#it might not have to be this way for you!

[inkskinned]

i keep thinking about how rfk said that autistic people "will never write a poem." i keep thinking about that, about if humanity is calculated on the back of old verse. how far we measure personhood is in baseball and stanza breaks.

i keep thinking - i have over 7k poems on here alone. language can be a special interest, after all. did you know the word autism comes almost direct from the greek word autos, meaning "self"? self-ism.

maybe he is right - i haven't really played baseball. i was a ballet dancer instead. and besides - my sister once accidentally hit me in the face with an aluminum bat. i'm not sure if the injury gives me half points. am i only a person in the dugout? hand in a mitt? swinging?

does softball count? does cricket? am i a person if i throw the ball to my dog. am i a person as long as the ball is in the air, or do i stop being a person as it rolls into the bushes. i took my girlfriend to fenway recently; was i a person in the sun, with my hands up, with the game laid out at my feet in a diamond. i felt like a person, but that was back in the summer, and i often feel my most person-like then.

am i more of a person because of the sheer number of things i've written? does quality matter, or is it quantity? i used to write entire books every summer in high school - i wasn't doing well. i felt the least like-a-person back then. but then - does any person feel human in high school?

in the library, ink on my skin, i feel personhood shutter at the edges of myself. actually, writing feels blissfully like not being myself. it feels birdlike; escaping into creation so my body dissolves and i survive only by muscle memory. i am not there, i am writing.

but who can deny the falconlike focus of warsan shire, the tenderness of mary oliver, the sheer skill of amanda gorman. those are poets. they are certainly human. you could line them up with the way their words have influenced us and measure their literary shadows like wings.

perhaps it was very assumptive of me to want to be a poet rather than "a [ label ] poet." i wanted the work to fill itself in, rather than be stained by what i am. i do not write in despite of my neurodivergence, i am just neurodivergent and writing.

does the poem have to be in english or can i send it through my palms into the coat of my dog. does the poem have to make sense. does the poem have to love you back.

if i break a glass, will the poem appear naturally? or is the act of breaking the glass human-enough. the shards of my life glittering out beneath me - do i have to write the poem, or is it self-evident in the pile of glass splinters? i cannot grasp this world the way other people can. regardless, i endeavor to touch - even the mess - very gently.

i broke my toenail against my coffee table recently. i released a bug outdoors. i made coffee. i walked my dog.

i didn't write a poem about any of these things.

something else, then. existing without humanity.

[lay-z]

Simon Riley, who discovers (and accepts) that he has a raging Mommy kink on a random Saturday, when he meets you in the supermarket around the corner of his flat, where you click your tongue at him in reprimand, ogling him shamelessly as he checks out the new flavours of Ramen noodle cups.

And his spine goes rigid, when you address him directly.

"Big lad like you needs a proper meal," you remark, pushing your grocery cart full of fresh meats, produce, and other healthy goodies past him. "In my humble opinion." You add, nearly cooing at him as he dares a side glance from behind his balaclava.

Within seconds, his eyes flicker to your left hand on the cart, checking for a wedding band, checking for anything that could help him figure out who you are, really.

His fingers dig into the plastic cup that looks comically tiny in his hands, fingers nearly denting the fabric as he tries to come up with a witty, dry remark to keep you from leaving, to start a bloody conversation for once, but then you hit him with a "Have a good day, love." and his breath catches in his throat like someone punched his solar plexus.

By the time you round the corner to the next aisle over, his cock is so painfully chubbed up in his jeans, Simon fears he might faint from the sudden rush of blood down south.

And he doesn't quite know what he's feeling in this moment, but he puts the Ramen back into the shelf, boots squeaking on the linoleum floor as he turns on his heels to give chase like an abandoned pup who might have just imprinted on his new mommy.

Oh, Simon's going to get that proper meal, one way or another—hoping you'll let him have your sweet cunt for dessert.

[recreationaldivorce]

i do wish bottom surgery was promoted more in the same way this website promotes hrt because i so often see people express clear bottom dysphoria with a very unambiguous desire for different genitals and it's like. well there's a fairly simple solution to this. sure it's not accessible to a lot of people but neither is transition in general, and i think once people accept that surgery is an actual real goal of theirs they will realise that a lot of the reasons Why Not or Why Can't are less severe than they thought (eg concerns about the recovery process, concerns about how theyre gonna access surgery in the first place, concerns about finding a surgeon who will operate on you due to whatever medical or social reason you have that would mean some doctors would refuse) and can be overcome. especially if you are just worried about being refused bc of a disability, i really have met people who got bottom surgery with all sorts of disabilities that i might have thought would disqualify you with a lot of surgeons —a lot of them have to wait longer to get eg a neurologist or whatever to sign them off, and to get the proper safety procedures in place for their surgery, but i'm yet to meet someone who was completely denied outright for having a medical condition, and i've met a whole lot of ppl who have had bottom surgery.

[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.

***

[yuureimajo]

Not to be That Guy Who Ruins Things for Everyone, but this illustration - which was indeed painted by Georges Rochegrosse, for the 1903 French novel Le poison des pierreries ("The Poison of Precious Stones") by Camille Mauclair - is not titled 'Two Women Kissing in Nature', which makes sense being that the figures in it are in fact a man and a woman. The painting actually illustrates a scene in which the blonde prince Sparyanthis of Etesia finally gives in to his desires and kisses the dark-haired Alilat, the captive wife of his brother, in the royal garden. I understand the wish to see more classical artwork of same-sex romance, but misrepresenting art and making up your own titles for it is not the way. It's deceptive and it's not fair to mislead people like that. (To be clear, I'm not trying to call out OP - I've seen the illustration referred to this way in many places and I have no idea where the fake title originated.)

Two Women Kissing in Nature (b. 1859)

— by Georges Rochegrosse

[ghouljams]

Big, scary guy and small, frilly dog is such a powerful combo. And you're completely right that Simon would be swimming in pussy. As a dog lover I would absolutely be kneeling down to greet a darling Cavalier, bombarding Simon with a million questions.

"What's her name?" "How long have you had her?" "Oh, she's so well behaved. Such a sweet girl." "She has such a nice coat, you must take good care of it." "Do you usually walk in this neighborhood? Maybe I'll see you two around!" "I swear I could just eat her up! If you're not careful I might steal her and bring her home with me."

Meanwhile, Simon is standing there looking as intimidating as ever as I fuss over his dog.

You see him walking around the neighborhood, stopping in the same shops in the evening, the same cafe at night. Always with a little copper Cavalier trotting beside him, little pink bows on her ears matching the thin pink leash that's hooked lazily around his wrist. Sometimes he has a shop bag in his other hand, sometimes not, but always the god walking beside him. Her little legs tip-tapping as fast as she can manage to keep up with his long strides.

And every evening when you pass him on your way home you stop to coo over the little dog. "Commander," he'd told you when you first stopped to scratch her tiny head. You figured it was one of those compromises that men often have with their girlfriends, "you can pick the dog but I get to name it." Choosing something that felt masculine to make up for the frou-frou dog. It didn't matter to you, it was easier to let your guard down around a man you assumed was already taken.

Crouch to scratch the dog's tiny chin, giving Ghost a nice view down your shirt. Never once thinking twice about bending over to pet her little head, or smiling at the big man in the skull printed mask.

"What a good girl you are," you coo at Commander, as she leans into your hand, "I could just eat you up, you're so sweet."

"You like sweets, pup?" Ghost rumbles, deep voice sliding thick down your spine.

"I bet you do," You squeeze her little face in your hand, "I bet daddy gets you pup cups when he goes to the cafe, doesn't he?"

"Wasn' talkin' t'the dog." You glance up at him, heat flashing over your face as you meet his eye. "Gonna keep callin' me daddy, pup, or d'you got somewhere t'be?"

[spurbleu]

the way to the his heart is...

if you make johnny laugh, he’s in deep trouble. intentionally or not, bringing a chuckle out of that man will have him asking for his grandmothers ring. think he’s used to being the comedian of the group- almost always the one breaking tension, or carrying the conversation. and frankly, part of him can’t help it. but if you allow him, at least for the length of a joke or a retort, to be on the receiving end of laughter? he’s a goner.

traditional in nearly every sense of the word, john’s stomach and heart are essentially the same organ. cook him a meal and he’s renovating his kitchen so you’ll have more room when you move in. especially loves taking brown paper bags you make him to the office, and softening at your sticky note hearts. missed it dearly when deployed, but he’ll follow the smell of baking from across the world if it means getting to tell you “love it, darl’” over dinner one more time.

simon isn’t the first person you’d pin a comforting presence on, so imagine his surprise when you start searching for it anyway. running your nails across his neck as you slowly wake, holding his arm on a crowded train, returning from work and burying yourself in his chest. the microscopic, subconscious efforts to be as close as physically possible to him makes him melt. don’t even know you do it, but the fact your first instinct when searching for calm is to find him forces his hand and puts him on one knee.

the first time he caught you wearing one of his shirts, kyle thought he might just propose then and there (it had been 3 weeks). finds the ‘getting ready’ routine to be extremely endearing- especially if he’s involved. dressed in his sweats, peeling off the morning and swallow another day. there’s a specific vulnerability in it- allowing him to see you both at your start and your end. pulls him into the other room without resistance when you offer to fix his jacket.

special thanks to @goatgoesmbe for the help with gaz <3

[elodieunderglass]

Horses are often referred to as prey animals, but what are their natural predators?

Any large grassland predator in the biome, including humans! This is an interesting question, though, because it takes in the axes of time and space. "Wild" horses, the ancestor of domestic horses, are currently extremely rare. The only existing ones in a wild state are Przewalski's horses, also called the Takhi or Mongolian Wild Horses, which live on the Mongolian steppe. Their "natural predators" in that environment would include wolves and snow leopards (which are themselves endangered). However, it isn't an entirely natural setup; they were reintroduced to their native habitat after becoming essentially extinct, through an incredibly complex and fascinating recovery project. In the spacetime pocket in which Earth has wild horses, that's the current state of play: wild horses live in Mongolia and are occasionally eaten by wolves, but are being preserved fiercely for the benefit of humanity.

Meanwhile, we do have things like Dartmoor ponies in England and mustangs in North America and Brumbies in Australia. Dartmoor ponies aren't eaten by anything and are considered feral in the sense that they're domestic animals that live wild, but more or less on purpose, with the moor being treated as a common for keeping ponies on, and the nominal owners can just grab one if they want one at any time. Mustangs are accidental colonists of the American West. They are preyed on by wolves, cougars, and other local large predators, but are not wild. they are feral because they're all descendants of European horses and honestly, if we aren't being sentimental about it, they're invasive.

North America has not had a native population of horses since humans arrived on the continent. The facts are often associated. It is commonly held that humans, upon arriving in America, ate the native horses all up. The typical line goes that "when the first humans populated North America, they were so greedy and invasive that they overhunted most of the local large mammals to extinction". but I personally - and in an unhinged I'm-allowed-to-randomly-hold-ONE-fringe-belief-that-I-Made-up-Myself way - don't like that narrative, and there might be evidence in oral myths indicating that First Nations people at least remembered contact with horses prior to European colonisation. At any rate, there aren't wild horses on that side of the planet any more. The mustang - the most classic "wild horse" in imagination - is not wild, but is currently preyed on by everything that WOULD have eaten the OG native horses of America, minus the large predators that have gone extinct since then (sabre-toothed tigers). Whether mustangs are a nice reintroduction that adds a missing element of Horf to the landscape, or agents of ecological devastation, is kind of up in the air. But they are regularly and routinely preyed upon by the same "natural predators" as the wild cousins would have been, albeit in lower numbers. Take-home message: to visualise how interactions of wild horses with predators and the environment would have looked, mustangs are a very good model.

Going back to the "time" element, human interaction has really decreased a lot of the "natural predators" of horses; they were once preyed on by a larger variety, diversity, and number of animals. In the pocket of spacetime when wild horses were common and had a large range, there also used to be a lot more things like hyenas in Europe and Asia. Here's a diagram showing the "prey animals" and "predators" of Pleistocene Europe. Horses are on the bottom shelf on the far right, at a lower opacity, to show they're "prey animals". You can see that there was a greater diversity of predator types, while today there are usually just Your Local Wolf and Your Local Big Cat.

But this diagram puts "people" as "prey animals" - and humans are traditionally The Natural Predators of horses. Looking at that diagram, you can see that the common, smallish-but-not-too-small herd animal, whose defenses are Having Friends and Being Fast, is a delicious-looking proposition. The spectacular depictions of cave horses in Lascaux are showing our kin, but they're also showing our food.

There is a very important Middle Pleistocene site at a lake in Germany called Schöningen 13II-4, with hominin remains dating back to 300,000 years ago (!!!!!) and it's called the Spear Horizon (for the incredibly well-preserved evidence of spears) but a common nickname is the Horse Butchery Site. One of the most ancient preservations of hominin behaviour, culture, skill, tool-making - their/our priorities, their/our methodology, their/our view of the world - is a narrative of eating horse meat. And the hominins at the Horse Butchery Site did it in a way that seems quite rapacious. Entire family groups of horses, coming to the lake to drink, would be butchered at once: Persistent predators: Zooarchaeological evidence for specialized horse hunting at Schöningen 13II-4 - ScienceDirect It seems like the hominins were killing a lot of horses and not using a lot of the meat, because they wanted fat, and horses don't have much of that.

At any rate, human-shaped people and horse-shaped horses have a very, VERY long history of us eating them. WE are their natural predators. And it makes sense. Humans and Equines are all social animals of relatively small sizes and have interacted with each other for an extremely long time. We have observed them, we know them, we grew up together. For quite a lot of that history, we had a simple relationship; we ate them. Now we much prefer to ride them.

Horses have not entirely forgotten this, but appear to have largely forgiven it.

[dammit-tazmuir]

For all the things this fandom refuses to believe and chalks up to John's lies, the thing that baffles me to see so many believe without question is the idea of Perfect Lyctorhood.

Guys. Guys, there is no Perfect Lyctorhood.

Or at best, if there hypothetically could be, it's nothing we've ever seen. Paul is the closest thing and I know a lot of you would not consider Paul perfect. John did not achieve Perfect Lyctorhood, and it wasn't even his idea to claim he did. A quarter of NtN extensively details that he didn't.

The old Lyctors didn't know what Alecto was. John definitely told them more than he would have liked to, because of course she doesn't lie and is too obviously inhuman to hide it fully. But if they knew everything, Mercy wouldn't doubt that Alecto ever had a genetic code; she would know she didn't, or that any genes she might've had were made from John's own blood and bone.

Because they didn't know what she actually was or what actually happened (foreshadowed too by Mercy's "if you had lied about anything else" lines, when actually he did), they drew the wrong conclusion. They assumed something different in his process allowed Alecto to persist. But we now know the truth is that Alecto was simply too big to consume. She didn't die because she was already limitless. This will never apply to another human. But he lets them believe their conclusion because he thinks it's better and easier to talk his way out of than them figuring out the real truth.

It does remain possible that Anastasia and Samael were genuinely on the cusp of that breakthrough, but I honestly doubt it. That was another conclusion drawn by the Lyctors as a follow-up to the previous wrong one, and when John answers, he visibly hesitates. It feels like he's once again going, "....Sssure, yes, let's go with that." I don't know what Samael and Anastasia WERE on the verge of. Maybe they would have become gestalt like Paul, and the possibility of just one dying was why Pal begged Cam "don't look back", and John was afraid of the power they'd achieve (could Paul have greater thalergy than a normal Lyctor?) and/or of just the others seeing a different process and getting mad at him.

AND/OR, ACTUALLY? Especially if their attempt was one of the earlier ones (around the middle rather than the end), but even if it wasn't: I think a Paul situation has a STRONG possibility of being exactly what happened. John's most outright lies are usually the ones other people tell that he just nods along with. When it's from himself, if it's not feigned incompetence, he usually goes for half-truths and misleading truths. He says Anastasia panicked halfway through and if he hadn't stepped in they would have both died. I think it's very possible that John panicked halfway through as he realized what they were doing, and that it's genuinely true they would have both died— in the same way Camilla and Palamedes both died, to create someone new.

And we know how much John hates change. How desperately John needs to keep his specific people close. What are the odds he was so afraid of losing both of them and being left with a new person he didn't know, couldn't predict, and couldn't easily control with them having a whole Lyctor's power and maybe more? Especially if Cyth and Loveday, Cassy and Nigella, Cyrus and Valancy, Ulysses and Titania, maybe even G1deon and Pyrrha— if any others hadn't undergone the process yet, and there was a chance they'd see Samastastia and decide that was the path they wanted too. If he thought this meant he might lose all his friends instead of only the less favored half.

Either way, though, based on everything we know, there is no simple soul swap that results in dual immortality. Even John and Alecto involve a fusion of megasoul. "You and she are one." (This is also likely how a seemingly real facet of John could talk to Harrow in Alecto's dream.) And we've seen through NtN, the soul longs for the body. The body longs for the soul. A body housing a different soul doesn't last long, even when those souls ARE semi connected. A body even temporarily renting space to a foreign soul is a massive strain, like Cam carrying Pal.

Lyctorhood inherently involves death and consumption and acting against nature. It is the indelible sin. It's possible that Grand Lysis avoids that sin by making it about mutual death, about giving instead of taking, but it's still bittersweet at best. I highly doubt we're going to see a perfect solution that fixes everything, at least via more necromancy, because that's not the kind of series this is. It's messy, beautiful in its flaws, embracing the understanding that life is change and things can never be exactly as they were, and can rarely be exactly what you want, and letting go and moving on are necessary parts of life eventually.

Don't misunderstand! I do think Gideon will either be resurrected (perhaps the last true one ever) or there will be another way for her and Harrow to happily be together. In Gideon's case, there was nothing natural about her death, and the decision to say "no" is a rejection of the system that led to it.

I just also think the odds of rewriting the laws of life and death entirely are more likely than Lyctorhood But With No Consequences. It always has consequences. There is no Perfect Lyctorhood, but there's something good on the horizon, whatever form it takes. After all...

"There are more worlds than this. Come with us. We are the love that is perfected by death, but even death will be no more. Death can also die. There's still time, Ianthe. Time for you and for Naberius Tern."

[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.

[luna-azzurra]

10 Lies Your Character Believes About Themselves (And They’d Die Before Admitting It)

These aren't the fun, Disney Channel lies like “I'm just a regular girl” while literally being a secret pop star. These are the ugly ones. The ones that get in your character’s blood and start rewriting their whole life without them noticing.

» “If people really knew me, they'd leave.” Not "might." Would. No question. So they smile bigger. They edit harder. They keep conversations surface-level. All while carrying this bone-deep certainty that love is conditional... and they are dangerously close to failing the test.

» “I have to earn every good thing.” Rest? Happiness? A day without guilt? They treat those things like prizes at the end of a brutal obstacle course. No one told them they could just have good things. No strings. No blood price. (So they keep bleeding anyway.)

» “I'm too much.” Too loud. Too intense. Too sensitive. Too complicated. They know it. They've been told. So now they pull themselves in, hold their breath, bite back everything real until they barely take up space at all. (And ironically, they still think they’re being "too much.")

» “I'm not enough.” Neat little trick, right? They’re both "too much" and "not enough" at the same time. Magic. They're convinced everyone else got the secret manual for how to be lovable and they somehow missed it.

» “If I'm strong enough, nothing can hurt me.” They call it resilience. Other people call it stubbornness. Reality calls it self-destruction. They've mistaken numbness for healing and independence for invulnerability. But hurt still gets in. It just hits harder when it’s been bottled up for years.

» “I’m responsible for everyone's happiness.” Caretaker. Peacemaker. Therapist friend. Emotional sponge. They’ve appointed themselves as everyone's safety net, believing that if they don’t hold everything together, everything will fall apart. (Newsflash: it's not their circus, and it never was.)

» “I don't need anyone.” Need is a dirty word. It’s weak. It’s dangerous. So they white-knuckle their way through life, collecting scars and pretending it’s freedom. But late at night? In the dark? They’d sell their soul for someone to just... stay.

» “I'm the villain in someone else's story and they might be right.” They know they've hurt people. Made bad calls. Left damage. And no matter how much good they do now, some part of them whispers, You don’t get to come back from that.

» “My best days are behind me.” Whether they peaked in high school, lost their shot at something important, or just carry a chronic ache of nostalgia, they believe it’s too late. That nothing good can be built from where they are now. (Which, ironically, makes them waste even more time.)

» “This is as good as it gets.” They settle. For bad love. Boring jobs. Half-dead dreams. They tell themselves it's "realistic." "Mature." "Practical." But underneath? It's fear. It's heartbreak. It's the quiet belief that hope is something they can’t afford anymore.

[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!)

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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 

[dwobbitfromtheshire]

Years into the future, Dustin calls Steve about his teenage child to complain about their attitude.

Dustin: I don't know where they get it from, but Jesus H Christ, the tone on this kid! - Steve, why are you laughing?! Stop it! STEVE!

Pause. More laughter and then a shuffling sound.

Eddie: Steve can't come to the phone right because I think he might be having a fit. What did you say to him?!

Dustin: I just called to complain about my child. They think they know everything and the way they talk to me - what did I do to deserve this?! - Eddie? - Eddie?! WHY ARE YOU LAUGHING AT ME?!

Eddie: *cackles* Figure it out.

Dustin: Don't you hang up on me! Eddie?! - son of a bitch.

[ilovolderman]

Playing It Cool

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: Sam’s getting way too suspicious about your secret relationship with Bucky.

Word Count: 1.6k

Warnings: humor, fluff, secret dating, laundry room shenanigans, sam wilson being done

A/N: this can be read as a standalone even though it's part of a series called "You Said What". It doesn't necessarily follow a specific order, but if you want to check out the other parts, here they are: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6 thanks for reading, i hope you like it :)

Sam didn’t sleep well.

It wasn’t the coffee. It wasn’t even the lingering PTSD from a week spent chasing Hydra remnants. No, this was different.

This was gut feeling. Instinct.

He was standing in the kitchen, hair wild, hoodie misaligned, and eyes like a war veteran who’d seen things and couldn’t unsee them. The clock blinked a smug 7:03 a.m. He poured black coffee like a man betrayed by the very concept of sleep.

That’s when he saw it.

Two mugs on the counter.

One had your initials. The other—a vintage WWII fighter plane sticker. It hadn’t been there last night. He knew, because he always did a final kitchen sweep before bed. Counters clean. Dishes put away. Mugs? Accounted for.

His eye twitched.

“…Barnes,” Sam whispered.

He crouched slowly, inspecting the mugs like they might start confessing their crimes.

Then the hallway creaked. Sam turned so fast he sloshed coffee onto his hoodie.

You entered the room, yawning dramatically, hoodie sleeves engulfing your hands.

“Morning,” you mumbled.

Sam squinted. “Is it? Is it really?”

You blinked. “…Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he said, with the exact tone of a man who was absolutely not fine. He walked to the table and pulled out a chair like it owed him money. “Sit.”

“Why?”

“Because I have questions.”

“I’m not under interrogation.”

“You are now.”

“…Sam.”

“Tell me what you were doing between 0500 and 0700 hours.”

“Sleeping.”

“Alone?”

You squinted. “What kind of creepy follow-up—?”

Sam narrowed his eyes like a raccoon about to steal a whole rotisserie chicken. “I knew it. There’s a cover-up.”

You grabbed a piece of toast and headed for the hallway. “There’s a cover-up on your brain, Wilson.”

“I’ve seen the signs,” Sam called after you. “The glances! The whispers! The ‘accidental’ brush of hands during mission briefings!”

“Maybe I’m just clumsy!” you yelled.

“And matching mugs?”

“That sticker was mine first!”

Before Sam could yell something, Bucky entered the room, with aexpression criminally smug. He looked like the kind of man who had just done something worth hiding.

“Morning,” Bucky said, voice low and gravelly. He moved to the coffee pot.

Sam’s eyes followed him like a hawk on its sixth espresso.

“You okay?” Bucky asked.

“I’m great,” Sam replied. “Y/N just left.”

“Cool.”

“Came in lookin’ real tired.”

“People get tired.”

“You look real tired.”

Bucky paused, looked Sam dead in the eye. “You implying something?”

Sam sipped his coffee. “I don’t know. You implying something?”

They stared each other down. The air crackled. Somewhere in the distance, a tumbleweed rolled by. A raven cawed.

“You need sleep,” Bucky muttered.

“I’ll sleep when the truth sleeps,” Sam snapped back.

Then Sam dramatically left the room—only to storm back in ten seconds later to grab a banana. He peeled it with authority and left again.

Later that morning, when Sam had finally left for a jog—or more accurately, a neighborhood reconnaissance mission—you found yourself back in the kitchen. You were putting away a dish, humming quietly to yourself, when a pair of warm arms slid around your waist.

You didn’t jump. You never did when it was him.

“Hey,” Bucky murmured against your neck, voice soft now, stripped of the earlier smugness he reserved for sparring with Sam. His lips brushed your skin like a secret.

“Hey yourself,” you whispered, leaning back into his chest. “You’re not worried Sam’s going to install surveillance cameras?”

“He probably already has.” You both laughed.

He rested his chin on your shoulder. “I left my mug out on purpose, you know.”

You turned your head to look at him, brow raised. “Seriously?”

Bucky shrugged, expression boyishly proud. “He’s been circling for weeks. Figured we’d give him a trail to follow. Let the man feel like he cracked the case.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “You are so chaotic.”

He grinned. “You love it.”

You turned in his arms, resting your hands on his chest. “Yeah… I kinda do.”

He kissed you then. Slow. Sweet. Familiar. The kind of kiss that said, even with a super-spy roommate and questionable mugs, this? This is real.

Later that night you bumped into Sam, sitting on the couch. He was hunched forward, elbows on knees, staring ahead

“Where are you going?” he asked, voice low and suspicious, eyes narrowing like you’d just confessed to treason.

You froze. “Uh. Laundry?”

“Interesting,” he said, voice dripping with suspicion. “You know who else said they had laundry tonight?”

You blinked. “…Literally everyone who owns clothes?”

Sam didn’t smile. He leaned in, voice lowering like he was revealing national security secrets. “Barnes. Same night. Same floor. Same time.”

You paused just long enough to regret getting out of your room.

“It’s a laundry room, Sam,” you said flatly. “That’s how they work. People… use it.”

“Mmmhm,” he replied, writing something cryptic in his notebook. The pen squeaked aggressively against the page.

Just then, the door swung open—and in walked Bucky Barnes, freshly showered, damp hair swept back like a shampoo commercial, whistling something suspiciously upbeat.

 “Y/N. Wilson,” he greeted smoothly.

“Barnes,” Sam said, staring like he was trying to burn a hole through his soul with his eyes.

You smiled. Just a regular smile. Harmless. No romantic undertones. Just two coworkers… being cordial.

Totally.

 “You know... I was asking Y/N here,” Sam said, still squinting, “about her suspiciously coordinated laundry schedule.”

Bucky didn’t miss a beat. “Must be fate.”

You coughed, choking down a laugh.

Sam slammed his notebook shut with the kind of theatrical flair that screamed “I was born for this drama.”

“Enough. You think I’m not onto you. But I see things.”

Bucky raised a brow. “You seeing ghosts again?”

“I’m seeing clues, Barnes. Don’t play dumb. You two doing laundry together. The mugs. The vanishing act during last Tuesday’s debrief—twenty minutes. Both of you. Gone.”

You opened your mouth, searching for a reasonable explanation, but let’s be honest—this was Sam. There was no “reasonable” left. This man had turned your laundry schedule into a covert op.

You crossed your arms. “We went to get snacks.”

“Snacks,” Sam echoed flatly.

“Yes,” you said, trying to maintain dignity. “You know. Human food. Fuel. Chips. The sacred post-mission ritual.”

Sam’s expression didn’t change. “For twenty minutes.”

“There was a vending machine incident,” Bucky added smoothly, stepping closer, unbothered. “Y/N had a standoff with a bag of peanut M&Ms. It got intense.”

You rolled your eyes as Bucky leaned casually against the doorframe, looking way too smug for someone being accused of laundry-based espionage.

Sam was relentless. “You think this is a game? Because I’ve got spreadsheets. I’ve got charts. I have timestamps.”

“I’m flattered,” Bucky replied, folding his arms. “Didn’t realize I was your top case file.”

“You’re not,” Sam snapped. “You’re just the most suspicious.”

You shook your head, already backing toward the hallway. “Okay, well, I’m gonna go… do the thing. With the clothes. Like a normal human person.”

“Sure you are,” Sam muttered, squinting again like he was two seconds away from installing security cameras.

“Goodnight, Wilson,” Bucky said with a wink. And then—because of course—he followed you out.

“Hey!” Sam called. “This isn’t over!”

You didn’t turn around, but you did hear the sound of him furiously scribbling in that cursed notebook again.

You and Bucky sat side by side on top of the industrial dryer, the hum of the spinning machines filling the quiet room. A single overhead light flickered occasionally, casting a soft glow over the laundry baskets at your feet. The scent of fabric softener lingered in the warm air.

“He’s going to lose his mind,” you murmured, folding a hoodie with unnecessary precision.

“He already has,” Bucky said, smirking. “Tried to stick a tracker in my jacket this morning.”

You laughed, bumping your shoulder into his. “We should start leaving fake clues. Plant a puzzle piece under his pillow. Hang a tie in the garage.”

“I already put a sock in the fridge,” Bucky said casually, reaching over to pull a warm towel from the dryer.

You turned to look at him, mouth open in delight. “You didn’t.”

“I did. Red. Argyle. No explanation.”

You grinned, shaking your head. “I love you.”

Bucky chuckled, leaning in to kiss your temple. “I know.”

You went quiet for a beat, letting the rhythm of the machines and the safe warmth between you fill the space. His knee rested against yours. The scent of his cologne barely clung to the edge of his freshly laundered shirt.

He reached for your hand, twining his fingers through yours beneath the basket of still-warm socks. “He’s getting close, though. We are getting pretty obvious.”

“You wanna stop?” you asked, turning toward him.

He looked at you—really looked. And it was all soft eyes, steady presence, and a patience you hadn’t known you needed until him.

“Not a chance.”

Bucky smiled, warm and easy, and pressed his forehead lightly to yours.

“So,” you whispered, “what are we going to do when Sam actually proves something?”

“We deny everything.”

You laughed. “Even under interrogation?”

“Especially under interrogation.”

One day, he’d prove it.

But not today.

Meanwhile in the living room, Sam was writing in his notebook. On the top of the page:

CASE #110: They’re DEFINITELY Dating. And beneath it, scrawled in increasingly frantic handwriting:

shared laundry = suspicious

“Coincidentally” always sitting next to each other

Y/N smiled at him like he invented air.

Bucky smiled back.

FRIDAY pinged softly. “Sir, your blood pressure is elevated.”

“Because there’s a LIE in this house, Friday!”

War was still on.

But as long as you had Bucky Barnes looking at you like you were his whole world?

You were definitely still winning.

taglist: @svtbpbts @cupids-mf-arrow @whitewolfluvr @cece2608 @yehfitoormera @yesiamthatwierd@poodleofstardust @poodleofstardust @homeless-clown @kitasownworld @loversrocktvgirl2

A/N: it's me again, hi. just wanted to say a big thank you for all the comments and feedback i've been getting from all of you. never thought that a one-shot could turn into a series with already SEVEN PARTS. anyway, just thank you all again. i hope you're liking where this is going. see you next chapter <3

[lacedwithsuguru]

❦ pt. five — pt. four here

it’s been three months since you’ve last spoken to your olderbrothersbestfriend!sukuna.

it didn’t take long for you to get over him and his confusion. you knew you didn’t need that kind of energy in your life and truthfully, you’ve felt a hell of a lot more free.

his reputation that you’d always been aware of held true—sukuna was a dick and he spent his free-time inside way too many girls. see, if you had pursued that, who’s to tell that you wouldn’t contract some sort of std had you gone a step further with him? you were frankly better off.

but, there was something a little off about him, something off about his character. sukuna was a guy who enjoyed taking up space, never one to apologize for it. yet, maybe it was out of respect for you, or maybe it was sukuna just being petty out of spite—but he has been going to so much trouble to avoid you.

he doesn’t spend the night at your place at all anymore, having your brother meet him at his apartment instead. your brother didn’t seem too shocked at the change, nor did he bring it up to you, so obviously sukuna has kept his mouth shut about your previous interactions.

the reason for that was obvious. the jerk didn't want his head on a spit.

anytime you’d see him in passing, his eyes would flicker to you and he would make himself scarce.

you weren’t complaining, though. ever since, you’d been enjoying your peace. but a part of you enjoyed seeing him the slightest bit uneasy around you.

everytime you saw him, his eyes would always widen slightly before returning to his unreadable, flat expression. just a sliver of recognition and worry that never went unnoticed by you. you had to stop your lip from quirking into a mocking grin.

“c’monnnnn,” shoko drawled out, tugging your limbs from your bed. you sighed, pulling your sheet up and over your head in an attempt to hermit yourself from her.

“i’m not going,” you whined, gripping the fabric and drawing it back to drape yourself.

“so what if he’s there? it’s not like a third of the campus won’t be in attendance,” she insisted, dragging her hands over her face.

you scrunched your brows, turning back at her and scowling. “that’s not my issue, sho.”

“oh really?” she quirked, unimpressed as she crossed her arms. “humor me, then. what exactly is stopping you from going?”

your mood soured immediately.

shoko was attempting to convince you to attend this nights frat party—hosted by one of the most well-known frats on campus. a frat that sukuna used to be a part of before he opted for his own apartment, yet he was still in good graces with everyone there.

practically assuring his attendance tonight.

“leave me alone,” you grumbled, stuffing your face in your pillow.

“i’ll be damned if i’m leaving you alone in your apartment while everyone’s celebrating the end to that hellish mid-terms week. plus, i can phone my emergency.”

slowly, you rose from your bed and met her gaze with a hardened, annoyed stare. “emergency? really? FOR THIS?”

the two of you had a couple emergency options you had stored away where you could force one another to do what the other wanted as long as it was manageable. of course, this was more than manageable as it was just a party but the thought of it truly made your blood simmer.

and now here you were, sporting a brown babydoll tank and white jean shorts with your hair neatly done, standing outside the frat. it’d been quite some time since you’ve gone out as you’d been cramming since the semester started with a heavy workload.

a part of you thought that maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to let go tonight. you deserved this. and so what if you ran into sukun-. no. you weren’t going to think about him tonight. you might not even see him tonight so why worry yourself?

an arm slung across your shoulder, squeezing your bicep. you peered up to see utahime grinning at you.

“i am SO ready to get incredibly drunk,” she giggled, to which her girlfriend ruffled her hair.

“and i am so ready to take care of you,” shoko whispered, kissing utahime’s cheek.

“get a room,” you groaned, rolling your shoulders and tossing them a teasing frown. they only chuckled and headed up the steps.

the fallen leaves and grass crunched under your sneakers as you padded up the stone stairs and shuffled past a couple people into the bustling brick beauty.

defeaning trap music filled your ears with the smell of sweat and booze. a keg was set up beside the stairs, a jock doing a handstand with the hose in his mouth as some drunk students chanted “chug chug chug” and he coolly complied.

you scoffed, somewhat impressed, as you turned away and watched shoko and utahime shove their way into a pool game.

“over here!” yelled utahime, beckoning you with a wave of her hand.

you dismissed it, cupping your mouth to shout back at her. “lemme get a drink first!”

she nodded and focused on her girlfriend who was already not-so-subtly pinning her from behind to guide her movements with the stick, an obvious blush painting the shorter girls cheeks.

your phone vibrated as you manuvered your way towards the kitchen, pulling it out from your back pocket, the screen illuminating your face.

it was your brother, asking if you were attending the party. you furrowed your brows and typed back a reply to let him know you were already there and his name popped up on your screen, an incoming phone call.

confusion painted your expression as you accepted the call brought the device to your ear. “what’s up?” you spoke, doing your best to speak straight into the speaker.

you had to plug your other ear to even pick up on what he was saying. he explained to you that he wasn’t going to be able to make it to the party since he was stuck at work and you asked why that was exactly your issue. he scoffed and told you that he was supposed to watch over sukuna for the night because he was worried for him.

the mention of his name brought a bitter taste to your mouth. “why’re you worried about him?” you poked, doing the best to mask your irritation.

“he’s been off these past couple of months. getting insanely drunk and sleeping on the street.” your brother replied.

not like that’s something he isn’t used to, you thought, but bit your tongue for the sake of peace.

“alright, and what do i have to do with this?” you asked, though you had some semblance of an idea as to where this was going.

“need you to check up on him, make sure he gets home safe.”

after gritting your teeth and wrapping up the phone call, you hung up and slid your phone back into your pocket. you’d be an asshole, not as bad as sukuna, but an asshole regardless to ignore your brothers request.

especially since it was coming from a good place.

you weren’t doing this out of the good of your own heart. that part was caged away from sukuna a while back and you knew it.

it was only for your brother who couldn’t make it down and watch after his sleazy best friend.

speaking of, what is up with sukuna? getting drunk to the point he couldn’t get back to his apartment? that sounded incredibly out of character for him.

the prospect of him going through something flickered in your mind, but you quickly shook it off. why should you even care in the first place?

one job tonight. babysit the one and only ryomen sukuna.

you stepped into the kitchen, eyes scanning your surroundings and making note that he wasn’t there. you nodded briskly, grabbing a plastic solo cup and ladling some of the punch in before taking a swig.

spiked. of course it is.

you set the full cup down, knowing you needed to be clear-minded tonight despite your want of getting insanely intoxicated, but that was a complaint to your brother for another time.

slipping past the drunk bodies jumping up and down, you strode past the pool table to see utahime and shoko making out against a nearby wall. they barely lasted a round before they got all over each other.

tapping the brunettes shoulder, she turned around and smiled, looking already somewhat drunk.

“what happened to being designated driver?” you questioned, a grin on your lips as you crossed your arms over your chest.

“oh, i’m sober. s’my girlfriend that’s got me like this,” she beamed, leaning down to peck another kiss on utahimes lips. the purple-haired girl pushed her girlfriend back, frowning.

“she’s drunk,” utahime replied flatly, though there was a lilt of humor as she scanned shoko’s face. “looks like im in charge.”

“ah, well. you two have fun. use protection. i’ll be heading out early, i’m on babysitting duty,” you spoke sarcastically, waving your hands in annoyance.

shokos brows furrowed, resting her head atop utahimes. “babysitting…?”

“i’ll tell you tomorrow. text me when you guys are leaving, alright?”

the two girls exchanged a glance, before nodding. “and you better text us when you get back home!” utahime has always been one for mom duty.

a tired smile made its way to your face before you left them to their bubble of privacy.

making your way past the crowd of drunken, sweaty bodies wearing way too many neon accessories while sober was a feat you should be applauded for. truly, parties were murky when you weren’t intoxicated so the frustration bubbling beneath your skin only intensified as time went on.

your eyes continued to scan the sea of revelers, coming up fruitless each time you couldn’t spot sukuna.

shoko wasn’t kidding. a third of the campus must’ve made their way here by now. you checked the time and it was nearing midnight, meaning that this crowd wasn’t going to be dying down anytime soon.

padding over to the living room, you pushed a couple that was all over each other out of your way before stepping in.

with wide orbs darting across the room, you spotted a familiar mess of salmon-colored hair.

an incredulous laugh left your lips.

there he was. in all his glory. making out with a girl you somewhat recognized. her name was hana, a cheerleader and sister of a well-known sorority on campus.

his grey sweats were manspread as she straddled him, cupping his cheeks and practically shoving her tongue down his throat.

the burly man’s hands were nothing short of scandalous, groping the flesh of her ass as she grinded down onto him.

“‘needs help,’ my ass,” you bit through teeth clamped, turning on your heel. your anger was at an all-time high, a feeling that’s been absent to you for months now.

but before you could exit the area, you heard a loud slap! echo, the room drawing quiet.

“disgusting asshole!” a girl cried out, and you swung your head in that direction.

hana, who was just making out with sukuna, was pushing off of him, grabbing her things and storming in your direction. she stopped beside you, her cheeks flushed and her chest heaving. “go get your man,” she whispered angrily, before stomping out.

the entire room stilled, eyes darting between the door and sukuna, obviously missing hana's last comment.

the main offender was still on the couch, hunched over with his head in his hands, nearly ripping the hair from his scalp.

this was your chance. you could escape and let your brother know that he was perfectly fine.

but no.

luck wasn't in your cards. when was it ever? because the man in question tossed his head back in annoyance, exhaustion coiled in his face, and making eye contact with you.

the two of you stilled in an awkward and heated stare, acknowledging each other's presence.

you averted your gaze after a few excruciating seconds, settling it on a potted plant to your side. your fidgeted with your fingernails, a show of your obvious nerves.

should you make a break for it now? or would that be weird seeing as you would basically be running from him. no... you can't do that. but your only other option was actually going up to him and making conversation. about what? that was completely unbeknownst to you.

"hey," sukuna called out, peering over you as you spun to meet his gaze. he had dark bags beneath his eyes, his hair somewhat unkempt but didn't diminish his looks.

there was a flush along his cheeks and the crown of his ears were tinged a heated red. he was probably somewhat drunk. he took a step towards you and you unconsciously shuffled backwards, his eyes darting to your footwork and stilling.

fumbling with the hem of your top, you pursed your lips. "hi."

the high-strung tension between the two of you was damn near suffocating but you didn't know how to cut it.

to your rescue, sukuna rubbed the nape of his neck with his palm and sighed. "you heard that," he said, without the inquisitive nature and more like a fact.

"kinda hard to miss," you teased, tilting your head and scanning him. he was sporting a black wife-beater, decorative stripes of ink sprawled across his biceps and shoulders.

the unspoken dissonance from months ago still hung in the air.

"you alright?" you posed, feeling unsure as how to continue this stifling conversation.

"yeah, just some girl," he exhaled, eyes fixed on the floor as flexed his fingers.

you nodded in annoyance. his casual dismissal of women was just in his nature. "right. just some girl," you spoke flatly and his eyes flickered to yours, darting between your right and left as he searched for answers he couldn't place while you remembered why you were even here in the first place. "hold on."

his mind worked to undo your comment and he grimaced at his word choice. how does he explain how every girl was now 'just some girl' ever since that day in the kitchen? every girl but you.

puling your phone from your pocket, your thumbs tapped away against the screen. sukuna allowed you to do whatever you needed, standing over you quietly.

you texted your brother, letting him know you found sukuna and he immediately sent a thumbs up, making you question the phone policy as his job.

"that's that," you said, slipping the device back into your pocket.

"well, i think i'm gonna head out. this place has got shit for drinks and the bar down the street-."

"i'm on babysitting duty," you interrupted, clasping your hands in front of you and staring up at him.

his eyebrows scrunched, cocking his head slightly. "what?"

"my brother said i'm in charge of you for the evening," you sarcastically beamed.

"...really?"

"yup!"

a scowl made it's way across his expression as he dragged a hand over his cheek before rubbing his twitching jaw. the frustration was evident.

you awaited his outburst, telling you that he's a grown man and fine on his own to which you'd curse him out smoothly and leave him to deal with his own shit and possibly make something out of your evening... but it didn't come.

he simply nodded, his lips pursed as he turned on his heel and grabbed his zip-up from a stool and making his way out of the room.

his formidable figure had no issue maneuvering through the crowd, as nearly everyone stepped out of his way and his line of sight was well over their heads.

you took this chance to trail him and easily make your way out, earning a few stares from the partyers.

as you stepped into the night, the chill of the night nipped at your bare skin. shuffling down the steps, you muttered curses to yourself for not bringing a hoodie to change into.

sukuna peered over his shoulder to witness your inner turmoil. his crimson orbs flickered down your figure and scoffed at your... lack of clothing, to say. how could you not cover up when it's freezing out?

"here," he said, holding his zip-up towards you.

you glanced up, eyes darting between the fabric he was holding and his solemn expression.

"yeah, no," you laughed mockingly and turning away, watching your breath condensate in the air before dissipating. as if you would do him the favor of holding onto the fabric he obviously didn't want to carry, his bare skin nearly covered in a layer of perspiration. "i'd rather die."

staring at you wide-eyed, sukuna dropped his outstretched hand after a couple of moments and nodded. the wrenching feeling of rejection washed over him, a feeling that was all too unfamiliar to him.

before you, sukuna had never entertained the idea of insignificant feelings. it was all too mundane for him. at the end of the day, he didn't care too much if he wronged someone.

it was easier to pretend like nothing and pray the other person wouldn't whine about, or he simply pretended the person didn't exist. either option never weighed on him too heavily.

he was also not the kind to ever apologize.

yet, the idea of you being upset with him had only managed to gut him after all this time. he'd attempted to drown him himself in intoxicants, which proved fruitless.

pretending you didn't exist wasn't all that helpful, either. even when you weren't physically around, your presence lingered every fucking place he turned. he'd randomly smell your shampoo lingering in the air which would throw him off, the mention of your fucking major would make him dizzy, and even names that sounded remotely like yours would make him flinch.

which is why, he'd rehearsed an apology to you for weeks now in hopes that one day, you'd accept it.

he didn't understand why he was feeling like this, but the hope that it might go away stuffed that corroded hole in his chest temporarily.

"you okay?"

"what?" sukuna replied irritated, head swiveling towards you, making you notice the slight slur of his words now.

for a few minutes now, he'd been muttering to himself with sweat beading along his forehead, his eyes fixed on the sidewalk. you had to muster up the courage to ask him, but you ultimately regret it.

"nothing, jeez," you scoffed, crossing your arms.

sukuna's hand was trembling in his pocket, fingers flexing and unflexing every couple of seconds. "sorry," he muttered. "didn't mean to..." he trailed off, his shoulder's slumping.

"yeah, alright." at this point, you've become so detached and used to his random tantrums so you didn't want to entertain this. but it didn't go without battering your self-esteem, making you want to slither away from this entire ordeal.

sukuna took notice of the change in your demeanor as well, his fists balling up and wanting to jump into traffic. "wait," he said, halting and turning to you.

you came to a stop a few feet ahead, glancing past your shoulder and turning around. "what is it?"

he stared at you, almost in what looked to be awe, before shaking his head and you could see the way his shoulders flexed, the way he balled the zip-up in his hand. what had him so uptight?

"i'm sorry," he shot out, eyes trained on the ground.

"...w-what?" you didn't know if you were hearing this right. was the one and only ryomen sukuna apologizing to you right now?

"i'm sorry, pea. i fucked up like crazy with you. the shit that happened a couple months back, i-in the kitchen... i shouldn't have said you're not worth it," he rambled, words on his tongue burning him. "you're more than fucking worth it and i was an idiot for hurting you like that, i realized it too late..."

you swallowed hard, the gulp nearly audibly, as you attempted to digest everything he just said. the guy you'd been adamant on hating for three months has finally got the balls to try to fix things? seriously?

he took a step towards you, then a step back as if he'd regretted entering your space. a heavy silence hung between the two of you, your head downcast as your mind raced and sukuna's eyes fixed on your figure.

"y-you don't have to respond. honestly, i'm not here for your forgiveness," he said after a couple minutes, the air smothering.

you gave it a couple of moments of thought before meeting his gaze. "okay."

sukuna flinched hearing your voice. "...okay?"

"okay," you repeated, pinching your bicep. "you're an asshole, you're a dick, and you're selfish."

his heart stammered and tore hearing you say those things. "and...?"

you laughed humorlessly. "and my point is, that is who you are. i don't think you'll ever change or grow out of it. so i'm just saying okay. it's not forgiveness, and i'm sure as hell not forgetting it. i'm just... saying okay."

"okay," he parroted, nodding his head in acceptance before you saw a smile tug at his lips that looked unlike him. "i can do okay."

"okay then."

the walk back to your apartment was nothing short of freezing and uncomfortable. he offered his zip-up again, to which you denied, then offered just walking back to his place, but for the sake of the cold, both of your exhaustion's, and the accessibility of it, you allowed him to crash on the couch.

he filed through your brother's clothes in his bedroom while you showered and slipped into your bedroom, allowing yourself space away from his overwhelming presence.

after changing into your pajama's, you couldn't help but stare at your ceiling in utter shock, wondering what in the fuck had happened today.

no, this doesn't change anything. the guy just looked miserable and whatever is weighing on him has gotta be taking a toll on him.

plus, it's not like you let him off the hook, right? there was no way in hell you were letting this guy walk over you and use you. if he wanted to be in your life, he had to respect you.

that was your unwavering resolve.

❦ m.list > pt. six

tags (open): @samoankpoper21 @nina-from-317 @l0v3m3-p13as3 @kunasthiast @poopooindamouf @sukubusss @actuallynarii @teenbreakup @linaaeatsfamilies @funicidals @weeezeerrss @uncertainlyours @for-hearthand-home @bnbaochauuu @beomgyusonlywife @federicaakira @joh-ahae @entumtum @ravenpumpkin1

[moonstruckme]

Hiii Mae!!

I'm literally on my hands and knees worshipping your work everyday🫶🏽

Was wondering if you'd consider Poly!Marauders, or any one of them, x Reader who's house is being broken into and they phone one of them or if Reader is walking home alone from a night out with her friends and someone starts following her?

Thanks a lot!!

Thanks for requesting!

cw: man (eek!) (no but actually in the scary way), reader being followed at night. modern au

Sirius Black x fem!reader ♡ 870 words

Anxiety crackles in your fingertips as you dial Sirius’ number. Every ring feels like a year off your life. 

Sirius picks up on the third. “Beautiful,” he says in greeting. 

“Hey.” Your voice is light automatically, reluctant to make things seem dire when they might not be. “Are you busy?” 

“Never too busy for you.” You can hear him moving away from some noise. A television, maybe, or a group of people talking. “You headed home already?” 

“Mhm, yeah. Are you…where are you?” 

“At the pub on King Street. You should come join, James is buying.” 

You hear some playful protest, presumably from down the table. ‘James is buying,’ he says—just invite the whole bloody town, why don’t you? You stop listening as Sirius makes some jibe back. 

Kings Street isn’t far from you. You turn a corner and pick up your pace. 

“Yeah, I’ll come,” you say. “Maybe, um, would you want to meet me halfway?” 

It’s an odd request, coming from you. You practically hear Sirius register this, his chair audibly scraping back and the voices in the background growing quieter as he moves away from them. His tone says it, too. “Yeah, baby, ‘course. What’s up?” 

“I’m okay,” you say swiftly, though you don’t know if that’s strictly true. You don’t feel very okay. But it seems a silly thing to act that way when nothing has happened. “I’m just, I’m…” You lower your voice a tad. “I think maybe this guy is following me? I don’t know.” 

“Following you?” Sirius sounds outside, now, the crowd noise dying away entirely. “Where are you coming from?”

“I’m coming down Dalling now,” you reply, loud enough that the man about twenty feet behind might be able to hear. “Passing Blythe.” 

“Okay, I’m coming. Is he walking close to you?” 

“Not very. It’s probably fine, I’m just…” 

“I’m coming,” Sirius says again. “Stay on with me, yeah?” 

You do, though neither of you speak after that. Sirius’ speaker fills with the rushing of air, like movement, and you suspect if he was listening all he’d hear was your controlled breathing down the line. You’re afraid to look behind you any more than you already have. Occasionally, though, you catch a glance in a storefront window angled just right. You convince yourself your pursuer is gaining. 

You turn the corner onto Kings Street, about to update Sirius over the phone when a figure crashes into you. 

You take in a panicky breath, throat tightening on a scream, as hands land on your shoulders to steady you. Sirius has an odd look on his face, alarm fading to relief in the second before he hauls you to his chest. 

“Sorry.” He sounds breathless, like he’s been running. “I’m sorry. Hi, baby.” 

“Hi.” You clutch at him. You wonder if you might be shaking. “Do you—do you see him? Blue shirt.”

“I see him.” Sirius’ hand splays protectively over your mid back. He keeps you pressed close to him, staring your pursuer down over your shoulder. You know the power of a Sirius Black glare. You’ve never been on the receiving end of a real one, thankfully, but you’ve seen it do its work on occasion. You don’t envy the other man. 

“I don’t know for sure if he was following me,” you murmur. “He’s just been there for a long time. It was making me nervous.” 

“I think he was.” Sirius’ tone is also quiet, though not infirm. “He’s seen us, though, I think he’s about to turn. Just a second, lovely.” He kisses your forehead, his grip never loosening. “You okay?” 

“Yeah,” you say, though your hold isn’t easing either. 

Sirius kisses your head again. You feel the breath he lets out fan warmly over your skin. “He turned. He’s gone.” 

You squeeze him impossibly tighter, frantic with relief. You’re definitely shaking. 

“He’s gone.” Sirius gives you a good press before adjusting his hold, keeping his arm around your shoulders but pointing you toward the pub. “It’s okay. Fuck, I’m glad you called. I was scared I wouldn’t get to you in time, but you were moving faster than I gave you credit for.” He rubs the flat of your chest where you’d collided with him. “Sorry for ramming into you.” 

“Don’t be sorry,” you chide, keeping practically melded to his side as you walk. “Thank you for coming. Really.” 

Your boyfriend tsks. “Course, sweetness. How’d you end up walking home by yourself, anyways?” His tone turns a bit chiding, the sort you suspect would be worse if Sirius weren’t still feeling sorry for you. “You can always call me, you know that.” 

Sirius doesn’t like when you walk anywhere alone, especially at night. You do it more often than he knows. You might do it a tad less often for a while, though. 

“I know,” you say, contritely enough that he kisses your head again, a truce bestowed. “Just, thank you.” 

“Stop with that.” He pulls you closer to his side playfully. “You don’t have to thank me, you freak. I hope you are ready to tell tales of my heroism, though. I just got up and ran out without saying anything; James is going to have lots of questions.”