#it's infuriatingly ok

[whiteshipnightjar]

why do politicians and their legal teams sound so wasted? if you’re asking me a yes or no question in a referendum, can’t you be direct you absolute loonies? it’s always something like: John wakes up at 7 every morning, he has three eggs. touché. my pal can cry with one eye. do i smell toast? aah the sun is out today (but it won’t be for long). TIME. wait but… do i… smell toast? for real how do you feel about our country's vibe?

[elftwink]

been reading fanfiction at the front counter at work as of late because our fiction selection that's available to read online is sparse, there's only so much academic non-fiction a man can read especially when he's just blindly in the catalogue looking up random keywords in the hope of finding something even mildly interesting, and i haven't been able to get out to my local library to fix my library card that doesn't let me log in and possibly has no associated email to access their ebook collections. and i can't do anything at the front desk that doesn't look work-related so i've been downloading pdfs of fics and emailing them to myself to pass the yawning void of hours between the 3 whole patrons who are there during the semester break.

anyway im telling you all this because i sent a few to myself and all but one (1) fic i was like oh my GOD he Would Not Fucking Say That. but i had nothing else to do not even work related tasks so i read them anyway. woe is me. i will learn nothing from this and do the exact same thing tomorrow probably

[multifandomed-multishipper]

THE EYES, CHICO. THE EYES NEVER LIE

Art req - Soundwave admiring Starscream and kissing him to distract him from foiling Megatron (sorry if vague)

FINALLY GOT TO THIS--!! PLOPS ONTO YOUR PLATE

[thisvisionofmyspirit]

activism through insta stories is so fucking lame and stupid. shit's going to be gone in 24 hours. the donation links? vanished. make a fucking post.

[aquaholicsanonymousworld]

I’m getting a little personal with this ask for Dr. Abbot but what if the reader always complements Dr. Abbot on his gray hairs and always loves touching his waves but he’ll just roll his eyes because it’s just another thing that shows he’s an old man compared to her. But one morning the reader looks in the mirror and sees a grey hair (in my case several brought on my stress) but on herself she freaks out so now his turn to comment on it in a loving way. Hope that’s okay!

Totally ok!!!! It's so real!

Silver Linings

Pairing: Dr Jack Abbott x YoungerGf!Reader

You’d always loved Jack’s hair.

Not just because it was him—though that didn’t hurt. No, it was the way the silver threaded through the dark, how his waves were always a little unruly no matter how he tried to tame them. Like a reminder he could never be entirely controlled, not even by time.

“You have such distinguished hair,” you’d tease, trailing your fingers through it when he sat beside you on the couch reading some journal or responding to emails at an ungodly hour. “You mean I look old,” he’d reply flatly, glancing at you over the rim of his glasses. “I mean you look hot,” you’d counter. “Mature. Powerful. A little grumpy, which—bonus points.”

And he’d roll his eyes. Every time. But he let you do it—let you touch him, admire him, revel in him. Even if the gap between you made him nervous sometimes.

Which is why the scene this morning felt almost cosmically cruel.

You were brushing your teeth when you spotted it in the mirror.

Then another.

Then another.

Your heart dropped. You leaned closer to the glass, toothbrush forgotten in your mouth. “No.”

You parted your hair, fingers shaking just enough to give you away.

“No, no, no—”

You yanked the light closer and blinked. The silver wasn’t imaginary.

Several strands, glinting like betrayal in the harsh morning light.

When Jack walked into the bathroom a minute later, you were still standing there, frozen.

He paused at the doorway, toothbrush in hand, then tilted his head. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I have.” Your voice was flat. “And apparently she’s living on my scalp now.”

He blinked. “What?”

You turned to him slowly, parted your hair, and pointed. “I have gray hairs, Jack. Plural. Multiple. Like—at least six.”

There was a beat of silence.

And then, infuriatingly, he laughed.

“Oh, don’t you dare—!” you started, slapping his chest lightly as he ducked his head, still grinning.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said between chuckles, wrapping his arms around your waist despite your dramatic horror. “It’s just—you look like someone died.”

“I am dying. Of premature aging.”

Jack rolled his eyes again—fond, this time. “You’re twenty-six. One gray hair doesn’t put you in a nursing home.”

“It’s not one!”

He reached up, brushing your hair back with a gentleness that made your throat tighten.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, eyes locking on yours in the mirror.

You didn’t speak.

“You always tell me you love my gray hairs. Said it makes me look... what was it? Powerful? Sexy?”

“Distinguished,” you murmured.

He kissed your temple. “Exactly.”

You tried not to look too pleased, even as your heart calmed beneath his words.

“Guess now you’ve got a matching strand,” he said softly, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Looks good on you, by the way.”

You met his gaze again. “So you’re saying I’m aging like fine wine?”

“I’m saying,” Jack said, “you could be covered in silver and I’d still look at you like you hung the moon.”

Your throat tightened. You turned around, resting your hands on his chest.

“Okay,” you whispered. “I guess one or two... or six... isn’t the end of the world.”

He smirked. “Welcome to the silver fox club.”

You squinted. “You’re not gonna make me call you that now, are you?”

Jack leaned in, voice low against your ear. “Only if you want to.”

[chrissturnsfav]

i’ve been summoned ☝️ ok hear me out here, fuckgirl!reader is flirting with him like always and then he gets a boner… up to u if she notices or not !!

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 loser!matt gets a little excited around fuckgirl!reader

you’re sitting in matt’s beat-up old car, legs crossed on the passenger seat, leaning back with a joint dangling between your fingers.

the windows are fogged up, a hazy cocoon of smoke and the faint smell of cigarettes and cologne—matt’s signature scent, clinging to everything he touches. he doesn’t like to smoke weed, never has, but you got him to take a hit tonight. one hit. big deal. baby steps.

he's in the driver’s seat, slouched like he’s got nowhere better to be, one arm draped lazily over the wheel, the other flicking ash out his window.

his lips curl slightly when he catches you staring. not a full smile, but enough to make you grind your teeth. this smug dick knows exactly what he’s doing.

"what?" he asks, voice low, smooth, teasing.

you blow smoke in his direction, grinning. "nothing. just thinking how you keep pretending you don’t wanna fuck me."

his eyes flick over to you, dark and steady, but he doesn’t bite. doesn’t rise to your taunt, never does. that’s the thing about matt—calm, cool, untouchable. a challenge. you love it, even though it's incredibly frustrating.

"cute," he says flatly, like it’s not.

you shift, letting your skirt ride up just enough to get a reaction. he notices—of course he does—but he stays cool, that unreadable expression driving you absolutely crazy.

"come onnn," you coo, leaning closer, voice dripping with fake sweetness as you pout at him, stubbing the blunt into an ashtray in his cup holder. "you can’t keep playing hard to get forever."

"who said i’m playing?" he shoots back, eyes flickering down to his crotch just a second too long.

gotcha.

you lean in further, close enough to feel the heat rolling off him, your lips dangerously close to his ear as you snicker tauntingly. "your dick says different, matt."

his jaw tenses. you see a crack in that infuriatingly calm exterior.

he shifts slightly, like he’s trying to hide something, but you’re not stupid. you know exactly what’s happening, and it lights a fire inside you.

"oh," you whisper, biting your lip through a cocky smirk. "looks like i’m finally getting to you."

he exhales slowly, a mix of frustration and something else you can’t quite name. but he doesn’t pull away. doesn’t stop you.

"careful," he warns softly, voice rougher than usual. "you sure you wanna play this game?"

you grin wickedly, loving every second of this rare victory. "oh, baby, i'm already winning this game. don't get it twisted. started winning when you kissed me a few weeks ago."

his eyes narrow, and for a second you wonder if you’ve finally pushed him too far. not that you'd regret it. matt’s the type who thrives on control, always one step ahead. but tonight that grip is slipping, and you can feel it. it's the same exact tension you felt a few weeks ago at that party.

he shifts in his seat, leaning back like he's trying to remind himself who’s in charge.

you know that move. seen it before. but it’s different now. there’s heat bubbling beneath his cool exterior, something that wasn’t there before.

"yeah?" he asks, voice low, smooth.

you nod, biting your lip. "mhmm."

he hums like he doesn’t believe you, like he’s remembering that party a couple of weeks ago when he kissed you and shattered his whole untouchable vibe.

of course that motherfucker blamed that night on the alcohol. but you're not backing down so easily, and you knew that was all a lie.

besides, you love a good challenge.

you see the flicker of that night in his eyes now, the way he looks at your plush lips like he’s weighing his options.

"you're thinking about it, aren’t you?" you taunt, snickering cheekily, leaning closer until your knee brushes his thigh. "how good my lips tasted."

he exhales through his nose, shaking his head with a dry laugh. "cocky."

"mm-mm, confident," you correct, grinning. "there’s a difference, baby."

his tongue darts over his bottom lip, slow and deliberate, and you swear it takes every ounce of self-control inside you not to climb into his lap right then, wanting nothing but to feel his hard tip pressing against your clit through your clothes.

"aw, what’s wrong?" you taunt softly, voice dripping with mock sweetness. "scared you're gonna give in again?"

his jaw tightens, and he huffs out a low laugh through his nose, like he knows what game you’re playing but refuses to let you win outright.

"damn, you're really pushin’ it tonight," he mutters, voice rough, like gravel rolling through his chest.

"am i?" you purr, inching closer until you're practically in his space. your knee brushes his thigh, deliberate this time, and the flicker of tension in his eyes nearly makes you dizzy.

his breath hitches—subtle but not subtle enough to miss.

"yeah," he says low, almost a warning. "you are."

but he doesn't move away. doesn't stop you. and that's when you know you've got him once again.

you tilt your head, biting back a grin. "hmm...what’re you gonna do about it, matt?"

his gaze drops to your mouth for just a second—one fleeting, dangerous second—before snapping back up to meet your eyes.

"thought you liked keeping me on my toes," you tease, voice soft but challenging. "what happened to that whole stupid unbothered vibe?"

"still here," he says, though it sounds more like a lie the longer he holds your gaze.

your grin widens. "doesn't look like it."

you see the exact moment he stops fighting himself—that sharp flicker of decision in his eyes before he moves. suddenly his hand is on your thigh, firm but not rough, heat radiating through your skin like wildfire.

you've got him right where you want him now.

𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿'𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲: do not worry, i REPEAT there will be a part two of this where they will be getting freaky, i just want to edge everyone a lil bit hehe

thank you for reading!! <3

tags 🏷️: @sturnobsessedwh0re , @idrk2292 , @mattsbrat , @ribbonlovergirl , @matthewsroses , @mattsdemi , @emely9274 , @frankoceanfanpage , @ifwdominicfike , @marrykisskilled , @strnilolover , @cayleeuhithinknott , @forgottxen , @sophand4n4 , @sturnsrecord , @purpledragon222 , @faiyaz555 , @jocelyncsblog , @freakiolos , @slut4chris888 , @chriss-slutt , @ilovedanielcaesar , @annsx03 , @snoopychris , @chrissweetheart , @slutformatt17 , @mattsturnii , @dominicfikeenthusiast , @mattsbratt333 , @ivysturnss , @tessasturns , @coquettechris , @courta13

@chrissturnsfav ™

[kxsagi]

ok so like I'm loving this whole 'isagi is in love w readers thighs' thing but hear me out listen....what if reader is obsessed w Isagis thighs?? cuz c'mon,,, have you seen his thighs? 😩 they're literally huge cuz of all that training 😩 it's something I rlly noticed when I was watching and or reading blue lock 🙈🙈

“#𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭”

a/n: i’m thighstruck fr like ISAGI GIMME THAT-

it was getting ridiculous at this point. 

you were supposed to be watching the game, y’know, like a supportive girlfriend or whatever, but here you were, seated in the front row, not processing a single second of the match. instead, your eyes were locked on his thighs. 

isagi’s jersey clung to his torso, slightly damp with sweat from the intensity of the match, but none of that registered in your brain. nope. your entire existence was hyper-focused on the sheer power in his legs – the way his quads flexed with each stride, the raw strength beneath those compression shorts. the fabric clung sinfully to his skin, barely keeping those absolute units contained. 

you let out a slow, shaky breath when he pivoted sharply, the muscles visibly tightening as he changed direction with that signature agility. a bead of sweat rolled down your temple. not because of the sun. because you were feral. 

you didn’t even see the goal he scored. you only knew about it when the crowd roared and isagi jogged toward his teammates with that casual, almost bored expression. but even as he high-fived and fist-bumped his teammates, you were too far gone, blatantly staring at how his thighs rippled with every step. 

god, this is a problem. 

and it only got worse when the game ended. 

you were waiting by the sidelines when isagi approached, his jersey slung over his shoulder, skin still glistening from the match. his hair was damp, falling in loose strands over his forehead, but your eyes didn’t even make it that far up. no. they were locked on his bare thighs. the compression shorts did nothing to spare you, they only made it worse, the material hugging every muscle and curve. 

"you okay?" he asked, voice low and lazy, but you barely heard him. your gaze flicked up for half a second before trailing right back down, practically burning a hole into his legs. 

isagi blinked slowly. then his lips quirked in amusement. "again?" 

your eyes snapped up. "w-what?" 

he gestured vaguely toward your blatant gawking. "you’ve been eyeing my thighs all game. don’t think i didn’t notice." 

your mouth opened, then closed. you felt caught. exposed. like a criminal caught red-handed. you fumbled for an excuse, but isagi leaned in slightly, cutting off your flustered rambling. 

"you’re not even subtle," he muttered, lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "i could feel your stare every time i ran by." 

okay. you were definitely not surviving this. 

and then, the final blow came when he suddenly crouched down, tying his shoe, one leg bent at a perfect 90-degree angle. the position made his thigh bulge even more, and your brain practically short-circuited. 

"you’re doing this on purpose," you muttered through clenched teeth, fisting your hands at your sides. 

isagi glanced up at you through his lashes, expression infuriatingly smug. "hmm?" he feigned innocence. "just tying my shoe." 

when he stood up again, he took a step closer, crowding into your space until your back hit the fence behind you. his voice was a low murmur. "go ahead. stare all you want. they’re yours anyway." 

you genuinely thought you might pass out right there. 

but the cherry on top? back at his place, he made sure to strut around in nothing but compression shorts, deliberately stretching, lunging, and casually sitting with one leg propped up on the coffee table, just to watch you squirm. 

the bastard knew exactly what he was doing. and you were totally fine with it. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[daxisyzz]

⁺‧˚ ⋆ 𝐁𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐚𝐥 | 𝒃𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒚 𝒃𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒔 ⋆ ˚‧⁺

𝑬𝒑𝒊𝒔𝒐𝒅𝒆 2: 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕 𝒓𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑 𝒃𝒆𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒔

Pairings: ceo!boss!bucky barnes × fem!reader

Other characters: bestfriend!Natasha romanoff, Wanda maximoff, Sam Wilson, Steve Rogers.

Contents: fake dating, chaotic relationship dynamic, workplace romance, contract relationship.

Summary: Bucky offers you an outrageous deal—pretend to be his girlfriend to appease his grandfather and in exchange, he’ll make sure you never have to worry about money again. You refuse at first… until you remember your landlord raised your rent, your loans are still pending, and Bucky casually drops a six-figure contract in front of you. What could go wrong?

Word count: 2.7k+ ( longer than the last..ik🫣)

Warnings: there is a dialogue heavy part, desperate reader, CHAOS, Bucky is infuriatingly hot.

Series masterlist Episode 1

Inspired by the kdrama "Business Proposal"

Previously on Business Proposal..

"It’s fine with me. I'll talk with my secretary to arrange another date. I like you and would like to pursue this," he says, getting up with a smirk on his face. "Give my regards to your father." He turns away and walks out of the restaurant.

Left alone at the table, you exhale sharply, a mix of panic and exasperation washing over you. You quickly text Natasha, urging her to call immediately. "Call me, it's urgent," you type as you sit there, wondering exactly what you got yourself into.

___________________________________●

You get up, collecting your bag and rushing out of the restaurant, your mind reeling from whatever it was that happened in the last hour.

As you stand on the sidewalk waiting for your cab, your phone starts ringing—your favorite song, which you had as your ringtone. It was Natasha. You immediately pick it up, hearing her voice on the other side of the call.

"That was fast. Tell me you scared him off," she says lazily, probably lying on her couch watching some sitcom she always loves.

"I TRIED, but he liked me!" you whisper-yell into your phone as you get into your cab.

On the other line, Natasha is confused. "What do you mean he liked you? The whole 'mission' was to make him regret his existence for choosing to go on that date."

"He thinks I'm you, Nat! And when I went full unhinged—like full 'talking to my one-night-stand' kind—he just smirked and said 'you'll do,' and LEFT," you scream into your phone, making your cab driver glance at you through the mirror weirdly.

"Oh my god, you're kidding," she wheezes.

"Do I sound like I'm kidding?" you groan.

"But you do sound like you're spiraling, which is delicious, babe."

"You're paying for my therapy, my new job, and for starting over my life in a new country," you say, done with your life.

"I'm so sorry, I really am," she says when you groan.

"...but we can fix this. What else did he say?"

"He asked to arrange another date. You might be getting an email very soon about it," you inform her.

"Ok, I need you to go on that date. I know it's ridiculous, but reject him as brutally as possible. He's a rich CEO, for God's sake—he won't like you hurting his ego. He'll definitely let you go."

"But what about the fact that I have to face him every day of my life at work?"

"What do you mean?" she asks, clearly confused.

"He's the new CEO of my company," you mutter into the phone.

"What!?" she screams.

"Yeah, I know."

"It's ok, [name]. If you lose your job, you're always welcome to work with me on my fashion brand."

"Thanks for the offer, Nat. I'll see you tomorrow at our regular," you say, as the cab approaches your apartment.

"Yeah, I'll meet you there. Again, I'm sorry and thank you for doing all this for me," she says, her voice softening.

"There is no sorry and thank you in friendship," you chuckle tiredly as you get out of the cab, paying the driver.

"Don't say that; you know I hate that saying."

"Whatever," you laugh at her serious tone.

"Just know that I'm grateful for your friendship," she says, and you can sense her smiling from her voice.

"Good night, Nat. Love you," you say, smiling, genuinely grateful to have her in your life.

"Good night, babe, hope you survive tomorrow," she teases as you cut the call after saying goodbye again.

You plop into your bed, dreading the next day, wondering how you'd avoid him at the office, as it was going to be his first day as CEO. You thought of all the escape routes, all the worst-case scenarios, as you tried your hardest to fall asleep, your anxiety at its peak. You manage to score some sleep a few hours before you had to face—potentially—the end of your career at Barnes & Co.

You tread into work the next day looking like a mess as your nerves get the best of you. You greet your coworker, Wanda. Wanda was a sweet woman. You and she had joined the company around the same time and had become good companions. The redhead greets you back as you both walk over to your guys' desk.

"You know, the team is setting up a welcome surprise for the CEO. Wanna join?" she asks you.

As soon as you hear the words "CEO," the warning bells start ringing in your head. You start to think of a good excuse to avoid the event.

"Actually, I was feeling kind of down, so I'd rather stay at my desk," you say, looking down.

"Are you ok..." she perks up with concern.

"...you should've stayed at home." she worries, and it makes you feel guilty, seeing her worry over you when you're perfectly fine.

Well, not perfectly fine, because you spot him. Bucky. Your boss, Mr. Barnes.

And he's coming near your guys' office.

Immediately, you duck down, falling into a coughing fit as Wanda rubs your back, her worry increasing.

Bucky shakes the hands of his new colleagues with a polite and charming smile. Steve Rogers—his best friend, and now his secretary—shows him around the new surroundings of the office. They approach the product manager's office as he sees a woman, supposedly the product manager, widen her eyes at the sight of him and duck down... in a coughing fit? He just ignores that and walks past, heading to his new office.

The day goes by without any encounters with the boss, and you continue your work normally, until you have to go receive the product files from Steve, who just so conveniently has his office right in front of Bucky’s—whose office has the whole view of Steve's.

This cannot get any worse, as you speed-walk to Steve's desk and casually grab the files, using them to cover your face as you speed-walk back to your desk like you're competing in the Olympics.

This definitely doesn't go unnoticed by Bucky, as he narrows his eyes at his ill-natured employee. He calls Steve into his office to inquire about her.

"You need anything, Buck?" Steve asks.

"That lady who just came to your desk to take the files—who's that?"

"Oh, that's [name]. She's our product manager who deals with our electronics line."

"Why is she acting like that?"

"Idk, what's wrong? She's usually... normal."

"....Weird," Bucky says, raising his eyebrow, then he dismisses Steve.

Bucky starts noticing a pattern. Whenever he walks into a room you're in—like during lunch break—you leave. You barely show him your face, hiding behind your desk, behind files, running away from the elevator he's in to go down the stairs. But he manages to catch a glimpse, and that makes him even more suspicious.

You get home after a very exhausting day at the office—not because of the workload, but rather, because you were desperately trying to avoid Bucky Barnes. You get a text from Nat saying he has arranged a date, Friday evening, and you start preparing for that day. You agree to the second date purely out of fear that refusing would raise more suspicion.

The plan? Make him regret ever liking you.You arrive at another fancy restaurant, dressed up in your Natasha Romanoff disguise. At this point, you think, you should just be her. You enter the restaurant, going over your plan mentally—this time, you're not messing it up.

Step 1 of your master plan: Assert dominance

You walk out onto a rooftop restaurant which is suspiciously empty. You spot him sitting near a table, fancily set up, looking over the skyline of the city. He always seemed to be decked out in the most elegant suits, and it always made you feel something. If it weren't for this situation you were in, you would genuinely enjoy having a date with him. But the universe always likes to torment you, so you head up to him.

Bucky stands as you approach, smirking, "I was starting to think you wouldn't show."

You shrug, faking a bored expression, "Yeah, well, I had nothing better to do."

He chuckles, "You could've just said no."

You sigh dramatically, flopping onto the chair. "Could I? Because you look like the type who doesn't take rejection well."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just that you seem... fragile." You smile innocently.

"And what makes you think that, doll?" Your heart skips a beat at the name, but you continue your act.

"Your whole vibe just screams sensitive. And I don't do that. It's like you get all broody and serious when people don't laugh at your jokes."

"I don't make jokes," he deadpans.

"That's even sadder."

Step 2: The too-high-maintenance approach

You sigh again, moving on, picking up the menu. "Just a warning, I'm excruciatingly high maintenance."

"Noted," he says, returning that stupid smirk.

"Like if you're even a minute late at texting me back, I'll block you."

Chuckling, he says, "Punctuality is important."

"I expect expensive gifts weekly—diamonds, designer bags. I don't do thoughtful," you tut.

Raising an eyebrow, he asks, "You like Chanel or Dior?"

Internally, you just feel like flipping over the table because, WHY IS HE NOT RUNNING YET!

Step 3: Or your pathetic attempt at making this man break—destroy his ego

You smile sweetly, leaning forward, "Okay, fine, I'll just be honest."

"Please do."

"You're just... not my type."

"Oh?" Amused, Bucky looks at you.

"Yeah. I usually go for guys who are, you know…" you gesture vaguely. "Hotter," you state casually.

Then it's just silence. Dead silence.

Why is he not saying anything? you question in your head.

Then, he blinks slowly, "Hotter?"

Nodding, you continue, "Yeah. No offense, obviously. You’re, like... cute. In a 'mall cop chic' kinda way."

Bucky tilts his head, processing that absolute violation of his entire existence.

You continue, satisfied this is working, "Also, no offense, but you’re kinda... short."

"I am not short," he grumbles, definitely offended.

"It’s okay. Not everyone can be over six feet. It’s cute," you say, nodding as you empathize.

"I am over six feet."

"Mm. Barely."

"I’m 6’2," he mutters.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, darling."

A muscle in his jaw ticks.

You lean back, proud of yourself, waiting for the moment when Bucky snaps and storms out.

"You done?" he questions now, looking at you with amusement.

"Wait, you're not mad?" you blink.

"Oh, sweetheart, this was adorable." He grins—like, actually grins.

You stare, mortified. What in the world is wrong with this man?

"You really thought this would work on me?"

"I insulted everything about you!"

"Yeah, but I can take a hit," he shrugs casually.

"I questioned your height."

"Which was incorrect, by the way."

"I said you dress like a mall cop," you say, desperation now evident in your voice.

"Well, that was just mean," he huffs.

"Oh my god! You liked that, didn’t you?" you say, face-palming.

"I love a challenge," he says smugly.

"This man is actually insane," you whisper, horrified.

You give up the whole charade; this man was not going to leave you alone. Guess you had to start writing that resignation letter as soon as you got home, 'cause you were not going to have a job the next day.

"Fine! You win! You know why? BECAUSE I’M NOT NATASHA."

"Oh?" he says, tilting his head, amused.

Who says "oh" just after their date revealed they are not who they are supposed to be?

"Yeah. I’m not Natasha. I took her place because she begged me to."

Bucky leans back, now donning a full-on smirk. "Ah. That makes sense."

"...you're not surprised?" you stare at him.

"Not really. You were acting way too weird at work."

That's it—the ground should just swallow you up. Not even changing your identity was gonna work now.

"You knew?" you ask, looking down at your lap, scared of looking up.

"I didn't exactly know, but I had my suspicions," he says, watching you shrink into yourself.

"Why did you show up then?" you question.

"What can I say? You’re fun." You're rendered speechless, not knowing what to do.

"Well, it's getting late. Don't want to turn up late to work tomorrow now, do you, Ms. Romanoff? Sorry, Ms. [name]," he says, getting up and buttoning his suit as he throws another look at you and leaves.

As soon as he leaves, you slump over the table, face in your hands.

"I just insulted my billionaire boss to his face," you whisper to yourself.

"Rough night," the waiter who came to clean up the table asks.

"You have no idea." A muffled groan is heard. You barely make it home before the panic sets in. You go through all five stages of grief as you think over what will happen to your life.

The morning after, you sulk into work like a criminal who just escaped jail, dodging eye contact, hugging the walls, and nearly knocking over the printer just to avoid the executive floor.

"Why are you walking like that?" Sam, one of your coworkers, approaches you suspiciously.

"Like you committed a crime and are not trying to be seen."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

You spend almost three hours away from your floor doing other chores until you end up in the break room, drinking some coffee to ease your headache, as you hear the voice you've been trying to avoid.

“You know, for someone trying to avoid me, you’re doing a terrible job,” he says from behind you, making you choke on your coffee.

"Good morning to you too," he says while casually crossing his arms.

"Good morning, sir," you force a polite smile.

"We're back to 'sir' now," he mocks.

You panic. "It felt appropriate."

"Last night you called me a chic mall cop." He leans slightly.

"Did I?" you question him, sweating.

"Mhm," he grins.

He leans back, his hands going into his pocket.

"I need you in my office at five. Understand?"

"Yes, sir." You look down at your fidgeting hands as he looks over you once more, then leaves.

You're sitting in front of your boss in his office and you don't like it one bit. You know you're getting screwed over no matter what. There is absolute silence as you wait for him to speak, which is just another level of torture. He slides over a paper, nodding at you to take a look at it. In bold letters, it's written:

NON-DISCLOSURE AGREEMENT

You skim over the content once, then twice, not believing what's written there. You look up at him, shock evident on your face. He just looks at you with that damned smirk.

"What is this?" you ask.

"That's an NDA."

“Oh, wow, thanks! I couldn’t tell from the giant letters!” you say sarcastically.

He chuckles, leaning forward, "I'm not faking being your girlfriend, and what do you mean by emotional compensation?"

"It's for all my precious time that you wasted."

"And what do I get out of this?" you ask—the important question, obviously.

"Turn the page."

You turn over the page to see more text, but what catches your eye in the benefits section is the obvious six figures for being his fake girlfriend for six months. You choke on air.

"This says six figures," you look up at him.

"Sharp eyes."

"For a fricking fake relationship!" you gasp.

"It's mutually beneficial," he states calmly.

"Why are you doing this?" you ask again.

He sighs, rubbing his temples. "My grandfather won't shut up about wanting me to settle down, and I have no time for that commitment. You need your money, as the salary is not enough to pay off your loans. And I need a girlfriend to convince my grandfather to leave me alone. It's a win-win."

“So you’re telling me… that if I sign this… I legally can’t tell anyone that I’m fake dating you?”

"Correct," he says, looking over his computer.

"Not even Natasha?" you panic.

"Not even Natasha," he repeats.

"Not even my own mother?!"

"Unless you want her sued for breach of contract," he casually says, flipping through emails.

"This is insane!"

He smirks, "You'd be surprised how often I hear that."

You stare at him, fully aware you're about to sign away your entire life. And yet—your landlord just raised the rent, your boss (who's sitting in front of you) is on the verge of layoffs, and your bank account is actively crying.

You had no choice.

With utter resignation, you grab the pen, sign the contract, and glare at him.

“If I go to jail for this, I’m haunting you.”

Bucky smirks, completely unbothered. "Oh, sweetheart, this is just the beginning."

__________________________________________

A/n: Thank you all so much for reading ❤️. I'll mostly update every week but from next week I'll be busy at college, dw I'll try hard to release new chapters.

Taglist: @baw1066, @scott-loki-barnes, @calwitch

You can also : ☆[Follow the tag ⁺‧˚ ⋆Business Proposal⋆ ˚‧⁺ for updates]☆

[whitedarkmoonflower]

Need a ride?

Pairing: Valentin x reader (female)

Authors note: this was not planed, but that scene with Valentin on the bike was just too hot to process. You can officially blame my cat who woke me at 3 am today if this totally sucks.

Warnings: plot? never heard of it. Pure SMUT. Sex in public, Valentin giving quite some Dom vibes, fingering, oral, p in v

Word Count: 3,1 K

Summary: your tire is mysteriously gotten flat and you have no other choice as to accept the offer of a ride home from Valentin - the insanely sexy health mentor you've been eyeing from the moment you started working at The White Lotus luxury resort

“Need a ride?” a familiar, soft voice rich with that insanely sexy accent reaches you over the hum of the idling bike as it comes to a stop beside you. 

For a moment your confused gaze remains glued on the completely flat tire of your moped, as if trying to will it to reinflate by your sheer disbelief only, before you slowly lift your eyes to meet that cheeky smile you’ve been fond of since the first moment you set your foot on the grounds of the luxury resort that was supposed to be you new home for a while. 

It might not have been the most rational decision of your life to drop out of the university for a spiritual self-discovery trip through the East but it was definitely not the worst. OK, you ran out of money after something like one month, but that didn’t mean you were ready to give up on your plans. 

Thailand being your next destination after having left behind the breathtaking temples of Cambodia and incredibly beautiful landscapes of Vietnam, you decided to combine business with pleasure as you stormed the manager’s office of The White Lotus – the biggest and probably most expensive resort in the area – the advertisement from the local newspaper, announcing that the hotel was looking for an English speaking service staff, clutched in your hand. 

You weren’t naive, nor were you particularly experienced or life hardened. Something in between. You were impulsive, stubborn and still liked to believe in stories where the good guys saved the world and won the princess, even if deep down you knew it not to be true.

“I don’t understand,” you murmur with slight puzzlement in your voice as your gaze shifts back to your moped. “Everything was perfectly fine when I parked it here this morning.”

“Let me see,” the smooth, velvety voice makes your stomach flutter as the engine goes silent and a pair of leather gloves land carelessly on the tank as their owner swings off the bike and moves toward you.

“You’re new here, I haven’t seen you before,” there is something in the way he looks at you that makes you feel both – a cold shiver creeping up your spine and heat hitting your cheeks.

New is quite a relative term. Yes, you’ve been here for just three weeks, yet you are perfectly aware who is the handsome owner of the only Harley Davidson for the miles around even if he has apparently remained oblivious to your very existence.

But you also have to admit that it is hard not to notice Valentin – the resort’s infuriatingly handsome health mentor and fitness guru, especially when he remains number one topic of nearly every piece of gossip going around. 

Last week he was spotted sneaking out in the middle of the night from the private villa of that arrogant rich bitch from South Dakota, the one who had been terrorising the whole hotel for weeks already – the pool wasn’t warm enough, the massage table was not comfortable, the food was terrible and God forbid she was served the wrong champagne with the oysters. It seemed almost like a miracle to see her smiling the next morning at breakfast. 

Then there was that rumor that the swollen lip and the spectacularly bruised eye of one of the hotel’s personal trainers had nothing to do with the alleged jump rope accident but rather with an argument about a stolen client, apparently ending with Valentin throwing a punch. Though no one could really confirm if that part was true, some still swore of having seen him leaving the gym with blood on his knuckles.

Ah, and, of course, there was the affair, or at least, that’s what the housekeeping staff whispered about after noticing how the resort owner’s wife, easily twice as young as her husband, by the way, had taken an unusual interest in the fitness center with private stretching lessons,  late-night sauna sessions and meditation practices once of a sudden becoming a regular part of her so called wellness routine. 

Yet, despite all the fuss, you have to admit you’ve never actually seen him be anything but polite and smiling. And you have seen him. Just like everyone else, you find it impossible to look away from that broad muscular chest when he strides through the resort only clad in his yogi pants, heading to greet the new arrivals, or from those flexing biceps when you happen to pass by the training ground with him having a course - not that you’d ever admit to staring or having actually no business around there during that time of the day.

A broad chest clad in a snug dark green t-shirt that does more to accentuate than cover the perfectly chiseled muscles beneath, moves past you and your gaze involuntary drops down and lands on his hand, the conversation from the previous day rushing back absolutely uninvited. 

“Have you noticed how big his hands are?” The question had made you freeze mid-motion, the pillowcase in your hands nearly slipping to the floor. 

“Huh?” You had blinked and raised your brow questioningly, turning to Pam, your coworker, a nice girl you became friends almost immediately. 

“You know what they say…,” she had leaned in, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper and giving you a knowing wink.

You had frowned, not really getting it this time, until Pam rolled her eyes, her cheeks already turning pink, as she cleared her throat. “The ones with big hands have big… you know… big khm…,” she had nodded meaningfully toward the lower part of her body.

It still had taken you a second before it finally clicked.

“Ahhh, you mean his dick,” you had said, watching as Pam practically choked on air, her face turning red as a beet, while you burst into laughter.

Yes, it is big. His hand.

“I’m Valentin,” he introduces himself, extending his hand like he expects you not to already know his name.

You hesitate for a second before shaking it, his grip is firm but warm, his somewhat rough fingers sending an unexpected jolt up your arm.

“I know,” you say, then immediately cringe at how blunt it sounds.

His smirk deepens, amusement flickering in those sharp eyes. “You know?”

You clear your throat, crossing your arms over your chest. “Everyone talks about you.”

“Good things, I hope?”

You let out a short laugh. “Depends on who you ask.”

He tilts his head, as if considering your words, then glances at your moped. “Well, I hate to break it to you, but this tire isn’t going to fix itself.”

You sigh, rubbing your temples. “Yeah, I figured. I just don’t understand – how does a perfectly fine tire suddenly go flat?”

Valentin crouches down, inspecting it. “Sometimes, it just happens. Heat, pressure, bad luck. Or…” He pauses, running a finger along the rubber.

You frown. “Or?”

He straightens, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Or someone let the air out.”

A chill prickles at your skin despite the humid air. “You think someone did this on purpose?”

“I think someone doesn’t want you going anywhere tonight,” his gaze shifts back to you, and his tongue flickers between his teeth as he licks his bottom lip. 

Shit, why does it look so fucking hot. That tongue can definitely do more. Wait, no, stop, you innerly slap yourself but it’s too late, the next thought is already there as you wonder – is it true, that thing about big hands and big… you know…

He heads back to his bike, and leans against it, arms crossed, watching you closely. “So… need a ride?”

Your heart stutters at the way he looks at you – his lips are smiling, but there is something in his eyes, something you can’t quite put your fingers on, something that makes you feel like a mouse before a big grinning cat.

You should say no, you should figure this out on your own, but the way he’s looking at you – the way he’s offering, like it’s not just a ride but something more – makes it very, very hard to refuse. 

Fuck it, we ball, you smile back at him and nod. “Yeah, that would be nice.”

—-----------------------------------------------------

“Take it easy, little doll, relax and enjoy the ride,” the hot whisper against your ear does exactly the opposite, you feel your heart racing even faster, each thumping beat pulsing between your legs, as you struggle to calm your breathing that threatens to spill into moans at any second if those thick fingers don’t stop their slow, torturous movement. 

“I… I can’t… Valentin, please…,” you breathe, your fingers gripping the edge of the table for support but your thighs part just a little wider beneath it.

The bar is dim, only the dance floor flashing in neon bursts, drawing all attention away from the shadowed corners and the shallow booths positioned along the walls with tables and red leather, plush and comfortable sofas - all tucked away in just barely enough secrecy to keep you somewhat hidden. A small mercy you feel thankful for, the sound of the pounding bass of the music  being another one, as it drowns out that moan you can’t bite back anymore as Valentin’s fingers push your panties aside, part from your pulsing clit and glide through your wet folds, to slid inside you with devastating ease. 

“You’re soaking, baby doll, just sitting here, waiting for daddy Valentin to take care of you, aren’t you?” That velvety voice edged with steel is killing you, not that those fingers inside you, curling, stretching, teasing, his thumb brushing firm, controlled circles against your clit, is making it any easier to gather any coherent thought. 

“Mmmmm… mmhhh,” is the only thing that rolls over your lips, your body reacts instinctively, muscles clenching around him, spine arching slightly against the seat as you melt into the sensation and sink back against the cushioned backrest, legs falling open just a little bit more, surrendering. 

Valentine’s other arm sneaks around your shoulders, pulling you closer, his lips brushing against your earlobe.

“Such a good girl, aren’t you?” he rasps. “Want me to ruin you, don’t you? Want me to fuck that tight, greedy pussy of yours, until you can’t walk anymore?”

“Ahh-ahhh,” your moan is barely muffled as his fingers curl against the wall of your core and press into that spot inside you that makes your vision blur and your toes curl. Oh, fuck, he’s good. 

The bar is full, the booth next to you crowded with a group of friends, laughing and clinking their glasses, but you don’t care. You can’t. Your head is spinning, thoughts dissolving, and every last bit of your self-control is fading away, all your senses dulled and consumed by the feeling of his fingers inside you, by that hypnotic voice dripping filth into your ear. 

How did you even end up here? The ride, the bike, your arms wrapped tight around his steel cut abdomen, holding for dear life – the memory is somewhat hazy, swept away in the whirlwind that is Valentin.  You can still feel the wind lashing against your skin, your breath stolen as you tucked yourself against his broad back.

“Wanna go out for a drink? You have a free day tomorrow, don’t you?” The question had sounded so casual but there was something in Valentin’s voice, some slight metallic tone, that  should have been a warning, a sign to you. 

“Yeah, sure! Why not?” words had left your lips too easily, although you couldn’t shake off the feeling like you were a prey stepping into a trap, absolutely willingly – if you wanted to be honest with yourself. 

Because of all the whispers that followed Valentin, one was clearly absent – he never went out with anyone from the staff, never even really flirted. Never. Not that they didn’t want him to. The majority of the serving staff being girls, you knew for sure that most of them would kill to go out with the dangerously handsome health mentor, but he never asked. Not until now, not until you.

And you were certainly not letting this chance slip away through your fingers, to see more of him in real life, outside the resort's controlled microclimate. Was it a Russian roulette you were playing? Absolutely, and you were all in for it. 

“Fuck… yes,... oh shit, it feels so good…,” your whines are swallowed by the pounding music, your body trembling as you feel his fingers move faster, expertly working you toward the edge and then you’re coming undone in a bar full of people, music thumping in your ears in sync with your rapid heartbeat. 

Your eyes are heavy and half lidded, head fallen back against the plush backrest, your panties are ruined, completely drenched, and your hips keep rocking instinctively chasing the pleasure he’s drawing out of you. Was this how you thought the evening would end? Fuck, yes! And something tells you it’s far from over. 

“Breathe, kitten,” Valentin’s voice is a dark purr in your ear and it slowly brings you back to reality, as he withdraws his fingers from you. You whine quietly, your thighs twitching at the loss, and your eyes flutter open, finding his gaze already on you. 

Valentin is watching you, a spark of satisfaction dancing in his gaze, his thumb brushes over your bottom lip, a teasing ghost of a touch, then he leans in.

“I want you to put that pretty mouth of yours to work, sweetheart. Will you do that for me?”

You sit up, straightening your spine as you reach for the champagne glass on the table, fingers slightly shaking. 

“Here?” you ask, turning to him. “You want me to give you head here, where everyone can see?”

“If you are up to it, baby doll,” Valentine’s smirk deepens, amusement dancing on his lips, and it just makes your heart skip a beat. 

“But I think you are very much enjoying this, aren’t you?” He leans closer, taking the glass from your fingers, lifting it to his lips and taking a slow, deliberate sip. 

Then, without breaking eye contact, he pulls you back against his chest, while his hand captures yours, guiding it downward and pressing your palm against the hardness straining beneath his pants.

“Look at what you’ve done to me.” 

Fuck, even through the thick fabric, he feels huge, and you can’t help but smirk as the thought slips in that it must be all true, that thing about the hands and the dicks.

Your eyes wander around the room, taking in how the dance floor pulses with bodies under shifting neon lights, the waitresses weaving between tables, laughter and music filling the air, you swallow harshly as the thought alone of sucking him off here practically in public in the tenuous cover of some shifting shadows sends a fresh surge of heat pooling in your core.

Your fingers already move on their own as the heavy buckle unfastens with a soft clink and the zipper parts beneath your touch. You slide a hand inside, wrapping around the length of him, drawing him out.

Valentin inhales drawing air through his teeth, a low growl rumbling in his chest, as your fingers tease over his leaking tip, his fingers weave through the strands of your hair with just enough force to make your scalp tingle, as his grip tightens and he urges you down, his silent command unmistakable.

You glance up at him, meeting his darkened gaze, the corner of his mouth lifts in amusement, watching you, waiting.

Your fingers trail along his length, teasing, feeling the weight of him in your palm. Fuck, he’s big, thick, hot, pulsing against your skin.

Slowly, you lean in, your lips parting as you let your tongue flick over the swollen tip, tasting the beads of precum gathering there and Valentin exhales sharply, a curse slipping from his lips.

"Good girl," he murmurs, his voice dissipating in the thumping bass of the music.

You take him deeper, wrapping your lips around him, savoring the way his breath hitches as he disappears into the wet heat of your mouth. 

“May I get you something else,” you hear the voice of the waitress through the haze and you freeze, unsure what to do, adrenaline surges through your veins, making your heart hammer in your chest. Panic and arousal clash violently inside you, but Valentin’s hand in your hair firmly keeps you exactly where he wants you and you don’t know what you feel more shame or the intoxicating thrill of surrender. The way he controls you, the way he holds you in place without a second of hesitation, sends a sensation through you that you've never felt before and it's rush is so deep it steals your breath.

“Thank you darling, we are well served,” his voice is smooth, utterly composed as if he weren't sitting here with his cock buried in your mouth. You can't see the waitress, your face covered by your disheveled hair, the footsteps fade away, and before you can even process what just happened Valentin guides you back down his cock, resuming the steady rhythm of your movements, and you can't but moan around him. Your tongue glides along the thick vein running down his length and you hollow your cheeks, taking him deeper, feeling him twitch against your tongue, his groan is low and guttural, barely restrained and that sound alone makes your core tighten with need.

"Just like that, kitten," he rasps, his hips jerking slightly, pushing himself further into your mouth, your own pulse pounds in your ears, matching the rhythm of the music, the sensation of him filling you overwhelming and electric. Your fingers tighten around the base of his cock as you set a steady pace, sliding up and down, working him with eager precision, and you feel his thighs tense beneath your touch, the muscles flexing under your fingers. 

You take him deeper, moaning around him, letting the vibration send a shudder through his entire body.

"Fucking hell…," Valentin’s hand tightens in your hair, his head falls back against the booth, his jaw clenched, his chest rising and falling unevenly, you can feel how close he is to letting go and coming undone right here and now, and that thought alone makes you throb between your legs, but before you can push him over that edge, he tugs you back by the hair, pulling you off him with a slick pop. Your lips are wet, swollen, and you look up at him, dazed, your breath coming in short gasps, Valentin smirks down at you, his chest heaving, his cock still thick and flushed in your hand.

"Naughty little thing," he murmurs, his thumb swiping over your bottom lip, his voice rough with barely-contained lust. "That was good. But I’m not done with you yet."

He drags you up, his mouth hovering just above yours, as he whispers. "Now, let’s see how well you take me when it’s your turn. Do you want daddy to fuck you? I know you do,” and before you can even respond, he’s already moving, pulling you into his lap, his strong hands gripping your hips as his fingers push your panties aside once more, the head of his cock is already at your entrance. 

“You know how to play this game, don’t you?” he asks, his mismatched eyes boring into you. You nod, swallowing hard.

“Your colour, baby doll?” 

You know exactly what he’s asking, your mind is hazy, body burning, every nerve tuned to him but there’s no fear, no hesitation, only raw, unfiltered desire.

“Green,” you breathe, and he pulls you down in one swift motion, burying himself inside you to the hilt.

A sharp gasp rips from your throat, your body shuddering as his thick shaft fills you completely in one go, while one of his hands wraps around your throat and the other digs into the soft flesh of your ass beneath your dress, and with that nothing else exists anymore.

The bar, the people, the distant pulse of the music, it all fades away, the only thing that matters is Valentin and his cock twitching inside you, stretching you just right, the firm grip on your throat owning you completely.

You don’t care about anything, there is no room for shame or doubt in your mind, it’s too overtaken by the indescribable pleasure of that simple feeling of giving up the control, of surrendering to that commanding voice and those mismatched stern eyes.

And then he fucks you, his hips thrust up into you, filling you deeper, harder, while his hand guide you, making you bounce on his cock, while his grip on your throat tightens—not too much, never too far—just enough to make your head spin in the best way, and soon, you're a mess, a drooling, moaning, wrecked mess.

—-----------------------------------------------------

When you open your eyes, the sunlight streaming through the curtains tells you it’s already well past midday.

Your head is heavy, your body sore in all the possible ways, and you have no idea how you got home, but here you are, back in your bed tucked beneath your light blanket.

You shift beneath the sheets, and that’s when you feel it, an arm draped around your waist and a firm chest pressed against your back.

Your breath catches, the memories of last night crash over you all at once, flooding your senses as you jolt upright, a soft, mortified moan slipping past your lips.

"Good morning, sweet baby doll," the voice is rich, smooth – so damn pleased with itself, you turn slowly, and there he is. Valentin, bare-chested, relaxed, watches you with that signature smirk that sends heat pooling low in your belly.

"Can I get you something for breakfast?" He stretches lazily, completely unbothered by your flustered state. "You must be starving."

[mingi-s-dimples]

Dear Diary... - San

~"Hi love hope you’re doing well✨ Ive read your San kitten fic and I enjoyed it 😀tremendously 🔥. Now If it’s ok with you (I couldn’t find it in your blog that if you’re ok with this kink or nah) to write [cnc+ dirty talk and corruption kink]with San?? And if not cnc anything that comes from authority figures of him. Pls plssss ignore this if it’s makes you uncomfortable ❤️🍓" ~ queen I haven't written cnc corruption kink in my life. I hope I got the idea, even the slightest 😞.

pairing: san x fem!reader

genre: 18+

summary: san read your little journal.. and that ends with you screaming his name.

wc: 5.6k

warnings: dom!san, big dick!san, he eats her out, dirty talk, some cnc + corruption kink (he kinda softly makes her submit to it when he reads her diary + he doesn't care that she's a virgin and he actually encourages it even more so i guess it works? i'm so sorry i never wrote corruption kink before i promise i'll do better 😞💖), she's a virgin, neck holding and softly choking, marking all over, mamhandling, vaginal sex, he doesn't fuck he pounds, multiple orgasms, she screams out his name duh, some crumb of aftercare, cockwarming, unprotected (she's supposedly on bc but booo use protection!), unedited might edit later, for sure forgot something, completely consensual (after he makes her submit to him!)

Author's Note: woahhhh I haven't wrote in a while ngl. Felt good to be back.. sorry for not posting 😞. Life updates: Had 3 exams and I almost failed one but upsies it's maths 💀, had a bf for 3 days cause he acted weird and he said I'm his everything and that he loves me and that he can't be without me and I was like brotha ew we've been tgt for 3 days... and he got offended and unfollowed me everywhere 💀 boys these days... (i sound like a 70yo granma). Anyways I hope I'll post way more these days! There are only two exams to go, one this Friday and one this Saturday (for tutoring!) so I'll disappear again until Saturday night 🧍‍♀️ but I'll post on Sunday ! everyone cheer pls. Love youuuuuu allll

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and does not represent the reality of the member in any way.

The rich scent of steak still lingered in the air, mingling with the faint remnants of laughter and conversation from earlier in the evening. Your small apartment felt quieter now, with only the faint hum of the fridge and the occasional clink of San’s beer bottle against the counter breaking the silence.

The others had left hours ago, leaving just you and him—like it so often did. You couldn’t even remember how it had started, the unspoken rule that San always stuck around longer than anyone else, as if this place belonged to him as much as it did to you.

“You’re really not going to let those dishes wait until tomorrow, are you?” he asked, leaning against the kitchen counter with a smirk. The casual authority in his tone was infuriatingly familiar, yet somehow impossible to ignore.

You glanced at him over your shoulder, rolling your eyes as you stacked the last plate. “And let me guess—you’re going to stand there, drinking your beer, and not help.”

“Exactly.” His grin widened, infuriating and so utterly *him.* “I’ve got my role down. Yours is to overachieve and keep pretending you don’t have OCD about cleaning up after people.”

“I do not—” you started, only to cut yourself off with a sigh. There was no winning with San.

Instead, you gave him a look, grabbed the last of the plates, and disappeared down the hall toward the bathroom. “Try not to break anything while I’m gone,” you called back over your shoulder.

“Don’t worry,” he drawled. “I’ll keep myself entertained.”

San watched you go, waiting until the sound of the bathroom door clicking shut echoed faintly down the hallway. Then his attention drifted lazily around the room.

Your apartment was familiar in a way that made it feel like a second home—organized chaos, with books, mismatched blankets, and stray notebooks scattered across every available surface. It was the kind of place that felt lived-in, every corner a reflection of your mind: half-stressed, half-dreaming.

It was a notebook on the coffee table that caught his eye.

It wasn’t hidden, exactly. Half-tucked under a glossy magazine, its leather cover gleamed faintly in the low light. The word *Private* was written neatly across the front in a handwriting he’d recognize anywhere—yours.

A slow grin spread across his face. “Private, huh?” he murmured, setting his beer down and reaching for the notebook.

He flipped it open, expecting to find the usual: to-do lists, random doodles, or the same kind of perfectly planned schedules you’d been making since grade school. But instead, his eyes landed on something else.

*Sometimes I wonder what it would feel like to lose control completely. To have someone take charge and make me do things I’d never admit I want. Things I’d never say out loud...*

San froze, his grin fading as his eyes skimmed over the words. The meaning hit him slowly, like a low-burning flame that spread heat through his chest and settled somewhere.. lower.

*...to be pinned down, held in place, unable to fight back but not really wanting to. To have someone whisper filthy things in my ear and tell me how much they love seeing me fall apart under their control...*

He swallowed hard, his grip on the notebook tightening as he kept reading. The words painted vivid pictures in his mind—images he’d never dared associate with you before, no matter how many times his teasing had drifted close to the edge.

But this was different. This wasn’t teasing. This was your handwriting, your fantasies laid bare on the pages in front of him.

And the worst—or maybe the best—part? He couldn’t stop reading.

The sound of the bathroom door opening snapped him out of it. He quickly snapped the notebook shut, placing it back on the coffee table just as you stepped into the room.

When your eyes landed on him, standing far too close to the coffee table, your expression immediately shifted. Suspicion flickered across your face, followed by alarm as you spotted the notebook.

“No,” you breathed, your voice almost a whisper. “San... Tell me you didn’t.”

He arched a brow, leaning casually against the arm of the couch as if nothing had happened. “Didn’t what?”

Your stomach twisted. “You didn’t read that, did you?”

He shrugged, the corner of his mouth curving into a smirk. “You left it out in plain sight, sweetheart. Hard not to be curious.”

“San!” Your voice rose in a mix of panic and mortification as you rushed over, snatching the notebook off the table. You clutched it to your chest, your cheeks burning so hot you could feel the heat spreading to your neck.

He watched you with infuriating calm, his dark eyes gleaming with something you couldn’t quite name. “Relax,” he said, his tone deceptively soothing. “It’s not like I read the whole thing.”

Your heart sank. “What... what did you read?”

San pushed off the couch and stepped closer, closing the space between you with deliberate ease. He stopped just inches away, towering over you in that way that always made you feel small—and not entirely in a bad way.

“Enough to know you’ve got some... interesting thoughts rattling around in that head of yours,” he said, his voice low and teasing. “Care to explain?”

You shook your head, mortified. “No. Absolutely not. You shouldn’t have—”

“Shouldn’t have what?” he interrupted, his tone sharpening just slightly. “Picked it up? Read it? Or are you just embarrassed that I know now?”

You glared at him, though your resolve was already wavering. “This isn’t funny, San.”

His smirk faded, replaced by something darker, more serious. “Who said I’m joking?”

He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Maybe it’s time someone gave you what you’ve been asking for.”

The room felt too small, the air too thick. Your lips parted, but no sound came out. You couldn’t bring yourself to say the word, even though you knew you should.

San’s smirk returned, slow and deliberate.

“Mhm-” he murmured, his voice heavy with unspoken intent.

His gaze lingered on you, sharp and assessing, as if he could see through every feeble defense you were trying to put up. The notebook still clutched against your chest felt like a useless shield, doing nothing to block the heat of his presence or the weight of his words.

“Not going to tell me to stop?” he asked, the challenge clear in his tone. “Guess that means you don’t want me to.”

You swallowed hard, your heart hammering in your chest. “This is not funny, San,” you whispered, though even you could hear the lack of conviction in your voice.

“Funny? Not even a little.” He stepped closer, his eyes glinting with something darker. “But it is fascinating. You, scribbling all those dirty thoughts down like a good little secret-keeper, acting all innocent around me—who would’ve guessed?”

“Stop,” you said, the word trembling as it left your lips.

“Why?” His brow arched in amusement, though his voice remained low and intent. “Does it make you uncomfortable? Or is it hitting a little too close to home?”

Before you could answer—or even think of a response—he reached out, plucking the notebook from your hands with maddening ease.

“San!” you exclaimed, reaching for it, but he held it out of reach, his grin never faltering.

“Let’s see,” he said, flipping it open again as your heart dropped into your stomach. “Ah, here it is... *I want to be taken—rough, merciless, made to feel like I can’t get enough.*” He glanced at you, his smirk widening at the audible hitch in your breath. “Quite the vivid imagination you’ve got there, sweetheart.”

“Give it back!” you said, your voice cracking.

“Why?” He shifted the notebook to his other hand, holding it out of reach. “Are you scared because I know how badly you want this?”

Your knees felt weak as he stepped closer, invading your space with the kind of confidence that left you feeling unmoored.

“You’re such an ass,” you muttered, trying and failing to glare at him.

“Maybe,” he said with a shrug, his grin sharpening. “But at least I’m honest. You? Not so much.”

San’s free hand brushed against your jaw, his touch light but firm, sending a shiver down your spine.

“You’re blushing,” he observed, his voice teasing but softer. “Is it embarrassment? Ouu, is it.. something else?”

“San,” you said, his name coming out more like a plea than a protest.

“What?” he asked, tilting his head as his thumb traced along your jawline. “Can’t take the heat?”

You shook your head, but you didn’t pull away. You couldn’t.

He chuckled, low and satisfied. “Thought so.”

Without warning, his hand slid to the back of your neck, his grip firm as he pulled you closer. His other hand dropped the notebook onto the couch, freeing him to let his fingers trail down your arm, light enough to make you shiver.

“You know what I think?” he murmured, his voice dropping to a husky murmur.

You shook your head, your breath uneven.

“I think you’ve been waiting for someone to see past all that sweet, good-girl bullshit,” he continued, his thumb brushing along the line of your jaw, “and call you what you really are.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs, the words lodging in your throat. “San...”

His grip on your neck tightened slightly, enough to make you gasp. “What’s wrong? Don’t like hearing it? Or do you like it too much?”

The way your thighs pressed together didn’t escape his notice, and his grin sharpened.

“You’re easy to read,” he said softly, his voice thick with satisfaction. “You’ve been wanting this for a while, haven’t you?”

Your lips parted, a faint whimper escaping before you could stop it.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his fingers slipping lower to trace the curve of your waist. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Your breath hitched as his lips hovered near yours, the air between you crackling with tension. He didn’t kiss you, but the sheer proximity left you trembling.

“You can tell me to stop,” he said again, his voice rough but steady. “One word, sweetheart, and I’ll walk away.”

You opened your mouth, but the words wouldn’t come.

San’s grin returned, slower and more deliberate. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

His free hand skimmed the bare skin above your waistband, teasing and slow, and you felt your knees buckle slightly.

“You’ve been waiting for someone to push you,” he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, “to see how far you’ll let them go. Haven’t you?”

You couldn’t answer, your breath coming in shallow gasps.

San leaned back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes searching yours. “Say the word,” he said quietly. “And I’ll stop.”

Your silence said everything, and his lips curved into a smirk.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, his voice low and full of promise.

His free hand skimmed the bare skin above your waistband, teasing and slow, and you felt your knees buckle slightly.

Before you could process his words, his hands were on you again—fast, firm, deliberate. His grip was steady as he lifted you effortlessly, as though you weighed nothing at all. A gasp escaped you, your hands instinctively clutching his shoulders, but the smirk never left his face.

“You wrote about this, didn’t you?” San teased, his voice dripping with amusement as he carried you across the room. “Right there in your little journal. I had no idea you had such... vivid thoughts.”

He dropped you on the bed. San stood at the edge of it, arms crossed, his dark eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and control. You were there, sprawled across the mattress, your chest heaving from the tension that hung heavy between you. The heat of your earlier argument still simmered in the air, but now the power had shifted entirely into his hands—and you both knew it.

“You’ve been quiet ever since,” San murmured, his voice low and mocking as he stepped closer, each movement slow and deliberate. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Not so bold now that I know what’s been running through that pretty little head of yours?”

Your gaze darted away, heat creeping up your neck, but San wasn’t having it. He climbed onto the bed in one smooth motion, his weight sinking the mattress as he caged you beneath him. One hand pressed into the sheets beside your head, while the other traced the curve of your jaw, forcing you to look at him.

“Don’t even think about hiding from me now,” he said softly, the mockery in his tone laced with undeniable command. “Not after everything you wrote. Not after you left me to read between the lines of those fantasies you scribbled down so... shamelessly.”

Your breath hitched, and you pressed your thighs together instinctively, which only made his smirk widen.

“I have to admit,” he continued, leaning closer until his lips were brushing the shell of your ear, “I didn’t know you could be *this* filthy. Wanting to be manhandled? Thrown around? Tamed?” His breath was warm against your skin, his tone both teasing and heavy with promise. “Tell me, did you ever imagine I’d actually do it?”

“I-..” You shuddered beneath him, your fingers curling into the sheets as you struggled to form a response. But San was relentless, his hand trailing down to your throat, his grip firm but not restricting as he tilted your head up toward him.

“Don’t play dumb now,” he whispered, his gaze locking with yours. “You knew exactly what you were doing when you left that journal out. When you wrote about how badly you wanted someone to take control. To leave you breathless, shaking… *ruined.*”

You swallowed hard, the air between you thick with tension, and he chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through you.

“Admit it,” he murmured, his lips brushing your jawline, his hand still firm on your throat. “Admit that you’ve been waiting for me to push you like this. That you wanted me to see *every* word of it.”

“I—” your voice faltered, trembling under the weight of his intensity. “Mh..mhm” you were only able to mumble some word.

His fingers loosened just enough to stroke the column of your neck. “Good girl.”

He leaned back just slightly, enough to drink in the sight of you beneath him, flushed and trembling. His grin was wicked as he reached for your wrists, pinning them above your head with a grip that left no room for resistance.

“Now,” he murmured, lowering himself until his lips hovered mere inches from yours, “let’s see if you’re ready to live up to everything you wrote, sweetheart.”

Your head tilted back against the mattress, and the tension in the room thickened until it was nearly suffocating. The way San hovered above you, all sharp grins and teasing touches, had you trembling with anticipation. But as his words replayed in your mind, something inside you snapped.

“Fuck it,” you muttered, your voice shaky but certain. “You’ve already read it. You know exactly what I want.”

San’s brow arched, his smirk sharpening as he leaned in closer, his nose brushing yours. “Oh? And what’s that, sweetheart?”

You swallowed hard, your pulse hammering in your ears. “You. All of you. No teasing, no holding back.” Your voice softened, almost a whisper now. “Please.”

San let out a low chuckle, his dark gaze flickering with amusement and something darker—something primal. “You’re begging now?” he mused, his tone rich with satisfaction. “Didn’t think I’d get to hear that so soon.”

“I’m serious,” you said, your breath hitching as his thumb brushed your jawline. “No going back now. Just—just fuck me, San.”

His grin widened, and for a moment, he just stared at you, as though savoring the sight of you so vulnerable beneath him. Then, with deliberate ease, he sat back and tugged his shirt over his head in one swift motion, the fabric landing somewhere behind him.

You couldn’t help it; your eyes roamed over his toned chest, the sharp lines of muscle catching the dim light. Your breath caught, and he didn’t miss the way your eyes roamed.

“Like what you see?” he teased, his voice dripping with confidence as he reached for the hem of your shirt. He didn’t wait for an answer, peeling the fabric off your body just as effortlessly. His gaze swept over you, slow and deliberate, and you shivered under the intensity of it.

“Perfect,” he murmured, almost to himself, before his hands moved to your waistband. His fingers made quick work of the button and zipper, sliding your pants down your legs with maddening precision.

But then he stopped.

Stepping back, he straightened to his full height, his hands already moving to unbuckle his own belt. The metallic clink of it sent a shiver down your spine, and you couldn’t tear your eyes away as he worked.

He was slow—so agonizingly slow—pulling the leather free and tossing it aside before unbuttoning his pants. The sharp sound of his zipper being undone felt deafening in the charged silence, and the deliberate pace had your heart racing.

“Enjoying the show?” he asked, his voice smug as he slid the denim down his hips, revealing inch after inch of skin.

You didn’t answer, too captivated by the sight of him to form a coherent thought. Your gaze locked onto him, your chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, and you could feel the heat pooling low in your stomach as desire overtook every part of you.

“Thought so,” he murmured, stepping closer, his smirk never fading. “You just can’t get enough, can you?”

You shook your head, your lips parting slightly as you stared up at him with nothing but raw, unfiltered lust. “Not even close.”

His laugh was deep, rumbling, and utterly intoxicating. “Good,” he said simply, lowering himself back onto the bed, his body hovering over yours. “Because I’m just getting started.”

San crawled over you with the precision of a predator closing in on its prey, his movements slow and deliberate, his gaze locked onto yours. His weight pressed into the mattress, pinning you in place as he leaned in, his lips hovering over yours, teasing but not yet giving.

One of his hands wrapped firmly around your neck, the pressure just enough to remind you who was in control. The way his thumb brushed against the side of your throat made your breath hitch, a soft gasp escaping you as your body instinctively arched toward him.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. “Already falling apart, and I haven’t even kissed you yet.”

His other hand was down around his cock, his movements slow, lazy, and unhurried as he stroked himself. The subtle motion made your mouth go dry, your gaze flickering downward for a split second before snapping back up to meet his. The heat in his eyes was unbearable, and yet you couldn’t look away, couldn’t stop the way your body responded to the tension crackling between you.

San smirked at your reaction, his thumb pressing slightly harder against your neck as he brought his lips closer, brushing them lightly against yours. It wasn’t a kiss—not really—but the sensation was enough to send a jolt of electricity straight through you.

Then, just as you started to lean up, desperate for more, the hand from his cock moved. Slowly, almost torturously, he trailed it from himself to your thigh. His fingers brushed against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine, before he hooked his hand under your leg and spread it out beneath him.

“Perfect,” he murmured, his voice a low rasp as his palm pressed against the inside of your knee, holding you open with deliberate ease. “Just like I imagined.”

You swallowed hard, your breath catching as he leaned in closer, his lips finally crashing against yours. The kiss was searing, hungry, and consuming, his hand still firm on your throat as he claimed you completely. Your mind was spinning, your body surrendering to the heat of him, to the way he dominated every inch of your senses.

His grip on your neck tightened slightly, grounding you as his thumb brushed along the curve of your jaw. The other hand remained on your leg, his thumb stroking lazy circles on your skin as he shifted his weight, pressing himself closer.

“You’re mine now,” he muttered against your lips, his voice rough and commanding. “No running, no hiding. I’m going to make sure you don’t forget it.”

Your only response was a soft whimper, your hands reaching for him, desperate to pull him closer. And San, ever the tease, chuckled low in his throat, his lips moving to your jaw as he whispered, “Good girl.”

As San’s lips devoured yours, leaving you breathless and pliant beneath him, a quiet confession slipped out before you could stop it.

“I’ve never done this before,” you whispered, your voice trembling and almost lost in the heat of the moment.

San stilled for just a second, his head tilting slightly as he looked down at you, processing your words. The smirk that crept onto his lips was slow and deliberate, a mix of surprise and amusement lighting up his dark eyes.

“You’re a virgin?” he asked, his tone low, curious, and laced with disbelief. “After everything you wrote in that journal?”

Your cheeks burned, and you couldn’t meet his gaze, but you nodded, swallowing hard. “I... I just—”

He didn’t let you finish. His grip on your neck remained firm as his free hand slid up your thigh again, spreading you out even further beneath him. “So what?” he murmured, leaning in close, his breath warm against your ear. “You think that changes anything?”

Your heart pounded as his lips brushed against the shell of your ear, his voice taking on a deeper, more commanding edge. “You want this, don’t you?”

You nodded quickly, unable to form words, and his smirk deepened.

“Good,” he said softly, almost mockingly. “Then I’ll make sure your first time is something you’ll *never* forget.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. His lips crashed against yours again, hungry and consuming, stealing the breath from your lungs. His kisses grew rougher, more possessive, as though he was claiming you in every sense of the word.

When he finally pulled away, your chest was heaving, your lips swollen, and he wasted no time. His mouth trailed down the curve of your jaw, leaving open-mouthed kisses that turned into light nips. His tongue soothed each bite, sending shivers down your spine as he moved lower, down the column of your throat.

“You’re mine now,” he murmured against your skin, his voice dark and dripping with authority. “You understand that, don’t you?”

“Y-yes,” you whispered, your voice trembling with both nervousness and desire.

His kisses continued, his teeth grazing over the soft curve of your collarbone before he bit down gently, just enough to make you gasp. The sharpness of it sent a jolt through your body, and you arched into him, your hands clutching at his shoulders.

“Such a good girl,” he muttered, the praise making your stomach flip as he moved lower. His lips and teeth marked a path down your body, every kiss, every bite leaving a faint bloom of heat behind. He was methodical, deliberate, as though he wanted to cover every inch of your skin.

When he reached your hips, his hands gripped your thighs, spreading them further apart as he settled himself between them. His lips ghosted over the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, his breath warm and teasing.

“Right here,” he murmured, his voice dark with promise as his fingers gripped your leg firmly, keeping you pinned in place. “This is where you’re going to feel me the most. Where I’m going to leave my mark.”

You gasped softly, and before you could respond, his teeth sank into the tender skin of your inner thigh, hard enough to sting but not enough to hurt. The sensation was intoxicating, his tongue soothing the bite immediately after, and the combination left you trembling beneath him.

San pulled back slightly, his lips curving into a satisfied smirk as he looked up at you. “You’re already shaking,” he teased, his hands gripping your hips to hold you steady. “You’re going to fall apart for me, sweetheart. And you’re going to love every second of it.”

Your hands instinctively found their way to his hair, your fingers tangling in the soft strands as he hovered over your inner thighs, his breath ghosting over the sensitive skin. The way he teased you—his lips brushing so close but never where you wanted them—had your body trembling with anticipation.

San chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against your skin as he tilted his head up to look at you. His smirk was infuriatingly smug, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement.

“Impatient, huh?” he drawled, his voice low and teasing as he gave your thigh a gentle squeeze. “Can’t wait to have me, can you?”

You whimpered softly, your grip on his hair tightening just enough to pull a satisfied laugh from him.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he murmured, his tone darkening as he settled himself between your legs. “I won’t make you wait any longer. Let’s see how loud I can make you.”

And with that, he dove in.

His lips pressed against your clit, hot and unrelenting, and a sharp gasp escaped your lips as your back arched off the mattress. The first touch of his tongue was slow and deliberate, a languid stroke that left you breathless.

San wasted no time after that, his mouth working against it with a precision that had your head spinning. His hands gripped your thighs, keeping you pinned in place as he devoured you, his tongue flicking and swirling in ways that sent shivers racing down your spine.

“You taste so good,” he murmured against you, his voice muffled but still thick with satisfaction. “Even better than I imagined.”

You couldn’t respond—not with the way he was overwhelming your senses, reducing you to gasps and whimpers as he found every sensitive spot. Your hands tightened in his hair, and he groaned at the pressure, the vibrations only adding to the fire building inside you.

San pulled back just enough to press a kiss against your inner thigh, his lips swollen and glistening. “Don’t hold back,” he murmured, his voice rough and commanding. “I want to hear everything. Every moan, every gasp—let me hear how much you need me.”

And then he was back, his mouth and tongue relentless as he brought you closer and closer to the edge, his grip on your thighs tightening as your body started to tremble beneath him. You couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but surrender completely to the way he consumed you, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

Your body trembled beneath him, the overwhelming waves of pleasure crashing through you as you cried out his name, your hands still tangled in his hair. San didn’t stop until your body went slack against the mattress, leaving you breathless, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath.

But he wasn’t done—not even close.

“Look at you,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to survey the sight of you sprawled beneath him, still shaking from the aftermath. His voice was low, rough, and dripping with satisfaction. “So pretty when you fall apart for me.”

Before you could respond, San moved with the kind of precision that left no room for resistance. His hands gripped your hips firmly, flipping you over onto your stomach in one fluid motion. A startled gasp escaped you, but it was quickly muffled as he pressed your face into the mattress, one hand splayed across the back of your neck, holding you in place.

“Don’t think we’re done yet,” he growled, his voice dark and commanding as he leaned over you. The heat of his bare chest against your back sent shivers down your spine, and you felt him press his hips into you, letting you feel just how ready he was.

Your heart raced as his free hand slid down your side, gripping your waist possessively. He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, “I hope you’re ready, sweetheart, because I’m not holding back… at all.”

His teeth grazed your earlobe, and you whimpered softly, your body arching instinctively beneath him. His voice dropped lower, the words sending a thrill through you as he murmured, “You’re mine now. Every inch of you. And I’m going to make sure you *feel* it.”

The blunt heat of him pressed against your cunt, and before you could even brace yourself, he pushed into you in one smooth, unrelenting motion. The stretch burned, but the pleasure quickly overwhelmed it, and you cried out, muffled against the mattress as he filled you completely.

San groaned low in his throat, his fingers digging into your hips as he pulled back slightly, only to slam back in with a force that made your entire body jolt. “Perfect,” he muttered, his voice rough and thick with lust as he set a relentless pace. “You feel even better than I imagined.”

The sound of skin against skin filled the room, each thrust drawing gasps and moans from you that only seemed to spur him on. He leaned over you, pressing his chest to your back as he buried himself deeper, his lips brushing against your ear.

“Take it,” he growled, his voice dripping with authority. “Every. Fucking. Inch.”

Your head spun, your senses overwhelmed by the rough, unyielding way he moved against you. His hand slid from your hip to your throat, pulling you up slightly so he could press his lips to your shoulder, his teeth sinking into your skin to leave yet another mark.

“You’re mine,” he muttered again, his voice ragged as his thrusts grew even harder, each one sending shockwaves through your body. “Say it. Say you’re mine.”

“I-I'm yours..! ,” you gasped, your voice trembling as you clung to the sheets, completely lost in him.

“Good girl.. or should I say..” he murmured, his grip tightening as he drove you both closer and closer to the edge, his pace never faltering, never giving you a moment to catch your breath, “good slut?”.

His words made your cunt tighten around him, a grunt escaping his throat.

San’s pace didn’t let up for a moment, his grip firm on your waist as he powerfully ounded into you, every thrust driving you closer to another earth-shattering release. Your body trembled beneath him, overwhelmed by the intensity of it all, and he could feel the way you tightened around him, your breaths coming in ragged gasps.

“That’s it,” he growled against your ear, his voice rough and commanding as he reached one hand between your legs, his fingers finding the spot that made you jolt… your swollen clit. “Give me one more, sweetheart. Come for me again. Let me feel you.”

The combination of his relentless thrusts and the way his fingers worked you had you teetering on the edge in seconds. Your cries grew louder, the tension coiling in your stomach until it finally snapped, a powerful wave of pleasure crashing through you as you screamed his name.

“San!” you sobbed, your body shaking violently as your orgasm ripped through you, leaving you breathless and trembling beneath him.

He groaned low in his throat, his thrusts growing erratic as he chased his own. “That’s my girl,” he muttered, his grip tightening as he buried himself deep inside you, his hips stuttering as he reached his peak.

A guttural moan escaped his lips as he spilled into you, the warmth of his cum filling you completely. He didn’t pull out right away, instead leaning over you, his chest pressing against your back as he kissed your shoulder, his breath hot and uneven.

“You’re incredible,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your damp skin. “You took me so well, sweetheart. Screaming my name like that... you’re so fucking perfect.”

You whimpered softly, still trembling from the aftershocks, and he smirked, his voice dropping to a darker, dirtier tone. “Bet you loved having me ruin you like this. Didn’t you, baby? All that talk about wanting to be manhandled—looks like you got exactly what you wanted.”

Before you could respond, his hand slid to your neck, gripping you firmly as he pulled you upright, your back pressing against his chest. The move made you gasp, your head falling back against his shoulder as he tilted your chin up to meet his gaze, his cock still deep inside you.

“That’s what you get for leaving your little journal unattended,” he growled, his smirk sharp and satisfied as he stared into your eyes. “I bet you loved every fucking second of it. Didn’t you?”

Your lips trembled, but you managed a breathless, “Y-yes… y-es I did..”

San’s grin widened, and he leaned in to press a lingering kiss to your temple, his grip on your neck softening as his free hand wrapped around your waist, pulling you close. “Good girl,” he murmured, his voice softer now but still carrying that edge of dominance.

He held you there for a moment, his arms wrapped tightly around you, his breath warm against your ear. “You’re mine,” he whispered, his tone gentler now, though no less possessive. “Every inch of you.”

Your hands came up to rest over his, your body leaning into his embrace as you whispered, “Always yours.”

San let out a satisfied hum, holding you close as the heat of the moment began to fade, replaced by a warmth that felt just as overwhelming. “That’s my girl,” he said softly, his lips pressing against your hair as he held you, his arms never loosening.

NETWORKS:

@blossomnet

@illusionnet

PERMANENT TAGLIST:

[revelboo]

so what im getting from that sparked up post is that theres a possibility that starscream, reader, and soundwave are gonna be playing some weird, sexy hot potato with the baby. im only half joking on that buT DAMN YOU LEAD UP TO THAT SO SMOOTHLY???? LIKE I WAS READING THE POST AND JUST GOING LIKE "ok, yeah, that happened, and then That happened and then-" and just. goddamn. ALSO TF1 BEE AND THAT LAST BIT FROM THE LAST CHAPTER YOU DID FOR HIM DIDNT HAVE TO HIT THAT HARD, GOD??? GOD. im breaking the laws of reality to hold him, i know readers not there yet but i am and im having a mental standoff with him on whos knocking who up first

So far, Star is the only one fully bonded at this point. Sounders has a partial bond. I like the idea that spark bonds are pretty much nonexistent by this point in the timeline because it’s too risky to tie yourself so completely to someone during a war. Star and TFP Megs didn’t realize they could bond to a human. Sounders had seen it was possible and decided it was worth the risk, but most of the Cybertronians have no clue at this point. I’d think that spark bonds would have started becoming almost a taboo even before the war- the senate painting the bonds as blasphemous when really they just didn’t want the lower classes bonding. If one parter dies in an accident, you end up losing two workers and hurting production.

😂 Y’all making me think and actually world build my Transformers smut instead of just BSing it.

Also: sorry about the Bee! I needed to lay some groundwork for why he is the way he is and that he’s not actually okay at all for what’s eventually coming. Because he’s not getting abandoned ever again, no matter what he has to do to ensure it.

18+ Mass displaced mech 🌶️

The Coma Kid Pt 5

TFO B 127 x Reader

• “Are you warm enough? I could hold you, I’m warm.” Offering his hands to you, he tries not to wilt when you immediately lean away, that smile of yours so brittle. “Okay, yeah. No holding.” Hands folding into his lap where he’s sitting on his berth watching you stare up at him with no small amount of suspicion from your blanket nest, he fidgets. That pull, that urge to touch you chiming through him. Almost painful to ignore. You have to be able to feel it, too. Which means you’re uncomfortable. Rocking forward, he scoops up you and your nest despite your startled gasp and deposits you into his lap. “I just need this. Sorry.” Hooking a servo around your middle, the tension eases, but that insatiable need to touch you just grows hotter.

• Teeth gritted against that hollow need twisting through you ats his servo slides against your stomach and under your shirt. And that ache shifts infuriatingly, becoming lust on steroids. Completely unfair and unwanted. Because at this point you’re so frustrated, you’re not sure if you’d go through with your escape plan if he leaves you alone for a minute or if you’d give yourself a helping hand instead. What is wrong with you? Actually, what did he do to you? Because whatever this is, it’s absolutely some weird alien BS. “Okay, no,” you gasp as that servo slides up further and you squirm out of his grip, pitching backwards and he grabs for you. Back hitting the berth as he falls forward and you close your eyes expecting to get crushed. Not to have the air driven out of you and to somehow not die.

• Mass displaced, he freezes as your eyes open and just stare at him. Your lips parting when he doesn’t move from where he’s sprawled on top of you, snared by those eyes. “Sorry,” he whispers, but he can’t bring himself to move. Shifting slightly against you, settling his hips into the cradle of yours just to feel how you fit together. Like you’re made just for him. For the first time that he can remember, he’s lost his words. Speechless and shaken. Wonders what your mouth would feel like against his. If you’d let him kiss you. Finding your hand, he interlaces his servos with your fingers and pins it by your head. Wanting, but unsure if he’s allowed.

• Swallowing as his mouth opens and closes and he’s silent, that hungry need lifts through you. Whispering deviant things. Like that you could ease that ache with him and then escape. It couldn’t hurt anything. Those servos of his would feel better than your own fingers. Breath catching as he lowers his head like he’s going to kiss you, you turn your head away and his mouth brushes your cheek and jaw. Over to your neck as his hips rock against yours. “Stop that or-”

• “Or?” He whispers against your soft skin. You’re not struggling, not pushing or shoving at him. Mouth sealing against your throat and sucking until you arch into him, like you want him to mark that soft skin as his. “Just let me take care of you. Be such a good mate.” Sitting up when you shiver but don’t protest, he runs his servos against you, trying to figure out the layers of your coverings before just tugging the lower half down your legs. “It’s okay.” Afraid you’ll stop him at any moment, he stretches out between your thighs and nuzzles against you. “Let me have this. Just a taste, okay?”

• Breath catching when he vents against your bare skin, there’s a shiver of alarm. That you’re playing with fire knowing you’re about to get burned. Knowing you should stop him, kick him in the face if need be, but when that glossa slides against you, you make a ragged sound of need instead. Big hands sliding under your butt and squeezing as his glossa tunnels inside you, your hips lift, buck. His bright optics stare up your body as he laps at you and you let your head fall back unable to deal with the intimacy of him watching you while his mouth is on you. Biting down on the pad of your thumb when his mouth slides against you, sucking, nipping, and licking until your release rushes unexpectedly through you and you cry out feeling his glossa drive inside you again. And that hollow need grows instead of diminishing.

Previous

Next

[improbable-outset]

📄 𝐀 𝐙𝐚𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐞’𝐬 𝐆𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐀𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐕𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐬

Jayce Talis x gn!Reader

𝐀𝐎𝟑 | 𝐌𝐲 𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐬

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.6k

𝐂𝐖 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐖: very slow burn, flirting, unresolved romantic tension, open ending, Zaun and Piltover dynamics, light angst

𝐀/𝐍: Ok I know I said no more tumblr, but I had to share this…if it reaches the Arcane audience, cool. If it doesn’t…ah well at least my moots see this

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: As a Zaunite inventor, you don’t trust uninvited visitors in your sanctuary, especially from Piltover Councillors. But Jayce Talis isn’t like most people. Persistent, curious, and infuriatingly charming, he keeps showing up to your workshop, refusing to back down. And neither are you…

An earthy tang hit the back of your throat as you swept the concrete floor, each stroke of your broom sending swirls of dust in the air. The dust particles caught the setting sunlight spilling through the open doorway, casting a golden glow inside your workshop.

It wasn’t a huge space, but it was yours— clattered with shelves of spare parts, half finished projects, and various tools.

The main door stood propped open, letting in the faded sunlight and occasional cool breeze.

The wind slowly brushed past you as you continued to sweep, the sound of the wind charm that hung outside of your property tinkered in the air. Its delicate sound was a contrast to the mechanical hum that usually filled the space.

Your routine was as steady as the machines you built. Each day was just as predictable as the last. Sweep the dust, sort out spare parts, tinker with inventions that no one would use— or buy.

Most of your work came from the Chem-barons, commissions for complex weapons or gear that promised devastation in the right hands.

They didn’t visit often, but their demands could keep you busy for days. Then, when the work was done, the stillness returned.

No one came unless they needed something done, and you prefer it that way. The fewer interruptions, the fewer chances for someone to stick their nose where it didn’t belong.

And everyone seemed to respect that.

You paused mid-sweep, the broom still in your hand, as you felt a prickle run up the back of your neck.

The air in the Undercity was always thick with pollution and smoke, but now it felt heavier— like the weight of a storm waiting to break.

The usual hum of your machinery seemed muted, and even the wind chime faltered, the tinkering notes faded into the background.

You told yourself to ignore it, brush it off like it was nothing more than a stray thought. But then you heard it again— a faint shuffle, just outside.

It sounded too deliberate to be from the wind, and too hesitant to be a usual runner.

A figure emerged from the shadows of the alleyway, stepping into the dim light of your workshop. It didn’t take long to figure out who it was— his attire was too clean for this side of the bridge.

He moved with purpose, pausing a few metres before your doorway like he’d stumble upon something precious.

You didn’t flinch, broom still in your hand, watching. You’d learn that speaking first was usually a mistake— it only gave the other person the upper hand.

The man looked at you, his stare caught somewhere between admiration and the detached curiosity of someone staring at an animal behind glass.

His height and physique could naturally draw attention. But even without that, his clothes did most of the talking.

The gold trim on his suit caught what little light filtered through the smog. His boots polished to a shine and echoed softly in the quiet streets— just loud enough to announce his arrival.

“You lost, Talis?” you asked, finally breaking the silence.

Your property wasn’t exactly on the map, it was tucked away in the maze of the alleys. Only locals could navigate these paths.

That’s why seeing someone from Piltover standing outside your doorstep caught you off guard.

His name had the desired effect, setting alarm bells in him. His posture stiffened, his expression flickered with surprise with his eyes darting back to yours. “You…know who I am?”

You leaned your broom against the wall and crossed your arms.

“Everyone in Zaun knows the Golden Boy from Piltover.” Your tone was flat, like you were stating a fact. “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested. Exit’s that way.”

“I’m not selling anything,” he said quickly, his hands coming up in a half-hearted gesture of surrender. “I just came to see your work.”

“My work? Why?”

Jayce Talis— a name rang out in both Piltover and Zaun. His face was everywhere— on posters, merchandise, and in carefully curated photos plastered across every surface in the city.

You always knew the pictures were crafted to perfection. They had to be. The Man of Progress couldn’t afford a single flaw.

Still, seeing him in person was…something else. You hated to admit it, even to yourself, but the pictures didn’t exaggerate much.

His hair was slick back just enough to look effortlessly polished. His thick brows and light stubble framed his features that were far too symmetrical to your liking.

And then there was his outfit— his crisp white jacket with gold pieces tailored so perfectly it felt like a statement itself.

It wasn’t overly tight, but it clung in the right places, hinting at broad shoulders and accentuating a physique that made heads turn. Each time he shifted, the fabric pulled slightly against his muscles, as if barely keeping itself together.

Even his eyes seemed to sparkle more up close in the low light, a reflection of his boundless confidence and a sign that he didn’t belong here. Not in your space.

“I’ve heard words about you going around and I was curious.”

“So what? You’re gonna give me a gold star? Show off my work at the Piltover parties?”

“No, no. I mean—” he hesitated, the words fumbling for footing. “People say you’re brilliant, and I wanted to see for myself.”

Brilliant. Of course. You’ve heard that compliment being tossed around before, along with other sweet talks from people trying to butter you up before hitting you with some impossible demand.

But he wasn’t fumbling entirely, there was still a smooth air about him. One that came naturally to someone that’s used to speaking to a room full of people hanging onto every word.

Even so, there was something different up close. Was he trying too hard? Nervousness beneath his charm?

“You think I’m gonna perform for you.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said quickly, his voice dipping lower to a more soothing note.

You narrowed your eyes, holding back a scoff. So he thought a change in his tone would win you over? Clearly, he hadn’t met enough people like you.

But the real question still nagged at the back of your mind. How had he found you? It still baffled you. Your workshop wasn’t the kind of place you could just stumble across— it was hidden by design

So how had Jayce Talis done it? Had he bribed someone for directions? Pulled strings with someone that owed him a favour?

Or had he stubbornly worked his way through the Undercity on his own, pretending to look harmless?

You tilted your head slightly, studying him. He looked glaringly out of place. And yet, he stood there, looking like he genuinely cared about your answer.

Not that it mattered. You learned not to trust a nice tone or an earnest expression.

Before you could tell him to get lost, his eyes flickered past you. He stepped forward, just slightly, but enough for the air between you to shift.

“Is that…a chem-powered stabiliser?” Jayce asked, pointing past you.

You froze, following his gaze to the machinery perched on the workbench. He even had the cheeks to step closer and peered through the doorway to get a better look.

“I’ve never seen one so compact before. How did you—”

“Don’t touch that!” you snapped, stepping in to block out his view. “These aren’t for you to admire.”

He pulled his hand back immediately, fingered curling to his palm, but his eyes were still glued to the device.

“Is this some sort of new hobby? Charity work for the poor Zaunite researchers? You think you could waltz into the Undercity, slap a few compliments, and go back feeling good about yourself?”

You see him deflate a little, genuinely taken back by your words. For the first time, you saw his brows furrow as your words seemed to sting. “That’s not why I’m here, I just—”

“Then why are you here? I don’t need your approval, councillor.”

The title landed a sharp jab, but instead of retreating completely, Jayce straightened his posture.

“Fine, fine— I’m going.” he said, holding up his hands in surrender. “But your work is incredible, even if you hate me for saying it.”

His expression softened, his gaze flickered between the stabiliser and you. For a moment, he looked like a wounded animal, retreating quietly but with a trace of stubborn determination in his eyes.

“Don’t come back, Talis.” you called sharply, already turning your back to head inside.

“Can’t make any promises.” he smiled faintly, disappearing back into the shadows of the alleyway.

~

The muted hiss of the soldering iron filled the quiet. Your hands worked with precision, the glow from the tool casting flickering light across the delicate gears in front of you.

It had been almost a week since Jayce’s unsolicited visit, and you haven’t had a single visitor after that. Days like this weren’t unusual— visitors were rare, and you were accustomed to that.

Despite the chaos of the Undercity, it always felt distant here, muted by the walls and your deliberate isolation. Your workshop was designed to block out the clamour of the outside world.

The only sounds were the occasional clink of metal and the crackle of circuitry.

You adjusted your position, leaning closer to your work, and ran your tongue over your slightly chapped lips as you steadied the gear. The solder melted, releasing a soft wisp of smoke that carried a sharp metallic scent.

With the rare visitors and social interactions, your tools were the only thing keeping you company. They didn’t have any demand explaining or carrying expectations. They only required patience and precision.

The silence gave you room to think— sometimes too much room. After days without a single visit, you felt the weight of it begin to press on you. It wasn’t something you dared to admit to anyone— not even yourself— but you felt the toll of it.

The lack of noise sharpened your senses, as if your ears were always straining to fill the void. You heard every creek of the floorboards beneath your feet, every shift of machinery in the room, every distant echo from across the streets.

Sometimes you could even hear the faint thrum of your pulse in your ear.

And that’s why you heard them before you even saw him.

Boots.

Not the mismatched kinds that the locals wore. These sounded like it came from a clean sole that didn’t stick to the streets. A confidence that you didn’t hear often.

You paused mid-solder and tilted your head slightly, listening carefully. The sound grew louder, sharper, and irritably more familiar. It was the same stride you heard a few days ago.

Placing the iron down, you turned towards the doorway. A shadow lingered in the dim light before a figure emerged.

And there he was, flesh and blood.

Again.

“Still not lost this time,” he announced.

He carried the same easy warmth, light but steady, that seemed to sweep into the room and disturb the peace you cultivated.

Except now, it was more infuriating than the last. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes.

“Didn’t I tell you not to come back?” you asked, glancing at him briefly.

“You did,” he admitted, unfazed. “I have a habit of not listening.”

Your gaze dropped briefly to his boots, taking in the faint sheen leather material that hadn’t been scuffed by Zaun’s grime.

“You really got some nerves, Talis.”

Of course he hadn’t learned. Why were you even surprised? Of course he thought he was entitled to walk back in here, as if the first time wasn’t enough.

“What do you want, Talis?” Your voice was a blade against steel. “You don’t belong here.”

“What, and you do?” He arched his brow, as though he caught you in a contradiction. “Doesn’t seem like you get a lot of visitors.”

“I like it that way.”

Usually, your words were enough to send someone packing. Your cold indifference was a shield, and most people didn’t push past. But Jayce didn’t flinch.

Instead, his expression softened, giving you a steady gaze. There was no mockery. Just…patience.

You didn’t know what to make of that, like his warmth stonewalled your annoyance. You stared, half expecting him to make some sort of patronising comment. But he didn’t.

It dawned on you that he really wasn’t going to give this up.

You opened your mouth and closed them again, struggling to find the words before you finally hear yourself speak again.

“You might as well come in since you came all the way down here…again.”

The words left your mouth before your brain could catch up. Part of you wished you could snatch your words back, but it was too late now.

Jayce had already stepped closer, his broad shadow loomed across the threshold. His boots scraped against the uneven floor. His steps felt measured, like he was testing how far he could go without setting you off.

The workshop always felt just the right size when you were alone— a perfect balance between cramped and cozy. But now it suddenly felt stifling. The creek of the floorboard under his weight and his shuffling steps sounded amplified in the quiet. His height alone made the walls feel closer.

Even his presence had some volume.

The glow lamps casted a soft light around the room. The workshop area had a few overhead lamps with exposed bulbs that threw harsh lighting over the workbenches, drawing attention to every imperfection.

“You know,” he started, his voice carrying a light teasing to it, “most people are at least a little polite to unexpected guests.”

“You’re in Zaun. Niceties get you robbed,” you shot back.

“Good thing I’m not carrying anything worth stealing.”

“Those boots say otherwise, Councillor.”

You didn’t wait for his resort, turning to glance around your workshop. To an outsider, the area probably looked like a disaster— grease stains on the wall, loose screws and scraps of metal littered the workbenches, and half finished work lay abandoned in various states of progress.

But to you, it’s an organised chaos. Everything had its place. You could locate a specific bolt buried under a pile of blueprints in seconds.

If anyone even dared to call it a mess, it wouldn’t bother you. Their opinions didn’t matter.

However, you’d never have a Piltovern in here. Not until tonight.

You didn’t have to look at him to imagine the look of disdain he must feel. A poorly lit workshop that reeked of oil and soldered metal wasn’t part of his orderly world.

Surely the grime and chaos would send him scurrying back to his prestigious lab in Piltover.

But when you turned to face him, the look in his face stopped you short.

Jayce leaned casually against one of the shelves, carefully avoiding anything breakable. His eyes scanned the room like he’d just stumbled upon a treasure trove. The faint glow of the lamps reflected in his eyes.

It only made you stiffer. Was this real awe, or just another layer to whatever act he was putting on?

People didn’t come here to admire your work. They came with demands and offers, often laced with ulterior motives.

His sincerity didn’t fit. It was foreign and dangerous. You weren’t used to it and you weren’t sure if you wanted to be.

And you certainly didn’t trust it.

“You made this?” he asked, picking up the small contraption with surprise care. The device whirred softly in his hand. Despite the scrubby appearance, the mechanism was fine and intricate, every piece deliberately placed.

You frowned, folding your arms across your chest. “Do you always just reach for anything that fascinates you?”

“Sorry I just—” he set the device down, as if it burned his skin. “I guess I got too curious.”

His sheepish tone irritated you more. It was easier to deal with people that were openly arrogant.

He turned his attention past you to the wall-mounted shelves stacked with material. Tools hung from hooks in neat rows, their placement a product of necessity rather than decoration.

Space was limited, so you had to think vertically, every inch of the walls serving a purpose.

Jayce stepped closer, his movement slower and more mindful. His gaze was glued to the tools, taking them in as though each one was a masterpiece.

“These tools look amazing, I’ve never seen anything like them before.”

“Well, I’d hope not. Because I made them.”

“You made them all yourself?”

“Most of them.”

The words came out clipped, but his reaction wasn’t what you expected. If he was fazed by your snarky attitude, he didn’t show it. Maybe he braced himself this time, expecting your hostility, or maybe he found it amusing.

“How long…how long did it take you?” he asked softly.

“Depends on how complex it is.”

“It’s incredible,” he said. “People back in the Academy spend months trying to get this kind of precision…and even they don’t come close”

For a moment you faltered, your eyes twitched at his words. His praise sounded genuine, and you knew it. And that’s what nerved you.

Compliments always came with strings attached.

You quickly deflected. “Flattery won’t work. I’m not one of your lapdogs.”

“Good, I don’t want lapdogs,” he replied, his grin disarming. “I like inventors who can outthink me.”

The casual delivery of his words struck you unexpectedly, leaving a hairline fracture in the armour you’ve built around yourself. It was a small blip in your radar. You didn’t know why you trusted him enough to stretch the conversation this far.

For now, you allowed the unfamiliar feeling to linger, watching as he wandered through your sanctuary.

Jayce’s gaze combed through the shelves and your unfinished project with childlike wonder. At this point, you truly couldn’t decide if this was an act of not.

People didn’t come in here to admire your work— they came to collect it. Usually they would mutter a few pointers about what needed tweaking, toss their payment on the nearest bench, and leave without so much of a second glance.

You were used to that rhythm— content with it.

But, now you weren’t sure.

Having someone appreciate your work felt foreign, and the way he handled your creation with care left an uncomfortable knot in your chest.

You silently cursed yourself for noticing the subtle curve of his smile when he discovered something particularly interesting.

It was only his second time here and for some reason you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him. He was already threatening to throw you off balance.

~

A week hadn’t past before you heard his footsteps again, cutting through the tinkering of the wind chimes, as familiar as the beat of your own pulse.

“Is this going to be a routine now?” you asked, arching your brow inquisitively.

He stepped closer, his voice almost teasing. “As long as you allow it.”

You didn’t respond immediately. Instead you turned, stepping back into the workshop without looking back. You knew he’d follow; given his last visit. Though you never made it easy for him.

But despite the lack of warmth in your welcoming, the air between you was different now. No hostility, no tension. But no comfort either.

It didn’t take long for Jayce to settle into the rhythm that grated your nerves in the worst way— calm and unhurried. It wasn’t just that he was an inventor, too. It was how he saw things with such fresh eyes, as if the clutter was all just a puzzle for him to piece together.

But there was still an odd feeling that tugged at the back of your mind.

Piltover men didn’t linger; they demanded, bargained, gloated. Then left without looking back. They didn’t come back three times, and they certainly didn’t waste their time applauding your work like it came from some exhibition.

It made you bristle. Not because he was here, but because you couldn’t figure out why.

You’ve already cycled through the possibilities, and none of them made sense. If he was scouting for talent for Piltover, why not send an envoy? If he wanted to commission something from you, surely an assistant could’ve handled it. And why three separate visits, at irregular intervals?

Your thoughts spiralled tighter, refusing to pinpoint and answer that fit. Then, a thought you didn’t dare to acknowledge emerged.

It couldn’t be that, could it? The possibility— absurd, offensive, ridiculous— settled in your mind like a splinter.

Your throat tightened, a heat rising up your neck. You shouldn’t entertain it. But the only way to gain some clarity was to confront him about it.

“You’ve been sulking around my workshop for the third time now…” your voice came out sharper than intended, but you didn’t regret it.

You let him linger around in your threshold once already, and this time, you were determined to figure out what he wanted.

“Yes..” his tone was annoyingly steady. “I just wanted to see your work.”

“Please. I know men like you. You act interested, then expect me to fall into your lap.” You stepped closer, crossing your arms over your chest. The next words edged with frustration. “If that’s what you’re here for, you can save both of us the time and get lost.”

The word tasted bitter, even when you said them. You weren’t sure why you mind went to that possibility. But it felt like the only way to shatter the weird tension that you were feeling when he was around.

Jayce froze. And then his face grew flustered at your words, like you’ve just crossed a line he hadn’t even considered.

“Is that really what you think of me?” he asked softly, before his voice gained conviction. “I don’t care about…that. I wouldn’t be that selfish. I wanted to see what you’ve built because it’s nothing I’ve ever seen before. I don’t have an ulterior motive, I swear.”

You wanted to snap back, to call him out on what you assumed was an elaborate excuse, but you couldn’t find the words. You felt embarrassment cross your form.

The moment of stillness filled the space, the absurdity of your accusation sinking in. A Councilman slinking into a Zaun for…something improper. You almost wanted to laugh at yourself.

He’d never once cross a boundary. His posture was careful and his steps were measured. His gaze on you was momentary, but it never strayed too far from your workbench.

“Hmph…you’re persistent I’ll give you that.” You muttered, your voice far quieter now. “Most people don’t make it past the first visit.”

The corner of his lips quirked up to a bashful smile. “So I’m not most people?”

Your lips twitched before you quickly smothered it, fixing him a look. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Golden Boy.”

Despite the harshness in your tone, you felt the lingering awkwardness pressing at the edge. Your accusations made your skin prickle with self-consciousness.

You couldn’t look him in the eye anymore, not that you ever tried before. But now it felt different.

Jayce, on the other hand, redirected his attention back on your workbench. He offered a few offhanded comments, his tone deliberately casual. You could tell he was trying to smooth out the tension, though you barely registered his words.

Just a few weeks ago, you’ve done everything in your power to push him away. Sharp words, cold stares, anything to make him leave and never come back. All proven futile.

But now, you weren’t sure if you wanted to ruin…whatever it was between the two of you.

Having someone like him around brought a spark of something you hadn’t realised you missed.

You glanced at him out of the corner of your eyes. His broad shoulders seemed almost out of place in your cramped workshop— like an elephant in a china shop. But his presence didn’t feel intrusive now.

His eyes scanned over your blueprints and half-finished projects with genuine interest. There was a strange sense of pride that washed over you, one you tried to ignore.

Knowing that someone like him valued your craftsmanship, took the time out of his day to see your work, was almost unsettling. And you didn’t want to think too hard about why.

“This joint,” his voice cut through your reverie, drawing you back to the present, “it might seize under pressure. Have you considered a pivot here?”

You blinked, following the direction of his finger on the diagram. “It works fine as it is.”

“I’m sure it does, but it could work even better.”

He wasn’t backing down. His voice wasn’t condescending or dismissive. But something else that made you tense, and you didn’t want to acknowledge it.

He continued to offer feedback and suggest adjustments, but you weren’t fully listening. His words were slipping through your focus, weaving around you. You were too distracted but his voice. The way he said things. The way his presence seemed to fill the room.

You felt your heart stutter, and you realised you hadn’t heard a word from him for the past minute. All you could focus on was how close he was, making your skin feel tight, his hands moving over the blueprint.

“You know,” you said, leaning back slightly, “you’re kind of cute when you ramble.”

“What?”

“I said you’re cute,” you repeated, shifting your weight and hoping he hadn’t noticed the flush creeping to your face. “You’re not deaf, are you?”

“I— uh— I’ve never had anybody describe me as ‘cute’ before.”

“Yeah, no kidding.”

“You know, I’m a councillor. You are aware of what that status means, right?”

“Being a councillor doesn’t spare you from being cute. Or are you implying that councillors are above compliments?

Jayce rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, letting out a chuckle to conceal something deeper— maybe nerves, perhaps. “I guess it’s a change from the more…superficial compliments I get.”

“Superficial?”

“I get a lot of ‘handsome’ and ‘charming’ and all the usual words.“

“That’s because they’re boring.”

A small shift seemed to pass over him— maybe he hadn’t expected that response. His gaze lingered before he looked away, as if your words had an effect on him more than he let on.

You hadn’t known Jayce for long— not personally, at least. But the more you were around him, the more you realised he wasn’t as unreadable as you first thought.

You’ve seen glimpses of him, like fitting together different parts of him that made him who he was.

The defeated look he wore when you first shut him out of your workshop. The awe that lit up his face when he stepped inside and took in your projects for the first time. The stunned silence after your accusation, as if the words had thrown him off balance.

And how he was flustered— caught completely off guard. His mouth twitched into a hesitant smile, and he quickly covered it with his palm, as though trying to shield it from you.

This was your favourite expression by far.

Something about watching him internally stumble, seeing him stripped off his usual poise struck a chord in you. It wasn’t just satisfaction— but something softer. As if you weren’t the only one out of your depth for once.

After a few heartbeats, Jayce cleared his throat, breaking the momentary silence like pebble tossed in water.

“Well, I should probably let you get back to it,” he said.

His usual confidence faltered as he turned to the door, muttering something along the lines of “cute” under his breath. The door opened to reveal the darkness of the night, with the flickering glows of the street lights.

You rolled your eyes and suppressed a grin as he stepped outside. “Don’t get used to the hospitality, Talis.”

He glanced back with a smirk, a mix of shyness and mischievous. “Wouldn’t dream of it…”

Then he was gone, disappeared into the night, leaving you alone again with your tools.

[theonottsbxtch]

Ok so… 🌧️☁️🔥 - Lewis Hamilton.

Could u base it off the trend, dark curls and water colour eyes.

Thanks Queen

WATER COLOUR EYES | LH44

an: this is totally not based off of nico rosberg, no why would it be? also this was written in an hour and is NOT proof read.

summary: lewis' and his teammate have been treading a thin line between love and hate, so when one of them gets into an accident. surely it changes everything.

wc: 4.3k

warnings: car crash

The air in the garage was thick with the familiar scent of oil and rubber, the rhythmic thrum of engines in the distance like a heartbeat. You were stood at the far end, methodically reviewing your race notes, eyes tracing over each figure with sharp precision. Focused. Composed. Untouchable.

But you could feel him there—he was always there, lingering just on the edge of your awareness, never saying anything but always watching. The weight of it made your jaw clench, your muscles tighten in a way that annoyed you more than you’d cared to admit.

Lewis was leaning against the wall across from you, arms folded, his posture lazy and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world. You could hear him breathing. You didn’t have to look up to know he was wearing that same infuriatingly relaxed expression, the one that somehow made you feel like he was waiting for you to slip up.

Minutes passed, neither of you speaking, the silence between you thick with something unspoken, but heavy. The team buzzed around you two, but your world was much quieter—tense, a slow-burning friction that had been there since the day you had both signed on.

Finally, you chose to break the silence, not out of need to acknowledge him, but to break the weight pressing down on your chest. "Do you ever plan on doing something useful?"

Lewis didn’t answer right away. Instead, you heard the soft shift of his weight as he stood straighter, footsteps crossing the short distance between you, slow and measured. You didn’t look up. Not yet.

"Are you always this charming before a race?" His voice was calm, casual, the subtle bite behind his words only evident to someone who knew how to listen for it.

You exhaled slowly, setting your notes down on the table in front of you. Only then did you meet his gaze, your cerulean eyes locking onto his, steady and unwavering. His eyes were dark, tension brewing within them, and the way they met yours now—unapologetically, searching for something—only made your guard go up further.

"I’m focused. Maybe you should try it sometime," you replied, your tone even, though every word was a small act of defiance.

A slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it wasn’t a friendly one. It was the kind of smile that said he was amused by you, that he liked getting under your skin.

"I am focused," he said quietly, his voice dropping an octave. "Just not on what you think."

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

Lewis didn’t like that they were racing today, there was far too much rain. Every practice session since they had gotten to Zandvoort felt wrong, every time he got into the cockpit of the car, he wanted to get back out.

The race was chaos—engines roaring, tires screaming as they hurtled through corner after corner at breakneck speed through the rain. Every move had to be precise, every decision calculated, and he was good at it. No distractions, no second-guessing.Even though he didn’t want to race today, Lewis lived for this.

But today, besides the race, something else was off. He hadn’t been able to get you out of his head. Even as he fought for position, his mind wandered—always back to you. To the way your eyes flashed when she spoke to him, the way you never backed down, never let him in. You were supposed to be teammates. Rivals. So why the hell couldn’t he stop thinking about you?

He shook it off, pushing harder, focusing on the track ahead. But then he saw it.

Your car, just ahead in the pack, spun out. It happened so fast—a sudden twitch, then a violent swerve. His breath caught in his throat as your car skidded sideways, slamming into the barrier with a sickening crunch of metal.

Time slowed. Everything else—the race, the other drivers, the screaming radio in his ear—faded away. All he could see was your car, mangled and still, smoke rising from the wreckage.

"Bono, is she okay?" he breathed, panic clawing at his chest.

He was supposed to keep driving, follow protocol, and wait for the safety car. But he couldn’t. Lewis’ hands moved on their own, wrenching the wheel to the side, veering off the racing line. The pit radio crackled, Bono’s voice screaming at him to stay focused, to stay in the race, but he didn’t care. He slammed the brakes, pulled the car to a halt on the side of the track, ripping off his steering wheel in one swift motion.

Before anyone could stop him, he was out. Feet pounding against the asphalt, he sprinted toward your car, every second stretching painfully, his heart pounding in his ears. His mind was racing, filled with worst-case scenarios he couldn’t shut out. You had to be okay. You had to be.

As he reached the wreckage, marshals were already swarming the scene, but he shoved past them, his pulse roaring in his veins. The front of your car was a crumpled mess, the cockpit barely visible under the bent metal and debris. He could see your helmet, your still form inside, and the sight made something twist violently in his chest.

"What the fuck happened?!" His voice was raw, frantic, his hands reaching for the cockpit, trying to pry it open. "Someone help me for fucks sake!"

One of the marshals grabbed him, pulling him back, but he fought against it, his whole body trembling with the need to see you, to know you were okay.

"She’s unconscious—" one of the medics started, but he couldn’t hear the rest. His world had narrowed down to you and the sound of his own ragged breathing. He’d never felt fear like this before, not on the track, not anywhere. It gnawed at him, made his hands shake as he stood there, helpless.

His mind screamed at him. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not to you.

When the medical team finally got you out, he saw your chest rise and fall—shallow, but steady. Relief hit him like a wave, but it wasn’t enough. He needed to hear your voice, needed to see you open those damn eyes and tell him off like you always did. He needed you to be okay.

"She’s breathing," one of the medics reassured him as they loaded you onto a stretcher, and he nodded, but it felt like a hollow victory. Lewis wasn’t supposed to care this much. He wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

But as they carried you away, all he could think was that he’d break every rule, throw away the whole damn race, just to hear your voice again.

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

The quiet hum of the air conditioning did little to settle the nerves that still buzzed under your skin. You sat on the edge of the small cot in your driver’s room, staring blankly at the wall. Your body ached—nothing broken, they’d told you, but the crash had rattled you more than you had wanted to admit. Your helmet sat discarded on the floor, and the sound of the accident still echoed in your head, the screech of tires, the crunch of metal.

There was a knock at the door, sharp and insistent. You knew who it was before you even heard his voice.

"You in there?"

You closed your eyes for a brief second, already bracing yourself for the confrontation you weren't ready to have. He hadn’t left you alone since the crash—hovering around the medical tent, pacing outside your room. You’d heard him through the walls, arguing with the team, demanding updates. He was relentless. But you didn’t want his concern. You didn’t need it.

The door creaked open, and Lewis stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. Typical. He always pushed his way into your space, never asking, never giving you a chance to breathe.

"You shouldn’t be here," you said, your voice low, your eyes still fixed on the floor. You didn’t have the strength to look at him, not yet. Not when your emotions were too close to the surface.

"I was worried," he said, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it, and that only made you angrier. "I needed to see for myself that you were okay."

You laughed, a bitter sound, shaking your head. Finally, you forced yourself to look up at him. His usually confident posture was gone; he looked tense, his shoulders tight, his dark eyes clouded with something you didn’t want to name. Guilt? Regret? You didn’t care.

"You were worried," you repeated, your tone mocking, though the anger bubbling inside you was anything but playful. "Since when do you care about me, Hamilton? You’ve made my life hell from the second I signed with this team."

Lewis flinched at her words, but didn’t move, didn’t back down. "I—" He stopped, searching for something to say, something that wouldn’t make it worse. But you didn’t want to hear it.

"You don’t get to be scared for me." You stood up, your body protesting with every movement, but you ignored the pain. Your emotions were a live wire, snapping and sparking in the small room. "Not after everything you’ve done. The comments, the looks, the way you treat me like I’m just some obstacle in your way."

His jaw tightened, his eyes darkening, but you weren't finished. "You’ve been trying to tear me down since the day I got here. You’ve questioned my skills, doubted my place on this team, made me feel like I don’t belong every single chance you get." You took a step closer, your voice rising, cracking with the intensity of everything you’d kept bottled up. "So don’t stand there now and pretend you care. Don’t act like I’m something worth worrying about."

He didn’t move. He just stared at you, his face a mask of tension, like he was holding something back—something he wasn’t sure how to say. His eyes flickered, just for a second, and you saw it: the same fear you’d felt when your car slammed into that barrier. It confused you. It infuriated you.

"You think I wanted this?" His voice, rougher now, cut through the thick silence. "You think I planned to be this way with you? I don’t—" He ran a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. "I don’t know how to do this. How to deal with you. Because you—"

"Because what?" you snapped, cutting him off. "Because I’m a threat? Because you can’t handle the fact that I’m as good as you? Better, even?"

"Because you scare the hell out of me!" he shouted, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. The room fell silent, his confession hanging in the air between you, raw and jagged.

Your heart pounded in your chest, the admission hitting you harder than you wanted to admit. But you didn’t let it show, couldn’t let him see how his words affected you.

"You scare me," he repeated, his voice quieter now, like he was admitting something to himself as much as to you. "The way you drive, the way you push yourself—you’re fearless, and it’s terrifying. And today—" His voice cracked, and he looked away for a second, composing himself. "Today, when I saw you crash, I thought—I thought I’d lost you."

Your breath caught in your throat, but you swallowed the emotion rising there, forcing yourself to stay strong. To stay angry.

"You don’t get to care about me," you said again, quieter this time, but with the same fire. "Not when you’ve spent months trying to break me."

Lewis opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. For a moment, you just stood there, the distance between you feeling both impossible to cross and too close. The tension, the unspoken things that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long, it all hovered between you, crackling like electricity.

Finally, he took a step back, his gaze falling to the floor. "I’m sorry," he said, his voice rough, but sincere.

You didn’t know what to say. Part of you wanted to scream at him, to push him further away, to tell him that his apology wasn’t enough. But another part of you —a part you weren’t ready to confront—was scared by how much you’d wanted to hear him say it.

So instead, you stayed silent, watching him leave, your heart still racing, your mind reeling from everything that had just been said—and everything that hadn’t.

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving you alone in the stillness of the room. Your body felt heavier now, the adrenaline from the confrontation seeping away, leaving only the dull ache of exhaustion and the weight of his words lingering in your mind.

You scare me.

You ran a hand through your hair, still trying to make sense of it all. He was the one who had made your life hell, the one who pushed every button, who treated you like you didn’t belong. And now, he was saying he was scared? That he cared?

You paced the room, the silence gnawing at you, your mind spinning in circles. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. You were rivals—always had been. He was the enemy on your own team, the one who made you want to scream every time he walked into the room. But today, when he stood there, looking at you like he was terrified of losing you, it had felt… different.

There was a part of you that had wanted to stay angry, to keep that fire burning between you. It was easier that way. Safer. But another part—the one you hadn’t let yourself acknowledge until now—was starting to unravel, slowly, painfully, as if everything you thought you knew about him was coming undone.

You sighed, sinking back onto the cot. Your body ached, but it wasn’t just the crash. It was everything else—the confusion, the pull you felt toward him, the tension that never seemed to leave you two, the way he looked at you like you were both his greatest threat and something he couldn’t tear his eyes away from.

You don’t get to care about me.

You had meant it when you said it. But now, alone with your thoughts, you wondered if you had been pushing him away because you didn’t want to admit the truth to yourself. That maybe, just maybe, you didn’t want him to stay away. Not anymore.

Before you could second-guess it, you stood up, heart pounding in your chest. You weren't sure what you were going to say, weren’t even sure why you were doing this, but your feet carried you out of your room and down the hall. His room was just a few doors down, the quiet hum of the team in the background doing nothing to settle the storm raging inside you.

Your knuckles hovered above the door, hesitating for just a moment before you knocked, your heart in her throat.

It opened almost immediately. He stood there, still in his race suit, his room a mess and his  eyes shadowed with the same exhaustion you felt. He looked surprised to see you, but there was something else there too—something raw, vulnerable, that made your chest tighten.

Neither of you spoke at first. The silence stretched, thick with the weight of everything that had been left unsaid. Finally, you broke the tension, your voice quieter than you intended.

"I shouldn’t have said what I did."

Lewis didn’t respond right away, just watched you with those sharp eyes that always made you feel like he was seeing straight through your defences.

"I didn’t mean it," you continued, forcing yourself to hold his gaze. "I mean… you didn’t deserve that. You cared, and I shouldn’t have thrown it back in your face."

He looked down, exhaling softly. "I’ve given you plenty of reasons to hate me," he said quietly. "I get why you reacted the way you did."

For a moment, neither of you moved. You were about to say something else, but then he looked up again, and the intensity in his eyes made your heart skip a beat.

"It’s foreign to me," he said, his voice low, his words deliberate. "Liking someone like you. Someone I’m not supposed to like."

Your breath caught in your throat, the air between you suddenly feeling too thick, too charged. The heat from the room, from him, seemed to close in around you, making it hard to think straight.

"You drive me insane," he continued, stepping closer, his voice rougher now. "You challenge me in ways no one else does. And I hate it. But I also…" He stopped, his eyes locking onto yours, his next words barely more than a whisper. "I can’t stop thinking about you."

You swallowed, your heart hammering against your ribs. The tension that had always been between you shifted, growing heavier, hotter, more intense. You could feel the pull, the unspoken thing that had been simmering beneath the surface for months.

Your throat was dry, your body betraying you. "You’re not supposed to care about me," you whispered, but there was no anger left in your voice. Only confusion, and something you weren't ready to admit yet.

He took another step closer, close enough now that you could feel the warmth radiating off him, close enough to hear the slight hitch in his breath.

"I know," he said, his voice husky, eyes flicking between yours and your lips. "But I do."

Your pulse thundered in your ears as his words lingered in the air between you, charged and crackling like static. Every second felt stretched, like time was holding its breath, waiting for what would happen next. The tension between you had always been palpable, always simmering just beneath the surface, but now, it was unbearable—thick, electric, like the split second before a lightning strike.

You knew you should say something, break the moment before it went too far. You should push him away, remind him of all the reasons this couldn’t happen, why they couldn’t cross this line. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Instead, you found yourself frozen in place, the walls you’d built up around him crumbling. His eyes were locked on yours, dark and intense, and you felt something inside you shift, like a wire snapping loose.

Your breath hitched as you leaned in, just the smallest movement, enough to close some of the distance between you. Your heart was hammering in your chest, and you could feel the heat radiating from his body, the space between you shrinking until it felt like the air itself was suffocating, pressing you together.

And then, he moved.

His hand came up slowly, hesitantly, his fingers brushing lightly against your cheek, his touch feather-soft, like he was testing the moment, unsure if you’d pull away. Your skin tingled where his hand touched, sending a shiver down your spine, and for a brief second, neither of you moved. His thumb gently grazed your jawline, and the touch was so tender, so unexpected from him, that it made your chest tighten.

When you didn’t flinch, didn’t retreat, something shifted in him. The tension snapped like a taut string, unravelling all at once. He closed the gap between you in a heartbeat, and before you could think, before you could process what was happening, his lips were on yours.

The kiss wasn’t soft. It was urgent, messy, like he’d been holding back for far too long and couldn’t control it anymore. His lips pressed against yours with a hunger that matched the heat between you, a raw, desperate energy that made your knees weaken. It wasn’t gentle; it wasn’t careful. It was a release—months of pent-up frustration, confusion, anger, and something else that neither of you had been willing to acknowledge until now.

Your body responded instinctively, your hands moving to his chest, gripping the fabric of his suit as if it were the only thing keeping you grounded. His body was warm, solid beneath your touch, and you could feel his heart racing just as wildly as yours. You pulled him closer, needing more of him, needing this as much as he did.

The kiss deepened, and his hand slid from your cheek to tangle in your hair, pulling you even closer. Your mouths moved together in a rhythm that was both frantic and intoxicating, as if you were both trying to make up for all the time you’d spent fighting this. Every brush of his lips, every shift of his hands made your pulse spike, your senses overwhelmed by the intensity of it all. You could taste the desperation in his kiss, feel the tension still lingering in the way his body pressed against yours.

You weren't sure how long you stayed like that, tangled in each other, caught in the whirlwind of your own undoing. But when you finally pulled apart, gasping for air, your foreheads pressed together, and for a moment, neither of you moved. Your breaths came heavy and uneven, the world spinning around you as you tried to catch up to what had just happened.

Your mind was a haze of emotions—confusion, relief, frustration—and yet there was something undeniable settling deep inside you, something you couldn’t push away anymore.

You felt the warmth of his breath against your skin, and your heart was still racing, but now, instead of fear or anger, there was something softer, something that scared you just as much.

"I’m still angry with you," you whispered, your voice barely more than a breath. But there was no heat behind your words now, just the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the corner of your lips, like you couldn’t quite hold it back.

He let out a soft, breathless laugh, the sound vibrating between you as he brushed a thumb along your jawline, his touch lingering, as if he didn’t want to let go. His eyes softened as they met yours, the usual sharpness replaced by something you weren't used to seeing in him—vulnerability.

"I wouldn’t expect anything less," he murmured, his voice low, rough with the aftermath of what had just passed between you. His thumb traced slow, lazy circles against your skin, sending a fresh wave of warmth through you.

His forehead still rested against yours, and the air between you was thick with the unspoken things that hung in the balance. You could feel his breath mingling with yours, could still taste the remnants of his kiss on your lips. The tension hadn’t disappeared—it had merely shifted, becoming something new, something more dangerous. The line between you was gone now, blurred beyond recognition, and you didn’t know how to navigate it.

His other hand came to rest on your hip, the touch firm, possessive, pulling you just a fraction closer. Your body responded before your mind could catch up, and you didn’t stop it this time. You didn’t want to.

His lips hovered just above yours, teasing, tempting, and for a moment, it felt like the entire world had fallen away, leaving only the two of you. You could feel his breath, hot and heavy, his eyes searching yours for permission—for something more. And in that moment, you realised that you wanted it, too. Wanted him.

the end.

[sirenedeslily]

𝐌𝐘 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐍 ‎𐦍 𝐦atthew 𝐬turniolo

(⊹ֹ 𝐢𝐧 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒉 ) ──── ⟢ it’s the 2000s, and in stars hollow, rebellious matt sturniolo, tattooed and brilliant, somehow needs tutoring sessions. yn greenaway, somehow gets pulled into his world of distractions, leaving them both questioning what they really want.

you step off the bus, the cool air of stars hollow brushing your face, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and coffee from luke’s diner. the orange leaves crunch beneath your boots as you make your way down the street, your thoughts wandering. it’s autumn, your favorite time of year. the kind of day that feels like it’s plucked from a movie—a you’ve got mail kind of day. sophie—or soapy, as you call her— is waiting for you by the bus stop, her usual smile in place, earbuds in, head slightly bobbing to a beat you can’t hear.

“hey!” she calls as she pulls out her earbuds, falling into step beside you. she’s wearing a smashing pumpkins t-shirt under a plaid flannel and looks like she just walked out of a 90s grunge concert. classic soapy.

“hey yourself,” you respond, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “what are you listening to?”

“just some early radiohead. you know, getting in my ‘i’m too cool for mainstream music’ vibe,” she teases.

“of course. how very ‘ok computer’ of you.” you grin, tugging at your scarf. “i’m still stuck in the mazzy star phase. i think i’ve had ‘cry, cry’ on repeat for days.”

sophie gives you a mock serious nod. “that’s some deep emotional territory. you planning on staring longingly out a window while it rains?”

“maybe,” you joke, nudging her. “but first, i need to catch up on the weirdness that is stars hollow high. chris apparently got into a fight yesterday?”

“yeah, hockey drama,” she says with a casual wave of her hand. “it’s chris. the guy’s basically made of punches and sports equipment. it’s a wonder he doesn’t just carry around a hockey stick as an accessory.”

“where was matt during all of this?” you ask, curiosity getting the better of you.

sophie shrugs. “nowhere to be seen, as usual. you know matt—here one minute, gone the next. probably off in some corner reading kafka or something, being all mysterious.”

you roll your eyes but can’t help the smile that pulls at your lips. matthew sturniolo has a way of occupying your mind without even being around. the fact that sophie hasn’t seen him at school recently doesn’t surprise you. he’s always been the brooding type, always disappearing into books, into his own world.

“so, any big plans for today?” sophie asks as you both turn the corner near the town square.

“just the usual. i’m heading to the bookstore later with nick, and then i’ll probably drop by luke’s for cherry danish day, my favourite day! what about you?”

“band practice. dave’s got this crazy idea for a new song that’s somewhere between the smashing pumpkins and the strokes, so… we’ll see how that goes.”

you both laugh, the conversation drifting into casual chatter about school, music, and soapy’s band. eventually, you part ways—she heads to meet her band, and you find yourself walking toward the bookstore.

as you round the corner of the alley that leads to the bookstore, you spot matt sitting on a bench, a paperback in hand, legs stretched out lazily in front of him. his arm, the one covered in tattoos, is draped over the back of the bench, his rings catching the late afternoon light.

you hesitate for a moment, watching him. he looks up, catches your gaze, and smirks in that infuriatingly charming way he does.

“fancy seeing you here,” he says, closing his book without bothering to mark the page.

you cross your arms and approach. “not disappearing into thin air for once? i’m shocked.”

“ah, i have to keep some mystery alive,” he replies with a grin. “besides, i’m right where i want to be.”

his words hang in the air between you, heavy with something unspoken. you swallow and sit beside him on the bench, trying to ignore the way your heart picks up speed. his presence has always done that to you—ever since you first met him.

“so, what are you reading?” you ask, gesturing toward the book.

he glances down at the cover and smirks. “on the road.”

you snort. “of course you are. trying to live out some kerouac fantasy?”

matt chuckles, a low sound that sends a shiver down your spine. “it’s not fantasy, greenaway. it’s more like… preparation.”

“for what?”

he looks at you then, his gaze steady, a little too intense. “for whatever’s next.”

you don’t know what to say to that, so you change the subject. “chris got into a fight at school yesterday.”

matt shakes his head. “yeah, heard about that. not surprising. chris has always been a hothead. someone probably looked at him wrong.”

you laugh softly, and for a moment, it feels easy—just sitting here with him, like old times. before the weird tension, before you started noticing the way his voice softened when he said your name, or how he seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at once.

“i should get going,” you say, standing up and brushing off your chilton uniform. “nick’s waiting for me at the bookstore.”

matt stands too, stuffing his book into his jacket pocket. “don’t stay away too long, greenaway.”

there it is again—that weight in his words, something that makes your heart skip. you nod, unsure of what to say, and walk away, feeling his eyes on you until you disappear into the bookstore.

later, when you get home, sophie is already there with her band, setting up in the living room like it’s her personal practice space. dave rygalski is tuning his guitar, and you catch the faint scent of takeout wafting through the house.

“soapy, you’ve officially turned my living room into a recording studio,” you say, dropping your bag by the door.

“you’re welcome!” she calls over her shoulder. “we’re just waiting for your mom to get back with food.”

as if on cue, elle walks through the door, juggling several bags of takeout. “dinner is served!” she announces, smiling in that casual, effortless way she has.

you help her set the food on the kitchen counter, chatting about your day as sophie and the band argue over the tempo of a song. it’s loud, chaotic, and yet it feels completely normal.

not long after, your dad, spencer, walks in, his usual stack of books tucked under one arm, glasses perched on his nose. “what’s all the noise?”

“band practice,” you say, smiling as he surveys the scene. “it’s always band practice.”

spencer nods thoughtfully, like the existence of a band in his living room is something he’s fully prepared for. “well, carry on.”

dinner at the reid-greenaway household is filled with laughter and teasing, as it always is. elle asks about school, spencer throws in the occasional trivia fact, and the noise of the band practicing in the background creates a comfortable soundtrack to the evening.

eventually, the night winds down, and you find yourself lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to shake the memory of matt on that bench. his words echo in your head, mingling with the soft hum of ‘fade into you’ that plays in the background.

it’s saturday morning, and you’re walking down the familiar streets of stars hollow with “there she goes” playing on your old walkman. the sun’s just breaking through the clouds, bathing everything in a golden autumn glow. the crunch of leaves under your feet sets the rhythm as you make your way to luke’s, where a coffee run is a sacred ritual.

the bell jingles as you push open the door, and the warm, coffee-scented air greets you like an old friend. luke’s is bustling with early risers, and you make a beeline for the counter where luke is busy pouring coffee.

“mornin’, yn,” luke says in his usual gruff yet familiar tone, already reaching for three to-go coffee cups. he doesn’t need to ask what you’re ordering—three coffees to go is basically your weekend tradition.

“morning, luke,” you reply, slipping off your headphones. “you know the drill. extra caffeine. life-saving, consciousness-reviving levels of caffeine. honestly, i should just hook it up to an iv at this point.”

“you kids are gonna od on this stuff one day,” he mutters, but there’s a small smile tugging at his lips.

lorelai, seated at the counter, overhears and gives you a mischievous grin. “ah, the youth of stars hollow. running on pure caffeine and dreams. it’s like watching the next generation of me.”

you smirk. “i prefer to think of it as highly efficient multitasking.”

luke hands you the first cup of coffee. “you mean procrastinating on real work?”

you give him a mock-serious nod. “luke, when have i ever deceived you about the importance of procrastination?”

lorelai leans over, clearly entertained. “see? she gets it. chilton pressure plus caffeine equals survival.”

“don’t encourage her,” luke grumbles, handing you the next two coffees.

“too late!” you and lorelai say in unison, laughing.

with the tray of coffees in hand, you wave a quick goodbye. “thanks, luke! see you tomorrow for round two.”

as you step back outside, the cool air hits your face, and you continue your walk, heading toward the bakery. the sign above the door reads sweet street, the sturniolo family’s cozy little spot. as you approach, you hear the familiar sounds of sophie in deep debate with jimmy.

“i’m telling you, ‘siamese dream’ is the smashing pumpkins’ best album. it’s got the perfect balance of angst and melody!” sophie insists, her eyes wide with passion as she gestures animatedly.

jimmy, leaning against the counter, raises an eyebrow. “i don’t know, ‘mellon collie’ has its merits. it’s more experimental, shows growth.”

you push open the door and walk in, shaking your head with a grin. “if i had a nickel for every time i walked in on you two arguing about music…”

sophie turns, her eyes immediately locking onto the coffee tray in your hands. “you got my coffee, right? precisely how i like it?”

you hand her the cup with a deadpan expression. “in our years of friendship, when have i ever deceived you?”

sophie smirks, taking a sip. “true. you’re as dependable as jimmy’s music takes.”

“thank you for that… i think,” jimmy mutters, rolling his eyes but smiling all the same. he grabs a bag from behind the counter and hands it to sophie. “here, muffins for the road. you two are going to need fuel for your record store adventures.”

“jimmy, you are a saint among men,” sophie says dramatically, clutching the bag to her chest.

just then, marylou emerges from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. her eyes light up when she sees you. “yn! i’m so glad you’re here. got a second?”

you exchange a glance with sophie, who raises an eyebrow. “uh-oh, that sounds ominous,” she says.

“i need a favour,” marylou says, leaning against the counter with a sigh.

you set down the coffee tray, immediately wary. “what kind of favour?”

marylou glances at soapy, who’s now munching on a muffin, before turning back to you. “it’s about matt.”

your stomach drops a little. “oh boy.”

“he’s been skipping school,” marylou says, her voice lowering. “a lot of school. stars hollow high is threatening to kick him out if he keeps it up.”

you blink, trying to wrap your head around it. “but he’s… matt. he knows more about hemingway and faulkner than half the population.”

“i know,” marylou says, exasperated. “but he’s not showing it in school. his grades are tanking, and… i thought, maybe, if you tutored him, you could get through to him. he listens to you.”

you glance at sophie, who’s smirking over her muffin, clearly enjoying the absurdity of the situation. “why me?” you ask, incredulous. “i’m not exactly on matt’s top ten list of people to hang out with.”

marylou gives you that mom look—the one that’s equal parts pleading and expectant. “he only seems to care about what you have to say. plus, you’re brilliant. you’re like your dad.”

you squirm a little under the weight of the compliment. “i don’t know, marylou. i mean, tutoring matt? what if he doesn’t even show up?”

“please,” marylou says, her eyes wide with hope. “you’re the only one i can trust with this. i’m running out of options.”

before you can say anything, you hear footsteps from upstairs, and nick comes down, his camera slung over his shoulder. he spots the coffee tray and grins. “ah, lifesaver! thanks, yn,” he says, grabbing his cup.

“ready to hit the record store?” sophie asks, stuffing the last bit of muffin into her mouth.

nick nods. “yeah, if we leave now, we can catch that new shipment kirk was talking about.”

you’re just about to grab your stuff when marylou gives you one last look. “yn, please. just think about it sweetheart, okay?”

you bite your lip, feeling a little torn. “i’ll think about it, i promise.”

with that, the three of you head out of the bakery, the cool autumn air swirling around you once again. as you walk, the conversation shifts to records and music, but your mind is still on matt, skipping school, and the weight of marylou’s request hanging over you like the last leaf clinging to a tree.

as you, nick, and sophie make your way through stars hollow, the crisp autumn air fills your lungs. leaves scatter across the street in shades of amber and crimson, a constant reminder that fall has fully settled in. the three of you are bundled up, coffees from luke’s in hand, weaving through the familiar streets toward your destination—the record store.

“tutoring matt,” soapy says, breaking the comfortable silence with a dramatic scoff. “i mean, it’s like trying to give life advice to a james dean character—lots of sulking, a cigarette somewhere, and an existential crisis about algebra. or better yet it’s like asking me to explain quantum physics to kirk. it makes no sense.”

nick lags behind, fiddling with his camera, capturing shots of the early fall leaves against the old buildings. “honestly, matt might actually listen to you. i’ve tried the whole ‘big brother’ speech, but he’s slippery.”

“too busy with his ‘rebel without a cause’ routine,” you quip. “i get it, geometry’s the enemy.”

nick chuckles as he snaps another picture. “it’s not just that. it’s like he’s checked out. he doesn’t care anymore. chris has his hockey, i have my photography, but matt… matt just floats.”

“floating,” sophie repeats, swirling her hand in a swooping motion. “that’s the sturniolo brand.”

you smirk but feel the weight of it. “and i’m supposed to ground him?”

“exactly, baby!” sophie says, throwing her arm around your shoulders.

nick snickers, adjusting the strap of his ever-present camera. “i mean, it makes a little sense. you’re the one who got him through that faulkner essay freshman year. and let’s not forget, matt knows more about ‘the sun also rises’ than our actual english teacher. he just doesn’t care about school.”

you shake your head, still trying to wrap your mind around Marylou’s request. “yeah, but tutoring matters is different. the guy reads moby dick for fun but won’t show up for class.”

sophie rolls her eyes. “maybe he’s like, secretly a genius. he’s too cool for high school, but deep down, he’s panicking that he won’t get into a college for misunderstood literary bad boys.”

you laugh. “that doesn’t sound like him. he’s more like ‘i don’t care about anything because everything is boring.’ why does it have to be me? he probably doesn’t even care about my existence.”

nick raises an eyebrow, giving you a knowing look. “are we talking about the same matthew here? because he definitely cares about your existence.. about you. he literally asked you about your thoughts on nietzsche last week, and we all know that’s basically his way of flirting.”

you blink at him, flustered. “that’s not flirting. that’s matt being… well matt.”

sophie grins, walking backward in front of you, her boots crunching against the fallen leaves. “oh, please. the guy’s got that ‘i’m too brooding for feelings, but maybe i’ll make an exception for you’ thing going on. i bet tutoring him will be just like dangerous minds but with more existential angst.”

you roll your eyes, taking a sip of your coffee. “you both are reading way too much into this.”

but before you can dwell on the idea of matt being interested in anything—or anyone—you approach the familiar, worn-down exterior of the stars hollow record store. the place smells like old vinyl and nostalgia, and as you push the door open, you hear the familiar chime of the bell above.

kirk is manning the counter, diligently arranging records in alphabetical order with the concentration of someone assembling a nuclear bomb. “ah, the trio returns! i assume you’re here for your usual eclectic mix of ‘stuff kirk doesn’t understand but pretends to be into.’” he greets, barely looking up from his work.

you smile as you make your way over to the bins. “you know us so well, kirk.”

sophie immediately makes a beeline for the indie section, eyes gleaming with determination. “i need some early pixies or maybe sleater-kinney. jenna—uh, someone i know—said it’s life-changing.”

nick raises an eyebrow at her slip. “you can say her name, you know. we all know you’re obsessed with jenna ortega.”

sophie, blushing but undeterred, begins flipping through the records. “i’m not obsessed. i’m… highly focused.”

you and nick exchange a glance before bursting into laughter. “highly focused, huh? you’ve been strategizing your next run-in with her for days,” you tease.

“she works at the theater!” sophie defends herself. “i’m just doing recon. casual recon. my plan is flawless—show up during the Friday night rush, bump into her, spill my drink—oops!—and then heroically offer to replace it. classic rom-com setup.”

nick shakes his head, grinning. “yeah, because nothing says ‘i’m interested’ like spilling soda all over someone.”

“you’re one to talk,” sophie shoots back. “mr. ‘i shared ice cream with dave at the founder’s day picnic and still haven’t made a move.’ what are your plans pretty boy?” nick’s face flushes immediately, and he ducks behind his camera, pretending to take a picture of the counter. “no moves. no plans. nothing.”

soapy cackles. “liar! you totally like him. what was it he said to you during the stars hollow harvest festival? something about ‘nice camera work’?”

nick groans. “he said he liked my composition, okay? it’s not a big deal.”

“right,” you tease, pulling out a talking heads record. “and then he asked you for your favorite lens, which is basically code for ‘i think you’re cute.’”

nick rolls his eyes. “that was… nothing. plus it’s complicated i mean lane literally dumped him not too long ago and not to mention the fact that it’s the early 2000s. i don’t even know if he’s into guys. i mean, what am i supposed to do? just ask him out at the town square while taylor’s running the pie-eating contest?”

you sigh rummaging through the sundays records. “just don’t overthink it, okay? dave’s cool. you’re cool. stars hollow’s already the weirdest place on earth, so who cares?”

nick lets out a long sigh, running a hand through his hair. “it’s not that simple. what if i make a move and it ruins everything? we have a good thing going right now. i don’t want to screw that up.”

sophie claps a hand on his shoulder. “just go in there with a plan. spill a drink, offer to replace it—works every time.”

kirk, who’s been listening intently while alphabetizing records, chimes in, “i once spilled milk on lulu’s book at the library. now we’re dating. so, yeah, maybe it works.”

the three of you exchange bemused glances before bursting into laughter. “thanks for the tip, kirk,” you manage between giggles.

“maybe. i don’t know. i guess i’m just not as bold as soapy over here with her grand schemes.” nick exclaims going back to their previous conversation.

sophie waves him off, pretending to be absorbed in her record search. “don’t worry. when jenna and i are dating and being all adorable together, you’ll be inspired by my brilliance. we’ll double-triple date! me and jenna, you and dave, yn and matt. picture it.”

nick rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling now. “right. because triple dating with jenna ortega and my triplet brother sounds so realistic.”

“dream big, nick. dream big,” sophie replies, holding up a copy of surfer rosa triumphantly before heading to the counter.

kirk glances at the record soapy’s holding with raised eyebrows. “sleater-kinney isn’t for everyone, you know.”

“oh, trust me, it’s for me,” sophie responds, placing it on the counter with a grin.

as she finishes paying, you and nick continue to browse, flipping through records more for the vibe than anything else. but as you shuffle through the vinyls, you can’t help but think back to your conversation about matt. nick and soapy’s teasing aside, you know that tutoring matt could be… complicated. but there’s something about the idea that draws you in.

nick, picking up a fleetwood mac album, glances over at you. “so, are you going to do it? tutor matt, i mean.”

you sigh, half distracted by the thought. “i don’t know. it feels like a lot. he’s barely in school as it is, and i’ve got chilton, my dad’s constant pressure, and now this. i’m not even sure he wants help.”

nick shrugs, putting the record back on the shelf. “maybe he just needs someone to push him. and let’s be real, you’re probably the only person in town who can.”

“yeah, because ‘pushing’ matt sounds like a great idea,” you mutter. “it’ll probably end with him dropping out entirely and moving to paris to write nihilistic poetry.”

sophie returns from the counter, bag in hand, still riding the high of her record purchase. “look, yn, you’re the only person who even remotely gets matt. and if he’s not showing up to class or trying in school, maybe that’s because no one’s ever made it interesting for him. you’re different. you could get him to care.”

you let out a laugh, though it’s tinged with uncertainty. “or he’ll make my life miserable.”

nick smiles gently, a rare seriousness in his expression. “or maybe he’ll surprise you.”

you glance at your friends, feeling the weight of their encouragement, but still unsure. the idea of spending more time with matt is… intimidating, in more ways than one.

“i’ll think about it,” you say, but deep down, you already know your answer.

heading back from the record store, you spot dave rygalski crossing the street. nick freezes for a split second before quickly pretending to adjust his camera, but it’s too late—you and soapy already noticed.

“there’s your chance,” sophie whispers with a sly grin.

nick groans. “goodbye, ladies,” he mutters, clearly flustered.

you and sophie exchange a laugh as nick hurries off, and after a few more jokes, you all say your goodbyes and head your separate ways. by the time you’re alone, you’ve made up your mind: tutoring matt might not be so bad. worst-case, he throws a few sarcastic comments, and you both call it a day.

that evening, after a quiet dinner with your parents—spencer lost in some case files and elle chatting about her day at the bau—you head up to your room, prepared for a low-key night. but, as you’re about to settle into bed with your latest book, your phone buzzes.

it’s a text from matt.

still up for tutoring me?

you stare at the message, momentarily stunned. somehow, the fact that he’s actually asking you makes it all feel a little more real. a little more personal.

yeah, when? you type back, fingers moving faster than your brain can catch up.

tomorrow night?

you chew on your bottom lip, considering. tomorrow’s Sunday—usually a good day for catching up on homework, so why not?

okay. my place?

a pause. then, sure. see you at 7.

you toss your phone onto your bed, your heart doing that weird thing again—the fluttering thing it does when matt’s name pops up on your screen.

the next day passes in a blur of homework and chores, but by the time 7 p.m. rolls around, you’re sitting at your desk, textbooks and notes laid out, waiting for matt to show up. you tell yourself it’s just tutoring, nothing more. just helping out a friend who, for some reason, can’t keep up with school. simple.

but when the knock comes at the door, and you open it to find matt standing there, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, you feel anything but simple.

“hey,” he says, his voice low, his eyes flicking briefly to your stack of books before landing back on you.

“hey,” you manage, stepping aside to let him in. he brushes past you, and you catch the faint scent of his cologne—something subtle, but distinctly matt.

“you sure about this?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow as he glances around your room. “i’m kind of a lost cause.”

“don’t be dramatic,” you say, rolling your eyes as you sit down at your desk. “you’re not a lost cause. just… distracted.”

“distracted,” he echoes, a hint of amusement in his voice as he drops his bag by the desk and sits on your bed, looking far too comfortable for someone who’s supposedly in need of academic help.

you shoot him a look. “yeah, distracted. now, come on, i’m serious. we need to figure out why you’re failing.”

he shrugs, leaning back against your headboard, one arm draped casually across his lap, the other—the tattooed one—resting on the bed beside him, fingers playing with one of the many rings he wears. “what can i say? school doesn’t exactly hold my interest.”

you sigh, exasperated but not surprised. “okay, but if you don’t pass, it’s going to cause all kinds of problems down the line. you’ve got to at least pretend to care.”

he gives you a half-smirk. “maybe i need someone to make me care.”

the comment is so typical of him, and yet, the way he says it makes your heart skip a beat. you stare at him for a moment, unsure whether he’s being serious or just trying to get under your skin. it’s always hard to tell with matt.

“well, i’m not here to play therapist,” you finally say, flipping open his english textbook. “so, how about we start with the great gatsby?”

matt groans but swings his legs off the bed and drags himself to the desk, pulling up a chair beside you. “fine. but only because i like gatsby.”

you raise an eyebrow. “oh yeah? what do you like about it?”

he leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk, and looks at you with that intense gaze of his. “i like that gatsby’s not really a hero. he’s flawed, but he’s still this larger-than-life figure. everyone’s drawn to him, even though he’s broken inside.”

there’s a beat of silence after he speaks, and you feel the weight of his words, like he’s not really talking about gatsby at all. you look at him, but he’s already flipping through the pages of the textbook, like he didn’t just say something that makes your chest ache a little.

you clear your throat and focus on the book. “okay. well, let’s talk about the symbolism in chapter four—”

but matt interrupts you. “do we have to? i mean, do you really think fitzgerald was sitting there, thinking, ‘i’m gonna put a green light in here to mess with students 70 years from now’?”

you laugh despite yourself. “yes, actually. i think fitzgerald lived for that kind of thing.”

he smirks, leaning back in his chair. “‘course you would.”

you nudge his arm playfully, trying to ignore the way his casual smirk makes your heart race. “focus, sturniolo. we’re here to get you passing, not to debate the merits of literary analysis.”

“right, right,” he says, but his tone is teasing, and he seems more interested in distracting you than actually working.

for the next hour, you try to guide him through his homework, but matt being matt, he keeps finding ways to sidetrack the conversation. one minute, you’re talking about nick carraway’s unreliable narration, and the next, he’s asking if you’ve ever been to new york, spinning some story about how he’s planning to move there one day, maybe open a bookshop, maybe just live in some crummy apartment and write.

“you could come with me, you know,” he says at one point, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye.

you laugh, shaking your head. “matt, you don’t even know if you’re going to graduate.”

he grins. “details. minor details.”

by the time you finally get him to finish one of his assignments, it’s already late, and you’re more frustrated than you care to admit. matt’s leaning back in his chair, watching you with that same infuriating smirk, and you can tell he knows exactly how he’s been pushing your buttons.

“you’re impossible, you know that?” you say, crossing your arms as you stand up, glaring at him in mock-annoyance.

he stands up too, but instead of backing down, he steps closer, closing the gap between you. “i thought you liked a challenge.”

your breath catches in your throat, the teasing banter suddenly shifting into something heavier, something more charged. he’s so close now that you can see the faint flecks of silver in his blue eyes, the curve of his lips as they quirk up in that signature smirk.

“i do,” you whisper, before you can stop yourself.

the space between you seems to shrink, and for a second, you think he’s going to kiss you. and then—he does.

it’s soft at first, almost tentative, but then his hand finds the small of your back, pulling you closer, and the kiss deepens. your heart races, your mind spinning as you kiss him back, losing yourself in the moment. his lips are warm and sure, and everything about it feels so right, even though you know it shouldn’t.

when you finally pull back, you’re both breathing hard, and matt’s looking at you with something like surprise in his eyes, like he wasn’t expecting this either.

“i—” you start, but you don’t know what to say.

“don’t,” he murmurs, his voice low. “don’t ruin it.”

you nod, still caught up in the haze of the kiss, and for a moment, you’re not sure if you’re standing on solid ground anymore.

matt pulls away then, running a hand through his hair, looking almost sheepish. “i should go.”

“yeah,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “okay.”

but as he turns to leave, you can’t shake the feeling that something just shifted between you—something big, and irreversible.

and somehow, you know things between you and matt sturniolo will never be the same again.

𝒢𝜚 💭 ࣪ ✸ 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 ∿ gilmore girls au how we feelin?!?! i really tried to make the dialogue and energy as similar to the show as possible so please don’t ask me about half of the references cause i just went on google fr 😭😭 5.1k wc and i know not much really happened but idc i live for the trio :3 pls talk to me in da inbox

❝ 𝟐𝟐𝟐 ❞ 𝑻𝑨𝑮𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻, @carvedtits @et6rnalsun @wovenribbons @flouvela @eternaldecisions @elizabebabe

❝ 𝟑𝟑𝟑 ❞ 𝑻𝑨𝑮𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻, @l34n @sturniolossss @lovingregulusblack @cl1tlover3000 @mattslolita @mattssgf @le4hsblog @brvtall @mattscoquette @chratts-left-ball @jetaimevous @angelesqve @starlace111 @fawnchives @starkeyszn @etherealval @slut4chriss

© sirenedeslily

[fungifanart]

Checkmate?

Characters: Leona Kingscholar, Grim, Yuu!reader, male reader

Cw: Chess *horror movie scream*

Word count: 1.9k

Notes: Look! It's my piece for the @princes-uprising zine! It's been an absolute blast working with everyone, so I hope y'all enjoy our work!

-----------------------------------------------------

Life is one big chessboard.

This is the mindset that Leona has abided by ever since he was young.

It's the easiest way to make sense of the world around him.

People are forever bound to positions given to them upon birth with no hope of changing, such as how a pawn has no hope of becoming a king.

Everyone has a finite amount of actions they can take, which are clearly defined, leaving whether or not they succeed as a matter of skill.

Which also means that luck, too, is calculable and thus, predictable.

Or at least, it should be.

That is, until the school's spelldrive tournament happened and everything fell apart like a harsh wave crashing into a sand castle.

And because of such a stupid plan, too. To this day, Leona is mortified that he got blindsided by such a ridiculous plan, thought up by a magicless herbivore, no less.

Well, there's no way he'll let himself get played like that again.

Much like he did with Azul, Leona decides to observe how the herbivore strategizes.

His plan for knocking the Octavinelle housewarden down a peg gave Leona some good initial insights, such as how he places a LOT of faith in the people who have the shallowest reasons to help actually pulling through. He should consider himself lucky that Leona had a deeper reason to help than what he gave.

But that's not enough for him. Being lucky is not a strategy and clearly not the only factor at play letting a magicless nobody pull the wool over the eyes of TWO separate housewardens. It baffles him to think that both him and that octopunk actually got suckered in by those schemes.

Ok, now Leona's getting angry.

Simple observation isn't enough this time. There's only one way to get to the bottom of this irritating little conundrum.

Portable chessboard in hand, Leona begins the trek to the place the herbivore almost lost with that gamble of his, otherwise known as Ramshackle dorm.

After knocking on the door, Leona hears a ruckus on the other side and the sounds of both the Prefect and his feline companion yelling before the sound of footsteps approaches the entrance.

The door then opens, revealing the Prefect in his infuriatingly enigmatic glory.

"Oh, Leona! Hi! It's great to see you!" He greets the lion warmly, "What brings you here?"

'Figuring out what makes you tick.' Leona thinks to himself, but what he actually says is, "I was bored and thought you'd be able to amuse me with a game of chess."

The simplest of lies, one that any other person at this school would see through and reject instantly, but the Prefect smiles nonetheless.

"Well, I don't know if I can really provide the mental stimulation you're looking for, but if that's how you want to spend your afternoon, then why not, I guess." He responds while stepping to the side to allow Leona in.

Leona pulls up a chair to the table in front of the lounge couch and starts setting up the board as the Prefect rushes to the kitchen for refreshments.

After coming back with water and snacks, the Prefect takes his place on the couch in front of the white pieces leaving Leona with the black.

"Myeh! So how does this 'Chess' thing work, anyway?" Grim asks while hopping up beside the Prefect and shoving chips in his face.

*crunch*

"Well, both players take turns moving one of their colored pieces at a time across the board in an attempt to capture their opponent's king piece. And each piece has its own way of moving to account for," The Prefect answers while picking up one of his pawns and moving it forward one space, "For example, your pawn can usually only move one space up, down or to the side at a time."

"Mm." Leona adds, having already shifted into his focus mode and moving one of his pawns two spaces forward.

*crunch*

"Hey, wait! You just said the pawns can only move one space!" Grim complains between bites in that irritatingly shrill voice of his.

"Pawns can move forward two spaces when it's the first time you're movin' 'em. Next question." Leona explains bluntly while trying to refocus on the board.

"Yeah, what Leona said." The Prefect agrees before picking up his bishop and using it to capture Leona's first pawn, "Next is the bishop that can move as far as it wants, but only diagonally."

Tch, why did he move his pawn there?

*crunch*

The next few turns involve the moving of pawns, but, just when Leona had them lined up to leave the other man's bishop open to his queen, he quickly moves his bishop back to its original spot.

Is that so?

*crunch*

Moving another pawn forward to capture one of his opponent's, Leona then finds said pawn captured by the Prefect’s knight, "Next, we have the knight, which can only move in an L shape in any direction, but is the only piece that can jump over other pieces in its path."

"Whoa, that's cool!" Grim comments before shoving a whole pawful of chips into his mouth, making a loud crunch that makes Leona's ear twitch in annoyance.

"Herbivore, can ya get the furball outta here?" He says, slightly rubbing his temple while sending his rook out to capture the Prefect's rightmost pawn.

"Don't be mean, Leona. Grim's not hurting anyone." The Prefect responds before using his other knight to capture Leona's first rook.

With a slight smirk, Leona uses his other bishop to capture the knight that was left exposed.

*crunch*

The Prefect's eyebrow twitches and Leona notices the kind, calm gaze he'd held since his arrival lose its warmth, becoming more calculating.

Looks like the kid gloves just came off.

*crunch*

The Prefect moves his pawn.

*crunch*

Leona moves his other rook directly downwards.

*crunch*

The Prefect captures said rook with his other bishop.

*crunch*

Leona moves his queen into place--

*crunch*

The Prefect moves his pawn.

*crunch*

Leona uses his queen to capture the other bi--

*crunch*

The Prefect moves his--

*crunch*

Leona captures--

*crunch*

The Prefect moves--

*crunch*

Leona--

*CRUNCH*

Leona pounds his fist onto the table in great frustration at the unceasing sounds of that DISGRACE of a feline chomping away at his chips with no regard for the people trying to focus, "Will ya just can it, ya little runt?!"

"It wouldn’t kill you to be nice for once, you know! The game's almost over, so it doesn't matter much anyway." The Prefect protests, making Leona's eyes widen.

"What...?" He responds before quickly looking back at the board.

Wait.

What?!

Well into his side of the board stands a single white pawn, clear as day, which the Prefect moves into Leona's first rank, setting it up for promotion.

"Well, well. I think I'll be promoting my pawn to a queen." The Prefect says, his face a twisted mirror of the smirk the lion himself had worn not too long ago, "And I do believe that's more or less checkmate!"

Scanning the board again, Leona realizes what the other man means.

He'd never moved his original queen, which left her poised to shut down any attempts to retreat on Leona's part and even if he did escape at first, there's no outrunning two queens with so few pieces left on the board.

He's well and truly trapped.

Begrudgingly accepting his defeat, Leona sighs, "Fine. I surrender."

"Yay!" The Prefect pumps his fist in the air, looking very pleased with himself before reaching into the bowl of chips the little runt had been devouring, finding it empty, "Grim! You know it's rude to eat all of the food meant for everyone! Go to the kitchen and get some more for me and Leona."

The direbeast complies with a disgruntled look on his face as Leona goes over the match in his head to figure out what went wrong.

How did he let himself get cornered like that?

"It’s called 'Misdirection', dearest." The Prefect says smugly, no doubt after reading Leona's expression, "When you keep someone's attention on one thing while you're busy doing something else under their nose?"

"Ok, but when did ya 'misdirect' me, as you so eloquently put it?" Leona fires back, rapidly losing patience.

"Well, technically *I* didn't do anything beyond trusting in those powerful beastman ears of yours." He answers in a way that makes everything click in the lion's brain.

"You had the furball eat those chips so loud that it would distract me from the game?" Leona asks in slight disbelief.

"Yes and no. I really wasn't confident that I'd win on a completely level playing field, so when Grim jumped in, I thought I'd play along and see where it would go." He answers matter-of-factly.

Leona can't believe what he's hearing, "So you're tellin' me that you based your strategy around the whims of a CAT?"

"Isn't that a mark of a good leader, though?" The Prefect tilts his head, "Being able to improvise and pull through when things aren't going as planned, I mean.”

"Ya say that like it's some failsafe 'Get out of jail free' card." Leona says, slightly irritated, "Ya came up with some halfway decent plans in the past, but no amount'a 'improvising' would've saved ya if they went south."

"Wh– says the guy who fell for one of those 'halfway decent plans!'" The Prefect counters, hitting the scar in the lion's pride dead-on, "Look down on my strategies all you want, it doesn't change the fact that they worked!"

"Only because ya skated by on dumb luck!" Leona stands up from his chair, thoroughly offended, "At least I have the sense to not leave the crux of the plan up to chance and 'improvise' if it doesn't work!"

"Well, at least it's better than shutting down and giving up once something goes wrong like you did just now! Like you did at the Spelldrive tournament!!!" The Prefect stands up as well, unyielding to the lion's gaze.

"ARE YA CALLIN' ME A QUITTER, YA MAGICLESS NOBODY?!" Leona practically roars, shoving his forehead against the other man's, uncaring of personal space, but the Prefect stands his ground all the same.

"BETTER A MAGICLESS NOBODY THAN A COWARD PRINCE!!!" The Prefect yells while pushing back and maintaining eye contact.

"WHAT'D YA JUST SAY?!"

"YOU HEARD ME!!!"

"Hey, Henchman! Turns out that was the last of those chips, so I made popcorn instead--" Grim says as he walks in on what may well have turned into a fistfight, "U-uh, what're you guys doing...?"

The Prefect quickly breaks away and sits back down, taking a deep breath to calm himself, "Nothing, Grim. Just a little discussion between friends. Right, Leona?"

"...mm." Is his sole response before sitting back down with a huff as well.

“Are ya sure?? You guys looked like ya were ready to throttle each other!” Grim says while cautiously walking forward and placing the bowl of popcorn on the table.

“Don’t worry, Grim.” The Prefect reassures his companion with a headscratch, “We were talking about what strategies we might use for the next match, isn’t that right?”

‘The next match, huh?’ Leona thinks to himself, initially not interested, but eventually deciding to “see where it goes.”

This was his thought after the first match.

And the second.

And the third.

And the four-- oh, screw it. He's having fun.

He can't really explain why, but playing with the Prefect has caused a fog he didn't know was there to lift from his mind.

It's made Leona realize something he should've known from the start.

A pawn has no hope of becoming a king, but with time, effort and some luck, he supposes, it can still become a queen, which is more than enough to win the day.

"Checkmate.”

[ilovewrittingsmut]

Nanami as your work crush

Wc: 3406

Content: coworker nanami, I hate capitalism,co workers to lovers😩😩😩😩, FLUFF,confessing love, nanami being the best man on earth

A/n: pls don’t make it flop 😔😔😔😔😔😔😔

Despite hating this job with every fiber of your being, you still find yourself waking up at 5 a.m., eager to get ready for work. Why? Because there's this one random blonde guy who makes your heart race more than it should, his mere presence glowing and shining like moonlight.

He often shows up in the most mundane clothes, his face lifeless, only smiling when he absolutely has to. Yet, on some mornings, he arrives with two coffees in hand—one for himself and one for you. You shamelessly admit to yourself that you enjoy this special treatment from him.

"I hate this job."

"Me too."

This is the usual exchange between the two of you, always ending with one of those faint smiles appearing on his handsome face, which inevitably does something to you.

"Actually, I don't hate it that much. There's still something good about this stupid work."

"Besides getting paid?" you ask jokingly, unsure of what he's trying to say.

"Hmm, yes?" He flashes that infuriatingly charming smile before walking away, returning to his work.

——————

During lunch breaks, you, he, and other coworkers usually head out to grab a meal at the coffee shop. You try not to read too much into it, but it seems that whenever you're in a group, he always makes an effort to sit next to you, walk beside you, and engage with you the most. It’s like fuel for the fire, making you fall for him more and more, beyond your control.

"You like pasta?"

"Yep, why?"

"You always order it."

"Yep, I love pasta."

"Me too. You know what, I can cook the best pasta ever."

"I don’t believe you."

"I can cook it for you… if you want."

The idea of eating something your crush has made for you sends a swarm of butterflies fluttering in your stomach.

"That’s an honor."

"How about tonight, at my place, if you don’t mind?"

Of course, you don’t mind at all, but the thought of being alone with your crush at his place tonight fills you with a nervous anticipation.

“That sounds great. “

“See you after work then.”

After that, your heart doesn't stop pounding against your ribs for even a second. You know you can’t focus on work now because your mind is too busy daydreaming about what might happen tonight, just you and him, alone, on a cute pasta date.

No, it’s not a date, you quickly remind yourself, trying to erase those fluffy thoughts and ground yourself in reality. You push through the rest of the day, working until 5. (with him as your only motivation)

——————

"Let's leave."

It’s only 4:30, and he's already texted you with this message. You hate yourself a little for thinking that he’s as eager for tonight as you are, but you decide to give him the benefit of the doubt. Normally, you’d overwork yourself and stay late, but today, you choose to be kind to yourself and call it a day earlier than usual.

"Ok."

"Great, I’ll pick you up, and we can walk to the parking lot together."

"Ok."

There are countless words you want to scream out of excitement right now, but all your fingers can manage to type is "ok."

And within a minute, he's right behind you, and you can feel the blood rushing to your cheeks, so scarlet, so bright. You can only hope he doesn’t notice.

"You’re red, are you sick?"

For god's sake, he never fails to make you flustered.

"I’m good," you reply with a smile and a forced giggle.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, let’s go," you say, your voice overly cheerful.

You try to keep everything seeming normal, as if you're not secretly dreaming about kissing his lips right at that moment.

—————

"Is it too cold?" he asks as you settle into his car.

"No… not at all, everything is perfectly fine."

God, you sound like Mickey Mouse right now, trying so hard to conceal your nerves that it comes off as unnatural.

"Do I make you uncomfortable?"

No, not at all…not really. The word "uncomfortable" isn't the right fit, it's more like "nervous." He makes you so nervous.

"No, I’m okay, really. Please stop worrying."

"How can I not worry about you?" he murmurs, his voice soft as he throws his arm behind your seat to back up the car. You catch a glimpse of those veins, and WOW who could blame you for daydreaming about this big, gorgeous man?

"Why? What is it about me that makes you so worried?"

"You’re always so hard on yourself, working too much and doing OT almost every day," he says, and you’re genuinely flattered by his concern. Little does he know, the reason you stay late is just to spend more time in the workplace with him, the hardworking man who makes the long hours bearable. And yes, he's also right, you’re always so tough on yourself, trying to prove that you're good enough to be here, to be working there.

"You’re always overworking yourself too, Nanami," you reply, and little do you know that he does it for the same reason. He loves to watch you from afar while you’re absorbed in your work. He cherishes the midnight coffees with you, making even the harshest nights feel like a dream.

“I guess it would be best for us if we stopped overworking and had more homemade dinners like this,” he suggests. Is he asking you out?

“Sure.”

“I hate seeing you drink five cups of coffee a day instead of having a proper meal. I can cook a lot, and I’m really good at it.”

“Are you talking a big game?” you tease him, his words always find the way to make you genuinely laugh.

“I can cook for you every day. You deserve to eat something good for your health and taste.”Now, your stomach is doing the thing,not the rumbling with hunger, but tickled with overwhelming butterflies. You feel like you might burst if you don’t get a handle on it soon.

“That’s really sweet. Thank you, Nanami.”

“How many times do I have to tell you? You can call me Kento.”

He’s older than you, and you hold a deep respect and admiration for him. Using just his name feels like it brings an intimacy you’re not sure you can handle, and you’re terrified that you might not be able to keep your feelings in check any longer.

"No, I can't."

"Yes, you can."

You try to resist, knowing you might actually die from blushing too hard.

"I prefer you to call me by my name.” “Kento Or Ken, your choice."

Your entire insides feel like they're about to explode. Why does he have to be so cute? You want to be the one who gets to call him "Ken," such an adorable name. And "Baby" or "Honey" would sound amazing on him too. You long to be the only one who gets the chance to call him those sweet names.

"Kento…" you whisper, so softly that you can barely hear your own voice. The only thing echoing in your ears is the sound of your racing heartbeat.

"That’s... I like that. It sounds great coming from you." Is he trying to kill you or something? You might actually get a heart attack if he keeps being this cute.

—————-

As you arrive at his house, you're greeted by a beautiful garden filled with flowers. The sight is so sweet, making you smile as you take it all in.

When you step inside, you immediately sense warmth and comfort. His home is impeccably organized and tidy, what an ideal man.

"Make yourself at home," he says, guiding you to the living room. You sit on the couch as he turns on the television for you. Then, he heads to the nearby kitchen and begins preparing the ingredients for your dinner. The whole scene feels surreal, like you’ve stepped into a dream where everything is just perfect.

"I can help," you say, getting up from the couch and following him into the kitchen.

"Let me, please. You have just one job is to sit, wait, and enjoy our dinner."

That's probably the hottest thing a man could say, and you can't help but feel greedy, wanting him all to yourself. The thought of anyone else having him makes you irrationally jealous. You can only hope that everything he’s doing is because he likes you too, at least half as much as you're falling for him.

"Can I watch?"

"You can," he replies with a smile.

You giggle a bit as he chops the vegetables. "Enjoy the view?," he adds.

Very much, you think, though you only say, "Probably..." with a playful smile lingering on your lips. You want to kiss him so badly right now.

Little do you know, he's doing his best to focus on the knife and the vegetables because it's nearly impossible for him to tear his eyes away from your pretty little face.

He needs to kiss your lips so badly, it can actually kill him.

——————

After an hour of talking and exchanging glances filled with unspoken tension, the two plates of pasta are finally served. Yours is carbonara, and his is pomodoro, both look incredibly delicious.

He doesn’t stop watching you as you take your first big bite.

"How’s that?" His voice is filled with anticipation.

"Ummm," you murmur, savoring the taste. "I think this is the best pasta I’ve ever had in my entire life."

At your words, he smiles and laughs, as if he’s just won an Oscar. But to him, it’s not about the pasta…it’s about you. You’re bigger than any prize on earth.

As the hour passes, you find yourselves gossiping about coworkers, chit-chatting about random things, talking about work and food, and eventually landing on a more serious topic…

"Are you seeing anyone?" he asks, and your heart rate skyrockets.

"No," you reply, trying to stay composed, as if you’ve never dreamed of being asked this question by him.

"Are you interested in dating?" he continues.

Yes, yes, fuck yesssss only for you, you think, but instead, you ask, "Why do you ask? Are you trying to flirt with me or something?" You mean it as a joke, not really expecting an answer.

"What if I say yes?"

Your pupils widen at his response. "What?" You are so shocked, can’t really comprehend anything now.

"I'm sorry—"

"No, I think I heard you wrong."

"No, you didn’t… but if you’d rather stay just friends, I’ll understand and respect that."

“I think…no, I know I love you. I’m sorry if this ruins our friendship, but if you don’t feel the same way, just tell me, and we can go back to how things were.”

His gaze is so soft, unlike anything you’ve ever seen from him. He hesitates for a moment, licking his bottom lip quickly before speaking again.

“I love the way you always show up with a genuine smile, even though I know you hate working here. I love how you joke around just to make people laugh, how you make fun our boss, how incredibly smart and beautiful you are. I’m nothing compared to you.”

He pauses, searching your face, trying to read your expression. “You make me want to live like a normal salaryman. I’m on top of the world every time you say, ‘See you tomorrow’ because I’m the one who gets a chance to see you tomorrow and another tomorrow and every other single day. I want to come to work every day just to spend as much time as I can admiring you, being next to you. I want to be the one who takes care of you. You make my ordinary life feel so special, and I love you…most ardently.”

Is it the wine you’ve had? Are you dreaming, or is he really confessing his love to you?

“Are you drunk?” you ask, your voice trembling slightly, still in disbelief at what you’ve just heard.

He chuckles softly, shaking his head. “Hell no, I’m not,” he replies, his voice steady and sincere. His eyes lock onto yours, full of a quiet intensity that leaves no room for doubt.

“I truly love you.”

The words hang in the air between you, so heavy with meaning that it feels like the world has paused. You can feel your heart racing, pounding against your chest as you try to process everything. The warmth of the room, the soft glow of the lights, and the remnants of dinner, all of it fades into the background. All you can focus on is him, as he’s standing up from his chair and pouring his heart out in the most genuine way.

His expression is earnest, a mix of vulnerability and determination. This is the man who, just moments ago, was making you laugh with casual banter, and now he’s baring his soul to you, leaving himself completely exposed. You can see the slight tension in his posture, as if he’s bracing himself for whatever might come next, yet there’s also a softness in his gaze that you’ve never seen before.

He takes a step closer, reaching out as if he wants to touch you but stops himself, respecting your space. “I’ve thought about this for so long,” he continues, his voice dropping to a near whisper.

“Every day, I’ve held back, afraid of ruining what we have. But I can’t keep pretending that my feelings aren’t there. You’re all I think about, and I can’t stand the idea of not telling you how I feel. Even if it means risking everything.”

Your mind races, trying to catch up with the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside you as you can feel the way his breath hitches slightly as he waits for your response, the subtle tremor in your hands as you try to steady yourself.

This is real, you realize. He’s not joking, not exaggerating. He’s laying his heart at your feet, hoping you’ll pick it up and keep it safe. And in that moment, you know that this is a turning point, a moment that will change everything between you.

You swallow hard, trying to find your voice, trying to navigate through the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm you. “I…” you start, but the words catch in your throat, too tangled up in the disbelief and joy and fear all mingling together.

“I’m sorry, you must be so uncomfortable right now. Let me get you home… It’s already late, and I can’t let you go alone.”

No, he’s got it all wrong. You’re not uncomfortable you’re just too overwhelmed with joy that you can’t find any words to describe it . But he doesn’t give you a chance to explain, assuming the worst.

“Okay,” you respond, the word slipping out before you can stop it. Maybe it’s because a small part of you wonders if he’s actually drunk, that maybe he didn’t mean to say those things and now regrets it. Maybe he just wants to get you home and forget this ever happened.

But you can’t let it end like this. “You can walk me home. It’s 15 minutes from here, no need for a car,” you say, trying to break through the invisible barrier that’s suddenly risen between you. You’re lying it’s almost 45 minutes away but you just want to be with him a little longer, to figure out what’s really going on.

“Really,never know that you live around here.” Of course he doesn’t know. “Doesn’t matter let’s go.” he agrees, giving you a soft smile, though there’s a sigh that escapes him, as if he wants to say more but is holding back.

—————

As you both step out into the cool night air, the silence between you is thick with unspoken words. He falls into step beside you, the warmth of his presence just a breath away. The tension from before lingers, but there’s also a tenderness in the quiet moments as you walk side by side, neither of you in a hurry to reach your destination.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable tonight. I just… I couldn’t keep it in anymore. But I’ll understand if you need time or if you want to pretend none of this happened.” Finally, he speaks again, his voice gentle but firm.

“No,” you blurt out, the word catching in your throat as you stare at him. “Ken…” His name falls from your lips, soft and gentle, as if it caresses his heart.

“Listen to me,” you continue, holding up a hand before he can respond. “Don’t say anything right now. Just… let me get this out.”

You take a deep breath, the weight of your emotions bubbling up inside you, and you decide the only way you can say this is through a story, a safe distance between you and the overwhelming truth. “I’m going to tell it in the third person, because saying it directly feels too embarrassing.”

He tilts his head slightly, waiting, but his eyes don’t leave yours. You press on.

“There’s a woman,” you begin softly, “the most ordinary woman. She got this job a year ago, and everything changed. She had to move away from her hometown, didn’t know anyone here, and for a while, she felt so alone.”

Your voice trembles slightly as you continue, but you push through. “Then she met this man. Just a regular, normal guy. He hated the job, just like she did, only doing it to pay his bills. But there was something about him…something about his smile, about how he always showed up when she needed someone. And that smile, no matter how much she tried to ignore it, never failed to drive her insane.”

You risk a glance at him, and his expression has softened, his eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that makes your heart race. You swallow, continuing your story. “They became close, coworkers, friends. But she wanted more. She needed more. So she started working overtime, just to have a little extra time with him.”

“And today,” you say, your voice lowering, “it’s like a dream come true for her. The man she’s been in love with since she started working here…he feels the same way about her. But it’s so hard to believe, so good that it doesn’t even seem real. She doesn’t know what to say, so her silence makes him think she’s rejecting him, even though it’s the furthest thing from the truth.”

You finish, the last words hanging in the air between you, fragile but full of meaning. You look at him, your heart pounding in your chest, unsure of what he’ll say.

For a moment, there’s silence. Then, his lips curl into a gentle, knowing smile. “So… what happens next in this story?”

“I don’t know,” you murmur, turning your head just enough to avoid meeting his eyes. “You tell me.”

He gently reaches out, his hand warm as it grazes your knuckles, and slowly your fingers intertwine. “He takes her hand, just like this,” he says with a tenderness that makes your heart race. “And he realizes he's the luckiest man on earth.”

Your breath hitches as he continues, “He’s so happy, now that he gets to hold the hands of the girl he adores.”

You look up at him, his gaze filled with a warmth you’ve longed to see for so long. “What happens next?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

“He kisses her,” he says, leaning just a little closer before adding, “Only if she wants that.”

Your soft giggle fills the space between you. “Yes, she definitely wants that.”

He smiles, closing the remaining distance between you, his hand gently cupping your face as his lips meet yours in a tender, lingering kiss. The moment feels unreal, yet more vivid than anything you’ve ever known. The night seems to glow, not from the moon or stars, but from the way he makes your world brighter.

In his arms, love no longer feels like a distant mystery… it’s here, in the touch of his lips, in the warmth of his embrace, in the quiet joy that fills your heart. And suddenly, being a "normal" person in the ordinary grind of life seems more than enough because now, you have him.

How wonderful life is, even in the mundane, when it's shared with someone like him.