#it doesn’t mean she. doesn’t have one?

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 23: June 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 smell of fresh croissants filled the apartment by the time Belle heard the knock at the door.

She padded barefoot across the kitchen tiles, hair still messy from sleep, and opened it to find Emilie standing there — oversized sunglasses perched on her head, a tote bag dangling from one arm, and a smug, very satisfied smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

"You brought pastries," Belle said, immediately stepping aside to let her in.

"I also bring gossip," Emilie said, sweeping dramatically into the kitchen. "And judgment. Lots of judgment."

Belle laughed under her breath and grabbed two mugs from the shelf. "Coffee?"

"Obviously," Emilie said, dropping the tote on the counter. "You’ll need it for this."

Belle handed her a cup and sat down at the table, folding her legs beneath her. "Okay, what did you do?"

Emilie beamed. "I may or may not have verbally eviscerated Charles last night."

Belle blinked. "You what?"

"Ran into him and Alexandra while you were busy being majestic and ignoring his fifty desperate texts," Emilie said, taking a sip of coffee like she hadn’t just dropped a nuclear bomb into the kitchen. "He stomped over, full of righteous panic, and I… handled it."

Belle covered her mouth with her hand, trying not to choke on a laugh. "Handled it how?"

"I told him," Emilie said sweetly, "that maybe, just maybe, if he had spent half as much time seeing you as he does now trying to fix his own guilt, he wouldn't be in this mess."

Belle’s eyebrows shot up. "You said that?"

"And more," Emilie said brightly. "I told him he doesn’t get to be upset about the horse. Or the apartment. Or the job. Because every one of those things was him not noticing, not you hiding."

Belle stared at her, heart twisting — with affection, with shock, with a deep, raw kind of gratitude she couldn’t quite put into words.

"You’re terrifying," Belle said softly.

Emilie grinned. "And yet you love me."

"I do," Belle admitted, smiling even as she felt the sting of tears at the back of her throat. "I really, really do."

They ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes — Belle tearing apart a croissant, Emilie scrolling through her phone — before Emilie casually said, "Oh, and by the way, I also had a date last night."

Belle blinked. "You what?"

Emilie sipped her coffee like it was no big deal. "With Lando."

Belle nearly dropped her croissant. "With—LANDO?"

"Don’t yell," Emilie said, laughing. "You’ll scare the cats."

Belle gaped at her. "You had a date with Lando Norris and you’re just… casually dropping that like it’s nothing?"

"I mean, it’s not nothing," Emilie said, suddenly a little shy, cheeks pinking. "It was… nice. Really nice."

Belle set her coffee down carefully. "You like him."

"I might," Emilie admitted, voice soft. "I really might."

Belle sat back, a slow, warm smile spreading across her face. "You deserve nice."

Emilie shrugged, but she was smiling too. "He makes me laugh. A lot. And he listens. And he doesn’t… I don’t know. He doesn’t expect me to be anything but what I am."

Belle reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "That sounds pretty good to me."

"It is," Emilie said, squeezing back. 

"And if he hurts you, I’m telling Max," Belle added. 

Emilie laughed — a real one, full and bright and fierce. "Please do."

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Lando Norris

Belle: Hi Lando Emilie told me you two had a date recently.

Lando: 😳 uh yeah we did

Lando: I swear I was a perfect gentleman. Please don't kill me.

Belle: I'm not going to kill you. I just wanted to say something.

Lando: okay (this feels scarier somehow)

Belle: Emilie is one of the kindest and strongest people I know. She’s had enough people treat her like she’s second choice, or temporary, or just an option. I won’t let anyone add to that.

Lando: I would NEVER I mean it I really like her

Belle: Good. Because if you hurt her — if you make her doubt even for a second that she’s loved— you’ll be answering to me.

Belle: And I may not shout. I may not make a scene. But I promise you — you will know exactly how thoroughly you've disappointed me.

Lando: understood

Belle: I believe in people getting second chances. But I also believe in protecting the people who matter. Emilie matters. So if you care about her — really care — don’t let her ever question that.

Belle: That's all. Thank you for listening.

Lando: yes ma'am I promise I really do like her. A lot.

Belle: Then show her. Every day.

Lando: I will.

Lando: Also I think you might be scarier than Max.

***

Max balanced the box of pastries in one hand and rang the doorbell with the other, Belle tucked close to his side.

From inside, he could already hear the low thud of feet — Luka, probably, trying to beat everyone else to the door. There was a scramble, a shout, and then Tom's voice, stern but fond, cutting through the noise: "Let her answer it properly, boys!"

Belle smiled up at Max, her hand slipping into his as the door finally swung open.

Victoria stood there, baby Hailey cradled against her chest in a wrap, her hair in a messy bun and an exhausted but beaming smile on her face.

"You’re late," Victoria teased, stepping aside to let them in. "I was starting to think you got lost."

"We had to detour for these," Max said, holding up the pastries.

Victoria snorted. "Bribery. Classic."

Inside, the house looked like chaos disguised as domestic bliss — toys strewn across the living room, Luka and Lio arguing good-naturedly over a pile of Lego, Tom trying (and failing) to get them to clean up before guests arrived.

"Uncle Max!" Luka cried, barreling into him.

Max huffed as the kid hit his side like a tiny missile but grinned and ruffled his hair. "Hey, champ."

Belle crouched to greet Lio properly, getting a shy grin in return before he wrapped himself around her leg like a barnacle.

Max’s heart twisted — the sight of Belle, already so natural, so gentle with the kids, even now. 

Victoria plopped down on the couch, motioning them over. "Come on. Come meet your niece properly."

Belle followed, a little hesitant, while Max dropped the pastries on the table and shrugged off his jacket. Sophie appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel and greeting them both with kisses on the cheek.

"You're looking well," Sophie said kindly to Belle, squeezing her hand. "Keeping it all together, I see."

Belle just smiled — small, soft, almost bashful. Max knew the truth behind that smile. Knew how much it cost sometimes to keep it together.

Victoria grinned wickedly and, without warning, untied Hailey from the wrap and thrust her gently into Belle’s arms.

"Practice," she said, laughing when Belle let out a startled breath.

Belle blinked down at the tiny bundle, hands adjusting instinctively. Hailey made a soft cooing sound and settled immediately against her chest, tiny fingers curling into the fabric of Belle’s sweater.

Max sat down beside them, watching Belle like he was memorizing the moment.

It felt like the right time.

He slid his hand onto Belle’s knee, grounding her, smiling when she glanced at him — a question in her eyes.

He nodded, barely a tilt of his head.

Belle took a deep breath, looking down at Hailey, and then up at Victoria and Sophie.

"I guess we’ll need the practice," she said quietly.

Victoria paused mid-sip of her coffee. "What?"

Belle’s cheeks pinked. She shifted Hailey carefully into Max's arms, and Max cradled the tiny girl easily, used to the weight of something precious.

"We’re having a baby," Belle said, voice trembling but sure.

Silence.

Then Sophie gasped, hands flying to her mouth. Victoria’s coffee cup clattered against the table.

"No," Victoria breathed. "You’re serious?"

Max grinned, pride swelling in his chest. "Completely."

Victoria made a noise — somewhere between a squeal and a gasp — and surged to her feet too.

"Oh my God," Victoria said, practically vibrating. "Are you serious? You’re serious??"

Belle smiled — small but real — and Max thought he might physically explode from how proud he was of her.

"About three months," Belle said quietly.

Victoria burst into happy tears immediately. Tom wandered into the room just in time to see her practically tackle Belle in a careful, weepy hug.

“You sneaky little thing!” Victoria cried. “You didn’t say anything!”

Belle laughed, breathless and teary all at once, hugging her back.

Sophie was still standing frozen for a moment — and then she crossed the room in three strides and pressed her hands gently to Belle’s cheeks, her smile breaking wide and a little broken.

"I’m so happy for you," Sophie whispered, voice thick. “My sweet girl. You’re going to be such a good mom.”

Max swallowed hard around the lump in his throat as Belle leaned into it, tears slipping down her own cheeks.

Victoria clapped her hands once, bright and chaotic. "This is amazing!" she said. "Luka! Lio! You’re going to have a new baby cousin!"

Luka whooped and ran in circles around the couch. Lio just grinned shyly and latched back onto Belle’s leg.

***

The late afternoon light slanted warm through the apartment windows, dust motes swirling lazily in the golden air. Belle sat cross-legged on the couch, wearing one of Max’s Red Bull hoodies — it nearly swallowed her whole — flipping idly through a book she hadn’t really been reading.

Max was stretched out beside her, long legs hanging off the edge, his hand absently tracing the seam of the couch between them. It was quiet in the way it only ever was with him — no pressure to fill the space, no need to perform. Just breathing, just being.

Belle felt him shift, roll onto his side to face her. She looked up from her book and smiled automatically, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

Max hesitated.

Then, in a voice so soft it made her chest ache, he said, "Can I...?"

His hand hovered mid-air between them, uncertain. And for a second Belle didn’t understand — until she realized his eyes weren’t on her face.

They were on her stomach.

Still flat. Still unchanged. But growing. Quietly, invisibly.

Their baby.

Belle’s breath caught in her throat.

She nodded, just once, not trusting herself to speak.

Max moved carefully, like she was made of something fragile. His palm settled, featherlight, against the soft curve of her belly — and he exhaled a shaky little laugh, pressing his forehead against her shoulder.

"You can’t feel anything yet," Belle whispered, smiling into his hair.

"I know," Max said, his voice low and reverent. "But you're there. Both of you."

Belle let the book slip from her hands and wrapped her arms around him instead, feeling the way he cradled her so instinctively — like she was precious. Like she was his whole world.

After a long moment, Max pulled back slightly, still resting his hand against her.

"It’ll take a while before you show, won’t it?" he asked, voice gentle, almost reverent.

She nodded, smiling wetly. "First pregnancies usually do. Maybe not until four or five months in."

Max made a soft, thoughtful noise, still tracing tiny circles with his thumbs. "Good," he said. "More time to enjoy it before everyone starts trying to figure it out."

Belle laughed shakily, threading her fingers into his hair. "They’ll have to get through you first."

The look in his eyes — tender, fierce, protective — made something tighten in Belle’s chest. A thought that had been lingering there for days, tugging quietly at the corners of her mind.

Max was leaving soon.

 Flying to Spain for the Grand Prix.

 Another weekend of cameras, flashing lights, noise — and pretending.

Pretending she didn’t exist.

 Pretending this didn’t exist.

Belle bit her lip, heart thudding a little too hard against her ribs.

It wasn’t just about the hiding anymore.

 It wasn’t about keeping things private for their own peace.

 It was about the quiet ache of being invisible. Of loving and being loved and still acting like she had to apologize for it.

She could handle being unknown to the world.

 But she didn’t want to be invisible to it — not when Max was the best, most real thing she had ever dared to hold.

"I don't want to hide anymore," she said suddenly, the words spilling out before fear could swallow them down.

Max blinked, startled, lifting his head properly to look at her — really look at her.

 Like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.

"You don’t have to," he said immediately.

 No hesitation.

 No question.

 Just simple, devastating certainty.

Belle’s heart twisted painfully at the way he said it — like there had never been another option in his mind. Like loving her in the open was as natural to him as breathing.

She smiled — a little shaky, but sure. Anchored by him. By them.

"We don’t have to announce everything," she said, voice low but steady. "Not the baby. Not yet."

Her hand slid down to cover his, where it still rested over the soft, flat plane of her stomach — a touch so gentle it made her ache.

"But... us," Belle said, eyes searching his. "Our marriage. You. Me. I’m tired of pretending you’re not my home."

Max’s entire face softened — the kind of rare, quiet smile he only ever gave her.

 Like something sacred.

 Like something permanent.

"Okay," he said simply, voice rough around the edges. "Okay. We'll tell them."

And just like that, Belle exhaled — slowly, shakily — a breath she'd been holding for too long.

Not because she didn’t trust Max. But because she was finally starting to trust herself.

To trust that loving someone openly didn’t make her a burden. That maybe — just maybe — she could take up space without needing permission.

Belle leaned forward and kissed him — slow and sure — and Max kissed her back like he was promising her something without words. Like he was stitching the vow right into her bones.

No more hiding. No more shrinking. No more apologizing for what they had built.

Just them. Together.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Jos Verstappen

Max: Hey. Are you free to come to the Spanish Grand Prix?

Jos: I can be. Why?

Max: Belle and I are going public. About the marriage.

Jos: ...Finally. About time.

Max: Yeah, well. We wanted it to be ours first, you know?

Jos: I get it. What do you need from me?

Max: Honestly? Run a little interference. The media’s going to lose their minds. And Charles… ...Charles might combust.

Jos: You mean Charles is going to make it worse by running around like a headless chicken.

Max: Basically.

Jos: I’ll handle it. I'll be there. I’ll keep the worst of it off Belle.

Max: Thanks, Papa.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Lando Norris

Max: Heads up. Belle’s coming to the Spanish GP.

Lando: WAIT WHAT

Lando: LIKE ACTUALLY IN THE PADDOCK???

Max: Yes.

Lando: HOLY SHIT

Lando: MAX. MAX YOU CANNOT JUST DROP THAT ON ME LIKE THAT.

Max: What, did you think I was going to keep her hidden forever?

Lando: I mean YES???

Lando: BRO YOU GOT SECRET MARRIED AND YOU’RE JUST LIKE "oh btw here’s my wife" AT A WHOLE GRAND PRIX???

Max: Exactly. Soft launch. Race weekend edition.

Lando: THIS IS NOT A SOFT LAUNCH. THIS IS A NUCLEAR LAUNCH.

Max: You'll survive.

Lando: Will I?? Charles might physically explode on track. And the entire grid is going to lose their minds.

Max: Good. They deserve a little excitement.

Lando: I’m not emotionally prepared for this level of chaos.

Max: Too late. Prepare yourself.

Lando: I NEED A SUIT. AND ARMOR. AND POPCORN.

Max: Belle likes popcorn. Maybe bring some.

Lando: I'M TAKING THIS VERY SERIOUSLY, MAX.

Max: So am I. See you in Barcelona, mate.

Lando: I’m going to faint.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

 (Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hulkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso, Kimi Räikkönen, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sergeant, Esteban Ocon, Lance Stroll and Valtteri Bottas)

Lando: 🚨🚨🚨 EMERGENCY 🚨🚨🚨

Oscar: Oh no what now

George: You can't just start like that and expect me not to panic.

Daniel: I LIVE for this energy. Continue.

Lando: Belle is coming to the Spanish GP. IN THE PADDOCK. WITH MAX. OFFICIALLY.

Lewis: ...well. That’s one way to drop a bomb.

Carlos: Wait, WAIT. Publicly?

Lando: YES.

Oscar: oh my god.

Lance: Charles is gonna combust like an overheated engine.

Zhou: Charles is going to find out and collapse in parc fermé.

Fernando: I'd pay money to see it happen live.

Nico H: Is anyone placing bets on HOW he finds out?

George: He’s either going to see them together and short-circuit or he's going to hear the rumors swirling and spiral in slow motion.

Daniel: Imagine him walking into the paddock, seeing Max holding Belle’s hand, and just… Rage quitting life.

Sebastian: Peace and love, but Charles needs to sit down and shut up. 

Lando: I am 100% recording his reaction. I don’t even care anymore.

Oscar: Charles: "Hey Belle, why are you in the paddock??" Belle: "I'm with my husband." Charles: System error. Please reboot.

Lewis: Someone get medical personnel on standby.

Carlos: I'M STILL PROCESSING THIS He doesn’t even know Max married her yet. He still thinks Belle’s secret boyfriend is sugar daddy Fernando. 

Zhou: No but seriously. WHO is going to tell Charles??

Daniel: It’s going to hit him like a freight train of bad decisions.

Oscar: We need an over/under on how long he lasts before he confronts Max.

Lewis: Five minutes tops.

George: Two minutes if Belle is holding Max's hand.

Alex: Negative five seconds if they kiss.

Fernando: I want a front row seat. No regrets.

Carlos: I kinda hope Max punches him first if he says anything stupid.

Daniel: You say that like Max wouldn’t absolutely end him with one (1) look.

Lando: I’m bringing popcorn.

Oscar: I’m bringing a camera.

Zhou: I'm bringing bail money.

Lewis: And I’m bringing peace and emotional support. (And also a camera.)

Mark: This is going to be biblical.

Nico R: If Charles survives it without crying, it’ll be a miracle.

Daniel: Imagine forgetting your sister’s birthday, her horse, her marriage, and then getting bodied by reality in one weekend. Elite.

George: This is going to be the greatest off-track drama of the season.

Carlos: And we get to watch it unfold in 4K.

Sebastian: Prayers for Charles.He’s going to need them.

Oscar: Charles isn't surviving this.

George: Neither am I tbh.

Lando: see you all in Spain let the games BEGIN.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Belle: Guess what. 

Emilie: 👀 What??

Belle: I’m going to Spain with Max. To the Grand Prix. Officially.

Emilie: WAIT WAIT WAIT WAIT LIKE… WALKING INTO THE PADDOCK AS MRS. VERSTAPPEN OFFICIALLY OFFICIALLY?? 😭

Belle: Yes. We’re not announcing the baby yet. Just… us. No more hiding. No more pretending.

Emilie: I’M SCREAMING internally because I’m in public and I don’t want to get arrested but STILL

Belle: 😂😂😂

Emilie: I am so proud of you, Belle. So, so proud. You’re going to walk in there and light the place up and Max is going to look at you like you hung the stars.

Belle: He already does. 🥹

Emilie: DID YOU WANT ME TO CRY AT THE GROCERY STORE?? BECAUSE MISSION ACCOMPLISHED.

Belle: 😂 Sorry not sorry. (Also… any outfit suggestions for my "Hey, I'm married to a World Champion" debut? 👀)

Emilie: DON’T MOVE. I’m pulling outfit options right now. We’re about to make Monaco’s most famous secret the event of the weekend.

Belle:  Thank you for always being in my corner. 🖤

Emilie: Always. Now let’s pick a dress that’s going to make half the paddock faint. 😘

***

The doorbell rang, followed almost immediately by the sound of keys jingling and a familiar voice calling, "Don't panic, it's just me — and I'm armed."

Belle laughed, rising from the couch just as Emilie shouldered her way into the apartment, arms overflowing with shopping bags. Designer logos peeked from between brown paper and bright ribboned handles. Emilie kicked the door shut with one foot and dropped the pile dramatically onto the coffee table with a satisfied huff.

"I come bearing offerings," she declared.

Belle raised an eyebrow. "You robbed an entire mall?"

"Selective raiding," Emilie said sweetly. "And it’s called urgent fashion triage, thank you very much."

Belle shook her head, grinning as she started rifling through the bags. Soft silks, crisp white linens, sunlit yellows and rich blues — it was like someone had bottled the Spanish sun and turned it into clothes.

"You didn’t have to," Belle said softly, touched despite herself.

"I wanted to," Emilie said, plopping down onto the couch and already pulling out outfit combinations. "You’re about to walk into your first race weekend publicly as Mrs. Verstappen. You deserve to look and feel like a goddess while doing it."

Belle smiled, the word Mrs. Verstappen settling warm and giddy under her skin.

"And," Emilie added slyly, "it’s not like I needed much of an excuse for retail therapy."

Belle nudged her playfully with her foot. "You could always come too, you know. To the race."

Emilie gave her a look.

"I’m serious," Belle said, teasing. "Spain. Sunshine. Chaos. You could watch Lando drive. In person. Maybe even cheer him on."

Emilie snorted, but the tips of her ears turned suspiciously pink. "I am not that far gone," she said primly.

"Uh-huh," Belle hummed, utterly unconvinced. “Didn’t you watch a whole Twitch stream last week just to watch someone play virtual golf?”

"Shut up!" Emilie insisted, tossing a silk scarf at her. "Besides, Lando has a job to do. And so do I — making sure you don’t accidentally show up to the paddock in, like, a ballgown."

Belle laughed, holding the scarf up against herself. "Don’t worry, I am not planning ont that."

They spent the next hour going through outfits — laughing, discarding things, planning. Belle felt lighter with every minute, like the fear and tension of the last few weeks were finally cracking open to make room for something else.

When Emilie made her try on a soft linen dress and spun her around to admire her in the mirror, Belle caught her own reflection — flushed cheeks, bright eyes, the smallest, secretive curve of a smile.

She almost didn’t recognize herself.

Almost.

But this version — the one standing taller, shining quietly, no longer shrinking — this was who Max loved.

This was who she was meant to be.

And she wasn’t going to hide anymore. ***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Gianpiero Lambiase

Max: Heads up. I’m bringing Belle to Spain.

GP: Hold on. Like… bringing her bringing her? Publicly?

Max: Yeah. No more hiding.

GP: Max. Have you thought this through? The timing, the media, the team — And, oh, I don’t know, maybe CHARLES??

Max: He’s not a factor. Not after how he treated her.

GP: I get it. Believe me, I get it. But you realize this is going to set off a bomb, right?

Max: Maybe it should.

GP: Max—

Max: He didn’t just forget her birthday. He forgot her. For years. He doesn’t get to dictate when or how Belle gets to be seen.

GP: (three dots appearing) (long pause)

GP: Okay. If you’re sure, I’m with you.

Max: I’m sure. We’re done pretending she’s not my wife.

GP: Alright. Just warning you — Christian and Gemma are going to have a heart attack. I’ll bring popcorn.

Max: Bring tequila too. For Christian. He’s going to need it.

GP: Noted.

GP: And Max? Good for you. She deserves to be seen.

Max: She deserves everything.

***

Max sank into the chair across from Christian’s desk, casually tossing a Red Bull can from hand to hand like he had all the time in the world.

Christian Horner leaned back in his chair with a sigh that sounded both long-suffering and suspicious. Across the table, Gemma — Red Bull’s long-suffering PR manager — tapped her pen against her notepad nervously, already bracing herself for whatever Max was about to drop into their laps.

Next to her, GP looked disturbingly calm, which only made Christian more suspicious.

Max finally set the can down, grinning faintly.

"So," he said, with all the innocent charm of a man about to light a building on fire, "I’m bringing Belle to the Spanish Grand Prix."

Silence.

Christian blinked.

 Gemma stopped tapping her pen mid-air.

 GP just nodded slightly, like he'd known this was coming for weeks. (Because he had.)

Christian leaned forward slowly, hands folded neatly. "When you say ‘bring Belle’..."

Max shrugged, far too nonchalant. "I mean bring her. Publicly."

Christian stared at him for a beat. "As in... she's coming as your wife."

Max grinned wider. "Exactly."

Another heavy pause.

Gemma looked like she was calculating seventeen separate crisis plans in her head.

Christian opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again.

"And," Christian said carefully, "does Charles know yet?"

Max leaned back in his chair, utterly relaxed. "Nope."

Gemma made a small, audible squeak.

Christian pinched the bridge of his nose. "Max."

Max shrugged again, unbothered. "He had plenty of time."

"And he still doesn’t know?"

"Nope."

Christian exchanged a long look with GP, who simply lifted his coffee cup like you’re the one who wanted to manage Max, not me.

Gemma finally found her voice. "Are you planning to tell him before Belle walks into the paddock in Barcelona wearing a Red Bull pass and a ring?"

Max tilted his head, pretending to think about it. "I mean... should I?"

"YES," Christian and Gemma said at the same time.

GP just sipped his coffee and smiled.

"Max," Christian said slowly, like he was explaining something to a very excitable cat, "you realize this is going to break the internet."

Max grinned, utterly unrepentant. "Good."

"Belle is Charles Leclerc’s sister," Gemma stressed. "And you — you’re you."

"Which is why I married her," Max said simply, like it was obvious.

Christian scrubbed a hand over his face. "Do you have any idea the PR nightmare this could be?"

Max's grin widened. "Or," he said, "it could be great for the team. Verstappen and Leclerc bloodlines finally uniting. Think of the headlines."

Gemma looked like she was about to pass out.

Christian sat back, muttering something about needing a drink.

Max just leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, voice suddenly quieter but infinitely more serious.

"I’m not hiding her anymore," he said. "We agreed. She deserves better than that."

And despite everything — the chaos, the incoming storm — Christian found himself softening.

Because for all his recklessness, Max Verstappen had always been terrifyingly clear when it came to the people he loved.

"Alright," Christian sighed, raising his hands in surrender. "Bring your wife."

Max’s smile turned into something real, something proud.

"And Max?" Christian added as he stood.

Max glanced up.

"Maybe... maybe text Charles first."

Max smirked. "I’ll think about it."

GP, sipping his coffee: "He won't."

Gemma, resigned: "We’re going to need extra security, aren’t we?"

Christian: "And maybe a therapist on standby."

Max just whistled, hands tucked behind his head, already picturing Belle in his garage, wearing his team colors, no longer a secret.

Finally, finally, where she belonged.

***

Team Redline Stream Transcript

Luke Crane: Alright, boys, ready to get smoked by Max again?

Chris Lulham: Speak for yourself. I’ve been training.

Gianni Vecchio: Training what, exactly? Snack-eating speed?

Max: (laughs quietly) Just try to keep up.

Luke: (mock serious) Max, now that you’re a married man, you should slow down for us mortals.

Chris: Yeah, about that— Max. Max. Are we ever gonna talk about that?

Gianni: Yeah, mate. "Oh, I’m married," casually dropped in the middle of a press conference like you were ordering lunch.

Chris: You just YOLO’d your marriage announcement. No names, no details, just vibes.

Max: (grinning) Was there supposed to be a PowerPoint?

Luke: YES.

Gianni: Honestly, yes. Slides. Charts. Maybe a dramatic reveal with smoke machines.

Chris: At least a "guess who?" game. We deserve that much.

Max: (smirking) You’ll meet her soon.

Gianni: (suspicious) When is "soon"? Before 2040?

Max: (grinning wider) Spain.

Chris: Spain what?

Max: I’m bringing her to the Spanish Grand Prix.

Chat: 

SHE’S COMING TO THE SPANISH GP

OMG THE MYSTERY WILL BE SOLVED

WE’LL FINALLY MEET MRS VERSTAPPEN

Chris: (wheezing) WAIT WHAT.

Gianni: You’re bringing your wife to a race weekend?

Max: (shrugs casually) Yeah. Thought it was time.

Luke: (mock offended) Wow. Betrayal. We get a cryptic marriage announcement and now a surprise reveal.

Gianni: No hints? No clues? No scavenger hunt?

Max: (laughing) Nope. You’ll see.

[Chaos continues with chaotic racing and Max being suspiciously smug.]

[About 45 minutes into the stream…] [Soft knock. Belle’s hand appears in frame — a mug of tea sliding onto Max’s desk.]

Gianni: (high alert) WAIT. WHO WAS THAT.

Luke: Was that THE WIFE???

Chris: ENHANCE. ENHANCE.  CLIP IT. CLIP IT IMMEDIATELY.

Max: (without missing a beat) Thanks, Schatje.

Chat: 

GUYS THAT WAS HER HAND I’M NOT OKAY

MAX SOFT LAUNCHING HIS WIFE VIA TEACUP DELIVERY I’M SCREAMING

"Thanks, Schatje" I’M SOBBINGGGG

HE SOUNDS SO IN LOVE WTF

She’s the real MVP bringing him tea mid-race 😭😭

Gianni: Max, you just BROKE the internet with a hand cameo.

Chris: Soft launch supremacy.

Luke: I need to know everything immediately.

Gianni: If Spain isn’t a full reveal, I’m rioting.

Max: (smirking into his mic) Be patient.

****

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/F1MemeHub:  MAX JUST SOFT LAUNCHED HIS WIFE WITH A TEACUP DELIVERY LIVE ON STREAM 😭😭😭 "Thanks, schatje." I'm NOT OKAY.

@/GridGossip:  Max: "You'll meet her soon." Also Max: casually introduces her hand and then acts like it’s a normal Tuesday. THE SPANISH GP IS ABOUT TO BE HISTORIC.

@/TifosiTears:  Not to be dramatic but if we don't get a full face reveal of Mrs. Verstappen at the Spanish GP I'm organizing a formal protest outside Red Bull HQ.

@/SoftLaunchDetective: The fact that he called her "Schatje" in front of thousands of people and didn’t blink??? That’s LOVE your honor. That’s SOULMATES.

@/F1WivesClub: Me: I don't care about the drivers' personal lives

Max Verstappen, midstream: "Thanks, schatje."

Also me: building a shrine to Mrs. Verstappen immediately

@/mysterymrsverstappen: Hello yes this account is now entirely dedicated to figuring out who Mrs. Verstappen is. Applications for sleuths open now.

↳ @/GridGossip:  Are we 100% sure it’s not Isabelle Leclerc?

***

The sun was already low by the time Belle found Max in the living room, stretched out on the couch with Jimmy curled on his chest and his phone in one hand. He looked up immediately when she approached, setting everything aside without hesitation.

She hesitated at the edge of the rug, twisting the hem of her sweater between her fingers.

Max sat up straighter, instantly alert. "Belle? What's wrong?"

She shook her head quickly. "Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. I just—" She swallowed, breathing through it. "I was wondering if you could... if you would come somewhere with me tomorrow."

Max’s eyes softened. "Anywhere."

Belle smiled faintly but didn’t move closer yet. The words were heavier than she expected, even though she’d thought about them all day.

"It’s... the anniversary of my father’s death," she said quietly.

Max didn’t interrupt. Just waited, the way he always did when she needed time to find her words.

"I go every year," Belle continued. "I bring flowers. I sit with him for a while. Just… talk. Tell him what he’s missed." Her voice cracked, and she wrapped her arms around herself. "It’s silly, maybe. But I—I don’t know how not to go."

"It’s not silly," Max said immediately, voice low and certain. "Not even a little."

Belle blinked hard, willing the prickling in her eyes to settle.

"I usually go alone," she whispered. "I always have. But... I don’t want to go alone this year." She hesitated, lifting her gaze to meet his. "Will you come with me?"

Max caught her hands in his, steady and warm.

"Of course I’ll come," he said, like it wasn’t even a question. Like he would’ve followed her to the ends of the earth if she asked.

Belle leaned into him, breathing him in — cedarwood, laundry detergent, and something that was just Max — and let herself be held.

"I want him to meet you," she murmured against his chest, voice small. "Even if it’s just... like this."

Max’s arms tightened around her.

"I’d be honored," he said simply.

Belle closed her eyes.

Maybe this year wouldn’t be quite so lonely after all.

***

The air was crisp and still when they arrived at the small cemetery just outside the city, the afternoon light casting long shadows between the rows of headstones.

Max kept close as Belle walked ahead of him, a simple bouquet of white roses, lavender, eucalyptus cradled in her hands. She moved with a kind of quiet certainty, like her body knew the way by heart even if her mind was somewhere else entirely.

They wove through the headstones until she stopped in front of one — clean, simple, with her father's name carved carefully into the stone.  A small lantern stood by the base, unlit but lovingly maintained, and Max could tell just by looking at it that Belle came here often. That she cared.

He stayed back a respectful step while Belle knelt, arranging the flowers neatly at the foot of the grave.

For a long moment, she just stayed there — head bowed, fingers brushing the stone as if in greeting.

Then, without looking back at Max, she started talking. Softly. Gently. Like she was sitting across from her father at the kitchen table, not kneeling at his grave.

"Hi, Papa," she said, her voice trembling just slightly. "It’s me."

Max felt something tighten in his chest — the rawness of her affection, her grief, her love — so undimmed by time.

"I’m sorry I haven’t been by as much lately," Belle continued. "It’s been a... complicated year."

She smiled, small and sad.

"You wouldn’t believe it," she said, voice light but strained. "Charles won Monaco. And nobody noticed it was my birthday."

Max saw her knuckles whiten slightly where they rested on her knee.

"Not even them," she whispered. "Not even Maman."

She brushed a hand quickly across her cheek, but kept her shoulders straight.

"I waved at Charles in the garage," Belle said. "I smiled. And he smiled back, and he didn’t even know."

Max stepped closer, crouching behind her without touching — just there. Just near enough that if she reached back, he’d be right there.

"I didn’t get angry," Belle said, voice softer now. "I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just... let them forget. And then I walked away."

Her hand touched the stone again, almost like she was offering her father a secret.

"And I’m not alone," she said, a thread of something stronger — pride, maybe — weaving through her voice. "I got married, Papa."

She glanced over her shoulder then, finding Max’s eyes. He smiled — slow, steady — and nodded once, like he was promising he was still right here.

"I married Max," Belle said, turning back to the grave. "You would’ve liked him. He’s... he’s good.  He’s steady in all the ways I needed and never thought I deserved."

Max swallowed thickly, feeling the burn at the back of his throat.

"And," Belle added, after a moment, her hand slipping instinctively to her stomach, "we’re having a baby."

The words hung there, delicate and astonishing.

Belle exhaled shakily.

"I wish you were here," she whispered. "I wish you could meet him. Or her. I don’t know yet."

Max stood, quiet but unmovable behind her, heart thundering with all the things he could feel but couldn't say.

Belle leaned forward, pressing her forehead gently against the cool stone.

"I’m trying, Papa," she said, voice almost breaking. "I’m trying to build something better. A family where nobody feels invisible."

Max’s hands fisted at his sides — not in anger, but in fierce, helpless loyalty to her. He would help her build that. Whatever it took.

Belle stayed like that for another minute — breathing, grounded, tethered to something older and deeper than grief.

Then she sat back, wiping her cheeks with the sleeve of her jacket, and turned toward Max.

He crouched down fully this time, opening his arms without a word. She came into them instantly.

For a while, they just stayed like that, kneeling together in the cold grass — Belle tucked into Max’s chest, Max shielding her like he could somehow carry the weight she never should have borne alone.

He pressed a kiss into her hair.

"I’m proud of you," he murmured against her scalp. "He would be too."

Belle nodded against him, and Max felt the faintest smile against his hoodie.

And right there, in the middle of a cemetery, surrounded by stillness and memory, Max knew it more clearly than anything:

Whatever happened — whatever came next — Belle was never going to walk alone again.

Not as long as he was breathing.

***

Lorenzo sat at his kitchen counter, staring at his phone like it might suddenly produce the answers he didn’t have.

The photo was still open on the screen:

 Belle, in a field of soft gold light, her arm tucked gently around the neck of a stunning white mare.

 Fleur.

He knew that name because Belle had written it herself — answering a question of a random user. 

She looked happy.

Peaceful, even.

And God, didn’t that just twist the knife deeper.

Because they hadn't given her that peace.

 They hadn’t even noticed she was still missing it.

It wasn’t the horse that gutted him, not really.

 It was what the horse represented.

The life they’d taken from her when she was thirteen.

 The dreams she never said out loud again, because what was the point?

They sold Blanche.

 They let her sacrifice everything quietly so Charles could race — so

Arthur could race — and none of them had asked her what she wanted in return.

 They just… assumed she’d move on.

But Belle hadn’t moved on.

She’d waited.

She’d mourned.

 And when none of them circled back for her, she found her own way.

Without them.

Without him.

Across the room, his coffee sat untouched. Cold now. Like the pit sitting in his stomach.

Arthur was taking it badly.

 Charles even worse.

Charles had been chewed out by Emilie a few days earlier — that much Lorenzo knew. Charles had tried to brush it off when he called later, voice tight and wounded, but the shame clung to him like smoke. Emilie hadn’t been polite about it, either. She had torn into him, sharp and clear and deserved, and Charles hadn’t even fought back.

Arthur was spiraling in his own way.

 Blaming himself.

 Telling anyone who would listen that he should have noticed Belle wasn’t okay. That he should have seen the signs when she started pulling away. That it was his fault she felt so forgotten.

But it wasn’t Arthur’s fault.

Not entirely.

And it wasn’t Charles’ alone, either.

It was Lorenzo’s.

He was the eldest. The one who was supposed to look out for them all when their father died. The one who was supposed to notice when Isabelle stopped smiling at family dinners. When she started standing a little farther away from them at the tracks. When she stopped volunteering information about her life, one tiny piece at a time, until there was nothing left she offered freely.

He had failed her. Worse than any of them.

Because he should have known. He should have seen her.

He should have protected her — from the weight of being overlooked, from the steady erosion of love measured only in podiums and points and wins.

And he hadn't.

He was ashamed.

Because he should have seen it coming.

 He was the eldest.

He was supposed to watch over them all.

And instead, he had let Belle fade out of their lives like smoke slipping through a crack in the window.

Maman wasn’t handling it well either.

Their mother’s texts to Belle had gone unanswered for days. Her voice on the phone trembled more now, and she had started reaching for familiar things — old traditions, old recipes — like baking a lemon tart would somehow undo the years of not seeing her only daughter clearly.

But no amount of lemon tarts couldn't fix this.

Nothing could fix the years they spent forgetting.

And now?

 Now Belle had a horse again — something he knew, deep down, she had dreamed about every day since the first had been taken from her.

But she hadn’t shared it with them.

She hadn’t shared any of it.

Because they hadn't earned it.

Lorenzo closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the counter.

How had they been so blind?

How had they let it get this bad?

He didn’t know where Belle lived now. He didn’t know who had given her that horse. He didn’t even know if she would ever want to come home again.

But he knew this: She had found happiness without them. And maybe — maybe — she was finally living the life they never thought to fight for on her behalf.

He just didn’t know if he would ever get the chance to tell her he was sorry.

And worse— He wasn’t sure he deserved it.

***

The private jet hummed quietly beneath them, the kind of low, steady sound that usually lulled Belle into a light doze. But not today.

Today, her nerves were a live wire.

She sat curled against Max’s side, his hand resting warm and steady on her thigh, their fingers loosely tangled together. Across from them, Jos Verstappen flipped idly through a magazine, a half-finished cup of coffee forgotten on the table beside him.

It wasn’t that Belle was afraid of Jos.

 He’d been nothing but kind to her — gruff sometimes, but protective in a way that made her feel safe, not small.

Still.

 Telling your father-in-law that you were pregnant — especially when your marriage was still a secret to most of the world — felt a litle daunting.

Max must have felt her tension, because he squeezed her hand, grounding her.

“You ready?” he murmured, low enough that only she could hear.

Belle nodded — small but firm.

Max leaned forward slightly, clearing his throat. “Dad?”

Jos looked up, eyebrows raised, expectant.

“There’s something we wanted to tell you,” Max said.

Jos set the magazine down slowly. His expression was unreadable — patient, but sharp-eyed in that way that always made Belle feel like he saw more than he said.

Max’s thumb brushed soothing circles against the back of her hand.

Belle took a breath. "I’m pregnant," she said, voice soft but steady.

The words seemed to hang in the air for a second, floating between them, too big and too small all at once.

Jos blinked.

 Once.

 Twice.

Then he leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms slowly — and Belle couldn’t tell if he was about to yell, laugh, or both.

"You’re serious?" he said gruffly, but there was no bite to it — just something thick in his voice, something a little stunned.

Max smiled — that rare, raw smile that he reserved for the few people he trusted most.

 "We just found out a few weeks ago."

Belle tightened her fingers around Max’s.

Jos stared at them for a long moment — at their clasped hands, at Belle’s steady eyes, at Max’s quiet pride.

And then — to Belle’s utter shock — Jos smiled.  A real, honest smile, tugging awkwardly at the corners of his mouth like he wasn’t used to the feeling.

"Good," Jos said roughly. "You’ll be a great mother," he added, looking at Belle — and then, after a beat, to Max, "And you’ll be a better father than I ever was."

Belle’s throat tightened painfully.

Max squeezed her hand again, and she felt the slight tremor in it — the way those words hit him deep, carving something open and healing at the same time.

"Thanks, Pa," Max said quietly.

Jos nodded once, gruffly — like he couldn’t say more even if he wanted to — then grunted, reaching for his coffee.

"Hope you’re ready for no sleep and a lot of diaper changes," he muttered, like the most Jos blessing imaginable. "You’ll need all the patience you can get. Verstappen babies aren’t exactly easy."  A faint grin cracked across his face. "Take it from experience."

Max groaned dramatically. "Don’t scare her."

Belle laughed, watery and surprised — the nerves in her chest unraveling into something lighter. Something real.

Outside the plane windows, the sky stretched out wide and endless and new.

And for the first time in weeks, Belle let herself feel it too — The future.

 Opening up, bright and brave, and theirs.

***

Text Messages: Christian Horner & Fred Vasseur

Christian: Fred. Just a heads-up.

Fred: What now.

Christian: Belle will be in the paddock tomorrow. With Max.

Fred: What do you mean, with Max?

Christian: Exactly what it sounds like. Publicly. No more hiding.

Fred: Merde. Does Charles know??

Christian: Not as far as I’m aware.

Fred: You’re telling me Max Verstappen is about to make his marriage to Charles Leclerc’s sister public during a race weekend.

Christian: You might want to prepare your garage for a Leclerc meltdown.

Fred: I’m not paid enough for this.

Christian: Neither am I. (But at least it’s not my golden boy spiraling in public this time.)

Fred: I need a drink. And possibly a tranquilizer dart. For Charles.

Christian: Good luck. You’ll need it.

***

The hotel room was quiet, except for the muted hum of traffic outside and the low flicker of a Formula 2 race replay on the television. Max was already half-asleep, sprawled across the bed with one arm thrown lazily over the pillow where Belle had been sitting moments ago.

Belle sat cross-legged on the small lounge chair by the window, her phone in her lap, scrolling aimlessly — or, at least, pretending to. Her heart wasn’t in it. It hadn’t been all evening.

Her thumb hovered over the Instagram app again.

Tomorrow was going to change everything.

Tomorrow, she would walk into the paddock — into his world — not hidden behind whispered conversations or secret glances. She would walk in as his wife. Openly. Proudly.

For the first time, there would be no pretending.

And it felt… terrifying.

But also good. Right.

A smile tugged at her lips as she glanced back at Max, who mumbled something incoherent in his sleep and shifted closer to her empty side of the bed. Her heart clenched in that stupid, overwhelming way it always did around him.

She tapped into Instagram and stared at her profile.

@isabelleleclerc

It looked strange now. Wrong. Like a version of herself she was finally ready to grow beyond.

Belle took a slow breath and, with deliberate fingers, typed.

@belleverstappen

She paused for a heartbeat — not out of fear, but out of reverence. Out of the gravity of it.

This wasn’t just about a name. It was about a life she chose. A future she was building, one steady, stubborn step at a time.

She hit save before she could second-guess herself.

The screen flickered for a moment. Then it was done.

Belle Verstappen.

She set the phone down and padded quietly across the room, slipping into bed beside Max. His arm immediately found her, pulling her close in his sleep, like it was instinct.

She tucked her head against his shoulder, her hand resting lightly over the secret they still carried between them — small, invisible, but growing stronger every day.

No more hiding. No more shrinking.

Tomorrow, the world would know.

And for the first time in her life, Belle wasn’t afraid of being seen.

She was ready to be claimed — not by the spotlight, but by the people who mattered.

By the man beside her.

By herself.

***

[p0orbaby]

pregnant!r x either alexia or leah - reader has been really horny but alexia/leah is really tired and can’t help them out so reader takes care of it right next to them but alexia/leah can’t take it anymore and they end up having sex (preferably with a strap, but cool if not)

broken english alexia is hotter than her speaking catalan or spanish. i will debate this

-

Alexia is wearing her ‘No Sex’ t-shirt again.

Not literally—it’s a crusty old grey t-shirt with a hair dye stain—but spiritually, it’s the same.

She’s draped half-on, half-off the bed, one leg kicked out at a graceless angle, head tipped back, hair sticking to her forehead like she’s been dragged backwards through a wind tunnel. She smells like Aesop deodorant and the free isontonic from the training ground.

You sit cross-legged beside her, vibrating.

Not metaphorically.

Literally vibrating, like a microwave about to explode.

Hormones are ruining your life.

Your body is not your own—it’s a rental car no one ever serviced, bumping along on three wheels and a prayer.

Six months pregnant and you’ve never been more exhausted, more tearful, or—apparently—more horny in your entire existence.

“I am dead,” Alexia says, eyes closed.

“I noticed,” you say dryly, flicking the edge of her shorts.

You could climb her like a tree.

You could ruin her.

You could sob into her mouth and call it foreplay.

You shift closer.

Subtle.

Tactical.

An elbow bump. A brush of your knee.

A whimper you swear isn’t on purpose.

“Mm,” she says, noncommittally.

You trail a finger down her arm.

She doesn’t even flinch.

Might as well be trying to seduce a chair.

“I’m so horny I could kill someone,” you announce, flat as a dinner plate.

She cracks one eye open.

Chuckles.

Pats your thigh in a gesture so dismissive it feels like a friend of a friend trying to comfort you at a cousins funeral.

“I love you,” she says, “but no.”

“Seriously?”

“I am a corpse,” she says solemnly. “Sexy corpse. But still.”

You sit there.

Seethe.

Boil in your own tragic juices.

You imagine throwing yourself dramatically off the bed.

You imagine suing your hormones for emotional damages.

You imagine clinging to Alexia like a koala and simply refusing to let go.

She yawns, deep and long, and misses you glaring at her like you’re planning a murder.

After four minutes (you count), you snap.

Silently.

Decisively.

You shuffle down the bed, furious, grab the waistband of your knickers in a way that looks way less graceful than it feels, and shove your hand down.

Alexia doesn’t notice at first.

She’s too busy being dead.

You work yourself up, quick and pitiful, as if you’re punishing yourself for being a sad, sex-starved whale.

The sheets rustle.

The room smells like lavender detergent, betrayal, and injustice.

After a minute, there’s a pause.

A disturbance in the force.

Alexia opens her eyes again.

Turns her head.

Watches.

At first, there’s confusion.

Then disbelief.

Then outrage.

“¿Qué haces?” she says, sitting up a fraction.

Her hair’s sticking up like a sad palm tree.

“What’s it look like?” you snap.

“You…without me?”

“You said no!”

“I only mean no to dishes,” she says, scandalised. “Not to this.”

You glare at her.

Keep going.

Because now it’s about principle.

Alexia watches you, chest heaving, mouth open like she’s witnessing a robbery.

“You are…?” she gestures vaguely, unable to find the English.

“Sorting myself out,” you say sweetly.

She groans.

Throws an arm across her face like a maiden fainting.

“You are so bad,” she mutters.

“You’re the one abandoning your pregnant wife in her time of need,” you hiss.

You’re close, now.

Closer than you want to admit.

Your hips are shifting, your stomach tightening, your breath going embarrassingly shaky.

Alexia’s hand shoots out.

Grabs your wrist.

Tight.

“No,” she says.

“You can’t stop me now,” you growl.

“Not stop,” she says. “I fix.”

And then she’s on you.

All lazy muscle and hot skin, pinning you down, taking charge like you’re a job she’s been reluctantly guilted into—but is secretly going to ace anyway.

Her mouth finds your neck, warm and biting, and you cry out, shuddering into her hands.

“You are annoying,” she mutters against your throat.

“That’s on you,” you gasp.

She laughs—dark and low and breathless.

“Next time, you wait for me,” she says, fingers sliding down your belly with absolute purpose. “I make you forget you even have hands.”

You believe her.

Because when Alexia Putellas finally makes up her mind—even if she does it late—there isn’t a force in Barcelona, or hell, even the entire galaxy, that can outpace her.

[kithtaehyung]

seven days (monday) | jjk

title: monday series: seven days: masterlist | prologue pairing: fuckboy!jungkook x reader(f) genre/rating: m (18+) ; angst , fluff ; roommates to lovers au summary: after a long ass day at work, all you wanna do is sleep. but jungkook has made dinner reservations, and this whole bet is off to a rocky start. warnings: a whole lot of sass (jk and reader), hand holding??, yes that is a warning, jk wears a tank, tension, embarrassment, snide comments, kookie is too fine and it HURTS!!, leather, dance king jk, reader bby is stressed as hell TT, roommates to idiots, anxiety, overthinking, kissing (????), general cuteness bc this jk is a loser and i love him :(((, reader is a queen, i wanna fight this jungkook but what's new lol notes: 7days is back on the menu, chatttttt!!! if you've been waiting since forever i wanna see hands up in the audience hahaha notes 2: just a little extra warning here but he’s unbelievably confident in this one yet a big softie and it HURTS😩 drop date: april 28th, 2025, 9:13pm est word count: 11k🗯️🗯️ taglist: sign up here (i check every entry so read the rules!)

-

-

Monday is gnawing on your final straw.

Meetings, reports, decisions—everything has warning signs attached and you’re quite close to heeding them and finding the nearest exit. Literally, figuratively, and expeditiously. 

Fuck. 

That means you might have to job hunt soon. For two jobs to compensate for how much you’re making now.

Why, oh why, did you choose the condo you did? And why did you pick a condo in the first place? Apartments would have been just fine for your needs and you could’ve been saving more for a fallout like this.  

Well. You know the answer to that first question. 

And it’s an answer you don’t regret.

Thinking back to that day, you still remember the way the lobby looked. How plants lined glass walls, how people occupied various mid-century chairs like they were paid background extras in a film. 

More specifically, you remember seeing a vaguely familiar boy barrel through the revolving doors, dark locks whizzing about and paper clutched tight in his tatted hand. 

Ignoring you entirely, he cut the line just as you were about to inquire about a tour—everyone including the concierge pinning him with disgust. 

“Back of the line, Mr. Jeon.” 

“She can wait, just—”

Your memory spun with that even more familiar last name, but you still couldn’t quite place where you knew this asshole from. 

“—and I have it here. Also, why are you calling me th—” 

“The rent is already way past due. We’re listing your unit.”

“Anj.” 

“Mr. Jeon.” 

“You know I have the money.” He sounded so rushed. So desperate. “I just forgot cus my roommate left—” 

“You forgot for three weeks—” 

“I was helping them move that whole time!” 

Sighing, you checked your phone and determined you were gonna give it two more minutes until you trekked to another building. 

But you had heard a mountain of good things about the place, and that particular day was the only free one you had to check it out.

So you waited. Because anything would beat staying in a cramped apartment with someone that clipped their toenails on a weeping living room table.

“Look. I have two months’ rent right here, plus extra.” Hair still frazzled, so-called Mr. Jeon hastily slapped his paper down before sliding it forward. “And I can even live by myself if I need to.” 

“Doesn’t matter if you have the money or not,” Anj explained, voice as snipped as her fresh bangs. “The unit’s already listed in the system.” 

“Since when?” 

A merciless click echoed from her keyboard, and you knew exactly what was coming before she hammered home, 

“Now.” 

“Anjali…” 

You tried so hard to hide your face.

If anything, you scored a jackpot in people watching that day. Observing the interaction, you wondered what the hell this man did to the concierge to get this pathetic but hilariously hostile treatment. 

“Sorry, Mr. Jeon. You can apply for it again,” she offered with a flit of her hand, “If none of these nice, patient people in line take it.” 

Just like that, it was the final, abrupt end of the battle. The defeated dropped his head back in loss before reclaiming his paper with a sad flourish. 

And to this day, you don’t know what compelled you to speak up when you did. But you will always remember the reactions to your curiosity, 

“What does it look like?” 

Both him and Anjali whipped their heads so fast you froze. While the concierge appeared shocked, there was something in that boy’s eyes that strangely matched how you felt. 

Did you look familiar to him, too? 

A ping from your computer kicks you back to the present, and your rapid blinks make you realize you’ve been spacing out at your desk for minutes now. 

But you notice that the alert’s for the end of your shift, and you quickly wrap everything up before heading home. 

Straight back to the very condo you secured to save Mr. Jeon Jungkook’s ass. 

Sleep. 

That’s all you need right now. 

Beautiful, wonderful, ever-evasive sleep. 

But the only thing you get when you unlock the door is a flurry of activity, wave of music, and skittering of paws.

“There you are!” Your roommate yells as your legs are knocked by his furry companion. “Hurry and get ready!” 

When you shout back a droning rejection, Jungkook splashes the hallway with the most disrespectful tank and jeans you’ve ever seen him wear. 

Fuck, he’s flipping on a leather jacket over his shoulders, too? Your purse immediately slips from yours. 

Nope. He needs to stay where he is. There’s no reason for him to keep walking closer but he’s doing it anyway goddamn it you don’t have the brain capacity for this! 

“Didn’t you read my texts?” 

“No,” you readily admit, moving to reach your room before Jungkook can block your path. 

Too late. 

Damn, his cologne is fantastic.

It almost distracts you from the way he casually leans on your door. And the way his voice drops a whole octave when he reveals, 

“I’m taking you to dinner, remember?”

The butterfly on your heart is shooed away. “Where?”

“Not telling.”

“Seriousl—”

“But we gotta leave soon.” 

Your bed is so close. And yet so, so far. 

But damn, whatever Jungkook’s wearing proves way too enticing. You almost fold on its grip alone. Is this a new scent? Is he trying something different? 

Nope, focus. You want—need—sleep. 

With a sliver of hope, you reach for an out, “Does it have to be tonight? I just wanna be in bed.” 

“I’m not opposed to that.”

“Jeon.”

Wait. Is that the first time Jungkook’s said something like that to you? Sure, you’ve both been suggestive with each other before, but that? That felt… 

“I’m kidding!” He laughs, though his eyes are revealing truer angles. To your relief, though, the saucy reaction is short lived, giving way to a regular yet pitied tone,

“The next open slot is in two months.” 

What the hell? Where the fuck are you going? “You mean I got five minutes to prep for some fancy place I can’t know the name of?” 

“Uhh, no.” When Jungkook backtracks down the hall, his steps are as fast as his corrections, “You have two. And you don’t have to dress nice!” 

“But you—!”

The speed demon is back in his room before you can hound him. 

Muttering to no one, you agree with his last statement, “Good, cus I will not.” 

Well. You know two things. 

One: there’s no way this man is lasting ten days at this rate, much less seven.

And two: there’s absolutely no way you’re dressing up for whatever this is. Too much chaos went down at work for you to care about a fake dinner date with Jungkook. 

You’re going for the food the food the food. Nutrients, sustenance, anything that satisfies the tiger that you are not paying a pet deposit for. 

This better be worth the exhaustion. 

Pushing your door open, you immediately take big strides towards your awaiting closet, already knowing exactly what you’re gonna wear.  

Reservations two months out? As if.

How nice can this place really be?

Fucking opulent, apparently. 

This is where Jungkook meant when he said there was a place he wanted to try? The most expensive, lavish, influencer-riddled establishment in the city? 

When you recognize the damn near estate you’re pulling up to, you regret not caring about appearances and start sweating in your joggers. 

This whole bet is a prank! 

Because your roommate most definitely saw you for a whole minute before you both rushed out of the condo. How could you not remember? He eyed you as soon as you re-entered the hall to join him, and the back of your neck still has leftover chills from his steady staring. 

That whole time he saw what you were wearing and he didn’t say shit? “Kook, what the fuck?” 

“What?” 

“This is the place you wanted to try?” 

As Jungkook rolls up to the valet line, you get an annoying display of long fingers on his steering wheel. 

So you look out the dark window instead. 

“Nah, I just wanted to take you here. There’s a dessert place I wanna try after,” he explains with a smirk, little pieces of your sanity littering his passenger seat. “Don’t worry, I’m paying.” 

Though you’re thankful he’s footing the bill—because you did not budget for shelling out a whole check tonight—you still sputter while taking in all the beautiful, pressed outfits walking inside. “It’s—I would’ve—Fuck, why didn’t you tell me I’m underdressed?” 

They may not even let you in with what you’re wearing.

“Relax, roomie,” Jungkook pips, which stresses you the hell out. “I’m not dressed up either but they know me. We’re good.” 

Lies. He is a liar and the heat behind your eyes will set his pants ablaze. “They know you.” 

“Uh huh.”

When it’s your car’s turn, crisp uniforms rush around as you brace for utter shame. Not even the new car smell that still lingers in Jungkook’s car can keep you calm. 

Thank everything holy that you fixed yourself above neck. That one split second decision saves you a sliver of embarrassment. 

But you’re still in fucking sweatpants and sneakers. And a humongous hoodie. 

God. 

There’s no way this isn’t a set up.

No matter what, you’re holding yourself in high regard tonight. And that starts with greeting the valet with a bright smile as he opens your door, “Thank you so much.” 

“You’re very welcome, Ms. Jeon.” 

Miss what. 

Your manufactured grin has some defects as you nod, gripping your bag as you exit the vehicle. When you turn, you see your current annoyance chatting it up with the other valet, wind pushing your sweater into your increasingly sweaty back.  

Huh. They do look chummy.

Was Jungkook actually being serious?

“Have a good night, Mr. Jeon!” 

“Thanks, Dio! Take good care of her, yeah?” 

“As always.” 

Between witnessing the valet talking to your roommate as if they were friends, and having said roommate’s last name thrust upon your person, you can only stare. 

This is so weird. 

But you click back into focus as Jungkook moves to join you, channeling all the energy you usually harness for professional outings and executive dinners. 

Because even though you don a calm expression, you waste no time clutching his offered arm extra tight. Contempt buries itself in your low comment, “You’ve got some nerve, Kook.” 

“Thanks!” 

“Not a compliment.” 

“Ouch.” 

As you stroll through the grand entrance, you flare with conflicting feelings when he softly pulls you close. Subtle hints of luxury wisp into your nose, which compete with the warm feeling of his body feeling so solid against yours. 

Heavens above.  

Unbothered, he whispers back, “You’ll thank me after we eat.” 

“I look like shit.” 

“You’re perfect tonight, Ms. Jeon.” 

Nope. No, no, no, you will not acknowledge the fluttering in your stomach. Absolutely not. 

“Don’t call me that,” you seethe, smiling at the waiter before you’re led to your table. 

And despite the stares you’re drawing, there’s something else that’s distracting you even more. Something that has your brain swiftly forgetting everything you’ve been fussing about. 

Jungkook has lowered your arms so that he could lead. 

By holding your hand. 

His fingers feel so large around yours, his palm a strange but soothing mix of smooth and comfortable heat. Immediately, you feel a little more relaxed, which is strange considering you should be the exact opposite right now.

And as he guides you to sit in a chair that’s been pulled out for you, all you can do is follow in silence. 

Because your fingers had fit so… 

“Looks like they let anyone in here these days.”

Both your ears perk up before your fingers curl hard and fast. 

Did you really just hear that? Did they really have to say something when you’re in a shit mood? Because they’re the next table over and therefore within launching distance so now you have to do something about it— 

“Well, yeah,” Jungkook pounces before you do, snagging your look of confusion and signaling for you to follow along. When he rests leather forearms on tablecloth, he pins the couple with a cheeky smile. “That’d be pretty shitty if they didn’t let you two in, right?” 

Okay. Staring at long, tatted fingers flexing before tightening into a fist, you have to admit: anyone defending your pride is hot as fuck. 

And Jungkook being the one to do it? 

All thoughts you’re thinking have no place at the table.

The man laughs as he gets up. “Sure,” he scoffs. “Enjoy the meal, kids. Filet’s the house favorite.” 

“You sure?”

All eyes snap to your roommate. 

Scratching the bottom of his jaw, Jungkook looks into the air, scrunching his brows ever so slightly in mock-thought. “Pretty sure it’s the tomahawk, but. Maybe it changed since last week—Eddie!”

Your eyes follow his stare behind you to see a staff member waving before heading over. 

When he gets closer, you realize your roommate called over not a waiter… But a manager? On a first name basis?

Well, shit.

Your tongue pokes your cheek in high amusement. This couple next to you is lucky they just paid their bill or else they’d have to endure a whole meal of Jungkook sass. The man’s partner already looks like they’re gonna raise hell when they get in the car.

“Hello, Mr. Jeon! Always good to see you.” 

Inwardly—and maybe also outwardly—you’re holding in your grin as they vacate before your super petty date can even get the clarification out,

“Same! House favorite is the filet now?”

“Ah, no. It’s still the tomahawk, but the ribeye’s also very popular.”

Jungkook calls out to the retreating couple instead of the guy in front of him, cupped hand bracing his cheekiness, “Thanks, Eddie! Good to know!”

When he shifts back in his seat, he watches Eddie check behind him before raising a brow. “Did they give you any trouble?”

“Nah.” Jungkook smiles at you before settling into his chair. “We got it.” 

You can only blink, conflicting feelings warring in your stomach and making it spin. If you wanted to smile, it’s certainly coming out strained because that guy’s rude comment did catch you off guard.

To be fair, you are dressed up the most casual out of all the people here. But maybe your confidence is also weakened from the whole day, causing anything else to get a punch in. On top of the fact that you would never come here on your own unless you struck gold. 

But that does beg another question. 

Why does Jungkook look so at home this easily? His outfit is casual, too—leather jacket floating in a sea of suits and ties, for goodness sake. How does he do it? Has he actually been here that often?

Maybe it’s the way he carries an aura you have to fight to conjure on your best days. 

“Will the lady be having the usual tonight, Mr. Jeon?” 

Ah. Scratch that.

It’s because you’re the hundredth woman he’s taken here. And somehow all of you have been provided the same meal. 

Just like that, the haze around your brain vaporizes, leaving you glaring at wide eyes. 

So much for protecting your pride!

“Ah, umm,” Jungkook stutters, ears alight with embarrassment. “Not this time—I mean, no.” 

Mm. At least you’re relishing the way he’s tripping over himself.

“Apologies,” Eddie rescinds, looking just as alarmed. Good. “Here’s our menu for tonight, and we have a few specials that you can view on the first page.”

“Thank you,” you answer for your roommate, and you feel avenged when he visibly knows he fucked up. Feeling cheeky, you fire off, “What is the usual for us Ms. Jeon’s, if I may ask?” 

Both men freeze and seek each other before you get your stiff answer, “Ah, umm. Yes, our wedge salad, plain with house-made dressing on the side.” 

“Great.” 

As soon as you open your menu with finality, you can sense the tension radiating from your audience, inwardly proud of speaking out. 

Because this whole bet, or prank, or whatever it is? It is not gonna go the way Jungkook thinks it will. 

Even though a wedge salad with some accoutrements does sound pretty good. But who are you to back down now. 

When Eddie moves away—or scurries, rather—you shoot lasers of disappointment over your dimly lit menu. 

Which Jungkook very intentionally ignores.

But he’s not getting away that easily. If he’s gonna rope you into this mess, you’re gonna fight back. 

“Charming start,” you mutter.

“Sorry.”

Looking up in earnest, you notice something odd about your fake date.

He looks… Genuinely upset. Borderline disturbed.

Well. It’s his fault in the end. 

But is that really the expression of someone pranking their roommate? If it is, he could even pursue acting if his social media accounts don’t pop off. 

Focus. Actually read the words on the menu instead of staring. What are you hungry for? Everything here looks and sounds amazing so it’s gonna be hard to choose…

Your eyes slide over your hardy pamphlet one more time. 

And as Jungkook keeps watching the candle flick between you, something else stirs in your chest. 

Acting or not, he’s quiet as fuck. Which is making you more uncomfortable than anything else because he just lit up confronting that couple for you. 

A resigned sigh escapes your lips. “It’s okay.” 

He lifts his gaze.

“But at this rate, you’re definitely losing this whole thing.”

His laugh doesn’t have his whole heart inside. “I just… I’m sorry. That wasn’t… Wasn’t cool.”

“We’re good,” you assure, your softer side clutching the reins for a moment. “I can play wifey if you’re paying, yeah?”

At this, Jungkook seems to lighten up a tad, though you catch a hint of what you’ll later realize is shyness. “Yeah,” he confirms with a slow drawl. “Get whatever you want, Ms. Jeon.”

“How considerate.” 

“Anything for my date.” 

Your brows pinch for a moment, and you quickly remind yourself of what just happened with the manager. “Rip. I’m definitely getting more than a salad.” 

“I know,” Jungkook replies, palming his menu with a smirk on his lips. “Between the two of us we’re gonna blow my whole stack.” 

“We’re getting apps?”

“And sides.” 

“Wine?” 

“Fuck yeah.” 

“Hell yeah, bro.” Your mouth betrays you when it stretches sideways. But you can’t help it because this is where you’re comfortable. You’re not in an expensive restaurant on a date, you’re just having dinner with your roommate. 

Your very attractive, super sauve, completely senseless roommate.

Pulling at your hoodie, you let your amusement loose as your shoulders finally relax, “Good thing I wore this then, huh?” 

When Jungkook knowingly smiles with lips pressed, you feel like the only one in the room. 

And maybe like you got the whole prank thing all wrong. 

Damn. 

Everything you’ve eaten so far has you transcended into a higher plane. 

Truthfully, you can’t even recall a better meal than this, and the way Jungkook looks while he digs into his ribeye is how you feel inside. Satiated, content, and upset at how good the food tastes. 

But it’s not just the meal that warms your belly. The small bits of talking and joking you’ve been having with him have helped you forget the multiple vibrations you feel in your purse. And the wine has certainly helped relax some tightly-wound muscles. 

“Om mah guh,” you groan, this swallow as good as the last. “Can I live here instead?” 

Your roommate laughs with a mouthful of food. “Mmhmm.” 

“Good.” You reach for a sip of your drink, noticing that you’re both making good headway on all the plates. Taking a much needed break, you slump back in your increasingly comfortable chair before gazing at chandeliers. “Cus I think I just ate my month’s rent.” 

“You aren’t even paying!”

“Oh, yeah.” You beam at shining bulbs. “Sucks for you.”

Jungkook’s laugh could be recognized miles away, you muse.

But good god.

Haughty establishment be damned. Even if one of these light fixtures crash onto a table, you’re still gonna be rubbing your grateful stomach and sporting a drool line.

Another quick puff of amusement shoots across the table, but you don’t get a response because a lighter voice floats above you instead, 

“Hey, baby.” 

Huh? 

Brows furrowed, you leer down your nose before straightening, wondering who the heck is oh shit this woman is gorgeous. And tall. 

Which makes Jungkook’s offhanded greeting so comical. “Sup!” 

The girl seems unfazed, manicured nails caressing his shoulder. “You were supposed to call me tonight.” 

Ouch. Did he double-book your date on a booty call with a goddess? 

A mere wallflower, you silently pull out your phone as Jungkook reluctantly looks upward—and you know in your heart it’s because the bite on his fork was meticulously made. “Oh. Did I say that?” 

“You said so last week.” 

Yikes. 

“I say a lot of things.” 

Double yikes. 

Your lips smush into a line of pity when you see a pair of eyes roll. Emotions seem to blend together in your ribcage now, but you really should care less. This isn’t a real date. 

Regardless of how you feel, this lady could grace the cover of a magazine if she hasn’t already. Why hasn’t Jungkook abandoned your table to follow her out the door? 

“Whatever, I guess. Have fun with your…” Sudden judgment makes you blink. “Friend.” 

Triple yikes. 

Good riddance! Forget anything you were thinking in her defense. She doesn’t deserve him with that sour attitude, and you’re completely saying this as his roommate. And friend. Duh.

You’re about to unleash some choice words before Jungkook simply smiles. “She’s my date,” he proclaims while looking right at… you? “And I will.”

Well.

That gesture was a little shocking.

But it could be staged. Is this girl just acting? Just another part of this bet? 

Nah. There’s no way he would go through this elaborate of a prank just to mess with you. Right?

Right?

Jungkook finally takes that huge bite of his concoction as the woman hums and struts off, and you can’t help but blink at him. Once. Twice. Two more for good measure. 

When he notices your bewilderment, a word is blocked by chewed protein, “What?” 

“She was hot.” 

“And?” 

Something akin to pure disbelief shoots out of your nose. “You’re gonna pass that one up?”

As expected, you have to wait a second as he finally swallows. But you’re willing to do that because if he talks with a full mouth one more time you’re gonna—

“Why wouldn’t I? I’m with you.” 

Gonna… You’re gonna…

What were you complaining about again? 

Jungkook has to be kidding. He has to. For goodness sake, you’re a bloated mess in sweats and there are tons of tens walking around. 

You’ve picked up on the stares. More than one person has given your roommate glimpses and double-takes. You’ve just ignored them because you were famished, tired, and knowing you won’t be doing this little stunt forever. 

But after seeing how adamant Jungkook has been, you at least admire his commitment. The efforts shown tonight have been quite endearing. 

Maybe you can start treating this like an actual date, too.

Leaning forward, you rest casual elbows on the table, shielding your chin with clasped palms. “If you’re serious… what do you usually talk about on these things.” 

You ask this to show that you’ll try. An olive branch extending above herbs and coagulating butter meant to assure him. 

So why does Jungkook look thrown off to hell? “On dates? Uhh…” 

Great. You concede to paying more attention just to fall for his styled hair. And of course it looks even better when he rakes through his locks! Does he really have to do that? Damn it, damn it, damn it. 

“They usually do most of the talking.” 

“Bullshit.” 

“It’s true!” 

If that’s true, you kinda feel bad. Aren’t dates supposed to be how you get to know one another? Both people should be talking and finding similarities to build connections. Or at least to keep things interesting. 

“Well,” you scoff, “What do you wanna talk about?” 

“Oh. Hmm.” 

Silence remains your only response for a heavy set of seconds. And you relax your hands with each passing tick, your heart kinda sinking alongside their descent. 

Jungkook almost looks… unsure. Lost. 

This wasn’t your goal in the slightest. And now you feel a little bad for asking, even if it was just a genuine question. 

A slight furrow in your brows stems from the tiny pang in your chest. Something inside of you wants to reach over and grab that nervous hand tapping his silverware, but you can’t move. It doesn’t feel like the time. 

You don’t wanna do this to yourself again, either. 

But after some clinks and chatter around your table, your date pulls out a topic,

“There’s a new d—”

Loud buzzing makes both of you jump, eyes slinging to the phone lighting up on your side of the table. 

Shit, you forgot to put it back in your bag.

Swiping it quick, you stare at the screen before wincing, because you finally got somewhere with substance. 

But these calls won’t stop. They’re not gonna stop until you answer them. 

“Hold that thought, okay?” You ask with sorry eyes. “I need to take this.”

“Yeah, it’s fine,” Jungkook responds quick. But his face gives a lot more away than he intends. “I’ll, uhh. Be here.”

You nod in return, not quite telling him what you want to say. 

But wading through stares with your phone against your ear shifts your mood entirely. 

And maybe one day, you’ll admit to your roommate that you wanted nothing more than to keep talking to him instead. 

That was a mistake. 

You really shouldn’t have taken that call. 

Using a warm towel to fix what you can of your face, you stare at determined eyes before steeling resolve. Get back out there and back to Jungkook. This whole thing took you way too long. 

God, that was a huge mistake. 

Shuffling back into your chair, you notice that a lot of the plates have been bussed and your napkin replaced with a new one. 

“Fuck,” you whisper. “How long was I gone?” 

“Who was that?”

His sudden question makes you pause on the way down, but you sit anyway. He doesn’t need to know. “Oh, it’s…” Waving your hand, you shoo any doubts he has in those starry eyes. “Whatever. I’m back now. What were we taking about?”

“Who called you.”

“No one, Kook.”

“Are you sure cus you—”

“Stop,” you cut him off, looking away before he can pin you down with one confused stare. “I just.. It’s no one, okay?”

Jungkook hesitates, but he answers, “If you say so.”

Your stare is long. 

Because he looks ready to fight. 

Or ready to just leave and find someone else to continue the date with, you don’t know for sure. Do you have a bias on which one it’d rather be? Yeah. But you’re so thrown off by that stupid ass call. 

Sighing, you fiddle with the posh tablecloth before clearing your throat. “So.. What were you gonna tell me?”

More hesitation from across the table. But you expect it, so it hurts less. “There’s a new dance I wanna learn.”

Oh? 

Immediately, your shoulders relax a tad. You didn’t think he’d talk about one of his hobbies. Truthfully, you assumed Jungkook would mention something about his car or gloat about only working when he wants to. 

This is a welcoming twist. And one you can somewhat follow since you know about his steadily growing account and dance skill. “Which one? Show me.” 

“Yeah?” Sparkling, your roommate takes out his phone, swiping away notifications—a lot of notifications—before thumbing through. “Hold on, lemme find one.” 

You look around, seeing that some people here are elders and anticipating their disgust when Jungkook inevitably plays the video out loud. 

“Here.” 

Doing exactly what you thought, he shows a dance to a popular song that you’ve heard before. Is this why you’re hearing it everywhere? Whatever it is, it looks more complicated than the ones he’s posted before. 

But knowing he picks stuff up quick, you figure he’ll have it down by tomorrow. So the only logical step is to tease him and test his memory, “Bet you can’t learn it by the time we finish.” 

“Our date?” 

“Our food.” 

Jungkook gawks. “But we’re almost done!” 

“So? You can do it.” 

“What do I get?” 

“I’ll pay for dessert.” 

“Done. Have fun paying, I’m getting everything.” 

When he watches the video, you press a hand over his phone just as he tries to block the swipe. And you fight hard to not react to his fingers covering yours. “No cheating.” 

“What!” 

Sliding your hand away, your voice gets more stern to hide your heartbeats. “Gotta make it hard somehow.”

His cheeky eyebrow tick snatches your breath before he goads, “I’m listening...” 

He’s listening? What did you… Oh. He’s a problem. Blowing off his innuendo, you roll your eyes. “Whatever, you get what I mean.”

More notifs slide onto his phone, and you hum while Jungkook swipes them away in groups. “Fine. But you’re gonna record me and watch me win.” 

“Done.” 

During the rest of the meal—which prolongs from both of you still ordering—you can tell he’s committed, his body subtly doing the moves as he mouths the lyrics. “You’re trying the dance, huh.” 

“Shh.” 

The night goes on, and the restaurant fills closer and closer to the brim. It’s after the ninety minute mark that you notice just how many people know your roommate. At least, people in a place like this. 

Girls keep coming to visit. But not all of them are hostile or rude—most of them are actually really sweet. Some people invite him to places, others remind him to be somewhere. One very handsome guy even asks if he’s going to some pre-release party tomorrow. 

“That’s tomorrow?” 

“Yeah, dude. Open the group chat once in awhile.”

After Jungkook laughs and jokes along with the guy a little more, he watches him say bye to you before leaving with his own date. 

You’re left amazed, eyeing him signing the bill you know is massive. “Damn.. how many people do you know in this town?” 

“Uhhh…” He scratches his neck. “Don’t be surprised if this keeps happening.”

“Super.” 

And he dons that same uneasy look in his eyes.

You come to the conclusion that you don’t enjoy it. 

When another group of people approach the table, Jungkook subtly changes up the way he converses. Instead of just talking to them, he fully introduces you and even mentions what you do for a living. 

And this little change causes a beat inside your chest. 

As you’re about to answer one of their questions, your phone buzzes again. And it’s yet another thing that you have to pick up. 

Fucking hell, why is all of this happening tonight? 

So caught up in inner turmoil, you don’t realize how everyone’s looking at you as you hastily stand. And when you quickly apologize and excuse yourself, you hate how you catch Jungkook’s eyes right before leaving. 

This time? He looks downright upset. 

Shit, you can’t handle all of this right now. You know you’re definitely gonna be talked about as soon as you’re out of earshot but it’s too late to recover. 

So you rush away yet again.

That call doesn’t take long, but it’s still just as terrible to go through. Now you’re really just ready to cut the night short. 

“Who keeps calling you? You okay?”

“No one you know,” you sigh, a bit shocked that Jungkook even asked that second question. “But don’t worry about it. Let’s go home.”

“Home? Not dessert?”

You eye him again.

Damn it. He looks like a puppy that is determined to be adopted, and you know you can’t shake that image from your mind the rest of the night. 

Because yes. You do want to go home. You want to go home, shower, and dive into bed because no, you are not okay.

But after double checking your maps, you make a decision. For your self-proclaimed date and for yourself. 

“There’s a parking garage nearby,” you surrender as you stand. “Go park at the top.” 

The night sky looks a lot different from this height. Which doesn’t say too much because of all the city lights, but at least you have less obstruction to that vast dark ocean. 

As prominent stars shine above, you lose any previous thoughts, palms curled and resting against the warm top of Jungkook’s car. 

If only you could swim across those mingling blues. Weightless. No stressors or toxins entering your life, only flowing out and dissipating amongst planets and moons. A stellar massage; an out of this world escape. 

“Why are we up here?”

Your sigh is slow on the release. “To see if you earned dessert or not.”

When you look his way, Jungkook’s eyes twinkle brighter than stars, which is all you needed to validate your impromptu decision to come. 

Another olive branch. 

But your roommate slowly rounding his car makes your thoughts slip off the damn track. The rooftop lights contour his features just right, and when he leans right next to your arm, your ability to steer back in your lane vanishes. 

“Didn’t think you were this invested,” he hums.

To which you slowly cut back, “I kinda just wanna see you lose.”

Jungkook’s teeth bite a corner of amused lips in response, and it’s the most tempting he’s looked the entire night. Fuck you need to look away he cannot do that ever again.

“Record me then.”

Why the fuck did his voice get so low!

Turning back, you slide your hands off the car—certainly not because they’re shaking. “Gimme your phone.” 

The proximity has been getting to you. But Jungkook’s sudden hesitation breaks whatever spell he just casted. 

Makes sense. He was very quick to swipe away any notifications that you may have seen. Privacy or whatever he’s afraid of, you’re gonna stay wary of what could be in that thing. 

But to your utter shock, Jungkook has his whole screen in view while he swipes into quick settings to turn on Do Not Disturb. And he hands it over while his words come out small, 

“All yours.”

Static flits in the air as you slowly take it, watching him observe your expression and realizing he’s giving up a lot with this one gesture. 

And you don’t know what possesses you to do this, but you pocket his phone in your hoodie pouch before taking your own device out to silence, as well.

Although worried, you sacrifice this tiny moment of time to give him the same courtesy. It’s only gonna take him two tries maximum, right? You won’t miss anything in those sixty seconds. This is just an equivalent exchange. 

“And yours,” you murmur, handing him your phone to keep, too.  

It shouldn’t mean much. Honestly, it shouldn’t mean anything. 

But the way Jungkook looks at you? I feels like no one else exists anymore. Your universe has shrunken to two, and the way one of you is inching forward it feels like you’re about to be k—

“You shouldn’t have done that,” is all the warning you get before Jungkook speeds off.

Speeds off? What the actual fuck!

“Are you fucking serious!” you call out as you chase him across empty parking spaces, watching his hair bounce with his swooping laughs as he’s… raising your phone above his head? “Jungkook, I swear to god—”

His laughter continues as he keeps running, and you quickly run out of breath but you push forward because what the fuck is he doing with your phone? Is he checking every notification you didn’t swipe away or checking your call history or—

A whoosh of breath flies out as you run right into his laughs, and you’re grabbing at his jacket and yelling until you notice that he’s…

Recording? 

Jungkook was just filming himself running away?

“Ah, you’re faster than I thought,” he grins to your camera. “Thought you’d be a turtle.” 

“Kook!”

“Come here, turtle,” he says before wrapping a quick arm around you. Asking right to the camera, he continues, “Where’d you learn to be so fast?”

You outright frown at the lens. “I am not a turtle.”

Jungkook bursts into laughter again. “Ah, what are you then,” he asks again, watching himself on your screen while you perpetually pout. “A sloth? A snail?”

“Annoyed.”

“That’s not an animal!”

“Give me my phone!” You spring into action, leaping for your device as he stretches away while laughing even harder. Your body fully smushes into his in your pursuit, and while your arms are sailing through the air your heart is leaping into the clouds. 

It’s always been obvious your roommate is rock solid but holy fuck. 

Don’t give up now. You’re grabbing his leather sleeves and he’s chortling all throughout your struggle. But you think you can get it if you just— 

“Wait, wait!” Jungkook stumbles from your full weight jumping forward, and he attempts to stay upright but suddenly you’re rushing towards the ground in a full fall oh shit! “Fuck—!”

You fully expect pain shooting through your hands, or your hips, or your elbow, brain rushing through ideas on how to fall properly—

But all you feel is the plush yet solid force of Jungkook’s front, held together in a leather layer as you both shoot out groans on impact. And all you can get out is a tiny, 

“Ow.” 

“You okay?” 

A lot of things are competing for your realization. Like the way Jungkook is between your body and concrete, and the way he’s the one looking at you in concern. 

Not to mention the hand fully pressing you against his front. 

Oh no no no, you’re getting flushed just thinking about how he feels. Or how he saved you from any injury. You can already imagine how it’s gonna sound in the video playback when you squeak, but you’re so embarrassed that you just want it over with. “Why’d you do that?”

“Me? You’re the one that jumped me!” 

“You could’ve just given me my phone.” 

“That’s too easy.” 

Shit, you need to get up. His eyes are shimmering and he looks way too happy for a guy that just broke your entire fall. When you try to push off, you’re quickly held a little bit tighter. 

And your brain skids to a halt as you look at his cocked brow. 

“Say sorry first.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“You heard me,” he quips. “Say sorry and I let you go.” 

Ah. If only it was always that easy. 

Pursing your lips, you glare. “I’m sorry for giving you my—Kook!”

He laughs at your miserable attempt to escape his tickling, correcting you in sing-song as you squirm. “You gotta mean it, babe.” 

Immediately, you stop. “Don’t call me that.” 

“Why not?” 

You don’t really have an answer. But giving guys a general look of annoyance is usually enough to convince them. So you pull out your last hope. 

“Okay, okay,” he concedes, reluctantly peeling his fingers off your side and letting you stand. “I won’t say it for now.” 

Once you get off of him, you feel a little strange. The same feeling from your handholding earlier comes back in full force, but you do your best to shove it away. 

You don’t need that right now. This is just an experiment, so not even lying on top of your roommate can get to you. 

While dusting yourself, you miss the chance to give Jungkook a hand. So you’re silent as he shows you your phone—the video stopped and your screen black. “That okay?”

“Mmhmm…”

“Sorry,” he apologizes, though you don’t know what for. “We can record now.”

You huff as he unlocks your device with your face, and you debate pouncing again before he reassures, 

“Just pulling up the song. Damn, your screens are organized!”

You don’t acknowledge his compliment but watch him pull up the right app. And you let him play the song on loop in his pocket before relaxing. 

“Okay, you can start. I’ll tell you when to stop.”

“K.”

Through his screen, you watch Jungkook slowly jog into frame until he’s a good distance away. Already knows exactly how far to be, you muse, wondering just how often he really does these videos. 

And he preps because he knows the challenge part is coming, so you steady your hand and watch in amazement as he really does know all the moves. 

But you’re feeling a little cheeky. And a little in the mood for revenge. 

So you wait until he’s fully done with the dance to tell him you weren’t recording, which makes him groan, 

“Really!”

“Looks like you gotta do it all again,” you shrug with mock-pity. 

So he plays the song from your phone again while you wait, and once again, Jungkook is a skilled… dancer… 

A message banner from a name you vaguely recognize slides onto his screen, which throws you off because you literally saw him put it on DND. 

Wait. If Jungkook still gets her messages in this mode, then…

You realize what that could mean, and it kinda throws you off because you feel like you intruded on something you didn’t mean to. 

Damn. 

“How’d that one look!”

Shit! You were so thrown you didn’t even watch him! “Uhh.. Do it again,” you tell him, trying hard to hide the hitch in your voice. “You can do better.”

“Well, damn!” This guy’s smile really isn’t fair, even from far away. “At least you’re honest.”

Yeah. Right. 

When Jungkook does it again, no notifications show up and you watch him diligently this time. 

It’s perfect. Exactly how you thought it’d be. 

“That one was the best one,” he chirps, jogging over to take his phone and have you both watch it again. Looking at you with a lopsided curve, he boasts, “I win.”

“Fine, fine,” you admit with a fake grin. “Maybe I’m the one that wanted dessert this whole time.” 

He laughs. “Do it with me.” 

Do what? The dance? Absolutely not. “Me? Hell no.” 

“Why not!” 

“I would look like a fool! No.” 

A hand juts out to pull you just as you try to scurry away. “Nah, come on! I’ll show you, come here.” 

Ugh. You hate how he’s truly just vibing, taking you along for the ride. 

But in a last show of grace, you allow yourself to give in. Focusing on anything else besides those phone calls—and that notification—could be good anyway. 

So you stand next to your awaiting date, nodding for him to get on with it and teach. 

Grinning, Jungkook shows you simple moves and you somewhat get them. Something with your feet here, another move with your arms there. It’s a bit shaky at first and you have to keep watching him dance, but you have to admit you’re doing better than expected. 

But there’s a move with your hips that you can’t quite get, and you feel stiff as hell. Honestly, you’re not even mad at your dance partner for laughing because you know you look silly. “Give me a break,” you shout with a laugh, to which he chuckles harder. “You know this one is hard.” 

So, in very Jungkook fashion, your roommate comes over to steady his hands on your hips. “Here,” he says in a whisper, “I got you.”  

And you scoff out a laugh. “Oh. I see.” 

In full teacher mode, he asks in shock, “Wait, you got it already?” 

“No, like”—you shake your head—“I see why you did this.” 

Jungkook pauses before chuckling, smug whispers flowing into your ear, “Is it working?” 

Huh. Just like his boldness from before, you’re liking this side of him. The one that’s just going for it, whatever the challenge may be. 

Turning slightly, you catch his features in your peripheral. “What if it wasn’t?” 

Slowly, Jungkook’s grip gets a little tighter as he leans in, one of his hands sliding up just enough for his thumb to slip under your hoodie. When he asks again, his tone lowers an octave, one you haven’t ever heard this close, “This better?” 

The text, the text, the text. 

You breathe hard, swallowing before stepping far out of his embrace and sputtering, “I think I got it! No practice needed.” 

He switches demeanor immediately. “Oh? So we can record now?” 

“What.”

Jungkook half runs to the nearest concrete railing to prop his phone, grappling your wrist before you can scurry out of frame. “Just try it! Play the song on your phone.” 

God. You were only gonna learn the dance, not be recorded! This is way too much embarrassment for the night. 

As the video records, you’re so adamantly against it that you stand in full grump mode, your dance partner only stopping when he sees you not doing it.

You kinda enjoy his pout. “Hey!”

“I can’t!” 

Again with those eyes. No wonder this man gets whatever the fuck he wants whenever someone comes over. “Just once.” 

Your arms cross you like a shield. “If it’s horrible, you’re deleting it.” 

“Fine.”

You give him another look, but he’s not budging. At all. 

So you slump in defeat and prep for the worst. 

The video records again, and you move through the steps, knowing your memory helps you even though your muscles can’t quite do everything accurately. Honestly, you’re a bit proud you can get through the dance wait why are you dancing solo!

Freezing, you turn to Jungkook watching you with a dropped jaw. “What now?” 

Excited eyes crease as he points to your feet. “You did the moves!” 

“Wasn’t I supposed to?” 

“Yeah, but”—his amusement peppers the night with color—“I didn’t expect that.” 

“You told me to!” 

He laughs again before running excitedly to his phone, and you are so confused. But you feel a little accomplished that you surprised him, and he then tells you to record him one more time. “I can’t lose to you.” 

And when you watch him finish the dance, you lock eyes with him over his phone. 

That was the best he’s ever danced for a video and you both know it. 

When he proudly holds his device on the way back to the car, you quietly smile as he decrees, “I’m posting this tomorrow.” 

“Why not now?” 

“Wanna edit first.” 

You give the sky one more look. “Oh. I thought time mattered or something.” 

“Huh? I don’t care about the time. I just post whenever.” 

“Sounds right.” 

At least the time you’ve been spending on the parking garage is nice. Looks like the change in location has been a nice distraction from—

Great. Another fucking call. 

Both of you glance down at your phone, and you quickly bring it up to your ear to hide the caller ID, wincing at his forlorn look before you motion your exit. 

“Do you really have to—”

When the caller starts to talk, you make one stride before your elbow is softly grabbed. 

And when you give Jungkook a desperate shake of your head, he pinches his brows before letting you go. 

God, your roommate looks so lost in his car. 

The breeze stings as you walk back, and your heart tugs a little when Jungkook starts driving over as soon as he sees you’re done. 

Just get through this last part of the night. One more stop and then you can both end this pitiful charade of a date. 

You’re about to reach for your door when Jungkook pops out of his side. “I got it.” 

Oh. That’s nice of him. “You don’t have to—”

“Am I keeping you from something?” 

Stilling, you watch as he stops at your side, car exhaust hitting your nose as his car runs. “No, no, it’s…” 

Jungkook watches you peter off, his face falling hard enough to make you regretful. When he looks at the ground, your chest caves. “We can just go home.” 

“What? No. You won the bet, I don’t need pity.” You know it’s sour but you’re stressed and losing this one good thing will make it a thousand times worse. “Sorry.” 

“We don’t have to go.” 

“Dude, it’s fine.” 

“I don’t want it anymore.” 

Well. Shit. 

Way to be the first person in the universe to ruin a good time with Jeon Jungkook. A good night, no less. What’s the prize? Feeling like absolute garbage. 

This guy took you to the nicest place in town, defended you against stuck-up assholes, and even broke your fall on concrete. What the fuck have you been doing the whole night? Those olive branches don’t mean shit if you’re gonna take them away, too. 

Sighing, you muster the courage to put on a brave front. Offering one last, genuine invitation, you compromise, “Then let’s do the dance one more time.” 

“It’s okay.” 

Fuck, that hurts like hell, but don’t give up. Stop being a total asshole. 

Gathering even more courage, you reach out to lift his beautiful chin. “Look at me.” When he does in silence, you finally apologize, “I’m sorry, okay? I should’ve told you these calls might happen but I didn’t even.. I didn’t even think about it.” 

“They’re making you miserable,” he accurately summarizes. “And you won’t tell me who's doing this to you.” 

Soul breaking, you stare at the ground. “I’ll tell you if I really need to, Kook, but.. Not right now.” 

“Why?” 

Many, many reasons. But you’ll spare him the time and misery when you swipe at nothing on his jacket. “Because I can handle them on my own for now.” 

There’s a beat of silence followed by another. But it’s not as awkward as they had been throughout the night. This one feels much lighter, like your apology lifted the brick of stress pushing down on you until now. 

Is that because Jungkook’s now offering to help you carry it? “I’m here, you know,” he starts, his turn to hold your chin. “Even if we aren’t dating, I got you. Okay?” 

Smiling the tiniest you can manage, you wait until his hand is back at his side. “Are you gonna tell me that’s what roommates are for?” 

When Jungkook starts to grin, you let yours spread a little wider. “Something like that.” 

Okay. You can do this. 

He’s just your roommate and this is just a date. You’ve been letting life beat your ass the whole time you could’ve been leaning into this whole thing, and that sucks. 

But even though you can’t change the past, you can change what happens now. 

So you let yourself laugh when he does, and you give him one more chance to embarrass you. “Are we doing this dance again or going back home so I can finally sleep in peace?”

“In peace?” His dropped jaw makes you giggle. “Nah, we’re definitely recording again.” 

This time, you both stand a little closer so you can fully be in frame. And it takes a few tries—one solely because Jungkook purposely moves to cover you, making you shove his laughing ass out of the way—but eventually you do get a decent take. 

After watching it over in the car a few minutes later, you’re so impressed that you even want him to send you the video. 

“Oh, yeah, I’m sending all of them.” 

“What, why?” 

His eyes shine way too bright as he starts descending through the parking levels. “So that they live in our message thread forever.” 

“You sneaky bi—wait, this is my song!” Your hand is already jutting out to turn up the volume before Jungkook can react, already forgetting what you were yelling about to break into an upbeat rendition of an old classic. 

“Wait, I wanted to—”

“Too bad! This is my shit.” 

When you start to sing, Jungkook can only watch before grinning at his windshield, joining in until you’re both belting everything out, “We’re in heaven…” 

Letting your window down, you scream lyrics out into the empty garage, barely hearing Jungkook cackling at your side. 

For a moment, you feel free. Music up, breeze through the windows, and the prettiest singing voice by your side hitting every note in the book. 

If only you could both do this forever. 

After a much livelier car ride than the first, you’re both walking to your door, sharing a look and knowing exactly what the tiny laughs are about. 

Who goes back to the same home after a first date? 

As he opens the door for you, a thanks slips from your lips before your shoes slide off your feet. And while the door closes with a click, your mind goes over the whole night like a sped-up tape. 

Prank or not, bet or not, it ended up being fun. You hope the same for your roommate, though you’re truly expecting him to confess and say he’s done pretending. So he can get on with his life and seeing other people like that girl. 

Your ribcage jostles. 

“Thanks for dinner,” you murmur as he finishes taking off his boots. “That was the best I’ve ever had.”

When Jungkook straightens, he gives you a lopsided smile. “Good,” he responds before flicking his bangs out the way. “But no taking calls next time.” 

Wait. After all your bullshit today, there’s still a next time? “Uh, I don’t know when I’d be able to—” 

“Trust me. This one you’ll like.” 

Rip the bandaid off. Just do it before things go where they shouldn’t. He’s already starting to say what’s in store for tomorrow but you can’t even entertain it because of what you saw. “I don’t think this will work.” 

Caught mid-sentence, Jungkook snaps his mouth shut before tilting his head. “Huh? You didn’t have a good time?” 

Damn it. Why is he still only asking about your experience? Didn’t he have to sit through all your absences? This is already getting too hard to break off and that’s not a good sign. “No, I did. I meant the whole, umm. Ten days thing.” 

“Because you’re already convinced?” 

“Because we live together, dummy,” you remind him, walking into the hall before he blocks your path. Pulling excuses out of your ass, you continue, “At least I get to have time away from other people I date. Not keep seeing them in their underwear.” 

“You like it.” 

You tsk. 

“It’ll be fine!” 

Arms folded, you pin him with a glare. “You bring girls over like four times a week.” 

“Why would I right now? I’m with you.” 

Something about that makes your heart pulse a little faster. But you can’t. You can’t do this when you know something you shouldn’t. Or maybe something you should, since it’s pretty damn important? “And no one else?”

“No one else,” Jungkook immediately answers. Which is weird considering what you accidentally saw earlier. If he’s flat out lying, you really can’t do anything else with him anytime soon. 

“Are you sure, because…” You sigh before looking down at his pocketed phone. 

Say it. Say exactly what’s on your mind because this isn’t some drama where communication is somehow last on the list of priorities. Real people talk it out, so talk it out. “Look. I kinda, umm. Saw someone text you when I was recording.”

You watch his expression change a tiny, tiny bit. But it’s enough to warrant your decision, “If you’re already seeing someone, I don’t wanna—”

“Who?”

You blink. “Uhhh.. Kyla? Kira?”

Your roommate suddenly starts to grin lopsided. “Kala? She’s my friend from like, second grade. We still game together.”  

“Oh.” Well. That was a lot easier to talk about than you expected. “I just thought… Yeah.”

The way he softens while looking at you makes you feel both dizzy and a little shy. You would pay a significant amount to know what he’s thinking right now, despite the troubles hitting you all through the night. 

“So cute.”

Ah. Never mind. “It’s not cute,” you huff. “Just being reasonable.”

“Yeah. Cute.” 

But he breaks contact to take out his phone and messes with it for a bit. When he clicks it to lock, he holds it up in a slight wiggle. “There.” 

Your head tilts before he explains,

“Yours come through now, too.” 

Breath caught, your whole body seems to buzz. The air around your hoodie starts shifting and heating, and your question leaves in a shocked whisper, “You’re taking this seriously.. aren’t you.”

Jungkook’s eyes never leave yours. “Yeah.”

Why the hell is he trying so hard? For you of all people? 

Last time you checked, the two of you are friends but it’s never been more than that. What’s gotten into him in the last month or so? Did something happen that you missed completely? 

Because if this isn’t some big joke... is this energy around you what you think it is? This chemistry molding into something scary and exciting all at once? It’s terrifying you because, if this is something he wants for real, you may take things further than they’ve ever gone.  

But the spark dissipates when Jungkook looks away. Eyes a little lowered, he asks, 

“It’s just ten days, right?”

Ah. Of course. He’s just competitive, that’s all. 

Smiling tight while you lift your nose, you hum. “Seven.” 

“Too easy.” Jungkook then stops to look at the ground. “It’d be easier if you didn’t keep walking off, though.” 

He got you there. You really don’t have any excuses other than your much lower level of effort. “I… Yeah. Life is really… I’m sorry.” 

You don’t want to tell him just yet. Especially since the night had quite the lovely ending. “But honestly, I really thought you were just doing all this to mess with me.”

“Well, I’m not.” Shucking his jacket off shoulders that haunt you, your roommate steps aside to let you finally pass. 

And reminds you about the motherfucking tank underneath fuck—

“Besides.” 

You blink at the hand on your arm. 

“I can mess with you any day.”

Oh? Bold once again. Attractive once again. But you aren’t gonna let him have just anything he wants. At least, not without seeing how far he’s willing to go. “Not if I don’t let you.”

“You think so?”

“I do.” You lift your chin. “You don’t scare me.”

Stepping in front of you, he gets so close there’s no space between your front and his protruding pecs. “Even like this?”

You try not to show your swallow. “Uh huh.”

When he leans in, you do your best not to react when he rasps out, “And this?”

Another gulp.  “D… Duh.” 

But you’re pretty sure he hears that one because he gravitates to your neck. So close that you can feel his breath on your throat, cologne wrapping you up in wild thoughts and even wilder decisions. “But not this, right?”

Say no, say yes, say no no no. “...No.”

Then. Just when you thought he couldn’t get any cheekier. His lips brush right against your neck as he asks his last question,

“Here then.”

Your flinch and dip out of his way is so quick that you don’t even realize you moved, and his laughs paint the hallway with mirth at your expense.

A hand slaps over the very spot he touched. “Kook!”

“What?”

That felt way too good but came out of nowhere. Feelings are creeping into places they really shouldn’t, and you’re so caught off-guard that your lips flap but don’t do much else. “You… you can’t just…I—”

“Relax,” he giggles. “I wasn’t gonna do anything else.”

Snapping back to reality, you bring yourself to express what’s really on your mind. “Just saying,” you huff, walking off. “You should still ask..”

“Wait, wait!” 

You turn, not anticipating the next thing out of his mouth.  

“You’re right,” he breathes out as he skids. “I’m sorry.” 

Relieved he didn’t take what you asked for as joke, you allow yourself to relax again. 

But of course, with Jeon Jungkook, there’s always more. “Can I do one more thing?” 

“What.” 

“Lemme do what I always do after dates.” 

Deadpanning, you drone, “We’re not having se—” 

“It’s not that.” Pinning him with disbelief, you watch him smile. “Not this time, anyway.” 

Another roll of your eyes. 

“Just trust me.” 

“Fine.” 

He takes your hand and leads you to your bedroom door, and you try your hardest not to bunch your shoulders. 

But something interesting happens that makes you more curious than anything else.

Jungkook stops when you get to your entrance, and he turns to just stare at your face. So calm, and so quiet. 

You don’t quite know what you look like right now, but the way he smirks before going in for a kiss gives you.. an.. idea.. 

He kisses your cheek? 

When he pulls away, his eyes sparkle as you question so bluntly he laughs, “That’s it?” 

“Told you,” he reiterates through a sly grin. “Why?” 

“I mean..”

He chuckles before leaning in slow. “I mean if you insist—” 

Immediately stopping his playful ways, you panic, “Wait, I mean—I just—” 

“Dinner and a kiss is all it takes to win, huh?”

“No, that’s not..” God, he is not funny right now! “One more wouldn’t hurt. I wasn’t ready.” 

By the way Jungkook freezes, you’d think he had turned to stone. But on second glance, he’s just watching for any hesitation or lie in your words, so when he finds none he leans back in.

The second kiss is just as light and innocent as the first. 

But this time, he doesn’t move as you swivel your face to watch, mouths so close and noses softly bumping. 

And the universe shrinks once again. Your belly twists with trembling butterflies and Jungkook’s cologne has clung to him so nicely and your calls have you wound tight and you really just need a distraction so maybe it wouldn’t hurt to just—

“Go to sleep, roomie,” he whispers with a deadly smirk, moving away before you can even respond. “You gotta get up early.”

Oh. Why did your heart just scream? “Right… I do.”

“Good night.”

“Good night…”

Before you can snap out of it, Jungkook is already walking away. 

After everything you did tonight, he still stayed. Still had fun. And even did more than he needed to for you despite being left alone at every turn. 

…And quite honestly? “Kook?”

He turns. 

Fuck this fake dating game, fuck the bullshit you’ve been dealt tonight. “Was that really how you wanted to kiss me?”

Jungkook pauses in the hall, jacket dangling from his fist. “Fuck no.”

You swallow as your breath turns shallow. Thinking too hard about all the shit you’re gonna go through soon, you let loose just this once. 

“Then show me.”

Leather abandoned on wooden floorboards, your friend, your roommate, your enormous new problem returns with a purpose, gripping your head in his hands and—

Fuck, he’s a great kisser. Your lips connect and it’s lights out, flashing through your veins and speeding down your limbs. Rushed and impatient, his hands slide all over your arms, running up back to your neck to hold it tight. 

“You taste so fucking nice.” 

Your reply is devoured, his grip strong but not crushing, tongue sliding along your plush like it’s nothing. 

Yes, yes, yes. This is exactly what you needed all along. Nothing occupies your mind other than thoughts so dirty Jungkook would never let you live them down. 

Suddenly, you’re delightfully shoved against your door, groan spewing into his lips as you grapple for his bare arms. If he’s chuckling, you can’t bring yourself to care. All you can think about is how fucking good this feels. 

And how fucking wrong it is. 

Maybe that’s what adds to the thrill. The knowledge that roommates should never jump into this, no matter how electric things can get. 

But fuck it. 

Maddeningly, though, Jungkook keeps his hands just within boundaries, which surprises you and yet irks the monster in you all the same. When he shifts his lips, the kiss deepens, and your eyes shut even tighter as something taut and muscular shoves between your legs. 

Fuck, this feels good. Too good. Borderline forbidden and stepping across way too many lines but you can’t fucking stop. 

“Careful, babe,” you hear him coo. “Keep going and we’re fucking all week.” 

What? What did he just say what are you doing to make him… 

Holy fuck, were you humping his leg? 

“Oh, shit,” you gasp, breaking away and holding him at arm’s length. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t even—” Air immediately washes over your heated cheeks and into your desperate lungs, and you have to fight to catch your beating breaths. “Something just happened, I—”

And looking down does you no favors because there is a very, very obvious bulge in your roommate’s pants oh god what did you do? 

Your wrists are held by calm hands as Jungkook peels you off his shoulders. When he leans forward, your body’s caged in by his sheer size alone. 

“Thanks for the dessert, roomie,” he simply whispers to your lips, swiping a finger across your nose before backing up to go to his room. “See you tomorrow.”

And just like that, you’re left alone in the hallway, mind swirling and swirling.

Well. When you invited him to make a move, you expected to be charmed because it’s him. 

But out of all the goddamn outcomes, you didn’t expect anything like that.

A hand slides up to grab the spot above your beating, pulsing, racing heart.

These seven days are gonna age you an eternity.

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tbc. :)

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🦋 ahhh how do we feel !! | wanna be tagged? 🦋

A/N: we're in heaven... OHHHH HO HO we are in it now!!! good god the amount of things in store for these two... honestly it's gonna be a good ass fun ass tiring ass ride hahaha. hope everyone is ready! A/N 2: second part is in the works and uhh, remember what i said before? the spice levels are basically gonna jump from 0 to 100? yeah that's gonna happen again lmfaooo these two are quickly jumping up my favorites list asapppp🦋  ++ feedback box (new!): ⇥ of course, any reblogs/comments/messages are appreciated! ⇥ for the ones that aren’t okay with reblogging with a review, commenting on this, or sending a message, i went ahead and made another anonymous form where you can send in what you think! ⇥ no emails collected, no need to put in a username. it’s literally just a feedback dropbox :D ⇥ here!   ++ ⇥ masterlist 

[reiding-writing]

Heyyyy, I think it would be soo cool if you could write a scenario where cold!reader actually works a case like idk but yk the typical talking w witnesses or family members.

I also would loveee to know what her interrogation style is like, morgen was always pretty aggressive and Hotch was always so straightforward etc. so I would love to know how she interrogates suspects.

Have a nice one, ly and ur work sm !! ^_^

THE REID TECHNIQUE. /spencer reid/

you volunteer to interview a middle-aged woman suspected of kidnapping a little girl.

cold!reader 4.2k series masterlist. main masterlist.

a/n | had this one in the works for a few weeks after learning about the reid technique in my forensic psych lecture ✊

The clock above the whiteboard marks every second with an unforgiving tick. It's been twelve hours since the child, eight years old, brown hair in braids, green jacket, was last seen.

You know too well how thin the margins are.

“Local PD has brought in a suspect. Margaret Ellery. Lives four streets over from the family. No hard evidence yet, just circumstantial.” Hotch discards his phone in his pocket.

You push off the table, the movement casual, but inside something sharp and certain slices through the haze. Margaret Ellery. The name means nothing to the others yet, just another possibility. To you, it burns.

“They've got CCTV placing her car near the park at the estimated time of abduction,” Emily says, flicking through images on her tablet. “No witnesses saw the actual snatch, but...” She hesitates. “It’s something,”

“Something," you echo, voice flat.

You can feel Spencer’s gaze flick towards you from his desk. You don’t look at him. If you do, he’ll see it—the thing coiling under your skin, the certainty you can’t explain.

You know it was her.

The others begin discussing who should lead the interview, voices overlapping—Emily suggesting herself, Morgan arguing the woman might respond better to a softer touch—and for a moment, you let them talk.

Then, calmly, you speak.

“I’ll do it.”

The words drop like stones into the room.

The conversation stalls. Morgan frowns, one eyebrow lifting. Hotch studies you, impassive. Spencer’s pencil stills in his hand.

You don’t volunteer for interrogations. Everyone knows it. You only step in when everything else has failed—the nuclear option. The last resort.

You have built your reputation on results, not likability. You dismantle people, piece by piece, until there's nothing left but the truth. It's not pretty. It's not kind. It's necessary.

But this time, without waiting for anyone to fail, you want it.

Hotch’s mouth tightens into a line. He doesn’t like it, but he also knows better than to argue when you make that face—the one you wear now, cold and still, like a weapon waiting to be drawn.

“Are you certain?” he asks.

You nod once. Precise. Final.

“She’s guilty,” you say. Not a question. Not a theory. A statement of fact.

“How do you know?” Emily asks, cautious.

You flick your gaze to her, then away again. You don't explain things like this. You never have. You just know.

Hotch’s brow furrows. “You’re sure?”

You nod once. Crisp. Certain.

“I can get her to talk.”

He hesitates. You don’t blame him. It’s not just that they’re worried about the woman cracking under your methods, it’s that they’re worried you will push too hard, dig too deep, and leave something broken beyond repair—something in her, something in yourself.

But there’s no time for cautious sensibilities. There’s a child missing. The longer they dither, the colder the trail gets.

Hotch considers for a beat longer, then relents with a sharp nod. “On your lead.”

Morgan shifts his weight, clearly cautious. “I’ll second,”

“No.”

Hotch exhales slowly, measuring you with a look that’s half reluctant approval, half silent warning. “You know the protocol.”

You incline your head with a sigh of exasperation. You know it backwards.

“I work better alone,” you say calmly, before he can open his mouth to suggest otherwise.

That’s non-negotiable. You’ve explained it a thousand times—too many cooks spoil the broth. Too many variables ruin the interrogation. One misplaced glance, one ill-timed question, one unspoken judgement radiating off a team member— it can destroy hours of work.

No one interrupts you when you’re working. No one even breathes too loudly.

Hotch nods once. Reluctant but resigned.

“Room Three,” he says. “She’s waiting.”

You turn sharply on your heel, the heels of your boots clicking lightly against the floor, and make your way down the corridor without looking back.

Behind you, the team watches you go in silence.

Spencer’s gaze lingers the longest.

He understands. Not completely—no one ever could—but enough.

Enough to know that once you step into that room, you’ll become something else. Something sharper. Harder. Merciless in your precision.

And God help the woman on the other side of the glass.

—

You pause outside the interrogation room, hand resting lightly on the door handle. Through the one-way glass, you see her: hunched, fidgeting, a picture of nervous innocence.

She’s shorter than you expected. Plumper. Her hands twist nervously at the hem of her cardigan.

She looks like someone’s kindly aunt. To the untrained eye, she might seem harmless. Sad, even.

You don’t let it fool you.

You close your eyes for a moment. Centre yourself.

This is not about rage. Rage clouds the senses. This is about control. Subtlety. Precision.

When you open your eyes again, you’re a blank slate.

The woman jumps slightly at your entrance. Good. She’s on edge already. You file the information away for later use.

You close the door with a soft click and cross to the chair opposite her, sitting down with a deliberate, unhurried grace. You say nothing for a long moment, simply studying her, letting the silence stretch taut between you.

She fidgets again, clearing her throat. Her eyes flicker up to meet yours and then away, unable to hold your gaze.

You watch her, utterly still.

Already, you can see the cracks beginning to form.

You offer a thin, perfunctory smile.

“Good afternoon,” you introduce yourself, voice low and even. “I’m going to ask you a few questions, alright?”

She licks her lips nervously. “I already told the others— I didn’t do anything,”

You tilt your head slightly. Not a challenge, not an agreement. Just an acknowledgement.

“Of course,” you say smoothly. “We’ll go over everything again. Just to be thorough.”

You slide a thin manilla file onto the table between you. The movement is calm, almost lazy.

In reality, every microexpression, every twitch of her fingers, every catch in her breath — you’re cataloguing all of it.

You see guilt. Not the guilt of a wrongfully accused woman, but the heavy, aching guilt of someone who knows precisely what they’ve done and is terrified of the consequences.

You suppress the flicker of satisfaction that rises in your chest.

This will be easier than you thought.

You fold your hands neatly on the table.

“Let’s begin.”

You watch her closely, noting the way her shoulders stiffen under your gaze. She’s nervous.

“I’d first like to briefly remind you that you don’t have to answer any question that you’re uncomfortable with, and you have the right to an attorney if you require one,” You keep your tone measured, almost conversational, as you begin. “This interview is being recorded, and can be submitted as evidence if needed in court,”

Margret’s response is nothing more than a brief nod, and you quickly move on.

“We’ve spoken to several people who know you, Margaret,” you say, glancing briefly at the file in front of you for show, though you don’t need to. You know the contents backwards already. “Your neighbours speak highly of you. Friendly. Involved. Always ready to lend a hand.”

She swallows, nodding a little. As if being agreeable will somehow absolve her.

You continue, letting the words come slowly, giving them weight.

“You knew the Hartleys quite well?”

She shifts uncomfortably in her seat, hands twisting harder in the hem of her cardigan. “We… we live near each other, yes. I used to babysit for them sometimes, when Claire was first back at work,”

You incline your head, as if pleased by the admission. You knew that information already of course, but the fact that she’s supplying the truth to you early is a good sign.

“And you’ve stayed in touch since then?”

Her mouth twists slightly. “Not really. They… they got busy. New friends. Things change,”

You let the silence settle for a beat, as if considering that. Then you lean forward, just slightly, enough that the space between you shrinks.

“The thing is,” you say, voice still calm, almost gentle, “we have several witnesses who say they saw your car near Westwood Park yesterday afternoon.”

You watch her stiffen, the flicker of fear crossing her face before she can mask it. You press on, smooth and relentless.

“That’s the park where Elsie Hartley was last seen.”

Her mouth opens, then closes again. She shakes her head, a tight, jerky movement.

“I must have been passing through. I had errands— the shops—”

You raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. “At four-thirty in the afternoon?”

She falters. You don’t need to press the point yet. Just plant the seed. Let it fester.

You sit back again, steepling your fingers lightly.

“We’re not here to attack you, Margaret,” you say, voice dropping slightly. Softer. Sympathetic. “We just want to understand what happened.”

Her eyes dart to the door briefly. You catch the movement, file it away. Already thinking of escape.

You won’t allow it.

“Things happen to people,” you continue, letting your voice thicken just slightly with understanding. “Painful things. Things that change how we see the world.”

You see the way she flinches, barely perceptible. A tiny tell, but enough.

Good. She’s listening now. Feeling now.

“Tell me about your daughter,” you say quietly.

Her face crumples before she can stop it, a raw flash of grief, there and gone.

She tries to cover it up, sitting up straighter, forcing a small, brittle smile.

“She… passed away. A long time ago.”

You nod slowly. “Nine years.”

Her hands clench into fists in her lap.

You lean in again, lowering your voice further.

“Grief can… distort things,” you murmur. “It can make you see injustice where there is none. It can make you desperate to fix something, to make up for what you lost.”

Her breathing has quickened. You see the pulse hammering at her throat.

“Sometimes,” you continue, “it makes people do things they never thought themselves capable of. Good people. Kind people. People who were simply… overwhelmed by sadness.”

She’s trembling now. Just slightly. You act as though you don’t notice.

“You saw Elsie playing in the park,” you say softly. “Maybe you thought her parents didn’t appreciate her enough. Maybe you thought you could give her the love your own daughter never got to fully experience.”

Tears are brimming in her eyes now, but she’s fighting them. Fighting herself.

She shakes her head weakly. “I didn’t— I wouldn’t—”

You don’t argue. You don’t contradict her.

You simply sit back, offering a small, understanding nod.

“Of course you didn’t mean for things to get so complicated. You just wanted to make things right.”

The denial is there, trembling on her lips, but you ignore it.

You pivot neatly, seamlessly, back to the facts.

“You said you were running errands,” you say, as if returning to a mundane detail. “Tell me about that. Which shops?”

She stares at you, panic flickering behind her eyes. She wasn't ready for the shift. That’s the point.

“I— I went to 7-Eleven. And then… the pharmacy. I had a prescription,”

You scribble something meaningless onto your pad, nodding slowly.

“The pharmacy?” you echo. “Do you have the receipt?”

She freezes.

“No,” she says after a moment. “I must have thrown it away,”

You don’t react. You just jot down another line.

“Which 7-Eleven?” you ask, tone still mild.

She blinks. “The one on Briar Lane,”

You hum thoughtfully, making another note. She’s lying. You know it. And she knows you know it.

You give her another moment to stew in her own fear before steering the conversation back.

“Funny thing, Margaret,” you say, lightly conversational, “we pulled CCTV from Briar Lane yesterday. The store, the pharmacy, the petrol station.”

You look up, meeting her eyes directly for the first time since you sat down.

“You’re not on any of it.”

The colour drains from her face.

You don’t press. Not yet. Let her feel the walls closing in. Let her suffocate on the inevitability of it.

She shifts in her seat, wringing her hands.

“I must have got the times wrong,” she mutters weakly.

“Of course,” you say smoothly. “It’s easy to get confused. Especially when you’re upset.”

She clings to the lifeline you’ve thrown her, nodding desperately.

“Yes. Yes, I was… distracted,”

You offer her a small, almost pitying smile.

“I understand, Margaret. Truly. No one’s here to judge you.”

Another beat of silence. You watch her, patient and unblinking.

“I can see how hard this is for you,” you say after a moment, voice softening again. “Reliving yesterday. Remembering what happened.”

Her mouth trembles. She presses her lips together tightly, like a child trying not to cry.

“I didn’t… I didn’t take her,” she says, almost whispering.

You nod thoughtfully, as if weighing her words.

“Of course,” you say again. Calm. Unthreatening.

Then, without warning, you steer the conversation right back to the beginning.

“Tell me again what you were doing between three and five yesterday afternoon.”

Her face crumples. She wasn’t ready for the cycle to start again.

But you are tireless. Patient. Merciless.

That’s the thing about interrogations — it’s not the dramatic threats or slammed fists on the table that break people. It’s the relentlessness. The subtle erosion of certainty, the slow dismantling of lies.

She tries again.

“I was at home, actually. I remembered— after the pharmacy I went home. I didn’t feel well.”

“Hmm,” you hum noncommittally. “Your neighbour said they saw your car leave around two, and you didn’t return until gone six.”

You tilt your head, watching her carefully.

“They must be mistaken,” she says quickly, too quickly.

You don’t argue. You just let the inconsistency hang there between you, a slow, toxic drip of doubt.

The denials come more frequently now, growing more desperate with each cycle.

“I wasn’t near the park.”

“I don’t even know where she disappeared from.”

“I just… I was having a bad day.”

You let each one slide past you without reaction, without resistance.

Each time she throws out a denial, you seamlessly redirect — not forcefully, not aggressively, but subtly, like water flowing around a stone.

Back to the CCTV.

Back to the witnesses.

Back to her tangled, faltering story.

You give her a moment to stew in her latest denial. Watch the way she clutches at the hem of her cardigan like it’s a lifeline. Her breathing is shallow now, you can almost hear it hitching every few seconds.

She’s trying to believe her own lies. Trying to build walls faster than you can knock them down.

You lean back slightly in your chair, as if relaxing, as if you have all the time in the world. Then you let your voice slip into a more analytical register.

“Let’s review what we know,” you say, tapping your pen lightly against the table.

The soft sound makes her flinch. Good.

“Your neighbour saw your car leave at two o’clock sharp. CCTV from Briar Lane shows you were not at the pharmacy or the store, as you claimed. In fact—” you pause, leafing slowly through the papers on your clipboard, letting the moment stretch, “—your car was picked up again. Not in Briar Lane. But parked a block from Westwood Park.”

You place a printed image on the table between you: the grainy still of a pale blue Volvo estate. Her car. The timestamp in the corner reads 4:14 p.m.

Margaret pales visibly, staring at it.

“That’s not me,” she whispers, voice breaking.

You arch a brow, slow and sceptical.

“Registration plates don’t lie.”

She opens her mouth. Closes it. Her eyes are wild now, darting across the table, as if searching for some unseen escape hatch.

You press the advantage mercilessly, but with a surgeon’s precision.

“You told us you were at home,” you say calmly. “Yet your vehicle was a block away from the site of a child’s abduction.”

You let the words hang heavily in the air. They don’t need dressing up. They’re lethal enough.

“I just— I just parked for a bit. I wasn’t feeling well—”

You shake your head, slow and deliberate.

“No pharmacy visit. No store. No proof of you being anywhere else.”

You place another sheet on the table, another CCTV still, this time capturing her figure, blurred but unmistakeable, moving across the park entrance at 4:20 p.m.

“Witnesses place you in the vicinity. Cameras place you there. Your alibi doesn’t hold.”

Her lips tremble. You can see the walls crumbling now, piece by piece.

You don’t drive the knife in yet.

Instead, you shift your posture — lean forward, just slightly, closing the space between you by mere inches.

Subtle, calculated.

Not enough to threaten. Just enough to pull her attention inward, to focus it entirely on you.

You keep your gaze steady, non-threatening but utterly unwavering.

Your body language speaks louder than your words. I am your only way out of this.

Margaret's eyes flicker between your face and the photographs, her breath hitching audibly now.

You watch as the fight starts to bleed out of her.

Still, you’re careful. She’s fragile now. One wrong move and she’ll retreat into full panic, barricade herself behind the last reserves of her denial.

You soften your expression by degrees. Let the razor edge dull into something gentler. More… understanding.

Margaret sniffs loudly, wiping at her eyes with trembling fingers. Her composure is breaking apart under the sheer, relentless weight of the truth pressing down on her.

“I just—” she chokes. “I didn’t— I didn’t plan anything—”

You allow a small, almost imperceptible nod. Not agreement. Just… acceptance.

You lower your voice, pitch it softer.

“I know, Margaret,” you say quietly. “I believe you. You were overwhelmed. You weren’t thinking straight. You saw a little girl alone, vulnerable—”

“She was sitting by herself!” Margaret blurts suddenly, anguished. “Just swinging on those stupid swings— and no one— no one was watching—!”

The confession hangs there, raw and shaking.

You don’t react. Don’t let the triumph show. You simply soften further, offering a small, almost maternal tilt of your head.

“You wanted to keep her safe,” you murmur. “Like any mother would.”

Margaret’s face crumples. Tears spill over at last, fat and helpless.

You fold your hands neatly on the table. Stay calm. Stay steady. Be the lighthouse in her storm.

—

“She’s using phased psychological reinforcement,” Spencer says quietly, almost in awe. Like you’ve never quite been so alluring.

Emily glances at him. “In English, please?”

Spencer shifts slightly, tapping his fingers against the glass in a subtle rhythm.

“She’s employing the Reid Technique,” he explains. “It has nine stages that are worked through in order to achieve a state of psychological comfort that elicits more honesty from the suspect,”

“The Reid technique?” Emily raised an eyebrow.

“It’s uh, named after John Reid, he was a police officer in Chicago during the 1950s. It revolutionised formal interviewing, although it’s actually very difficult to implement in practice, because if the suspect catches on then they’re likely to shut down,”

He nods towards you, still composed, still relentless inside the room.

“She’s between stage four and stage five right now— Addressing why the suspect hasn’t confessed, and using mirroring tactics to keep the suspect engaged,”

Morgan hums low under his breath, arms crossed tightly over his chest. “Sounds scientific,” he goads.

—

Margaret hiccups through her tears, twisting the sleeves of her cardigan into knots.

“I didn’t—” she whispers again.

You make no move to comfort her. You don’t offer tissues. You don't even shift your posture.

You simply remain present. Solid. Reassuring by your very stillness. In her shattered mind, you are the only constant left. Exactly where you want her.

You let the silence stretch just long enough for Margaret to drown in it, her sobs the only sound filling the sterile room.

Then, softly, so gently it’s almost a caress, you push the conversation where it needs to go.

“Margaret,” you say, voice low but firm, threading compassion through every syllable, “I’m not here to judge you.”

She drags her tear-reddened eyes up to meet yours, desperate and wide.

You offer the smallest of smiles. Not kind. Not cruel. Just human.

“You loved your daughter, right?”

Her face crumples. She gives a broken little nod, a whimper catching in her throat.

You lower your voice even further, until it's barely above a whisper. “And now there's this... ache. This emptiness. It’s unbearable, isn’t it?”

She presses her sleeve to her mouth, trying to smother another sob.

You let the moment hang there, let her sit in the shared understanding you’ve carefully, ruthlessly constructed.

“Were you trying to cause trouble, Margaret?” you ask, tilting your head ever so slightly, as if puzzled. “Or were you simply trying to give that little girl the love you never got to finish giving your daughter?”

It’s everything.

It’s everything she’s been trying to make sense of for the last twelve hours.

And you’ve handed it to her, neatly gift-wrapped, an explanation she can live with.

Her face crumples entirely.

“I didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” she wails, folding in on herself. “I just— I just saw her— all alone— they weren’t even watching her! She was just sitting there, swinging by herself, and I thought—”

She breaks off, hiccupping on a sob.

You remain silent, giving her the space to pour it out.

“I thought— she deserves better. Someone who’d see her. Someone who’d love her properly. I could— I could do that. I could give her what she needed.”

Tears stream down her face now, unchecked.

“She’s happy with me,” Margaret insists desperately, as if trying to convince herself as much as you. “She’s smiling. She’s laughing. I’ve never— I’ve never seen her laugh like that. Not once when she was with them.”

You allow yourself a single, careful breath.

But you’re not finished yet.

You shift your tone again, turning almost maternal, gentle and firm.

“Margaret,” you say, leaning in just a fraction, letting her feel the sincerity. “I believe you care for her. I do.”

It’s not a lie. Margaret does care. In her own warped, desperate way. “But she’s scared. She misses her family. She needs to come home.”

Margaret sobs harder, hands shaking so badly she nearly knocks the water cup off the table.

“Help me bring her home safely, Margaret. Please.”

For a long, fragile moment, she just cries.

And then, brokenly, she nods.

“She’s—” she mumbles through the tears. “12A, Eversham Court… I made up the spare room for her, I got her toys and clothes—”

She’s rambling now, stumbling over herself to spill every detail she can think of.

You don’t interrupt.

Outside the room, you know Hotch will already be sending officers to the location, moving fast but discreetly.

Time still matters. Every second counts.

Everything has been recorded. Every word, every sob, every admission captured, preserved, incontrovertible.

You stand slowly, gathering the papers with smooth efficiency.

As you move towards the door, Margaret’s voice breaks behind you, small and shuddering.

“I didn’t mean to hurt her,” she says again, voice thick with tears. “Tell them that. Please. Tell them I just wanted to love her—”

You pause, hand on the doorframe, and glance back over your shoulder.

Your face gives away nothing.

“I’ll tell them,” you say simply.

It’s not a promise. Not really. But it’s enough.

The door opens with a quiet click. Uniformed officers step inside, moving with trained efficiency.

Margaret doesn’t fight. She’s too broken to resist. She sobs helplessly as they read her her rights, the words barely cutting through her cries of apology. “I’m sorry,” she gasps as they cuff her. “I’m so sorry—”

You watch silently for a moment as they lead her away.

She’s still crying. Still apologising to no one in particular.

You feel no satisfaction. No triumph. Just the faint, hollow weight of inevitability.

You step back into the corridor, letting the door swing shut behind you.

The others are waiting. Hotch nods once at you, brisk and approving. Emily looks grim but relieved. Morgan mutters something under his breath that sounds like "damn," but you don’t linger on it.

Your gaze flicks automatically to Spencer.

He’s watching you the way he always does after you work. Not with fear, not with pity, but with something quieter. Something sharper.

Admiration. And something almost akin to academic attraction.

“Seven minutes, twenty two seconds,”

You don’t smile. You don’t say a word. You simply walk past him, your boots clicking steadily down the hall.

New record.

[cinnamorollcrybaby]

I want the LaDS boys to react when someone else accidently makes his s/o sexy gasp/moan; someone had randomly poked a spot on her back to get her attention, but it was one of her sensitive spots. Does that make sense? You can write them all or pick one.

Hands off!

Tags: LADS men x fem!Reader, established relationships, jealous LADS men, threats of violence (Rafayel’s) and slight stalking (Caleb’s), suggestive content, NSFW (Sylus’s), MDNI

An: what a wonderfully devious request, i love it.

ZAYNE

The two of you were at a fundraising banquet. The hospital was raising money for pediatric oncology treatment. While Zayne wasn't an oncologist, he made a habit to show his face at most Akso Hospital events, especially ones for a good cause.

You were surrounded by city hall representatives, nurses, doctors, and other big wigs in the healthcare industry. While you felt out of your league, Zayne assured you that he often felt out of place as well, but it was for a good cause at the end of the day.

Giving your temple a light kiss, Zayne follows one of his residents towards the small dessert table that the hospital has set up.

You busy yourself, listening to another doctor's wife prattle on about a recent trip she took to the islands recently. You nurse a glass of champagne to your lips as you're only half listening to her. Inwardly, you wonder when Zayne was going to be back.

“Ah~!” you gasp, face reddening as you jolt slightly. You spin on your heel, looking to see whoever just grazed their hand over your lower back.

You feel you skin grow hot with embarrassment as you see a fellow doctor that Zayne works closely with behind you. He's a little bit older, much old enough to know better than to touch a married woman there. "Oh, I apologize miss. I didn't mean to startle you."

Before you can even think of how to respond, you feel a presence press to your side, and you immediately recognize the smell of your husband's cologne.

"Dr. Hartford, to what do I owe the pleasure?" his stoic voice fills the space, and his hand steadily slides across your lower back until he wraps his palm conspicuously around your hip. It's subtle, but he's staking a claim over you.

"Dr. Zayne! It's so good to see you. I see this must your missus," Dr. Hartford says with a jolly smile. His cheeks and nose are red telling you one of two things: either he's embarrassed to be caught touching you while Zayne was present or he's had far too much alcohol. You decide that it was likely a combination of both factors.

"This is my wife, y/n." Zayne says as his hand imperceptibly tightens around your hip. It's not very often you get to see this more jealous side of him. "For your own benefit, Dr. Hartford, it'd be wise to keep your hands to yourself in the future. You know how... touchy HR can be about these sorts of situations."

Your eyes widen as you look up towards your husband in slight shock and awe. Only Zayne could threaten someone so professionally and look so handsome while doing so.

Now, if only you can convince him to take a few sips of champagne tonight, and you'll have yourself a good night.

RAFAYEL

Being a Lemurian meant that every one of his senses is attuned to be able to experience his beloved better. This meant he practically heard your small moan before it ever even left your lips.

His eyes search the crowd at the art exhibit he was forced to attend. You promised to stay by his side, but where were you now?

To the average person’s eye, Rafayel looks completely normal right now. Someone would even say he seems aloof, but to the people who truly know him, he’s seething with an unforeseen anger.

Once his eyes zero in on you and Thomas of all people, Rafayel feels his anger only double. He doesn’t even excuse himself away from the group of people that were talking and interviewing him about his latest painting. He walks over straight to you.

“You know, it’s not nice to touch things that aren’t yours,” he says, throwing a quick glare over at Thomas. His voice sounded lighthearted, almost like he was some petulant child who caught someone playing with his favorite toy, but you knew the truth.

Thomas’s face was already beet red. When he grabbed your side to stabilize himself, he didn’t think you were going to make that noise. He also didn’t consider that Rafayel would hear it.

You look towards your boyfriend, who is nearly pouting at you from the whole exchange, and you playfully roll your eyes. “Thomas was just trying to keep his balance. He didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Well, if my girlfriend was standing beside me, then Thomas could’ve grabbed someone else’s girlfriend, bur no, he had to grab mine,” Rafayel huffed as he turned his nose up at the two of you, putting on a show of bratty behavior.

“You’re so helpless, Rafayel.” You tease, looping your arm around his to follow him back to his painting.

“Only for you, miss bodyguard.” He then reached out a hand and drops a piece of paper onto Thomas’s extended hand. “That’s for you.”

Thomas waited until the two of you were a distance away before he slowly unfolded the small piece of paper. His eyebrows furrowed as he read the words on the paper.

I’ll kill you and paint with your remains xD

Stunned, Thomas looked back up to where you and Rafayel were. His eyebrows furrowed a little bit, wondering if Rafayel was just playing or not…

XAVIER

The moment a sharp breathy moan leaves your lips while you, Xavier, and another Hunter are out on the field, you know one thing is certain. Xavier's going to kill him.

His hand is still wrapped around your waist. He had only grabbed you to protect you from stepping in a puddle on your way towards reported wanderer activity.

Unfortunately for this poor hunter, who you thought was actually named Hunter, your waist was where you were most sensitive.

Xavier immediately spun around, and his light blade was out within milliseconds. His sapphire blue eyes narrowed as he saw where Hunter was grasping you. His jaw tightens, and you can immediately perceive the stormy look on his face.

“Hands off her,” the blonde hunter demanded. “She’s fine. She can handle herself.”

“Right— I was just.. helping her out, man. No harm; no foul,” the other hunter said as he took his hands off of you. He held his palms facing Xavier in a surrendering position.

No one in the UNICORNS knew about yours and Xavier’s budding relationship, but they were going to find out real quickly if Xavier’s jealousy kept getting the better of him.

“Y/n, you should lead,” Xavier says, ignoring Hunter’s statement. He puts you in the front of their small group, and he trails right behind you, leaving Hunter in the back.

While your back is turned, your boyfriend casually pointed his light blade towards Hunter, forcing space between him and the group. He then shot a glare that could kill over his shoulder to Hunter.

The intention was clear. Xavier was posturing. His glare said all the unspoken words that he could not. ‘Stay away. This is mine.’

The poor man didn’t even speak to you for the rest of the mission. He was way too intimidated by Xavier to even consider it. Oh well, Xavier would just have to keep you company.

SYLUS The two of you were at a couple’s massage. Well, you were getting a massage, and he got to watch with a glass of wine on the side.

When the masseuse’s fingers rubbed into your neck, targeting all the knots from stress and tension, a breathy little whimper escaped your throat.

Sylus was already having a hard enough time concealing just how much of an effect you had on him. His right ankle was propped against his left knee, and he was settled back onto the chair.

He let out a deep, rich laugh that only men with old money seemed to have.

You were clearly embarrassed, clenching your eyes shut as you profusely apologized. The masseuse tried to reassure you that it was natural, and it only meant she was doing a good job.

“Careful kitten, if you stress yourself out anymore, you’re going to need a massage for this massage,” he teased, swirling his wine glass in his glass cup.

“Oh no, that would be sooo terrible,” you responded back with sarcasm bitten into your tone.

“We all know you’re having a good time, kitten. No need to rub it in everyone’s faces.” A smirk curled on his lips as his roamed over your body, only covered with a towel.

“Shut it-!” you whined, feeling the embarrassment creep back in.

He was doing a good job at hiding it, but his pants felt extremely tight. The thought of you letting out those delicate sounds accidentally, so overwhelmed by painful pleasure…

He took another sip of his wine, and he eyed the masseuse closely. He had gotten massages from her in the past. He knew she was happily married, and he had nothing to worry about. Even if the masseuse was some single guy, he would’ve still been comfortable in his position. He knows you’re not going anywhere; he trusts you with his entire being.

Still, he watched extra closely. He now felt the need to learn how to use his hands like that. The next time you got a massage, he wanted to be the one to make you let out those noises. He also wanted to be in private, so he could bury his cock into you in peace.

CALEB

Oh, oh man… First of all, when you and Caleb first started dating, he barely let you out of arm’s length of his side. He couldn’t help it. He needed you there with him :(

However, when he finally started letting both of you do things on your own, he still had a habit of watching you.

You were going to go get drinks with a girl friend? Oh okay, that’s fine… the bar has cameras anyway :)

You needed to go to the grocery store? Caleb’s already hacked into their security system. No big deal.

You wanted to go out for a walk? Sure, Caleb would just walk a good enough distance behind you so you didn’t see him, which is exactly what was happening when he heard that small whine..

He knows that whine by heart. Hell, he’s been teasing you for years, but he’s only heard that specific whine when he’s rearranging your guts.

Subtlety be damned. He didn’t care about staying incognito whenever there was someone else who just got to hear that very, very sweet noise from your lips.

When he jogs straight up to you, he’s nearly panting but not from jogging — his pissed. The guy who had gotten you to make that noise was profusely apologizing for accidentally pulling your hair. Apparently, he saw a bug on you or something…

It didn’t matter to Caleb. Of course, he was polite, putting on a good show by laughing and teasing you. He ignored the confused looks that you threw his way.

“Yep, my girlfriend is so unaware, haha. Thanks for getting that bug off her. She hates those things,” he flashes that pretty smile that’s gotten him out of trouble for years.

While guiding you away from the man, he assures you that he was just going the same way as you because he needed to run to the market really quick for a very specific ingredient for what he was making for dinner tonight.

And of course, the kind stranger was never heard from again. If you have any information on the missing man, please contact the local authorities or the Deepspace Aviation Administration. 

[cameronsbabydoll]

pervy!loser!rafe headcanons

rafe gets weird about you real fast. like not just "i wanna fuck her" but "i need her or i'll die" levels of obsession. thinks about kidnapping you when he’s high. imagines you tied to his bed in his shitty frat house, crying but still looking pretty, still his.

he watches you sleep sometimes. not even by accident. like you fall asleep on the couch at a party, curled up in a hoodie, and he just sits there staring. hard the whole time. thinking about sneaking his hand between your legs and seeing if you’re wet even in your dreams.

he follows you home after parties. parks down the street. jerks off in the backseat of his truck while he watches the lights go off in your bedroom. says your name under his breath while he cums all over his hand.

steals gross little things from you. a chapstick. a sock. a hair tie you left behind. keeps them in a drawer in his room like trophies. sometimes puts them under his pillow at night and humps the mattress like a desperate, sick puppy.

tries to gaslight you into thinking you’re into him. like corners you at a party and murmurs, "don’t gotta be shy, baby. i see the way you look at me. fuck, you’re makin' me crazy, playin’ hard to get like that. just let me have it, i’ll take good care of u, promise."

fantasizes about breaking you in. not even gently. wants you sobbing, trembling, clinging to him because you’re scared and too sweet to tell him no. thinks about stuffing your mouth full of his fingers so you can't say anything when he ruins you.

leaves bruises on you on purpose. little ones. grips your wrist too tight when he’s drunk and giggling. presses his fingers into your hips when he hugs you goodbye. stares at the marks later and jerks off to the memory, thinking, "mine, fuck, she's mine now."

goes crazy if he sees another guy even look at you. literally loses it. might grab you by the back of your neck at a party and whisper all nasty, possessive shit like, "who's fuckin' girl are you, huh? better fuckin' say it before i make a scene, baby. better say it now."

talks about you like you’re already dating when you're not. calls you "my girl" to his friends. posts blurry pictures of you on his story without tagging you. writes your name on his desk during lectures like a psycho.

secretly dreams about knocking you up. about trapping you. about you getting full with his kid and crying and begging him to take care of you. and he would. he’d be so sickly sweet while he rubbed your belly, whispering about how he’s gonna take care of you forever, how you're never getting away now.

rafe doesn’t just want you. he needs you like a drug. gets shaky and sick without you. thinks about taking you every night, pressing a pillow over your face to muffle your cries while he pushes in raw, whispering, "shhh, it's okay, baby, it’s just me, just makin’ you mine."

fantasizes about catching you drunk and sleepy at a party, scooping you up like a doll, carrying you upstairs and locking the door behind him. stripping you clumsy and rough while you whimper and twitch.

he wouldn’t even wait. he’d be huffing, panting, stuffing himself inside you while you begged him to stop, too high and weak to fight.

he gets hard at the idea of you crying. like not just crying — sobbing, hiccuping, clutching at his shoulders while he fucks you through it. it makes him crazy, makes him kiss your wet cheeks and coo, "feels good, huh? see, baby, your pussy knows who owns it."

he doesn’t use a condom. never would. never even thinks about it. in his sick little brain, you belong to him, and that means filling you up. stuffing you full until you're dripping down your thighs, knocked up, ruined for anyone else.

he presses his hand over your stomach after he cums inside you, panting into your hair, whispering, "gonna get you pregnant. fuckin' breed you like you’re supposed to be. nobody’s ever gonna touch you but me."

he says it over and over until you stop fighting. until you start crying softer. until you just lay there and let him do it again.

would tie you to his bed if he had to. wrist and ankle. keep you there for days. bring you water, kiss your forehead, tell you how good you’re being while he uses your pussy like it’s his personal toy.

gets mad when you cry too much. like after the third or fourth time he’s cum inside you and you’re still sobbing and begging for your mommy or daddy.

grabs your chin rough and growls, "nah, baby, you ain’t got a daddy anymore. you’re mine. i’m the only one that’s gonna take care of you now."

he records it. keeps videos of you broken and shaking and begging. watches them when he’s lonely. jerks off to them with tears in his eyes, swearing he loves you, that it’s real, that you’ll love him back eventually.

in his mind, this isn’t rape. it’s destiny. it’s love. you were just too stupid to see it. but that’s okay. he’ll fix you. he’ll make you understand!!

[onlyquinns]

can i pls have a fic with jack hughes where he hurts his already injured shoulder while doing something around the house and is in pain; reader just taking such gentle care of him and jack realising she’s his future wife. that every failed relationship has led to her.

it happens so suddenly. one moment, he’s totally fine—moving grocery bags in from your car—then the brown bag is slipping from his fingers and he’s hunched over.

jack grabs at his arm, his fingers white-knuckled on his shirt sleeve. pain burns down from the scar in his skin, shooting sparks of fire and electricity into his bicep. he tries not to cry out in fear of worrying you, but you’re already racing through the apartment, alerted by the sound of groceries falling to the floor.

“i’m okay,” jack says immediately even though he’s still hunched over, teeth grit.

you’re by his side, helping him to the couch. “i told you i could’ve done it, j,” you mumble, eyes filled with worry.

“yeah, well, what kind of boyfriend would i be if i made my girl carry groceries?” jack jokes, attempting to lighten your mood. he flops onto the couch, falling onto his good side. he gives you a goofy smile but your frown doesn’t drop.

your brows are pinched and your hands lay heavily on your hips, mind running a million miles per hour as you wonder what you’re going to do with him.

jack’s smile falters slightly, “baby, i didn’t mean to worry you—“ but you don’t listen, turning away and grabbing various supplies from the kitchen.

jack watches as you prep a hot water bottle, turning on the electric kettle to get water boiling. as it boils, you set out his favorite mug—one that he insisted the two of you buy because they came in a matching set of two—and put in your tea infuser. within five minutes, you return to his side with his hot water bottle—your favorite one that you never let him use—and a warm mug of tea. once they’re in jack’s hands, you turn away again and grab a cold cup of water and a tiny bottle of advil.

jack watches in awe as you take the time to open the bottle for him and dump out two pills. after surgery, you’d taken it upon yourself to open every bottle and can—whether it were a drink of a jar of jam—so he wouldn���t have to.

his memory nags at him as he watches you, as he remembers the year before when he’d initially hurt his shoulder—how his girlfriend at the time hadn’t done any of that for him. he swallows thickly, pushing away the memory of pain and fatigue of having to care for himself while his ex had spent her time lounging around.

“here you go,” you say, pulling his mind back to you. you stand in front of him, palm outstretched. he easily takes the advil from you, popping them into his mouth. you stand nearby, making sure he takes them because you know he’s weird about having to take meds.

once you’re certain he swallows, you nod happily. jack smiles softly at the sight of you so proud of yourself, thinking of the little ring box he’s tucked away in luke’s room in fear that you’d find it in his.

“alright, scooch over, pretty boy,” you say, words light and teasing. jack chuckles and makes room for you on the couch, tucking you close to his uninjured side. you reach for the remote.

“what’re we watching?” jack asks as the tv comes to life.

you shrug, “whatever you want,” you tell him.

jack’s heart stutters and he’s sure that when summer rolls around and he’s able to move his arm again, he’s definitely proposing to you.

[youreonmymind37]

“Why do you bend down exposing your lovely tits to me?”

My stepdaughter shrugged and pursed her lips as if to say “because, I’m a home-wrecker”.

I drove her to her community college. She is taking hairdressing courses. Tia had her driver license suspended due to her DUI.

She walked away from my SUV. “Bye!” I called.

Later that night, I rolled over to her gold digger mother and put my hand over her cold shoulder.

“I’m sleeping,” said the Icy Queen.

I rolled over to get my slippers and drudged to the hallway to the den. Laying down on the couch, I watched a couple of soft porn on the giant tv. And, I fell asleep…

…In the pale blue light, I could see someone was sucking my cock. I thought it was a dream.

“Oh, daddy, your sperms got all over my face,” said my stepdaughter. Tia licked my baby-making goo which covered her fingers. She smiles wickedly.

“Are you crazy?” I whispered.

“She doesn’t hear,” said Tia cat-crawling over me, “Mother had cannabis, silly.”

Tia cuddled-up with me.

“I thought that you don’t like my body,” my stepdaughter said, “I tried countless different things. Even not wearing a bra! So, I said to myself, I gonna to blow-job your cock, daddy.”

Tia stretched her arms around my chest.

“I will talk to my wife about your behavior, young lady!!”

“She isn’t your wife,” said Tia raising her pretty face.

“What do you mean, Tia?” I said, “Jackie is my wife.”

“Nope,” she said like a child, “She didn’t divorced her husband. My dearest mother is a bigamist.”

I was shocked.

“Poor daddy. Rahul probably live in Thailand. I guess. The way he fucked me,” she was excited, “Fantastic.”

My cock begin to rise.

“Oh, look what we have here,” she staring down of my hardened wood. Her bottom rose-up and her leg rose with it. Tina carefully took my cock and fed it into her slippery snatch.

“Oooooooooo, Daddy,” she said, “you don’t know what a pleasure this it. Oh, fuck.”

She wrapped her silky arms around my neck.

“Daddy, you’re the best so far. I mean, I fucked my ex-stepdads all the way to me being thirteenth years old.”

My hands stroking her back and started grabbing her ass. Tia grunted and kissed my face. My fingers slapped her behinds.

“I’m coming, daddy!” my stepdaughter screamed,

My hands gripped her ass. With the hold I flipped her body and planted her on my couch. I plummeted her wet cunt turning her juice into fountains. We met over our tongues like those snakes slithering around each others.

“Ooooooooooohhhh!” moaning my littleness one.

My cock-head erupted with streaming of strings of white jism. My cock drenched my stepdaughter’s thighs, pussy, belly and breasts.

We laughed at the sheer volume of my cum.

The light went on.

“How dare you, Alan!” said Jackie, “I want you to see my house!”

My eye winked at my younger lover.

“You know, Jackie, this marriage was a scam by YOU”.

I got to my bare feet and was calm, “I’m ordering you to leave my property.”

Jackie was silent. And, she face was going through a lot of emotions.

“My attorney will sue you!” said the lying gold digger, “Tia. Let’s go.”

“Nope,” said Tia.

“What!?”

“My daddy will take good care of me,” said Tia cradling my abdomen.

“Yes, I will,” I said soothing my stepdaughter, “In fact, I gave a third boner coming up….”

I kissed my stepdaughter violently on her lips.

No one knows what happened to this gold digger…

[screaminglygay]

No way back

pairing: natasha romanoff x reader

summary: you and natasha joined S.H.I.E.L.D. at the same time, but you're the only one who feels truly at home. while you find your footing, natasha struggles with the unfamiliarity of it all - new people, new rules, and the overwhelming sense that she doesn’t quite belong, but you try your best to make her feel like she´s at home

warnings: slow burn, teasing, kissing, fighting, swearing, light angst, overthinking, Natasha feeling out of place, mentions of a brother's passing, emotional vulnerability

word count: 9.6k

an: thank you for the request!! i had fun writing it, once again sorry it took me forever, the next two parts will be even more angsty!!

part one I part two I part three

The air in the S.H.I.E.L.D. training facility was thick with unspoken words. Conversations lowered to hushed tones whenever she walked past. The few who didn’t bother whispering let their disapproval show in glances, in the way their shoulders stiffened when she entered a room.

Natasha Romanoff was used to isolation. But this? This was different. It wasn’t just suspicion, it was hatred.

The KGB had collapsed, and the Red Room along with it. She was one of the lucky few who got a second chance, but the agents here didn’t see it that way. To them, she wasn’t just a recruit, she was an enemy, a traitor, a remnant of something they wanted erased. They didn’t see a woman trying to rebuild herself, only the ghost of something they despised.

And yet, there was you.

Bright-eyed and eager, just another fresh recruit with no bloodstained history weighing you down. You weren’t a Widow. You weren’t special. But you were kind. And unlike everyone else, you didn’t look at her like she was something vile.

Natasha noticed it from the start, the way your gaze didn’t linger with wariness, the way your voice didn’t lower when she was near. And when she entered the training room that afternoon, she noticed you again.

The training mats were filled with recruits testing their combat skills. You were off to the side, holding pads for another agent, excitement lighting up your features as you explained something with your hands moving animatedly.

Natasha didn’t care for small talk, but something about the way you smiled… so open, so easy, made her pause.

Moments later, she was called up for testing. Evaluating abilities, strengths, weaknesses. Seeing where she fit. She knew how they expected her to perform, like a ruthless machine. So she did. She made quick work of her opponents, every strike precise, efficient. No wasted movement. No hesitation. When she finally stepped off the mat, there was silence. Not admiration, not respect, just discomfort. A reminder that she wasn’t one of them.

And then you spoke.

"That was insane." Your voice cut through the tension, bright and impressed, not a hint of unease. "How the hell did you move like that?"

Natasha blinked. People didn’t usually direct questions at her unless they had to.

You took her silence as an invitation to continue, unfazed. "I mean, I know it’s years of training and all, but-" you gestured vaguely, still catching your breath from your own sparring match. "That was like some ninja stuff ."

She just stared, unsure what to do with the unexpected enthusiasm directed her way. You were still looking at her, waiting, expecting an answer. No hostility, no apprehension.

She exhaled sharply. "Practice."

You grinned. "Yeah? Guess I should be practicing a hell of a lot more, then." You chuckle. You are not a bad at this, no. You are fast and quick, but these moves, that Natasha made… they were something else.

Natasha almost smirked, but before she could respond, your instructor called for a break. The recruits scattered, finding their usual groups.

She didn’t have one. She was used to sitting alone. It didn’t bother her.

But then-

"Hey, uh, you good?" Your voice again. You were standing in front of her now, holding two water bottles, offering one out. "You kinda just wrecked everyone, figured you might need this."

She eyed the bottle warily before taking it. "Thanks."

You sat down beside her without invitation, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Natasha waited for the hesitation, the awkward excuse to leave, but it didn’t come.

After many days of training, it became more harsher and more exhausting, you knew it was S.H.I.E.L.D. testing you, trying to sort just the best one, but it was a lot, but not for her, at least it didn´t look like it.

Natasha sat in the corner of the training room, carefully adjusting the bandages wrapped around her hand. It wasn’t a bad injury, just a scrape from earlier drills, but the fabric had stuck to the wound. She barely reacted to the discomfort, her expression cold as ever.

You noticed, though. "Hey, looks like that’s stuck. You need help?" you asked, crouching beside her.

Natasha didn’t even look up. "No."

You grinned, undeterred. "I wasn’t really asking." Before she could pull away, you were already untying the bandages with quick, precise fingers. The fabric peeled away from her skin, and Natasha finally looked at you, her sharp green eyes studying you, not with anger, but with something closer to surprise. She didn’t say anything. Just watched.

"There," you said, satisfied. "That’s better, right?"

Natasha flexed her fingers slightly, testing. "I suppose."

You took that as a win.

From that moment, you made it your mission to include Natasha, whether she wanted it or not. It wasn’t hard, everyone at S.H.I.E.L.D. liked you. You were warm, helpful, and easy to talk to. Even the most hardened agents softened in your presence. But when it came to Natasha, people kept their distance, speaking in hushed tones when she passed by, leaving her to sit alone during briefings.

You weren’t having it.

Every conversation, every briefing, every group training, if you were there, you made sure Natasha was a part of it. When you laughed at a joke, you turned to see if she was listening. When you partnered up for drills, you dragged her into the mix. If she tried to stay in the background, you pulled her forward. At first, people didn’t know what to do with it. Some just stared. Some whispered. But you? You smiled at Natasha like she was just another teammate, not the ex-KGB assassin everyone was afraid of. And eventually, even if she didn’t say it, you could tell, she appraciated it.

She appraciate you.

You weren’t exactly sure when things started to shift. Maybe it was during that one mission, the first time you and Natasha had to rely on each other for real. A simple recon op that went sideways, forcing you and her to fight back-to-back. It was the first time she saw you as more than just the kind recruit who wouldn’t leave her alone. The first time she saw that you could handle yourself.

By the time you both got back to base, bruised but victorious, something had changed. It wasn’t big, not yet. Just small moments.

The way Natasha sat closer during briefings, the way her gaze lingered when you spoke. Like she was watching, waiting, trying to figure you out.

So you decided to push things a little further, trying to make her feel more… comfortable and safe. Make her feel more like she belongs here.

"Come with me," you said one evening, right after dinner.

Natasha raised a brow. "Where?"

"The shooting range." You said simply.

She studied you for a long moment. "At this hour? There won’t be anyone else."

"Nope," you grinned. "Just us. I wanted to see the real things you can do with a gun. And I want you to teach me."

Natasha folded her arms, the corner of her lips twitching. "You don’t think it’s- "

"Scary?" you interrupted. "No. Badass? Yup."

She blinked, surprised, before shaking her head with something dangerously close to amusement. "You’re ridiculous."

"And you’re avoiding the question." You smiled at her, knowing she will say yes, but won´t go down without looking like a scary person.

Which is funny, because not even after bunch of stories you heard, not a single time did you think she was scary. Interesting and strong, definetly, but never scary.

Natasha sighed, but there was no real resistance. She stood up, rolling her shoulders. "Fine. But don’t embarrass yourself."

You grinned. "No promises."

The range was quiet at night, the fluorescent lights casting a cool glow over the empty stalls. You handed Natasha a pistol, watching as she inspected it with the kind of precision that could only come from years of training.

"So, what do you wanna learn?" she asked, slipping into that calm, focused state that made her so lethal in the field.

You thought about it for a second. "Everything."

Natasha let out a short laugh, a real one. "That’s ambitious."

"You´re good with guns, so…"

Her expression faltered, just for a second. She wasn’t used to compliments. Not the genuine kind. But she recovered quickly, loading the gun and placing it in your hands.

"Alright then," she murmured, stepping behind you. "Let’s start with your grip."

Her hands covered yours, adjusting your fingers, pressing against your back to fix your stance. Her touch was careful but firm, her voice smooth as she explained each movement. You weren’t sure if it was the warmth of her body so close or the sheer focus in her tone, but your pulse quickened.

And when you fired the first shot, dead center on the target, you swore you heard a quiet hum of approval.

"Not bad," Natasha admitted.

You smirked. "Told you I wouldn’t embarrass myself. But why is the grip so important? It´s just the shot, no?"

She rolled her eyes, but this time, she didn’t pull away so fast. "Is your gun loaded?"

"No. I had only one bullet in-" before you could finish that sentence, Natasha not so harshly bumped into your wrist and the gun you were holding fell easily down. "Oh… I see now." You turned your head so you can look at her, you smiled a bit, even though you can feel your heart in your throat.

After that bonding the smiles started. They weren’t much at first - hesitant, uncertain - but they were there. Agents who once ignored her were now nodding in acknowledgment. Some even started greeting her by name. It wasn’t lost on Natasha that this shift had everything to do with you.

You had always been easy to like, weaving yourself effortlessly into the cracks of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s cold walls. You helped agents with their reports, sparred with them without making it a competition, and always - always - made sure Natasha was included.

At first, people didn’t know how to react. They weren’t sure if you were just being polite or if you really meant it. But then, in the middle of a late-night training session, you made sure to give Natasha the credit, she didn´t think was even there.

"Damn, how did you pull that off?" one of the agents asked after you had effortlessly flipped them onto the mat.

You grinned, wiping sweat from your forehead. "Natasha taught me." Silence. A few skeptical glances were exchanged. "…Romanoff?" someone finally muttered.

"Yeah," you said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

For a moment, no one knew what to say. But then, one of the agents turned to Natasha, hesitant but genuinely curious. "Wait… you actualy train others?"

Natasha, who had been leaning against the wall watching the interaction unfold, tilted her head slightly. "When I feel like it."

You rolled your eyes. "Don’t listen to her. She does and she’s actually great at it."

A few agents exchanged glances before someone hesitantly asked, "Can you show us?"

Natasha hesitated. It wasn’t fear. It was just… unfamiliar. People looking at her with interest instead of distrust.

You gave her a little nudge. "C’mon, show off a little." And once again you chuckle, pushing Natasha´s buttons a bit more. Making her open more and show others, that she´s not so cold and scary looking lady.

A beat passed. Then, Natasha sighed and stepped forward. "Fine."

That was the moment everything truly changed. The next few weeks, more agents started joining in. What started as casual observations turned into genuine respect. They saw how skilled she was, how efficient her movements were.

"Oh my god, who taught you that?" someone asked you after another sparring session.

"Natasha did," you answered with a smirk.

And instead of the usual shock or discomfort, the response was different this time. "Damn," one agent muttered. "She’s really good."

"She really is," another admitted.

It was subtle, but Natasha noticed it. The way people started sitting next to her in meetings. The way conversations didn’t immediately die when she entered a room. The way people started listening. For the first time since joining S.H.I.E.L.D., she didn’t feel like an outsider, at least not that much, she felt like this could really be a new beggining for her.

As the days comes by Natasha finally catch you after a training, finally being able to talk to you properly. The gym was empty now, except for the two of you. Sweat clung to your skin, muscles sore from sparring, but neither of you seemed in a hurry to leave today. Natasha had been improving fast, not just physically, but in how she carried herself around the others. She was more comfortable now, less guarded. It was something you had noticed gradually, and honestly, you were proud of her.

That’s why it caught you off guard when she suddenly said, "Thanks."

You blinked. "For what?"

Natasha exhaled, running a hand through her damp hair before leaning against the wall. "For making me look friendly. Helping me fit in."

You shook your head with a small smile. "Zero idea what you’re talking about."

She shot you a dry look. "Oh, shut up."

You chuckled. "That was all you, Nat. They just needed a little push. So did you."

Natasha didn’t argue with that. She let the words settle between you before glancing down at her hands, quiet for a long moment. Then, almost hesitantly, she said, "I don’t blame them, you know."

You frowned at her, letting her speak.

"The others. For being wary of me." She sighed. "I was trained in the Red Room. Worked for the KGB. I know what people like me have done." She hesitated, then her voice dropped slightly. "I know what I’ve done, I know who I am..."

She didn’t say it, but you heard the word she left unsaid.

Monster.

Your chest ached for her.

"We all make mistakes," you said softly. "But you’re here for a reason, aren’t you? You want to change. To do something good. What happened… happened. You can’t change the past, but you can choose who you want to be."

Natasha let out a breath, something shifting in her expression. "You ate a wisdom, hm?" she muttered.

You grinned, "that’s my daily bread."

A small chuckle escaped her lips, quiet but real. It was rare to hear her laugh, but when she did, it was worth it.

After that, things between you and Natasha just… clicked. Wherever she was, you weren’t far behind. And wherever you were, she was right there with you. People started joking about it. "If we need to find Romanoff, just look for (Y/N)."

"I swear, they come as a set," another agent laughed at that.

You started doing things together outside of training. Natasha would drag you to the shooting range at odd hours, testing out different weapons while you tried (and often failed) to match her skill. In return, you convinced her to join you in normal, non-mission-related activities - grabbing coffee, watching movies, playing pool in the rec room.

And then there were the missions. You worked better together than anyone expected. It was seamless, almost instinctive. The way you covered each other’s backs, how one glance was enough to understand what the other was thinking. You weren’t just teammates. You were a duo.

Time goes by, and it was the one-year celebration of you being in S.H.I.E.L.D. The same goes for Natasha. The party was in full swing, the usually serious S.H.I.E.L.D agents actually let loose, drinks in hand, music a little too loud for a facility, and even the higher-ups seem to have abandoned their usual stiff posture. For once, the atmosphere was light, warm. You had a good time, chatting with everyone, laughing at dumb jokes, even letting yourself get a little tipsy.

But even you had limits, your social battery is wearing thin, and the heat of the crowded room got to you. So, without much thought, you slipped out of the main hall and made your way up the stairs, pushing open the door to the training center’s rooftop. The night air was cool against your skin, refreshing after the stuffy warmth of the party. The city lights stretched out in the distance, flickering like a thousand little stars, and you sighed, leaning against the railing.

Peace. At least for a moment.

Because not long after, the door creaked open again. You didn´t have to turn around to know who it was. Natasha stepped forward, her footsteps light, almost silent. She stopped beside you, resting her arms on the railing. You glanced at her, she looked the same as always, calm, composed.

"You’re not drunk," you observed.

She huffed out something like a chuckle. "Of course not."

"Why? Afraid of letting loose?" you teased, nudging her with your elbow.

She didn´t respond immediately, just watched the city below. Then, with a small shrug, she said, "I grew up in Russia. Tolerance to alcohol is kind of in my blood."

You raised an eyebrow. "Then why you’re not even slightly tipsy?"

"Would take a hell of a lot more than what they’re serving in there," she said, nodding towards the party. "It’s a little pathetic, honestly."

You laughed softly, shaking your head.

"Maybe I should teach you... you look like you would need it," she teased.

"Excuse you, I have some tolerance." You glanced at her, "besides I did have my own growing up experience with drinking."

Natasha looked at you, silent, waiting.

"My brother taught me how to drink," you chuckled, "at least tried to." You exhaled, looking down at your hands. “His names is Thomas.” A pause. “Was.”

She didn´t say anything, but she turned fully toward you, giving you her full attention.

"He was in the Navy," you continued. "One of the best. Smart, strong… better than me in everything, really. But he was also the kind of guy who couldn’t sit back if someone needed help." You took a breath. "There was an accident. A mission gone wrong. He saved his teammate… but he didn’t make it."

You swallowed, feeling the familiar ache in your chest. Even after all this time, it didn´t go away. It´s the alcohol that made your shiny personality, to get a little cloudy.

Natasha was still quiet, but she watched you with something soft in her expression. Understanding.

"That’s why I trained," you said finally. "Why I kept pushing myself. My biggest dream was to work for the CIA, actually." You chuckled, shaking your head. "And I almost made it. Passed all the tests, was about to get in, until a guy with one eye came in and basically stole me."

Natasha’s lips quirked. "Fury?"

You nodded, "Fury."

There was a comfortable silence between you after that. Just the sound of the wind, the faint music from the party below, and the distant hum of the city.

Then, quietly, Natasha said, "I’m sorry about your brother."

You glanced at her, giving her a small smile. "Yeah. Me too."

Another beat of silence. Then, in a rare, quiet admission, she added, "He sounds like a nice guy."

You chuckled, tilting your head. "He would’ve liked you."

Natasha raised an eyebrow, "even though I’m Russian?"

You nudged her shoulder. "Even though you’re Russian." It was very easy to talk to you, to joke with you and to let her guards down, she liked this... she liked spending time with you.

You let out a soft chuckle, leaning your elbows on the railing as you gaze out over the cityscape. The cool night air does little to sober you up, but you didn´t mind the warmth in your cheeks. It was a nice buzz, one that made you loosen up, talk more freely.

"He actually was really into women who could take care of themselves," you said suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence between you and Natasha. "His captain was a woman. I remember how head over heels he was for her… it was crazy. He was thirteen again, having a crush like a little boy."

You laughed at the memory, shaking your head. "I swear, he would talk about her like she walked on water. All serious and professional when she was around, but then the second she left? He’d go on and on about how badass she was."

Natasha chuckled at your rambling, a rare amusement flickering in her expression. You were slightly tipsy, your words a little looser than usual, but she didn´t mind. There was something… nice about it. About you just talking, sharing pieces of your life like they were meant to be told.

She watched as you grin to yourself, your fingers absentmindedly tracing the railing. There was a soft flush to your cheeks, not just from the alcohol, but from the warmth of the memory. It made her hesitate, just for a moment, before she spoke.

"I get it," Natasha finally said, exhaling softly. "Having someone you admire like that."

You glanced at her, intrigued. "Yeah?" And Natasha just hummed.

After few minutes of just silence once again, her gaze fell back on the city. “I had a sister.” A pause. "Have a sister."

Your head tilted slightly, your attention sharpening. "You do?"

Natasha nodded again. "Yelena. She’s younger than me. Stubborn as hell, always had something to prove." A small, almost fond smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "We grew up together… well, as much as we could. The Red Room didn’t exactly allow for normal childhoods."

You didn´t push, just let her talk, sensing the weight of her words.

"I haven’t seen her in years," Natasha continued, fingers flexing slightly against the railing. "Not since I left." There’s a flicker of something in her expression - guilt, longing. "I don’t even know where she is. If she’s okay. But I still think about her."

You were quiet for a moment, letting her words settle between you. Then, gently, you asked, "What was she like? Back then?"

Natasha exhaled a short laugh. "A menace."

You grined at that. "Sounds about right for a younger sibling."

"She always had this way of getting under my skin," Natasha admited, shaking her head slightly. "Always trying to prove she could be better, faster, stronger. But she was also… kind. Not in the traditional way, but in the way that mattered. She cared… deeply. Even when she tried to hide it."

You watched Natasha’s expression shift, soft in a way you don’t see often. It was different from her usual guarded demeanor, there was something raw in it. Something real.

"I hope she’s okay," Natasha murmured.

You reached out, hesitating for only a second before gently placing your hand on hers. "If she’s anything like you, I’d bet she is."

Natasha looked at you then, her green eyes flickering at your hand on hers, then back at you. But after a moment, she just huffed out a quiet breath, shaking her head. "You’re really bad at this whole tough S.H.I.E.L.D. agent thing, you know?" she said.

You grined, "yeah, well. Someone’s gotta balance you out."

She didn´t argue. Instead, she just let out another soft chuckle, turning her gaze back toward the city. And for a while, the two of you just stayed like that. Side by side, watching the world move below, the weight of past and present settling comfortably between you.

One second, you were just standing there, glancing at Natasha, enjoying her presence - the next, her lips were on yours. Soft. Warm.

A little hesitant at first, like she wasn’t sure she should be doing this, but then firmer, more certain.

Your breath hitched, heart slamming against your ribs as your brain caught up with what was happening. Natasha Romanoff - Natasha - was kissing you.

And then, just as suddenly as it started, she pulled away, eyes wide, looking more startled than you felt. "Oh, shit," she breathed. "I- I didn’t mean to-"

You blinked at her, still processing, still feeling the ghost of her lips on yours. Butteflies flying everywhere.

"I mean, I did, but I- I don’t know why I-" She took a half-step back, running a hand over her face. "That was- I wasn’t thinking, I just-"

She was spiraling. Natasha Romanoff was spiraling. And honestly? It was kind of adorable.

You grinned, heart still racing, but in the best way. "Nat."

"I shouldn’t have-"

"Natasha."

She shut up, blinking at you.

"Don’t apologize," you said softly, still feeling the warmth of her lips lingering on yours. "That was nice."

She blinked again. "Nice?"

"Very nice." You nodded and as Natasha looked at you fully so she could notice the blush on your cheeks. Knowing very well it wasn´t from the alcohol.

Her brows furrowed, like her brain was still struggling to process the fact that you weren’t mad, weren’t pulling away. "But I just- I didn’t even ask, I just-"

"Yeah, I noticed," you teased, a giddy little laugh bubbling up. "Not that I’m complaining."

Natasha groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. "This is not how I wanted to do this."

You tilted your head, biting back a smile. "Oh? So you wanted to kiss me?"

Her lips parted, then closed, then parted again. "I- That’s not- I mean-"

You couldn’t help it. You laughed. A bright, breathless, happy sound.

"I knew it," you teased, poking her arm.

Natasha scowled, but the way her ears were turning pink betrayed her, "you did?"

"Nope, but I wanted you to do it so badly, so… manifestation." You smiled widely at her.

"You’re insufferable," she muttered, though there was no real heat behind it.

"And you just kissed me," you pointed out, grinning.

She groaned again, looking up at the sky like it might save her. You just smiled, reaching for her hand and giving it a small squeeze.

"Hey," you said softly. She looked at you, and there was still a little hesitation there, a little uncertainty.

You squeezed her hand again. "This is nice," you repeated, gentler this time. "You are nice. To me. And that’s all that matters."

Natasha stared at you for a long moment, like she was still trying to find a way out of this. But then, finally, finally, she let out a breath. "You’re really something else," she murmured, shaking her head.

You grinned. "Took you long enough to figure that out."

She rolled her eyes, but she didn’t let go of your hand.

…

From the moment that kiss happened on the rooftop, something between you and Natasha changed.

Not in a way that was overwhelming or scary - no, it was easy, like flipping a switch that was waiting to be turned on. You still trained together, ate lunch at the same table, sat beside each other in meetings, but now there was an added something to it all. A kind of warmth, a softness.

Like how Natasha would nudge your arm when she passed by, or how she’d steal your drink without asking, giving you a smirk when you huffed at her. Or how she’d lean into your side when you sat next to each other, casually draping her arm over the back of your chair, fingers sometimes brushing your shoulder absentmindedly.

Little things. Easy things.

Dating Natasha Romanoff was surprisingly not some impossible, larger-than-life thing. It was waking up and getting coffee together before morning drills, where she’d always roll her eyes but still make sure you had your favorite one.

It was stealing quick, hidden moments in hallways when no one was looking, Natasha rolling her eyes at how obvious you were, only to pull you in for a kiss when she thought no one was around. It was training together, still pushing each other, but now with teasing smirks and stolen kisses. It was, you had to admit, kind of perfect.

Natasha was perfect. And everyone was noticing.

Once word got out, because of course it got out, that you, arguably the kindest person in S.H.I.E.L.D., chose Natasha, something shifted in how people treated her.

Not in a bad way, though.

Before, people had been friendly enough, mostly because you kept bringing Natasha into group activities and conversations, but there had always been a kind of caution. A distance. They still saw her as Black Widow, the woman who had red in her ledger, who had a history drenched in violence.

But now?

Now, people looked at her differently.

If you, the person who always went out of their way to help others, who saw the best in everyone, liked Natasha, then maybe she wasn’t someone to be feared. Maybe she deserved a second chance. And Natasha? Oh, she noticed.

People started smiling at her more in the hallways.

They started asking for her help with things - small tasks, not only minor training exercises, more little things they never would have approached her for before.

And the flirting?

The flirting was insane.

It was like the moment people saw Natasha through your eyes, they realized she wasn’t just a deadly assassin… she was hot.

You’d never seen her ego this big before. Training days became something else entirely.

"Alright, everyone, partner up." Maria Hill, Fury´s right hand yelled, so everyone can hear her.

Immediately, half the room turned to Natasha. You watched as agents practically scrambled to be the first to get to her, some subtly and not so subtly bumping into each other in their rush. Natasha smirked.

"Oh," she mused, glancing at you from across the room. "Guess I’m popular now."

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms. "You’re impossible." Not thinking about it as a big deal.

She gave you a smug little smile, tilting her head. "Jealous?" You scoffed, trying not to let her entirely correct assumption show on your face.

She chuckled, then turns to some random rookie, “sorry, but I already have a partner," she said simply, jerking her head toward you.

The rookie looked both disappointed and terrified.

You, however, were fighting back a grin. She is yours and you are hers.

Natasha made her way over, stopping just in front of you. "You don’t mind, do you?"

You huffed, "like you’d let me say no."

She smirked, leaning in just enough for her voice to drop, “exactly."

You swallowed, because god, she knew what she was doing.

"Alright, alright," Maria called, clapping her hands. "Let’s get started."

You were going to kill her.

Or kiss her.

Possibly both.

And Natasha? She knew exactly what she was doing.

After training wrapped up, you and Natasha made your way to the locker room. The adrenaline was still thrumming in your veins, your body buzzing with the remnants of sparring.

Or maybe it was just her. Who knows?

Natasha was grinning, that signature, smug little smirk plastered on her lips as she leaned against the lockers with her arms crossed. "See how much people wanted to spar with me today?" she teased, tilting her head as she looked at you.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. "Oh, please. It was a little desperate if you ask me."

Natasha gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest. "Desperate? They chose me.”

You huffed, turning away to open your locker. "Yeah, well, I think I’m gonna have to start charging them if they want to breathe the same air as my girlfriend." There was a tiny hint of jealousy and of course she noticed it.

Natasha let out a delighted laugh. "Oh? So I’m yours now?"

You turned to her, lifting a brow. "You were always mine."

That shut her up, momentarily.

Then, she grinned, stepping closer. "Oh, is someone turning green?"

You turned away quickly, but Natasha was faster. Before you could even think of hiding, she had you pinned against the lockers, her hands firm on either side of your head as she leaned in.

"I think you are," she murmured, her lips brushing against yours as she spoke.

"I am not," you mumbled, though your resolve was very quickly dissolving.

Natasha chuckled. "Mhm." And then she kissed you. It was soft at first, just a slow, teasing press of her lips against yours. Then, it grew deeper, her hands sliding down to your waist, pulling you closer. You sighed against her mouth, your hands moving to cup her face, fingers tracing the curve of her jaw.

She was being so affectionate. Touching you like she needed to, kissing you like she wanted to pour everything she felt into you. When she pulled back, just enough to look into your eyes, you found yourself whispering, "We’re together… together."

She smiled, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth. "We are…" Another kiss to your cheek, "…together." Another to your jaw, "…which is why you should move in with me."

You blinked, your mind short-circuiting. "Wait. What?"

She pulled back slightly, her hands still on your waist. "Move in with me."

You stared at her.

She tilted her head. "What?"

You blinked again. "You just said- wait. Are you serious?"

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Of course I’m serious. We basically spend all our time together anyway."

You hesitated, your heart pounding. "But we-"

"You want to." She grinned, leaning in again, her lips brushing over yours. "I know you do."

You huffed, narrowing your eyes at her. "…I hate how well you know me."

She smirked, "so?"

You sighed, dramatically, "fine."

"Fine? Just fine?" She can´t help, but chuckle again.

You chuckled as well, "fine, I’ll move in."

Natasha grinned, "good," and then she kissed you again.

The only thing left to do was tell Fury. So you did the next day, since the word travels fast in this facility. You weren’t nervous, per se, but still… this was Fury. You stood in front of his desk, back straight, hands clasped behind you. Natasha was waiting outside, mostly because she didn’t want to hear Fury’s inevitable sarcasm firsthand.

Fury looked at you over the rim of his coffee cup, unimpressed. "You want to what?"

"Move in with agent Romanoff, sir."

He blinked, setting his cup down, "you’re already living in headquarters."

"Yes, sir."

"And now you want to live together?"

"…Yes, sir."

He exhaled through his nose, rubbing his temple. "I’m happy for you." He said that with total blank expression, so it was hard to tell if he meant it or not.

You blinked, "wait, really?"

"But," Fury continued, leveling you with a look, "don’t you dare let it affect your work."

You swallowed, “it won’t, sir."

"You and Romanoff are my top agents," he said firmly. "I don’t have time for relationship drama messing with my missions. So don’t you dare."

You straightened, "I understand. Don’t worry, sir."

Fury eyed you for a moment before sighing. "Good. Now get out of my office."

You tried not to smile as you turned on your heel and walked out.

Natasha was waiting in the hallway, arms crossed. "Well?"

You grinned. "He said yes."

"Told you he would" Natasha smirked.

You rolled your eyes, nudging her. "Come on, roomie."

She chuckled, draping an arm over your shoulders as you walked away together. Words can´t describe how happy you felt, in this moment… there is nothing more you wish for, maybe more free time, but you´re not gonna push Fury´s buttons. Not yet at least

Each morning from that moment the first thing you registered was warmth. The second was the scent of Natasha, something sweet and faintly floral, mixed with the crispness of freshly washed sheets. The third was movement. Something was shifting beside you, and before you could even react, a hand brushed over your hair, fingers lightly threading through it.

"Mhm," you grumbled, burying your face deeper into the pillow.

A chuckle, "good morning, sweetheart."

You groaned in response, curling further into the blankets.

"Come on, wake up." Natasha’s voice was far too cheerful for this time of day.

You pried one eye open, glaring at her, or at least, attempting to. It probably looked more like a squint. "It’s six in the morning."

"It is."

"Six, Natasha." Ugh. How you hated mornings, early mornings to be exact.

"I heard you the first time."

You groaned again, flopping onto your back and rubbing your face. "This is cruel. I thought you liked me."

Natasha laughed, stretching her arms above her head, the muscles in her back flexing beneath the soft fabric of her tank top. "I do like you."

You pouted up at her. "Then why are you waking me up at an ungodly hour?"

She grinned, leaning on her elbow beside you. "Because you’re adorable when you’re grumpy."

You narrowed your eyes at her, "I hate you." And you mumble something else.

"No, you don’t," she poked your cheek. "But everyone should see this. Our lovely, happy, kind little sunshine is currently wishing me all the worst just because I woke her up."

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. "That is not true," maybe it was… a little.

"Oh?" Natasha teased, nudging you playfully. "What was it you just mumbled? Something about me rotting in hell?"

You peeked at her through your fingers, "…maybe."

She laughed, and God, it was the best sound in the world. Even though it´s six in the morning, you don´t really mind the reason you´re awake now.

"You’re an agent, baby," she said, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

"Not in the next five minutes," you mumbled, reaching for her hand and intertwining your fingers with hers, "Cuddles?"

Natasha let out a dramatic sigh, "fine, but only for five minutes."

You grinned sleepily, tugging her down into your arms. She didn’t resist, in fact, she melted into you, resting her head against your chest, her fingers idly tracing shapes against your arm.

"This is nice," she murmured.

You hummed, pressing a lazy kiss to the top of her head, "told you."

She chuckled, pressing a kiss to your collarbone. "Alright, I’ll admit it. You might have been right."

"Might have been?" You smirked at her.

She sighed, "alright, fine, you were right."

You grinned triumphantly, hugging her tighter. Natasha chuckled, tilting her head up to look at you. Her green eyes softened, and she reached up to brush her thumb over your cheek.

"I love you," she murmured.

Oh my god.

For a moment, all you could do was stare. Your sleep-addled brain scrambled to catch up, to process that Natasha Romanoff had just said I love you for the first time. The room was still, the only sound the quiet hum of the air conditioning and the soft rustling of the sheets as Natasha shifted slightly beside you. Your heart pounded against your ribs, like it knew the weight of those words before your brain could fully register them. She had said it so softly, so easily, like she wasn’t even afraid of it. Like it wasn’t some impossible, unreachable thing.

Natasha looked at you, her green eyes searching yours, and for the second time ever, she looked nervous. Like she thought maybe she had messed up. Like she thought maybe you wouldn’t say it back. Which was insane, because of course you would.

Of course, you did.

"Say it again," you whispered, barely realizing the words had left your mouth.

Natasha blinked. "What?"

"Say it again." Your voice was a little stronger this time, but still breathless, like you’d just been hit with a wave of something so big it knocked the air from your lungs.

Natasha's lips twitched into the faintest smile. And then quieter, but with no less certainty-

"I love you."

Something in your chest burst. You let out a breathless, almost disbelieving laugh, before grabbing her face and kissing her senseless. Natasha let out a surprised sound but melted into it instantly, her arms winding around your waist as if she had been waiting for this exact moment. When you finally pulled back, just enough to look at her, you were grinning like an absolute fool.

"You-" You shook your head, pressing another quick kiss to her lips, "you love me."

"I do." Natasha’s voice was amused now, a little lighter, a little happier.

"You love me," you repeated, as if testing the words in your mouth.

Natasha chuckled. "Is that really so surprising?"

"Yes! No! I mean-" You laughed again, completely overwhelmed, "I just- God, I love you so much."

Natasha's expression softened, and you swore you saw her eyes shine just a little. "Yeah?" she murmured.

"Yeah," you breathed. "So much."

She smiled, the kind of smile that made your knees weak, even though you were already lying down.

Since Natasha had told you she loved you, everything had been amazing. She had never been an overly affectionate person before, but now? Now she was. She kissed you in the hallways of S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters.. She pulled you into her lap when you both sat on the couch, arms wrapped around you like she needed to physically anchor herself to you. She always, always held your hand whenever you were walking together.

She made you feel loved. And in return, you loved her hard. You loved her with your touch, with the way you reached for her first thing in the morning, still groggy but always needing her close. You loved her with your words, whispering soft things against her skin late at night, telling her all the reasons she was good, she was worthy. You loved her with your patience, never pushing when she got quiet, never demanding more than she was ready to give.

But still…

Still, something lingered in her.

Although things were better, although she had you and people were being nicer, there was something inside her that just wouldn't settle. A restlessness. Some nights, when you were fast asleep, Natasha would sit at the edge of the bed and just watch you. She would grip the blanket tight in her fists, pressing the fabric to her face just so she could smell you, so she could drown herself in something warm, something real.

She didn’t know why she did it. Or maybe she did.

Maybe it was because she was still trying to believe it.

Trying to believe that this was real. That you were real. That the love you gave her wasn’t something temporary, wasn’t something that would be ripped away the moment she blinked too long. She wanted to believe she belonged here. That this - this bed, this warmth, this person - was home.

But… what was home, really?

The Red Room? Moscow? The cold walls of S.H.I.E.L.D.? The battlefield?

Was she the assassin, the spy, the Black Widow capable of having a home?

Sometimes, she would stare at you, watching the way your lips would part slightly when you slept, the way your brows would furrow if she shifted too much.

And she would wonder… does she love the real me?

The real her. The one with blood-stained hands. The one who had taken lives, who had done horrible things. The one who, despite everything, still questioned whether she was anything more than a killer. Maybe you loved the version of her that you saw. The one who teased you in the mornings, who kissed you breathless in empty hallways, who pulled you into her arms without hesitation.

Maybe you loved that Natasha.

But what about the other one?

What about the Natasha who had once followed orders without question? The Natasha who had ended lives with a steady hand and an empty heart? The Natasha who still, even now, sometimes felt like she was nothing more than a weapon?

Did you love her, too?

Would you still love her if you knew, if you really knew, what she had done?

She didn't know. And she was scared to find out.

So after some time she just thought that faking till you make it sounded like a great idea. It started small. The lingering glances. The playful smirks. The way Natasha would lean in just a little too close when someone was talking to her, her eyes sharp and inviting in a way that made people stumble over their words.

At first, you brushed it off.

You knew Natasha. You knew she wasn’t the type to cheat, not even close. But it was hard to ignore how much she entertained it. The winks she threw back. The way she’d chuckle at comments that were a little too flirtatious. The way she let people’s hands linger on her arm or shoulder when they spoke.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. That it was just her way of fitting in, showing people she wasn’t the cold, untouchable Black Widow they once thought she was.

And you got it. You did. For so long, she had felt unwanted, feared, alone.

And now, for the first time, people were seeing her differently. They were choosing her. Not because she was a weapon or a threat, but because they liked her.

And it made her feel… valued.

So you let it go.

Until you couldn’t.

It was one night in your shared room, Natasha sitting at the small desk while cleaning one of her knives, humming softly to herself. You sat on the bed, playing with the hem of your shirt, thoughts swirling too fast in your mind.

"Nat?"

She hummed in response but didn’t look up.

You took a breath. "I love you."

That made her pause. Her hands stilled, and she turned her head to look at you, brows furrowing slightly. "I know," she said softly with a small smile.

But you weren’t really saying it to her. You were saying it to yourself. Like some kind of reassurance. A desperate attempt to convince yourself that everything was okay. That she loved you… that she wanted you.

That this didn’t mean anything. Because it didn’t, right? But still, something gnawed at you. Something bitter and heavy, curling in your stomach, whispering thoughts you didn’t want to listen to.

Am I enough?

Maybe the others were more fun. Maybe they weren’t as serious. Maybe they made her laugh more.Maybe they didn’t come with the weight of whispered confessions in the dark, the burden of knowing all her scars, inside and out. Maybe it was easier with them.

Maybe-

"Hey," Natasha’s voice pulled you back, soft but firm. She was kneeling in front of you now, her hands gently resting on your thighs, brows drawn together in concern, "what’s wrong?”

You swallowed, shaking your head, "nothing."

She didn’t believe you. Of course, she didn’t. She tilted her head slightly, studying you the way she did when analyzing an opponent in a fight, like she was picking apart every little movement, every hesitation, every weakness. "Talk to me," she said quietly.

And you wanted to. You really wanted to.

But how could you?

How could you tell her that while she was struggling with believing she belonged, you were struggling with believing you were enough? You sighed, rubbing your palms over your face. "It’s nothing serious. I’ve just been overthinking a lot."

Natasha didn’t move from her spot in front of you, still kneeling, her hands now tracing slow circles over your thighs. "Overthinking what?"

You hesitated. You weren’t lying, not really. But you weren’t saying everything either. Because if you did, if you voiced all the thoughts racing through your mind it might make them real.

So instead, you forced a small smile, shaking your head. "Just… if what I’m doing now is enough."

Natasha’s brows furrowed. "Enough?"

You exhaled, "like… as an agent, as a person, in-" Your voice wavered. "In us." It slipped out.

Her grip on you tightened slightly. "Of course, you’re enough." And the way she said it, so fiercely, so certainly, made your chest ache. She shifted, lifting herself up to sit beside you on the bed, her hand finding yours. "What’s making you feel this way?"

You shrugged, staring down at your intertwined fingers. "I don’t know. I think it’s just… everything."

Natasha was quiet for a moment, and you could almost see the gears turning in her head, the way her mind dissected every little piece of information you gave her. Finally, she sighed, leaning in and pressing her lips softly to your temple. "I love you," she murmured against your skin.

It sent a warmth through your chest, but it didn’t erase the lingering thoughts completely.

And maybe Natasha knew that.

Maybe that’s why, as she pulled back, she searched your face so intently, as if trying to see past whatever walls you were keeping up.

But then something shifted in her own expression. Something almost unreadable. She glanced away, exhaling slowly.

And that’s when you realized-

She was thinking, too.

Overthinking.

You squeezed her hand. "Nat?"

She didn’t answer right away, staring at a spot on the floor like it had the answers to something she didn’t even know how to ask. "I just…" she started, but then shook her head, letting out a quiet laugh that lacked any humor.

"Now you’re overthinking," you pointed out gently.

Natasha exhaled, rubbing the back of her neck. "Yeah, well… you’re not the only one who does it."

Your brows knit together. "What are you overthinking?"

Her lips pressed into a thin line. And for the first time in a while, Natasha looked uncertain. She was always so sure, so sharp, so steady. But now, there was something hesitant in the way she held herself. Like she wasn’t sure if she was standing on solid ground anymore.

You turned to face her fully, giving her the same patience she had given you. "Talk to me."

She scoffed softly, "that’s my line."

You smiled, nudging her lightly, "it can be mine, too."

Natasha sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. “I just…” She swallowed, "I´m not sure if I fit in."

Your breath hitched. "What?"

She ran a hand through her hair, her voice quieter now. “I mean, what if people like the fun me, not the weird killer one, but the one that´s…” she gestured vaguely, "normal."

Your chest tightened. "Nat-" You stared at her, heart aching. Because you understood. You understood the weight she carried, the doubt that gnawed at her, the fear of being seen as something she wasn’t sure she could escape. "People like you for who you are, right now. They enjoy your presence, I enjoy your presence. All the time."

To you, there was no version of Natasha to love. There was just her. And maybe… maybe you both needed to figure that out together. So after your talk you just spend cuddling tighter than usual, not talking at all, just enjoying your time together.

Over the days, Natasha had been even more open to others, for some reason, which didn´t help you with the "overthinking" part. It wasn’t just the occasional banter anymore, it was something more. The teasing smirks, the way she leaned in just a little too close when speaking, the way her fingers ghosted over arms, her laugh coming a little softer, a little sweeter.

You wanted to understand this, but the only think you could do was to stend back and watch. She joked with Maria Hill in the training center, standing a little too close, her fingers lingering on Maria’s wrist just a beat longer than necessary as they laughed about something. You weren’t even sure what had been said, but it didn’t really matter. It was the pattern that was beginning to form. It wasn’t just Maria. Natasha was always surrounded by someone now, their attention drawn to her like moths to a flame. And she let them. Agents who barely looked at her months ago now jumped at the chance to train with her, to sit with her in the cafeteria, to find excuses to be near her.

And Natasha? She basked in it.

You didn´t said anything… but days turned to weeks, and it never stopped. If anything it got worse.

It was after training when you finally said something. The adrenaline still thrummed in your veins from sparring, your muscles sore in the best way, but all of it was overshadowed by the tight knot in your chest.

Natasha was drinking from her water bottle, wiping sweat from her forehead when you finally broke the silence.

"The flirting is too much."

She froze mid-motion, brow raising slightly as she looked at you, "wha- baby, you know I would never"

"I know," you sighed, running a hand through your hair. "I know you wouldn’t do anything, but… I just don’t like them thinking they have a chance, you know?"

For a second, something flickered in Natasha’s expression, something uncertain, but then it was gone, replaced with that easy, confident smirk that had charmed so many people lately.

"You’re the only girl in my sight," she murmured, stepping closer, her voice dropping into something lower, something smoother. Your lips pressed into a thin line. She was doing it again. The charming words, the flirtation, the teasing little game she played when things got too close, too real. And then her fingers traced down your arm, light, deliberate, the heat of her touch sending shivers up your spine.

"You don’t need to worry," she whispered, pressing a kiss just below your ear. "I only want you."

You wanted to stay firm. You wanted to keep pushing, to tell her that wasn’t the point. But then her hands were on you, guiding, coaxing, pulling you into her orbit like she always did. Natasha had always been a master of control, of knowing exactly what to say, what to do, to pull someone under. And she knew exactly how to make you forget.

Natasha led you through the hallways of the compound, her fingers interlaced with yours, her touch grounding, magnetic. You weren’t fighting it anymore. Maybe you should have. Maybe you should have pressed harder, but right now, in this moment, you just wanted her.

"Our room," she murmured, glancing at you from the corner of her eye, a small smirk playing at her lips, "we can shower together." Her voice was low, inviting, and there was no point in pretending you didn’t want that too.

By the time you reached her room, Natasha was already peeling off her shirt, throwing it onto the chair in the corner without care. She turned back to you, stepping close, her fingers immediately finding your waist, tracing over your skin like she needed to remind herself you were real.

She kissed you - slow, deliberate, her lips moving over yours like she had all the time in the world. And then she whispered against your lips, "You’re mine." Her hands slid up, her palms warm against your skin.

"I’m yours," she murmured, pressing another kiss just beneath your jaw. "You’re amazing." The words kept coming, soft and steady, an anchor against the storm of thoughts that had been brewing in your mind for weeks. "You’re everything," she breathed.

Your fingers curled against her back, holding onto her, feeling the way her muscles tensed and relaxed beneath your touch. You wanted to believe her. You wanted to hold onto these words and let them fill the cracks that had started to form inside you.

Natasha rested her forehead against yours, her hands still tracing slow, soothing patterns against your sides. "No overthinking. Not right now," she whispered. "Just me and you."

She kissed you again, and for a little while, you let yourself believe her.

The steam curled around both of you, thick and warm, as the water cascaded down, soaking into your skin. Natasha’s hands never left you, not for a second. They traced along your arms, your waist, the curve of your back, as if she was mapping you out, committing you to memory, ensuring you were still here, still hers.

The shower wasn’t just a shower… it was something else entirely. A quiet space where the world didn’t exist, where doubts couldn’t reach, where words weren’t needed because her touch spoke louder than anything she could say.

Her forehead pressed against yours, water dripping between you, and she whispered it again, "I love you". Over and over again. It was reverent, almost fragile, like she was convincing herself just as much as she was convincing you.

Your hands found her, fingers threading through damp strands of red as she kissed you, deep and slow, like she was breathing you in. Every touch, every movement, felt like a plea - don’t doubt me, don’t doubt this, don’t leave.

She held you like you were something precious. Like you were something she wasn’t sure she deserved but was too afraid to let go of. Her lips brushed over your shoulder, her breath warm against your skin as she murmured, "you´re everything to me."

The weight of those words settled deep in your chest. She didn’t say it often, definetly not like this. Not stripped down to its rawest form, with no teasing, no distractions. Just her, open and vulnerable, asking for something she didn’t quite know how to name. So you gave it to her.

Your fingers trailed along her spine, tracing invisible lines over old scars, new ones, the history of everything she had endured and survived. "I love you too, so much," you whispered, barely audible over the steady rush of water.

Natasha exhaled, a shaky breath against your skin, and then she held you tighter, as if grounding herself in your warmth. She kissed you again, not rushed, not desperate. Just deep. Meaningful. Like she was pouring everything into it, everything she didn’t know how to say.

taglist: @starrycherie, @esposadejoyhuerta

[pukefactory]

•☽────✧˖°˖ EVENING SCHEDULE ˖°˖✧────☾•

(COMMISSION)

★ Summary: A Compilation Of Headcanons Featuring Salesperson ENA Being Separated From The Reader As You Are Trapped In The Lonely Door

★ Commissioner: @namosaga

★ Character(s): Salesperson ENA (ENA: Dream BBQ)

★ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

★ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

★ Image Credits: @JoelG

The respawn hits like a headache. Not the polite kind, either—no, this one’s jagged and cold and lonely in all the wrong places. ENA blinks back into the Hub, blinking and blinking until her triangle pupils shake from the strain. Something’s wrong. Something’s missing. “Where’s my associate?” she demands, red-side first, voice a silken pitch of mock-customer service panic. “Where’s my contractual companion? My deal-partner, my emergency exit buddy?” Froggy doesn’t even glance up from the clipboard. “Back already, huh? Good. Got another job for you. Big smoke issue. Very urgent. Big big fog. Go do the thing.” “No. No no no—I felt them behind me! I grabbed their hand—!” Meanie side takes over mid-sentence, volume flaring into a banshee scream. “WHERE IS THE BATHROOM BASTARD!? DID THEY GET SUCKED BACK IN!?” Froggy snorts. “Probably stuck in the Lonely Door. That’s what happens when you hesitate.” “You call this hesitation?! I TRUSTED the algorithm!” ENA screeches, arms flailing as her shadow elongates weirdly behind her, puppet-like, cartoon loops of panic glitching around her legs. “SEND ME BACK IN!!” “It’s a one-way valve, you neon ferret. Can’t un-flush a dimension.” But ENA is already pacing in figure-eights, her red side babbling like a hotline agent mid-breakdown. “We must file an appeal. Get a Genie. Get a mannequin. Get GØD. We cannot leave them. They are still in there. With it. With that. They’ll be all… cracked.” Froggy mutters something about caffeine and overtime, but it barely registers. ENA’s claws dig into her temples, yellow side twitching, blinking, muttering: “I didn’t mean to leave them. I didn’t mean to. This wasn’t in the pitch deck…” Even for a Salesperson, some deals hurt too much to walk away from.

☆ The Door doesn’t swing shut—it clenches. Clenches its thin muscles like the mouth of something divine and bored. ENA’s voice flattens into a hum, just shy of hopeful. “Let’s conclude this endeavor, shall we?” she offers with a tilt of her head, but her eyes don’t match. Her pupils are missing again. You don’t have time to ask where they went. Your legs are cubes now. You can feel the vertices.

☆ It begins like static in the bloodstream. You blink and your hand is a jpeg of a hand. ENA turns toward you and grins—Salesperson, all customer service and plastic cheer. “Not to worry, asset decay is standard in unscheduled transitions. Just think of it as… modular.” You try to scream. It renders as a corrupted flute trill.

☆ “YOU LOOK RIDICULOUS,” Meanie blurts, voice warping, lips out of sync. “FIX YOUR STUPID BODY ALREADY—WHAT ARE YOU, A YOUTUBE THUMBNAIL?!” It’s the closest thing to a plea she can muster. ENA is glitching too. Her torso duplicates and overlaps, one frame behind the other. She stumbles when she laughs. You see her blood is orange now. No—it’s loading.

☆ The hallway outside the Door is collapsing like an unraveling .zip file. Textureless walls crumbling and folding underneath itself. ENA’s hat drifts past you, and she doesn’t notice. Or maybe she left it behind on purpose.

☆ “You go ahead, I’ll catch up,” ENA says. But she says it while stepping backward, smiling with the kind of smile that doesn’t want to be watched fall apart. You beg her not to leave. She shrugs. “It’s not abandonment. It’s automation. You’re simply stuck in the wrong instance.” Her voice cracks. She was never meant to stay.

☆ You watch your own mouth vanish. There’s no time to panic before ENA—not the one you knew, but the mannequin she’s puppeting—shudders to life in the main world, glitching and sputtering before she’s finally cut free of her binds. Froggy, grumpy as ever, berates her: “Quit being so unprofessional, people will get the wrong idea! What even happened?!” ENA doesn’t answer. Her eyes are looking at something else. Something behind Froggy.

☆ In the Door’s fading echo, you hear the sound of typing. Dozens of voices speaking in code. “If statement. Boolean value. Body = NULL.” ENA tried to hold them together, but she was losing cohesion. Her model couldn’t keep up. Her limbs lagged in and out of place. You then realized—too late—that she was never supposed to bring you this far. And she never expected this outcome.

☆ As Froggy chews her out, ENA’s head tilts and she whispers: “There’s something still inside. I left them. I had to. I didn’t want to be unmade.” She wrings her mitt-shaped hand with her clawed one. “You’re mad, right? I should’ve stayed?” Her voice warps with guilt, skipping like a scratched DVD. Froggy stares. Then mutters: “…You’re not even here.”

☆ In the Door’s final light, you see ENA one last time. Not as a whole, not even as halves. But as shards. Her voices no longer alternate—they collide. “I’ll save you—” “NO I WON’T—” “What’s your pain point—” “SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP—” The Door slams its fleshy arms shut like a final period on a sentence never proofread. Silence echoes like a scream with nowhere to go.

☆ Back in the hub, the casino gleams. Froggy stamps forms. Business resumes. But sometimes, the lights flicker. ENA’s body twitches. She grins and spins her cap. “You look like someone with a lot of unresolved data.” she says to herself. You’re not coming back. But ENA watches the Door anyway. Because maybe. Just maybe. The save file is still corrupt, but not deleted.

[dannyriccsystem]

hi angel i loved your carlos soulmate fic !!! could you do a soulmate au with oscar please??

YOU’RE MINE, ALRIGHT?

FORMULA ONE DRIVER X READER

SUMMARY: Oscar’s your soulmate, but he’s certain that you’re not his.

WORD COUNT: 3.1K

WARNINGS: Light angst w happy ending, soulmate au, Y/N usage, not proofread

FEATURING: Oscar Piastri x Model Soulmate!Reader

I’m sooo tired it’s bed time for me 🥱

Since as far back as mankind can recall, soulmates have been embedded into the universe’s coding. Ancient drawing on cave walls and old decoded passages tell fabled stories of two hearts that become one is a dazzling spectacle of shimmering lights. Your classic love story followed the mindless laws of life to a T, always beautifully describing the event that transpires upon the kiss of your beloved.

It was a simple set of details and instructions to guide you in meeting your other half. Everyone came into the world with a unique mark upon their skin— It could be anywhere from head to toe, and it didn’t even have to be in a spot that was typically visible. It was in a spot with a design specific to you, the only other person bearing such a unique feature would be the one you’re meant to be with forever.

Your mark was always appraised. Perhaps it wasn’t in the most convenient spot for the sake of the hunt, but it was downright gorgeous. Detailed angel wings were folded up on your back, covering the entire surface in the dark tattoo-like ink. Everyone who had the opportunity to perceive it found themselves in awe, jealous of such a beautiful design.

You, however, were not pleased. It was unfortunate to have your mark be located in a place most people kept hidden. You had to wonder if you had ever passed by your destined lover, unaware it was them because their shirt was concealing the truth from you. You truly tried everything from dating apps to display your tattoo to online forums dedicated to finding your soulmate, but if they were out there, they stayed silent.

It was tiring to constantly be putting in all the work. If the universe wanted you to be with this person so badly, why did they make it so difficult for you to find them in the first place? Were you doing something wrong? Maybe you were unintentionally avoiding all the sign, but then again… Maybe they simply weren’t obvious enough.

You want to be bold and make a statement. If they’re out there, you’re going to make one final move that calls out to them. With your career as a model, you had a face that was easily recognizable. However, you carried yourself with humility and a humble attitude. Just because you couldn’t go anywhere without seeing your own mug plastered on every screen and billboard doesn’t mean you have the right to act like it.

You requested a shoot for a fashion designer, particularly intrigued by the open-back dress she had just released for public view. She was delighted to have a high class model like yourself reach out and you two set up a date for the arrangement. It was the day of, and you were currently waiting in the spot you both agreed on.

When she got there, you explained your unique situation to her. She took the news quite well, and offered to feature one photo of your back in the shoot, and hopefully aid you in your final step of the search. After this, if things didn’t work out, you’d finally give in and let love come to you instead. Besides, you were a successful woman living off your own job. You didn’t need love— You were simply itching to find out.

The photos blew up, as they always do, but this time the vibes were different. You had every single fan admiring your mark, leaving sweet comments on how lucky you were to be born with such an elegant tattoo on your back. You’d reply and tell them you were certain theirs was just as lovely, and then either find yourself aww-ing or laughing depending on what it was.

It didn’t take long for expert sleuths on the internet to get to work, and it didn’t take long for the results, either. Being famous had its perks. Your fanbase had a wide range of interests, which meant when one internet user in particular laid eyes on your tattoo, they were instantly able to put two and two together.

To avoid making a scene in your comments, they decided to shoot you a private message at the risk of you never receiving it. It read simply, “Hey girl, about your soulmate mark… I think you might be looking for famous F1 driver, Oscar Piastri.” Attached to their message was an image of him post-race, his uniform pushed down to rest on his hips, while the top of his fireproof was just slightly lifted as he used it to wipe sweat from his face.

He had a strong back and a thin waist, but that’s all you could see about his physical appearance— Aside from the obvious. Just barely peeking out was the tips of a pair of wings, folded in a similar position as your own. You didn’t need a comparison, because you were certain; that was the mark you had been staring at all your life.

You thanked the person who brought it to your attention, playing it off as if they weren’t a match, despite the fact they very clearly were. With this newfound information and a slight skip in your heartbeat, you decided to look the guy up. He was indeed quite famous, and his life seemed very busy. He was always traveling for racing, posting pictures in different areas of the world, and lots of pictures featuring a pretty trophy. Impressive. Your soulmate was a winner.

This was it. You had found the person you spent twenty-three years looking for, and all you could muster up the courage for was a message, and a very straightforward one at that. “Hey” you’d begin, unsure if you would even manage to catch his attention. You just hoped that the blue check mark beside your name would push him into a response. “I’m your soulmate.” You attached an image of your back as proof.

Of course, he didn’t respond for about a day. You were sure it was because he wasn’t someone who was very active, but the more intelligent side of your brain told you that he simply was ignoring you, trying to think of a response to that. What about one even say? Not even you knew.

“Sorry mate, you’ve got the wrong guy. I already found mine.” That response was enough to shatter your heart. Right when you thought the search was over, you were met with the biggest rejection of all. You weren’t sure what hurt worse: Thinking someone was your soulmate and being wrong, or never knowing to begin with. You scrolled through his page once more, finding that he did indeed have a girlfriend— Probably his soulmate.

You had been so sure, too. It was hard to believe that your instincts led you in the wrong direction.

This certainly wasn’t the end, though. The comments finally started to flood in as more and more people connected the dots. You got thousands of messages informing you that this Oscar Piastri guy was the one for you, and you could almost guarantee he was getting the same thing. One person being wrong seemed like a viable explanation, but when more people started to tell you the same thing, you began to grow suspicious.

Maybe it wasn’t your business to ask about someone else’s relationship, but it was your business to ask your potential soulmate if they were lying to you. It was hard to face the man you had just recently embarrassed yourself in front of, but you managed. “I know you said I was wrong, but our marks are identical. I just want to know the truth.” You deserved the truth, right? Soulmates were meant to be honest with one another.

He responded immediately this time. It was like he had been there in the chat too, drafting up his own message. It was somewhat intimidating. “Fine.” You could hear his frustration, and it somewhat angered you. Was it so wrong for wanting to know if you had truly found your soulmate or not? “You’re not my soulmate. But I want to make it very clear I’m already in a happy relationship.”

“I understand.” That concluded your conversation. You hated that he dismissed you so easily, but you also understood. Lots of people dated others who weren’t their true love, because it wasn’t exactly an easy task to complete. But dating someone else when you had the right person standing right in front of you felt like a cruel joke.

If he wanted to be that way, you could too.

Being a model meant you ran on a strict schedule that other people planned out for you. Your agency was very busy, always looking for new opportunities to promote your brand and lifestyle to the public. The public opinion on you seemed to be high, considering you as one of the more relatable and influential celebrities out there.

Today was a big step in your career for multiple reasons. You were going to be featuring as a guest at a Formula One race. Not only was that a huge event, but for the first time in probably ever, you’d end up within a mile of Oscar Piastri, who was undeniably meant to be yours.

You wanted to flaunt yourself. You wore that same open-back dress you modeled ages ago now, feeling confident as you strode through the chaos of the paddock. Even without your soulmate mark on full display, the dress itself was very flattering. You received lots of compliments in under a minute, fueling your ego.

You recognized a lot of faces, mostly ones that went down a similar path as you. Lots of the other wives and girlfriends were models themselves— Models whom you looked up to, considering their years of experience and expert knowledge in the field. You greeted one of them, Rebecca Donaldson.

You recognized her boyfriend, Carlos. Beside him was a guy in a bright orange shirt with tan skin and curly hair. He seemed quite friendly, waiting to introduce himself as you chatted away with Rebecca. Finally realizing your impolite behavior, you stopped and held a hand out for both of the other men, who shook it individually.

“Sorry, I seem to have forgotten to introduce myself. Y/N.” You nodded, and followed your example. The younger one was Lando Norris, a racer for Mclaren. Your soulmate’s teammate.

You dismissed yourself, continuing to walk through the ground of the paddock, running into various fans of your own, or even vice versa: people you were fans of. It had been a delight so far, but all good things must come to a mortal demise. Oscar had spotted you at the same time you spotted him, and he didn’t seem terribly happy.

“What are you doing here?” He questioned. It sounded hostile, but his face was more monotone than anything. “I already told you, I’m not interested.”

This somewhat angered you. Maybe it was a fair assumption to make, but that didn’t help to soften the blow in the slightest. You clenched your jaw, and then took a deep breath before responding, “I’m not here for you.” With that being said, you turned around and walked away; allowing him a good view of your own tattoo.

You didn’t continue to pursue him. He told you he wasn’t interested, and that was just fine with you. Of course, his incessant teammate reached out to you again and again, furthering questioning the undeniable connection between you and Oscar. He claimed to have noticed the tattoo the day you met him, and put two and two together, since he had seen it on his teammate’s back before.

He’d bother you about your plan, trying to create schemes to put you two together. Lando’s timing was impeccable, because you just naturally assumed that Oscar’s new liking sprees were a setup caused by the slightly older man. You’d get a string of notifications letting you know that Oscar had liked your most recent posts all together, implying the stalking of your account.

You figured it could have been anything. Maybe it was for PR, or maybe it was unintentional. What you didn’t expect was his sudden message. “We got off on the wrong foot. Do you want to meet for coffee some time?”

You wanted to have a ‘take that’ moment and brutally reject him, but you found yourself softening at the idea of finally getting the opportunity to meet the person who was quite literally destined to be your boyfriend. So, even though it took some thinking, you said yes.

Come the date of said day, you chose to dress casually this time. The dress at the race was a statement, but your goal here was to have a nice time, and not to intimidate him. So, you opted to wear a nice shirt with some jeans. Still nice, but not overly dressed. You met over coffee, sharing a small table in the corner of the cafe.

You took note of how his knees would accidentally brush against yours when he leaned back in his seat, and of how his feet would idly kick at yours under the table. It all felt so familiar as you slowly warmed up to each other, sharing funny stories and catching up just like old friends would do— Except you weren’t. This was the first time meeting, and it was going so well it almost hurt to part ways.

Being the gentleman he is, Oscar offered to take you home so you wouldn’t have to walk. It was late now, both of you spending hours until evening transformed into a pitch black night sky. You admired him as he drove, smiling softly to yourself. He looked so focused as his strong arms held the wheel, only looking away from the road to sneak glances at you, and then quickly look away thinking you didn’t notice.

You did.

He dropped you off, and you slowly dragged your feet to your front door. You didn’t want it to be over— He had been a delight, but he also had a girlfriend, and you couldn’t handle the pressure of being a home-wrecker. So, even though your mind screamed to run back and kiss him, you didn’t. You kept going until you reached the front door and were forced to stop.

“My girlfriend broke up with me.” He stated blatantly from behind you. That was all he said before you peered over your shoulder, grinning from ear to ear.

“Goodnight, Oscar.” You slyly slipped inside, locking it behind you.

“Goodnight,” He muttered after you were long gone.

You felt stupid the next day. It should have been clear to you that he was trying to tell you something; he was trying to tell you that he was available. That he really was your soulmate, and he was willing to accept that fact now, instead of continuously pushing you away. Now it was your turn to be the one pulling back.

You were bedridden the next day. Not from a physically sickness, but from the weird feeling in your gut that made you want to throw up anyway. You should have said something. Something other than ‘Goodnight, Oscar!’ You made a complete fool out of yourself.

He texted you around the afternoon, asking if you slept well. You told him yes, but unintentionally threw your excuse out there. “I’m feeling a little sick,” you’d throw it out unprompted. He didn’t respond, until you heard the knock upon your door. Of course, standing there with a back of items in his hand was Mr. Piastri himself.

He’d ask if he could come in, because he brought some things to help you feel better. You’d say yes, even though he’d now be sure to catch you in your lie. And he did. Oscar cocked his head to the side like a confused puppy as he read your temperature, which seemed perfectly fine.

“I’m not sick,” You finally explained, shame tinging your tone. He set everything down and folded his hands in his lap, patiently waiting for you to continue. “I was trying to avoid you, but I guess I did the opposite.” You laughed weakly, and then shook your head. Bad timing, I suppose.

“Why?” He asked, his voice soft. “You were the one who wanted to find me so bad.” Yeah, you expected that sort of response.

“I just… I feel so nervous now.” You huffed a gentle sigh, leaning your head back with shut eyes. “My feelings are always straightforward, but not when it comes to you. I feel… Complex.”

“Maybe you’re not ready yet,” He stated, and for some reason that hurt even more. It was like the twist of a knife that had already been repeatedly stabbed in you, again and again. “But…” Oscar slowly stood up, turning his back towards you. Without any warning, he lifted his sweatshirt up, unveiling his bare back. There was his tattoo, just as beautiful as yours. “We’re destined to work out just fine.”

It was a positive and refreshing outlook on the situation. You slowly stood, your fingertips reaching out to brush against his inked skin. You traced the lines softly. This was the first time you got to see your mark like this, because it was hard to look at your back. He completed your puzzle perfectly, making it all clear now.

You watched his back muscles twitch and flex as you dragged your nail across the outline of the wings, your face unreadable. You stared at his skin, littered with scars and moles, like it was the hardest math equation in the world. This was a problem for you to solve, but Oscar was the solution.

“You’re right.” You pulled your hand away and stepped back, letting him shimmy back into his cozy hoodie. Oscar pivoted to face you, matching your expression. “I want to love you. I want to give us a chance.”

“Then do it.” You couldn’t help the way your lips twitched into a smile, and considering the way he matched your grin, Oscar couldn’t either.

He lifted your hand to his lips, pressing soft kisses against your knuckles. You watched as your joined hands erupted in a warm light, sending a tingling sensation through your skin. You locked eyes with him, searching for some sort of guidance. Oscar squeezed your hand tighter.

Upon the first kiss, both bodies would erupt with a beautiful light, slowly beginning the fading process of their matching marks. It left you both giddy, filled with hope for this newfound love.

“We’re gonna work out,” You finally declared, actually able to believe it this time.

[willowwindss]

This is all true but I wanted to put some possible solutions down as well:

- Regular doctor check-ups: I know the US isn’t great for visiting doctors in general but it’s still very important to not let unusual things go for too long. And to make sure your doctor always knows everything you’re currently taking. I’ve been lucky with very thorough doctors in the past 7 years or so who have guided me through various mental health hurdles. When I wanted to try antidepressants, my regular doctor suggested trying something another family member had luck with since our similar DNA might mean that type of tablet might work best for us. It did, I had no side effects. She also carries out mental health questionnaires with me every 6 months or so to make sure I’m still feeling okay within myself. A good doctor thinks beyond just “here, take this” so take note of the ones who take their time with you and get to know you a bit.

- Organic or gentle products: There’s some godawful ingredients in mainstream products, in any category. If you can, start switching out household items for simplified or organic alternatives. You never know what might be intoxicating or harming you, or what you could be allergic to. Dishwashing liquid, laundry detergent, perfumes, soaps, skincare. Start thinking about these things. If you can, make the switch. Also don’t heat up and eat food in plastic containers/bowls. Put them in a proper bowl.

- Clean living environment: Dust, dirt, mould, all huge factors into how we feel on a daily basis. Clean your house at least once a month, or more, and DON’T use bleach or dangerous ingredients to do so. Get your house checked for carbon monoxide leaks, get your windows open daily, get the mould out of your shower, stop inhaling dust every time you turn your ceiling fan on. These won’t cause psychosis of course but they won’t help you be any healthier on a daily basis.

- Reduce stress: Stress is a silent killer. You have to figure out a way to ensure stress rarely takes over. No, it doesn’t mean you are hard-working and efficient if you are stressed all the time, if anything it means the opposite. Efficiency would eliminate stress, not create it. You should not be crying after work every day, or feeling sick every Sunday before work. Or passing out from exhaustion. You should know how to unwind, and what things help you feel relaxed. If you don’t know these things, you likely never reach a point of just being, and relaxing. When is the last time you just stopped? Looked around? Took a full deep breath in and out? Had an hour completely to yourself to do anything you want? Does your partner help around the house or do you come home from work to more work? (can’t count the number of permanently stressed women I see living like this…). If you feel like you live underwater, you need to come up for air and tell someone how you feel. Boss, colleague, friend, partner, family member, discord server, your freakin’ dog or cat because they pick up on it too. Tell someone, say something. If you legitimately can’t tell anyone, write it down. Write exactly how you feel, don’t worry about spelling or grammar, then tear the paper up, throw it across the room, whatever you need to do. Your body is a pressure cooker and the more stress you stuff into it, the more it gets ready to explode.

99% of "mysterious disappearances" esp of people in their 20s who start acting weird for 48 hours and then vanish are not mysterious, thats just when a lot of reality-obliterating mental illness tends to kick in and it's pretty easy to get a short circuit in your brain that makes you go family guy death pose in joshua tree national park. it's not any less tragic, it's just a documented phenomenon and not particularly predictable. its a big reason the medical advice is for people with a family history of schizophrenia to completely avoid weed and psychedelics. "people just go crazy sometimes" is a principle of human health that used to be a lot more accepted prior to the american midcentury and to a certain extent thats a healthier way to conceptualize and prepare for the risk, as opposed to the modern assertion that anyone acting weird is dangerous and broken forever.

[1d1195]

Buttercup - Extra II

Read Buttercup here and Extra I here ~3.3k words

From me: centered around this ask entirely. Thank you SO much for the idea. I'm a little too obsessed with the idea 😍🤭

Warnings: SEXTRA, oral (she (me) is a little obsessed with his dick, sorry not sorry), smut smut smut

Summary: Harry's so good to her. For her. She just wants to give him as much pleasure as she gives him and as much he deserves.

Harry was the best boyfriend. If she had been told how good of a boyfriend he would be when she moved in and was subject to his pranks and his constant, irritating presence, she never would have believed it. But instead, he was truly the best. He was so thoughtful, so gentle, and every time he saw her, the smile on his face grew and it was truly heart stopping.

He took care of her and worried about her. He cooked her food and helped her with whatever task she had around her house. Never did he complain or care about what she asked. Everything he did was done with kindness and seriousness. Nothing was too small or too large for him to do for her.

It was so sweet and so different than what she was used to. It was overwhelming at times for him to love her so much in the best kind of way.

But one of the nicest and best bonuses about her new relationship was sex with Harry. The first time she saw him naked in her bedroom, she practically drooled like a cartoon character. How could she not? He was all lean muscles and green eyes. It was impossible to focus on anything for too long. Her primal instincts took over and she wanted him all over her.

“Do y’want me to take y’clothes off, Buttercup?” he hummed, his body radiated with heat. He was so close to her, his dick pressing against her leg as he leaned in and kissed her lips so gently but eagerly. It was hot and made her body vibrate. He slowly moved his lips down, nipping at her skin, pressing kisses along her neck and across her collarbone. His fingers fiddled with the hem of her dress just above her knees, but he waited ever-so-patiently for her consent. Because he always waited for it.

Jus’ because y’give me permission once, doesn’t mean I always have it. But she couldn’t fully explain to him that by saying that specific phrase, he did always have her permission. It made her weak in the knees to hear something so sexy and safe come from his mouth. She nodded. “Please.”

He slid her dress over her head quickly and he pushed her toward her bed. “So pretty, Buttercup,” he murmured and kissed over the swell of her breasts. He reached beneath her as he laid her down unhooking her bra and ridding her of the fabric that kept him from her nipples aching for his mouth.

“May I?”

“Please,” she whispered again.

He lapped his tongue against her left nipple and then kissed across her chest to the right one. He moaned softly nipping and sucking it expertly. For half a second, she thought of all the practice she witnessed as he flaunted the women leaving his house to make her jealous. But experiencing it firsthand, she couldn’t blame the women before her or Harry because he was really good at what he did, and it would have been cruel if he didn’t please them this way. Fortunately, now, she was very happy to know she was the only one receiving this kind of attention—his attention.

His dick was still pressed against her leg, and she was overcome with wanting it in her mouth so badly. She wanted to give Harry a fraction of the pleasure he gave her on a regular basis. “Kneel,” she pressed on his chest, gently pushing him away from her. He smirked so cutely—devilishly, even. She guided him back to kneeling on her mattress, sitting on his heels. The tattoos on his thighs flexed along with his muscles ever so slightly. The movement made her throb between her legs, and she could feel her mouth ready to fall open in preparation for what he wanted.

“What d’you want, baby?” He mumbled. She repositioned herself; the front of her body pressed to the mattress. She arched her upper back slightly, falling onto her elbows so that she was eye-level with his hard dick. It was downright pretty; thick and veiny and she all but licked her lips in anticipation. She gripped the base of it causing Harry to hiss quietly. “Y’want t’suck it?” She nodded, glancing up at him. He was already gazing at her, his eyes hooded, as he watched her with lust-filled eyes. “Go on,” he whispered. “Suck it up, Buttercup,” he encouraged.

She smiled, her cheeks burning at the nickname and the way he sounded already completely gone for her. It was reassuring; in that, she didn’t need to be embarrassed by how bad she wanted him in his mouth. She licked her lips then, a little too aggressively perhaps, but if she did, Harry didn’t say anything. He was watching her every movement very closely. It made her a little self-conscious, but he gently cupped the side of her head. “Y’look so pretty, Buttercup,” he sounded a little spaced-out already.

She wrapped around her lips along the side of his dick, dragging her mouth down the length of the side from tip to base. Licking every inch as she went along. “Holy,” he murmured, and she glanced up to see his head tilt backwards. “That feels so good, baby,” he whispered breathlessly. She followed the same path on the other side getting him thoroughly, completely, and soaking wet with her mouth. As she returned to the tip, she took no time to swallow him down in one movement. It made him gasp and moan. The hand on the side of her head tightened ever so slightly and his other hand went to the back of her head. “Fuck, Buttercup,” he groaned.

She felt immense pleasure from making him moan like that. It was good for her psyche and all the noises he made further encouraged her sucking. She closed her eyes and breathed through her nose as she relaxed her jaw as much as possible. Harry was big and felt heavy on her tongue as she strained slightly to get her all the way in her mouth and what felt like half-way down her throat.

As able as she was, she moved her tongue around his length, doing her best not to gag. He grunted quietly. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he whispered. It was like music to her ears. She moved her mouth up and down him, alternating between shallow and deep bobs creating an insane amount of pleasure that was indescribable to his blissed-out mind. She sighed dreamily from the feeling which made Harry all but whimper. “Baby, baby, baby,” he croaked. “Oh my God, please,” she moaned quietly hearing how pleased he sounded. But the vibration, the wetness of her mouth, the hollowing of her cheeks and lips wrapped so tightly around him was nearly too much.

“Oh fuck, fuck, fuck,” he pulled her off him quickly. She gasped, a string of drool clinging to the end of his dick and her mouth as he did.

He gently pulled her toward him, turning her in the process so she was no longer laying on her stomach. Instead, he cradled her. Cupped the side of her face again, this time without his dick halfway down her throat. He examined her face quickly for any sign of discomfort or overwhelming emotions. Satisfied he hadn’t hurt her, he kissed her deeply, his tongue tracing her lips one at a time. He rested his forehead against hers pressing the most chaste little kiss to the tip of her nose, before he bent lower and peppered several kisses along her jawline.

He blinked slowly, a smile stretching across his lips. “Do you like doing that, kitten?” He asked.

She nodded. “I like making you feel good,” she whispered.

“Well fuck Buttercup, y’do a hell of a job,” he mumbled rubbing his thumb along her lower lip. His eyes were so wide and green as he gazed at her, leaving only the smallest amount of space between their faces just so she could see him without his face being altered from being too close. “I love you,” he kissed her sweetly.

“You’re just saying that because I didn’t gag on your dick,” she giggled.

“S’absolutely false, kitten,” he chuckled and kissed her again. Harry enjoyed the way her body relaxed into the kiss. “Let me return the favor,” he suggested.

Harry pushed her backwards this time, gently moving her so she was seated with her back propped against the pillows and headboard. He slank down her body, placing kisses along her skin and warming her from the outside in. His fingers deftly hooked around the waistband of her thong, and he slipped it off in seconds.

“Y’want me t’lick you the way y’licked me?” He asked his mouth right at her belly button. He slowly kissed across her stomach.

As much as she loved the way Harry’s tongue felt on the most sensitive parts of her body, she wanted his dick inside her again and now that her mouth had been quenched of it’s thirst for him, there was only one other place she wanted him. “Not now.”

“No?” He frowned. “Not good enough?” He asked, his question muffled into her skin.

“No,” she laughed and cupped the side of his jaw as he peered up at her through while he kissed down her ribcage. “It’s by far one of my favorite things you do to me,” she admitted. “But I’d really like to come on your dick.”

He groaned, dropping his head down to place a kiss lower. “Y’sure, Buttercup? S’hardly fair... nearly made me finish in your pretty mouth, y’know...”

“No,” she whispered shaking her head. It wasn’t going to be a fair fight if his tongue dipped much lower. He spread her knees apart, settling between them.

“A real no?” He asked, pausing his kisses right as his breath fanned over her clit. She felt like she couldn’t breathe. “Or is this a shy no, baby?” She knew if she actually said no, he would stop instantly.

He was too good. Too hot. Too sexy.

“No thank you,” she whispered feeling a little unsure only because she was so conflicted by what she wanted but Harry watched her intently and made her feel like she could decide with just her eyes.

“Another time,” he winked and worked his way back up kissing the path he started on his way down. “Y’jus’ want m’cock, hmm?” He asked instead. Undeterred and still way too pretty for words.

“Yes,” she breathed. “Please.”

He groaned. “So polite, Buttercup... But y’don’t need t’beg, baby,” he whispered. “You’re gonna torture me,” she smiled sheepishly. “Condom?” He asked, reaching for her nightstand drawer.

“Um...” she noted that they were out while she was cleaning the other day. She also realized they had been together for a little over six months. Harry had himself tested, for ease of mind and full transparency. She’d done the same. Granted, she figured Harry was clean, but she was little worried still of all other factors from her past relationship. She preferred to be safer than fully necessary, and Harry was extremely supportive and kind about it.

“Um what?” He asked, immediately alert to her hesitation. His eyebrows pinching together. “Are we out?” He frowned. “If we are, you’re gonna have t’let me go down on you, Buttercup. S’no way m’letting y’out of this room without coming.” His selflessness was almost enough to make her come without him even touching her.

She smiled, blushed, and shook her head. “Um... no, but it’s...it’s just it’s... it’s been a while, yeah? And I feel like it’s... well, we... we don’t need a condom if you’re okay with it because we got all the tests and if you would like to do it witho—”

He shook his head quickly. “Don’t even finish that sentence, kitten. M’gonna come all over you, embarrassingly.”

“Well, that could be kind of fun too,” she admitted, looking away from him.

“Jesus,” he moaned softly and took a moment to breathe. Gently he turned her chin to face him again. “Are you sure, Buttercup?” He asked. His eyes held a look of seriousness, but they were soft and comforting too. There was no lust in his look, but one of pure adoration. “M’more than comfortable with—”

“I’m sure,” she nodded confidently. “I can beg if you want,” she shrugged.

He chuckled and the wicked glint in his eye reappeared as he dipped forward and kissed her sweetly. “Another time,” he offered. “I love you. Very much, Buttercup,” he whispered.

“Because I’m letting you do it without a condom?”

“It’s so much more than that, Buttercup baby, and you know it,” he shook his head at her joke. “I don’t want t’be mushy right now because m’only going t’last long enough t’make y’come all over me and I don’t like making y’emotional because s’harder t’make y’come... but you know. You know why I love you and you know it has nothing to do with your pretty pussy about to be wrapped around me with nothing in the way.” She swallowed believing every word he said wondering how he could be so sinful and sweet in the same breath. That should be studied. By whom, she wasn’t sure because she wasn’t going to allow anyone close to Harry like this ever again to witness it firsthand. “You’re sure, you’re sure?” He repeated lightly rubbing the tip of his dick against her clit and making her moan. He responded with a gasp and groan of his own.

“Yes,” she nodded confidently.

Harry sank into her. She made a noise she never heard herself make before. She wanted to feel embarrassed but God it felt too good for her to really care. “Oh fuck, yes,” he held one hand on the outside of her hip and the other onto the headboard for leverage. “That’s so good,” he groaned. She felt herself clawing at the sheets beneath her, trying to find purchase to cling to her sanity but it was long gone. Harry slowly slid in and out at a tantalizing pace. His eyes closed and his brows pinched together in concentration.

“Harry,” she whimpered.

“Oh God, don’t say m’name like that, kitten,” he begged.

“But—”

“No, no, baby, please jus’ a minute. Jus’ one minute t’get m’bearings,” he pleaded. “Please, please, please,” he groaned. “Y’feel so good, so, so good, I’m not gonna make it if y’say m’name like that,” he admitted. Harry made it feel like sex with him lasted for only twenty seconds and also thirty hours in the best possible way. It was some weird time dilation that she only witnessed in movies about space.

And apparently when Harry had his dick in her so deep, she thought she would seriously split in two. He tilted his head back and gazed at the ceiling for an answer to a question he didn’t know he was asking. “Can I talk yet?” She asked quietly.

“Yes, baby, of course,” he turned his attention back to her and his eyes found hers instantly. “M’sorry, s’it to much? Do y’want t’stop?” He slowly slid backwards his gaze unmoving from hers, and he was so ready to just stop it made her heart flip over in her chest.

“No, never, ever,” she shook her head and grabbed at his hip to pull him back toward her. “I just, want to say your name,” she said sheepishly. “That’s all I really meant.”

He smiled, a breath of laughter escaping him. “God you’re perfect,” he moaned and slowly pumped himself back into her.

“Back at you, Harry Styles.”

He groaned and his fingertips dug into her hip and he dropped his head lower as he leaned against the headboard on the wall for support. “Go easy on me, Buttercup baby. M’seconds from coming, I promise,” he warned. “Y’feel so good. M’starting from scratch on m’stamina and y’heavenly mouth didn’t do me any favors today in savoring this,” his hips continued a delicious push and pull of stretching her without anything between their skin. He alternated between small pumps where he barely exited her body and just pressed the same perfect spot inside her over and over again making her head spin. Then he followed it with long torturous strokes, snapping his hips so all but the tip of him was inside her followed by a deliriously hard and fast pressure built in the pit of her stomach.

“So good, kitten. So, so good,” he mumbled as he thrusted and pumped into her like it was his job. God she wished it could have been.

“Harry,” she whimpered and began meeting his thrusts with her own, her feet digging into the comforter for more stability while she clawed at his hip and the bedsheet. “Baby,” she croaked. “I’m so close,” she pressed hard against him.

“I know, Buttercup, I know. Can,” he choked off speaking as her walls fluttered around him in warning that she was about to tip over the edge. “Can feel you so good,” he mumbled doing everything in his weakened, pleasured state to maintain the pressure and everything she needed to come. “Can I touch you, baby?” he asked.

“Anything, please, anything you want,” she whimpered and Harry moved the hand on her hip to settle between them so his thumb pressed small circles onto her clit gently but perfectly. “Oh yes, yes, yes,” she cried and felt the euphoria snap through her in waves she was certain she briefly went blind and deaf. Harry groaned, thrusting in and out of her faster than he had before while she clamped around him.

“Baby, I’m gonna—” he moaned and pulled from her afraid to come inside her while she wasn’t full coherent and they hadn’t discussed it. She sat forward and wrapped her lips around the tip of him without much warning and he groaned again as his own orgasm wracked his body. She swirled her tongue around the tip of his dick licking every last drop of him from his skin. He twitched for what felt like hours while she sucked him again, her lips wrapping perfectly around him. She slowly pulled away swallowing and looking up at him with the sweetest smile that contradicted everything they just did. “Y’didn’t have to do that,” he cupped her face and pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead.

She shrugged. “Well... You said suck it up buttercup.”

He chuckled. “Naughty,” he murmured and kissed her softly on the lips. “That was really lovely, baby.”

She nodded eagerly in agreement. “I thought so too,” she blushed as she looked at him.

“I’ve never done that with a girlfriend before,” his voice was gentle as he looked over her face with so much... adoration. It made her stomach flip.

Her heart sparked with hope that there was something she encountered with him first. Something good and would always be theirs. “No?” She questioned quietly.

“Nope,” he brushed his thumb on her cheek. “I’ve never trusted someone this much.”

She felt her chest swell. Like her heart was going to burst. He was too sweet. Just like her favorite candy. “That’s very sweet, Harry,” she grabbed the hand holding her face and brushed a kiss into his palm.

“I know,” he shrugged with an impish smile. She shoved his hand away with an eye roll but couldn’t help but smile at him all the same. “I love you, Buttercup.”

“Thank you,” she giggled. He snorted and rolled his eyes.

“Say it,” he ordered dropping his face to her neck and kissing her what felt like a hundred times over in a matter of seconds.

“I love you,” she responded.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely.

He dropped to her side, pulling her close to his chest and she traced the outline of his face. “Hey Harry,” she mumbled.

“Yes, baby?” He answered instantly sensing the slightest amount of insecurity in her tone. He frowned as she refused to make eye contact with her.

“I think maybe now it’s your turn to ‘suck it up buttercup,’” she glanced at his eyes quickly and then darted her gaze to across the room. Harry groaned and began his path of kisses south along her body.

“Anything for you, Buttercup.”

--

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[bloomseishiro]

DAYDREAMING, WITH MY CHIN IN THE PALM OF MY HANDS — ITOSHI RIN

౨ৎ — sure, rin may be an asshole, but for some reason he offered to help tutor you in your worst subject, english. so maybe he’s not as bad as you thought. maybe he’s actually someone you could find yourself falling for. 

itoshi rin x fem!reader. fluff, high school au/no blue lock au, pining, the long awaited part 2 of “it’s impossible to ignore you” :3 ahh i loved writing this omg reader and rin r everything to meeee!! pls enjoy xx

word count. 6.3k 

“Rin is going to tutor you?” your friend, Akemi, asks with her jaw on the floor. “The same Rin who rejects girls by saying he doesn’t have time for them?” 

You nod sheepishly, just as surprised as she is. “He knows if I fail one more exam, I’ll have to retake the class during summer. And he offered to help me. Still, I won’t do it if you don’t want me to.” 

Her eyes widen as she takes a bite of her beef rice bowl. “Why would I not want my best friend to get help from the best English speaker in our grade? I don’t want you to fail!” 

“But he broke your heart just yesterday!” 

Akemi sighs, waving her hand dismissively. “Yeah, he did. And he sucks for that. But I guess I was more infatuated with him than in love. I mean—what’s his favorite color anyway?” 

You shrug.

“I don’t know either. Someone in love should probably have known at least that,” she giggles. “You don’t need to turn down a great opportunity on my account.” 

Giving her a grateful look, you mumble, “I really do want to pass English. Do you think he can actually help?”

“If he can’t, who can?”

“The Tooth Fairy? Maybe if I find a tooth to put under my pillow…” 

She makes a face. “First off, that’s gross. Second, I think the Tooth Fairy only gives you money, not a passing grade.”

You groan, placing your head in your hands with an exaggerated movement. 

Akemi simply laughs at your dramatics. “Oh, come on. Studying won’t be that bad. When’s your first tutoring session, anyway?”

“It was supposed to be now,” you reply, twirling a strand of hair as you glance away to avoid her incredulous stare. “But I just couldn’t start without making sure you were okay with it first! I asked Rin if we could postpone…”

“Y/N!” she exclaims, practically slamming down her bowl of rice onto the cafeteria table. “That’s so stupid of you! And sweet. Very sweet. You’re the best friend ever. But you could’ve been at least three times more knowledgeable about English by now!” 

You give her a sideways look. “Three times? Don’t you give Rin too much credit?” 

Akemi raises her brow at you. “Have you ever paid attention to him speaking English? Three times better in one session is the minimum. Go text Rin and reschedule for after school.”

“But—”

“No buts,” she says sternly. 

“But,” you continue in an exaggerated tone, “he has soccer practice after school.”

“Tell him you’ll wait for him then,” Akemi offers as if it’s the most obvious solution in the world. “You are the one who cancelled your lunch session at the last minute, after all. It’s the canceller’s duty to reschedule.” 

“That’s not even a word.”

She glares at you. 

You sigh in resignation, holding your hands up as you swallow the last bite of your food. “You’re right. I have English with him next period. Apparently. I’ll ask him if he can tutor me this evening when I see him.” 

Akemi nods in satisfaction, giving you a wide grin and a thumbs up. “Good luck, Y/N. I know you’ll ace the next test!” 

Exchanging a small smile, you nod in determination. “I will definitely pass. The next exam will be mine!” 

At least, you hope so. That is what Rin told you, after all, and soon it’d be time to see if he lives up to that promise. 

Half of you expects Rin to say no, that he’s too busy to tutor you tonight and it’s totally your loss for cancelling on him in the first place. But to your surprise, he simply nods. 

That’s how you find yourself sitting on the bleachers as you watch Rin playing soccer at his after school club. 

Oddly enough, it seems you aren’t the only one. 

“Oh, my god! Rin is so good,” the girl to your left, a few rows away from you swoons. 

“Yeah, he’s totally in charge on the field,” says another in a similar, dreamy tone. “So intense!”

A guy sitting next to them snorts, folding his hands over his arms. “Too intense. All he cares about is soccer and winning. Nothing else.” 

You raise your brow, looking over at the group with your peripheral vision. There was no doubt in your mind that the guy had a crush on one of the girls he was with, but she was too hopelessly infatuated with Rin to notice. 

The classic highschool love triangle.

Sort of. Maybe it’s more of a broken love line.

As the sun begins to set, the coach ends the practice and tells everyone to keep up the good work before dismissing them. 

You silently watch Rin down a bottle of water before grabbing a clean towel to wipe his face and neck. Seeing as the practice was over and it would likely be time for your tutoring session soon, you make your way down to the field.

“Not another one of Rin’s secret admirers,” one of his teammates groans to another. “I’ve seen enough rejections this week to last a lifetime.”

If Rin can hear them (which, given he’s only three feet away, there’s no doubt that he can’t), he chooses to ignore them completely. Instead, he saunters over to you and nods in greeting. 

“Give me a minute to change, then we can go,” he says, brushing his hair out of his face with his fingers. “Wait for me by the door.” 

From the corner of your eye, you see his teammates’ jaws drop as Rin begins to walk away to clean himself up.

“Is he willingly…speaking to a girl?” whispers one with a bleached blonde streak in his fringe. 

Another shivers, a horrified look on his face. “I feel like the world just turned upside down.” 

You stifle a laugh at their dramatics. The concept of Rin willingly interacting with someone of the opposite sex shouldn’t be that revolutionary. But, you have met Rin, after all. His stoic and uncaring persona did run rampant at times. Perhaps their shock isn’t so misplaced.

Much to your pleasure, you don’t have to wait long for Rin to finish up in the locker rooms. The outfit he changed into is a casual one—a simple crew neck and black joggers—but he somehow manages to look fully put-together. 

He comes up to you and you wave, finally allowing yourself to smile. “Hi, Rin.” 

“Hey,” he says, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “Ready?” 

You nod, walking side-by-side with him as you skip over to the school library. It’s not open for too much longer, but it should be enough for you to get a good hour of tutoring in. 

“How was practice?” you ask conversationally as you make your way down the hall. 

Rin shrugs. “Nothing special.”

You huff to yourself, glad to see he was as chipper as ever. And to think you two almost had a moment after that train ride… It must’ve been your delusions talking. 

As he enters the library, he finds a table for you to sit at near the back, away from the librarian and remaining students so as to not disrupt them with your talking. 

“The last test we had in the class was about reading comprehension, right?” asks Rin, pulling out a children’s picture book written in English and handing it over to you. “Is your issue that you don’t know the words, or you don’t understand the meaning?”

“Of course I know the words!” you cry indignantly, proving yourself by reading a random page of the book and translating them out loud in Japanese. “Back when all we did were vocabulary tests in the previous years, I aced those. It’s the…putting it together I don’t get.” 

He nods as if he expected it. “I figured you would know how to translate it. You are in the advanced English class, after all,” he says dryly. 

“Somehow,” you murmur.

“Knowing how to translate each word to Japanese is different from understanding it in English.” 

“That’s what the hard part is,” you agree miserably.

Rin snorts, “Then maybe you shouldn’t have done Advanced English. You would’ve done just fine in the normal classes. This is the only teacher who actually cares about our conversational and comprehension skills.”

“But I always take the advanced classes!”

“How’s that working out for you?”

You glare at him. “Well, it’d be better if my English tutor was actually helpful!” 

He rolls his eyes. “I’m getting there. I have to gauge how bad you are before I know where you need help.”

You heave a sigh, unable to argue with his logic. 

Rin searches something on his phone before showing it to you. “Here, can you read that?” 

Nodding slowly, you say the title in Japanese, “Analysis of relative gene expression data using real-time quantitative—”

“In English,” interrupts Rin exasperatedly. 

You frown. “But… I don’t know how to pronounce it.”

“It doesn’t matter. Just try.”

Try and make a fool of yourself? No thanks. 

You shake your head stubbornly. 

Rin pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales loudly. “Okay. Well, you can theoretically translate a research paper, but you don’t know how those words go together. And you can’t make sense of it in English.”

“Sounds accurate,” you sniff. 

“All that knowledge about vocabulary and grammar won’t do you any good if you can’t understand the source language,” he comments, deadpan but not rude. 

“Well, how do we fix it, doctor?” you say sarcastically. 

He huffs, taking his phone back from you in one swift motion. “We put you through the most intensive training regimen I know. Watching English movies.”

Your next tutoring session is at Rin’s house. 

It’s a nice house, but rather empty. There are pictures of him, his parents, and someone you assume to be his brother scattered throughout the hallways, but no one else is home. When Rin opens the door, he doesn’t even have to greet anyone or introduce you to his parents before bringing you to his room. 

The session starts with Rin going over some grammar and sentence structures from an earlier class (one that you definitely slept through), and segues into you reading another children’s book. This time, he demands you read it in English and give him a summary about what it’s about instead of translating each word into Japanese. 

“The larger context is more important than each individual word. Even if you don’t know a few words, you should still be able to understand what’s going on,” he says, already sounding impatient. But really, you think that’s just the perpetual tone of his voice.

This time, you dutifully listen. You had to put your trust in Rin’s tutoring skills if you wanted a chance to pass the class. 

As you read through the picture book with a giant elephant on the cover, your brows furrow in confusion. You aren’t sure if you’re just complete ass at reading English, or if the story was genuinely this bizarre.

“Rin,” you say hesitantly.

“Hm?” 

“Is this really about an elephant finding a small planet on a speck on a clover? And no one believes him because they can’t see it? Until they… Yopp?” 

Rin nods, looking thoroughly impressed. “So you can understand some English.”

“I don’t think half of the words in this book are even real!” 

“Exactly why it’s a perfect way to force you to focus on the context over translations,” he retorts. 

You can’t help but laugh at the absurdity. Still, it did help you find some confidence in your comprehension skills. If you can read English on a paper, maybe understanding it audibly isn’t so far out of reach. 

Turning the TV in his room in, Rin lazily turns to you. “Time to start the intensive part. Let’s watch a movie in English. I’ll keep the Japanese subtitles on for a bit, but then change it to English subtitles only.”

You bite your lip, fiddling nervously with a thread on your sleeve. “I don’t know… That sounds a lot harder than reading a picture book meant for five year olds.”

“We can pause when you need to and go slow.”

Reluctantly, you nod. “What are we going to watch?”

“The Conjuring.”

“What’s that about?”

“You’ll see.” 

Rin sits on one side of his bed, gesturing for you to join him. Your cheeks begin to burn at the implication of joining him in bed, but the butterflies instantly turn into dust the moment he so obviously scoots away to put the most distance he possibly can between you two. 

As you blink at him questioningly, he simply explains, “My TV is better than the one in the living room. I’m not trying to…” 

“Yeah. I know.”

“Yeah,” he finishes awkwardly. 

The moment the movie comes onto the screen, your eyes widen with dread. It’s dark, and eerie, and you immediately know what this is. 

“A horror movie?!” you cry indignantly. “I did not sign up for this.”

“The plotlines in American horror movies are relatively simple,” insists Rin. “It should be easier for you to follow compared to a drama.”

You squint at his explanation, taking a pillow from his bed and hugging it close to your chest. “That sounds like baloney.” 

He snorts in amusement, eyeing the way you are clutching his pillow in a death grip. “Why? Are you scared?” 

“No!” 

Rin sighs, “I’ll keep the lights on.” 

You pause before muttering, “Thanks.” 

The movie starts and you immediately regret all your life choices. Is Rin trying to help you pass your English class, or is he secretly trying to torture you?

Rin really is an asshole…

It doesn’t take a genius to feel the sense of suspense and unease in the film, even if you didn’t fully understand what the actors were saying. You knew there was some demonic supernatural shit going on and you immediately hated it. 

Rin extends his leg and you can’t help but yelp at the sudden movement. 

Your head snaps to his, eyes wide and alert. 

“I was just getting a cramp,” he says with a hint of laughter in his voice. 

Of course, you were scared out of your mind and he was laughing. What do all the girls even see in him? 

You huff, sinking deeper into his bed and allowing his pillow to block more and more of your vision. In your fear-clouded haze, you vaguely notice Rin offering you another one of his pillows to hold. Those fluffy feathers would certainly be enough to fend off any evil spirits. 

During a particularly intense part, you find yourself abandoning the pillows and creeping over to Rin’s side of the bed, too scared to register how you grabbed his arm and buried your face in it. 

“I’m going to turn off the subtitles now,” he says, but you don’t let go of him as he reaches for the remote to change the settings. He glances over at you, his lip curled up. “Do you need a break?”

“No.” You shake your head fervently. “Let’s get this over with as soon as possible.”

He shrugs and resumes the movie, almost unfazed as you attach yourself back onto his side. 

This isn’t something you’re used to doing when you watch a movie with someone. In fact, you’re normally perfectly content sitting in your own personal space. But this movie was terrifying and you were willing to use anything that provided some source of comfort.

Besides, it doesn’t seem like Rin minds… Knowing him, he would’ve shoved you off the bed or told you to move if he got too uncomfortable. Plus, this situation is all his fault anyway. 

To your surprise, you understand some of the phrases the actors are saying despite having only English subtitles. Though, it comes at your own demise as you grow even more scared at the movie. 

You yelp as a jumpscare scene occurs, hiding your face behind your hair and pressing your cheek against Rin’s arm. 

A stifled laugh comes from beside you and you’re about to tell him off for finding enjoyment from your misery when he casually brushes your hair back behind your ear. The words on the tip of your tongue instantly become nothing but a forgotten whisper as your stomach flip-flops about ten times in the span of five seconds. 

The gentleness of his touch still burns your face. You look up at him, confused. 

“You can’t watch when your eyes are covered,” he says with his attention already back to the movie. 

You huff in annoyance. Trying to read Rin is harder than English.

For a moment, you’re tempted to put on a brave face and pull away, but you catch Rin looking over at you once more. This time his gaze is covert, as if he doesn’t want to be noticed. But it’s there. Though his expression is neutral, his eyes are bright as they burn into yours. When he sees you staring back, this time he doesn’t attempt to look away. 

Okay, so maybe you could understand why he had girls always swooning over him. 

The intensity of his gaze almost makes your cheeks flush. Almost.

Luckily for you, a sudden and loud noise from the movie jolts your mind away from…whatever that moment was.  

As the movie comes to an end and the plot is left unresolved, you are still as unsettled as you were when the movie first started. That is to say, Rin really screwed you over by making you watch this. 

“I officially hate you,” you proclaim as he turns the television off. 

“Again?” He raises his brow. “Why now?”

“Because, what kind of asshole makes someone watch a horror movie that will traumatize them for the rest of their lives?!” 

“It’s just The Conjuring.” 

You glare at him but he pays it no mind. 

“If you’re scared, that must mean you understood it,” he says smugly. 

“It’s not difficult to understand when there’s creepy music and dark shadows and everyone sounds slightly insane!”

“See, it’s all about context.” 

“I hate you.” 

“Do you?” he challenges. 

You sigh, “No. Well, maybe temporarily because there is no way in hell I’m going to be able to sleep tonight.” 

Rin fixes the pillows on his bed as you get off. “Are you really that scared?” 

“Yes! Do you think I’m faking this for dramatic effect?” you ask, incredulous. 

“No, but it’s just a movie. You don’t need to be scared once it stops playing.”

“Tell that to my brain.” 

Rin snorts and you fold your arms over your chest, looking out the window and wincing once you notice just how dark it is. 

“The sun’s already down?” you say with a small voice. “Maybe I should ask my mom to pick me up…” 

“Don’t you live nearby?”

You nod, toying with a strand of your hair nervously. “Yes, but a demon can still get me within the ten minutes it takes to get home.”

Rin shakes his head but grabs a jacket as you begin to pack your belongings. “I’ll walk you home, then.”

You pause as you’re shoving your pencil case into your book bag. “You will?”

“Better than having someone come all the way here just to escort you,” he says dryly, leading you out the door. “And…I guess it might be slightly my fault you’re scared.” 

“Slightly?” you retort. “It’s definitely all your fault.” 

“That’s a funny way of saying ‘thanks for the tutoring session, Rin.’”

You pull a face, crinkling your nose as you repeat monotonously, “Thanks for the tutoring session, Rin.” 

He rolls his eyes but there’s a softness to his movements. “Yeah. Sure. You really are improving, you know?” 

Begrudgingly, you nod. When he wasn’t making you read weird books and watch scary movies, he was surprisingly patient explaining concepts like participles and tenses. That part was certainly easier for you than trying to read and comprehend in English, so you were glad he pushed you to do that as well. Though today, it may have cost your sanity. 

“I guess I should be more genuine,” you say guiltily. “I really am thankful for your help. I know you could be doing lots of other things with your time. Like, practicing more soccer or…watching scary movies. Or… Actually, I don’t know what else you do in your free time.”

He shrugs. “That’s about it, really. I play horror games, too, I guess.”

“With friends?” 

“Does it seem like I make friends?” asks Rin in amusement. 

You shake your head sheepishly. “Your brother, then?” 

He frowns at the mention of his brother, his bright eyes growing dimmer. “No. Definitely not with him. Alone. I play alone. I like it better that way.” 

Sensing that you accidentally overstepped on a touchy subject, you clear your throat and look away. “Well, that’s fun too.” 

After a few moments of awkward silence as you walk down the poorly lit street, Rin offers, “Sorry.” 

You spare him a questioning glance. 

“For snapping,” he continues with an annoyed exhale. “We’re not on good terms. My older brother and I.”

You nod in understanding, lightly bumping your shoulder against his. “I could tell. I’m sorry for bringing him up.” 

Rin waves you off. “It’s whatever.”

It’s definitely not whatever, but okay, you say to yourself. 

The two of you continue walking down the street, turning the corner in silence, but this time it’s not awkward or uncomfortable. Just a neutral calmness. That is, until you hear the sudden ring of a bicycle bell and jump in fear. 

Rin coughs to hide a laugh. 

“I don’t even want to hear it from you!” you sniff, haughtily crossing your arms and walking ahead of him. “You’re the one to blame for my jitters. How will I ever sleep tonight?”

He raises his hands in surrender. “I know, didn’t I say I’m sorry already?” 

“A sorry isn’t enough,” you say with a humph. “How will you atone?” 

“You sound crazy,” he says, but humors you nonetheless. “I’ll send you funny cat videos until you fall asleep.”

Your ears perk at the offer. “You drive a hard bargain. Fine.” 

“I don’t have your number.” 

Rin hands you his phone and you swiftly add yourself as a contact. 

“Did you really add yourself as ‘Rin’s Worst Nightmare, devil emoji, devil emoji’?” 

You nod proudly. 

“Just remember you said it, not me,” he smirked. “What will my name be on your phone?”

“Probably something like, ‘Number One Pain in my Ass.’” 

“Creative,” he drawls. 

You stick your tongue out at him.

Your walk continues and soon enough, you see the outside of your house come into view. There’s a light visible through the window and you thank the stars you won’t be coming home to a creepy, dark house. 

“This is my stop,” you announce with a smile. “Thanks for walking me home.”

“Yeah. I guess I did owe you for scaring you shitless.”

You laugh in acknowledgment. The movie was scary, but at least there were moments you could get your mind off it. “And don’t forget you still owe me cat videos!” 

Rin nods. “I’ll send them after I get ready for bed. Try to get some rest now.” 

“You too, Rin.”

“How are your tutoring sessions coming along?” asks Akemi, laying down with her head hanging off your bed. 

It’s Friday night after school and Rin told you that he would be too busy to tutor you tonight, which makes it the perfect time to catch up with your friend.

“Good, actually.”

“Why do you sound so surprised?” she laughs. 

“I thought he would change his mind and leave me to dry,” you reply with a giggle. “Rin’s offer was so sudden, you know? I was partly expecting him to take it back.” 

“That does seem like something he’d do to most people,” Akemi agrees, then shoots you a devilish grin. “But not to you. He must like you.”

You shake your head in denial. “There’s no way that’s the case.” 

“But what if it was?” she asks, wiggling her eyebrows. “Would you be happy? Maybe you even like him back?” 

Groaning, you throw a pillow at her face to stop her incessant questioning. 

There’s simply no way Rin liked you. He was just slightly nicer to you because he thought you were someone who is actually worth his time. Whatever that means. 

And there’s an even less chance you like him! 

Rin has his caring moments, you will give him that, but most times he’s arrogant, emotionally unavailable, and ruthless. Somehow, those qualities suit him…

You catch yourself, shaking your head feverishly at the thought. 

There’s no way you could be developing a crush on Rin. 

So why do you feel yourself getting butterflies as you think about your next tutoring session? 

This session is at your house this time. 

You’ve had a handful of meetings in the library over the past few weeks, but Rin decided it was time for another intensive training session— Meaning, it was time for you to watch another movie. 

“It won’t be horror this time,” he assures you, tone only slightly mocking. “I think you’ve gotten decent enough that you can graduate to a more confusing genre.”

“Like romance?” you say excitedly. If Rin forced you to watch a scary movie that gave you nightmares for two weeks straight, then you could force him to sit through some romance movies you know he would hate. 

Heaving a sigh, he begrudgingly shrugs. “Student’s choice. Also, it’s your house. I don’t know what movies or streaming services you have.” 

“So you’ll watch 10 Things I Hate About You with me?” 

“It can’t be a movie you’ve already seen,” Rin says, folding his arms as he leans back on your couch. “The point is to try to piece together the plot and what the characters are saying, not recite something you’ve seen a million times.” 

You pout, sitting on the opposite end of the sofa. “But it’s a good movie…”

“We’ll watch it another time. After you pass the exam.”

After you pass? So Rin’s implying he wants to keep hanging out with you even after these tutoring sessions are over? Your cheeks flush at the thought. 

As you scroll through numerous streaming sites, you finally find a title that sounds familiar. 

“My friend told me this one is good! How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days,” you point out eagerly. 

“You must like the number ten,” he comments. 

“You’ll love it too after this!” 

Rin stifles a chuckle, and you realize you’ve been hearing him semi-laugh more often lately. The ruthless ice prince does have a fun side to him. He is still, after all, just a high school guy in your grade. And you hate to admit that it fills you with some sense of pleasure knowing you’re the only one in school who has likely ever heard that noise come out of Rin’s mouth. 

“Since it’s my first time watching too, we can compare our summaries after.” 

You groan, almost forgetting that this was a tutoring session and not just a movie night with a friend. “Compare summaries? What’s next, do I have to cite my sources?” 

He rolls his eyes at you. “Keep it up and I’ll say yes, you do.” 

Immediately, you shut your lips, desperately wanting to avoid as much outside-of-school work as possible. 

“This is so cheesy,” complains Rin as the two of you watch the movie in silence, both invested in the plot. “He has a bet, she has an ulterior motive, they’re going to fall in love while using each other, the reveal is going to split them apart, then they’re going to make up somehow and then the movie will end. I don’t even need to finish it to know.” 

You glare at him, eyes fixed on the screen as Andie exchanges a touching conversation with Ben’s mother. “Spoilers, much?” 

“I’m not spoiling, it’s an educated guess.”

“Keep it to yourself,” you demand playfully, sticking your tongue out. “Some of us like to be surprised.” 

He exhales loudly but turns his attention back to the TV. 

The rest of the movie passes by peacefully until you get to a certain scene where the main characters have their obligatory romantic kiss. The kiss is slow and playful, and the scene is so intimate you almost have to look away. 

Bashfully, you take your eyes off the screen and see Rin following suit, the apples of his cheeks colored a faint pink. 

He looks rather cute. 

Your mind starts to wander, picturing you and Rin sharing a kiss like the one on screen and you find your throat getting dry. Would his lips be soft or chapped? They look soft. Would he be the type to hold your chin, your cheek, or your jaw as he kisses you? Maybe even the back of your neck, if you were lucky. You wanted to find out…

Slapping your hands to your face, you silently tell yourself to snap out of it. 

He looks over at you, alarmed. “Did you just hit yourself?” 

“I thought I felt a fly.”

“On both cheeks?” 

“A fly on one side and a mosquito on the other.”

Rin’s brows shoot up before he shakes his head, knowing sometimes, it’s better not to question your logic. “Okay.”

Slowly, the scene escalates from a couple of gentle kisses to the characters taking each other’s shirts off. 

Your eyes widen as your gaze is forced away once again. 

“Hey. What the hell is this rated?” Rin coughs, his voice strangled. “Aren’t your parents home?”

Through your embarrassment, you glance at him in surprise. Did he really sound flustered just then? So Rin really does have the capacity to feel normal human emotions after all. 

“Um, PG-13, I t-think,” you stammer, painfully aware of the actors continuing to make out topless on the television. “My parents are gone for the weekend, anyway.”

“Oh.” 

It’s not until the scene is over that you and Rin both let out a sigh of relief, as if the tension could finally escape your bodies. You sink into the cushions, glad that you and Rin decided to sit on opposite sides of the couch. Otherwise, you would’ve been even more aware of his presence and curious about his kiss. 

Neither are good things to focus on. 

When the movie ends, you wipe away a stray tear at the conclusion. Of course, Rin was right about the entire plot, but that didn’t make it any less amazing. 

“So, what’s your rating?” you ask once the credits finish rolling. 

“For a movie that’s not horror, maybe a four.”

“Damn, tough crowd,” you say with a tsk. “I loved it! I would give it at least an eight.��

“You’re too generous,” retorts Rin. “What’s your summary?” 

You rattle off the happenings of the movie from start to finish, even going so far as to talk about your favorite moments.

When you finish talking, Rin nods, looking pleased with himself. “So you understand. We didn’t even use Japanese subtitles.” 

“You’re right!” you exclaim, eyes full of excitement as you exchanged glances with him. “I’m definitely ready for the exam! I feel so much more confident in English comprehension already.”

“Told you you’d pass with me as your tutor.” 

“I haven’t passed yet!” 

“But you will,” he says, his tone overly-confident. He would be insufferably arrogant if he didn’t have the skills to back it up. Luckily for him, he did. “Soon, I won’t need to tutor you anymore.”

A barely-there frown crosses your face at the reminder. 

Would there be no reason to see each other outside of school once you passed the class? 

Something about that unsettles you. 

Minutes of silence pass before Rin waves his hand in front of your face. “Hello?”

You swallow, forcing a smile. You don’t need to be thinking about that right now. “Sorry, I just spaced out there.”

“I can tell,” he says, somewhat amused. “It is getting late, maybe you need some sleep.”

That isn’t the case, but you nod in agreement. 

“I’ll head home, then,” Rin states, standing up and slipping his jacket on. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

You wave, walking him to your door and watching him walk away. “See you! And thanks for the help.” 

He looks back briefly, raising his hand in acknowledgment and even that single shared glance is enough to send jitters through your body. 

Closing the door, you rest your head back and groan. There’s no point in lying to yourself anymore. Not after you literally fantasized about making out with him while he was sitting right next to you. 

You have a crush on Rin. And you are so screwed. 

“Rin! I passed! Look, look!” you exclaim, holding your test paper out excitedly. 

Class just ended and the teacher handed you your text back with a swift, “Nice job.” That might’ve been the best compliment you received in this class all year. 

Naturally, the first person you wanted to show it off to was the one who helped you get the grade in the first place, Rin.

He pauses at your desk, peering closely at the grade on your test and nodding once. His lips are turned up in the slightest smile and he ruffles the top of your head. 

“You did it,” he says. 

You smooth down your hair, trying not to pay too much attention to how nice and warm his hand was. “All thanks to you.”

“I know.” Rin begins to walk to his next class and you follow along, bouncing on the balls of your feet nervously. “You did good too, I suppose” 

“Gee, thanks,” you remark dryly. Still, an excited cheer comes out of you. “I don’t need to stay after graduation! How great is that?”

“You can enjoy your summer before we are thrown into adulthood.” 

“I know!” you chirp. “And I really couldn’t have done it without you. Hey, how about… Never mind.”

Rin pauses, hanging around the hallway instead of entering his next lesson. He lifts an eyebrow in question. “How about what?” 

The words get stuck in your throat as you open your mouth, your nerves getting the better of you. You aren’t someone who finds it easy to confess, and you know Rin’s track record with confessions isn't exactly great. 

Yet, you want to ride the momentum of this excitement and ask. It’s now or never.

You take a deep breath before you ask, “How about I treat you to some dinner this Saturday? You know— As a thank you for your help.”

You can barely look Rin in the eye as he stares at you, cheeks dusted pink. 

“I told you before we started you don’t need to give me anything in return,” he insists. 

Immediately, your face falls. Of course, he would say no. At least he sugarcoated it for you instead of his typical cutthroat rejections…

“But, we can still get dinner this Saturday.” 

You lift your head in surprise. 

“It’ll be my treat, though.” 

You blink. “Like a…? As in a…?”

Rin’s brows furrow at your nonsensical mutterings. “A what?” 

“A…” 

“Can you say it already?”

“A date?” you blurt. 

He snorts, shaking his head in amusement. “Now, was that so hard to say?” 

You pout at his teasing, sticking your lower lip out as he chuckles. “Hey. Don’t be mean.”

“Sorry,” he amends, though his smirk tells you he’s not actually sorry. “The answer is yes.”

“Huh?”

“It’s a date.”

“Really?!” you ask, unable to contain your excitement. Before he can even reply, you bounce closer to him, throwing your arms around his waist as giving him a hug. 

He stiffens for a moment before slowly returning your embrace. Rin’s hand rests on the small of your back and you want nothing more than to stay like this. 

Until the bell rings and snaps some sense into you. 

You jolt at the sudden ring and Rin coughs to hiss his embarrassment at the public display of affection. 

“Oh, shit! I’m late. So late,” you cry, holding the strap of your book bag and spinning around frantically. “Bye, Rin! Let’s talk about our date after school!”

“I’ll see you after practice then,” he calls out as you run off. “We can plan it while I walk you home.”

Your cheeks heat up and you feel thankful he can’t see the embarrassment evident in your expression. Who knew Rin could be smooth like that? Saying he’ll take you out on a date and walk you home today so casually? 

It’s another side of him you want to get to know more about.

There are times he can be an asshole, and honest to the point of being uncaring. But he’s also surprisingly nice at times. And even patient.  You hope the next layer for you to unravel, which is perhaps the most exciting of all, is to learn how Rin is as a boyfriend. 

You giggle to yourself at the thought. Would he be teasing and mean? Or doting and affectionate? Maybe a bit of both.

Shaking your head, you stop yourself from fantasizing. It’s just one date, that doesn’t mean he’s your boyfriend yet. But you’re in no rush. The most fun part is the journey it takes to get there.

[jpnriikicore]

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© JPNRIIKICORE, 2025

[midnghtprentiss]

the favorite - jack abbot x f!attending!reader

pairing: jack abbot x f!attending!reader

a/n: this is my first jack story and i'm really excited. as a former healthcare worker (nurse!) the pitt changed a lot of things for me and it's my favorite show so far. hope you all like this idea of mine. sorry for any spelling mistakes. english is not my first language.

summary: all the times you were everyone's favorite person and one time you were jack’s person. 

one. 

you're a ray of sunshine. 

that's your thing.

you’re nice, intelligent, competent, kind and still the best part of the day for some people. and you’re smart as hell. she loves it. 

your calm energy it’s the reason why you work at the emergency department. people need your calmness around to work. which means you’re the favorite doctor beneath the staff, especially the nurses and med students - you’re their golden girl. 

dana loved you for different reasons. your sense of humour, your energy, the way you pay attention to the details. and most because you stay out of trouble. 

she never had a problem with you, actually, she was glad they put someone sane and kind to work in that shithole. every shift you showed up with something for the team. 

maybe homemade cookies, a cake and even a bread if you feel inspired baking for your people to show how grateful you are for them and to keep the spirits up. thank god it worked every time. perla and princess waited for you in the parking lot a few times just to make sure you got something good. 

what they admired the most about you was your strength to defend the nurses from the crazy patients. it doesn’t matter the shift, if someone is fighting with them, you’re the first one to show up and say some things. perla remembered how you got beaten up to defend princess from a perv that was touching her and how you ended up laughing about it with blood all over your nose (jack almost died when he saw you covered in blood - your blood). 

“it’s nothing, dana. he was touching her and i don’t appreciate it when men do that. she asked him to stop and he didn’t.” you shrugged and smiled at her. “don’t worry, alright? i would've done it for any of you.”

“kiddo, one of these days you’re going to kill me.”

“no i won’t.” you bolwed her a kiss and she laughed. a relieved laugh. “it’s not my fault i would take a bullet for you guys.” 

no one ever questioned your loyalty with the team, everybody knows exactly where’s the limit between respect and bullshit with you. from this day on, she put you under her wing and swore to herself anything that could ever happen to you during a shift was her full responsibility. some days the funniest part of her shift was explaining to abbot how you almost went home with a broken arm to defend them.

two. 

robby was his own person and you knew that. he loved the space, the warmth of his own heart and the loneliness. of course you were worried a lot of times. 

but for him you were like a breath of fresh air. the way you cracked jokes when you noticed he was this close to snap, when you distracted him for a few minutes with some picture of your cat, even taking him to the morgue just to swear bad words, or when you brought him coffee and chocolate. even when you covered for him for a few minutes so he could cry in peace. 

and he loved you a lot for that (and a lot of other reasons, but let’s focus on the main ones).

you never said a word about any of the things he never asked you to do and you've done it either way. he could count on you any moment of the shift just for glancing different at your direction. sometimes you have conversations with your eyes, sometimes you just cursed him under your breath and that was it. 

you even scared him a little. 

“i don’t want to see you for at least twenty minutes, robinavich. don’t make me yell at you.” you don’t even gleaned at him from the computer. “i got this. go grab something to eat while you cry, i don’t know. call your boyfriend, go watch some babies at peds i want you gone. the kids are my responsibility now.” 

“i need to be grown up now, i am literally their boss.” he tried to argue but one look from you was enough.

“if you don’t disappear in the next thirty seconds i’ll call jack and things will be worse.” you got up crossing your arms like a mother. 

“jezz, fine. please don’t ground call papa” he rolled his eyes, laughing and walked away from you, disappearing from your sight. 

“that’s how you teach grown men to be normal.” you winked at dana who was watching everything mesmerized cause she begged robby to take a break and he didn’t listen. 

robby was gone for thirty minutes and no one noticed his absence. when he returned to the nursing station he saw you teaching the med students how to do a proper examination on a normal patient, listening and answering all of the questions they had like a pro. 

you got everything covered and he felt good to have someone to help without needing to ask. 

that’s why you were his favorite. 

three. 

the med students loved you. the absolutely worship the ground you walked on. they loved your patience, your mind and especially how you treated them like people. in your mind they were there to learn, which means they'll make some mistakes and that's partially fine as long as they don’t kill anybody. 

“she has a masters and a doctorate, guys!” javadi once exclaimed like she found gold at the ED. 

at some point you became their confident. you knew every little detail about their life. how withaker was living with santos, how javadi was crushing mateo really bad even how santos struggled with the loss of her friend. mel learned how to open up about her sister's situation and mohan was navigating through the loss of her father even after all this time. you even helped mckay with the legal proceedings for her to have her son back. 

you knew everything. 

during your shifts you did your best to rotate between them. each day you choose one to watch from close and teach what you know and everyday they fight to decide who stays with you but after dr santos and whitaker dared to start a fist fight robby and dana choose for them. 

robby and jack were a little jealous of you, especially because you’re a smooth talker and you charmed everyone who listened. 

“it’s unfair how they follow you around like some sort of queen bee.” robby almost cried with his words. 

“i heard they have a groupchat with you, is it true?” jack nearly jumps from his seat. 

“i don’t know what you’re talking about.” you sipped your coffee. 

“oh you know exactly what i’m saying.” he shots back and you laughed hard. 

“are you jealous of them? from what i’ve known you don’t even like interns, abbot.” 

“yeah, but i like to know what they say about my girl.” 

“they call her mama bear, brother.” robby looked at his hands trying to hold a chuckle. 

they’re definitely jealous. 

you use your time to teach them some valuable lessons. you help them navigate in the transition of becoming a doctor. smoothly and nice, just like you learned. 

“you know, santos, i’ll be honest, you need to review your way of talking with people.” you were beside her with crossing arms, watching her stitch a patient. 

your voice was hard and soft at the same time. 

“i’m only rude to the jerks.” you hold your laugh. 

“at one moment you’ll start to see all of them as jerks and this can’t happen.” you warned her softly. “imagined if you’re the one in their position. would you like to be treated like that?” 

she stared at you and nodded gently, sighing at your words. 

“what if i can’t do that?” 

“you will call me and we’ll try a different approach.” you touch her shoulder and squeeze. “i don’t want you to be cold and indifferent. the medicine needs to make you feel something. you’re doing a good thing for someone you like or not.”

they listen to you and they care. if you say something immediately they’ll do it and will make it like their life depends on it. 

at your birthday, for example, they made you a cake from scratch and even decorated it with pink frost and a glitter candle. you burst out laughing just for them to do that for you. no one else got a cake, just you. 

they even wrote you a small letter. 

“thank you for being the best teacher for us. we loved you, mama bear.  lots of love and hugs from your students.”

you were really grateful for those kids and they were grateful you’re their teacher. 

four. 

langdon was a problematic guy. it was no secret. he knew it, you knew it. but he was an exceptional doctor. no discussions about that. it was a fact. 

when he first started struggling with his addiction he came to you. something was happening to him and you got it in your heart that in the right moment he would talk. 

and he did.

he always talked about his problems with you. he came to talk about his marriage and how scared he was to broke things off with abby, how scared he was of being a shitty father. he viewed you more like an older sister, a protector of him. he liked how you never judged his fears, he liked the way you listened and tried to put some sense into his mind to do the right things. 

but this time it was different. it was worse. eating him alive. 

you were working a double shift when he found you in the stairs eating a burger in peace. you offered him some and he denied it. the air around him was thick, heavy and sad. he was a broken man and the sight almost broke your heart. 

“talk to me, frank.” 

“i fucked up.” you nodded, putting your food away to hold his hand.

“heard about it.” he sighed and you could see how embarrassed he was. “you need to get some help. i can’t see you struggling and acting like nothing's wrong. i like you too much to close my eyes and pretend.”

“i’m going to rehab. eleven months.” you smile. “robby is pretty pissed at me.” you both laughed. 

“good for you, frank.” your hand find his shoulder “you’re gonna get better. i’ll be there to help you whenever you need someone to talk, to eat burgers or talk shit about our job.the world is pretty fucked and i’m pretty sure you need a chance to make things right from your mistakes, you hear me?”

he nodded feeling a little less lost knowing you’ll be there to help. he wasn’t alone anymore and when he understood he had you by his side, the journey was smoother. 

five. 

jack abbot was a man of darkness. he worked so much better at night. it was his comfort zone. 

until you showed up years ago and messed up this whole dark theme he had planned for himself. 

working doubles wasn’t strange to you. you have bills to pay and things to accomplish and no time to waste. you two get along pretty well. more than well, actually. you were unstoppable together and everybody knew that. even walsh recognize you were good. she liked you (a miracle in jack’s view) a lot. 

you knew better than to date another doctor. you did this once and ended up in a pretty bad divorce. and with jack? you didn’t care anymore. 

he also knew better than to date another doctor. to date anyone actually. but no one was you. no one had a contagious laughter like yours. no one had a brain like yours. 

he was pretty sure god, or whatever divine figure, sent you just for him. 

the whole ‘soulmate’ story was a lie to him, until it wasn’t. you definitely was his soulmate. his favorite person.

his person. 

from the quiet drive home after a shift. from the warmth of your body curled around him. even your cold feet touching his feet in the middle of the night. 

falling for you was so easy if you like to observe things from a closer perspective. he noticed how you always have something red when you work the night shift and how you have something green at the day shift. he noticed you liked your coffee sweet for normal shifts and how you drink your coffee black at night.

he observes how you treat everyone, how you greet them with a bright smile and the coziest hugs even on your worst day. he could spend hours watching you talk (he does that everytime you pick an online class to teach) or breathe (he watched your sleep like a crazy psycho). 

you’re his person when you grab him coffee without him asking, when you sneak a sweet in the pocket of his scrubs. when you catch his gaze from across the room. when you start rambling about some gossip you heard through dana. when you talk to yourself trying to remember the article you just published.

to be loved is to be seen and he sees you. 

 you’re his person when he knows you’re his. 

he knows you are his girl when you’re sitting in his bed with his shirt and his socks, messy bun, glasses, computer on your lap, cup of tea in the nightstand and his dog laying at your feet waiting for you to move. the comfortable silence. the white noise of the television playing something he lost track of what it was. it’s when he looks at you like you’re his salvation from the darkness. it’s the words that come through his mind when he writes you a letter or a note. 

“i think i’m going crazy.” you whisper looking at him for a second.

“where is this coming from?” he chuckled. 

‘just checking if you agree or not.” you winked and he laughed hard. 

“pretty funny until you start accusing me of madness.” 

“i could never! it was one time, c’mon.” he took your glasses and held your face. 

“you’re the most gorgeous thing i’ve ever seen.” love. that was love from him. 

he doesn’t feel bad showing you who he really is. you’ve seen him, really seen him. you love him for who he is, good baggage or bad. you love his mean remarks, his type of affection. you love how he is quiet. you love how he balances his life going to therapy, talking to someone. you find it funny how he tries to hide a smile when you compliment him. how he flustered when you kiss him in public. how he loves when you bake cookies for him. 

“i loved your brownies. did you put some coffee this time? best one so far. love you. -j”

to be loved is to be seen and you see him. 

it’s the hope of a future he know it’s worth fighting for because you’re his person. you’re his present.

the kind of love that doesn't need words to be there (but he has a ring in his drawer waiting for the right moment).