder. “Okay. That’s a lot. But… Bee, huh?”

Oscar nodded. “Yeah.”

“…Short for anything?”

Oscar finally laughed. “Beatrice Nicole. I call her Bumblebee.”

 “And your wife? Is she okay? ”

“She’s… alive. Still recovering. Scared the shit out of me.” Oscar’s voice cracked a little, not enough to draw attention unless you were really listening. “Bee’s okay too. She’s so small. Looks like her, though. Stronger than both of us.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward — it was heavy, with the weight of things too big to say.

Finally, Frederik said quietly, “You could’ve told someone.”

Oscar just shook his head. “Didn’t want anyone to look at me different. Didn’t want it to be a thing. I just… wanted to drive. And go home to them.”

Frederik swallowed. “You’re completely mental.”

Oscar let out a soft, tired laugh. “Yeah.”

Another pause.

Frederik: “Do you… have pictures?”

Oscar blinked at him, surprised. Then, slowly, he reached for his phone. “Yeah. I do.”

He opened the gallery and held it out.

Frederik stared at the screen. A baby, impossibly small, swaddled in tubes and wires, and then later — the same baby, wide-eyed and soft-cheeked, curled up against a woman who looked tired but alive. Felicity.

Bee.

“Holy shit,” Frederik said softly. “She’s beautiful.”

Oscar smiled — faint but real. “Yeah. She is.”

Later that night, Frederik found an unopened tin of Danish butter cookies in his suitcase — his mum’s habit. He wrapped it in a tea towel, walked down the hotel hall, and left it outside Oscar’s door.

There was a note on top:

For Bee’s dad. You’re doing great. Also: eat something that isn’t caffeine and stress. – F.

He didn’t expect a reply.

But the next morning, Oscar showed up to the track with a new glint of determination — and crumbs on his race suit.

***

Robert Shwarztman - 2021 - Formula 2 

Robert was halfway through complaining about the catering — again — when Oscar, staring down at his phone with the vaguely amused look of someone reading a text that was either romantic or absurd, said casually:

“I’ve gotta head off soon. I’m having dinner with my wife.”

Silence.

Not dramatic silence. Not shocked silence. Just the stunned, mechanical silence of Robert’s brain hitting the brakes so hard it metaphorically flew through the windshield.

“…your what?” Robert said, voice slightly higher than normal.

Oscar glanced up, blinking innocently. “My wife. Felicity. She flew in this morning.”

Robert stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “You’re married.”

“Yeah.”

“Since when?”

Oscar just shrugged. “2019.”

Robert’s brain promptly short-circuited. “You’ve been married for two years and you’re telling me now? After how many plane rides? How many post-race meals? You didn’t think to mention, ‘Hey by the way, I have a wife?’”

Oscar shrugged, annoyingly calm. “Didn’t come up.”

“Didn’t come up,” Robert echoed, scandalized. “You once spent forty-five minutes explaining tire degradation to a hotel receptionist, but telling me you’re married ‘didn’t come up’?”

Oscar made a mild face. “She doesn’t like the attention. We keep it private.”

“And what? One day you’ll just casually mention a kid and expect me not to die on the spot?”

Oscar, very blandly: “I have a daughter too.”

Robert actually choked on his water. “YOU WHAT—”

Oscar patted him on the back like he wasn’t the cause of the sudden respiratory emergency. “Bee. She’s a few months old.”

Robert’s eye twitched. “You’re twenty. You have a wife. A baby. You’re leading the championship. What the hell, are you trying to speedrun adulthood?!”

Oscar shrugged again. “I like being married.”

Robert stood, flailing slightly. “I’m going to dinner alone with my phone and my disappointment. And you’re going to dinner with your secret wife. Which is apparently a normal Tuesday.”

Oscar smiled faintly. “You want to meet her tomorrow? She bakes.”

Robert froze.

“…What kind of bakes?”

Oscar’s smile deepened. “Everything.  Banana Bread. Muffins. Cookies. Sometimes Russian tea cakes, too. She made kuih lapis once.”

“…Okay,” Robert muttered, sitting down again like he wasn’t suddenly plotting to steal baked goods from this phantom wife. “But I’m still mad.”

Oscar nodded, texting again. “She says hi, by the way.”

Robert groaned.

***

Arthur Leclerc - 2021 - Prema Racing

Arthur was late.

Not by much — just ten minutes — but enough that René had already scolded him and a camera guy gave him the “we’ve been waiting” look as he jogged into the main corridor. He adjusted his team jacket, made a face at his reflection in the nearest window, and was mid-yawn when he nearly collided with someone in the hallway.

“Oh—sorry—"

Then he stopped.

Because Oscar Piastri — reigning Formula 3 champion, king of emotional neutrality, man who once did an entire sim race in silence — was standing in front of a wall of sponsor boards, holding a baby.

A real, actual baby.

A little girl with soft wispy curls, round cheeks, and a pale pink hoodie with a cartoon duck on the front. She had one hand gripping Oscar’s suit collar and the other stuffed into her mouth, wide eyes peeking curiously over his shoulder.

Arthur blinked. “Uhh… Oscar?”

Oscar looked up like this was entirely normal. “Hey.”

Arthur pointed at the baby. “Is that… Are you… Is that yours?”

The little girl turned her head toward the sound of Arthur’s voice, then immediately buried her face in Oscar’s neck like she’d seen enough. Oscar just patted her back gently and said, “Yeah. This is Bee.”

“Bee,” Arthur echoed, stunned. “You have a secret kid?”

Oscar blinked. “She’s not a secret. I just don’t usually bring her to work.”

“Right,” Arthur said faintly. “Of course. Naturally. And the mother?”

“My wife,” Oscar said casually. “Felicity. She’s finishing her finals this week. We couldn’t find a sitter. Bee’s very well-behaved, don’t worry.”

Arthur blinked so hard he lost a second of vision. “Your wife. You have a wife and a child. At twenty.”

Oscar glanced down at Bee, who had gone back to watching Arthur like he was a strange bird. She was perfectly quiet. Just blinking with wide dark eyes, cuddled into her father’s chest like she’d been born there.

Arthur lowered his voice. “She’s… really cute.”

Oscar’s whole face softened. “Yeah. She’s the best.”

Bee made a little hum and patted Oscar’s jaw with one tiny hand. Then Bee let out a soft, babbly coo, and Arthur’s heart actually melted.

Like. Melted.

He wasn’t even a baby person, but this one? This tiny, polite, shy creature who clung to Oscar like a koala and looked like she might cry if anyone but her dad so much as waved? She was precious. Immaculate. Possibly the best-behaved human he’d ever seen.

“Can I say hi?” Arthur asked, voice softening instinctively.

Oscar glanced at Bee. “Bee, you wanna say hi?”

Bee peeked at Arthur again from the safety of Oscar’s shoulder. Considered him. Then blinked, solemn, and shook her head no.

Arthur laughed. “Okay, that’s fair.”

“She’s just shy,” Oscar said. “She’s been great all day. Napped during media briefings. Didn’t touch anything. I think she thinks she’s undercover.”

“Mate,” Arthur said, stunned, “if I ever brought a baby into this building, she’d be on the pit wall with a wrench in her mouth in five minutes.”

Oscar just smiled faintly, brushing a hand over Bee’s curls. “She’s used to being around cars. I think the engine noises soothe her.”

Arthur had so many questions. So many.

But instead, he stayed a respectful distance away, and said, “Hi Bee. I’m Arthur. I drive too.”

Bee blinked at him. Then, very quietly, said, “Papa drives fast.”

Arthur’s jaw dropped. “She talks?”

Oscar nodded, utterly casual. “She’s started picking up words. Mostly about food and racing. Priorities.”

Arthur put a hand to his chest. “I’m gonna cry. Why is your kid so perfect?”

Oscar just bounced Bee gently in his arms and said, “Because she’s her mother’s daughter.”

Bee gave a soft coo, and when Oscar shifted her gently into a little carrier wrap on his chest, she snuggled in like this was her natural state of being: attached to Papa and silently judging anyone else in the room.

Arthur just shook his head and muttered, “I’m still not over this. You’re not allowed to be this good at racing and parenting. It’s unfair.”

Oscar looked down at his daughter, kissed the top of her head, and said simply, “She’s the only trophy that matters.”

And Arthur, who had come to media day ready to talk about tyre degradation, now had to pretend he wasn’t this close to tearing up in front of the marketing team.

***

[nephynes]

pleaseee can I req for older won younger reader? I literally never see older won fics 😭 and he just seems so older bf coded

you know what? i see it

MDNI

════════════════════════════

You really don't even notice it anymore. The hand that's always at the small of your back. The way he adjusts your pace when you're walking too fast. The way he slows you down without ever saying a word. The way you follow him without even realizing you're doing it.

It's always been like this with Jungwon. He's never raised his voice at you. Never told you no. Never told you anything, really. He doesn't have to. He just tilts your chin up when you mumble through an excuse, thumbs away your lip when you chew on it too long, makes you look him in the eye when you're trying not to. The first time he did it, you thought he was being sweet.

Now you know better. You know Jungwon isn't exactly sweet. He's more precise.

He takes care of things before you even ask. Keeps the apartment stocked with your favorite snacks. Replaces your razors and pads before you run out. He has your prescriptions memorized, vitamins included—actually stands by the kitchen island in the morning and watches you take them one by one.

"All of them," he'll say, nudging the bottle of B12 with one knuckle when you skip it. "Not just the ones you like."

And you swallow them all with a pout, because you know what happens if you whine.

Being with him has made you forget what it's like to have to ask for anything. You just look at something too long in a store window, and suddenly it's on your bed.

"Don't act surprised," he says one evening when you find a bracelet you almost bought last week sitting inside a box on your pillow. "You stared at it. That's basically begging."

He says it like a joke, but you know it's not.

He watches everything. Remembers everything. Tracks your period in his calendar so well you stopped bothering to update your own. He knows when your cramps are coming, when you'll be sore, when your moods will swing sharp and irrational.

Knows when you'll cry and not know why, he even knows when you're ovulating—like tonight.

You'd been brattier than usual all day, lounging around in nothing but his shirt, flipping through your term paper with a pout that was half fake and half real.

"Wonie, I don't get it," you whined, flopping dramatically on the couch. "It's dumb."

He didn't even look up from his phone.

"Send it to me."

You blinked. "What?"

"The assignment. I'll do it."

You probably should've said thank you. But you didn't. Just threw your arms around his neck and kissed him and forgot the entire thing ten minutes later. Now, you're in his lap again. Lazy. Content. Your cheek pressed to his chest, legs curled into his thighs.

His hand slides up your back and cups your nape.

"You're clingy today," he says, voice low and amused.

"Wonie," you mumble.

"Hm?"

"Can you help me take off the shirt? I'm hot." You're not.

His hand slips under the hem without a word, guiding it up, pulling it off over your head so gently it makes you sigh. You don't even realize he's paused until your body shifts and your bare chest brushes against his.

"No bra?" he murmurs.

You shake your head, sleepy. "Too uncomfy."

"Yeah?"

His fingers trace down your ribs, featherlight. Then he curls a hand around your waist and lifts you up into his lap so his thigh is between your legs, and your chest is flush against his.

Your breath catches. He notices. "You always get so soft like this, baby," he says, voice low. "Like your whole body's begging for me."

Your fingers tighten on his shirt.

"Wonie."

"You don't even know it, do you?" He kisses your jaw. "How you ask for it without even trying."

You open your mouth, maybe to deny it, maybe to whine, but his thumb is on your chin, tilting your head back like he always does.

"Open."

You obey without thinking at all. He slips his thumb into your mouth and watches as you close your lips around it. Watches your lashes flutter when he presses down on your tongue just enough to make your thighs clench.

"There's my good girl."

He finally kisses you then. Slow, deep, possessive. His hands are warm and sure, cradling your hips, lifting you up just to rock you down against his thigh.

You moan into his mouth. Your hips move instinctively. "So easy for me," he says, biting gently at your bottom lip. "Every time. You make me do all the work, and you're still the one that ends up whining."

You bury your face in his neck, embarrassed, but he chuckles, and you feel it vibrate through your chest.

"Don't get shy now, baby. Not when you're riding my thigh like that."

You're panting now. Barely able to think. Your clit keeps catching deliciously on his sweats and your whole body feels too warm.

"Wonie, I—"

"I know."

He grips your waist a little tighter, guiding your movements. Your hands are clutching his shoulders, fingers digging in, and your eyes are wet and wide.

"Y'wanna cum like this, don't you?"

You nod.

"Say it."

"Wonie...wanna cum. On you."

He hums, proud and pleased. "I know, baby girl. I'll let you. Just keep being good for me."

And you do. Of course you do. You always are.

He helps you grind harder, deeper, his thigh tensing under you with every little whimper you let out. It's filthy how good it feels, how wet you're getting, how you're rutting against him like you've forgotten how to ask for more. His grip tightens as you lose rhythm, as your hips start jerking on their own, chasing that high.

He kisses you through it when you cum, moaning and whimpering into his mouth, grinding helplessly against him while his hand cups your jaw to keep you still.

He smiles first, eyes flicking down to the soaked patch on his sweats like he's proud of it. His fingers brush over the damp fabric, deliberately slow, feeling the heat you left behind, and then he looks up at you with something almost wicked in his gaze. "All this from just a little grinding?"

After, when you're still trembling in his arms, he kisses your temple and murmurs in your ear.

You're always quiet afterward, always tucked into him, letting him guide your breathing without a word. He's running his hand down your spine, light and slow, and you feel so small like this. Like you always do with him.

"That's my girl," he murmurs eventually, more to himself than to you.

You barely hum in return, the sound muffled into his chest.

He smiles and it’s not the usual one he gives you when he's amused, but something deeper. Familiar. Like he's seen this version of you before, way before you even knew how to ask for what you needed.

"You really don't know how much of a baby you are sometimes," he says softly, brushing your hair off your face.

The words make your stomach flip. But his tone is affectionate and warm. You don't reply, just cling to him tighter, pretending not to hear the low laugh he gives when you do.

"That's alright," he adds, pressing a kiss to your temple. "I've got you."

"I love you, you know that right?"

You nod your head, weak.

He never says it in public. Never shows his teeth, never pulls you closer like other guys might. He doesn't think he needs to.

Jungwon is never loud about being yours.

He's just always there. There when you step off a curb without looking, hand reaching out without even glancing up. There when your voice gets too quiet in a group setting and no one hears you—except him.

"She said she wants a vanilla smoothie," he tells the server, without being asked.

"No, she's fine," he says quickly when someone teases you for being on your phone too much.

"You don't need to talk if you don't want to, baby."

It's so smooth you don't realize how much space he takes up in your life. Not just physically, although he does tend to lean into you a lot, draping an arm around the back of your chair, tilting your face toward him when you're zoned out, but emotionally, too.

Later that night, when you're half-asleep and mumbling nonsense against his chest, he taps his phone open and marks your symptoms down in his cycle tracker. Then he adds painkillers to the grocery list and sets a reminder for himself to grab heat packs tomorrow.

Because you don't need to ask. He already knows.

You're his girl. And he always knows what's best for you.

════════════════════════════

• a/n: i’d do anything for a boyfriend that’ll do my homework for me

[iamthatonefangirl]

sweet - bucky barnes x reader

word count: 1.5k based on this ask. disclaimer: not tagged as nsfw but brief mentions of nsfw topics. a/n: pure unadulterated, tooth-rotting fluff to make up for what I did to y'all last night.

~~~

when he looks at you, all he sees is light. a beacon. a way home.

you're an angel, his angel, a perfect being that surrounds him in eternal comfort and love and trust. pure happiness wrapped into a bundle of beauty and warmth.

he would fight to the ends of the earth for you. he would kill for you. he would see himself turn into the darkest version of himself if only it made you happy, even if only for a fraction of a second. he would do it without hesitation and without regret.

because that smile on your face means more to him than anything else on this planet.

the flowers he brings you every Saturday morning before you wake up, just to see you smile.

the kisses he plants all over your face every morning and every evening, so the first and last thing he sees every day is that smile of yours.

maybe it's not healthy that all his self-preservation instincts go out the window when it comes to you, but he doesn't care.

he'd rather preserve your happiness.

you're everything to him.

~~~

you've never had a man this enamored with you.

the way he treats you like the most expensive and most beautiful diamond in the world. the way he treats you like every word out of your mouth is his own personal gospel. the way he never fails to be so interested in your interests, in hearing what you have to say, in being near you all the time.

you weren't used to the attention at first. you almost wondered if you were being love-bombed.

you weren't. you'd just found the man who intended to spend the rest of his life by your side, making you smile.

he wanted nothing but the best for you, so he always made sure to treat you to nothing but the best.

you were sure to do the same for him.

~~~

you begin to stand from the couch where you're sitting wrapped up in one another, a show you've seen a million times playing out on the screen.

"where are you going?" he whispers in your ear, rubbing a hand up and down your arm.

"I'm going to make dinner, baby," you tell him and place a peck on his lips.

"no. you sit, I'll cook," he tries. he hates to make you lift a finger when he could be the one doing it.

"I want to make you dinner, baby. you've been gone, let me do this for you?" you ask, giving him a soft, hopeful smile.

his heart just melts at the sight, the way your eyes look into his, and he's done for, every time.

"are you sure?" he pushes, brushing his nose up against yours.

"yes. I'm sure, Bucky," you tell him, giving him another kiss, and standing. "you rest."

he doesn't want to let go of your hand as you walk away, but he does anyways.

even if you're doing the heavy lifting now, he'll make it up to you.

once dinner was near prepared, he came to join you in the kitchen, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. "need me to set the table?" he offered.

"let's sit on the couch? don't want to spend another minute away from you," you admitted to him with another gentle smile on your face.

the fire burned brighter in his heart.

"me neither."

you ended up back on his lap as he laid on the couch, your legs crossed over his on the sofa.

"baby, let me move, you need to eat," you told him, turning your head to look at him and giving him those puppy dog eyes.

"no. want you right here," he mumbled, keeping his hands on your waist, holding you close.

"aren't you hungry for the lovely dinner I just made you?" you tease.

he pauses for a moment, considering your words, grumbling as he deliberates.

you laugh a little to yourself and adjust enough to bring your fork to his lips.

"there. problem solved," you smile, and he smiles back at you, amused by your solution. he loves it all the same. if you want to feed him, he'll damn well let you.

~~~

one day in the midst of winter, you come down with a nasty cold.

the minute you realize it, you tell him you're going to sleep on the couch.

"oh hell no, you're not sleeping on the couch," he protests immediately. "why would you want to do that?"

"I don't want to get you sick," you tell him in your nasally, congested voice. it's disgusting. he doesn't care, he loves it anyways.

"you know I physically can't get a silly little cold," he laughs, pulling you in to embrace you. "you're not sleeping on the couch."

"I might wake you up if I can't sleep, or if I have a coughing fit, or-"

"and why would that bother me?" he prompts, laughing a little and smiling at you. "how are you supposed to get better if you don't let me hold you, let me love on you, baby?"

his words hit so deeply you can't help but smile and shake your head at how sweet he sounds.

"come on. I'll take you to bed, and get you your favorite snacks, and make you soup..." he tells you, walking you to the bedroom, "...and I'll spend all week with my mouth between your thighs if that helps you, yeah?"

he's like a dream come to life. as he sits you in bed, helping you change out of your clothes and into one of his oversized t-shirts, you can't help but wonder how you got so lucky.

"I love you, Bucky," you tell him so earnestly, as though you've never said it before.

"I love you too, baby. you know what, screw going to the store, I'll have it delivered so I don't have to leave your side..."

~~~

is it too early to buy a ring? he wonders.

a century ago, you'd have been married already, obviously. but that was then, and things were different now.

what was different was that he didn't feel that sense of obligation to get married. no, he just wanted to marry you so he could officially call you his for the rest of his life.

you'd had the discussion before that you were interested in getting married. "one day," you'd told him.

but he wanted to make sure.

so one morning as you sat in bed together and drank your respective beverages, he brought it up.

"are you still interested in getting married?" he asked you, carefully analyzing the look on your face to gauge your immediate reaction.

you took a pause, trying to hide the little smile that appeared on your lips. of course he noticed it. he would never miss one of your smiles.

"yeah, baby. I am."

"and you're, like... ready?" he asks. "because I think I am."

you quit trying to hide your smile as your turn to look at him directly.

"I'm ready."

and there's his confirmation.

~~~

no way was he going to give anything away.

for weeks, he grilled your closest friends about what kind of ring you'd like. he knew you'd tell them, and no way was he about to buy a ring without making sure it was exactly what you wanted.

he did the right thing and took their advice, checking with them before buying it.

he didn't want you to know when the proposal was happening. so for two more months after he bought the ring, he waited. obviously, you knew it was coming, but.. he wanted to make it a surprise.

you made sure to have your nails done at all times, just in case.

he had always been the type to take you out on a date every week or two. that's what you deserved.

for this one, he went a little nicer than usual. took you to a restaurant on the water, a little further away from home, where you could watch the sun go down as you ate.

it was a full moon. a beautiful, clear summer night. you looked so gorgeous in the soft dress you wore, the color complimenting your skin so well.

he kept it low-key, only having a photographer on stand-by.

he was so excited.

so after you ate, he took you down to the balcony nearing the beach.

he got down on one knee, popped the question-

and there it was. that smile, accompanied by you jumping up and down, yelling "yes!" over and over again. you reached for him and kissed him before he even stood, before he even slid the ring onto your finger.

it was the beginning of the rest of your lives.

"I promise you, doll, I'll spend every minute for the rest of our lives making you happy," is what he told you as he held your hand, now with a shiny ring on your finger, watching as it glistened under the light of the full moon.

and that's exactly what he vowed to you on your wedding day, too.

~~~

masterlist

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[carlislefiles]

long distance | fushiguro megumi, geto suguru, gojo satoru, ino takuma, kamo choso, nanami kento, yuuji itadori ╰►living apart for a little while didn't seem to big a deal when it first started, but now he realizes that you've made being alone absolutely miserable and he copes...not at all. 12.5k words

a/n: hi hi! back with another headcanon post about the jjk men being so embarrassingly down bad for you, so nothing new of course. this was actually a request, so I hope it's what you wanted!! thanks for leaving a request, I love to get them :] warnings: cussing, kissing, vaguely yandere!suguru but he's trying his best not to be. I think that's all. some are canon compliant, i.e. sorcerer au, cult!geto, etc. and some are not; don't read too much into it please because I'm stupid and don't think very hard. enjoy <3

he always got nervous sending you off on missions. it’s not that he didn’t think you capable of handling yourself. no, megumi knows that you are. but curses are capable, too. capable of pain, capable of torture, capable of damage, capable of murder. he’s watched it happen one too many times. he’s come close to it himself, much too close for comfort.

so that ache is already permeating when yaga assigns you a mission. but this is not like most missions. long games were for special grades or, at the very least, adult sorcerers. you were still in school, still learning. but yaga thinks that’ll be good for you. so he sends you with nanami to some shabby motel in the middle of tokyo to retrieve a cursed object. all in all, no big deal. 

you didn’t cry when you left, didn’t cling to him at the train station or demand nightly calls or send him with some obnoxious token to remember you by. you kissed him, told him you’d be gone for a while, and promised to text when you could.

he didn’t think it would be this hard. it’s been four days. no messages from you yet. nothing but an empty text thread and that stupid blinking cursor in the box where he keeps typing things and deleting them. did you eat? are you okay? I miss you. deleted. deleted. deleted.

megumi isn’t good at being needy. he isn’t good at much when it comes to feelings, honestly. he’s trying not to think about the fact that the dorm feels colder without you. that yuuji keeps asking if he wants to hang out and he keeps saying no. that even nobara noticed he’s been quieter than usual. and then, finally:

“hey!

things are quiet here. I’m okay. 

nothing’s exploded, no one’s dead. don’t worry too much, okay? I know you are.”

he stares at the message for a full minute before answering. it’s the most emotion he’s shown all day. 

“trying not to. 

can you call tonight?”

that night, you do. your hair’s messy, you’re already in pajamas, and the lighting is bad. megumi thinks you look perfect. you don’t say much. you eat in front of the camera—instant ramen in a paper bowl, chopsticks clacking softly.

“you can never repeat this or I will kill you…but I’m kind of missing gojo-sensei’s late night convenience store trips for sweet treats. I’ve eaten plain noodles for the past three nights.” 

“yeah, but you’ll live.” god, he’s such a little shit.

you grin through a mouthful of noodles. “barely. nanami lectures harder than yaga. and he watches me eat like I'm gonna throw my food away or something.”

megumi tilts his head a little, lips twitching. “I would’ve watched you eat too.”

“yeah, but you wouldn’t judge me for only eating the noodles and leaving the broth.”

“...yes I would.”

you gasp, mock betrayal written all over your face. “that’s rich coming from the guy who eats cold miso soup straight from the fridge.”

he doesn’t deny it. doesn’t even blink. just says, “it’s convenient.” you both pause, a lull in conversation. "well, you should go to bed." he says, almost longingly, like he really doesn't want you to.

"wait, no! I still have to finish eating and write a mission debrief. don't leave me alone to this torture," you whine dramatically.

"isn't nanami on the other side of the wall? won't he get annoyed with us talking?" but it's a feeble, pathetic excuse. he doesn't care if nanami's annoyed, he wants to keep talking to you. but megumi is so painfully polite.

"nah," you lie. "he's probably writing his mission debrief. or laying in bed trying to pretend he doesn't miss his girlfriend."

"fiancée," nanami corrects, from the other side of the wall. you roll your eyes and keep eating, and that settles the matter.

megumi watches you from his own desk, textbook open in front of him, highlighter in hand. he doesn’t get much studying done. he keeps glancing at the way your hair falls into your face. the way you hum a little under your breath while you eat. the way you keep glancing at him to see if he’s still looking.

you tell him about the mission in vague terms. enough that he knows you’re still safe. you tell him how boring the town is, how the cursed energy’s been faint but persistent, how nanami makes you check in at regular intervals like a human tracking collar. you joke about it, but megumi hears the fatigue under the laughter.

still, you smile at him. stretch your arms over your head. let out a soft sigh and curl up on your thin little bed in the background. “you tired?” he asks.

you nod. “gonna pass out in a second.”

“I’ll stay on the line.”

you don’t argue. just mumble something like “okay, ‘gumi,” and turn the camera so it’s angled toward your pillow. he hears your breathing first. then the quiet shuffle of your blanket. and then—nothing. he doesn’t hang up. just listens to the soft rhythm of you sleeping and sets his phone down beside his own pillow. it’s the only thing that keeps the nightmares at bay. from that night on, it’s routine. if you don’t call, he doesn’t sleep.

some nights you eat in front of him again. sometimes he reads to you from the literature class you’re missing. you tell him you don’t miss the essays, but you do miss him reading to you, even if it’s monotone and serious. he takes it as a compliment.

he tells you that yuuji says hi. that nobara’s plotting to replace you as his “emotional regulation buddy” with a plush panda she won at an arcade. that gojo told the entire class you’re devastated to be missing “your favorite, beloved, beautiful teacher.”

you make gagging noises over the mic. megumi smirks. “gross,” you groan. “if I die, let that be the last thing anyone hears from me. not gojo-sensei slandering utahime’s good name as my favorite teacher.”

“you’re not dying, and utahime isn’t your teacher.”

“I know. just saying. and she’s still my favorite.”

he doesn’t like that kind of talk, even in jest. but he lets it slide. mostly because your voice is starting to fade again, and he can hear the soft, sleepy rasp that means you’re seconds away from unconsciousness. “goodnight, gumi,” you whisper.

he swallows. “goodnight.” he stays on the call long after you’re out, usually the whole night. he wakes up and nanami’s already dragged you out of bed. but sometimes, early in the mornings, earlier than he’d need to get up, he wakes to the sound of you saying “bye gumi,” before leaving. 

the calls had become a rhythm. a soft beat he could rest his heart against. so when the call doesn’t come—when you don’t pick up—megumi’s world tilts.

it’s a wednesday, just past three in the afternoon. he calls because he misses your voice, because he’s been holding on by the thinnest thread and hearing you breathe over the mic somehow makes him feel like his chest isn't full of barbed wire. it rings once. twice. four times. and then it goes to voicemail.

he stares at his screen. tries again. still nothing. he tells himself you’re probably just busy with the mission. maybe you’re asleep. maybe nanami’s giving a debrief. maybe your phone’s dead. maybe—maybe you’re hurt. maybe you’re bleeding out in some cold concrete stairwell and your cursed tool slipped from your hands and—

he calls again. and again. it spirals quick. too quick. he forgets how to sit still. paces his dorm room like the floor’s going to fall out from under him. pulls his hoodie tighter around him. shoves his phone in his pocket. takes it out. checks his texts. nothing. checks the school emergency threads. nothing. pings gojo just in case—doesn’t get an answer, which just makes it worse.

he feels it building in his chest—this clawing panic he hasn’t felt since he was a kid, since he watched his sister's body be wheeled away, since he realized he was alone in a world that doesn’t care how scared you are.

and then—his screen lights up. [your contact]: incoming facetime call. he answers before the first ring even finishes. “hello?” his voice is raw, low, already cracking.

“gumi,” your voice spills through the speaker, breathless, warm, real, and he can see your face, your phone propped up on the pathetic excuse for a desk in your motel room. “m’so sorry I didn’t answer.”

he exhales so hard it’s almost a gasp. the air rushes out of him like a lung finally punctured, like he’d been holding it the whole time. “what happened?” he asks, too fast.

“nanami was ripping me a new one,” you sigh, dragging the words out like a dramatic retelling. “I dropped a cursed object. by accident. no curses escaped or anything, he’s just being nanami about it.”

from somewhere behind you, nanami’s voice cuts in, sharp as a blade, “it was for your own good!”

“yeah yeah,” you mutter, rolling your eyes so hard he can hear it. “for my growth as a professional sorcerer, I know.” megumi doesn’t laugh, exactly. but something like a breathless, stunned smile pulls at his lips. you’re okay. you’re fine. his fingers are still trembling.

“don’t do that again,” he mutters. “don’t—don’t scare me like that.” he knows it’s irrational, that you’re on a mission and if you’re busy–for example, getting your ass chewed for a dumb mistake—he can’t expect you to drop everything for his phone call. 

“wasn’t on purpose, gumi.”

he knows that. he knows. but it doesn’t matter. logic doesn’t cushion the way his stomach still aches from the half hour of imagining you gone. “when you get home,” he says, voice rough, “we’re talking about this. about these long missions.”

“mm,” you hum. “you know we can't avoid them forever.”

“don’t care.”

you snort. “so bossy.”

“promise me.”

you go quiet for a second. not teasing, not stalling—just watching him through the camera, reading the too-serious look in his eyes. “…we’ll talk about it when I'm back,” you say softly.

megumi doesn’t push it. just says, “fine.” but he’s already made up his mind. he’ll talk to gojo. he’ll talk to anyone. no more of this. no more weeks without seeing you. no more half-breathing panic every time you don’t pick up. because he needs you too much to keep pretending this is normal.

you get home just after 2 a.m. about three weeks later.

you don’t expect anyone to be awake. especially not megumi. but the second you creak open the door to your dorm, you feel the warmth of the heated blanket across your bed and the familiar smell of your perfume hanging in the air like a ghost. he’s curled up on your desk chair, long legs tucked beneath him, phone in hand.

his eyes snap open the second the door clicks shut. “you’re late,” he mumbles, already standing. “you said midnight.”

you grin, exhausted. “blame the traffic. and nanami’s rigid driving; he’s almost as bad as ijichi.”

he’s already crossing the room. grabbing your bag from your shoulder. pulling the blanket draped over your other arm. but then he pauses—just a breath—and pulls you to him. no hesitation. no asking. he grabs you hard. arms like a vice, face buried in your shoulder, breath shaky against your skin.

you groan half-heartedly. “m’all gross. smell like gas station snacks.”

“don’t care.”

he holds you for another thirty seconds. maybe more. long enough that your fingers twitch against his back, grounding yourself, grounding him. long enough that your eyes sting with something quiet and familiar and good. then you pull back, barely.

“gumi,” you murmur. “shower. let me shower.”

he sighs through his nose but lets you go. watches you shuffle off into the bathroom, yawning as you go. he doesn’t lie down. he just sits.

legs tucked up, back resting against the headboard like he’s trying not to make himself too comfortable. because this isn’t his room. this isn’t his bed. but it smells like you—your detergent, your body spray, something floral and sugary he’d never be able to name but would recognize in any crowd. and it’s unbearable.

he hasn’t smelled you in weeks. and now you’re twenty feet away, humming off-key in the shower, and the reality of it slams him in waves. you’re here. you’re safe. your voice doesn’t sound strained. you aren’t limping. you’re home. and he feels—well…he doesn’t know what he feels. something like grief. something like longing, bent inward.

he picks at a loose thread on your blanket. he can hear the muffled splash of water. you’re probably using the shampoo he restocked before you left. the thought—so small, so domestic—makes his throat feel tight.

he hadn’t meant to wait here. he told himself he’d just check your room. make sure everything was warm. maybe leave a note. but he couldn’t bring himself to leave. not when the hours ticked past midnight. not when his hands wouldn’t stop shaking, the leftover tremor of panic clinging to his fingertips.

he’s not used to missing people. not like this. not in a way that guts him clean. he’s used to solitude. used to quiet. used to locking every sharp emotion behind his teeth. but you—you’ve made his silence heavy. you’ve made being alone unbearable. his eyes flicker toward the bathroom door again. he can hear the faucet shut off. movement. a cabinet. your toothbrush rattling. nothing special. ordinary things. and it moves him in a way nothing else has in days.

he wonders if you ever felt this way when he was on a mission. when he went quiet for hours. when his texts were flat and dry and full of nothing, just the bare bones of logistics. he never knew what to say. still doesn’t. you had always carried the weight of their communication, laughing off his ellipses and single word answers. he hated that it took your absence to realize how much he had taken that for granted.

his hand drifts toward the spot on your mattress where you usually lie. he presses his palm to the indentation there, barely noticeable, like a memory. like the way your body had fit there so many nights, warm and half-asleep and reaching for him.

he closes his eyes for a second. just one. listens to the lock click open. you come out in an oversized shirt and…are those his socks? gross, he thinks. they’re yours now. your hair is damp and messy and you’re rubbing at your eyes like you’re already halfway asleep. you don’t even notice the look on his face. which is good. because he’s looking at you like you hung the stars.

he doesn’t say a word when you climb into bed beside him. doesn’t flinch when you tug his arm toward you, drape it around your waist like it belongs there. doesn’t speak when you whisper something about the drive, about being sore, about the ramen being even worse on the way back.

he just holds you. pulls you into his chest like he’s still scared you’ll vanish again. like if he doesn’t wrap around you tight enough, you’ll disappear back into the wind.

and when you mumble, “shouldn’t’ve waited up for me,” into the fabric of his shirt, his breath catches.

he wants to tell you how much it wrecked him to wait. how every second of not knowing was its own kind of torture. how his heart felt like it was bleeding out in the dark. but he doesn’t. he just tightens his grip. noses into your damp hair. “couldn’t wait,” is all he says.

he hated leaving. hated the silence of being apart from you. hated the dull throb that settled in the hollow of his chest the second he stepped outside your shared space. it wasn’t about control. it wasn’t even about the cult, not really—though geto did have obligations. rules to keep, people to placate, power to maintain. no one ran an empire of belief and blood by sitting on their ass. but still.

the thing about being away from you was that it felt like waking up in the middle of a dream and finding the world gray and unrecognizable. suguru had known grief. he had known rage and cruelty, had held the hand of sorrow like an old friend. but this? this constant ache of missing you—of living in days you weren’t part of? it was a quieter suffering, but no less violent. it chewed at him from the inside.

you didn’t help. of course you didn’t. he could feel your affection like sunlight on skin, even from miles away. you texted often—too often, really, if he were a lesser man. if he didn’t live for every single message.

there was the blurry selfie you sent one morning, barely lit by dawn. bedhead in every direction, your eyes puffy with sleep and your mouth slack, crust of drool shameless at the corner. you looked like a disaster. you looked like home.

the bed misses you, you’d written beneath it. oh, and I do too. he stared at that photo for longer than he should’ve. long after he’d replied with his usual: go back to sleep. it’s too early. (you replied with bossy. he smiled.)

there was a picture of miso soup you made. you’d captioned it with theatrical misery: I made enough for you and I. guess I’ll have to eat it all myself :/

he laughed. a real one, from deep in his chest. he scared one of his subordinates with the sound. what a shame, he wrote back. 

there was a day you sent him a photo of yourself cross-legged on the floor, nanako braiding your hair and mimiko painting your toes the brightest glittery pink imaginable. they’d hijacked your phone and typed with relentless confidence: she so pritty sensei u better come home soon or we keep her

he’d answered with: the prettiest. she’s mine, not yours, he’d teased.

it struck him then, for maybe the hundredth time, how strange this life was. his days were grim and sterile. the smell of iron lingered on his clothes. he spoke to liars, sycophants, zealots. he disposed of the wretched, the corrupt. and yet…you were sending him soup. selfies with sleepy eyes and too-big shirts. pictures of your toes being painted like you had nothing better to do. like you weren’t worried about the dark parts of his life clawing too close to yours.

he missed you like a wound misses the stitch. like a man freezing misses the flame. you were busy, he knew. but not too busy. you always made time to call. the sound of your voice through the phone cut through everything. made it easier to breathe. he’d been in the middle of a meeting once when your name flashed across the screen. walked out without explanation. no one dared follow.

you greeted him with a teasing pout. “aww, you look tired, sugu.”

he rolled his eyes, dragged a hand down his face. “do I?” he murmured.

“yeah,” you said, soft. “a little.”

he considered lying. pretending he was fine. that he was just tired from work, from travel, from the endless cycles of doing what he believed was right. but instead, he just exhaled. let the truth out like smoke. “I just miss you.”

there was a beat of silence. a rustle as you shifted in bed. “I know,” you whispered. “you’ll be home soon. you’ll be in my arms before you know it.” you know that if you tell him you miss him, he’ll be ditching whatever cult business he needs to tend to tomorrow and driving home to you.

he closed his eyes. let the sound of your promise sink into his bones like warmth. that one sentence carried him for days. suguru geto had built a life from ruin. constructed an ideology from loss and pain and righteous fury. there was blood on his hands, and there would always be. but the knowledge that you waited for him—chose him—that you wanted him to come home, not as a leader, not as a god, but as a man—it was enough to keep going. only for so long, though. 

he’d decided he’d come home early. your precious, domestic texts and sleepy phone calls were only sustaining him for so long—small, bright glimpses into a life he was meant to be living in full. he’d stared too long at a photo of your socked feet propped up on the coffee table, your caption reading, these little guys are cold without you, and just…decided.

he wasn’t needed as badly as he was wanted. his responsibility to the cult weighed heavy, yes, but not heavier than the one he gave himself the moment he started loving you. and god, he loved you. so earnestly. so indulgently. as if he could worship the loneliness out of himself just by touching you enough, giving you everything you never asked for, offering you every corner of his heart like he owed you interest.

you told him he didn’t have to. he knew that. you never demanded a thing. never pressured. never made him feel like love was something transactional. but he had made a quiet promise to himself, sometime in the crook of a sunday morning with you pressed against him and sunlight painting your cheek—he’d love you so well, the world would forget it had ever been cruel to him.

so he came home. late. quiet. shoulder-heavy from travel, but stomach-light with the anticipation of seeing you.

he slipped into the house like a ghost—except ghosts don’t bring bags full of wrapped sweets and your favorite soy milk. ghosts don’t stop to make sure their footsteps don’t creak. ghosts don’t pause at the edge of the kitchen, heart pounding like they’re sixteen and about to kiss someone for the first time.

you were there. barefoot. bent over the stove in one of his old t-shirts, hair clipped messily, humming something tuneless as the smell of pan-fried dumplings filled the air. the domesticity nearly knocked him out. you looked like a dream he’d never dared to wish for.

and then you turned. and screamed. and launched yourself into him, clinging with all the force of a hurricane wrapped in a t-shirt and lavender body mist.

“when did you get back—how long were you standing there—why do you smell so good—wait, aren’t you supposed to be gone for another week—are you hungry—”

he just shushed you, kissed your hair, held you so close you whined, and cooed softly as if calming an overexcited cat. “missed you too,” he murmured. “so much, I couldn’t wait.” you’re flushed and breathless and glowing. and for the first time in too long, he feels…calm. like his body’s no longer stretched across two continents. like he’s whole again.

you finish cooking together, except his arms never leave you. he presses himself against your back, kissing your shoulder when you season something absentmindedly, humming when you sway a little to the music in your head. you tell him things he already knows from the phone calls, but hearing them now—woven with your laughter, punctuated by your hands brushing his as you grab plates—feels different. realer. better.

he makes you sit on his lap as you eat, feeding you little bites with his fingers, biting them himself just to feel your giggle against his jaw. “so clingy,” you murmur teasingly.

“deal with it,” he says, nuzzling into your neck.

the compliments come in waves, unfiltered. he missed your voice. your hair. the way you sit, slouched and cozy. the way you smell like rice steam and your favorite lotion. he missed your laugh, your offbeat commentary, the way you act like his t-shirts were always yours first.

you tease that he’s acting like you’ve been gone for years. but he just cups your jaw, tilts your head to kiss you slow. “felt like longer.”

you clean up together. he dries, you rinse. he hums as you put the dishes away, as if it’s some sacred duet. then, without a word, he scoops you up bridal style. you shriek. he grins, soft and sleepy. “bedtime,” he says simply, and that’s that.

in bed, he tugs the blankets high over you both, arms wrapping like he never wants to let go. your back presses to his chest. he buries his face in your neck. he doesn’t even speak. just breathes. in. and out. like your skin is the first oxygen he’s had in weeks.

and then you whisper, so mocking and sarcastic. “looks like you’ve missed the bed as much as it’s missed you.”

he doesn’t even pretend to be annoyed. he just hums, nose still pressed behind your ear. no bed is a bed without you in it. no life is a life without your warmth next to his.

you’d known gojo for years. adjacent, mostly. orbiting one another like curious planets in a system too chaotic to align—too many curses, too many tragedies, too many times your paths almost crossed. he was always a few feet away. loud and laughing, or solemn and deadly. the strongest. the best.

everyone seemed to gravitate toward him. you didn’t. not out of spite—just…you didn’t need to. and that alone made you unforgettable. you weren’t dazzled by the brilliance. you didn’t stumble when he walked into the room. you just met his gaze like he was anyone else. and god, that was all it took.

he spent months chasing you. ridiculous, grand, pathetically sincere efforts to earn your attention, your time, your affection. he hated how much he loved it. and he loved it. because for once, it wasn’t about being the strongest. you didn’t want his power. you wanted him. and now that he had you, nothing else quite compared. not even close.

of course, hard, cruel missions were just a part of his life—ugly constants that weren’t going anywhere. and he accepted that. he didn’t whine about it (too much). but what killed him now, what actually made his chest feel tight…was missing you. this was new. this ache, this yearning. he’d missed people before. friends, students, the dead. but this was different. a slow, golden kind of missing. like homesickness, but gentler. like longing, but soaked in love.

he left for a month-long mission—business, training, extermination, bullshit—with megumi and nobara in tow. the only thing that kept him sane was the note you’d slipped into his pocket. “good luck, handsome. not that you’ll need it <3” written in your loopy, familiar handwriting, laced with your perfume, folded once with intention. he kept it in the pocket of every uniform he wore. reread it constantly. swore the ink still smelled like you even after week three.

and then there were the calls. the constant calls. megumi swore he was going to throw gojo’s phone off a mountain if he heard your voice through it one more time. “eight hours,” megumi muttered once, utterly horrified. “eight hours. what do you even talk about?” gojo just smirked. “everything,” he said simply.

because it was true. you two talked about everything. and nothing. from global politics to what cereal you had that morning. you talked like it was oxygen. like if you stopped, the spell would break. and god, when you weren’t talking, you were texting. constant little updates that meant nothing to the world but meant everything to him. took a nap on your pillow. it still smells like you <3

burned my toast this morning, please come home and fix my life.

yuuji just dropped kicked a vending machine. your son is out of control.

he replied to everything. with emojis. with voice notes. with dumb selfies and long paragraphs and out-of-pocket comments that made you laugh until your stomach hurt. he’d wait five hours in a hostile zone for a curse to reappear and spend all of it reading back through your messages like they were scripture. he loved your voice. your thoughts. your jokes. your complaints about the coffee machine. your book recommendations. your grocery lists. you.

sometimes, late at night, when he was finally alone and the world had quieted, he’d just…watch you. on facetime. your camera angled toward your desk or the stovetop or your bed. sometimes you were talking, humming, scribbling notes. sometimes just brushing your hair or stretching. and he’d be still. quiet. eyes a little glassy. you were so real. so alive. and so impossibly his.

he didn’t even know what to say, half the time. which was rare, for him. he’d just murmur your name, and you’d glance at the screen and smile. and that was enough. he didn’t realize this kind of love existed before you. the soft kind. the quiet devotion. the love that doesn't demand anything except presence. and now? he can’t imagine surviving a single mission without it.

yes, he misses you. terribly. desperately. consumingly. he misses you like it’s a full-time job. like it’s a cursed technique in itself—one that gnaws at his chest and makes him sigh like a victorian widow. megumi and kugisaki are beyond sick of it. 

“did you know she was valedictorian?” “she expelled a special grade curse today, did you hear about that?” “she’s thinking about getting blonde highlights, what do you think? 'cause I think she’ll look gorgeous.”

and to make it worse, he says all of this unprompted. out of nowhere. while they’re eating. walking. fighting a curse. like he’s legally obligated to mention you every fifteen minutes or he’ll spontaneously combust. megumi glares. nobara sighs. gojo just smiles like the happiest idiot on earth. because honestly? the ache? the missing you? it’s the most beautiful pain he’s ever felt. how lucky is he, really? to love someone so good it makes his chest hurt? to have a reason to want to come home at all? he thinks about that a lot. how he used to come back from missions to empty dorms and empty beds. how his life used to feel like an endless hallway with no one at the end. now? he’s got you.

so he sends you things. takeout from your favorite place, delivered to your door like clockwork on tuesday nights. trinkets from roadside stands. little notes, scribbled on receipts and napkins and hotel stationery, folded into snail mail envelopes with poorly drawn hearts and terrible handwriting. souvenirs from tokyo, as if it’s not your backyard. “this made me think of you,” he always writes. every single time.

and when he finally comes home—god, when he finally walks through that door…you’re there. his house is dark except for the lamp you’ve left on. you’re curled up on the couch, eyes fluttering, a blanket pulled halfway over your lap, waiting for him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. and just like that, he forgets he’s tired. forgets the drive. forgets nobara and ijichi bickering in the backseat. forgets everything except you.

his chest cracks open and sunlight pours out. he practically launches himself across the room to scoop you up, spinning you in a dizzy circle before you can even stand. you’re real, he reminds himself in his head, pressing kisses to your cheeks, your jaw, your forehead, your nose, like he’s checking if you’ve been replaced by a doppelgänger. you’re here. you’re mine.

you’re laughing, breathless, arms looped around his neck as he carries you like a bride to your own couch. he smells like wind and exhaustion and sweets. his hands are everywhere—tugging your hair gently, holding your face, gripping your waist like he might float away without you. and the talking—oh, the talking—it starts instantly.

you’re telling him about the neighbor’s cat and your lesson plans and the weird dream you had last night, and he’s telling you about the guy who tried to stab him and how megumi learned a new technique and how he missed you so much it made his stomach hurt. you don’t stop talking. it’s like trying to drink from a firehose of love. overwhelming and nonstop and absolutely intoxicating.

you both fall asleep in the living room that night. you, tucked into his chest. him, whispering half-conscious declarations of love into your hair.

“I missed you so much, baby. like, actual physical pain. never leave me. ever. I'll die. actually. dead. gone.”

you just hum and stroke his hair. and he clutches you tighter. because this is his whole world. and it talks to him in your voice.

it was just a three-month internship. just one summer. twelve weeks, eighty-four days. not even a full season. but, to takuma, it felt like a lifetime.

and it was a critical opportunity—one of those shiny, brag-worthy, fate-altering positions that made people blink twice when they heard the name. working at a renowned fortune 500 company. a place with glass walls and brushed steel fixtures and a breakroom espresso machine that cost more than your entire rent. takuma was lucky to even be employed there. he was luckier to be handpicked. he couldn’t say no. even though he wanted to.

a whole summer away from you was a particular kind of torture he wasn’t built to survive. and it wasn’t like he’d be lazing about in a cushy little dorm, feet up, texting you all day. he’d be working. up before the sun. in meetings. taking notes. running errands. being important™.

and you’d be busy too. school was out, which meant full-time hours at a job that drained you to the bone. you were practical like that. no-nonsense. bossy in a way that only he could make soft. you took one look at his hesitation and gave him that look. and that was it.

you made him go. told him that your relationship could never come between him and his future. told him he had goals and ambition and plans—and none of them would matter if he didn’t take himself seriously enough to chase them. he called you mean. you kissed his forehead and told him to grow up. he left the next morning with tears in his eyes and your hoodie in his carry-on.

he was a good boyfriend. no, a great boyfriend. but long distance revealed a hard truth: you were the one managing all the actual boyfriend tasks. you texted him reminders like his mother.

take your lunch break. they legally have to let you.

coffee is not breakfast. I swear to god, takuma.”

we can only talk for five minutes. go to bed.”

go to sleep. do not respond to this. I'm serious.

and he whined about it, obviously. because he was a little brat and he missed you like hell. but being bossed around by you? being cared for by you from miles away? it melted him. reduced him to mush, to goo, to something warm and stupid and in love.

he thought about you constantly. obsessively. you weren’t just on his mind—you were his mind. his default brain setting. his internal monologue. his every other sentence in conversation. his coworker was going to snap.

by week two, the poor man knew your full class schedule, your favorite brand of hair conditioner, and the name of your cat from middle school. takuma would not shut up. not during meetings. not during breaks. not even while writing quarterly summaries. his fellow intern had to physically swat his arm to stop him from zoning out mid-presentation because takuma was daydreaming about you in too tight tank tops and daisy dukes. (which, by the way, you rarely wore, but in his fantasies, they were basically the only things in your closet.)

he was losing it. and the worst part? you weren’t even out partying. you weren’t living your best hot girl summer. you were at home, being responsible. studying for a semester that hadn’t even started yet. working long shifts at a minimum wage hellhole that absolutely did not deserve you.

he thought about you when he typed emails. when he walked through security. when he accidentally dropped his pen and found your scrunchie in his pocket.

you consumed him. and it was kind of…concerning.

you didn’t even text him much. you were sentimental in theory, not in practice. but he’d set your custom ping—something soft and sparkly and obnoxious—and every time it went off, he dropped everything. his clipboard, his sandwich, his laptop (once). nothing mattered more than those three words lighting up his screen.

miss you.

ate some strawberry pocky today. reminded me of you.

you better bring me a souvenir.

simple stuff. barely even emotional. but it had him blushing. smiling at his phone. kicking his feet like a high school girl in a shoujo anime. god, he was gone. he’d sigh and press his phone to his chest like it was your face. he’d write six drafts of his reply and delete them all. he didn’t want to sound too clingy—which was hilarious, because he was. completely. desperately.

he nearly sobs at his desk. a fellow intern throws him a concerned glance from across the boardroom. the last week of the internship, he’s jittery. manic. he can’t sit still. can’t focus. his work’s still excellent, but it’s powered entirely by the promise of you.

I bought the ingredients for your favorite udon to make when you get home :) 

oh god. a fucking smiley face. you never sent those. he throws his head back and groans like he’s been shot. the guy next to him asks if he’s okay. “just in love,” he sighs dramatically. seven days. seven days until he can lie across your lap and whine about capitalism and let you pet his hair while he tells you about his boss’ entire schedule from memory. seven days until he can finally, finally, come home.

he’s texting you dumb updates the entire train ride home. like, every single thought that crosses his mind gets sent to you as a message.

just passed a field of sunflowers. thought of you.

guy next to me is eating chips. I want to fight him.

I'm wearing the cologne you like. do I smell good from here?? 😏

and you’re reading them all. like they matter. like they’re important. because they are. you’re hearting each message. sending him little thumbs up emojis, laughing silently at his nonsense, and responding with fast fingers because you’re at work and you really shouldn’t be on your phone—but you can’t not. it’s takuma. he’s coming home.

the anticipation eats at you. he’s only hours away. and still, it doesn’t feel real. three months is a long time. three months is forever. three months made you forget what it’s like to hear him laugh in person, to feel his breath against your skin.

tonight’s dinner will be fun. your friends insisted. “celebrate!” they said. “you’ve been holding it down on your own, you deserve a night!” and yeah, they’re right. but when takuma actually gets there—god. it’s too loud. too many people. music blasting. laughter ringing. someone’s yelling about a spilled drink and someone else is screaming over a beer pong table. it’s overstimulating. and he’s exhausted. and he hasn’t seen you in eighty-four days. and all he wants is to be somewhere quiet with you.

then—he sees you. standing in the yard, talking with a few friends, untouched by the chaos. the rest of the world blurs.

he sees you. tank top. daisy dukes. a glass in your hand, your other arm crossed loose under your chest. hair kissed by sun, smile subtle, barely-there gloss. you are the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. and he’s not thinking anymore. he’s moving. across the lawn. through the bodies and beer and sweat and laughter.

you turn, meet his eyes—and that’s it. he kisses you like he’s trying to wake up from a bad dream. like he’s afraid if he doesn’t touch you fast enough, you’ll disappear again. his hands are wrapped around you, one in your hair, the other around your waist, pulling. he holds you like oxygen. he breathes you in. he kisses you like you’re a prayer he never said out loud.

someone whistles. someone cheers. one of your friends gasps out a half-laugh, half-“oh my god.” but none of it registers. just the way your fingers curl into his shirt. just the way your breath stutters when he finally pulls away. your eyes flutter open and you’re smiling—shy, surprised, soft.

and then—he grins, dazed and breathless. leans in again and murmurs, "I love your outfit.”

and you smirk, head tilted, knowingly smug. “I thought you might.”

"let's go home, yeah?" and you nod. yeah. home.

choso and you hadn't been dating for long. the concept of romantic love was still relatively new to him—foreign, even. for most of his existence, his idea of love was synonymous with protection, with blood, with survival. this was different. now, he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was definitely, 100%, desperately, ridiculously in love with you.

but that sensation was new. often overwhelming. sometimes he’d just stop mid-sentence, mid-step, mid-thought, and look at you—brows drawn, head tilted, eyes wide—like he couldn’t quite figure out how all that affection fit inside his chest. he wasn’t built for this. not really. he didn’t know where to put all of it.

he didn’t say “I love you” often. not yet. not because he didn’t feel it—but because he was terrified that once he said it out loud, it would never stop coming out. like a dam breaking. like a wound that wouldn’t clot. to cope, he defaulted to closeness. physical presence was grounding. if he could see you, then he could breathe. you didn’t seem to mind. neither did he. you spent so much time together that megumi started calling you “the parasite couple” under his breath. choso didn’t take offense. parasites were just misunderstood.

when you left on a two-week-long mission, he stood by the door, stiff and silent, while you packed. his stomach felt strange. not painful—just...loud. like there were nerves bubbling in his bloodstream. his general thoughts were that he was worried. he trusted you, sure. he knew you were competent. but humans were fragile. you'd once bruised your knee walking into a coffee table. what if something actually dangerous tried to hurt you?

he considers asking yaga if he can go too—just stay a couple towns over, pretend it's a coincidence—but yuuji talks him down. “dude. don’t be weird about it. she’s gonna be fine. they wouldn’t have sent her if she wasn’t capable.” he knows yuuji’s right. he hates that yuuji’s right.

he hugs you for a long time before you leave. he doesn’t want to let go. not because he’s being dramatic—but because his brain keeps cataloguing the things he might miss: the sound you make when you stretch, your fingers in his hair, the way your socks never match. he helps carry your single bag to ijichi’s car and lingers near the curb while you make small talk with your reluctant chauffeur. he’s glad you're not flying. planes are unnatural. “giant metal bird coffin” is what he calls them.

before you climb into the backseat, you kiss him. it’s not a dramatic, cinematic kiss. it’s soft, familiar. your lips are a little chapped. the kind of kiss that promises i’ll come back. his heart stutters so hard in his chest that he sways slightly on his feet. you smile at him—that smile—and he wonders how anyone survives this feeling.

maybe one day, your kisses won’t give him heart palpitations…maybe. but he doubts it.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” you promise, tapping your fingers twice against his chest, just above where his heart is hammering. “and now you know how to facetime me. you can see me anytime you want.” he nods solemnly. like you’ve given him a sacred task.

he tries to be subtle. he really does. he drafts every text twice, sometimes three times, trying to land on just the right combination of calm concern and casual curiosity. he thinks he’s being clever. he is not being clever or subtle in the slightest. he leaves you voice notes, asking questions, rambling.

what time did you go to sleep last night? don’t talk to strangers. did you bring your charger? what’s the exact longitude and latitude of your hotel? do you have enough socks? just double checking—when do you come back again? did you eat? you should eat. I'm not saying you didn’t eat I'm just—just checking. ignore me if you already ate. actually don’t ignore me. respond when you can. no pressure

“you don’t have to text her every five seconds,” yuuji says, halfway through a cup of instant noodles. he doesn’t even look up when he says it. “you’re gonna give her stress wrinkles.”

“she doesn’t get stress wrinkles,” choso says flatly, still staring at his phone. “her skin’s too perfect.”

“okay, see, that’s exactly what I mean.” yuuji finally looks up, waving his chopsticks for emphasis. “you’re spiraling.”

“I'm not spiraling,” choso says, with all the conviction of a man who is absolutely spiraling.

“you sent her fourteen messages in three minutes, dude.”

“she could be in danger.”

“she said she was taking a shower.”

“.......showers are slippery.”

by day three, the nerves have fully colonized his chest. he’s not just lovesick. he’s worried. anxious in the way only someone who's lived through the worst can be. you’re strong. he knows that. he believes that. but strength doesn’t mean invincible. it doesn’t mean untouchable. and you’re so selfless, so catastrophically kind. the kind of kind that gets people killed.

choso’s seen too many strong people fall because they were too busy protecting someone else. what if it happens to you? what if you’re too busy shielding a civilian to dodge a hit meant for someone else? he tries to explain this to you on facetime. several times, actually. but he always gets distracted.

because you answer the call, freshly showered, hair damp and curling, hoodie swallowing your shoulders, and look up at him with those wide, unassuming eyes like he’s not a man currently being held together by string and blood manipulation.

you talk about your day. every detail, every dumb anecdote. the mission report you had to rewrite because gojo kept adding dramatic sound effects. the vending machine that ate your change. a black cat you passed on the way back to the inn. you talk, and choso listens. listens like it’s scripture. wide-eyed, silent, lips parted slightly like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your voice. nodding slowly, rhythmically, like a metronome. “uh huh.” “yeah.” “that sounds…like him.” “uh huh.”

he’s so mesmerized that you swear, one night, you see a tiny sliver of drool start to escape the corner of his mouth. “choso,” you giggle, leaning closer to your screen. “you’re staring.”

he blinks. slow. like he’s waking up. “I'm always staring,” he admits quietly. “you’re the only thing I want to look at.”

you short-circuit a little. he doesn’t even realize what he’s said. he insists you fall asleep first every night, even though you’re exhausted and he’s clearly worse off. “I’ll sleep better knowing you’re okay,” he murmurs. and he does. at least for a few hours. you’re always gone by the time he wakes up—already off to scout a cursed site or drag gojo out of a sugar-induced stupor. and the anxiety…it creeps back in. like tidewater. slow but sure.

still, your texts help. short. direct. enough to tell him you’re alive and functional.

leaving to go scout out a site with excessive cursed energy. I promise I'm being careful. I’ll text again in a couple hours. gojo is the most annoying person on the entire planet, remind me of that next time I accept a mission with him.

he rereads every message five times. he takes screenshots. it’s pathetic. he knows that. but the truth is: he would give anything—anything—just to hold your hand for five minutes. to feel your pulse, warm and steady beneath his fingers, and know that you’re safe.

he didn’t realize love could feel like this. it’s always been, up until this point, soft. kind. beautiful. overwhelming in a lovely, poetic way. like the sun coming out for the first time and stretching warm fingers across his skin, melting all the snow left behind from years of cold. you made him feel safe. known. like maybe he wasn’t just a collection of trauma and blood anymore—but something real. something deserving.

but this? this kind of love? it hurts. it aches in places he didn’t know could hurt. a deep, bone-weary throb that settles in his chest and pulses every time he thinks about you being somewhere he’s not. every time he imagines you standing alone in a cursed place, facing something dangerous. every time he glances at the empty space beside him and remembers it’s going to be empty for another seven days.

he didn’t know missing someone could feel like this. he didn’t know it could feel like grief. it eats away at him that he can’t be with you. not even to interfere—just to be there. in case. what if you need something? what if you drop your water bottle and no one picks it up for you? what if your shoelace comes untied and you’re too busy to notice? what if your hair gets caught in your jacket zipper and it takes you ten full minutes to get it out and you end up frustrated and alone and—who will help you, if not him? he should be there. he should always be there.

his hands flex at his sides. his body hums with this low-level urgency he can’t shake. fight or flight. protect or perish. the same instinct that kept his brothers safe for years is now turned toward you—and he doesn’t know how to channel it when you’re not near him.

and he’s not sure what to do with that. not sure what kind of man he becomes when he doesn’t have a purpose. when his job is to wait. he hates the silence in his room. it’s the worst kind of loneliness. knowing you were here and now you’re not. but you always seem to catch him mid-spiral, facetiming him exactly when he decides it’s been too long since he’s seen your face and heard your voice. 

because for you, yeah, being apart was hard. you missed him—his quiet presence, his constant check-ins, his overbearing love masquerading as casual concern. it wasn’t easy. but you functioned. you coped. you did your job and stayed in touch and kept your head on straight. choso…did not. he was a mess. restless. worried. half-feral. the ghost of your warm body in his bed haunted him like a curse. now that you’re back, he’s not wasting a single second pretending he’s fine.

you get home late. everything is quiet. the streetlights are humming and the world feels soft at the edges, like it's been waiting for you to come back. you're not expecting anyone. you thought you told him not to wait up.

but there he is—choso, standing near the steps with his hood up, hands in his pockets like he’s trying to keep them from shaking. he looks like he hasn’t slept in years. like he’s rooted in place by some force bigger than him. his eyes catch yours in the dark, and something in his shoulders loosens.

you barely get a word out before he’s crossing the distance and crushing you into a suffocating hug. you’re mumbling something about needing to unpack or go turn in mission reports to yaga’s office. he mumbles, arms locked tight around your shoulders, “not important. I've got you now.”

you laugh into his hoodie. “hello to you too.” he hums. it might be a greeting. it might be relief. you’re not sure. you didn’t realize how much you missed him until you felt the way your body settled into his. your bones remember him. your heart remembers him.

“we should take more missions together,” he adds a moment later, voice still low and flat like he’s making a tactical recommendation.

you grin, tired and stretching like a warm, lazy cat in the cold. “okay. that would be fun.”

he doesn’t say anything to that, but his arms tighten around you. just for a second. you don’t know how much he needed to hear that. he missed you so much he thought it would kill him. not in the poetic sense. in the actual, physical, hurting sense. two weeks felt like a lifetime. it felt wrong. unnatural. like something vital had been ripped out of his life and taken on a mission without him. you always said you were fine alone. but he wasn’t.

he scoops you up. not because he wants to be cute about it. because his body demands it. because now that he has you again, he's not risking even the smallest chance of you slipping away. the steps to his dorm are a blur. the hallway barely registers. all he knows is the way your weight feels in his arms, familiar and right, like you were made to rest there.

he doesn't even let you unpack. he doesn’t ask. just lays you down in his bed like he’s tucking away a treasure. joins you seconds later, pulling you in with the neediness of someone who's been cold for weeks and has just found the sun again. you sleep, finally. and he holds you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he loosens his grip.

by morning, his arms are deadlocked around your waist. his face is pressed into the back of your neck, breath steady, but there's a tension in him that never quite fades. like even in sleep, he’s preparing for the moment someone tries to take you away again.

you shift. once, twice. no give. you’re held fast. but it doesn’t feel suffocating. it feels nice, familiar. you press your hand over his, tangled at your stomach. his fingers twitch, tighten, tangle further. choso, even now, asleep and still, is reminding you: you’re home. 

nanami married you for a reason. and it’s not because he was feeling impulsive. he doesn’t do impulsive. no—he married you because he never wants to be apart from you. ever. even back when you were dating, before the shared toothbrush holder, before the joint tax returns, before you casually wore his surname like it had always belonged to you—he hated leaving. you didn’t live together yet, but every second spent away from you was filled with torment. not the dramatic kind—just the kind that gnawed slowly and methodically.

what if you got off work bone-tired and skipped dinner? who would cook for you? who would put a heating pad on your back and massage your feet and let you drool on his chest during a 90-minute documentary about the politics of Japan’s train system? what if your car broke down and it was raining and you didn’t have your umbrella and your phone was dead and your heels were too high? what if there was a sorcerer’s gala while he was away—who would hang off your arm, look stupid in a suit for you, worship the ground you walked on like a trained husband-shaped puppy? what if you opened a jar and the lid was too tight and you strained your wrist trying to twist it off? who would open it for you? who would kiss your wrist better and say, “you loosened it for me” just to make you feel strong? what if your neck hurt because you slept wrong and nobody was there to adjust your pillow, rub your shoulders, and scold you for not sleeping ergonomically? what if you had a nightmare and woke up reaching for him, but he wasn’t there? who would tuck you back in and whisper that you’re safe? who would pull you into his chest and fall asleep breathing in the scent of your shampoo? what if your zipper got stuck on your favorite jacket and you were late for something and already frustrated and flustered? who would help you without laughing, without teasing, without judgment—just gently fix it and kiss your forehead and say “you look beautiful”? what if you finally got around to assembling that bookshelf and it collapsed halfway through? who would wordlessly take over, follow the manual to the letter, and build it better than ikea ever dreamed?

he hates what-ifs. they make him feel helpless. because what if you needed him, and he wasn’t there? it simply eats him alive. so now that he has you, now that it’s legal and spiritually binding and signed on paper, he’s simply decided that leaving you is no longer an option. a trip away from his wife is inhumane.

he once went on a long mission right after you two got engaged and swore he aged five years in those short weeks. he didn’t sleep a full night. didn’t enjoy a single bite of food. got irrationally angry at a hotel pen. so, no—travel is out of the question.

which is why you’re currently shoving him out the door, a pressed shirt and briefcase in hand. “it’s gojo’s bachelor party,” you say. “it’s five days long,” he says, like the words physically wound him. “you have to go,” you insist, ignoring the withering look he gives you. “I don’t have to do anything,” he counters. “you’re his best friend.” the glare he gives is withering. “and, his only friend that isn’t 16 years old.” he scoffs. “I’m his coworker. and besides, he’s friends with shoko.” “oh please. ieiri would never admit to being his friend. she hates him more than you do.” so he goes. begrudgingly. and when the plane lands, he’s already got your contact pulled up. texts you: Landed safely. Will call you after I’ve unpacked. Love you. punctuation and all. capitalized. formal. very him. you read it at work and clutch your phone to your chest like a teenager.

he facetimes you as he unzips his suitcase—facetimes, even though he hates it, says it’s awkward. “you don’t even look at the camera, you look at yourself,” he once grumbled. but you pick up before the first ring finishes. “KENTO!” you squeal. “I didn't think you’d facetime!” he smiles, soft and slow. “I wanted to see your face,” he says, like it’s just a fact.

you coo. he blushes. you tell him you miss him. he immediately replies, “don’t tempt me. I have a browser tab open for a return flight in three hours.” you laugh. “you just got there. go have fun, kento.”

he sighs and props you up on the hotel room desk like it’s a Zoom call with a board of executives. “I’m not fun,” he mumbles. shocking. you tease him until he cracks a smile. you tell him you love him. you do the thing where you blow him kisses through the phone and he pretends to be embarrassed, but he loves it. gojo has to knock on his door for five straight minutes before nanami finally hangs up and leaves for the night’s events.

you get a text a few hours later. Goodnight, my love. the timestamp is ridiculously late.

you text back: good lord, how late did gojo make you stay out?

nanami: Why are you still awake? you: you’re texting me at 2am and i’m the one getting scolded for being awake?

he spends ten seconds too long responding, so you call. “if you thought I was asleep, why’d you text?” you tease. he sighs. “I was hoping you wouldn’t reply until morning.” “you know I can't ignore you,” you tease, but he looks so serious. he goes silent. just breathes into the phone. “sleep well, darling,” he says. “you too,” you reply, knowing he won’t, not without you there. 

the days blur together. calls in the morning while you’re brushing your teeth. calls at lunch while you eat in your car. calls when you’re off work and he’s getting ready for that night’s activity. you complain about having to ride the train home. “I hate that,” he mutters. “I hate that I'm not there to drive you.” “then come home,” you say sweetly, fluttering your lashes and smiling. “oh, don’t tease me. I’d do anything to be home with you. gojo signed us up to minigolf this evening.” the look he gives you says he’d rather driving a knife into his stomach. 

you jokingly suggest he take gojo to a strip club. he looks physically ill. “why on earth would you—?” “it’s a joke, kento.” “it’s not funny.” “you’re right,” you laugh. “you’d cry if a woman touched you that wasn’t me.” he doesn’t deny it.

he’s silent for a second, then says: “it wouldn’t be right.” you laugh; nanami kento, the eternal gentleman. 

he texts you on his final night, and he’s clearly drunk. not in a stumbling, slurring, karaoke-on-the-table way—nanami would rather set himself on fire—but in a way only you would notice. his texts lack punctuation. no capitalization. no perfect syntax. just: back at the hotel. alive. gojo is an idiot. and when he calls as he’s unlocking his hotel room, it confirms everything. there’s a muffled thud. a pause. and then, low under his breath, as he walks face-first into the bathroom doorframe: “fuck.”

you gasp like he just punched a nun. “kento kiyomasa nanami—did you just cuss?” “…it slipped.” “you never cuss.” “I do occasionally.” “kento. I’ve known you for three years. you’ve cussed maybe five times, and this is your first ‘fuck.’” he groans dramatically, and the sound is just shy of a whimper. when he finally tilts the phone to his face, he looks…wrecked in the softest way. tie gone. white shirt rumpled and unbuttoned halfway down his chest. slacks nowhere to be seen. hair tousled like he’s been pacing and running his hands through it nonstop. eyes sleepy, flushed, and glassy. he’s laying on his stomach like a teenager at a sleepover.

meanwhile, you’re sitting cross-legged on the bed, backlit by your nightstand lamp. damp hair clinging to your shoulders, your skin glowing from moisturizer, oversized sleep shirt hanging off one shoulder. and you’re giving him that look. that sleepy, “i love you so much it’s criminal” look.

he stares. you smile. minutes pass. finally, you tilt your head and laugh gently. “kento, what did you even call for? you’ve barely said anything.” he sighs like he’s just been caught mid-crime. “…I just needed to see your face.” “well, you’ve seen it. time for bed.” “no.” he shifts, gripping his phone like it’s a life preserver. “don’t go.” “okay…why not?” “I need to keep seeing your face.” you snort. “I'll stay on until you fall asleep, sweetie. but just think—if you sleep now, tomorrow will come faster, and you’ll get to see me in person.”

“...I could just stare at you all night and see you tomorrow.” “go to sleep, nanami.” “eugh, don’t call me nanami. it’s kento. or—sweetie. I liked that.” he doesn’t have the clarity to be embarrassed by that admission. you barely say anything, but your smile says it all. it floors him. nicknames weren’t your thing. you once told him calling someone “babe” felt like being cast in a cw show against your will. but he lives for these rare little indulgences, like a victorian man being handed an ankle.

he’s out in minutes. drunk sleep swallows him whole. and when he wakes the next morning—groggy, puffy-eyed, collared shirt all wrinkled and buttoned wrong—the call’s still on. your phone is face-down on your bed, but he hears you breathing steadily. you never hung up. neither did he. he doesn’t have the heart to end it.

you wake up not long after, hair wild, muttering about needing caffeine and how you’re out of creamer and if this is how society collapses. he listens, entranced, while brushing his teeth. packs while you throw on an outfit and kiss the phone goodbye. you don’t mention his drunken rambling. don’t tease him (yet). you just talk like normal, and he’s so grateful he could die.

when he lands—when he walks through the gate and sees you there, bouncing on your heels in the middle of terminal 9, grinning like the sun—you run to him. you launch yourself into his arms, koala-style, and he catches you with a grunt. you pepper kisses all over his face, ignoring the small crowd around you. you’re cooing, giggling, sing-songy voice saying, “you’re home, you’re home, you’re home,” like it’s magic.

once upon a time, there was a version of nanami who would’ve been mortified. who would’ve rolled his eyes and muttered about professionalism and “appropriate conduct.” that man is dead. this nanami holds you tighter than what’s probably allowed by airport safety regulations. he’s not letting go. not again. you finally pull back, brushing a hand over his jaw, cheeks flushed. “so…” you grin, wiggling an eyebrow. “feeling sober? or do I need to drive? might give you some more time to stare at my face.” he groans. but as you laugh—arms still locked around his neck, your perfume faint and warm and unmistakably you—he buries his face in the crook of your shoulder and breathes you in like it’ll fix every crack in him. and it does. it does.

after a week of blaring music, bad cologne, and gojo’s incessant, brain-melting antics, this—you—feel like quiet. like calm. like coming home in the most literal, soul-deep way.

I'm never leaving my wife again, he thinks, and it's not a casual thought. it's a vow. a personal mandate. a declaration of absolute truth. the world without you was gray, predictable, and painfully dull. but now—now you’re here and smiling, and suddenly everything is color again. texture. sensation. a rush of heartbeat and heat and softness that could crack a lesser man clean in two. he kisses your temple like it’s a lifeline and exhales, long and low, into your hair. god, he loves you. so much it might actually kill him.

“let’s go home,” he murmurs. “I’m never doing this again.”

you pull back, suspiciously pleased. “a bachelor party?” “no. leaving you.” you blink, pretending to swoon dramatically. “oh, wow. should I faint?” “you should be impressed,” he says flatly, “at how long I was able to stay away.” “I am,” you beam, cupping his cheek. “I love you, sweetie.” it’s a joke, but his soft smile is so painfully serious. 

“I can't believe fushiguro is letting you spend the whole summer with him,” you tell yuuji, voice tinny through the speaker but smiling all the same.

“I know! it’s probably gojo-sensei’s doing, but I’m gonna pretend it’s just ‘cause he’d miss me way too much to go the whole summer without me.”

yuuji grins so wide it nearly splits his face, angling the phone so you can see the infamous fushiguro in the seat beside him. the look megumi gives you both is deadpan—dry enough to wrinkle a desert. you almost feel bad for him. almost. but you know better. megumi loves your boyfriend almost as much as you do. which is saying something, because loving yuuji feels like breathing: unconscious, necessary, natural.

they're on the train heading toward gojo’s not-so-humble mansion—bachelor pad energy, unlimited snacks, a pool, no rules, god help megumi. you spent last summer together, you and yuuji. he’d visited your hometown, chased your nieces around the backyard, helped you carry groceries down warm, cracked sidewalks. he got sunburned and bought popsicles from your corner store and slept with his head in your lap while you rewatched your childhood favorite movies.

this year, it’s megumi’s turn to have him. and honestly? it sucks. you miss him. constantly. in the big, heavy ways and the small, sweet ones. but there’s something beautiful in this version of love too—in the kind that stretches across space without fraying. you send each other everything. pictures. stories. little moments from your day. he shows you a blurry photo of a sunset over the pool. you show him a neighborhood cat you’ve decided to name after him. he sends you a selfie soaked to the bone because gojo threw him in fully clothed. you send a picture of your niece covered head to toe in pink sharpie (her little sister’s doing).

it’s like you never left each other. but you did. and when the day winds down and the calls get softer, more tired, more sincere—when megumi’s asleep on the other side of the room and yuuji’s voice drops to a whisper—he admits it. “I just can’t wait to see you again.”

and it hurts. because you’ve both been pretending not to miss each other too much, but the ache is real. quiet. familiar. you miss his laugh in the room. you miss his warmth. his over-the-top affection and the way he always holds your pinky first when you reach for his hand. and yuuji—he’s doing fine, technically. gojo is chaos incarnate. megumi’s company keeps him sharp. but his heart? his heart is still at home with you. every night, every call, every time he folds his pillow in half to mimic the way you used to curl up next to him.

you send him a letter the first week. it's handwritten. covered in doodles of your faces, your inside jokes, your hearts and stars and half-scribbled lines that turn into love notes without meaning to. he opens it in front of megumi and immediately starts crying.

“you two are disgusting,” megumi mutters, smacking him upside the head.

“oh, shut up! I know you miss your girlfriend too, fushiguro. at least mine sends me cute things.” yuuji hugs the letter to his chest like it might run away if he lets go.

megumi smacks him again, harder. “yeah, well, my girlfriend’s not a sappy baby.” lies, they miss each other terribly, they’re just too proud to admit it. they bicker for twenty minutes, but yuuji tucks your letter under his pillow that night. sends one back the next day. it becomes a tradition. a sacred exchange of stickers and pages and half-dried tears all summer long. he saves every one of your notes. brings them back to school in september like precious cargo.

mid-july, you send him a photo of you wearing his favorite red hoodie. he calls immediately. “you are in so much trouble right now,” he says, dramatic, clutching his metaphorical pearls. “i’ve been looking for that hoodie all summer!”

“it’s summer,” you say sweetly. “you don’t need a hoodie, sweaty guy.” ironic considering you’ve been wearing it all season. 

“you think I'm sweaty?” he pouts, wide-eyed, like this is the most offensive thing you could’ve said.

you laugh—head thrown back, sound full of warmth and life and you—and it breaks him a little. in the best way.

he gets quiet. his eyes soften. he blinks hard like he’s trying to press back tears, but they still shine.

“aw, baby…I miss you.” and he means it. he means it. loving yuuji is the easiest thing in the world. and missing him might just be the hardest. but you’ll both make it. love like this? it doesn't disappear with distance. it travels. it endures. it always finds its way back home.

the last week of summer, yuuji is buzzing. like, atomic levels of energy. chaos barely contained by skin and bone. his mood is so hyper, it’s starting to annoy even gojo—and that’s saying something.

“you’re acting like it’s been ten years,” megumi mutters on the train, as yuuji bounces his leg like a caffeinated kangaroo.

yuuji groans and dramatically slumps in his seat. “it feels like it’s been ten years.”

megumi rolls his eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t fall out. “you facetimed her literally seven hours ago.”

but yuuji is immune to logic. he’s a man possessed. you’re waiting for him. you’re probably already in his hoodie like the absolute menace you are, and he’s going to get to hold you again, finally, finally, finally. he practically explodes off the train the second the doors slide open, and megumi has to jog just to keep him in sight. yuuji tears across the campus like he’s running a marathon with a girlfriend at the finish line. because he is.

except. you’re not there. he skids to a stop outside your dorm. knocks. waits. nothing. he calls your name through the door just in case. checks the time, double-checks his texts—you were supposed to arrive yesterday. you’d even texted him earlier today about how your dorm felt a little cold without him in it.

confused and weirdly heartbroken, he drags his duffel to his dorm instead, figuring maybe you’re off getting groceries or finding your ra or something. he’s mid-sigh, phone halfway to his ear, when he pushes open the door.

and there you are. sitting on his bed like you’ve always belonged there. music playing low on his speaker. legs curled up beneath you. reading a book you’ve probably read ten times. wearing his red hoodie like the little criminal you are.

you look up. blink once. and then—“yuuji!!”

you scream it like your life depends on it. you launch yourself at him with all the force your body can manage. he catches you like he knew you’d do that, like he’s done it a thousand times, and you kiss him all over—cheeks, forehead, lips, chin, nose—endlessly.

he’s laughing so hard his abs start to hurt, tears springing to his eyes, because you’re real and you’re here and you’re warm and soft and solid in his arms and the hoodie’s all stretched out from where you’ve clearly worn it all summer and god, he never wants to let you go again.

he buries his face in your neck like he’s trying to breathe you in. you smell like home. he could cry. he might cry. megumi walks in just in time to witness it and looks seconds away from walking right back out. you turn, grinning wickedly. he flinches a little when you launch a hug at him too, but lets it happen. “I missed you, too, megumi,” you say, so bright it’s hard to tell if you’re teasing. “even if you completely ignored all the adorable letters and I sent you, you emotionally repressed little cryptid.”

he shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I kind of missed you too.”

yuuji practically melts at the scene. and then—you turn back to him. hands cupping his face. studying him like a miracle. “you look so tan,” you murmur. “and…did you get taller?” you always know just what to say to absolutely fluster him. 

your voice is so genuine it short-circuits his brain. he opens his mouth to respond and instead lets out something halfway between a wheeze and a squeak. you laugh again. the same laugh he’s been playing back in his head every night like a bedtime song. he kisses your forehead. he kisses your cheeks. he kisses your nose.later—once you’re both settled, once megumi has fled the scene like a man escaping a rom-com horror film, pretending he’s not off to go find his girl—yuuji turns serious for a second. his arms are wrapped around you, and he says it with all the honesty his full, stupid heart can muster: “I’ll have to tell megumi I’m sorry because I’m never doing another summer without you.” and you believe him. because when yuuji loves, he loves out loud. bold and bright and boyishly devoted. and you, wrapped in that love, never feel anything less than completely adored.

list of men who simply do not allow you to leave their presence:

sukuna ryomen

sukuna ryomen

sukuna ryomen

[uasyndrome]

Close Enough

Bakugo x reader

warnings: cursing?

friends-to-lovers

a/n: bakugo’s love language is “stop being dumb and come sit on my lap”

Bakugo was sitting on the common room couch, legs spread like the menace he was, head tipped back with a cold water bottle against his throat.

You paused in the hall.

Bad choice. Very bad choice. His neck was too tan. Too strong. His jaw flexed too much when he drank, and his shirt was clinging to him like it had nowhere else to be. It was just water. Just a guy. And yet—

“You gonna keep starin’ or you wanna say somethin’?”

You blinked. Caught. Again.

“I wasn’t staring.”

“You always say that,” he muttered, without looking. “Still doesn’t make it true.”

You rolled your eyes and dropped onto the other side of the couch, ignoring the heat that spread up your chest. “You’re not that hot, Katsuki.”

“Tch.” He turned, eyes narrowing as he looked you over. “Didn’t say I was.”

From the kitchen, Kirishima’s voice rang out: “Hey Bakugo, stop eye-fucking Y/N and help me find the damn soy sauce!”

You nearly choked on your own breath. Bakugo barked a low “shut up, shitty hair,” but didn’t look away from you.

The common room had thinned out. Most of 1-A was in the kitchen or upstairs. Mina peeked around the hallway corner, watching with the subtlety of a drunk hawk. You gave her a look and she quickly vanished again.

“Katsuki,” you said softly, resting your elbow on the couch back, “what are we doing?”

His knee bumped into yours. “What do you mean.”

“This. Us. You acting like you’re allergic to everyone but me. Me… letting you.”

He didn’t speak for a moment.

Then he leaned in, slowly — gaze locked on yours, voice low. “You’re the only one who doesn’t treat me like I’m some damn bomb ready to blow. Maybe that’s why I want you close.”

Your breath hitched. “Katsuki…”

He grabbed your wrist gently, tugged you forward until you were nearly in his lap. Your knees brushed his thigh. You didn’t pull away.

“Been tryin’ to figure out if you want me like that,” he muttered. “If you’d stop pretending you don’t.”

His hand slid up to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. You let out a shaky breath and nodded, just once. “I do.”

The world tilted. Or maybe he pulled you. Either way, you were suddenly straddling his lap, face inches from his. You could feel how tense he was under you — not angry. Not pissed. Just holding himself back.

He looked at you like he’d been dying to kiss you for months. Then his hand curled around your waist and he pulled you flush against him.

“Good,” he said roughly. “Then don’t run when I do this.”

And he kissed you.

Hot. Deep. Desperate. All tongue and teeth and hands gripping too tight. You gasped into his mouth, one of your hands fisting in his shirt. His hand slid up your back, warm and steady.

Someone squealed in the hallway. Probably Mina. You heard Kaminari yelling something like “PAY UP, I CALLED IT,” and Iida scolding everyone about “boundaries” and “dorm policy.”

Bakugo pulled away just long enough to mutter, “We're gonna be in my room next time.”

You grinned, out of breath. “You’re assuming there’ll be a next time.”

He smirked, cocky and flushed. “There’s gonna be so many next times.”